#and it makes my mom laugh to call it that

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hii Can we do either a max or carlos one where reader is in her teens and only has her mom since Driver left when she was a kid and now that she's older he wants to be in her life again but she doesn't make it easy for him. Happy ending pls

The picture in his wallet

The soft hum of the paddock faded in the background as Carlos sat on a bench just outside the motorhome, staring at the worn edges of the photo in his hand. He’d looked at it so many times over the years that the corners had started to curl. In the picture, a newborn baby lay wrapped in a pale pink blanket, her little mouth forming a tiny ‘o’ and her eyes scrunched closed. The name Yn had been handwritten neatly on the back, along with the date and time she was born.

He hadn’t been there for any of it. Not the pregnancy, not the birth, not the first word, not the first step. Fourteen years of absence, only connected to her by this photograph—and the aching guilt he carried like a second skin.

"Hey," came a voice, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Carlos quickly slipped the picture back into his wallet and looked up. Charles stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes gentle.

"You're doing it again, aren’t you?" Charles asked, sitting down beside him.

Carlos sighed. "Just thinking."

"You were holding the picture."

Carlos rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I don’t even realize when I do it anymore. It just… happens."

Charles didn’t say anything at first. He simply nodded, his expression unreadable.

"It’s been fourteen years," Carlos said eventually. "And I’ve never even heard her voice. I don’t know if she likes racing, or if she plays the piano, or hates spinach or—"

"Does she know about you?" Charles asked gently.

Carlos shook his head slowly. "I don’t think so. Alma and I agreed back then… it’d be better if I wasn’t around unless I was ready to really be there. I wasn’t. I was seventeen, Charles. I was a stupid kid who thought I could chase dreams and outrun responsibility."

"You weren’t stupid," Charles said softly. "Just scared."

Carlos gave a hollow laugh. "Still am."

Later that evening, Rebecca found Carlos sitting on the couch in their hotel room, the television playing a muted rerun of last season’s highlights. She walked over, placing a kiss on the top of his head before settling beside him, tucking her feet underneath her.

“You saw the photo again?” she asked gently.

He nodded.

Rebecca reached for his hand and intertwined her fingers with his. “You ever think about calling Alma?”

“All the time,” Carlos admitted. “But I always stop myself. What would I say? ‘Hi, it’s Carlos. I abandoned you both fourteen years ago. Mind if I drop in and ruin everything?’”

“That’s not what would happen,” Rebecca said firmly. “You’re not the same boy who left. You’re a man now. You’ve grown. And you still care.”

Carlos looked down at his lap. “I don’t even know what kind of father I could be.”

“You won’t know unless you try,” she replied. “But I think you'd be amazing. You’ve always had so much love to give. I see it every day—with your family, with your friends, with me.”

Carlos looked at her, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I told you about her the day we got together. You could’ve walked away. Most people would’ve.”

Rebecca smiled. “But I’m not most people. And I stayed because I saw your heart. I know what she means to you, even if you’ve never met her.”

He leaned into her, resting his head against her shoulder.

“I want to meet her,” he whispered. “I don’t want to go through the rest of my life not knowing who she is.”

“Then let’s figure it out,” she said, rubbing slow circles on the back of his hand. “Together.”

The next day at the track, Carlos pulled Lando aside between sessions. They found a quiet corner near the back of the garage where the mechanics couldn’t hear them.

“I’ve been thinking about her again,” Carlos began.

Lando blinked. “Yn?”

Carlos nodded.

“She’d be… fourteen now, right?” Lando said, leaning against the wall. “That’s wild, man. Fourteen.”

Carlos smiled faintly. “Yeah. She’s probably taller than me by now.”

Lando chuckled. “No one’s taller than you. Except George.”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I want to reach out. Maybe just talk to Alma. Ask how she is. Ask how Yn is. If she’s okay.”

Lando’s smile softened. “About time, huh?”

“I’m terrified,” Carlos admitted.

“Good. Means it matters,” Lando replied. “But look, you’ve got us. You’ve got Charles, me, Rebecca. You won’t be doing this alone.”

Carlos nodded, but the knot in his chest remained.

That night, Carlos stared at the message on his phone screen for over twenty minutes.

Hi, Alma. It’s Carlos. I hope this isn’t a bad time. I was wondering if we could talk. About Yn.

His finger hovered over the “send” button.

Rebecca emerged from the bathroom, saw him frozen with the phone in hand, and quietly sat beside him.

“Need a push?” she asked.

“I’m scared of what she’ll say,” Carlos murmured. “Or worse—what if she doesn’t reply at all?”

Rebecca reached out and touched his face. “Then you’ll know you tried. And maybe, just maybe, she’s been waiting for you to do this too.”

Carlos looked down at the message again.

And then he pressed send.

Hours passed. They ate dinner in silence, and Carlos kept glancing at his phone every five seconds. Rebecca tried to distract him with stories from her day, but his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t until almost midnight that his phone buzzed.

Carlos nearly dropped it as he scrambled to read the notification.

Hi, Carlos. I was surprised to hear from you. Yn’s doing well. She’s incredible. If you’d like to talk, I’d be open to it.

His hands trembled as he read it out loud.

“She responded,” he whispered. “She responded.”

Rebecca smiled and wrapped her arms around him. “See? That’s the first step.”

Carlos didn’t realize he was crying until he felt Rebecca wipe a tear from his cheek.

“I don’t know where this is going,” he said.

“You don’t need to,” she replied. “Just take it one step at a time.”

Carlos looked at the photo in his wallet again. And for the first time in years, hope started to bloom in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, the day he’d finally meet Yn wasn’t so far away after all.

Carlos was quiet all morning.

Not the kind of quiet where he hummed to himself while making coffee or scrolled through his phone lazily. No, this was the kind of quiet where every movement seemed careful, deliberate—like his thoughts were louder than anything around him. He hadn't even finished his toast. It just sat there, untouched.

Rebecca noticed. Of course, she did. She always did.

“Babe,” she said softly, placing her hand on his arm. “It’s going to be okay.”

Carlos looked at her, eyes a little wide, his leg bouncing beneath the table. “I haven’t seen her in fourteen years, Rebe. What if she hates me? What if she doesn’t even want to know me? What if I say something stupid? What if—”

Rebecca pressed a gentle finger to his lips.

“Carlos. Stop.”

He exhaled. “I don’t know how.”

She smiled, cupping his face. “Then let me remind you. You’re kind. You’re honest. And you’ve wanted this for so long. Whatever happens today, you’re taking the first step. That’s brave.”

Carlos nodded, though his heart still thudded against his ribs. He was scared. Terrified, actually. But beneath it all, a flicker of hope had been growing ever since Alma replied to his message.

Her text had been short, but warm:

Hi Carlos,

Yes, I think it’s time. Let’s meet this Saturday? I’ll be at the café near the park at 3pm. Looking forward to seeing you.

– Alma

And now it was Saturday. Now it was 2:57pm.

They walked toward the small café together, fingers laced. Carlos kept rubbing his thumb against Rebecca’s hand like it grounded him.

“Do I look alright?” he asked, for the fifth time.

Rebecca chuckled. “You look perfect.”

The café was quiet. Not many people, just the hum of the coffee machine, soft chatter, the clinking of spoons against porcelain.

And there she was.

Alma.

She looked almost the same, but more mature—graceful, with soft brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, wearing a cream blouse and jeans. Her face lit up when she saw them.

“Carlos!” she said, rising to her feet.

He froze for half a second, then stepped forward. They hugged. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t weird. It was warm. Familiar, somehow.

“It’s been forever,” she said quietly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he breathed, pulling back, eyes a little misty. “Too long.”

She turned to Rebecca and smiled. “You must be Rebecca. It’s so good to meet you.”

Rebecca stepped forward, smiling, and they exchanged the traditional two cheek kisses. “Thank you so much for agreeing to this. Really.”

Alma waved it off. “I always knew this moment would come. I’m glad it’s now.”

They sat down, the three of them. For a while, Alma and Rebecca talked like they were old friends. It was surprisingly easy. They chatted about the weather, Madrid traffic, how difficult it is to get a decent croissant in the city.

Carlos sat there, nodding occasionally, but mostly staring at the cappuccino in front of him like it held all the answers. He could barely speak, but his heart was roaring in his chest.

Finally, when their drinks were brought over, he cleared his throat.

“Can I ask about her?” he said softly, voice just slightly shaky. “About Yn?”

Alma smiled, warm and proud, and it was like someone turned on a light inside her. “Of course.”

Carlos leaned forward, both hands wrapped around his cup.

“She’s fourteen now,” Alma began. “Turning fifteen in November. She’s tall. Taller than me now, which she loves to point out every chance she gets. She’s got this wild, curly hair that she hates but everyone else loves. She’s obsessed with chocolate cupcakes. Like, genuinely obsessed. She bakes them twice a week.”

Rebecca smiled. “That’s adorable.”

“Oh, she’s full of surprises. She’s into fashion—like really into it. Always sketching, always cutting up old clothes to make new outfits. Says she wants to work for Vogue one day. She’s got mood boards all over her room.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “That’s amazing. Creative and determined.”

Alma nodded. “Yeah, she’s very driven. And oh—you’ll love this—she has a huge crush on Gavi. The football player.”

Carlos couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Seriously?”

“She insists she’s going to marry him. Says it with complete confidence.”

“Good taste,” Rebecca joked, and they all chuckled.

Then Alma reached into her bag and pulled out a small stack of photos. She held them like they were precious, handing them over one by one.

“Here she is at three,” she said, sliding the picture across the table.

A toddler in a cupcake-covered dress, frosting on her cheeks, big brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

Carlos stared.

“And here she’s five, at her kindergarten play. She was a sunflower.”

A smaller version of Alma, smiling shyly in a yellow costume.

“Here at eleven. That was during her ‘detective phase’. She wore that trench coat for three months straight.”

Carlos smiled wider, but his eyes were misting.

“And this one… this is her school picture from this year.”

Alma slid the latest photo to him with extra care. A fourteen-year-old girl with a confident, thoughtful gaze. Her curly hair framed her face. She looked like Alma, yes—but there was something in the eyes. Something familiar. Something Carlos couldn’t stop staring at.

“She’s beautiful,” Rebecca whispered, looking over his shoulder. “You raised an amazing young girl, Alma.”

Alma looked down, visibly touched. “Thank you.”

Carlos was still staring at the picture. His thumb grazed the edge of the print.

“Can I—?” he asked, barely audible.

“Of course,” Alma said, pushing it toward him. “It’s yours.”

He held it like it was made of glass, like it might disappear if he blinked.

The room blurred around him. All he could see was her. His daughter. The girl in the photograph. The one he'd thought about every day since that first message. Since the picture Alma had sent after her birth. The one that lived in his wallet, aged and worn.

He interrupted the gentle conversation between the two women, voice soft, yet determined.

“Alma…”

She turned to him. “Yes?”

“I want to meet her.”

Alma blinked, lips parting slightly. She looked at him, then at the picture in his hand.

“I know I should’ve asked sooner. Years ago. But I was scared. I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to confuse her or… I don’t know. But I want to now. If she wants to. I’d love to meet her. Talk to her. Just… see her.”

Alma didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were thoughtful.

“I have to ask her,” she said honestly. “She’s old enough now to decide that for herself. But I promise you, Carlos, I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her everything. And I’ll write you.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of hope sitting on his chest.

“That’s all I can ask for,” he whispered.

When they stood to leave, Alma hugged them both. “I’m really glad we did this.”

“So am I,” Rebecca said, and she meant it.

Carlos didn’t speak much on the walk back. His hand never left the pocket where he had placed the picture. His thumb rubbed over the edge again and again.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured once, more to himself than anyone else.

Rebecca leaned her head on his shoulder. “She really is.”

And in the quiet of the Madrid afternoon, as they walked down cobbled streets with sunlight flickering between trees, Carlos felt something he hadn’t felt in years.

He felt like he was one step closer to finally meeting the girl who’d been in his heart since the day she was born.

He didn’t know what Alma would say, what Yn would choose. But he had hope.

And for now, that was enough.

It had been a few weeks since the café meeting, and Carlos had stared at that school photo every single day since. It had a permanent spot on the console table in their hallway now, framed with gentle care. Sometimes he picked it up and just looked at it in awe, as if his heart couldn't quite believe this was real—that this girl, this bright-eyed young woman with the softest smile, was his daughter.

So when the message from Alma arrived, his heart nearly stopped.

Hey, Carlos. I talked to Yn. She said… she’d like to meet you.

Carlos reread it five times, his eyes wide, hands trembling. Then he bolted into the kitchen.

“Rebecca!” he called, holding up the phone like it was some sort of ancient artifact. “She wants to meet me. Yn wants to meet me!”

Rebecca looked up from the fruit she was cutting, blinking before her face bloomed with a smile. “Oh my god, baby. Really?”

“Yes,” he breathed, already pacing. “I mean, Alma said she talked to her and Yn agreed. We’re meeting at their house. It’s—oh god, it’s happening.”

Rebecca came over, wrapping her arms around him. “You’re going to be amazing. Just… be you. Gentle, warm. She’ll see the person I see.”

Carlos pressed his forehead to hers, clutching her hands tightly. “I’m scared,” he admitted in a whisper.

“I know,” Rebecca said, brushing her fingers through his hair. “But this is your moment. And hers. Let it happen slowly.”

The drive to Alma’s house was the longest one of his life.

He had the radio on, then off. Then back on. Then switched to a podcast. Then silence again. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. His heart wouldn’t stop racing, not even for a second.

When he finally parked in front of the quaint two-story home with blooming flowers in the windows, his breath hitched. This was where Yn had lived all these years. This was her world.

Alma opened the door before he could knock.

“Hi,” she said gently, smiling with something kind in her eyes. “You made it.”

Carlos gave a weak chuckle. “Barely. I think I had five panic attacks on the drive here.”

Alma smiled warmly and stepped aside. “Come in. She’s upstairs. I told her you’re here. I’ll go get her.”

Carlos stepped inside, immediately struck by how homey everything was. There were drawings pinned to a cork board, a piano in the corner with sheet music half open, photos lining the walls—most of them of Yn. There she was at the beach. In the kitchen, covered in flour. On Halloween, in a cat costume.

It was like walking into a museum of her life.

Alma disappeared upstairs, and Carlos stood frozen in the living room, his palms sweating. His breath caught when he heard soft footsteps coming down.

And then—there she was.

Yn.

Fourteen years old, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and an oversized white tee. Her long, dark hair was half up in a clip, a few strands framing her face. She had the same green eyes he’d seen in the photos, but seeing them in person knocked the air from his lungs. Her expression was guarded, lips pressed into a thin line. But she didn’t look angry. Just… uncertain.

“Hi,” she said quietly, her voice soft but laced with a teenage edge. “I’m Yn.”

Carlos’s eyes welled up instantly, and he nodded. “Hi, Yn. I’m… I’m Carlos.” He swallowed hard. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

She sat down across from him, folding her arms as she sunk into the couch, her legs crossed beneath her. “My mom said I could decide.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I’m really grateful. You look—well, you look amazing.”

She raised a brow, her lips twitching a bit like she was trying not to smile. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

Carlos chuckled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe. Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

“I can tell,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re all red and stuff.”

He laughed for real that time, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re sharp.”

A pause.

She looked down at her lap. “So… what do you do?”

Carlos perked up, grateful for the question. “I race cars. Professionally.”

“Like… in circles?”

He laughed again. “Sort of. It’s Formula 1. We race on tracks around the world. It’s… fast and a little dangerous, I guess. But I love it.”

“Huh,” she said, shrugging. “Sounds kinda cool, I guess.”

“I have friends in the sport,” he added. “They’re good people. And, um… I have a partner. Rebecca.”

“Mom told me,” Yn muttered. “She’s pretty.”

“She is,” he said with a fond smile. “And she’s really excited to meet you. She wanted to come today, but I thought maybe just us, for now.”

Yn nodded, fiddling with a thread on her sleeve. “That’s fine.”

Carlos watched her for a moment, drinking her in, every little movement. “What about you?” he asked. “Your mom told me you love fashion.”

Yn's face lit up ever so slightly. “I wanna work for Vogue someday.”

“Wow,” he breathed. “That’s amazing. You have big dreams.”

“I have mood boards,” she said, lifting her chin a little. “And sketches.”

“That’s… that’s really impressive, Yn. You must be really talented.”

She was silent for a beat, then looked back at him with a slightly narrowed gaze. “You talk a lot.”

Carlos blinked, then burst into a surprised laugh. “Guilty.”

Another pause. Then, shyly, she added, “It’s not… bad. Just different.”

He smiled. “I guess we’ll both get used to each other. Slowly.”

Yn studied him again, then looked at the floor.

“Can I go to my room now?” she asked after a few moments, her voice softer.

Carlos’s heart sank a little, but he nodded. “Of course. I don’t want to push you. I just… I’m really happy you gave me this chance.”

She stood, arms still crossed.

But then she hesitated. Reached into her pocket.

She held out a small folded piece of paper.

Carlos took it, his fingers brushing hers just barely. He looked at it, then at her.

“My number,” she mumbled. “Don’t call me. That’s cringe. Just text, okay?”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “I promise.”

She turned and left without another word, disappearing up the stairs.

Carlos just stood there, stunned, eyes fixed on the paper like it was a golden ticket.

Alma walked back in, smiling warmly. “She gave you her number?”

He nodded. “She said calling is cringe.”

Alma laughed. “Teenagers.”

“She’s perfect,” Carlos whispered. “She’s everything.”

Carlos couldn’t stop smiling the entire drive home.

He kept glancing at the piece of paper resting in the passenger seat, like it might vanish if he didn’t look at it often enough. A phone number—her phone number. Yn’s number. She had given it to him with that little flick of teenage nonchalance, like it wasn’t a huge deal. But to Carlos, it was everything.

He parked the car in the driveway, practically bursting into the house. Rebecca was in the kitchen, sipping tea and reading something on her tablet. She looked up at him with a curious smile.

“Well?” she asked, setting the tablet aside.

Carlos beamed. “She gave me her number.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Really?”

He nodded like an overexcited child. “She said to only text though, because calling is ‘uncool.’” He made air quotes, mimicking Yn’s voice. Rebecca chuckled warmly and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

That night, Carlos sent a very careful message.

Hey. It’s me. Carlos. Just wanted to say it was really nice seeing you today. Thanks for giving me your number. I won’t call, promise.

The read receipt popped up almost immediately, followed by a short reply:

U better not call lol. That would be embarrassing.

And just like that, they started texting. Slowly at first—short replies, some emojis, a meme here and there. But soon, her messages grew longer. She started sending him TikToks. Screenshots of conversations with her friends. Memes where she’d tag him: this is literally you—a joke about dads who try to be cool but totally aren’t.

Carlos didn’t mind. He loved every second of it.

A few weeks later, Carlos worked up the nerve to ask her if she’d like to hang out sometime. Just the two of them.

Beach day? I’ll bring snacks. You bring sunscreen.

Yn replied after a while:

Sure. But don’t bring like…weird snacks. I’m serious.

Carlos smiled at the screen for a full minute.

The beach was warm and golden, the sea glimmering under the sun. Carlos had brought a small cooler with drinks and sandwiches (all thoroughly vetted by Rebecca beforehand to ensure they weren’t “weird”), and Yn showed up in denim shorts, a black tank top, and sunglasses that looked too grown-up for her age. Carlos’s heart skipped when he saw her.

“Hey,” she said, toeing off her sandals in the sand.

“Hey,” he replied, voice soft.

They sat on a beach towel, eating and watching the waves. Yn talked a little about school. Her friend group. A teacher she hated. The weird guy in math class. She showed him a selfie with her best friend, captioned chaos twins, and he laughed, genuinely interested in every word.

A few days later, he took her to Starbucks. She rolled her eyes when he ordered his coffee “like a dad.”

“You don’t need oat milk, Carlos,” she muttered. “You just think it makes you fancy.”

“Excuse me,” Carlos replied, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “This is how champions drink coffee.”

She smirked, sipping her iced matcha latte.

“You’re so cringe,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said with a bow.

Their favorite day came when they wandered through the city together, Yn dragging him from store to store. She pointed out her favorite brands, showed him the exact pair of sneakers she wanted for her birthday, and even made him try on a ridiculous oversized hoodie.

“You look like a mushroom,” she said, stifling laughter.

Carlos posed in the mirror. “But a cool mushroom?”

“No,” she said flatly.

But she was smiling.

Carlos committed every single moment to memory.

Two months passed in a blink. Their bond grew stronger with every text, every shared meme, every inside joke. She still called him “Carlos,” but it didn’t hurt anymore. It was just her way—guarded, careful. But he could see the walls cracking.

Then, one day, out of the blue:

Hey. Do you think I could meet Rebecca sometime?

Carlos stared at the message, stunned.

Rebecca, sitting across from him on the couch, looked up from her book. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing at all.”

He typed back quickly:

Of course. That would mean a lot to me. To both of us.

They met at a cozy lunch spot with outdoor seating. Rebecca dressed down to avoid being intimidating—jeans, sneakers, and a warm smile. Yn arrived a little late, phone in hand, earbuds slung around her neck.

“Hey,” she said, glancing at Rebecca.

Carlos stood, gently introducing them. “Yn, this is Rebecca. Rebecca, this is—well, you know.”

Yn sat down, crossing her arms. Rebecca offered a gentle, “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Yn mumbled.

The first ten minutes were awkward, filled with clinks of cutlery and stilted small talk. But then Rebecca mentioned a TV show she liked—turns out, it was also one of Yn’s favorites.

And just like that, the ice broke.

“You actually like that character?” Yn said with disbelief. “He’s the worst.”

Rebecca laughed. “I know, right? That’s why I love him.”

Carlos just sat there, watching them with his heart full.

Six months later, things were different. Better. Yn came over for dinner often, stayed longer than she used to, even left a hoodie in their guest room once. Carlos refused to wash it. She was part of their home now.

One weekend, she asked to stay over. They ordered pizza and decided to watch a horror movie. Carlos wasn’t sure why he agreed—he hated horror—but Yn insisted it was “funny scary.”

They sat close on the couch—Carlos in the middle, Rebecca on his right, Yn on his left.

The movie started fine. Some cheap jump scares. Teenagers being dumb in the woods.

Then came a really good scare.

A ghost lunged at the screen, the sound design so loud Carlos flinched.

Yn gave a small scream and instinctively curled into Carlos’s side, burying her face in his chest, her hands fisting his shirt.

“Stop laughing, Papá” she mumbled, her voice muffled.

Carlos froze.

Rebecca turned to look at him, her mouth opening slightly.

Yn didn’t even notice what she said. She was too busy peeking at the screen, one eye open. Carlos just laughed softly, brushing a hand over her hair, holding her protectively.

“I got you,” he whispered. “Nothing’s gonna get you while I’m here.”

“You better not let anything touch me, I swear,” Yn muttered.

Carlos smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Never.”

Rebecca met his eyes over Yn’s head, smiling softly. Carlos reached out and took her hand, gently squeezing it.

His chest felt light. Whole. Happy.

In that moment, Carlos knew he had everything he ever wanted.

His daughter. His love. His family.

And finally, he was Papá.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

[youreonmymind37]

“Now, you can fuck your sweet mom open-air,” said my mom to me.

“I was talking about the subway or a church…” grumbled me.

My mom’s cheering attitude deflated. “You’re mean,” my mom stated. Her childish frown on her lips aroused me.

“Come here,” I ordered.

“No,” she crossed her arms barely covering her milky-white breasts. She was stubborn and pouty.

“Well, my boner is calling my name”. I slipped my speedo underwear to the floor. My hand curled around my huge cock. I spitted on my cock.

“WhT a beautiful day. The sea. The warmth. And, a pretty girl that I can jerk-off.”

My mom stared at me. She reached for her straw hat. She felt a twinge of laughter.

“My girl, come make love to me,” I sung.

She put her hat on her blond hair. Shielded her mirthful.

My foot was trickling her sun-kissed flank.

My mom laughter. It was a girlish laugh. My foot brought her to my knees. She was pinned by my feet and thighs. Her bottom was on the deck.

Her fingers brushed away a speck on my cock head.

“Can you give me a blow-job?”

She frown, again. She puffed her cheeks and blew my cock. She rested her pretty face on my lap. Her lips kissed my shaft.

“Cherie…”

“I’m still mad at you,” my grumpy mom. Still kissing my cock. Her hands weighed my balls as if my mom checking to see if mangoes were ripe.

“Come here, my lover,” I said to my mom who knelt on the floor. My muscular hands hoist my mom’s ass or upper thigh to sit in my lap.

“Hey!” my mom said steadily her hands on my chest.

“Hey. I want to be with you, mom.”

My cock is pressing against her ass.

“I’m fortunate you being in my life.”

My lips kissed her valley between her breasts.

“Oooooo,” my mom moaning. She also put my cock inside her wet pussy. Buried under my lover pulsating passage.

"Fabul@$$"

[tqlepatia]

— I'LL BE YOUR PROTECTOR.

MOM! SEVIKA × MOM! READER. —

Notes: pure fluff! Sevika and you being the best mother possible to your little boy ᵎᵎ, decided to write it since I never read one with sevika being a boy mom ( I know she's totally girl mom!)

𓂃۶ৎ ● The first time you hold him, you forget every pain that brought you here. His fingers curl around yours like they’ve always known the shape of you. Sevika’s breath catches in her throat as she leans over your shoulder, silent, reverent.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You sit in the nursery late at night with the baby sleeping on your chest, while Sevika leans against the doorway, quietly protective. She doesn’t say much but you feel her watching over you both like a sentry.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika take turns at the midnight feedings. On her nights, you wake up to soft murmurs through the baby monitor and lullabies in a language that you don't understand one word.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your boy refuses to nap unless he’s pressed against one of you. You joke that he was born clingy, Sevika calls it loyalty. Either way, he sleeps best wrapped in your arms.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Bath time is chaos. You hold him steady while Sevika gently washes his hair. He splashes water everywhere, and she grumbles, but never once stops smiling. You both end up soaked and laughing.

𓂃۶ৎ ● When he’s teething, he cries endlessly. You pace the floor with him pressed to your shoulder, humming lullabies you didn’t know you remembered. Sevika slips into the room with warm bottles and sits beside you until he settles.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You cry on his first birthday—not because of the cake or the photos, but because of how far you've come. Sevika wraps her arm around your waist and tells you, quietly, that she’s never been prouder of anyone in her life.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You both fall asleep on the couch, the baby nestled between you. He snores softly, one hand on your chest, the other holding onto Sevika’s shirt. It’s the most peaceful moment of your life.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He throws a tantrum at the grocery store. You kneel down, matching your voice to his volume, coaxing him to breathe. Sevika stands behind you, arms crossed, but lets you take the lead—knowing he needs your calm more than her fire.

𓂃۶ৎ ● One morning, he asks you why he doesn’t have a dad. You look at Sevika, who nods softly. You crouch beside him and say, “Because you have two moms who love you more than anything. That’s better than just one dad” He shrugs and goes back to coloring.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He wants to look like a superhero and cries when his hair won’t sit the same. You try to explain it gently, brushing it as best you can. Sevika steps in runs a comb through with a teasing grin, and suddenly he declares he looks perfect.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts drawing stick figure families, always with two tall moms and one smiley kid. You put them on the fridge. Sevika secretly keeps one folded in her wallet.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You bake cookies with him on Sundays. He makes a mess, flour everywhere. Sevika walks in, sighs, and wordlessly joins in. Three hours later, the kitchen’s a disaster.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts sleeping with the lights off, but only if you’re the one to tuck him in. Sevika reads the bedtime story, but he reaches for your hand as he drifts off.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He paints your face with finger paint. Sevika laughs so hard she chokes on her drink. You chase him around the living room while Sevika captures it all on an old camera you didn’t know she knew how to use.

𓂃۶ৎ ● The three of you lie under a blanket fort one stormy night. Rain on the windows, his tiny body between you, flashlight stories casting shadows on the walls. He says, “This is my favorite place ! ”

𓂃۶ৎ ● He loses his first tooth at the breakfast table. You panic a little; Sevika just grins and wraps it in a napkin. That night, you both sneak a little coin under his pillow.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He builds a pillow fort so big it takes up half the living room. You both crawl in with him, bring snacks, and let the day pass in soft laughter and pretend adventures.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He wants to dress like his favorite cartoon character. You help him piece together a DIY costume. Sevika adds a cape. He beams at both of you like you’ve given him superpowers.

𓂃۶ৎ ● On nights when he’s sick, you stay up rubbing his back while Sevika heats soup and brings towels. You don’t sleep much, but he calls you both his heroes the next day.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts locking his bedroom door. You knock gently. Sevika knocks harder. But eventually, he lets you in and sits between you both to talk about how weird it feels to grow up.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He surprises you with breakfast on your birthday. Sevika helped, but he did the pancakes himself. They’re slightly burnt. You eat them with a full heart.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika both attend his school play. He keeps looking at you from the stage. Afterward, he only cares if you liked it. You both hug him like he just won an award.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts helping with dinner. You show him how to chop vegetables. Sevika shows him how not to burn steak. Together, you build little rituals of home.

𓂃۶ৎ ● When he first came out to you, it was simple he said, “Mom, I’m gay.” You just nodded calmly and asked, “Okay, what kind of lasagna do you want for dinner tonight?".

𓂃۶ৎ ● Sevika already knew. She’d seen him once in your bedroom, dressing up like you—your clothes, your scent. She’d laughed softly but kept it quiet, letting him come out in his own time.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika felt it that morning, deep in your bones. The weight of time resting heavy in your lungs, the stillness in your chest. A quiet knowing. Today would be the last.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You took a warm bath together, the water gentler on your aching bodies than it had ever been. She helped you into that old dress—the one she loved most. The one she said made her feel like the luckiest bastard

𓂃۶ৎ ● With the help of medicine, and a whisper of strength left in you both, you made love that night. Slow. Reverent. Like a prayer. You wore the black silk slip Sevika always said made her heart stop. She smiled when she saw you, even through the ache in her chest.

𓂃۶ৎ ● The sunset poured through the curtains in gold and soft lavender. You both laid side by side in bed, holding hands, faces turned to each other. No machines, no fear—just shared breath and hearts that had beat together for decades.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your son sat between you, now a man, brushing Sevika’s hair with shaking fingers and holding your wrist like a tether. You smiled at him, weak but still his mother. “You made our lives beautiful,” you whispered.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Sevika coughed out a breath of a laugh. “If it’s possible… put us in the same fucking coffin,” she rasped. “We fucked last night. Just to haunt you one last time.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● He laughed through the tears, head bowed to your entwined hands. “You two are impossible,” he sobbed. “I love you. I love you so much.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your final words, shared in near unison, were just, “We love you too. Always.” And then… peace.

Sevika felt it instantly. The weight of your body against hers shifted—no rise, no fall of your breath. Just a hush that cut through everything. Too still. Too quiet. Her hand shook where it rested on your chest. “No,” she whispered, voice cracking like a branch in winter. “No, Dearest, c’mon…”

he pressed her forehead to yours, trying to feel you again, even for a second.

Then, with a trembling laugh breaking through the sob in her throat, she muttered, “Rude. I always said I’d go first.” Her eyes stung, nose running, mouth tugging into a crooked smile as she wiped her face on the blanket between you. “Didn’t even let me win that one, huh?”

She held you tighter, lips to your hair. “Alright, alright. I’m comin’.” A pause, then dryly, “You’d just haunt my ass if I didn’t.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● You both slipped away within minutes of each other. Faces soft. Hands still clasped. Mouths tilted toward a final kiss that death couldn’t quite steal.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your funeral was quiet. Flowers bloomed over your shared grave, just like the ones you planted on the balcony every spring. Your son brought the same kind—lavender, soft pinks, deep reds. He cried. He smiled. He stood tall.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Years later, he adopted a daughter with his husband. A bright-eyed baby girl with your warmth and Sevika’s intensity in her gaze.

𓂃۶ৎ ● They named her a tender mix of both your names. A name that meant legacy and love and strength.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Every year, they visited your grave. He’d talk to you both like you were still around. Sometimes, he left lasagna. Sometimes, whiskey. The baby, now a child, would place tiny flowers in the stone cracks.

𓂃۶ৎ ● She’d say, “Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandma Vika.” And laugh as if you were just behind the tree, waiting to scoop her up.

𓂃۶ৎ ● And somehow… in the rustling of the wind, in the golden light that touched her curls—you always were.

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @katarandaa , @starrycherie , @moonshimegf , @watermelonshine , @zombieeepup .

[dreamwritesimagines]

Declassified [6] - Election Day

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: A hug can mean many things.

Warnings: Explicit language, drinking, angst, yearning.

Word Count: 5252

Series Masterlist

The election day.

You were so on edge that when you got to work, you could barely hear the chaos with blood rushing in your ears. The whole team was busy, some making phone calls, some rushing through the office with papers in hand, and some talking to each other. You knew Sam was already there for moral support, probably in Bucky’s office, and apparently Sarah had brought AJ and Cass so that they could all be there for Bucky. You waved at them, then made your way to your desk to put your purse on it, Caleb coming closer the minute you did.

“I talked to the bar,” he said. “They’ll close it down for us.”

You took a deep breath and sat down. “Okay.”

“We’re gonna celebrate and I’ll try every single cocktail there.”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t look so tense.” He reached out to squeeze your hand. “He’s gonna nail it.”

You looked around. “He’s in his office?”

“Mm hm. With Sam and Sarah.” He eyed you up and down. “You could go in and wish him luck, you know? I get why you’ve been avoiding him for two months, but today is kind of special.” 

You blinked a couple of times, then cleared your throat.

“How’s the voter turnout looking?”

“Pretty good so far— are you seriously not going to go and say hi?”

“I have like one thousand things to do,” you murmured and switched your laptop on. “It’s the election day.”

“Oh is it?” Caleb asked with a grin. “I was wondering why everyone was so on edge, must be why.”

You let out a laugh as he walked away and you texted Kelsey who was probably with Bucky in his office, then lifted your head when AJ and Cass ran to your desk.

“Hey there.” You smiled at them. “What’s up?”

“Are you very busy?”

You looked at the hundreds of notifications on your laptop and your phone, then shook your head.

“Nope,” you lied. “And either way, I can always make the time for the most awesome kids in the world. How can I help you guys?”

“We have a couple of questions,” AJ said and you hummed.

“Well then it’s your lucky day, because I’m so good at answering questions,” you told them. “Ask away.”

“When will we know the results?”

“After the polls close and they count the votes, so around the evening.”

“How many votes do we need?”

“Mm, that’s a bit tricky,” you said. “We obviously need more than the opponent, but I’m aiming for 170,000.”

AJ’s eyes widened. “Do you know that many people?”

“Nope,” you said. “But more than that many people know Bucky.”

Cass shifted his weight as if he was trying to decide whether to ask another question but then he took a deep breath like he was gathering his courage, making you bite back a smile.

“Yes, Cass?”

“Will Uncle Bucky be president one day?”

“Whoa, that’s such a smart question,” you said and a proud smile lit up his face. “That’s a good one, let me think…The biggest factor is whether he wants to or not. Did you ask him?”

He shook his head. “We haven’t yet.”

“You think he’d make a good president?”

“Yeah, he’s awesome!” Cass said. “If he wants to be president, will you make that happen?”

“Me?”

“He always says you’re the best at everything.”

You could feel the warmth in your chest. “Does he?”

“Yeah, mom asked him about you the other day, and he said you—”

“Boys!” Sarah called out, making them turn to her as she approached your desk. “Let her work, she’s very busy.”

“Multitasking is my middle name,” you told her with a grin while AJ and Cass walked away from you and Sarah leaned back to your desk.

“How do you feel?”

“Tense,” you said and nodded in the direction of Bucky’s office. “How’s he doing?”

“He can’t stop pacing,” she said. “Kelsey had to repeat herself like three times just now, so I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you went in for some encouragement.”

You averted your eyes, shaking your head.

“I’d love to, but I’m swamped with work,” you said, clicking on your emails and Sarah hummed.

“You’ve been avoiding him for two months now.”

“I don’t know why everybody keeps saying that, I’m not avoiding him. I work for the guy.”

“Right. So this whole thing has nothing to do with the fact that he got himself a girlfriend two months ago?”

Your head shot up, your eyes widening and you opened your mouth, then closed it, frantically searching for the right words.

“Wha—he—” you stammered. “Why would that be relevant? That’s not relevant, I almost forgot he has a girlfriend—what? What makes you think it’s relevant?”

Very smooth.

Sarah gave you a look. “Come on.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Sarah.”

“It’s just a funny coincidence that you decided to put this distance between you two months ago, considering you two were basically inseparable before Hazel entered the picture.”

“I’ve just been busy with work and my own relationship,” you managed to say. “I don’t care about his relationship, he seems happy enough.”

“Hazel is nice,” Sarah admitted and you snorted.

“She’s also gorgeous, a billionaire and has a successful business,” you murmured, quickly typing your response to the next email. “But who’s keeping count?”

“But I don’t think their relationship will last.”

That made you look up from your screen, your stomach doing a flip. “Wait what? Why not?”

Sarah shot you a smug smile, then shrugged her shoulders and walked away from you, making you shake your head.

“Alright,” you muttered to yourself. “Election day. Keep your head in the game, do not get distracted.”

                                                                        *

After the polls were closed, everyone went to the bar to watch the results. There was no reason to stay in the office anymore; you were either going to move it to the DC or find yourselves new jobs, and either way, staying in the office was not going to change whatever the outcome was.

After you had done everything in the office until the afternoon, you and Caleb had gone to a polling station to make sure everything was going well. When it was closed, Caleb had gone straight to the bar while you returned to the office to grab your coat but as soon as you stepped inside, you pulled your brows together.

Bucky’s office light was on.

Ah.

 Your phone buzzed in your hand and you checked the texts, smiling to yourself before making your way to his office. Your heart was beating in your ears as you knocked on the door and opened it to find him half sprawled on his desk, resting his head on his crossed arms.

His voice came out muffled when he spoke: “Nice perfume.”

“Nice crippling self-doubt,” you replied as you leaned sideways to the doorframe, and he scoffed.

“I’m not having doubts, I’m resting my eyes.”

“On the election night?”

That made him lift his head, making your cheeks feel warm at the sight of his handsome face. It was almost strange, how two months of you avoiding him had done nothing to the magnetic pull you felt whenever you were around him, but you tried to focus.

“Bucky…”

“Don’t tell me any numbers. Don’t.”

“Okay,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders and stepped into the office. “They’re still counting anyway. And everyone is at the bar already, come on.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Was this a mistake?”

“Nope!” You snapped your fingers. “Get up sergeant, we’re leaving.”

“Birdie—”

“Get up.”

“Have I ever told you how bossy you are?”

“I grew up in a stressful home, my options were limited.”

“What if—”

“Get up, I said we’re leaving,” you said and he heaved a sigh, then got up from his seat and followed you out of the office. It was a warm pleasant evening, and you took a deep breath, then started walking with him beside you.

For a couple of minutes, it was completely silent as if he was too lost in his own thoughts before he cleared his throat.

“Talk to me about something else,” he said. “Please. Or else I’ll lose my mind.”

You pressed your lips together and stole a look at him.

“How’s it going with your girlfriend?”

“She’s nice,” he muttered. “And with your boyfriend?”

“It’s okay,” you said. “He’s at the bar already.”

“So is she.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see a couple of familiar faces –journalists— making their way into the bar, making your stomach do a flip.

Bucky may have asked you not to check the results, but that right there was a very, very good sign.

“So 40s dating etiquette isn’t that different than ours?” you asked, trying to distract him and his eyes widened.

“It’s very different,” he said. “Are you kidding? It’s insane nowadays.”

“Do you want me to prepare a handbook for you?” you asked. “A report—hey, I can prepare a Powerpoint?”

That made him let out a chuckle and he came to a stop in front of the bar window, then turned to look at you.

“Birdie,” he said. “Listen, whatever happens…”

“You’ll have to give a speech to the whole team no matter the result,” you reminded him and he shook his head.

“Not this speech,” he said, “I know things have been weird for the last two months, but I—”

The uproar from the bar cut him off and your eyes snapped over his shoulder to find the TV inside, a gasp leaving your lips.

“Oh my God!” you exclaimed and grabbed his wrist to pull him into the bar, the cheers only getting louder the minute you stepped inside. His name was above his opponent’s, the graph showing how many votes they each got and—

Announcing him as the winner.

You turned to him to find him staring at the screen like he couldn’t believe it. A laugh escaped you as his gaze found yours, then he turned his hand so that he could hold your wrist before yanking you to himself to swoop you into his arms, hugging you tight. Your heart was doing flips in your chest as you wrapped your arms around his neck, and let out a squeal when he lifted you off the ground, making you giggle. His hand cradled the back of your head and he buried his face into your hair, took a deep breath, pressed a kiss to your temple, then he put you down.

You were dizzy.

And breathless.

And—

You felt someone grab your arm before Kelsey pulled you into a hug, Caleb soon joining you to turn it into a group hug.

“I told you, we nailed it!” he exclaimed when he pulled back and Kelsey let out a laugh.

“Oh yeah!”

“We did!” you said and Kelsey licked her lips, then leaned in so that you could hear her through the cheers.

“Sorry for the interruption but it looked like he would kiss you, and the press is here.”

“And your boyfriend, and his girlfriend,” Caleb added and you held your breath.

Max was here.

Right.

You looked over your shoulder to find him by the bar, watching you with a slight frown on his face. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Sam hugging Bucky and slapping him on the back, AJ and Cass running around, Sarah smiling at something Sam was saying to Bucky, and multiple people already talking to the press while you made your way to Max and pecked him on the lips.

 “Hey!” you said, smiling brightly at him. “Can you believe this?”

“Yeah.” His eyes darted from you to Bucky, then to you again. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you!” you said while Sarah waved at you, and you waved at her back. “Um, did I make you wait long?”

“Not much,” he said. “Why did you come with him?”

“With Bucky?” you asked. “He was in the office and I had to go get my coat—”

“Birdie!” Caleb called out. “Team photo, come on!”

“Right,” you said. “Max, I need to be in that photo and talk to the press, you know how it goes. Are you okay though?”

“Sure,” he said after a pause. “But can we talk sometime?”

“Absolutely,” you said, already walking away from him to the team. “Drink and have fun, I’ll be back!”

                                                    *

This was why you were in politics.

Tonight was going amazing.

“Yeah, I don’t have the exact voter demographic right now,” you told Gemma, who was a brilliant journalist, while she held her phone close to you so that she could record you. “As you can see, we’re a bit—”

You were cut off when a wave of applause burst through the bar and you turned your head to see Caleb climbing on the bar counter, Kelsey letting out a whistle.

“Alright, alright,” Caleb said and pointed at Bucky with his beer bottle who raised his in turn with a grin. “Bucky made a speech, Paul made a speech, so I’m guessing we can as well.”

“Do it!”

“Take your shirt off and do it!”

“I’m saving that for when I’m more drunk—so let me start by saying,” he said, “there are a lot of journalists here, so I’m going on a record to say that we fucking nailed it!”

The whole bar cheered, laughter echoing in the room.

“It has been very, very challenging,” Caleb said. “I think I’m high on adrenaline but hey, I’m glad Brooklyn made the right choice!”

Cheers got even louder, making Caleb’s grin wider.

“I’m also glad that no one in this room will ever worry about being unemployed ever again!” he said, holding up his phone. “I got five job offers and counting, so Paul, if you feel like giving me a raise…”

All of a sudden, the whole team started shouting numbers.

“I got seven, you amateur!”

“Five!”

“Six!”

“Four and counting!”

“Eight and counting!”

“How many did you get?” Gemma asked, making you turn your attention to her as Caleb climbed down the counter only for another member of the team to climb there.

“Ten and—” you started, then checked your phone. “Oh, sorry. Eleven and counting.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Thank you!”

“And my last question, multiple political sources call you guys Barnes’ Dream Team,” she said. “Job offers only prove that you guys played a huge part in this, so my question is, how did the team approach the strategy? Did you have an exact picture in mind from the beginning, or did you have to adapt a lot?”

“Oh, a combination of both,” you said. “We all got hired at different points during the campaign, but we were lucky to have the type of dynamic that was open to having ideas that feed into each other.”

“Such as using different mediums to reach people?” she asked. “Because at a certain point, you guys were everywhere. Do you think it played a significant part in this outcome?”

“Definitely,” you said. “It was the very first thing we came up with, there would be no corner of Brooklyn that hasn’t heard from us in one way or another. TV, radio, podcasts, social media, town hall meetings—we wanted them to hear us, then decide whether they wanted to vote for him or not. The priority wasn’t the votes; it was to make sure they heard what Bucky would bring to the politics rather than things he was made to do in the past. We’re lucky he doesn’t get tired because I doubt any other candidate would be able to handle the type of schedule we put in front of him.”

“Is he easy to work with, then?”

“He’s amazing to work with,” you said with a bright smile. “The team is only as good as the boss, and vice versa. Every single person in this room is genuinely happy for him, besides the job offers and everything.”

She licked her lips, her eyes finding Bucky before snapping back to you.

“We just saw a very uh…enthusiastic hug there,” she said. “Would you say you are close?”

Ah.

Anxiety made your stomach turn but you managed to keep the smile on your face.

“We all ended up as a very tight-knit team,” you said without a pause. “We spent almost every minute together, so we’re very close with everyone in the team. My boyfriend was just talking about how our list for Christmas presents doubled up because I got another family at work.”

Gemma smiled and she stopped recording, lowering her phone. “In other words, you’re too smart to fall into that trap.”

“I’ve got some experience in media training.”

She hissed in a breath.

“The guy is handsome enough to make anyone and everyone become interested in politics,” she said. “And even more people will be watching him now. Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

You held up your hands.

“Work is work, no hard feelings Gemma,” you told her as your phone started buzzing and you checked the screen, pursing your lips. “I need to get this, sorry.”

You stepped out of the bar, then went into the small alley, cleared your throat and answered the phone.

“Hi daddy.”

“Hi pumpkin,” he said. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Thanks.”

“How’s your boy doing?”

“He’s very happy.”

“He should be,” he said. “Wasn’t a landslide, but wasn’t very close either.”

“Yeah, when the counting first started, I wasn’t so sure,” you admitted. “But apparently we swayed a significant number of people, even in the neighborhoods I was doubtful about.”

“And how many job offers so far?”

“Dad…”

“Pumpkin, you and the rest of his team just entered every politician’s radar,” he said. “They have a point in calling you his dream team, you managed to make the voters love a former brainwashed assassin enough to put him in the congress.”

“Please don’t call him that,” you told him. “He deserves much better.”

“How many?”

You rolled your eyes. “Eleven and counting.”

“Good,” he said and heaved a sigh. “Well I gotta go, Senator Williams has been calling for the third time tonight. See you in DC.”

You shook your head slightly when he hung up and you turned around, a gasp leaving your lips as soon as you did.

“Max!” you said, putting a hand over your chest. “Jesus, you scared me. What is it?”

He eyed you up and down. “Can we talk?”

“Uh, sure?” you said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“What was that?” he asked, pointing back at the bar with his thumb over his shoulder and you swallowed thickly, but managed to keep your expression calm.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “That hug?”

“What, I can’t hug people now?” Your voice came out way too defensive and Max let out a dry laugh, then shook his head.

“Jesus.”

“He won, we’re all excited—”

“Yeah, he won,” Max cut you off. “So? What does that mean for us?”

You blinked a couple of times. “What do you mean?”

“He’ll be in DC. And you?”

“Max, we talked about this when I first started this job,” you reminded him. “We said—”

“Yeah, back when I didn’t think he’d win!” he snapped, making you pull back slightly, a frown pulling your brows together when the realization crashed down on you like a ton of bricks. “Back when this whole thing was hypothetical.”

Wait.

Wait, Max wouldn’t—

“…Who did you vote for?” you asked, making him roll his eyes.

“How is that relevant?”

“It’s incredibly relevant,” you growled. “Answer the question.”

“What does it matter?”

You covered your mouth, taking a step back. “You voted for the opposition?!”

“It doesn’t matter, okay? And hypothetically, if I did, maybe it was because I didn’t want my girlfriend to move to a different city, have you ever thought about that?”

You could barely hear what he was saying, anger making your ears ring as you dropped your hands.

“This will not work if you move to a different city with him,” he said, motioning between you. “Just warning you.”

A snort escaped you before it turned into a full laugh, making you clutch at your stomach in an attempt to stop your laughter and you lifted your head again, wiping at your eyes to keep a straight face.

“You…” you trailed off, trying to control the feral grin curling your lips. “So wait, not only did you vote for the opposition, now you’re asking me to choose between my career and you?”

“I’m asking you to choose between me and him,” he corrected you, pointing at the bar. “It’s not like New York has a lack of politicians. You can easily work for someone here.”

You dragged your tongue over your teeth. “Uh huh. And you’re saying this based on your extensive knowledge in politics?”

“I don’t have to know shit about politics for this conversation,” he said. “You can either be with me, or move to DC. You can’t have both.”

Another huff of laughter climbed your throat and you ran a hand over your face.

“You seriously think you’re giving me an ultimatum right now?” you asked. “Oh my God, the audacity.”

“If that’s what you wanna call it.”

“You can’t give me an ultimatum when this relationship is already over, motherfucker,” you said, your voice rising with each word. “I’m breaking up with you, not the other way around!”

He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation.  “Great, very mature—”

“No no,” you said, shaking your head. “I was going to dump you for the voting thing alone, and you pull that shit? Career vs the man? What the fuck do you think this is, 1950s?”

“So you’re choosing to end this relationship then?”

“Max.” You tilted your head. “I’m asking because I don’t understand. Did you honestly, genuinely think I would ever choose you over my career? Are you joking?”

“As I said, not your career. Your boss.”

You didn’t even hesitate: “I wouldn’t choose you over him with a gun pointed at my head.”

Max scoffed a bitter laugh before he licked his lips.

“I knew it,” he spat. “You’re fucking him.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”  

“Such a cliché,” he said as you pulled back, glaring at him. “Politician and the younger female aide. Does he know you’re a power-hungry slut yet?”

“Careful there.”

“Or does he think you’re just naïve as fuck?”

“I’m not fucking him,” you said, your voice eerily calm. “But it doesn’t mean I won’t ask him to rip your tongue out if you keep insulting me. Because trust me, things didn’t end well for the last guy and the body part he used to make me feel bad.”

That made him fall silent and you took a deep breath, stealing a glance at the bar before turning to him.

“And for the record, Max,” you said. “I don’t care what your tech bro idol says. Five minutes is not enough for the microwave to finish, let alone a woman, you selfish, spineless piece of shit.”

With that, you made your way back into the bar without so much as a glance back, your heart still beating in your ears.

                                               *

This was not the time to announce your break up to anyone, tonight belonged to Bucky and his win.

To be completely honest, you were feeling much better than you thought you would. Before this, you had assumed breaking up with Max would’ve made you feel sad or at least anxious, but you honestly couldn’t feel anything other than relief right now.

Relief and excitement about your future.

The press had left but the whole team was ready to party until the morning. Kelsey had already arranged you a table at a very fancy club, saying that her ex friend with benefits was a bartender there, so everyone was slowly finishing their final round at the bar. You had stepped outside to take yet another call for a job offer, pacing in the sidewalk while keeping your eyes on the street.

“I am honored ma’am,” you said. “I loved your work on the clean energy bill you pushed for last month.”

“Even if it didn’t pass?” she joked and you let out a laugh.

“Can’t win them all.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve heard nothing but good things about you, you’ve done great with Barnes, and my team would love to have you in my campaign for the next term.”

“I appreciate it,” you said. “I would have to check in with Mr. Barnes about his plans for the next term as you know.”

“Of course,” she said. “But if he’s not running, or if you’re looking for a change, my team is open.”

“Thank you so much ma’am,” you said. “And if it’s alright with you, I’d love to talk to you about our stance on clean energy once we’re in DC, we have a lot of common ground so I think working together could raise the chances to pass it the next time.”

“That’s great,” she said. “I’ll tell my chief of staff to contact you the minute you arrive. Welcome to the A League.”

“Thank you ma’am,” you said and hung up, then lowered the phone to check your emails but your head whipped around when you heard a familiar voice.

“Planning on leaving me so soon?”

You rolled your eyes at Bucky before giving him a mischievous smile.

“Nope, I’m just gonna use all these job offers to ask for a raise,” you said airily as if your heart wasn’t pacing in your chest. “Hello Congressman Barnes.”

He smiled back. “Hi Birdie.”

“How do you feel?”

“Honestly?” he asked. “I think I’m still in shock.”

“I told you we would win.”

His gaze on you was soft again, making your cheeks burn.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Yeah you did.”

“I mean honestly at this point, everyone should listen to me all the time—”

“Thank you,” he cut you off and your grin widened.

“Hey, all I did was basically not sleep for months, work around 100 hours a week, make the public like you in multiple ways, and put you in the Congress,” you said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Would do it for anyone, don’t flatter yourself.”

A huff of laughter escaped him and he hummed. “Of course.”

“But seriously,” you told him. “I know this is not the first time you hear this tonight, but you do deserve it, Bucky.”

That made him pause for a moment, letting out a breath as if a heavy weight was lifted off his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “I uh…I needed to hear it from you, not anyone else.”

It was almost funny how in sync you and Bucky were; you took a step to lean your back to the wall and his body automatically turned to follow you so that he could keep his eyes on you, like a dance.

“I missed you, you know?” His voice was soft, like he feared that if he said it any louder it would break the spell you had been under for the whole night. You swallowed thickly, resting your head back on the wall, looking up at the stars before your gaze found his.

“Me too,” you admitted in a whisper, hugging yourself. “Sorry about that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I descended upon your place with the fury of a hellhound,” you reminded him, making him scoff a laugh. “But hey, it didn’t affect the results. I guess you had a point about not being in The Bachelor.”

“I still shouldn’t have brought Max up,” he said and frowned as if the thought just hit him. “Is he taking you home—where is he by the way? You’ve had eight drinks, there’s no way you’re going home by yourself.”

You tilted your head. “You counted how many drinks I’ve had?”

“Observation,” he said after a pause. “It’s…handy.”

“For espionage.”

“And for nights like these,” he said and you hummed.

“Kels drank like half of my cocktails,” you said. “And Max is not taking me home.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “What kind of a shitty boyfriend—”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

 That made his head shoot up, the rest of his sentence getting caught somewhere in his throat. You offered him a small smile while he tried to pull himself together, blinking fast as if he was trying to decide whether he heard you right.

“What?” he ended up asking and you nodded your head.

“I dumped him.”

For the first time you’d met him, he was at a loss for words: “…Why?”

“So many reasons.” You heaved a sigh. “But like, at the end of the day, there’s a line, you know? And the motherfucker didn’t just cross it, he ran past it, jumped back, then ran past it again.” 

Bucky stared at you, a light you couldn’t quite decipher gleaming in his blue eyes but before either of you could say anything, the door of the bar opened and Hazel walked outside, her eyes narrowing the moment she saw that you were there with Bucky.

Ah.

Bucky, being a guy, had no idea what that glare meant; you doubted he even noticed it despite his perfect observation skills, but the message was quite clear: I saw that hug, back off.

So you did. You stepped sideways when she stepped closer to Bucky and averted your eyes from him to give her a tight lipped smile.

“Hello Miss Brooks.”

“Hi. You ready babe?” she asked Bucky, making your stomach do a painful flip and Bucky took a deep breath as if he was trying to snap out of a daze, his eyes still on you.

“Who’s—who’s taking you home?”

“I’m not going home,” you said, looking between him and Hazel who was leaning on his arm sideways. “Me and the rest of the team are going to the club to celebrate, we’ll probably be outside until the morning. You guys should join if you’d like, Kelsey’s friend is a bartender there, and the place has got like a bunch of cocktail awards.”

Hazel hummed and smiled up at Bucky.

“I think we’ll have our own celebration at home tonight,” she said with a quiet laugh like it was an inside joke, and you tried to ignore the fire in your throat.

Ouch.

Well played though.

Bucky’s brows furrowed like he was a bit uncomfortable with the innuendo, and he stole a glance at her while you forced yourself to smile, taking a step back.

“Have fun though!” Hazel added. “You guys deserved it.”

You couldn’t decide whether that was condescending or you were just unnecessarily sensitive because she was the one who was going home with Bucky tonight and not you.

“Thank you,” you said and nodded at Bucky. “And congratulations, Mr. Barnes.”   

With that, you walked past him to make your way into the bar, then approached Kelsey and Caleb.

“Hey,” Kelsey said. “Ready to go?”

You scoffed a laugh, then grabbed her drink from her hand to down it in one go.

“Oh yeah,” you said. “Let’s get me blackout drunk.”

[jocelynscrazyideas]

In your love | Luke x Reader

inspired by the song In Your Love by Tyler Childers

Summary: Luke treats you to a special night in Michigan for your one year anniversary!

Warnings: NOT PROOF READ!! Smut- almost

a/n: I’ve been lacking on posting and i realized i never finished my Ficsmas, so to officially announce and answer many people’s questions, I am not continuing to finish the project. Sorry!

📚💬*prompt(s)*:

“how did you know that?”- “You’ve told me before.”

“You’re blushing!”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Luke and I are coming into our 13th month of being together, we didn’t celebrate our one year due to mis-matched schedules. Today, we planned to go out to the Michigan house and eat a delicious dinner on the lake. Of course knowing Jack and Quinn, we expected them to sneak into the house and take a few corny pictures of us but they both had plans tonight with friends. (So we thought).

“Hey babe?” Luke knocks on the bedroom door. “Are you almost done packing? We have to be at the airport in 40 minutes.”

“Yeah-hey Luke?” I answered his question, following up with another.

“What should I bring for our dinner date tonight? A dress? A swimsuit? Sweats and a tank?”

I have no information about our date tonight, only the fact it’s a dinner at the Michigan dock.

“Bring everything!” Luke says. “We can pay for extra luggage weight, I have some left over money.”

-

We ubered to the airport, we made it to our gate just in time for boarding. We sit down on the crowded plane, luke had bought three tickets so we didn’t have to sit next to anyone. I too window and he took middle.

The end of the flight is here, we are boarding off of the plane. Luke gently pushes me off the plane, he speaks to the flight attendant and he hides something in his pocket. I keep walking, waiting for him at the gate.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

Luke shrugs it off and we walk out to the exit. We call for an Uber to the house.

When we arrive, Luke finally hands me the thing he slid in his pocket.

“Biscoff cookies!” I jump in excitement. We walk into the house, and I slide my shoes off. Luke is looking at the clean kitchen, standing there wondering what he’s going to cook for me tonight.

I look at Luke, walking up to him, placing my hands on his shoulders from behind. I rub his tense muscles, “how did you know?” I smile.

Still standing behind him, I lower my hands from his shoulders to his waist, I hug him and he holds my hands in place. “Baby, you’ve mentioned it a few times.”

I know I’ve mentioned airplane cookies before, but only when I’m blackout drunk, never have I spoken about them sober because they are my drunk cravings. When I’m drunk I yap and babble a lot, so it just shows that Luke listens to me.

-

I unpack my heavy suitcase, and settle in Luke’s Michigan room. Nice and fresh. The summer breeze runs through my body. I open the window above Luke’s bed. The white shutters slam against the wall as the wind blows through his room.

“Hey.” Luke smiles at me as I sit in his bed with my special pillow and stuffie in my arms. He’s standing in the doorway, on hand in his hip and the ither against the door frame.

“You’re so cute.” Luke laughs, “did you have any requests for tonight?”

I just wanted him in bed next to me, eating my airplane cookies with a good movie on. I responded with, “something easy, your mom cleaned up the house pretty well from last summer. It was such a mess when we left, we shouldn’t make it a mess again.” I smile. Luke steps onto the room.

“Hey moose?” I softly asked as Luke walked closer. His hair captured perfectly in his backwards hat. His nose looking so kissable. His cheeks blushing, his eyes on me.

“Hey what?” He smiles, he gently places his right leg over the left side of my body, he laughs on top of me. His body weight sinking in on me. His left leg now swinging over my right leg.

He kisses my chin, he makes his way to my neck, then to my collarbones, then down to my low cut neck line. My red tube top starts to feel tight. My heart pounding.

-

I watch from Luke’s bedroom, he’s setting up in the dock. I re-curl my hair, touch up my makeup, and re polish my toe nails. I put on this cute black lacy set, the bralette is tight, pushing up my boobs, the thong isn’t covering anything. I’m wearing this under a black and white polk a dot sun dress. Very sleek and see through. Just to tease Luke.

I walk down to the dock, like now is put together. His hair is now curly without his hat, he’s in khaki shorts and a blue polo. He’s also bare foot, and he looks like a summer- golf prince. I hope he thinks I’m a princess.

I see him stare at my breast area. My chest are is too tight, the dress pressing against the bralette, making it very visible in the setting sun. He sits down, lifting a leg over his other leg. He crosses his legs hoping I don’t catch his boner.

Fortunately I see this. I hurry to eat the delicious meal Luke cooked me, we talk about our memories, and he hands over a black velvet box. I open it, inside it is a dainty ring.

The shiny rocks aren’t too big and heavy, and they aren’t too small and pointy. The gems are perfect, the silver band has engraved letters reading:

L+(your initial).

“It’s perfect!” I get up to hug him, the ring on my middle finger on my left hand. I sit in his lap, I kiss his cheek and hug him. My lip stick pressed on his cheek is now stained.

“You’re the best gift God could give me.” Luke whispers in my ear. He snuggles his head into my neck. He kisses me again and looks at me. His eyes are now locked into mine.

“You’re blushing!” It was hard to catch Luke in a vulnerable moment. Especially when he is “in love” so when I caught this moment, I immediately teased him about it.

“Oh come on!” He laughs. We stand up and hug for a moment, he laughs it off, “I’m waiting for a gift…” he jokes.

But I slide my hand up his shirt, rubbing his back, his shorts start to get tight, I feel his waist get closer to mine. His hands sliding my loose sun dress off. He sees my lacy set. He immediately pulls off his shorts.

Just as we start to make moves, pushing the food over, placing more blankets down, kissing, hot wet kisses. I look over at the house, seeing Jack and Quinn in the window, they duck down immediately. I get upset, we were going to have a grand moment but just as always, Jack and Quinn were in our love.

[bella-feed]

How I Met Your Mother

Episode 1: The Picture

pairing: dad! husband! mingyu x mother! f!reader

genre: (for this ep:) fluff, slice of life

warning(s): you and mingyu have two kids. mentions of alcohol and being wet. i think that's all. Imk if I missed any

wc: 1055

author: the chapters are gonna be called as episodes. and im thinking of making seasons for each member. lets see....

tagging: @svthub, @kstrucknet @k-films

credits: @sanaxo-o @gyubakeries (beta reading)

taglist tag: @mooniewrld @syluslittlecrows @gunatth @joepomonerof @whoa-jo @potayaa @stupendouschildnerd

himym masterlist || bella's masterlist || taglist || mingyu's masterlist

Year: 2055

“Inho, help me with this box please,” You told your son, who had his headphones on him, almost tuning you out. When you repeated yourself, he helped you out. 

The box was labeled – DO NOT THROW!! in your handwriting from three apartments ago. Inho stopped in his tracks and with one hand removed his headphones, turning towards you.

“Mom,” He called you, still looking closely at the box in his hands, “What's this? And why is this named “Do Not Throw” He asked, mocking the last words.    

Before you could answer, Sora, your daughter’s squeal was heard at her elder brother's words. “What is that? Show me! Show me!” 

She ran, not after Mingyu, your husband, reminded her not to run. 

Tuning out her father's words of concern, both the siblings started searching through the box, curiosity getting the best of them. 

Mingyu and you let your kids be, and continued unpacking the boxes from the move-in truck. 

“We found a camera!” Sora shouted. “It actually works!”

Mingyu glanced over at you with a grin as he kept one of the last boxes, down. “Do you think it’s the camera?” 

You reciprocated his grinning and said,“I know it’s the camera.”

Inho appeared next to you both, while Sora was still searching through the box. “This picture,” he started not before calling his sister next to him. 

He turned the screen. There it was. A picture of you and Mingyu, both red-faced, sunburn visible because of the camera’s flashlight, laughing too hard and with two bottles of beer in your hands.

His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, and you were in a sundress, hair in a bun. Your clothes were drenched, and it was only slightly visible in that picture. You looked…so young.

“Oh my God,” your daughter muttered. “Are you drunk? Also why are you wet?”

Mingyu laughed out, “We both were drunk, only a little.”

“That doesn't look a little.” Sora shared a look with her brother and looked at you both. 

You covered your face with your hand.

“That trip,” you said, through your fingers. “Oh, that was chaos.”

“What's the story behind this picture, Mom?” your son looked at you and his father. 

flashback  (2025)

“Wait— do you know what we should do right now?” You slurred drunkenlyto the 6 foot Cindrella. Without waiting for his answer you continued, “Jump in that lake!” You pointed towards the lake in front of you. 

“No! Are you mad? We are not doing that!” 6 foot Cindrella answered, taking a sip from his bottle of beer. 

“Why not?! Come on it's gonna be funnn.” You said, getting up and finishing the last sip of the beer. 

“No, Princess Sofia. Sit back down now.” 6 foot Cindrella tried to stop you from jumping into the lake. 

“Come on! Don't be a party-pooper. Get up, please!” 

You somehow managed to get the buff, six-foot man to stand up and dragged him near that lake. 

“Are you mentally ill? I'm asking seriously.” He looked at you with concerned eyes. 

“Yes and no. Now jump with me on the count of three.” You replied quickly and jumped with him, screaming, on the count of three in that lake, with a big smile on your face, after days. 

“You really are crazy. You know that?” Cindrella scolded you lightly while still helping you get out of the lake. You guys were in that lake for a good hour and a half.

Even though he enjoyed it, he scolded you for being so irresponsible. 

“I know.” You grinned while shivering and walking towards the bench where you were sitting before. 

“We should click a picture. As a memory, 6 foot Cindrella” You suggested. 

Mingyu looked at you, smiling with his eyes, before agreeing with you. 

You asked for a Corsican to click your picture on your digital camera 

He stood next you, wrapped his arm around your shoulder, and holding two bottles of beer, you guys smiled for the picture. 

Spending half a day with this Cindrella, drinking and driving around the town alone, made you feel so much better. 

You didn't know this guy or his name. But what you did know is that he was already giving everything he had to you, even without knowing you. 

Though at that moment you both were fighting internal battles with your ownselfs, you both didn't show it on your faces. 

Probably leaving out all your worries behind and being in the moment, even if it was with a stranger, healed something in both of you that had been broken. 

The picture you took was very near to your heart, for many reasons, one of them being the look Cindrella has on his face. The look of love towards you. 

This 6 foot Cindrella was really something else. You knew this trip was going to be the most memorable out of all. 

flashback over (2055)

Back in the present, your daughter looked up at the two of you. “Did you know you were in love?”

You blinked. “Then?”

Mingyu rubbed his neck. “Maybe yes, maybe no. We both were going through rough patches in our lifes and past relationships.”

“Wait— relationships?!? This was not your couple's trip?” Sora questioned being slightly amused and confused.

You smiled, “No.”

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s a long story.”

Your son scrolled further. “There are more photos…”

“Don’t go too far,” Mingyu warned. “Some are… not child-friendly.”

The kids groaned in unison.

You resumed your moving work, when you looked up and caught Mingyu’s eye.

“Still my favorite trip,” he said.

“I threw up on your sneakers.”

“Still my favorite.” He grinned. 

“Are y'all saying that you weren't dating when you went to this trip?” Inho, questioned this time.

“No, sweetie. We didn't even know eachother.” You replied with a smile. 

“I—” Sora clearly confused, questioned Mingyu, “Dad, how did you meet mom? ”

[emeraldserenade]

Could you write a story about Joaquin and reader’s wedding day? Getting ready, walking down the aisle, reception etc. 🥰

Wedding Day ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Joaquín and your wedding day

tw: fem!reader, none?, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Hi!! I love this idea so much!! This was the last request in my inbox so if you have one, send it in!!

➽──────────────❥

You woke up the day of your wedding to an empty bed, it was the first time you had in a while. It took you a moment to remember it was because of your wedding and not because he was out on a mission. A smile spread on your face as it sunk in that you were marrying the love of your life. You slowly got up and reached for your phone, while you weren't supposed to see each other, you wanted to hear Joaquín's voice.

"Good morning, love," you spoke into the phone when he answered.

"Good morning, baby," Joaquín said in return and you smiled so wide at his voice.

"We get married today," you smiled as you slowly got yourself into the bathroom.

"We are," you could heard Joaquín bustle around the hotel room he was staying in.

"You still could have stayed at your parent's house," you said as you made your way down the stairs and to the kitchen where his mom was making breakfast.

"I wanted you to be the most comfortable," he told you and you looked at his mom.

"You raised him right," you told her and she nodded. "I've gotta go, love," you sighed and heard him sigh too.

"Ok, I love you, baby," Joaquín said and you smiled.

"I love you too," you mused before hanging up.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You sat in a chair as the makeup artist, Jordan, did your makeup, you had use her for your makeup before. She did it for every fancy event that you went to with Joaquín, you trusted her completely.

"Uh, y/n," one of your bridesmaids called for your attention.

"Yeah, Kelly?" You kept your eyes closed as Jordan finished with your makeup.

"Joaquín is saying he only trusts you to do his hair for this," Kelly said and you huffed a laugh while Jordan sprayed you with setting spray.

"Ok, tell him to close his eyes and turn around. I'll stand behind him and do it really quick," you solved the problem and waited for the all clear. You stepped to the door and smiled when you saw Joaquín kneeling on the floor with a blanket to cover his suit and his eyes closed. "Hey, baby," you said as you spread product on your hands.

"Hi, angel," he breathed out like he was seeing you for the first time in months as your hands started to run through his hair.

"There, all done," you said as you finished pushing his curls into place and curling some around your finger to make them stand out. You purposefully curled one to fall over his forehead, laughing as he stood with his eyes still closed.

"If I hope my arms, will you hug me?"

"What about your suit?"

"Oh, uh," Joaquín stammered for a solution but you placed a hand on his chest, one that he grabbed with his hand.

"You'll see me when I walk down the aisle," you told him and saw the pretty pout of his.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You were about to walk down the aisle, your nerves getting strong. You took a moment to sit alone on a bench outside, you wanted one last moment of being y/n l/n to yourself. You loved Joaquín and couldn't wait to be Mrs. Torres, but you were feeling nostalgic.

"If you want to run, I have the keys to my truck. I'll take you wherever, you are my little girl," your dad said as he walked out and you laughed.

"I'm not running, dad," you said it lightheartedly. "I'm just taking a moment to be a l/n before getting married," you told him.

"You'll always be a l/n," he bumped your shoulder with his as phone went off telling you two that they were ready for you. "Let's go," he held his hand out and you took it.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You and your dad stood at the door and heard the music playing, you walked in and saw Joaquín immediately start crying. You wanted nothing more than to rush to him and comfort him but stayed at the pace you were supposed to. You felt tears fall from your eyes but never strayed from your goal, getting to him. You dad gave you off and you took your place on the alter.

The officiant's words were mostly drowned out as you started at Joaquín but you tuned back in for Joaquín's vows.

"Y/n, ever since we met, I knew I wanted to marry. You were, and still are, a spitfire that hates bullies. You yelled at my commanding officer after he called me at midnight one night, the pushups I had to do in the morning was worth it. You were there to tap me out and celebrate me coming home safe. Those were just a few reasons why I love you and I promise to always be there, to give back all you've given me and more. I promise to always love and cherish you," Joaquín finished his vows and you were crying. It was your turn and you had to fight the urge to kiss Joaquín prematurely.

"Joaquín, I knew I wanted to marry you as soon as Sam showed me your picture as he told me one of his many stories. You are the personification of my dream man and I am so lucky to be marrying you. You once told me that you didn't know how you got so lucky to be with me, but the truth is, I'm the lucky one. You chose me and continue to chose me, you are everything I could want and more. I love you and promise to always love you. I promise to be there to care for you when sick and to tap you out when you get home," you finished your vows with a breathy laugh and smiled at Joaquín. You vaguely heard the officiant ask Joaquín if he will take you to be his wife.

"I do," Joaquín answered with hesitation. The officiant turned to you and asked if you'd take Joaquín to be your husband.

"I do," you nodded.

"Well then, I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss your bride," the officiant barely finished his words before Joaquín was kissing you. It wasn't everything you wanted but it was enough for now, neither of you wanting to make your family and friends uncomfortable.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

The reception was in full swing, you were changed into a shorter dress for dancing. The speeches had left you and Joaquín in tears and laughter. You were sitting down at the head table, a plate of food in hand. You made sure all the people who were working had eaten before sitting down to relax a bit. Joaquín was dancing on the dance floor with the groomsman and you smiled at the sight.

"Hey," your dad was sliding a seat next to you and sitting down.

"Hey, dad," you smiled at him and he looked like he was crying.

"I guess you aren't my little girl anymore," he mused.

"Didn't you say that I was your little girl earlier?"

"That was before you were married," he stated and you smiled and laughed, a little snort escaping you. "There she is," your dad said with a laugh as you snorted.

You two talked for a while before he left you again, you weren't alone for long since Joaquín walked back to his seat with food. He took his seat and let you pick a pineapple chunk off his plate.

"Hey, Mrs. Torres," Joaquín gave you a smile before taking your left hand and placing a kiss to the skin below your wedding ring.

"Hey, Mr. Torres," you gave a smile as you two settled into a comfortable silence.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[fic-girlie]

My account had so many struggles sending this to you, please don't ignore me. 🙏 😭You know about the protective mom SL sketch? Well, I figured if you had the time for it. Write about it with a female reader in it, there isn't a specific roll she has to be. But I do want us to be that immigrant character who was born and raised in America 🇺🇲, yet is of course cultured. Is very close to her cultural roots. She dosen’t even have to be Hispanic/Spanish, she could be like middle eastern or something, since they have like pretty similar views in life. Like the universal sewing kit in a cookie box. Okay, not a good example. Um, like their views about family and connections. 😅

Ay, Mija

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Hispanic!actress!reader Summary: You meet Pedro at SNL, bond over your tías, and something real begins. Warnings: fluff, bonding over childhood memories, talking about family, sweetness, Pedro being Pedro

The air in Studio 8H is cool, almost unnaturally so for early spring in New York. It wraps around you the moment you step inside, slipping under your coat and trickling down your spine. Your heels click against the polished floors as you navigate the halls, still in that half-dream state that comes with stepping into places you grew up watching on television.

You’re trying to play it cool. You always try. But your fingers twitch as you clutch your tote bag a little tighter. The nerves are real.

It’s your first time on Saturday Night Live. Not as a host, of course. You’re a guest actress, called in for a culturally specific sketch they knew needed an authentic voice. A favour from a casting friend, but you earned it. You’ve done your fair share of TV comedy, but SNL is a different beast. It’s live. It’s iconic. And it’s filled with an electricity you can almost taste.

But more than that, this week’s host is Pedro Pascal. The Pedro Pascal. You try not to let it get to you, but something in your chest tightens every time his name floats past your ears.

You’ve admired him for years. Who hasn’t? There’s a warmth to him onscreen, even when he’s playing a stoic bounty hunter or a hardened survivor. A vulnerability behind his eyes that makes his characters linger in your memory. And today, you’re meeting him.

For the first time.

You follow a PA’s pointed finger toward the main rehearsal space, where the cast has already gathered for the read-through of a sketch called "La Mamá." A satirical ode to overbearing Latina mothers that, if done right, will be both hysterical and painfully accurate.

You’re playing the daughter. And Pedro? He’s playing your mom.

You’d laughed when you got the casting email. Hard. So had your own mother, who muttered something like “Bueno, mírale el bigote pero si actúa como una señora, seguro lo hace bien.” (“Well, look at his moustache, but if he acts like a lady, he surely does it well.”)

You push open the rehearsal room door and step inside, greeted by the shuffle of paper, the low buzz of crew voices, and—

“Ay, mija,” a high-pitched, slightly breathy voice coos, full of mock-concern.

Your eyes land on Pedro immediately. He’s standing at the front of the room, already half in costume. A short silvery wig perches slightly askew on his head. He wears a light pink crocheted cardigan, buttoned tightly over his chest, and thick glasses perched on the edge of his nose. Even with a script in one hand and a water bottle in the other, he’s already in character.

You blink.

“Oh my God,” you breathe. “You’re already channeling my tía Lupe.”

Pedro glances up at the sound of your voice, pausing mid-line. His eyes light up when he sees you, recognition sparking instantly.

“You’re the daughter?” he asks, breaking character, his real voice sliding in—smooth, low, amused.

You nod, shifting your tote to your shoulder. “Yup. Looks like you’re my mom now.”

Pedro grins, and it’s as if the room gets a few degrees warmer.

He steps toward you, offering his hand. “Pedro. So good to meet you. Finally.”

His hand is warm, solid, his fingers slightly calloused. You shake it, resisting the urge to blurt out every fangirl thought running through your head.

“Same. I’m a big fan,” you say instead. “Your work in The Last of Us wrecked me.”

He winces playfully. “Sorry about that. I promise I’m a lot nicer in a wig.”

You laugh. The room around you begins to shift—cast members shuffling through scripts, a writer waving you both toward the stage markings for the read-through. But you and Pedro linger a moment longer in that shared little bubble of warmth.

As you both settle into position, Pedro leans a bit closer and lowers his voice conspiratorially.

“So,” he murmurs, glancing at the script, “we really going full abuela-level emotional terrorism, huh?”

You nod solemnly. “Absolutely. My mother once cried because I didn’t take a second helping of arroz con pollo. Said it meant I didn’t love her anymore.”

Pedro laughs so hard he nearly snorts.

“This sketch is a documentary,” he whispers.

The read-through begins, and from the first line, it’s clear this is going to be something special.

Pedro hams it up to perfection—his voice pitched high, full of dramatics, dragging out every syllable of “Miiiiijaaa” like it’s a symphony of guilt. He gestures wildly, fake nails clicking against the kitchen set counter, clutching his chest in mock heartbreak when your character announces she’s moving to L.A.

You try to hold it together. Really, you do. But by the third page, you’re doubled over in laughter, your cheeks aching, eyes glassy.

And he keeps going.

"You want to leave me alone? In this apartment? With these knees? What if I fall? What if the floor swallows me up because God is punishing me for not raising you right?"

The delivery is absurd and perfect.

During a short break, you both collapse onto the stage steps, still breathless.

“My mom literally said something like that when I didn’t call her for two days,” you tell him, shaking your head. “She called my tía and said I’d been kidnapped by a cartel.”

Pedro wheezes. “I love her already.”

You glance over at him, something soft blooming in your chest. He’s sitting close. Not too close, but enough that your knees almost touch. He smells like fresh laundry and a hint of aftershave. The wig is pushed back on his head, and you catch a glimpse of his real curls underneath.

“You grew up with a big family?” you ask.

He nods, his expression shifting to something quieter. “Yeah. Loud. Messy. Loving. My mom… She was intense. But she loved hard. Really hard.”

You smile gently. “Sounds familiar.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… full.

He looks at you again, this time more directly. “I’m glad they cast you.”

Your heart skips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You get it. This sketch, it’s not just a joke. It’s our culture. Our tías. Our childhood kitchens. The way they loved us so hard it hurt sometimes.”

You nod, throat a little tight. “Exactly.”

Another beat passes.

“You doing anything after this?” he asks suddenly, glancing down at his script, like he’s trying to play it casual. “There’s a café near the corner. We could… go over the next scene. Or, you know, share war stories about our tías.”

You bite back a grin. “Coffee sounds great.”

He looks up, and there it is again—that smile that makes your chest feel like it’s glowing.

“Cool,” he says softly. “Let’s do that.”

——

The café isn’t far from the studio—just a quiet corner spot with steamed windows and a tinkling bell above the door. The kind of place that smells like cinnamon and freshly ground beans, a little haven tucked away from the chaos of Midtown. Pedro pulls the door open for you, and you duck inside with a soft thank you, shrugging off your coat as warmth blooms over your skin.

He follows close behind. The wig is gone now, replaced by a baseball hat pulled snug over his curls. Without the makeup and costume, he looks softer somehow. Quieter. But those eyes—warm and amber and always watching—still feel like a spotlight.

You both order, then settle into a booth by the window. The low hum of conversation surrounds you, and outside, the city carries on—honking taxis, bundled pedestrians, steam curling from subway grates.

He wraps his hands around his cup like he needs the heat. “I still can’t believe they asked me to play a mamá,” he says, shaking his head with a laugh. “I mean… I get it. It’s funny. But I had to call my sister and ask if I sounded convincing.”

You smile into your coffee. “You sounded too convincing. I’m starting to wonder if you were raised by a whole committee of tías.”

Pedro grins. “One of my aunts was like that. She’d come over, yell about how I didn’t eat enough, then cry because I forgot her birthday. All in the same hour.”

You nod, heart tugging in recognition. “Mine used to do the sign of the cross if I wore anything above the knee.”

He laughs again, leaning back in the booth, his hand sliding along the edge of his cup. “We grew up in the same emotional pressure cooker.”

You hum in agreement. “That sketch? It’s not even a parody. It’s a reenactment.”

There’s a pause then, a quiet one. Not uncomfortable—just settled. Pedro watches you for a moment, and when you glance up from your drink, his gaze doesn’t shift.

“You were really good today,” he says. His voice drops just a little, lower and warmer than before. “You didn’t try to play the joke. You just were the daughter.”

You blink at the compliment, caught off guard by how earnest he sounds.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I think it’s because I didn’t have to act. I just remembered how it felt. Wanting to be understood… and constantly misunderstood by someone who loves you too much.”

Pedro nods. His fingers tap once against the side of his cup. “That’s exactly it.”

Something passes between you then, like the shared click of two stories overlapping. His gaze lingers a beat too long, and you look away first, the edge of your mouth curling in a smile you try to hide behind your cup.

You talk for a while longer—about first auditions, family stories, the food you both miss from home. He tells you about growing up in New York and Chile, about how he used to sit outside on summer nights with his cousins, watching lightning bugs and listening to old cumbia records his mother kept stacked in the living room.

You tell him about your abuela’s rosaries tucked under every mattress in the house, about sneaking out of quinceañeras and eating elote from the back of someone’s truck.

He laughs, really laughs, and it fills the air like music. Then he pauses and looks at you again, and something about the softness in his eyes makes your chest flutter.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “if we weren’t doing this sketch, I’d think this was a date.”

Your breath catches. Just for a second.

He smiles, gentle. “But… I guess it’s just rehearsal bonding.”

Your pulse stumbles. Then steadies.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, pretending to study the foam in your coffee. “If this were a date, it’d be one of the nicest ones I’ve had in a while.”

Pedro tilts his head. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“You saying that like it isn’t a date makes me think you might want it to be.”

You look up then, cheeks warm, lips parting in surprise.

He leans forward, his voice low but sure. “We don’t have to name it. But I’d like to keep getting to know you. Even if I’m in drag half the time.”

You laugh—quiet and delighted—and shake your head.

“I mean… you do make a very convincing señora.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, nudging his cup toward yours in a soft toast.

Something shifts, subtle but certain. The kind of shift you don’t notice until hours later, lying in bed, realizing your heart feels different than it did the night before.

——

The studio is buzzing. Costumes rustle, crew members rush back and forth, and the air practically vibrates with the pressure of live TV. You’re backstage, getting last-minute touch-ups, watching Pedro in the mirror as he fusses with his wig one more time.

He catches your eye and smirks.

“Ready to make America collectively text their moms?”

“Let’s emotionally damage some people,” you grin.

You walk to the stage together as the countdown begins.

3…

2…

1…

Cue the lights.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Kill The Mirror~ Oneshot

Summery: After finding his wife Y/N and son Sebastian murdered, Bucky uncovers a horrifying truth—the killer is a version of himself. Desperate to save them, he turns to time travel, risking everything to undo the past.

Character: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warning: Emotional distress, Obsessive behavior tied to grief, death

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

Morning spilled through the windows like golden syrup, coating the hardwood floors in warm light. Outside, Brooklyn buzzed with life—the soft clang of garbage trucks, the faint bark of dogs being walked, the trill of a saxophone from a street corner below.

Inside Apartment 4C, the world was slower. Still. Safe.

Bucky Barnes stood at the stove, flipping pancakes like he was defusing a bomb. His brow furrowed in intense concentration, the corners of his lips twitching every time he missed the flip by a fraction of a second. He wore only grey sweatpants and a threadbare Stark Expo t-shirt that hung a little loose on his frame—the shirt had once belonged to Y/N, and he wore it often, as if it still smelled like her.

Behind him, Y/N leaned against the counter, sipping from a chipped mug that read World’s Okayest Mom. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, and her eyes sparkled with a sleep-softened kind of joy.

“Bucky,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “you’re burning them again.”

“I’m not,” he said, too quickly. He jabbed at a pancake with the spatula, flipping it with more force than was probably necessary. “They’re just… extra crispy.”

“They look like they survived the Battle of New York,” she teased.

“You’re lucky I’m cute.”

“No, you’re lucky I’m cute,” she replied, setting her mug down. “Because a lesser woman would’ve called the fire department by now.”

He turned his head, smirking. “That’s why you married me. For my culinary prowess.”

“I married you because you cried watching that video of a baby goat wearing pajamas.”

Bucky chuckled, shoulders relaxing. “That goat was emotionally moving.”

“And I thought, ‘This man? This is the man who’s gonna kiss me before every mission, even if it’s just recon in Jersey.’”

He winced. “Okay, I forgot. Like, once.”

“Three times.”

“I was distracted.”

“Don’t make it four, Barnes,” she warned, walking up behind him and sliding her arms around his waist.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, voice low and honest.

They stood like that for a second—just breathing. Just being.

Then—

Thud.

Thud-thud-thud.

Little feet pounded against the hardwood. “Mama! Dada! I found my other sock!”

Sebastian skidded into the kitchen, a five-year-old blur of energy and chaos. His socks didn’t match, his hair looked like he’d slept in a tornado, and he dragged his worn-out stuffed panther by one leg.

“Victory!” Y/N crouched and scooped him up in a hug, peppering kisses across his face as he giggled.

“Dad, can I have a chocolate pancake?” Seb asked, turning to Bucky with pleading eyes.

“One chocolate chip pancake,” Bucky said firmly, pointing the spatula like a gavel. “That’s the rule.”

“Uncle Sam gives me two.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Soft. You’re soft.”

Before Bucky could mount a defense, there was a knock at the door.

“Speak of the devil,” he muttered, heading to answer it.

Sam Wilson stood in the hallway, holding a paper bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other. “I brought bribes,” he announced. “Sugar for the kid, caffeine for the under-slept parents.”

“UNCLE SAM!” Seb launched himself at Sam’s leg like a missile, wrapping his arms around it.

“Hey, soldier,” Sam laughed, ruffling his hair. “I’m gonna miss you too, little man.”

He handed the bag to Y/N—her favorite danish inside, of course—and kissed her cheek. “You good?” he asked gently.

Y/N nodded, smiling faintly. “Seb and I have a whole weekend planned. Pancake lunches. Saturday cartoons. Finger-painting on the walls.”

Bucky groaned. “Please, not the walls again.”

She grinned wickedly. “No promises.���

Sam sipped his coffee. “You sure you trust her alone with him? She’s the reason he tried to glue macaroni to the cat last month.”

“I heard that!” Y/N said, throwing a crumpled napkin at him.

They all laughed. It was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

But as Bucky turned to grab his duffel, the mood shifted—just slightly. Seb tugged on his pant leg.

“Dada? Are the bad guys super bad this time?”

Bucky knelt. “Yeah, but your old man’s tougher.”

“You’ll come back?”

“Always.” He cupped his son’s face. “There’s not a force on this planet that could keep me away.”

Seb hugged him fiercely, then scampered off to show Sam his newest crayon drawing—a lopsided family portrait with too many arms.

Y/N stood in the doorway as Bucky slung the duffel over his shoulder. They just looked at each other for a long moment.

“I hate this part,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “I’ll see you in three days.”

“Come home to me.”

“I swear it.”

He kissed her like he always did—slow, reverent, like it had to last forever.

He turned and walked away, not knowing that in doing so, he was leaving behind the last living memory he’d ever have of them

_____

The apartment door creaked open three days later.

“Y/N?” Bucky’s voice echoed through the silence. “Seb? I’m home!”

No reply.

No running footsteps. No laughter. No half-done drawing taped to the fridge.

Just quiet.

“Baby?” He set his bag down, panic slowly rising in his throat. His footsteps felt deafening.

Then he saw her.

Y/N was on the floor by the couch, crumpled awkwardly, blood pooled beneath her. One hand outstretched. Reaching.

Sebastian lay beside her. His face looked peaceful. Too peaceful.

“No,” Bucky breathed. He staggered forward, knees hitting the floor with a crack. “No, no, no—no.”

He pulled them into his arms, shaking, sobbing.

“Y/N, wake up. Wake up, baby, please—please. Don’t do this to me.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “You promised.”

His hands cradled Seb’s tiny body. “My boy. My sweet boy. Please…”

His screams were hoarse. Raw. The walls didn’t echo. They swallowed it.

____

Rain fell like grief from a grey sky.

Umbrellas dotted the cemetery like wilted flowers. Two caskets. One adult. One child.

The Avengers stood in rows, dressed in black. Heads bowed. Shoulders trembling.

Tony stepped up first. His voice was low, rough. “Y/N was brilliant. Fierce. She once rewrote a protocol mid-battle because mine sucked.” A shaky laugh. “She saved my ass. Constantly.”

He looked at Seb’s casket. “And that kid? He could’ve run Stark Industries one day. No doubt.”

Natasha took the mic next. “Y/N never looked at me like I was broken,” she said. “She saw past all of it. I loved her.”

Steve placed a photo at the base of the casket. “She saved Bucky. Gave him a life. A reason to hope again.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Bucky showed me pictures of Seb every damn day. He said watching him sleep was the best thing in the world. He loved them more than life.”

Bucky said nothing.

Didn’t move.

____

That night, Bucky opened the door to silence. The kind of silence that had teeth.

The panther plush lay on the floor. A toy truck. A sock.

He collapsed to his knees, the weight of it too much.

He clutched the stuffed animal and howled.

“I’m sorry. I was supposed to protect you.” His voice cracked. “I swore…”

Flashback –

They had sat in the hallway together, backs against the wall, holding the positive test between them.

“You’re gonna be a dad,” Y/N said, eyes glassy.

He looked terrified—and then radiant.

Bucky kissed her stomach that night and whispered, “No matter what happens… I’ll protect you both. I’ll die before I don’t.”

And in the stillness of their apartment, with her hand in his, he meant it.

Present-

Now, he lay curled on the floor, the toy pressed to his chest.

The clock ticked.

Time moved on.

But somewhere in the shadows of his shattered soul, a thought ignited.

What if there was a way to change this?

What if the mirror wasn’t broken?

Not yet.

The apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city that never truly slept. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together, staring at the floor as if it held the answers he so desperately sought.

“You’re up early,” came a familiar voice.

His head snapped up, and there she was—Y/N—standing in the doorway, bathed in the morning light. She wore his old t-shirt, the one that always looked better on her, and her hair was tousled from sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

She walked over, sitting beside him. “Nightmares again?”

He nodded, unable to meet her gaze.

She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, turning his face toward hers. “I’m here,” she whispered.

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes, savoring the warmth of her palm against his skin. “I miss you,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, leaning in.

Their lips met in a tender kiss, but as he opened his eyes, the warmth vanished. The room was empty. She was gone.

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he pressed his hands to his face, trying to hold onto the fleeting sensation. “Not again,” he whispered.

___

The skillet sizzled lowly as Bucky flipped pancakes with the ease of routine. The same brand of mix Y/N liked. The same spatula she used to swat at his shoulder when he got distracted. He moved through the kitchen on muscle memory alone—measuring, stirring, flipping—as if by obeying the rhythm of their mornings, he could summon them back.

The air smelled like sugar and warmth and something ghostly—nostalgia with an edge that cut.

He grabbed three plates. Three sets of silverware.

He placed a short stack on the first plate with extra syrup and a heap of strawberries—Sebastian’s favorite. On the second, he added two golden pancakes, light syrup, and a sprinkle of powdered sugar. Y/N always asked him not to go overboard, but she liked it when he did anyway. The third plate—his own—sat unfinished on the counter as he turned toward the hall.

“Y/N! Seb! Breakfast is ready!” he called, a slight lilt to his voice, like always.

No answer.

He waited. A moment. Two. Three.

Still nothing.

The smile he’d forced onto his lips began to tremble. “Come on, you two,” he called again, louder. “It’s getting cold.”

Still, the apartment remained quiet. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock above the stove.

His chest tightened. “Sebastian,” he tried again, voice cracking. “Mama’s gonna be mad if you don’t come quick. And I made the chocolate chip ones. Just how you like.”

Silence.

His hand gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. “Y/N…”

Still nothing.

The facade collapsed.

His legs gave out beneath him as he dropped to the floor beside the kitchen table, his back pressed to the cabinets. His breathing turned ragged, and tears streamed down his cheeks before he realized he was crying. Not like before. Not silent and controlled. But guttural. Shaking. Shattering.

“I made breakfast,” he rasped, his voice broken. “I made breakfast, babe. Just like always. You’re supposed to come in, and he’s supposed to sit on my lap and steal my food and—and you’re supposed to smile and say I’m soft—”

He curled forward, gripping his hair. “Why the fuck did you leave me?” he gasped. “Why—why didn’t I come back faster? I was supposed to protect you.”

His sobs wracked his body, loud and choking. His metal hand clenched into a fist against the tile. Cold. Useless.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

The table still held their untouched plates. Crayons lay spilled on the floor beneath it, the same ones Sebastian had used to draw a crooked family portrait the week before. In the corner sat a stuffed panther with one ear chewed. The air still smelled like syrup and strawberries and the ghost of a life that no longer existed.

“I don’t know how to live without you,” Bucky whispered into the silence. “I don’t even know how to breathe.”

___

The nights bled into each other after that.

Sleep became a foreign country, one Bucky could no longer visit. The apartment lights stayed on deep into the early morning hours as he sat hunched over the living room coffee table, surrounded by files, photographs, and weapon fragments.

The Avengers had offered help. Sam. Natasha. Steve.

He declined them all.

He didn’t want condolences. He wanted answers.

Blood spatter patterns. Forensics. He memorized every angle, every smudge. He went back to the scene a dozen times. He stood in the exact spot their bodies had been found. Measured the distances. Noted the entry wounds.

But something about it—it wasn’t random.

It was precise.

Too precise.

That’s when he noticed the first clue.

A bullet casing wedged under the couch—one that hadn’t made it into the official evidence photos. He held it up under the light and froze.

7.62x39mm.

Russian.

His pulse quickened. He knew this casing. He’d used this ammunition before.

In his Winter Soldier days.

The next clue was a knife—wedged behind the radiator. Not left behind on purpose. Forgotten. But familiar.

He held it by the hilt. A black carbon-fiber grip. Double-edged. Issued to only one division he knew of.

He had killed with this blade before.

Every fiber of him recoiled.

“No,” he breathed, staring at the blade like it might speak. “No, it can’t be—”

The kills were clean. Instantaneous. A throat slit at the right angle. A child’s heart stabbed with precision that made his stomach turn.

This was a style he recognized like an old wound.

His own.

But not his.

His hands shook as he sat back, piecing it together with growing dread.

It was him.

A mirror.

___

“You look like hell,” Sam said over the comm.

Bucky didn’t respond.

“You’ve gone ghost on everyone. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“I need more time,” Bucky muttered.

“Time for what?” Sam’s voice was sharp. “To drown yourself in guilt and caffeine?”

“I found something,” Bucky said slowly. “The killer… they used Hydra weapons. My weapons. Techniques only I know. Only I remember.”

Sam was silent for a beat. “You think it’s someone from your past?”

“I think it’s me.”

____

The wind clawed at Bucky’s coat as he stepped out of the cab onto Bleecker Street. The driver didn’t wait for a tip. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—hollow, sunken, a warzone behind them. Or maybe it was the way the sky above seemed too quiet, as if the world knew something unnatural was stirring.

He stared at the brass plaque mounted by the ornate front doors:

177A Bleecker Street.

The Sanctum Sanctorum.

He hadn’t been here since the Snap. Last time, it had been chaos—armies of the damned and sorcerers flinging eldritch fire. But now, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The doors opened before he could knock.

“Come in,” Doctor Stephen Strange called from within.

Bucky’s boots echoed against the marble floor as he stepped inside. The air smelled of ozone and ancient parchment, with a faint undercurrent of incense and something… otherworldly.

Doctor Strange stood in the main chamber, illuminated by the soft glow of levitating candles and swirling golden runes dancing through the air like fireflies.

He looked up from a floating tome, his face unreadable.

“I was expecting you,” Strange said.

Bucky swallowed. “How?”

“You’ve been clawing at the edges of time,” Strange replied, walking toward him. “Leaving a trail behind you like a bleeding wound. The universe noticed. So did I.”

Bucky’s throat felt dry. “I don’t care about the universe.”

Strange studied him. “But you care about your family.”

A silence passed between them, thick with unspoken pain.

“I want to go back,” Bucky said. His voice trembled. “I need to stop what happened. To them.”

“You’re talking about time travel,” Strange said slowly. “You’re not the first to want it. But time is not a revolving door.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky repeated. “I don’t care what it breaks. What it takes. I just want to stop this.”

Strange raised a hand, summoning a golden hourglass that rotated in mid-air. The sands within shimmered silver. “There are… ways. But they are costly. And uncertain.”

“I’ll pay anything.”

“That’s the problem,” Strange said, eyes narrowing. “You already have.”

Bucky said nothing.

Strange’s gaze softened—not with pity, but understanding. “I can give you four chances. That’s all the multiverse will allow. Four doors. Four branches. After that, the timeline becomes unstable. You’ll risk tearing a hole too wide to mend.”

“Four,” Bucky said, nodding. “Fine.”

Strange made a gesture, and the hourglass split into four glowing fragments, each hovering before Bucky like a burning ember.

“One chance to be too late. One chance to choose wrong. One chance to be powerless. And one… to face the real threat.”

“The real threat?” Bucky asked, eyebrows narrowing.

Strange didn’t answer directly. “You’ll know. Or you’ll fail.”

Bucky looked at the first fragment. The moment he reached for it, the world dissolved into light.

The world twisted.

Reality unraveled like smoke, and when it reassembled, Bucky was standing in a dim, familiar hallway.

The soft hum of fluorescent lighting overhead. Faint smells of stale coffee and old floor polish. Apartment 4C just ten feet away.

Home.

His heart pounded, blood rushing in his ears. The air was thick, slow, as if the world itself held its breath. He bolted toward the door.

“Y/N! Seb!”

No answer. Only the distant hum of a cartoon playing on the television inside.

Bucky fumbled with the keys—no, too slow. He rammed his shoulder into the door instead. It cracked off the hinges and slammed open.

And what he saw—

God.

“NO!”

Blood. So much blood.

Y/N was on the floor, her body twisted unnaturally, a crimson halo spreading beneath her head. Her eyes stared upward, empty. Her mouth was parted as if she had died mid-breath, mid-plea.

Beside her, their son—Sebastian—lay motionless, curled in on himself. One tiny hand still clutching his black stuffed panther.

Bucky dropped to his knees.

“Y/N—baby—no, no—please—” His voice cracked, broken glass in his throat.

His hands hovered uselessly, afraid to touch, to confirm what his soul already knew.

He pulled Seb into his lap, searching for any sign of life. Warmth. Breath. Anything.

Nothing.

“Sebby, c’mon,” he choked, rocking him gently. “It’s Daddy. C’mon, buddy—open your eyes.”

He kissed his forehead. It was cooling.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me…”

Flashback-

Laughter filled the apartment.

Bucky had just come in from grocery shopping, his left arm juggling three bags while Seb charged toward him like a rocket.

“DAD! We made muffins!”

Bucky laughed as Seb latched onto his leg. “Muffins? Without me?”

“You were slow,” Y/N called from the kitchen, her voice bright and teasing. “He insisted we add peanut butter. I tried to stop him.”

“They’re Panther Power Muffins,” Seb declared proudly, raising a chocolate-smeared wooden spoon like a sword.

Bucky stepped into the kitchen and pulled Y/N close with his flesh hand. She still had flour on her nose. He kissed it off.

“Panther Power Muffins, huh?”

“Wakandan-inspired,” Y/N said, grinning.

“By which she means: chocolate, banana, and chaos,” Bucky teased, making Seb giggle.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “The chaos is genetic. From your side.”

He kissed her again, softer now. “I’ll take credit for that.”

Seb shrieked in mock disgust. “EWWWWW!”

They spent the day inside. Bucky read to Seb from Where the Wild Things Are, doing all the voices. Y/N folded laundry and stole kisses every time he passed her. That night, they danced in the living room to some old Ella Fitzgerald vinyl, with Seb perched on Bucky’s shoulders.

They had no idea Death was already on its way.

Present-

Bucky held their bodies in silence. The tears wouldn’t stop. He had traveled through time, fought gods and monsters—and he couldn’t save the only two people who mattered.

His jaw clenched. His metal fist dug into the floor.

“I was so close,” he whispered. “So close.”

He leaned over and kissed Y/N’s forehead. Her hair was still soft.

“I’ll fix this,” he promised. “I swear it.”

The golden light began to pulse behind him.

The first fragment was spent.

Three doors remained.

Bucky staggered back into the Sanctum Sanctorum, eyes red-rimmed, clothes still stained with blood that no longer existed—at least, not in this moment of time. He barely felt his legs move beneath him.

Stephen Strange stood by a levitating table, arms folded, watching.

“You were too late,” the sorcerer said quietly.

Bucky didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His voice had dried up sometime between sobbing and screaming into the void.

“Three attempts left,” Strange said. “Each one risks more. The more you twist the branch, the louder the universe screams back.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Send me again.”

Strange gave a final, long look—almost pitying—and gestured.

The second golden shard lifted from the air and pressed itself into Bucky’s chest.

He vanished.

⸻

Day of the Murder – Five Hours Earlier

This time, Bucky appeared on the rooftop of the building across from their apartment.

The city buzzed below. Sirens in the distance, wind tugging at his jacket. Late afternoon sun dipped lazily behind buildings, casting the streets in long, golden shadows.

Bucky adjusted the scope on the sniper rifle he’d borrowed from a Hydra weapons cache—one he’d sworn he’d never touch again.

No mistakes this time.

No more being too late.

He scanned the street. Watched. Waited.

And then—movement.

A figure approached from the alley below. Hooded. Tall. Purposeful. Dark clothes. Head down.

Bucky’s heart began to race.

There you are.

He moved like he was gliding through air, descending the fire escape with practiced speed, never once taking his eyes off the target.

The hooded man paused just outside the building’s entrance.

Too calculated.

Too calm.

Bucky dropped down behind him, silent.

He struck.

One hand around the neck, the other driving a knee into the figure’s back. The man grunted and fought back, but Bucky twisted and slammed him into the alley wall. Hard.

The hood fell back.

Blood.

A broken nose.

Brown skin.

A familiar voice gasping, choked:

“Bucky—?! What the hell?!”

Bucky’s breath caught.

No.

Sam Wilson’s eyes were wide with pain and confusion. Blood poured from his nose. One of his wings, compacted into a backpack harness, was twisted at an odd angle.

“No—nonononono—” Bucky stammered, his grip loosening.

“I was just coming to check on you, man!” Sam wheezed, spitting blood. “Y/N texted me—you weren’t answering. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bucky backed away, horror spreading like frost.

He looked toward the apartment.

No sound. No sirens.

But the knowing, soul-crushing ache hit him again.

He sprinted.

Three floors.

Bashed open the door with his shoulder.

And just like before—

The blood.

The stillness.

Y/N, lifeless.

Sebastian, eyes closed, small hand still clutching his stuffed panther.

Bucky collapsed again.

“No,” he whispered. “Not again.”

Footsteps echoed behind him. Sam stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to his nose, the other shaking with disbelief.

“Oh my God…”

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them knew how to breathe.

Flashback –

“Hey, tell me something,” Y/N said lazily as she lay on Bucky’s chest, their legs tangled on the couch.

“Hmm?”

“If I die before you,” she said softly, “you’ll promise me something?”

Bucky turned his head, brushing his nose against hers. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Just promise,” she said. “It’s not morbid. It’s real.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

“Promise you’ll never stop telling him stories. About me. About us. Even the dumb ones.”

Bucky smiled sadly. “Especially the dumb ones.”

Seb had toddled in then, blanket dragging behind him, thumb in his mouth.

“Up,” he mumbled.

Y/N pulled him between them. “Family sandwich,” she announced, wrapping them both in her arms.

Bucky remembered thinking:

This. This is everything.

Present-

He buried his face into his hands. Blood on his shirt. Sam’s blood. Seb’s blood. Y/N’s.

He had made the wrong choice.

Killed the wrong man.

And still—he had failed.

Behind him, the golden light bloomed again. The second shard, now drained, floated back into Strange’s hand.

⸻

Sam’s voice echoed in Bucky’s memory even as the Sanctum reassembled around him.

“You’re not well, man,” Sam had said. “You’re not thinking straight.”

No. He wasn’t.

But what else was he supposed to do?

Strange said nothing this time. Just extended his hand to the next fragment.

“You understand now,” the sorcerer said at last. “Being early doesn’t mean being right.”

Bucky’s fists clenched. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You have two chances left. You’re not just altering the past anymore—you’re straining yourself.”

“Good,” Bucky growled. “I want the pain.”

Strange nodded. “Then you’ll find it.”

And with that, the third door opened.

Golden threads of time wove through Bucky’s chest like lightning in reverse. His body tensed, pulled from one moment to another like a snapped rubber band.

And then—

Light.

Color.

Noise.

The present vanished again, and the world unfolded for the third time.

⸻

7 A.M. – The Day They Died

This time, he awoke in bed.

Warm.

Sheets tangled around his legs.

Soft morning light spilled through the bedroom curtains, dancing in streaks across the ceiling.

A small, solid weight pressed against his side—Sebastian. Curled between him and Y/N, drooling slightly on his shirt.

Y/N shifted beside them, eyes still closed, her fingers twitching in dreams.

Bucky froze.

They’re alive.

He didn’t move for a full minute. Just breathed them in. The scent of her shampoo. The warmth of Seb’s breath. The slow rise and fall of both their chests.

When he did move, it was slow—careful—like a soldier in a minefield. He kissed Y/N’s forehead. Then Seb’s.

This is the moment everything starts.

And he wouldn’t let go of it.

⸻

Morning Routine – 8:30 A.M.

Y/N was rinsing the dishes, humming Stevie Wonder under her breath. Bucky leaned in the doorway, silently counting their breaths. Every sound, every note—he absorbed it like a starving man.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

He smiled faintly. “Just admiring the view.”

“Gross.” She winked. “But acceptable.”

Seb ran through the kitchen wearing his pajama pants on his head like a hat.

“I am Captain Panther, defender of muffins and cartoons!”

“God help us all,” Y/N muttered.

Bucky chuckled, but something inside him wouldn’t settle. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. The air buzzed—not with magic, but with wrongness.

Like a violin just slightly out of tune.

Y/N stopped mid-scrub, brow furrowing.

“You feel that?” she asked.

He straightened. “Feel what?”

She blinked, frowning. “I dunno. Weird déjà vu or something. Like… we’ve done this before. Exactly like this.”

Because we have, he thought.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping closer.

She nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He kissed her. “Let me handle breakfast.”

“No complaints here, Chef Barnes.”

But that feeling lingered.

⸻

Afternoon – 2:17 P.M.

He stayed with them all day.

Everywhere they went—every room, every step. He kept one hand near a weapon. Monitored the windows. Traced the corners of the apartment with his eyes, over and over.

Y/N noticed.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re acting like we’re in a bunker, Buck.”

He hesitated. Then: “Just… wanna keep you close.”

Her face softened. “We’re safe, baby.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do know that,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re here.”

But even as she said it, she glanced out the window. A flicker of something—a shadow that shouldn’t have moved.

He followed her gaze.

Nothing there.

And still.

The feeling.

⸻

Evening – 7:00 P.M.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

Y/N made spaghetti—Seb’s favorite. Bucky smiled and played along, but his mind ticked like a clock. Counting moments. Watching signs.

Seb giggled as he slurped a noodle. “Papa, look! I made a mess!”

Bucky nodded absently.

Something’s wrong. It’s too perfect.

And then it came.

A subtle hiss.

Not loud. Barely audible beneath the whir of the dishwasher.

Bucky froze.

Y/N looked up. “What’s that?”

He rose fast.

Metal arm flashing, he slammed open the utility cabinet.

Gas.

A hissing pipeline.

Not natural gas.

Hydra tech. Leaking odorless, colorless, nerve agent. Invisible death, slow and silent.

“Grab Seb!” he barked.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She scooped Seb up.

“Out the fire escape—go!”

She turned, bolting. Bucky grabbed his knife, slashed the gas line, and tried to vent the pressure—but the leak was too far gone.

Then he heard it.

A cough.

Sebastian.

“No, no, no—”

He chased them to the hallway.

Y/N staggered. Dropped to her knees.

Seb’s stuffed panther fell from his hands.

“Y/N!” Bucky grabbed her.

Her face was pale, her lips turning blue.

“Buck—I can’t—” she gasped.

He caught Seb as he slumped forward.

“No—nonono—wake up—please—” he begged.

Their bodies were limp.

Silent.

The gas had gotten in sooner. Maybe earlier. Maybe hours ago. Maybe when the apartment was still laughing and filled with music.

He had been there. The whole day. And it hadn’t mattered.

The timeline doesn’t want them alive.

He screamed. A sound that tore his throat raw. He pounded the floor with his fists, cracked the walls with his rage.

And then—

The light found him again.

Golden.

Unforgiving.

___

He collapsed back into Strange’s chamber, gasping.

Sweat clung to his skin. His hands shook.

Strange looked up slowly. “I felt it. They changed tactics.”

“They?” Bucky snarled. “You mean me. Or whoever… whatever… did this.”

Strange frowned, brows furrowed. “No. I mean time.”

Bucky stood, trembling. “What the hell does that mean?”

“The timeline doesn’t like being corrected. It’s pushing back. What you saw—the gas—that was new. Different. This isn’t just a killer. It’s a branch collapsing in protest.”

Bucky’s eyes burned. “So I’m losing to fate now?”

“No,” Strange said carefully. “You’re losing to yourself.”

Bucky stared at the final fragment.

Only one left.

One last door.

Strange raised his hand. “If you open this one, there’s no going back. You could fracture your soul. Or worse—destroy the tether that binds you to this reality.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “I’m already a ghost in this one.”

Strange’s eyes softened. “Then may you find what you’re looking for in the last mirror.”

The fragment glowed—

And time shattered one final time.

The golden light swallowed him one final time.

Unlike the others, this wasn’t a pull — it was a plunge. Cold. Hollow. It didn’t feel like slipping through time.

It felt like falling into himself.

Bucky landed on his knees in the darkness of the Sanctum’s antechamber. His palms scraped the stone floor. The air was too still. Too quiet.

His lungs filled slowly, like they had to relearn how to breathe in this version of the world.

This was it.

The final door.

No second chances now. No more fragments to catch him if he failed.

He rose.

This time, he knew exactly when the murders happened. And now, he knew who was coming.

Himself.

The Winter Soldier. Not a memory. Not a ghost. But a living, breathing variant from another timeline. One who never broke free.

One who still obeyed Hydra’s last order.

Eliminate the asset’s weaknesses.

⸻

11:52 PM – One Hour Before the Attack

Bucky arrived at the apartment early. Too early.

He moved through the space like a shadow — securing every door, every window. Checking every wall. Every vent. Every water pipe.

He stood in the dark for minutes at a time, listening.

Sebastian was asleep in his bed, clutching his panther plush. Y/N was in the bedroom, reading. Her voice echoed softly as she murmured words to herself.

God, he missed the sound of her voice.

He closed his eyes.

Just one more hour.

⸻

12:44 AM – The Lights Flicker

It started small.

A low hum beneath the floorboards.

Bucky opened his eyes. Everything slowed.

The bulb in the hallway buzzed — then popped.

A whisper of cold air brushed his neck.

He turned.

And saw himself.

Standing at the far end of the hallway, near the front door. The long hair. The blank eyes. The cold sneer etched into the face he once wore.

But this wasn’t just another assassin.

This version of the Winter Soldier wore no mask.

Only contempt.

“You’re late,” Bucky said, stepping between the variant and his family’s door.

The Soldier tilted his head. “You remembered. Good. Makes this easier.”

Bucky stepped forward. “You’re not getting past me.”

The Soldier gave a thin, humorless smirk. “You think you’ve changed. But I know you better than anyone. You still want to kill. You just wear better reasons now.”

“I want peace.”

“No,” the Soldier snapped. “You want absolution.”

His voice was darker than Bucky remembered. Not mechanical. Human. Too human.

“They were going to make you weak,” the Soldier said. “Just like they made me weak, once. Hydra corrected that mistake in my timeline.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “You’re not saving me. You’re killing what made me human.”

“They made you soft. Slow. You started smiling. Laughing. And look what happened. You failed them three times already.”

The Soldier stepped closer.

“You want me gone? Then stop me.”

They clashed like thunder.

Metal met metal — fists crashing, walls shattering. The air cracked with every strike.

The apartment trembled with the violence of it.

Bucky ducked a blade swipe and slammed his knee into the Soldier’s ribs. The variant spun and elbowed him across the jaw.

“You’re slow,” the Soldier taunted.

“I’m free,” Bucky growled.

They tumbled into the living room — furniture splintering beneath them. Bucky grabbed the Soldier’s arm and flung him into the wall, but the bastard rolled with it and landed on his feet like a wolf.

“I watched them die,” Bucky snarled, advancing. “I felt it. Again and again. And I swear to God—if you touch them—”

“I already did,” the Soldier sneered. “Three times. You just kept hitting rewind.”

Bucky roared, slamming into him.

They crashed into the kitchen. A knife block spilled. Both reached for blades.

Steel flashed.

Blood hit tile.

The Soldier’s knife slid across Bucky’s ribs — but Bucky’s metal fist caught him square in the jaw, sending him flying into the stove.

Glass cracked.

Smoke hissed.

Bucky grabbed him by the collar and slammed him down.

“This ends now,” Bucky rasped.

The Soldier laughed.

“Then do it. Kill me. You know you want to.”

Bucky raised the knife — hand trembling.

He’s right.

He could end it here. No more chasing. No more failure. Just silence.

But—

Seb’s laughter echoed faintly in his head. Y/N’s sleepy smile. The way they both looked at him like he deserved peace.

He dropped the knife.

“No,” he whispered. “That’s your way.”

He punched the Soldier unconscious — hard enough to make sure he stayed down.

Then Bucky stumbled to his feet.

And ran.

She was awake. Sebastian too — cradled in her arms, sleepy and scared.

“Bucky?” she gasped. “There was—there was noise—and I—”

He reached them.

He dropped to his knees and pulled them both into his arms.

“You’re okay,” he choked. “You’re safe.”

Seb clung to him. Y/N wrapped her arms tight around his neck, trembling.

“I had a dream you were gone,” she whispered. “That you kept… leaving.”

Bucky’s chest cracked open.

“I did,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m here now. I swear, I’m here.”

Sebastian cried softly into his shirt. “Papa… the bad dream was real.”

“I know, baby,” Bucky murmured. “But we beat it. We beat it together.”

⸻

Hours later, back in the Sanctum, Strange examined the variant — now bound, silent, and unconscious in a containment ward of magic.

“You succeeded,” he told Bucky. “You severed the loop.”

Bucky stood silently, arms around Y/N and Seb. Both had followed him back. Both still shaken. But alive.

“What happens to him?” Bucky asked.

Strange’s gaze hardened. “He’ll be judged by a higher force than us. This version of you… is a fragment. An echo. But echoes still carry.”

Bucky nodded.

“And the timeline?” he asked.

Strange didn’t answer at first. Then:

“You forced a correction. It held. But time is… alive, James. It remembers what was taken from it.”

Y/N stepped closer, holding Bucky’s hand tighter. “What does that mean?”

Strange looked between them.

“It means the door is closed — for now. But something else may come looking.”

⸻

Back in their apartment, finally safe, finally still, Bucky tucked Seb into bed.

The little boy didn’t let go of his panther plush the whole night.

Y/N watched Bucky from the doorway.

“You look haunted,” she said gently.

“I saw myself,” he whispered.

“I know.”

She walked to him, took his hand, and placed it on her heart.

“You’re here. You saved us.”

He didn’t speak.

So she kissed his knuckles.

“Whatever comes next,” she said, “we face it together.”

He finally exhaled.

Held her.

Closed his eyes.

Outside, the night was still.

But far, far away — in the spaces between time — something watched the broken loop.

And smiled.

-the end……….(?)

[holylulusworld]

Devil’s spawn (2)

Summary: Your husband takes one step too far.

Pairing: Tony Stark x Wife!Reader, Possible Biker!Steve Rogers x Reader

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Warnings: biker au, heavy angst, unrequited love, bad parenting/absent father/awful father, favoring a child (that’s not his), angry reader, mentions of divorce/cheating, Lydia being the devil’s spawn, a hint of fluff

Catch up here: Devil’s spawn (1)

“I should’ve killed him,“ Bucky grunts on your way back to Steve’s home. “How can he abandon his wife and Bug over that vile child? I could see it in her eyes; she’s evil.”

“I never thought I’d ever say this about a kid, but you’re right, Buck,” Steve slams his hands onto the steering wheel. “I cried looking at Bug for the first time, and he just abandoned this sweet, little girl.”

“Can I,” you sniffle and wipe a few tears off your cheeks, “meet my lawyer at your place? I don’t want to be seen at his office. One of his associates is a friend of Tony.”

“Any ally of yours is welcome at my house, Y/N. Don’t you worry about a thing.” Steve would have loved to punch Tony’s face. “You and Bug can stay at my house as long as you want to. There’s no rush. I know you need to sort out a lot of things first.”

“Matt will come tomorrow,” you say, but your mind is miles away. If not for your daughter, you’d regret ever meeting Tony.

Y/D/N is the only good thing coming out of your marriage with Tony. She’s the first thing he ever gifted to you that mattered. Not flowers or jewelry—only your daughter.

After a night of passionate lovemaking and no protection, you found yourself pregnant with Bug.

“I wish we didn’t have that fight back then,” Steve says more to himself than you. “You ran off and bumped into that asshole.”

“Steve,” Bucky hisses, giving his friend an angry look. “If she never met Stark, Bug wouldn’t be here.”

“Shit…fuck,” Steve curses himself for hurting you. “I didn’t mean it that way, doll. You know I love Bug. She’s our ray of sunshine.”

“She loves you too,” you reply with a smile. “Sometimes I feel she’s more like you than Tony.” You laugh, but Steve’s heart flutters for a moment. He often wished he had given you Bug, not your husband.

“We all love our Bug and will bring despair over Stark,” Bucky states without hesitation. “Remember my words. I’ll punch the stupidity out of him.”

“I think he showed his true colors since Lydia moved in with us. If he loved me and Bug as much as he pretended in the past, he would have never done anything like that to us. That kid is a stranger to him. He hasn’t heard of Brooke in over twelve years; still, he threw away our marriage and our beloved child for her.”

“I should do something.” Steve angrily replies. He heard the hurt in your voice and felt helpless because he couldn’t do a thing about it. If he attacks Tony, it will lower your chances of getting sole custody of Bug. Surrounding yourself with violent people would make you look like a bad mom.

“You already did so much within only a few hours.” You place your hand on his thigh and squeeze it. “You let me move in, helped me get all of my things, and called our friends for help.”

Steve isn’t convinced that he did all in his power to help you. Maybe he’ll find more ways to help you tomorrow. For now, he needs to help you and Bug settle in.

“…and then, the mysterious and handsome hero walked into the bookshop and found them!” Bucky ends his story, making your daughter squeal and cry happy tears.

He called a friend on your way back to Steve’s house, the owner of an antiquarian bookshop, and asked him to find every book your daughter lost through Lydia’s hands.

Bucky also asked if there was a chance to restore the irreplaceable ones. Especially the books your mother gifted to Y/D/N.

“I will bring the books he couldn’t find to him tomorrow. Hopefully, he can restore them. He will do his very best.” Your daughter looks at Bucky like he told her magic is real.

After playtime with Chester and helping Steve prepare dessert for everyone, she’s now seated next to Bucky to listen to him tell her about her books.

“You are the best, Uncle Bucky!” She grins from ear to ear. “And Uncle Stevie because he said Chester can sleep in my room! He gave me a new book too.”

“She only loves my dog,” Steve whispers, but hopes Bug likes him a little more than Bucky. Even if he loves his friend like a brother.

“I like you a lot, Uncle Stevie!” Y/D/N gasps. She grabs his right hand and squeezes it. “You are my favorite uncle. You give the best hugs, and you have Chester and your bike, and I like your hair!”

“Whoa, slow down, young lady.” You tickle her sides. “No flirting with men until you are thirty!”

While your daughter giggles at your comment, you feel your heart saddened. If only Tony could see what he lost. Though, you’re not sure if he cares about his daughter at all after everything happening lately.

“I’m one call away,” Bucky says as Steve tries to shove him out of the door. You already said your goodbyes and carried your daughter into her, for now, new bedroom—one of Steve’s guestrooms. “If he turns up here for trouble, we will rip him a new one.”

“Buck, I don’t think this will be necessary. I think he gives a shit on Y/N and Bug. I know this is crazy, but he didn’t look like himself around that girl.”

Bucky frowns at Steve’s words, “Maybe this is a case of body snatchers. You know, Stark fell asleep and woke as a different person one day.”

Natasha snorts, Clint grins, and Thor chuckles. Steve doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t find it funny. Nothing about the situation is funny.

“Sorry, that was…stupid of me to say,” Bucky back paddles, seeing Steve’s expression. “I tried to find a way to explain his change of heart.”

“I know. We all try to fathom how he could so easily abandon his child and wife.” Steve’s features soften, remembering how Bug clung to him before bedtime. “We will support Y/N. Nothing else matters.”

“Mommy!” Bug screams in her sleep. Steve is quick to run into the room, watching you wrap your daughter in a hug. “Why does Daddy hate me?” She cries as you slowly rock her in your arms.

“No, baby,” you coo to calm her. There’s not much you can do. You cannot tell a six-year-old that her father lost his mind. “He’s just… I don’t know, Bug.”

“No one could ever hate our Bug.” Steve can’t stop himself from walking into the room to kneel next to the bed. “Okay. Your dad is being an idiot at the moment, but he doesn’t hate you.”

You give Steve a cracked smile, wishing it was true… but you know it isn’t…

[vaaaaaiolet]

f / m, angsty ooooh. you guys are exes. leon drops you off at a party after your car goes kaput and defies logic by staying. cue sad baby tate mcrae era worthy breakdown.

a/n: i’m supposed to be on hiatus rn but i‘m at a party where i don’t like anyone and no one likes me so i’m #thuggingitout by writing fanfic on my phone 🔥 no i’m not projecting anything onto leon. no i didn’t melt off my mascara crying to girl in new york by role model or her by the american dawn. mobile docs is so ass pls forgive any goofs 🙏

word count: 902 // read on ao3 // drabble masterlist

In hindsight, he never should’ve picked up your call. Leon’s standing in the furthest corner of the living room, here at your friend’s party tonight, nursing a red Solo (so that’s why they named it that) cup full of something too watered down to dream of taking any edge off, figuring out why it’s common fucking sense to let the phone keep ringing when your ex calls.

But he just can’t help himself when it comes to you. Never could.

Leon doesn’t know anyone here. He didn’t think about that part either. The last thing he remembers is dropping everything to pick you up at the side of the road where your car gave out. There you were, sat on the curb looking like a Barbie fresh out the box. Dressed in a shimmering little number he couldn’t remember paying for unlike all the ones before. Tears gelling your eyes. Chin tucked over knees spattered with new, purpling bruises he’ll never know the story behind. Didn’t know who else to call. 

(But he knows it must’ve been your bathroom cabinets. You’d become a hurricane in there when you got ready, always tripping over the stupid jut-out handles on the bottom. He used to kiss the little galaxies on your knees all better. 

It took every fiber of his being to not bend down again when you finally looked up at his face.)

Call it morbid curiosity. Leon wanted to know where you were going tonight that had you in such a rush to get out the door. What else is his insomnia supposed to ruminate over later? So he paid the towing fees, opened his passenger door for the first time in forever, and kept his mouth zipped while you typed in your friend’s address on the GPS. Zipped besides the minimum, you know:

Are you okay?

Does it still hurt?

No use thinking about it still.

– all about your car, of course.

Leon needn’t have bothered trying to calm you down on the drive here. You’d patted your bruises back to health with spare makeup from your bag. Your heels didn’t wobble when he followed you to your friend’s doorstep to make sure you got there safe, not even when she insisted he stay – new friend, Leon realized. She didn’t recognize your ex. You simply hadn’t known her long enough to tell the story. Clearly, you haven’t been shutting yourself off from the world like him. He should be happy you’re doing better.

Different people have different coping strategies, Leon soothes himself with a swirl of his cup. 

But two can play at that game. He doesn’t even miss you. 

Except in the mornings and evenings, and on weekdays and weekends. He didn’t think twice in the car about pressing a kiss to the back of your hand whenever the traffic lights turned red – just at the first one. There’s no need for an actress in his dreams when he can go at a punching bag long enough to tempt dawn, creeping through his semi-permanently shuttered windows. And he’s never been a song person either. Your laugh replaying in his head keeps him occupied on the longest drives. It’s not like it stings to even think about ejecting the Jeff Buckley CD you left behind in the console. Did he hallucinate you looking at it on the way here?  

No, Leon’s never wondered if you still think about the way you used to feel in his arms. 

Or how long it took for you to tell your mom that he broke your heart.

When is your friend going to start glaring daggers at him?

That thought sets him straight. He can leave. He should leave. You’re a smart girl. You’d figure out a ride home and Leon could use a drink more than anyone here. 

You’d told him a story once: of a tiger chasing a monk down a cliff. The monk, too panicked to take a turn, had ran right off the precipice, managing to grab on to a solitary grapevine as the tiger licked his chops from above. All Leon had gathered was that the guy was a goner. A pancake whether he gets gulped or falls victim to gravity. 

You said there was a lesson here, sweetheart. He’s just going to die. 

Okay, okay! So there he is, the tiger’s about to eat him, the vine’s starting to give way. He’s completely doomed. Then he notices a bunch of grapes growing off the end of it.

The vine?

Yeah. 

So they’re magic grapes? Do they save him somehow?

He uses one arm to hang onto the vine and the other to pluck a grape off the bunch. He pops it into his mouth. And it’s the sweetest grape he’s ever tasted. 

The monk falls to his death. Obviously. It didn’t matter to Leon, not when he’d tickled you to tears under the covers, his tired laugh drowned out by yours that sounds like tinkling bells, begged you to tell a different story before he turns the light off. Leon’s always the one telling stories for a reason. All his have endings that make sense.

But then he sees you in the center of the room, shining brighter than any mirrorball, laughing that same laugh, one he hasn’t heard for so long that it shatters his ribs – and he stays. 

How sweet the rim of his Solo cup tastes.

the monk story is a zen parable i got from my fav short story of all time, maria of the grapes by jen silverman pls read her book the island dwellers i beg

click for my full drabble collection, and find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

[apenapaperandadoofus]

Okayyyy last part of my mom reacting to tgcf

She was flabbergasted at the MQ accusations

She thought HC could be JW for some reason? Lmaooo

When MQ said the f-f-friends line she almost died from cuteness lmao, the entire time she was like “aaaaAAAAAAA this poor guy :(“

Her opinion on both FX and MQ is: they both had different ways of dealing with the situation they thought best, MQ wanted to help them in his own way, and while he did the mountain things he didn’t do it out of malice. He was doing what he thought was right at the moment. For Feng Shui (yes she calls him that still it’s hilarious) he also was taking care of his family and tried to be there until the last moments, he was tried and frustrated.”

She psychoanalyzed them as well (therapist mom mode on)

However she still does the mom gasp whenever they curse

Also she said like three times to Juan “kiss him! Kiss him!” Mom STOP THEYRE IN THE FINAL BOSS BATTLE

She also jokingly predicted like 4 HC lines mom???

She was just telling the entire time the fight happened and was so nervous like “AMANDA JUAN BETTER NOT DIE”

Thought the CuoCuo thing was also cute

Was so worried when XieXie kept being slammed against the walllll

When he gave him the spiritual energy she was so happy like “now you can go beat WuWu up!”

She was so excited to see XieXie use his power!

Then she literally kept going “no…no…NO” when Juan began to disappear she was going through it.

Then when we skipped to the martial gods doing their thing in mount Taicang she was like “WHAT NO WHY” and then kept going “no he can’t be dead. He has to come back he can’t be dead”

Was so sad about Guzi lmao she has adopted him

Is happy Ling Wen got her job back but sad bc she was overworked again lmao she thought that was HILARIOUS

She ships Pei Ming and the rain master (which I’ve already said YH is really similar to my mom in general, -while she doesn’t plant vegetables she has an entire garden she has grown herself and sometimes has made tiny tomatoes or cilantro) and to that I say PEI MING GET AWAY FROM MY MOM

She was so sad at the time skips were XieXie kept making things for when HC would come back like she kept saying “he better not come back as only a butterfly PLEAAE TELL ME HE DOESNT JUST COME BACK AS A BUTTERFLY”

When he came back she was so happy like “AA I KNEW IT HE COULDNT DIE HE CAME BACK”

Then the party came and she just kept laughing. When they mentioned the statue she was like “he built a statue again this guy!!!” (Fondly lmao)

When the internal Qi part came she jokingly went “it’s all around your body!” And then it said it was internal and she was like 😀 (she said something in Spanish that’s like saying gasp good heavens!

When we finished she was so happy she kept awwwing like “oh I’m so glad he came back I’m so happy”

She REALLY really liked it. Her favorite characters are Juan, XieXie and Pei Ming (get away from my mom you whore 🫵) and SQX she was so mad about the fate exchange thing lmaooo

She was happy than WuWu kind of found peace at the end even if she hates his guts for everything he did. She just thinks well he’s in peace at least.

Was SO happy SQX kept visiting Xie Lian like “YEAH HE BETTER”

I showed her some animatics like the famous Melts one. She almost cried at the Juan disappearing one, and when the love like you one came she thought it was sweet but then when Wuming starts taking in the spirits she goes “wait it was then XieXie’s fault he died!” MOM NO IT WASNT HE WAS GOING THROUGH SMTH

Then I showed her the IlymirBora one with the Shrek song and she was happy they were all happy but gasped at PM and Ling Wen playing volleyball with SWDs head 😭😭😭

Now she has to read the extras!

But yeah she gave it a 10/10, she keeps saying “Now we have to watch the anime!” (Yes I know it’s donghua but she doesn’t leave her alone ahshshs) and to listen to the audio drama!

It was quite a wild ride haha but thanks for everyone who left sweet messages and followed along, mom got really shy when I told her lmao, but she was happy at some of the sweet messages!

I’ll see if we eventually read MDZS or any other danmei! (Cough I’ll also be posting some fanfiction so if y’all wanna check that out cough)

However I think that will be in a few ish weeks, since I have exams soon and I’m taking on my first real law case job thing so that’ll be smth 😭

Also mom MIGHT start reading fanfiction I’ll see what to recommend lmao (and try my best to get her to not accidentally read some dead dove she can handle a lot but definitely not that PFT)

Thank you all so much for following along once again 🩷 mom sends her regards!

[bookandyarndragonwritesdark]

Rose looked up from her phone watching vigil when Rushal set a matchmaking baseline sized steaming mug next to her as well. "Thank you." Rose set down the phone to inhale the rich redolent scent of the coffee. Her eyes closed as the first hit of caffeine hit her blood stream. Taste lingering on her tounge she reluctantly set the mug down when her mother's ring tone came on. Supressing the cowardly urge to join Jago's Father (and why did that feel like it had capital leters?) behind the house, she picked up the phone.

"Emma Rose, are you alright?! Dear Lord child, you just scared ten years off of my life!" Rose's mother's voice carried a wealth of concern.

"I'm O.K. Mom," Rose reasured her. "I'm alright. I'm safe. The car's safe. Things are," she cast a glance at the reading Astartes, "settled down once the translations got underway. "

The elder Beauchamp breathed a sigh of relief, "I had to hear you say it, sweetheart." Her voice cracked a bit before bringing it back under control. "Kara's upstairs taking a nap. Poor dear praticlay passed out from exaution in your old room. Your dad's over at your brother making sure they pack up the rest of her stuff. And I, seeing your text, I needed to hear your voice."

"I love you too, Mom," Rose replied voice softening with affection. "Is this just an 'are you ok' call or is there more news on your end?"

"Mostly needing to hear my baby girl's alright. It's all starting to rush in on me now that's the house's gone quiet for a bit." Rose's mom swallowed hard before continuing in a painfully soft voice. "Rose, you'd tell me wouldn't you? What we did wrong raising you two for your brother to do this to his girl?"

Rose cut her Mom of, "You and dad brought us up well. No parent's perfect but you two... Where it counts the most, we knew we could come to you. There were consequences for our actions and there we might have had a to deal with the aftermath of Hard Lessons Learned. Just, even when you and I were doing our worst unstoppable force and immovable object impression... Mom we knew we never had to fear you and Dad pulling this kind of crap."

Rose's mom let out a shakey laugh "Well you come by your stubbornness honestly, that's for sure. Thanks sweetie, you got so wise while I wasn't looking." Quickly she re-grouped, "Now if we keep going down this path, the flood gates are going to open. I need to hold it together for a bit longer for Kara though. So why don't you tell me about that Ultramarine you may or may not have bonded with. Is he good looking?" The last bit came out in a knowing tone. "There's just something about a fighting man in uniform. Your dad was in his dress uniform when I first laid eyes on him and it was quite the sight."

"Mother!" Rose flushed. Cato turned to look at her in moderate concern at her scandalized tone. The Gothic mater wasn't diffrent from the English mother. Then shifted his atention to the sky. A few moments later she heard the distant sounds of the approaching helicopter. "Mom, the guys from the base are just about here. I need to go. Love you, be well!" Mercifuly her mother ler her off the phone quickly with a quick loving good bye.

Silly thought with Rose and Cato. Instead of encountering nekkid shouty Astartes at her house imagine the Shenanigans if she'd been traveling for work or niece rescue. Oh no the car broke down near your oc/si's farm. There doth the proud nudist Cato Sicarious appear. Oh no he must rescue the poor baseline/s (Rose and maybe Kara) from the approaching Night Lord in the tacky salicious shirt. And this unlucky fucer runs into the woods.

That’s a great idea. I’m laughing so hard. And then he runs into Konrad. 😂

[leupagus]

Working Title: Grumpy Old Man

Inspired by this excellent post:

He sees her on the playground, of all places. First time he's pretty sure he hallucinates her, pushing a little mini-me version of herself on the swings with her hair in a messy ponytail and arguing with someone on the phone. She's gone grey in the fifteen years since he's seen her last, but she still stands straight and tall like a dancer, still has that dimple on her cheek that had scrambled his brain more times than he could count back in the day.

By the time Jack's confident that she's actually real, they're long gone and Theresa is tugging at his pant leg, demanding uppies and also an ice cream.

"Your mom won't be too happy about that," he warns her even as he swings her up onto his shoulders, the move natural now with almost three months of practice — ever since he'd gotten the call in April, Ingrid barely able to get the words out: Dad, he's gone. He's gone and what are we going to do? "She said no sweets until after dinner."

"Ice cream anna cookie, Grampa," she bargains, fisting her little hands in his hair to steer him toward the ice cream truck like she's an oversized rat hauling him around a fancy restaurant kitchen. He's gotten used to it, though he suspects there's always going to be a part of him terrified that one day she's going to yank him right into traffic and Ingrid will dig up his corpse just to kill him all over again.

(That's all that had kept him from stepping off the roof on his bad days; kept him from unlocking the gun safe in his closet, kept him from the knives and the pills and the dozen other ways he knew he could've ended it quick and clean and painless. Eventually his bad days had faded into the sort of bad day that most people bitch about to their friends or their families, and he didn't have to hold onto his daughter as his one reason for living. But it had been a long few years of that, teetering so close to the edge that tripping had felt like relief.)

-

The next time he sees her at the playground, she sees him first. "Dr. Abbot?" The voice is hesitant, puzzled, and immediately familiar.

She's wearing an oversized sweater-dress and achingly practical boots, her daughter perched on one hip and clapping arrhythmically to a song only she can hear. Jack gets up from the bench after glancing over at the sandpit — Theresa is still engaged in her battle with some kids that look straight out of a remake of Children of the Corn, but she can take them easy — and tries not to read too much into the broad smile on her face as she realizes it is, in fact, him.

"Long time, no see," he says, and she laughs.

"No kidding. You're — how are you?"

"I'm good. And you—" he bites off you look good and gestures at the little girl, who's arching her back in an almost perfect semi-circle now, the universal sign for any kid who wants to be set down. Her mother obeys and the girl takes off like a shot for the slide, still clapping. "Congratulations on," and he makes a vague gesture that he hopes conveys getting knocked up at some point and having a kid with the same cute nose as you have.

"Oh, I just stole her from some mom who wasn't paying attention over at the Baby Gap. Kidding," she adds, as if that little girl could be anyone else's.

"What's her name?"

"Diana. Her father’s idea — he’s big into Wonder Woman — but it’s grown on me.”

“Oh,” he says, and is aware that his voice got pretty high just then. He’s almost sixty-three goddamn years old, this isn’t acceptable. “Congratulations on that, too.”

“Mm,” she says, considering, “probably better to congratulate me on the divorce. But thanks. I can’t pretend I regret it, since I got little Beanie out of the deal.” She watches her daughter for a little while before looking around. “And are you… um. Is one of these—”

Jack abruptly realizes how it looks — an old guy sitting on a bench in the middle of a playground — and says hurriedly, "Yeah, the one in the sandbox over there. My granddaughter."

She turns and frowns. "Which one?"

Just then Theresa scrambles to her feet, holding something aloft. “GRAMPA WE FOUND A POOP,” she bellows. “GRAMPA IT’S STINKY.”

“That one,” he says, blowing out a sigh. “That one’s mine.”

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Sugar”

No Outbreak!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

Based on a request I got on my DMs

Summary: You return to your hometown to care for your ailing father and your brother with special needs, leaving behind your bakery—and your dreams. Overwhelmed and alone, you find unexpected comfort in your neighbor, Joel Miller

WC: 7k

Warnings/Tags: fluff, smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, undisclosed age gap, undisclosed illness mention, stress, references to behaviors commonly associated with ASD.

The screen door creaked the same way it did when you were a kid — rusted, unchanging, stuck in the same soft whimper it made when your mom was alive. It groaned under your hand as you pushed it open, the sound like an old ghost stretching its bones.

You were coming home with tired eyes and a back that ached from early mornings spent kneading dough. You had your name on the window of a tiny bakery four hours away, a reputation for sourdough that could make grown men cry. People used to line up before the sun came up. You’d smile, tuck flour-dusted hair behind your ear, hand over something warm and sweet and know, just for a second, that you were good at something. Needed. Steady.

But now, all of that had to be left behind.

Your father had taken a fall—nothing life-threatening, just enough to leave him limping, bitter, and suddenly in need of help. And then there was Caleb—your younger brother, your heart. Nonverbal, sweet, and sensitive to noise and touch, Caleb needed structure, softness, predictability. You didn’t trust anyone else to give him that. You couldn’t. So you packed up, closed the bakery temporarily—you told yourself—and came back.

You wiped your hands on your apron and nudged the oven door closed. Muffins. Your brother’s favorite. Blueberry, if you could swing it. The kitchen was too small and too hot, the ceiling fan rattling like it might fall down any second, and your hands were cracked from too much soap and not enough sleep, but at least baking made you feel useful. Like something still worked when everything else didn’t.

Later that day, you walked outside to look for your brother and glanced over just in time to catch a tall, broad man in jeans and a gray T-shirt looking your way. Arms crossed, one brow cocked. He nodded once.

You gave a half-smile, a shy tilt of your chin.

That was all.

You had enough to carry without adding neighbors.

…

It wasn’t long before you met him properly. Joel Miller.

He introduced himself a week later while helping you lift a sack of potting soil out of your trunk. You’d been starting a garden in the back—tomatoes, squash, something about it reminded you of home before everything cracked. Hoping the rhythm of planting, watering, tending might calm your nerves. Joel had said something about the soil being too clay-heavy and offered to help you mix in peat moss. He was quiet, observant. Lived alone with his daughter, Sarah—bright, friendly, called you “ma’am” with a little grin.

…

Joel Miller doesn’t mean to spy.

But when his truck rumbles into the driveway around 6PM each night, there’s always that moment where he glances across the fence and sees you. Bent over, carrying groceries inside, or pushing a wheelchair ramp into place. Once, he watched you chase your brother barefoot down the yard, laughing even though you were out of breath, even though your smile looked like it might crack in half from exhaustion.

He’s got a good eye for people. Years of working construction will do that to a man—you learn how to read a room by the way someone holds their shoulders. Yours? Always tense. Drawn up around your ears like armor. Always trying not to show how heavy it is.

He noticed the way your hands trembled by 10 a.m., the way you always carried two bags of groceries and never asked for help. He watched you gently calm Caleb when the trash trucks rolled by and overwhelmed him with noise. The way your voice changed—soft, steady, full of practiced comfort. He saw you clean up after your father, even when the old man snarled, humiliated by dependence, too proud to say thank you. He heard you mutter it’s okay, it’s okay, when you thought no one was listening.

He watched you wear yourself down to threads.

All for people who didn’t know how to say how much they needed you. Who probably didn’t even know how tired you were.

And Joel saw the cracks in your armor.

The nights when your lights stayed on too long. The way you sat on the porch after Caleb had gone to bed, face in your hands, shoulders trembling just a little too hard to be blamed on a breeze. He didn’t say anything. But he stayed on his side of the fence, porch light still glowing, just in case you looked up and needed someone to wave at. Just in case you needed to know you weren’t invisible.

He doesn’t say much. Not at first.

Just nods at you over the fence line, a muttered, “Evenin’,” as he wipes sweat off his neck. Sometimes he leaves an extra bundle of firewood near your steps. Pretends it just fell off the truck.

But Joel notices. Everything.

And he’s starting to realize—he can’t stop.

One Thursday, the heat finally breaks.

The air is thick and wet, but at least it’s moving, the storm that rolled through the night before cracked the sky in half and left the streets smelling like dust and ozone. You’re carrying too many bags of groceries for your arms to possibly hold, the plastic handles cutting into your fingers, sweat trickling down your spine when you hear a voice behind you — low, familiar, and warm.

“Howdy,” Joel says.

You pause, breath catching, a carton of eggs nearly slipping from your grip.

“Oh, hey…” you say, catching your balance.

“Joel,” he reminds you, offering a small, crooked smile.

“Joel, right.” You give him a polite smile in return, shy, a little breathless.

“You need a hand with that?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for you to answer. His hands are already reaching, already taking the heaviest bags from your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s okay, really,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction — and you don’t protest.

Joel just walks beside you, carrying the load like it’s nothing.

“Never seen you before around here,” he says as you both step onto the cracked walkway to your front door.

“No… I… I left a few years ago,” you say, shifting the bag in your hand. “But I’m back now. Had things to take care of.”

Joel doesn’t press. Just nods.

He steps into the kitchen and sets the bags down gently on the counter, like he belongs there, like this isn’t the first time he’s crossed the threshold of your life.

“Well, if you need help with… anythin’, I’m right next door.”

“Thank you, Joel.”

…

And it starts like that. Small things.

Joel changes the porch light when it burns out. You don’t ask—he just notices, brings his ladder over, and does it without saying a word. He helps you haul a busted dresser from the curb, his hands firm on the edges while you mutter something about termites and too many memories. He lets Caleb sit in his truck while you run to the store—“You like country music, bud?”—and doesn’t blink when Caleb claps too loud at a Willie Nelson song. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stare. Just grins when Caleb taps the dashboard like a drum.

And you?

You bring him pie. You bake too much when you’re anxious, when the world feels too loud and too full of things you can’t fix.

“Peach,” you say shyly, cheeks pink as you hold out the tin wrapped in foil. “Hope it’s not too sweet.”

Joel bites into it right there on his porch, standing barefoot in a white T-shirt that clings just slightly to his chest, sun catching the lines in his face. He groans, low and honest, the sound curling in your stomach.

“You tryin’ to kill me or marry me with this?” he says around a mouthful of pastry.

You choke on a laugh, startled and pink to your ears, trying to hide how much you’re blushing.

He just smiles — slow, warm, real.

Not the polite kind, not the distant one he gives most folks in town.

Just for you.

And suddenly, all those heavy days feel just a little lighter.

It happens on a Saturday night.

You’re sitting on your porch, elbows on your knees, the wood warm beneath your thighs even after sunset. There’s a half-melted glass of water by your side, untouched. Your body hums with exhaustion — not the sharp kind, but the kind that sinks into your bones after a week of taking care of everything and everyone but yourself.

Your eyes are half-closed when his voice rumbles through the quiet.

“You ever take a minute for yourself?”

You blink and sit up, startled. Joel’s leaning on the fence like he’s been there a while, two sweating bottles of beer in hand, the porch light catching on the edge of his smile.

“Sorry?” you ask, caught off guard.

“I said,” he smirks faintly, “Do you ever rest?”

You glance at him, then down the street like you’re looking for a way out of the question. “It’s not really about me.”

Joel doesn’t like the sound of that. It’s too familiar. He’s heard it too many times—from women who carry the weight of the whole damn world on their shoulders and call it love. From people who forget they’re allowed to need.

“I see you,” he says, and his voice is lower now, softer. His eyes flick over your face, your slumped shoulders, your tired mouth. “Always runnin’ around. Cookin’. Haulin’ things. You look tired.”

You open your mouth. Then close it.

Something in your throat tightens.

Joel scratches his jaw, like maybe he regrets saying it. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Just… if you ever need a hand with somethin’. I’m around.”

You nod. A small, barely-there smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Thanks.”

He steps up to the porch with one of the beers extended toward you.

You take it. You’re not much of a drinker — never have been — but tonight, the cold glass feels like kindness. Like relief.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

“You brought me a beer,” you say with a weak laugh. “It’d be kinda rude if I just kicked you off.”

Joel chuckles and climbs the steps with that familiar grunt, the kind men his age make without realizing it. He leaves a respectful bit of space between you as he lowers himself down beside you. The wood creaks under his weight. He hands you the bottle. You take a sip, and the beer is sharp and cold and exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

You don’t need him to. That’s the thing about Joel, he doesn’t talk to fill silence. He lets it stretch, lets it breathe.

“I used to sit out here every night,” you say eventually, eyes fixed on the dark yard. “Back in high school. Pretend I didn’t live in this house. Pretend I was anywhere else.”

Joel nods, slow and thoughtful, his gaze on the distance like he’s seeing it too.

“It’s hard,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Coming back. They don’t mean to… but they pull at me. All day, every day. I feel like I’ve been running on empty for months.”

You let out a shaky breath, the truth bleeding out of you like water through cupped hands.

“I know I’m strong. I’m not helpless. But God, Joel… sometimes I just want someone to tell me I don’t have to be so damn strong all the time.”

Your voice cracks on the end of it. You bring the bottle to your lips to hide the way your eyes burn.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then, slowly, he shifts behind you. Closer. The boards groan under his weight.

“Here,” he says, voice low and rough by your ear. “Lemme see your shoulders.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re wound so tight I can hear your muscles beggin’ for mercy. Just let me help a little.”

You hesitate. But something inside you cracks. Not loud. Just a quiet fracture — a tired, trembling thing that gives way.

You nod. Set the bottle down.

Joel’s hands are large. Warm. Calloused from years of work. He starts slow, thumbs pressing gently into the stiff muscles behind your collarbones, and you suck in a sharp breath at the pressure.

“You carry it all right here,” he murmurs, his voice low, a kind of reverent hush. “All of it. Like if you let go, the whole world’s gonna fall apart.”

Your throat works around a swallow. “Feels like it might.”

He doesn’t rush. His hands move in steady circles, drawing out knots like they’re made of memory.

“Let it fall, then,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to hold everythin’ alone.”

Your eyes sting. You close them, head dropping forward slightly. The weight of his hands, his words, his presence — it grounds you. In a way you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

…

Later, Joel sits alone on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced.

The house is quiet. Sarah’s gone for the weekend with her uncle, and the stillness makes everything louder.

He hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

The massage — hell, it wasn’t even a massage. Just a gesture. A small kindness. A way of saying: I see you.

But the truth is, when his hands touched your skin, something in him shifted. Something broke loose. It wasn’t lust, not exactly. It wasn’t clean, or easy. It was older than that. Deeper. Lonelier.

He hadn’t expected the way your skin would feel — soft and warm beneath his palms, like something fragile trying hard not to break. He hadn’t expected the sound you made — that little sigh, that barely-there release, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected the way it would wreck him.

And then you’d leaned back. Not even thinking. Just trusting.

And that had been the end of him.

Now the bedroom feels too quiet. Too honest.

He knows what this is. Knows what it could turn into if he let it.

But he also knows what the mirror shows him every damn day. The years. The scars. The cracks that never healed right.

You? You still had time. A whole stretch of road ahead. And Joel… Joel had already walked through fire and come out carrying ash.

But still, he can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at him tonight. Like maybe you didn’t care about the years, or the scars, or the weight.

Like maybe you just wanted someone to sit with you in the dark and say, you don’t have to be strong right now. I’ve got you.

And God help him.

Because he wanted to be that person for you.

More than anything.

One evening, you were sitting on the porch steps again, your head bent over a cold cup of tea, fingers curled around the mug like it might hold you together.

The sun had gone down an hour ago, but you hadn’t moved. Not since your father slammed the screen door and disappeared down the hall, grumbling about the cable being out, blaming the weather, the neighbors, you, whatever he could throw his anger at without having to face himself. Caleb was inside, stacking soup cans like building blocks, humming under his breath. Happy, for now.

But you looked like you were trying not to cry.

You missed your old life, missed baking, you could almost smell the scent of fresh dough, yeast rising sweetly in the air, mingling with the rich, buttery aroma of pastries just pulled from the oven.

Baking had always been your escape, your way of shaping comfort and joy out of simple ingredients. There was something sacred about the quiet hum of the ovens, the soft clatter of mixing bowls, and the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time a batch of peach pies came out golden and perfect—just like Joel had said.

Your jaw was tight. Your shoulders hunched. The porch light painted shadows under your eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago.

“Hey there, sugar.”

Joel’s voice was low, careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. But it did. You looked up, eyes wide, smiling and blushing at the pet name—Sugar. There was something about the way he said that word that sounded both sweet and incredibly hot at the same time.

He stood at the edge of your yard in a flannel shirt and worn work boots, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands stuffed into his pockets. Like he’d just stepped off a shift. Like maybe he’d been watching for a while and only just worked up the nerve to speak.

“You eat yet?” he asked.

You blinked. Shook your head without thinking.

“I was thinkin’ of makin’ chili,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “Sarah’s got a sleepover. Too much for one.” A pause. “Come over if you want.”

Your stomach growled before you could answer. You hadn’t eaten more than half a sandwich all day. Maybe less.

Your voice came out small. “Okay.”

He nodded once, slow, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “C’mon then, sugar.”

You stood. Left your mug behind. And followed him across the lawn like it was the easiest decision in the world—though something about it made your chest ache. Like the gesture was too kind. Like it might undo you.

It was the first time in weeks someone had taken care of you.

Joel’s house smelled like cumin and garlic and something deep and rich simmering on the stove. It wrapped around you like a blanket the second you stepped inside. There was warmth here, not just from the food, but from the space itself.

Lived-in.

A coat hung over the back of a chair. Sarah’s sneakers kicked off beside the door. A half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. A photo of the two of them smiling under a Ferris wheel, framed and proud on the mantle.

It was a home.

You lingered in the entryway, awkward, hands clasped like a kid at someone else’s birthday party. Unsure if you should sit, take your shoes off, or run back outside and cry behind the steering wheel of your truck.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

You swallowed. Nodded. Your shoes stayed on.

“It ain’t much,” he added, already pulling bowls from a cabinet, “but the chili’s good. I promise.”

You sat at the kitchen table with your spine stiff, hands in your lap. Watched him move like he’d done this a hundred times—grabbing spoons, stirring the pot. There was a rhythm to him. Something grounding.

He ladled two bowls full, steam curling into the air. Grabbed a spoon. Then paused.

“Cheese or no cheese?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He looked up. “I always ask Sarah. She says yes. I say no. Figure I better ask you too.”

And that—that—made you laugh. Soft. Unbidden. Like a cracked window letting in the breeze.

“Cheese,” you said. “Please.”

He gave a small nod, grating sharp cheddar with slow, even strokes. Slid your bowl across the table. Then sat opposite you.

You ate in silence. But it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. You were too hungry to pretend you weren’t. And the chili—God—the chili was perfect. Spicy, earthy, just sweet enough to settle something hollow inside you. You scraped your bowl clean.

Joel looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Just sat with you. Not pushing. Not prying.

It didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like patience.

Eventually, you broke the silence. Because the warmth in your stomach had spread to your chest. Because you were full for the first time in days and it made your guard slip.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

Your voice was quiet. Barely more than a breath. The spoon stilled in your hand.

Joel didn’t speak.

“My dad… he’s not a bad man. Just… proud. Stubborn. And Caleb, he—he’s good. He’s sweet. But it’s all the time, you know? Like my brain never shuts off. And I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until the first tear hit your wrist. You wiped it away fast, ashamed.

“I used to run this bakery,” you said, voice breaking around the memory. “My own place. I’d wake up at 3 a.m., roll dough, bake till noon. And I loved it. Every part of it. But I gave it up to come back here. I keep telling myself it’s temporary, but… I don’t know anymore.”

You looked down at your hands, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you. I just… I guess I needed to say it out loud.”

Joel leaned back slowly in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. He didn’t look away.

“You’re doin’ everything for everyone else,” he said, low and even. “And no one’s doin’ a damn thing for you.”

The truth of it hit like a gut-punch. You stared at him, stunned, not because it was harsh, but because it was true.

“You ain’t weak for bein’ tired,” he added, voice quieter now. “You’re human.”

You blinked fast. Tried to breathe around the lump in your throat.

“Sometimes I think about just packing Caleb up and leaving. Taking him back with me. Starting fresh. But that would mean leaving my dad behind.”

Joel frowned, jaw tightening. “And what about you? When do you get to matter?”

Your voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

And then he did something you didn’t expect.

He reached across the table. Covered your hand with his. His palm was big, warm, rough—like everything he’d ever built still lived in the skin of him.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry it all,” he said, softer now. “Not by yourself.”

Your shoulders trembled. You nodded once. Fast. Because if you opened your mouth, you’d sob, and you couldn’t bear to fall apart in front of someone who had been nothing but kind.

But something inside you shifted.

Maybe it was the warmth of his hand. Or the way he didn’t fill the silence with empty words.

Maybe it was the first time in months someone looked at you—really looked at you—and didn’t expect anything in return.

Maybe it was the first time you believed someone might stay.

You still remember the first time you kissed him.

The porch had gone dark again—that same damn fixture that chewed through bulbs like candy, flickering out after barely a week, and you were up on a shaky old stool, arms stretched, fingers fumbling with the new bulb as dusk slipped toward dark.

You were just tightening the last turn when the stool wobbled—a sharp, treacherous lurch of one leg off the uneven wooden plank.

“Shit—”

Your breath caught, heart leaping into your throat.

And then strong hands caught you.

Warm. Steady. Unmistakably Joel.

One arm braced firm around your waist, the other coming up beneath your thigh to guide you gently down. You didn’t fall—you landed against him, your feet scrambling awkwardly to the porch floor, your whole body pressed to the solid wall of his chest.

“Careful, sugar,” he muttered, breath hot at your ear, voice rough and close and a little too soft for your thudding heart. “You tryna give me a heart attack?”

You let out a breathless laugh, more surprise than humor, your hand still clinging to his shoulder. Your face tipped up automatically, and the porch light, freshly fixed, cast a glow over both of you. Warm. Intimate. Like a spotlight on something neither of you had dared name.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, quieter than you meant. Maybe because he was still holding you. Maybe because you didn’t want him to stop.

Joel didn’t let go. His hands lingered low at your waist, thumbs just brushing the edge of skin beneath your hoodie.

“Still,” he said, voice steady but heavy, like he was trying not to say more. “Lemme do this kinda thing next time.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He hadn’t shaved. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his chest from yard work, and the ends of his hair curled slightly where it stuck to the sides of his face. But it was his eyes that got you—soft, warm, focused entirely on you, like you were fragile and rare and he didn’t want to break anything.

And suddenly, the lightbulb didn’t matter at all.

You climbed down slowly, but your hand, deliberately or not, brushed against his chest on the way down. And neither of you moved.

It was a moment suspended in air. Like standing at the edge of something tall and dangerous and beautiful. A quiet hum beneath your skin.

Joel’s voice dropped, barely audible. “I been tryin’ not to look at you like this.”

Your breath hitched. “Like what?”

He reached up—so gently, so slowly it felt like your body moved before your brain caught up—and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. His thumb skimmed your cheekbone, a soft drag that made your whole face warm.

“Like I want you.”

Time cracked open.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because you did, you wanted him, had wanted him for weeks. Longer, maybe. Longer than you were ready to admit.

The kiss, when it came, wasn’t fire—it was smoke. Slow and curling and inevitable. His lips brushed yours once, tentative, like he didn’t believe you’d let him. But when you leaned in, just a little, he deepened it, his hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring you to his chest like he needed to feel all of you at once.

Your hands found his shirt, fingers curling into damp cotton, needing to hold on to something, anything.

His arms came around you fully then, pulling you in until you could feel every line of him—broad chest, firm stomach, the barely restrained tension coiled beneath his skin. The kiss shifted, turned warmer, messier, like a need finally slipping through the cracks.

You broke away just to breathe, lips still brushing his.

“Joel…” your voice was a gasp, a question, a plea.

He kissed you again, slower now, like he was savoring something he’d been denying himself for a long time.

His hand drifted lower, beneath your hoodie, callused palm sliding across the bare skin of your waist. You shivered—not from cold, but from the sheer tenderness of it.

He groaned low into your mouth, the sound tugging at something deep inside you. You pressed closer, hands sliding up beneath his shirt, seeking skin. His breath stuttered. His hips shifted—just slightly—but enough that you felt him, hard against you.

And then—he stopped.

Abrupt. Breathless.

His forehead stayed pressed to yours as he sucked in air like he was drowning.

“Shit.”

You blinked, disoriented. “What—what is it?”

Joel’s hands were still on your waist, holding you like he didn’t want to let go. His eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back just enough to see you.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, voice tight and raw.

You froze. The words hit like a slap. “Oh.”

He saw it—the flicker of hurt in your eyes—and rushed to speak.

“It’s not you, sugar,” he said quickly. “Jesus, it ain’t you. It’s just—” He stepped back fully, ran both hands down his face like it hurt. “I don’t wanna start somethin’ with you just to make your life more complicated. You are too young f’me, and you already got so much on your shoulders, and I—fuck, I care about you too much to be one more thing you gotta manage.”

Your heart twisted in your chest. “Joel…”

He looked at you like it broke him. “You’re…” He shook his head. “You’re incredible. And I want this. I do. But you deserve somethin’ else. Somethin’ that’s not me.”

You stood still, the air between you suddenly cooler. But you understood.

This wasn’t rejection. It was protection. Restraint sharpened by care.

And that, somehow, made it ache even more.

Because he meant it. And you believed him.

That didn’t make it hurt any less.

But it made you trust him more.

It was past nine when you showed up at his door.

No call. No warning. Just you—hoodie zipped halfway, face pale, eyes dull from the weight of the day. You didn’t even knock properly. Just a soft, hesitant tap of your knuckles, like you weren’t sure you deserved to be there.

Joel opened the door in a T-shirt and sweats, hair mussed, a faint line of exhaustion on his brow. His eyes widened, not in surprise exactly, more like fear. Like he thought this might be a dream.

“Hey,” you breathed. Barely audible. Fragile. “You alone?”

He nodded. Didn’t ask a single question. Just stepped back silently, let you pass, and shut the door with a quiet finality that felt like safety.

You stood there in his dim entryway, fingers twitching at your sides, tension radiating off you like static.

And then—you cracked.

“It was a bad day,” you whispered, like admitting it made it real.

Joel didn’t move. Just listened.

“My dad fell again. Caleb lost it in the store because they moved the cereal aisle and I didn’t know. He screamed and sobbed while people stared like he was a fucking exhibit.” Your voice broke, trembling. “I cried in the car after. Not because of them. Not even because of him. Because I didn’t know what cereal he wanted.”

You let out a laugh that was more of a sob—wet, broken, raw.

Joel’s face—God, the way it fell when he saw you hurting like that—was almost too much to look at.

“I haven’t had one goddamn second to myself, Joel. Not to bake. Not to read. Not even to shower without someone banging on the fucking door needing something. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”

Your breath caught, and you looked up at him, eyes wide, glassy.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

And that was it. The unraveling. The surrender.

Joel stepped forward so quietly you didn’t hear it, just felt it. His presence. Solid. Grounding.

Tears rolled down your cheeks.

“I need you,” you whispered. “And I know we aren’t… anything. Not really. But I need the way you look at me like I’m not some empty shell holding everyone else’s bullshit together. I need you.”

That shattered him.

He gathered you into his arms like he couldn’t stop himself, like the second he felt your body hit his, he knew he wouldn’t survive letting go. You collapsed into him with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a sigh—just something deep and painful and desperate.

He didn’t say much. Just held you. Tight. Warm. Real.

“I’m here, sugar,” he murmured, mouth against your hair. “Right here.”

You nodded against his chest, shivering in his arms. “I don’t wanna do this alone anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” Joel said thickly. “Lemme help. Lemme be here f’you.”

Your eyes lifted to his, swollen and rimmed with tears. “Even if it’s messy?”

His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and careful. “Especially then.”

And when he kissed you—fuck, there was no going back. No restraint. No apologies. Just need. His mouth slotted over yours with aching tenderness, but his grip on your waist was possessive, like he needed to feel your bones under his palms, needed to know you were real.

He kissed you until your lungs burned, until your body arched into him without thinking, until you couldn’t remember why you were crying in the first place.

A rough, needy sound escaped his throat—low, primal, like he was holding something back and failing.

Then he walked you backward, lips never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You gasped when you dropped onto the cushions. He followed—a heavy, hot presence between your thighs, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly up beneath your hoodie.

“I tried to stay away,” he rasped, mouth brushing your throat. “Told myself you had enough goin’ on… that I was too damn old, too broken for you.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, voice trembling. “Joel—”

“But then you show up at my door,” he growled, “and all I can think was how fuckin’ stupid I was for leavin’ that night on your porch with your lips still warm on mine.”

He tugged your hoodie up, his hands reverent, like he was peeling back something sacred. You let him. Raised your arms. Gave him permission. Gave him you.

And when he looked down at you—bare under the soft glow of the lamp—you saw it in his eyes.

Worship. Hunger. Need.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re fuckin’ divine, sugar.”

You pulled him down, crushed your mouth to his, wanting more. Needing more.

His hand dipped past your waistband, calloused fingers skimming hot and slow over bare skin. You whimpered against his mouth—a needy, broken little sound—and he swallowed it whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice like gravel. “Say the word, baby. I’ll pull back.”

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please… don’t stop.”

That was it. That was all it took.

Joel groaned—a filthy, desperate sound—and kissed you harder. Rougher. His hand slipped lower, fingers dipping into your slick heat, and the moan you let out damn near broke him in two.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he rasped. “You come over here wantin’ me like this, baby?”

You nodded, hips grinding shamelessly against his palm. “Needed this. Needed you.”

Two fingers pushed inside —slow, steady— filling you with a stretch that made your eyes flutter shut. He curled them just right, and your back arched, thighs trembling as your breath stuttered out in ragged little gasps.

His fingers worked you open, pressing deep, curling, teasing your walls. The wet, obscene sound of his fingers moving inside you filled the room, only broken by the soft, strangled cries you kept trying—and failing—to hold back.

Each stroke was deliberate, meant to pull every sound out of you. He didn’t just want you wet, he wanted you trembling, messy, ruined for anyone else.

“Please, Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Don’t stop—feels s-so good—”

“Tonight is all about you. About making you feel good, just like you deserve. You work so hard… let me give this to you.” His voice was low, reverent, like prayer—like worship—and every word seemed to sink into your skin like heat.

He watched every twitch, every gasp, like it fed something primal in him. His thumb dragged over your clit, a single, devastating swipe, and your whole body jolted, your hips bucked helplessly. A strangled sob ripping from your throat as pleasure crashed over you in waves.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did. And the way he held your gaze—steady, reverent, hungry—made your whole body tighten with want.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured as he kissed down your chest, then your belly, pausing to mouth gently at the soft skin above your hip. “How you’d feel. How you’d taste. How you’d fall apart if someone just… took their time.”

You whimpered, breath shaking. “Joel…”

“Gonna take care of you, sugar. Gonna make you feel worshiped.”

Then he moved, sliding down between your thighs, kissing over your belly, your hip, his beard scraping your sensitive skin in the best way.

He spread your legs with steady hands, thumbs grazing your inner thighs like he had all the time in the world. Like this was something sacred.

“You smell like fuckin’ heaven,” he growled. “Bet you taste even sweeter than that peach pie you make.”

His breath ghosted over your skin, so hot it made you squirm, your thighs instinctively trying to close—until he spread them open again with a low, possessive growl.

“You deserve to be worshipped, sugar. Deserve someone who sees nothing but you, someone who lives to make you feel good.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, devastating.

You gasped when his tongue met you, soft and slow at first, just a gentle press, then firmer, deeper. He groaned like he could live off the way you tasted. Like he needed it—your slick, your heat, the way you melted under his tongue.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, steady, while his mouth worked—kisses, licks, teasing sucks that made your hips jerk before he calmed you with a firm hand to your belly.

“Easy now, sugar,” he muttered, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision. “Let me take my time with you.”

That tongue was sin itself—warm, deliberate, unforgiving. Every flick felt like it rewired your nerves. Every slow drag had you twitching, clenching around nothing, aching to be filled.

His tongue licked a slow stripe through your folds, then circled your clit until your back arched and your fingers clawed at the cushions.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t give you a single breath to recover.

You were panting, whining, rutting up against his face without shame. He didn’t even blink, just held you wider, lower, like he wanted to drown in it.

He fucked you with his mouth like he meant to memorize every twitch of your body, every whimper, every desperate moan that spilled out of you.

His mouth worked in tandem with his fingers—two thick digits fucking deep, curling just right, pressing to that spot that made your toes curl.

Every push dragged another broken sound from your throat, and the slick, wet squelch of your body around him only made him growl harder.

“Lemme feel you fall apart, sweetheart,” he groaned into you. “Lemme drink you in.”

You sobbed. Literally sobbed. The pleasure was too much, too deep, like he’d reached inside and touched something you didn’t know you were allowed to feel.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasped. “Look how good you take it. Like you were made for this. Made to be loved like this.”

His fingers pumped faster, his tongue relentless, and you were unraveling so fast you couldn’t even think. All you could do was feel the rhythm of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the drag of his beard catching slick against your thighs.

He sucked your clit harder, just once, and your whole body seized. A tremor ran through your thighs like a live wire.

You couldn’t speak. Only moan, high and breathy, fingers threading into his hair, hips lifting into his mouth before he pinned them again with a low, warning growl.

“Uh-uh. Lemme. Lemme have this.”

And when you came—it was loud, wild, wet—a cry tearing from your throat as your whole body spasmed under his mouth. He held you through it, murmuring your name like a prayer, even as you trembled and gasped, your body giving out beneath his hands.

Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop—licking through your release like he’d earned it, like it was his right.

Joel moaned like he was coming too, grinding against the couch, keeping his tongue on you, licking you through the aftershocks while you trembled, boneless and wrecked.

When he pulled back, his beard was slick with you, lips swollen, eyes dark and wrecked.

But he didn’t reach for himself. Didn’t demand more. He just hovered over you, brushing hair back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw, thumb tracing your thigh.

You nodded, dazed. “No one’s ever… no one’s ever made me feel like that.”

Joel leaned in, kissed your forehead. “That’s the only way I know how to touch you now.”

You looked up at him—face flushed, eyes glassy—and whispered, “Can I have you now?”

He stilled. Blinked.

You reached for him. “Please. I want to feel you. All of you.”

“You don’t gotta ask me twice,” he rasped. “But I need to hear you say it again. Need to know you want this.”

“I do,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his. “I want you. Not just tonight. Not just because I’m tired or broken. I want you because it’s you, Joel.”

His control shattered.

He kissed you again, rougher this time, like he’d been holding back and finally let himself feel how badly he needed you. His body pressed down over yours, the heat of him unmistakable through the fabric still between you.

He tore his shirt off in one motion, sweatpants shoved down to his thighs, cock heavy and thick, flushed dark with need. It slapped against his stomach, leaking already, pulsing with need like it was aching to be inside you.

You opened for him, no hesitation. Just yes—in every movement, every breath, every inch of skin you offered.

Joel braced over you, gaze locked to yours.

“Still okay?”

You nodded, chest heaving. “Need you inside me.”

He lined up and pushed in—slow, careful, so fucking deep—and you gasped, arching, clutching at him as he filled you inch by aching inch. Thick, hot, unrelenting, he opened you up with the kind of stretch that made your whole body seize.

The stretch burned in the most perfect way, your walls gripping him tight, pulsing around him like your body didn’t want to let him go. Your cunt clenched like it already knew who he was, like it belonged to him.

You’d never felt anything like it.

Like being claimed. Possessed. Worshiped.

He bottomed out with a broken moan, hips pressed flush to yours, like he never wanted to leave.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel like—fuck—like I’ve been waitin’ for this my whole fuckin’ life.”

He stayed there for a second, buried so deep you could feel the throb of his cock against your cervix, like he was trying to become a part of you.

“F-fuck, Joel,” you whimpered, voice catching in your throat as he sank in deeper, stretching you open with agonizing, delicious slowness. “S-so big.”

“Can you take it, sugar?,” he growled, voice rough and ragged against your ear. “I want you to feel good.”

A helpless sob spilled from your lip. “I-I am,” you gasped, barely able to breathe.

He thrust deep and slow, grinding his hips with every roll, letting you feel all of him, every thick, perfect inch. His cock dragged against your walls just right, pulling wet, slick sounds from your body that had him groaning like he was losing his mind.

Your nails dug into his back, mouth parted in soft, breathless cries.

The drag of him was obscene, slick and hot and thick, your body clenching tight around him every time he pulled back.

You were soaking him—dripping down his length, soaking the base of his cock, the couch beneath you a mess of heat and sweat and need.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped.

“Never,” he promised. “Not with you.”

Joel groaned like it hurt, like being inside you was too much, too good. “You feel—Christ, sugar, you feel like heaven.”

His thrusts turned rough, frantic, filthy—skin slapping, couch creaking, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest as he fucked you like he meant it. His balls slapped against your ass with every stroke, the wet, messy sound of him slamming into you filling the room.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, hips grinding into yours. “So fuckin’ tight, sugar… can’t believe I waited this long—”

You clung to him, breath coming in soft, desperate moans. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back to pull him even deeper, faster.

“Joel,” you gasped, “I want it—want you all the way. Please, don’t stop—”

He kissed you hard, swallowing your plea with a growl as he drove into you faster, deeper, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“Not stoppin’. Can’t. Not when you’re takin’ me so good—fuck—look at you.”

“I’m close,” you whimpered. “Joel—please—” You were trembling, cunt fluttering around him, desperate for release.

You cried out, hands scrambling to grip his forearms, needing something—anything—to anchor you while he drove into you with slow, punishing thrusts. Each one landed deeper, harder, until it felt like he was carved into your core.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wide and desperate. “Look at me. Want you to see me when I cum inside you.”

You did. You looked at him and it was all it took for your second orgasm to explode inside your body, ripping through you like a fucking firestorm, your whole body locking around him, crying out his name like it was the only word you remembered.

And when he came, he let out a deep, broken moan, thrusting hard, grinding into you with everything he had—his seed spilling deep inside you, filling you, claiming you. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, every spurt making your walls flutter, milking him for everything he had.

“Fuck… fuck, baby…” His voice went ragged, his rhythm stuttering, hips jerking with every pulse as he emptied himself inside you like he meant it.

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him through it, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

You felt full. Claimed. Loved, even if neither of you had said the words yet.

He stayed there for a moment—still inside you, skin against skin—like he couldn’t bear to leave that closeness.

He kissed your temple, murmured your name low and warm. And then, quieter still: “You don’t gotta carry everything by yourself anymore.”

Your breath hitched, and he pulled you closer.

“You hear me, sugar? You don’t have to be strong for everybody all the time. Not with me.” His lips pressed against your hairline, voice like gravel wrapped in honey. “I’m here now. I’m not goin’ anywhere. We’re gonna figure it out. Together.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just wrapped your arms around his broad back and held on like your life depended on it.

And maybe it did.

Joel’s hand stroked slow, soothing patterns across your spine. “You got me, sugar. All of me. Always.”

And in his arms, for the first time in too long, you believed it.

A/N: Thank you to the person who requested this for your patience. I loved the idea and hope it meets your expectations🫶🏻

Thank you too to everyone reading this for supporting my work and for your nice words🩷

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[emeraldserenade]

Can I request something angsty for Joaquin? Him and his girlfriend have a huge argument that makes her avoid him for several days. They work together with Sam. Sam has to recruit her ex to work alongside them for a mission and Joaquin struggles.

Argue With Me ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Joaquín deals with you pulling away and your ex at the same time

tw: fem!reader, shitty ex, Joaquín loses his temper and punches the shitty ex, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Hey, Sid!! I'm on a huge angst kick so I hope this did it justice! I already made your heart hurt with the last post, so this one isn't as bad.

➽──────────────❥

You and Joaquín have never fought, your mother told you that you would eventually but you always laughed her off. How could you fight someone you loved so deeply?

But then it happened, you don't even remember what it was about, only how it made you feel. You avoided him, not wanting to see him and start crying. And Joaquín respected that, he kept his distance. He slept in the guest room and stayed there until you went to him. Even when he heard you crying, even when he heard you telling yourself to stop hyperventilating, and even when you softly called for your mom to come comfort you knowing she was dead.

Then there was a mission and avoiding Joaquín became harder and Sam made it even worse. Jason Wayne was called to help, he was a sharp shooter after all, but he was also your ex. Your ex that you fought so often it was your default, your ex that you knew would take your aggressive words with a smile and sarcastic "there's my girl." Your ex that Joaquín hated with a passion.

Your built up anger boiled over at one point and you did something you aren'r proud of.

"God, Jason, do you ever fucking think with something other than your dick?" You yelled after he got distracted while on the stakeout because he was too busy staring at some girl.

"There's my girl, I knew my little firecracker was still in there," he smirked and you couldn't handle it. It felt too normal, too easy, so you hugged him. You broke down in his arms before going back to base.

"Don't bring this up, it never happened," you told him before storming off to shower.

And he didn't but there was a shift in the tension between you two, your temper wasn't as short and you seemed to gravitate towards him. And Joaquín noticed, he noticed and hated it. Joaquín wanted to give you space but he couldn't deal with losing you, so he took you by the arm and out to the lake.

"Do you love him?" Joaquín jumped straight into it and you stared at him with wide eyes.

"No," you answered almost too quick, almost too deflective.

"Are you sure? Because you're getting real close," he hated how he sounded like some insecure boyfriend with no trust.

"That's not what's happening," you mumbled looking away and to the lake.

"Then what is? Because we fight and you pull away so I give you space but then all of a sudden you're all buddy buddy with your ex. So what is happening, y/n?" Joaquín calling you by your real name, not one of the thousands of nicknames he normally did broke the dam of emotions.

"It felt too normal, too easy, ok? Yelling at him and fighting with him was all I did our entire relationship! So when I got on his ass for getting distracted and he called me his girl, his firecracker, it felt too normal. I didn't know what to do so I broke down in his arms! I get it, it was wrong and immature to pull away but I don't like this, I don't like fighting with you. Because if I fight with you, then that means he's right, that means Jason is right, I am nothing more than a convenient fuck who keeps the bed warm and the anger simmering!" You shouted at him, slapping your hands to your mouth at the end. "I didn't mean to yell at you," you whispered, horrified by your own actions.

Joaquín just walked away, not wanting to displace his anger on you. You followed, trying to make sure he didn't do anything rash but you failed. The moment Joaquín saw Jason he was on him, one good punch square to Jason's face was all it took. Joaquín was breathing heavily above Jason, his face set hard.

"Y/n is so much more than a convenient fuck, she is not your girl or firecracker, she is mine. Just because you get off on making people mad doesn't mean you can try to convince her that is what love is supposed to feel like," Joaquín's voice was deathly even as he spoke and you stood there in shock.

When the mission was over, you spoke with Joaquín. You both apologized and you cried again, it was normal between you two again and you couldn't be happier. And Joaquín was determined to prove to you that Jason was a piece of shit that doesn't deserve your thoughts.

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