#fluff🫶

[c0smoshit]

Afternoon cuddles ˚₊﹅

⋆ ࣪. ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 ≫ Leon/Reader

⋆ ࣪. ℙ𝕝𝕠𝕥 ≫ Leon is jealous of your books

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 ≫ fluff, cuddly Leon, him crushing you into the bed, not proofread!

⋆ ࣪. 𝔸/ℕ ≫ Lil drabble for my fav rookie🤧

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥 ≫ 560

Dawn was starting to form in the horizon, it's warm hues of sunlight soon fading out and creating a colder ambience inside your shared room.

You were the coziest you could had ever been inside your soft blankets, your back resting on your pillows as a cute plushie accompanied you in this pleasant afternoon.

You were totally immersed in your lecture, the dim tangerine beams of your night lamp lighting up the words of the book placed on your lap.

You noticed the creaking sound of the door and the heavy footsteps of someone coming in, you turned the page.

"Hey"

Your eyes didn't require the necessity of peeking over from your book to know who had entered. You heard him say something to you but you were too invested reading to process his words.

Your mouth didn't even have the proper time to open up and complain about him taking away the book from your hands as the sudden "plof! " of a big body falling on top of both you and the mattress cut you off.

His arms caged you bellow him, his hair trickling the side of your cheek as his weight crushed you to the bed. His shoulder was just bellow your chin and your arms were trapped by his bare chest.

"Why are you reading so late?"

You could feel the clench his stomach made when he spoke, slightly irritated words followed by the huskiness of his voice.

"You don't want me to?"

His head shook, and you couldn't figure out if it was his hair that moved and trickled your neck or his out of nowhere cuteness that made you chuckle.

"Let me move Leon"

"No"

Then he continued to draw you closer to him, you squirmed but it was always useless, he was a complete rock on top of you. Your cheeks started to redden, the warmth of your personal heater enveloping you.

"I hate those stupid books"

A few more grunts left your mouth before you gave up, your head falling on top of the mattress tiredly.

"Okay fine, you win"

You sighed out exaggeratedly and you noticed a smirk burning into his face.

He had just returned from work, tiredly discarding everything but some shorts. He wasn't usually this clingy with you, he must've had a bad day or something, you thought.

"Bad day at work?"

His body finally moved a bit, freeing your hands that almost immediatly wrapped behind his neck, massaging softly the spots that made him groan out. He leant into your sweet touch, he loved your massages, the only incentive he had when he went to work was your afterwards touch.

"It's okay babe, relax for me"

He sighed out, automatically doing what he was told and as a result, you sinked deeper into the mattress.

You, not so secretly, loved when he came home like this. He acted like a lost puppy, demanding the love he hadn't got at work.

You stayed silent, drawing soothing circles on his shoulders, movements growing longer and firmer. His cheek rested on your shoulder while his arms slowly wrapped around your waist, pressing you further into his body.

"I missed you"

You smiled, of course he had missed you even though he was only gone for a few hours.

[amberjazmyn]

oh my god we're having a baby! 🫶

pairing : charles leclerc x fem!reader

summary : all the moments leading up to the birth of baby leclerc 

warnings : mentions of herve leclerc and jules bianchi, pregnancy, happy tears, some dodgy french translations in tiny italicised text, reader has a name (lilia)

a/n : this is for sure a one-shot i'm also going to do for carlos just because i love the idea of c2 as dad's lol - anyways, enjoy my lovers and don't feel shy about putting in a request or a comment

finding out about the pregnancy

lilia leclerc felt like shit. for the last two weeks she had been waking up at the break of dawn, sprinting down the hallway and straight to the bathroom. puking her guts up for an hour only to lose the nausea and disgusting scent and taste of vomit for the rest of the day. thankfully, this had been happening during the summer break so charles wasn't away racing since he was a well-known formula one driver for the scuderia ferrari. 

"...mon ange my angel, are you okay?" charles' morning voice his wife found so attractive came up from behind her

"sorry, did i wake you, bebe baby?" lilia whined, lifting her head up out of the toilet as charles breathed a sigh of relief 

"no, i've been awake for a couple of minutes. are you sure you're okay?" charles lowered himself down to reach his wife, a comforting hand on her back 

"i still feel bad that you're awake, charlie! it's summer break, you should be relaxing! and, honestly, i've been feeling like shit the last two weeks..." lilia trailed off as her eyes widened and it seems as though charles' did as well 

"...two weeks this has been going on? bebe, when was the last time you got your period?" charles asked, remembering that it had now been an entire year since she had her birth control implant removed 

her eyes widened even more, "umm, the last time i got my period?" charles nodded his head, "i...i don't know? i can't remember the last time i had my period..." lilia was now slightly worried that she was now pregnant 

not because she didn't want to be pregnant. of course she did. it was her biggest dream to be a mum. in the same way it was charles' biggest dream to become a dad. however, with him now as the number one driver for ferrari, she was worried that maybe right now wasn't the right time. they hadn't even been married for a full year yet and the topic of babies hadn't been mentioned since lilia had went to get her birth control implant removed because her and charles were wanting to start the journey of trying for kids. however, during that period, every time lilia missed a period or thought she had morning sickness like right now, all the tests she and charles excitedly took always came back negative. so, they gave up and just decided to stop trying so hard with the hope that maybe, the one time that they weren't trying so hard, that they'd get a positive. 

"...bebe, do you still have any pregnancy tests left from months ago?" charles then questioned after silence as lilia nodded her head, the nausea suddenly disappearing in the same way and at the same time like it had been the last two weeks 

"umm, yeah, i think so. they should be in the top shelf next to the basin," lilia sat up more, leaning against the wall, charles taking a proper look at his wife 

and it was clear that like every other day the past two weeks, the nausea was gone and she was no longer pale and sweaty. at this point, there was no other explanation other than lilia being pregnant. in charles mind, this was the worst bout of morning sickness he had ever seen her go through. even during all the negatives when they were actually trying to get pregnant, all the signs and symptoms they thought were because of pregnancy were never at this extreme. 

so, charles grabbed the pregnancy tests and gave them to his wife. only hoping and praying that a miracle would happen. at this point, with charles job being so hectic, it was clear that now he was married, he was beyond ready to start the motions of slowing down and building a life outside of formula one. and, he had already completed the first step by making lilia his wife. now, his next step was making them maman and papa. 

after lilia had taken three of the pregnancy tests, now it was the waiting game for mr and mrs leclerc. and it was agonizing. the waiting was the worst part of it all. charles and lilia were usually patient people however, when it came to waiting for the results of something as life-changing as a pregnancy test, it was brutal and excruciating. they just wanted to know if they were going to be parents or not. it didn't make sense to them that they had to wait an entire three minutes to see if the pregnancy tests had come out as positive or negative. 

and three minutes later, their life was forever changed. with her phone recording every moment of this, the best moment of the video was when it had been captured that all three pregnancy tests had come back positive as well as the reactions of lilia and charles. lilia had unknowingly been pregnant for an entire trimester when she and charles went to visit her ob/gyn just to make sure the positives weren't false later on in the week. 

"...oh my gosh...charles...i'm pregnant!" lilia whispered, her hands shaking as she handed him the three tests that all read positive - the iphone camera still recording

charles' eyes immediately welled with tears as his hand covered his mouth, "je suis tellement heureux! nous allons être parents, chérie!" his voice cracked, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pulled his wife in for a hug i'm so happy! we're going to be parents, darling

not caring that this video of him crying over finding out his wife was pregnant would eventually be made into a youtube video and put on the internet, charles was overjoyed with emotions that he didn't care that he was crying his eyes out. at this point, he was now just waiting for the moment that he could shout this secret out to the world. 

announcing the pregnancy

and thankfully, charles and lilia leclerc wouldn't have to wait too long before they could announce the exciting news for the whole world to see. after doing a cheeky photoshoot with the help of charles' brothers, arthur and lorenzo, the married couple posted the photos to their instagrams in a joint post. using that as their announcement to those that they couldn't tell in person. having only told charles' family as well as lilia's in person. sadly, the rest of the f1 grid, because it was summer break, found out over text in their cheeky little f1 group chat that they have together. but, to fully announce it publically, they decided an instagram post by the both of them would be their best bet. 

liked by arthurleclerc, leclerc_pascale, maxverstappen1, scuderiaferrari, carlossainz55, pierregasly and 12,000k others

charlesleclerc and lilialeclerc well, how has your summer break been everyone? this has been ours, the leclerc's continue to grow 

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arthurleclerc do you know how hard it's been to keep this secret for? 

charlesleclerc arthurleclerc how do you think i feel? 

leclerc_pascale my babies are having babies! 

lilialeclerc leclerc_pascale we love you maman, we can't wait for baby leclerc to meet her grand-mère

maxverstappen1 congratulations you two! you'll be amazing parents! 

lilialeclerc maxverstappen1 thank you maxie! we cannot wait!

scuderiaferrari cannot wait to meet the little leclerc! making all the baby ferrari merch as we speak

lilialeclerc scuderiaferrari and we'll be the first to purchase the merch!

carlossainz55 congratulations, baby leclerc will be the most spoilt baby in the world! 

lilialeclerc carlossainz55 thank you carlitos! and yes she will and we cannot wait to shower her with all of it

pierregasly congratulations to you guys! i call being godfather! 

lilialeclerc pierregasly thank you pierre and don't be announcing things too early!

finding out the gender of the baby

the next exciting milestone for baby leclerc after announcing the news was finding out the gender. even though charles and lilia wanted to wait until birth so it could be a surprise, which is what they had told the technician at their last appointment and she respected that. but, it was at their most recent appointment that when it was offered to tell them the gender, that they couldn't wait any longer. they just had to be told now that the ob/gyn had mentioned it that she could absolutely tell them the gender of their baby if they had changed their minds about waiting until the birth. 

"...lilia and charles, from the looks of these scans, baby looks amazing which is always what we want to hear. and now because it's gotten to the point where we are absolutely confident about the gender, if you guys have changed your mind and no longer want to wait until birth, would you like me to tell you guys the gender of your baby?" the ob/gyn asked, her smile bright and her voice soft and calm 

with her head trying to look over at the ultrasound screen so she could see the baby, it was clear that the husband and wife were done with waiting and were wanting to know the gender of their baby. 

"i know we said we wanted to wait but, is it okay if we get told the gender? i don't think we can wait any longer!" lilia giggled in embarrassment, her face flushing a sweet pink colour as the technician nods her head and smiles back 

"*giggles* i can absolutely do that for you, lilia and charles! so many mums, first time ones especially, think they have the patience when it comes to knowing their baby's gender but they never do. so, this happens majority of the time however, i think by the time you get to your second or third, you become more comfortable with having the patience to wait until the birth to find out the gender," the techncian giggles which causes lilia and charles to giggle as well 

their 'guilt' of not being patient enough dwindles away quickly for the leclercs as the technician quickly prints out two pieces of paper. one that shows the gender of the baby on a printed out ultrasound photo and another one that has the colour to indicate if the baby is a boy or a girl.

but, before giving them the documentation and the little coloured square, she tells them, "so, if you just look here, at the screen, lilia and charles, i am happy to announce that you guys are having a baby girl..." the technican announces, a soft smile covering her face as she notices the tears that had welled up in the eyes of charles had made their way down his cheeks, lilia's face not too far away from being identical to her husbands 

"...oh wow..." charles' voice breaks, his lips trembling and his shaky hand that wasn't squeezing his wife's shoulder was over his mouth to cover his shaking smile that took over his entire face

lilia could only smile at how emotional her husband was getting at the news of them having a baby girl. however, if she had looked at the image on the ultrasound screen of their baby girl, she too would have cried the same exact way as charles currently was. 

"...oh, bébé, ne pleure pas. c'est bon!" lilia giggled, her voice lightly emotional as she brushed her hand against charles' chin as his tears weren't stopping, the ob/gyn now out of the room oh, baby, don't cry! it's okay

"j'essaye mais je ne peux pas m'arrêter de pleurer!" the husband and wife giggled, charles' tears really weren't stopping, even with the amount of tissues lilia had given to him in an effort to stop them i'm trying but i can't stop crying

finally, five minutes later, charles's tears did eventually stop and after notifying their ob/gyn, lilia got cleaned up from the gel that was used for the ultrasound and after getting some additional information about when their next appointment was, their current appointment was finished. and then they were allowed to leave their appointment with an extra exciting piece of news that their baby leclerc was a girl. now all they had to do was announce in some sort of other interesting way that they were having a little girl. and, the way they did that was with a gender reveal cake that they had done together. since lilia's mum and sister were bakers, she asked them to make the cake, telling them it was a girl which was a very sweet moment. 

then, announcing it to everyone else, with that cake, charles and lilia with their two plastic wine glasses, dug them into the cake and out to reveal the pink buttercream icing that was in the middle of the all white loveheart cake. 

liked by francisca.cgomes, maxverstappen1, leclerc_pascale, kellypiquet, pierregasly, carlossainz55 and 21k

charlesleclerc and lilialeclerc baby leclerc is a girl 🩷

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francisca.cgomes i'm still crying! baby girl is going to be so loved and spoilt by her aunty kika! 

lilialeclerc francisca.cgomes don't cry you'll make me cry! baby girl loves her aunty kika already!

maxverstappen1 baby leclerc's now going to be even more spoilt 🩷

lilialeclerc maxverstappen1 of course she is! wouldn't expect anything less from her uncle maxie!

leclerc_pascale cannot wait to meet my first granddaughter 🩷

lilialeclerc leclerc_pascale she can't wait to meet you either, maman 🩷

kellypiquet having a baby girl is wonderful! you guys will be amazing girl parents 🩷

lilialeclerc kellypiquet we truly cannot wait, kelly! 

pierregasly this little girl is blessed with the best parents and aunties and uncles! 

charlesleclerc pierregasly you just made lilia cry! 

carlossainz55 charles as a girl dad is for sure what i expected 🩷

charlesleclerc carlossainz55 another comment that has made my beautiful pregnant wife cry

the birth of baby leclerc

since finding out the gender and before lilia went into labour, it was coming to the end of the summer break before the season started back up again. and because lilia was pregnant, it had felt like summer break had just come and gone by the click of a finger when really, to the other wags and drivers, it felt like the summer break had started to drag on towards the end. but, because lilia wasn't too far away from giving birth, fred vassuer, ferrari's team principal, had actually very sweetly, given charles early paternal leave so he could at least be in monaco when lilia gives birth. which meant that ollie bearman, the reserve driver for ferrari who was still driving for f2 was once again brought in after he had his debut whilst carlos had his appendix taken out at the beginning of the season. however, all the drivers had kept the leclerc's in the loop about what was going on and how midseason training had been progressing since charles had been exempt from that as well since lilia was so far along that it was now a matter of when not if to the date of her falling into labour during the first week back of the season. 

and it seemed as though no one was more ready for the day that lilia fell into labour then charles. it had been a quite slow, lazy day for the family of two until it had become obvious that they were now hours from becoming a family of three. 

lilia had been feeling as though the little baby had dropped even lower in her womb as though the little girl was ready to be welcomed into the world. however, it wasn't until she tried to move herself off of the exercise ball and her waters broke that she realised it was finally time for the baby to be born! 

"...charles...i think my waters just broke..." lilia's voice came out as shaky and it was the first time she had sounded so scared, her eyes huge and frightened at her husband who shot up from his spot on the kitchen counter 

"...okay...it's okay bebe, just breathe alright? we'll be fine, we know what we're doing, i'm here, you're here! everything that we need is in the car so all we now need to do is get ourselves into the car and down to the hospital! just keep on breathing baby, you are doing perfectly well!" charles' voice came out as strong, confident and completely sure of himself and what he was doing 

it broke his heart to see the tough exterior that his wife had put up throughout her entire pregnancy finally falter at the exact moment of her waters breaking. whilst it wasn't obvious to everyone, not even fully obvious to charles since she wasn't one to let anyone know, but it was clear to charles just from this interaction as they got into their car to drive to the hospital, that lilia was utterly terrified to actually get to this stage of the pregnancy and give birth. everyone that knew lilia knew she hated showing fear but, if she was to show fear about any place or anything, it was the hospital. to her, the hospital meant bad things. to her, the hospital meant death and despair. because for lilia, every time she had been in a hospital, it ended with her on the sterile floor in hysterics because someone she loved had died. 

with charles' strength and confidence on the way to the hospital that everything was going to be okay, it was clear that that strength wasn't going to stay for the entire duration of the labour and delivery of their little girl. because, like every other to be father before him, charles was always confused why so many new fathers would be crying whilst watching their wife/significant other give birth. it made sense if their partner was crying since it was them doing all the hard work of growing the baby for nine months and then giving birth to the baby. however, what charles was yet to realise was the reason why the new fathers would be so emotional. it wasn't a lie that it made charles upset to see his wife in so much pain. it was agonizing for charles whenever he had to bear witness to his wife being in pain or in tears. however, he didn't realise just how upset he would be to see his wife in the excruciating pain that she went through whilst giving birth to their baby girl. 

from the very beginning of the leclerc's arriving at the hospital in monte-carlo, it was obvious that this labour wasn't going to be an easy simple one. it was going to take hours and it was going to be painful and excrucitating. at first, they had hoped that lilia would be able to have a natural birth however, it had been discovered quite quickly that a natural birth was not going to be happening. so, they had to unfortunately induce lilia and have the baby delivered via c-section and the entire time, charles had to watch helplessly whilst his wife was put under, having no clue what was going on and that their little girl had been born. 

the entire time that his and lilia's little girl had been delivered via induced c-section, charles was inconsolable. he was crying more than he was the last time they had an appointment about baby leclerc. the midwifes and other doctors and nurses that were in charge of taking care of his wife could tell just how much agony and grief this entire situation had put charles through but they couldn't do anything more than offer him comforting words and comforting hugs whilst they assured him that both his baby and his wife were fine and that as soon as baby was out, that lilia would be taken out of the induction and would be woken up again. 

however, those words of comfort and sweet hugs only did so much. it wasn't until the cries of his little baby girl and of his wife were heard, announcing to the world that both baby and mum were okay that charles would finally breathe. now the tears pouring down his cheeks weren't tears of agony, fear and grief but of relief and utmost joy that he was finally a dad to the most gorgeous looking baby he had ever locked eyes with. 

with his head resting against the hospital bed, his hand tangled in lilia's hair and the other one hovering over the back of their little girl, charles was in heaven. he finally understood why new fathers got so emotional when their partners gave birth to their children. it all made sense to him now that it had happened to him. not only were the tears there because it was excruciating watching his wife in so much pain but also because it now settled in that he was now a father himself. the tears no longer tears of grief and agony but of pure happiness and joy. he was now the parent of this little miracle that was laying atop her mother's body, their breathing intertwining into one whilst charles kept his focus on his two girls. tears still streaming down his cheeks, quietly this time, the sobs no longer present as he was now as calm as the little girl that was fast asleep on the body of her mother. 

finally, lilia spoke up in their native french, whispering, "...même si j'aime le calme, nous devons choisir un nom pour notre petite fille, char..." the look on his wife's face as she said that was never going to leave charles' mind as he smiled at her as much as i love the quiet, we need to choose a name for our little girl, char

"...et juliette marie antoinette harriett leclerc? jules pour faire court?" charles whispered back, his voice sounding light like a feather as lilia smiled at the name choice what about juliette marie antoinette harriett leclerc? jules for short

"juliette marie antoinette harriet leclerc...c'est un personnage parfait." lilia smiled sweetly, her lips kissing his cheek, not able to reach his forehead due to the way she was inclined in the hospital bed juliette marie antoinette harriet leclerc...it's perfect char

wiping away one of many tears from her husband's cheeks, she then picked up little jules and wordlessly gestured if he wanted to hold their little girl. since he still hadn't done that yet since there was so many things going on that he hadn't yet had the chance to even get his first skin to skin with his daughter yet. 

"tu veux tenir jules, char?" lilia questioned, her voice getting tired as charles didn't hesitate in nodding his head you want to hold jules, char

and magically, as if lilia's midwife had powers of some sort, just as the husband and wife were getting ready to do the safe handover of baby jules from mum to dad, the midwife entered the hospital room. 

"mum, dad? sorry to bother you but, there are some guests that are itching to meet the little one...but, first, does dad want to hold her and does the little one have a name?" the midwife, emilia, smiled, slowly walking into the room and closing the door behind her as the new parents smiled up at the health professional 

"hey, you aren't bothering us at all, emilia, and we'd love to have the guests come in but, yeah, charles is wanting to hold her since he wasn't able to earlier because of everything that had happened. and, yeah, we have actually just finished up the name conversation, little leclerc finally has a name," lilia giggled as emilia smiled, walking over to the computer so she could input the name into the birth certificate that was to be printed out 

"amazing! i'll let the guests in soon after we give daddy and baby some skin to skin which i'll help with so, no worries there. but, now that you've mentioned that you've got a name for the little one, i'll be happy to hear it!" emilia smiled excitedly with a cheeky giggle as they quickly decided that inputting the name first would be the better option and then have emilia show and help charles in holding their little girl

 "thank you, emilia! and baby's name is juliette marie antoinette harriett leclerc," lilia announces as emilia's face scrunches up, a hand on her heart as she types it out on the birth certificate 

"any meaning behind the adorable name?" emilia asks as she finishes typing before sending it off to the receptionist printer 

"juliette for charles' godfather jules bianchi, marie because it was my mum's name, antoinette for one of charles friends who we lost during an f2 race, anthoine hubert and harriett is what we're saying the female version of charles' dad, herve who sadly has also passed away," lilia explained as charles nodded his head, the joy in his eyes not going way even at the mention of the fact that every single name of his daughter was in tribute of someone he's lost in his life, with the exemption of lilia's mother, marie

emilia smiled softly, "that's a perfect name and i'm sure jules, marie, anthoine and herve are bursting at the seams with joy from wherever it is they are watching from. baby jules is going to be so protected. well, the birth certificate has now been sent for printing at the receptionist printer but whilst we wait for that, lilia if you could give me juliette, i'll now be able to assist charles in his first skin to skin with her," emilia moves away from the computer and to lilia's bed and without hesitation, lilia happily hands baby juliette over to her 

emilia then holds baby juliette easily as she waits for charles to take off his shirt and figure out whether or not he's comfortable to stand for his first hold of his baby or if he'd feel more comfortable sitting down. deciding to sit down first, just to be safe, emilia easily hands baby juliette over to her daddy and instantly, baby juliette just curls into her dad's body with ease. as though she was her dad's missing piece. holding his baby girl felt like heaven and earth had finally joined together like a jigsaw piece. because he never imagined he'd have this moment. to charles, having a baby was a heavenly thought, a dream, that he thought he'd never get in his life because he was so focused on his job with formula one. however, for charles, formula one no longer felt like his only purpose in life. his new purpose in life was now this little baby girl, little juliette, that was sleeping soundly in his arms as tears rolled down his cheeks. it seemed as though charles' tears would overflow the hospital because it seemed as though ever since arriving at the hospital, he hadn't stopped crying. and of course, with the help of emilia, charles and lilia were able to have photographical and video evidence of just how emotional charles had been the entire time. but, it wasn't something that charles was ashamed of. how could he when all this emotion was all due to this beautiful little girl that rested on his bare chest, his wife who had just given him this heavenly gift of their little girl, meters in front of him.

then, it was time for the rest of the family to meet little leclerc. the grandparents had already met little juliette and when lilia and charles told them, especially pascale, juliette's name, it was obvious just how meaningful her name was to them. however, those weren't the guests that emilia was referring to earlier. the guests that she was referring to was charles' f1 teammates. they had all been buzzing with every emotion under the sun as they waited for the moment them to finally get permission to meet their niece. 

f1 grid meeting baby juliette

charles was still having skin to skin time when emilia had allowed in the first influx of f1 drivers in the room to meet the little baby. with the permission of lilia and charles of course, the first group to meet baby juliette was pierre, carlos and max. their girlfriends francisca, rebecca and kelly had also joined in but were at the hospital bed next to lilia whilst the guys had gone straight over to charles before coming back to congratulate lilia as well. 

"...hey guys, come in!" charles whispered, lilia's face lighting up as she saw who it was that had walked in as he stood up, juliette still asleep in his arms 

max, pierre, carlos and the girls' faces all softened when they made eye contact with the newest arrival to the f1 family. all the emotions suddenly coming up, moreso from the girlfriends then the drivers. 

max being the most comfortable and composed one to speak up, "oh my gosh, charles, lilia, she's gorgeous and so tiny! what's her name?" he questioned, his eyes showing an emotion that was very rare to be seen by anyone as charles smiled at his childhood friend 

"thank you max, thanks guys! her name is juliette marie antoinette harriett leclerc," charles smiled, his voice still shaky from the tears he had finally stopped crying

at hearing the name of the little girl, the room fell into a silence, so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. the looks on the faces of each of the drivers and their girlfriends were immediately the same as the faces made by the leclerc's when they had been told the name of little juliette. it was obvious to lilia, from one look at the drivers, pierre specifically, that those middle names, especially antoinette for him, was more meaningful than anything else. 

"that's a gorgeous name you two. and she suits the name as well." max whispers as his head tilts as he looks at the sleeping newborn, his finger lightly brushing her forehead as she smiles at the touch 

the drivers and girlfriends all look at one another after that touch. it seemed as though from that touch and smile response that juliette and uncle max were going to have a special bond. however, whilst that would be true, it wasn't until carlos came over, lightly brushing his lips against her forhead that she woke up. her eyes locking with carlos' and smiling at him. 

that very moment, charles and lilia knew that they had to have carlos as juliette's godfather. which was another thing that because of the whirlwind of emotions, the husband and wife had forgotten to discuss. however, it seemed as though it didn't need a discussion because it seemed like baby juliette knew for herself that uncle carlos was also going to be her godfather. with maybe uncle max as godfather number two or the godfather to her future sibling. 

whilst you'd think there would be a lot of talking between the group of nine, there really wasn't. it was a calm and serene quiet as each of the drivers and their girlfriends got to quickly hold little juliette with charles taking photos of each of them with their little niece. however, the one that they wanted to be printed out was carlos'. they wanted to announce to him, once they had gotten everyone else out of the room, that he was juliette's godfather. 

godfather carlos

saying their final goodbyes, the group of six drivers and girlfriends were now leaving charles, lilia and juliette, thinking that another group of drivers was going to be allowed in to meet little juliette. however, just before carlos could leave with rebecca, lilia and charles stopped him before he was fully out the door. 

"...carlos...wait, can you stay, for a minute? we want to ask you something..." lilia calls out, just before carlos could leave 

nodding to them, he then lets the other five know that he'll catch up with them later. giving a quick hand squeeze and kiss to rebecca, he then walks back into the room and closes the door behind him. 

"...yeah, i can stay, is everything okay? what do you want to ask me?" he questions as he notices charles and lilia, it was as though they were communicating with each other without speaking 

they then look back over at carlos and they ask him to sit down, which he does. now that he was seated, charles and lilia felt more comfortable telling him just in case he fainted or his legs turned into jelly. charles then asked if carlos wanted to once again, hold juliette, he accepted of course and holding her ever so carefully, waited patiently for what lilia and charles were going to ask him. 

"everything's perfectly fine, carlos, we just wanted to ask if you wanted to be juliette's godfather..." lilia asked softly as carlos' eyes widened as his grip on juliette tightened slightly but not too much to cause concern 

"...are you serious?" carlos' voice shook, his emotions now coming out now that it was just the three of them plus juliette - carlos not really one to cry in front of a lot of people 

"we're dead serious, carlos. you saw the way juliette seemed to latch onto you seconds after she did similar to max. we did think of making max maybe godfather number two *giggles* however, i think we'll make him godfather to baby two when we decide to have baby number two. but, right now, we seriously think that you're the right choice for juliette's godfather and we know we can trust you fully with her if anything god forbid was to happen to us before she's old enough..." lilia assured as carlos' eyes became watery and his lips started to quiver 

charles and lilia became a little worried when he didn't respond for a little bit. carlos' head had dipped down to rest on juliette's (which, in all honesty, nearly made charles and lilia cry at how sweet it was and before either forgot, they made sure to capture a quick photo) as his body started shaking. it had now become clear to the husband and wife that the simple question of them wanting carlos as juliette's godfather had hit an emotional chord for the spaniard and it also struck an emotional chord with them. 

sniffling, carlos finally lifted his head up and nodded his head, "...i'd be honoured to be juliette's godfather you two! i promise i won't let anything bad happen to juliette for as long as i am able to," carlos sniffled, his tears hitting his shoulder as his head was resting there in a bid to not get any of his tears on his goddaughter 

and seeing that image was priceless for charles and lilia. they both adored carlos and they really treasured their friendship with the spaniard. i think the reason why carlos was so emotional was because of everything with him leaving ferrari at the end of this season was now starting to hit him. and now that halfway through his final season with his teammate and with ferrari, the kid decides to have a baby himself, it made him even more emotional because he thought he'd never get a proper relationship with little leclerc because of his departure from ferrari. however, no matter where carlos would be in f1, whether that was alpine, mercedes, audi, charles and lilia would always look for him first when it comes to juliette. the baby now born before the end of their last season together. now it made sense why carlos had been so quiet when he had first come in to meet the baby with pierre, max, kika, kelly and rebecca. carlos was holding back all of this pent up emotions that were now coming out when asking him to be godfather. 

"we trust you carlitos. that's why we asked you. and it doesn't matter that you're leaving ferrari at the end of the season. no matter where you end up on the grid, whether it's mercedes, alpine, audi, we will always and we mean always look for you first when it comes to juliette. we love you carlos and you leaving ferrari doesn't change that. we really want you in our lives after this and that means you being a vital part of juliette's life!" lilia was adamant in getting carlos to believe that they really wanted him as their baby's godfather 

and, it finally seemed to be working. nodding his head and wiping away his tears, carlos held juliette ever so securely as he allowed the two parents to take more photos of them together. 

because, after that, it would be the announcement that everyone that was all caught up in the bubble of the birth of baby leclerc was hanging for. the announcement that baby leclerc has been born and introduced into the world. so, that's what they did. 

announcing baby juliette

liked by leclerc_pascale, arthurleclerc, maxverstappen1, kellypiquet, carlossainz55, pierregasly, scuderiaferrari, landonorris, francisca.cgomes and 13k others

charlesleclerc and lilialeclerc introducing juliette marie antoinette harriett leclerc 🩷

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leclerc_pascale parfaite petite juliette 🩷 perfect little juliette

arthurleclerc juliette is perfect you two 🩷

maxverstappen1 uncle maxie loves you juliette. she's beautiful you guys🩷

kellypiquet the sweetest baby girl ever! you'll be beautiful parents 

carlossainz55 godfather carlos loves you, juliette, forever and ever🩷

pierregasly i've only just finished crying, mon dieu my god

scuderiaferrari isn't she just a precious little thing? can't wait to meet little juliette 

landonorris she's gorgeous, i'm actually going to cry when i meet her! 

francisca.cgomes i still can't get over her name! it's so beautiful 🩷

forzacarlos oh my gosh, juliette's name is all in tribute to those the leclerc's have lost! jules, herve, marie (lilia's mum) and anthoine, i can't i'm actually sobbing! 

fewarrifwends forzacarlos oh my gosh, you're right! that's actually so sweet and now i'm crying too! 

fin

this was a completely different format than i normally do but honestly, i love it more than i thought i would! i know i said in the authors note at the beginning that i'd do this for carlos as well but, now i'm actually really considering it because i loved this charles version so much! and, yes, i came up with baby juliette's name all on my own and i'm actually kind of proud of it! i truly do think that whenever charles and (possibly) alex or whoever he's with when that happens, decide to settle down in that regard of having kids, i do think no matter if it's a boy or girl, he'd pay tribute to jules and his dad herve in some type of way. and this was my version of it with the edition of anthoine hurbert and the fictional mother of lilia because i also feel like people forget that charles was also friends with anthoine, not just pierre so, i just wanted to honour that as well in the best way i could. 

©⠀amberjazmyn's original work. do not translate or steal any of my fics. 2024

[emmyrosee]

Katsuki just left, and your phone is already ringing with his contact.

You know what this is about. You smile and click the phone to answer, pinning the device between your shoulder and your ear. “Yes, baby?”

“You think you’re so fucking cute, don’t you?”

You giggle briefly before clearing your throat to gain some composure, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play that shit card with me,” he snarls, but his voice holds no venom. Truly a bark with no bite. You continue to spread the jelly on your toast, waiting for him to finish his rant. “I don’t even have to open it to see the chaos you’ve caused. Is this why you wanted to take the car yesterday? Alone? Fucking brat.”

You stifle a giggle and you hear him try to fight his own laughter. “And fucking Hello Kitty? Really?”

Covering his dashboard in stickers wasn’t something you’d planned on doing, but when TikTok inspiration strikes, who would you be to not answer the call?

You’d covered everything: the dash board, the side panels, the steering wheel, the stick shift, center console, everywhere within his driver and passenger seat is covered in stickers of assorted Sanrio characters.

You pout, “it’s not just hello kitty, there’s some Kuromi’s in there for you.”

“How. Generous.” You laugh at his expense, and he lets you, but he doesn’t fool you for a second- he’s hiding his laugh. “So, you gonna come take these shits off?”

“No.”

“HAA?!”

“No!” You repeat. “Because what if you pick up your side pieces in your big expensive car and kiss them? Hmm? They won’t kiss you if they know you have a pretty, perfect, amazing pookie wookie bear at home.”

“My pookie wookie bear is going to get suffocated with a pillow,” he growls. “Now come take care of this!”

“No,” you sing. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Swear to god-“

“Bye babyyyy!”

“Don’t you fucking-“

You’re quick to hang up the phone, giggling and going back to your toast with a satisfied smile spread on your cheeks, and you-

Immediately, you hear footsteps coming up the stairs of your home. Panic grips your heart as your eyes flick to the doorway of the kitchen.

The front door opens. He’s running.

“You’re so fucking dead.”

You scream.

The payback for sticker-ing his car might’ve been intense, full of tickling fingers and bites and threats turning into promises of payback.

But it was worth the new memory with your man.

[juckalope]

soft mornings 🌅

[sunsburns]

forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[elseishollow]

heartbeats - matt murdock

synopsis: someones heartbeat is giving it away

pairings: matt murdock x reader

warnings: none

notes: knocking out three requests in a row i’m on a roll. this can be based off matt in the earlier seasons idk

Matt isn’t trying to notice. Really, he’s not. But it’s hard not to when your heart starts racing the second he leans in.

You’re sitting side by side on his couch, going over some case files, when he reaches past you to grab a pen. His arm barely brushes yours—just a light shift in the air, his warmth lingering for half a second. And yet, your pulse jumps like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

His lips press together, fighting back a knowing smile.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly, but you don’t say anything. Just keep your eyes on the papers in front of you like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. But then he does it again—leans in, close enough that he can hear the hitch in your breath, the way your heartbeat stutters, a little too quick, a little too obvious.

And then there’s the warmth—subtle at first, then blooming. Across your cheeks, down your neck, that slow creeping heat that tells him everything.

Yeah.

You’ve got a crush on him.

And now, he knows.

"Something wrong?" he asks, casual, like he doesn’t already have the answer.

You sit up straighter. "Nope. Why?"

His lips twitch. "You’re fidgeting."

Your fingers freeze against the paper. "No, I’m not.”

"You are."

A pause. You let out a slow breath, clearly trying to keep yourself in check, but your heart betrays you again—one sharp little thump against your ribs. Matt leans back, smiling now, pleased in that quiet, infuriating way of his.

You swallow. "You’re doing that thing."

"What thing?”

"That smug thing."

His brows lift, feigning innocence. "I have no idea what you mean."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "I hate you."

His laughter is soft, warm. "No, you don’t."

And he doesn’t have to see your face to know you’re smiling, too.

[abyssyby]

sylus playing ultimate peek-a-boo with the little twins— phasing in and out with his evol (˃̣̣̥ᯅ˂̣̣̥)💕

just having learned how to walk, lucian tries to waddle to his papa before he turns into the black and red mist and smoke. screaming loud and happy when he’s so close, and he disappears again. sylus is quick to phase in behind cian to catch him when he loses his balance. he lightly nips and bites on his chubby cheek and kisses it tenderly, before disappearing again. when lucian does catch him, he rolls them around and drowns the baby in raspberry kisses on his belly as he gurgles joyfully.

kyros sits on the rubber mat where they play and watches his brother and papa run around. sylus phases in front of him every so often too, and he jumps in that little baby-startle-freeze up way 😭 and sylus has to take an extra second to watch if kyros cries or giggles in the next breath before he shifts away. he also gives kyros the occasional squeezy-squeeze on his hands and shoulders to keep him a little bit more engaged. sylus kisses his forehead, and then gently covers his excited scarlet eyes with his large hands. “where’s papa?”

in the end, he grabs one twin and then the other and they phase together in front of you— “peek-a-boo!” sylus barks.

you scream in fright at the sudden motion in your once quiet space. but the bubbling giggles that ensue from sylus and your boys is enough to soothe your racing heart. “don’t do that!”

☽˚｡⋆ about the little twins | more sylus and little twins | little twins with big twins ⋆｡˚ ☁︎

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

[zzbubblegumbitchzz]

longer aftercare with quinn after a particularly heavy intense session with him where ur deep in sub space and take longer to get out of it>>

i’m so soft for him, please i have so many other thoughts with Q and aftercare

“Did so good, so so good.” He’s mumbling as he presses slow, soft kisses against your tear stained cheeks.

“Daddy,” he cut you off.

“Nuh huh, just Quinny right now.” His hands rubbing soft circles on your reddened thighs. “Need you to look at me, baby.”

He’s sitting on his heels when your half lidded eyes meet his. “I’m gonna run into the bathroom okay? Gonna go grab the lotion for your wrists and some ibuprofen. 5 minutes and i’ll be back. I love you.”

He’s not even gone for 2 minutes. He can’t stand to be away from you after a rough session. Especially a rough session you’re barely speaking after.

Body so overwhelmed with the pleasure he was ripping from you. Brain just stuck on the mantra: daddy, daddy, daddy.

His hands brought relief to your worn skin, aches easing with each gentle touch he gave. Never letting the cold of the lotion hit you.

Once he finally looked down at you again he was quick to notice your lips perched up, chuckling to himself.

“Whatcha doing there, precious?”

“Wanna kiss.” Your strained voice let out.

“Oh yeah? Right here?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

Noticing the shake of your head, he moved up to your cheek. “Here?”

“Nuh huh.”

“Oh! Here then?” As he pressed his lips to your forehead.

“Quinny.” You whined, dragging out his name.

“What baby? Gave you what you wanted.” He’s teasing now, he knows what you want. He always knows.

The sounds of you kissing the air made his heart flutter and his cheeks flush.

He leaned in, “oh, you mean right here” as he pressed his lips to yours. Warm, and welcoming. Moulded to him, just like you were made for him. All of you, was just for him.

“I love you so much, pretty.”

[kitkat13001]

⋆°• ☁︎ 𐙚 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖

>> l lawliet x reader

>> fluff, established relationship

you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and being lulled to sleep by the rhythmic clacking of L’s keyboard. 

“you know what i wish?” you muse, watching the light coming off his computer brighten and darken as he flicks between screens. 

“wishing is of little consequence,” he replies, almost automatically. “it won’t change the reality we live in.”

you ignore him. “ryuzaki, you want to know what i wish?”

he sighs, knowing you’ll persist anyway. “what do you wish, my love?”

“i wish that we were in a romance manga,” you tell him, clutching a pillow to your chest and letting your head hang off the side of the bed. “and you’d be just a detective and i’d be just me.”

he’s silent for a moment, taking in your words before he responds. “but i am a detective and you are you. where would this divulge from reality?”

“no one would die, because it’s a romance manga and it’s not that kind of story,” you say with a sigh. “the biggest mystery you’d be solving was how to ask me out and the only crime committed was how you’d stolen my heart—” he almost laughs at that part, “—and we could have a beach episode and montages of cute dates and a christmas special and—” you prattle on, excited merely over the prospect as you list off other fantasies. 

ryuzaki listens as he works, used to this dreamy behavior from you (especially when you’re half asleep like this). your ramblings amuse him. 

“i could take you to the beach,” he muses, eyes wandering in thought. 

“hm?” 

“watari owns several private islands,” he says, wheeling around in his chair to face you. “they’re used for different purposes, mostly as safe houses for emergencies. but i’m sure he wouldn’t mind us staying there on a long weekend.”

“are you being serious, ryuzaki?” you ask after a moment, clutching the edge of the mattress to keep yourself upright. your eyes are big and curious and hold a little ember of hope and giddiness. 

“when am i not serious?” he mumbles in reply, clacking away on his keyboard but unable to hide a small smile. 

you clap in delight, letting out a happy squeal. “oh my god! a private island retreat!”

“it’s nothing fancy,” he insists, turning back to his work, “so don’t go thinking this is some grand occasion.”

“ryuzaki, what about a private island isn’t fancy?!” you reply, clambering off the bed in a hurry. you whirl about the room, darting between the closet and nightstand and dresser. “i have to pack all my swimsuits and summer clothes and oh, my sandals! and my hats and sunglasses!”

“i didn’t say we were going now,” he chides, casting you an incredulous glance as he watches you flit about the room. your manic energy is endearing, if somewhat exasperating. 

you straighten from where you’d been bent over the drawers, grinning and sweeping your hair from your eyes. “ah, you said a long weekend. there’s a holiday next week! if we leave in the next couple days, we can beat most of the travel congestion for the break.”

a small smile manages to overtake him at your spindle of logic. “so you’ve got it all worked out then?”

if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing you

“yes,” you reply indignantly, “now get watari on the phone and tell him i said ‘pretty please with a cherry on top’.”

he huffs with a soft laugh, shaking his head. you aren’t demanding of much, but once you have your sights set on something there’s no stopping you. “very well, my love. i’ll call watari, but that ‘cherry on top’ you mentioned will be for me, accompanied by a significant amount of cake.”

“deal,” you grin, shooing at him to make the call. 

[dollyhao]

older woman! abby x young woman! reader

summary: abby is not sure getting close to her young secretary is a good idea or not but you know for sure it is.

cw: pining, fluff, smut, love <3, all types of cute shit

word count: 2.5k

working for abby has been one of the best experiences you've ever had. you started working as a receptionist/secretary at abby's auto body shop five months ago and she is the greatest boss you've ever had.

she is so kind and patient especially when you make mistakes. she respects her employees and treats them more like colleagues than subordinates. not to mention she is beautiful, like really beautiful. for a woman in her late thirties she was very fit, it was very clear she worked out and you mostly see her bring salmon and rice into work for lunch.

she had skin that looked soft to the touch and a couple of scars running up her forearms, most from her job as a mechanic. she had luscious, thick dirty blonde hair that she keeps in a braid or sometimes a bun.

you may have developed a crush on the older woman, blushing at every word she says to you in that soft tone. or when she stands close to you; looking over your shoulder to look at the computer that's in front of you. and you've tried to make it obvious that you were interested by lingering looks, compliments about her work, and questions trying to get to know her better, but she has never made a move.

but lord did abby wish the feelings weren't mutual.

abby hired you because of your business degree and your experience but you ended up being the best part of her day. you were beautiful and funny and you made her job as the owner so much easier. she's able to focus on her passion as a mechanic and she couldn't thank you enough. but she tries to keep away because it wouldn't be right to start a relationship with you, your in your early twenties and abby's in her late thirties, you were probably looking for different things right now.

abby wants to settle down, get married and maybe start a family but you were young and probably had so much stuff you wanted to do. she didn't wanna start anything just for it to be temporary especially not with a girl as sweet as you. but now abby is sweating at the thought of having to ask you to stay afterwards to help her with some documents that she was slacking on.

your amazing because you agree immediately even though you question why she didn't bring these documents to your attention sooner. abby is embarrassed and insists on staying behind and helping you.

being in a room with abby at night is like a wet dream. you sit with her in her office at 8 at night as you look over important documents and inventory. you sit side by side when you glance over at her, you didn't even notice that she took her hair out her bun, rubbing her fingers through her scalp. you stare at the side of her face while she reads something on her computer and you can't help yourself when you reach your hand out and tuck a piece of hair that was obstructing your view of her face.

she looks over at you and sees the soft expression you have as your eyes move around her face. "you're beautiful," you mumble, trailing your thumb over her face gently. "thank you," she mumbles back. you continue to stare at each other before one of your phones ding, snatching abby's attention from your face.

"um, i can finish up here," she looks at the time and look back over at you, "there's not much left to do here." she stands up grabbing your coat for you. you stand after her, terrified that you have ruined something that you weren't even sure was there. that was until abby gave you a genuine smile and helped you put your jacket on. you try not to sigh in relief when she askes to walk you to the car.

she walks you to your car and opens the door for you and closing it when your in. you roll your window down and start the car looking over at the abby who had her hand on the roof of your car. she bends down and rests her arms on your window, "thank you for helping me tonight. drive safe, ok?"

goodness, she's using that soft tone with you again so you just nod and smile. she smiles back and walks back into the building. you drive away smiling at the memory of abby's face illuminated by the lamp in the office and her soft hair flowing down her back.

.ೃ࿐

"are you coming?" manny is leaning over the counter that your working at staring down at you expectedly. "what?" you were working which you assumed manny was supposed to be doing as well. "are you coming to the out with us tonight?" he repeats his question and you glance over at abby who is wiping oil off her hands.

"who's going?" you continue to work, feigning disinterest. "all of us, boss, owen, nora and me of course."

"um yea, ill go." you give him a quick smile before getting back to what you were doing. manny hits the counter backing away, "great!"

your not sure what you expected from tonight, you like your coworkers but this is your first time hanging out outside of work. everyone is sitting in the booth telling silly stories in the loud bar. your quietly listening nursing your drink glancing up at abby occasionally who is sitting across from you.

she has a beer in her hand giggling at her friends drunk antics adding to the conversation every once in the while. she glances at you and catches you eye, "are you ok?" she mouths to you. you nod and give a tense smile, its way too loud and hot and you want to get away. you guess abby can sense that because she motions over the bar and you nod.

"we'll be back. getting more drinks." she gestures to both of your empty cups. she stands and waits for you to do the same and when you do she places her hand on your lower back steering you towards the bar. abby orders your drinks and nods over to a small empty table in the corner of the building. you nod and grabing her wrist, feeling bold and pull her over to the table.

"this isnt really your scene, huh?" abby starts as you settle into your seats. "no not really. way too loud." she nods sipping on her drink. you both sit quietly for a second before your gaze trail to her scarred forearms. your fingers trace her scars gently, "these are strangely beautiful." you glance up at her face seeing her eyes already on your face.

abby's fingers twitch as your soft hand wrap around her arm pulling it closer to yourself. your fingers trail softly up her arm until you get to her fingers you play with them for a second before intertwining your fingers together. you both tighten your grips on each others hand then you bring her hand to your face. you rub your cheek against her knuckles looking her in the eye.

abby's mind won't stop racing, she should pull away; she shouldn't be letting you do this but the look on your face and the way your looking at her she can't bring herself to do it. but then you pull her back to reality when you place soft, lingering kiss on her knuckles.

"shit," she mutters before pulling her hand out of your grip. normally you would've dropped it, but you've been drinking and you know that abby wants you and you want her. you get out of your seat taking the seat next to her. you turn your body towards her, "why won't you kiss me?" you ask staring at her lips.

abby's lips part as she watches the pout that forms on your lips. "i..i want to," she whispers leaning closer so you can hear her, "but i can't... i shouldn't."

"why not?" you whisper back. "i want you to."

"i want to. but im afraid ill want more than just a kiss if i do."

"then you can have more than just a kiss," you scoot closer to her leaning closer to her face. "i want more with you and im not talking about just sex, i want you." you look into her eyes hoping that she can see how sincere you are. she shakes her head, "your young, you don't need to be tied down by someone my age."

"that's not your choice to make alone. im telling you i want to be with you, tie me down. i want to see you look at me like this everyday and not just a work, i wanna hear that beautiful voice in the morning and run my fingers through your hair." you grab abby's face with both hands making her look at you.

she stares at you with a look of desperation and adoration. she grabs your hand that pressed against her face kissing the inside of your palm and you pull her into a kiss.

abby kisses you with so much passion like shes been dreaming of this moment. she places her hands on your waist, just wanting to touch you, "can i take you to my place?" she whispers against your lips. you nod enthusiastically already standing with your jacket, taking abby's hand and leading her to the door.

arriving at abby's house was a surreal experience. walking through her kitchen and living room felt like you were getting a peak into her world. her home is kind of bare of any decoration but its just so her. book shelves in the living room and books on the coffee table, a cd collection someone would probably kill for, dishes in the sink; the kind of neglect someone who lives alone commits.

but it smells like her, like a fall candle and a long day of work. "im sorry for the mess." she says moving things around with an embarrassed chuckle. "its alright." you smile at her placing your hand on her shoulder. "can i kiss you now?" you ask abby when she sits down on her couch. she nods and you kiss her for the second time that night.

you straddle her thigh, placing your hand on the side of her neck with your other on her arm squeezing the muscle that's there. abby's hand creeps over your back and under your shirt. you arch your back into her when her big cold hands slide up your spine. you whimper in her mouth, when her other hand grabs your waist.

you pull away first, panting hard, looking at abby with swollen lips when you hurriedly take your shirt off before diving back into your passionate kiss. she pulls back from the kiss wanting to be able to take you in for a second. her eyes look over your figure with so much desire and longing. "shit." she mumbles, her hands settle on your naked waist before they run over your stomach and up to your bra covered breast.

your hands under her shirt. "off, please." you whisper lifting the shirt over her head and she lets you pull it off and starts unbuttoning your pants. "take these off baby. i wanna taste you." she says looking you in your eyes, pulling your pants down as you stand over her. your hands clutch her shoulders as she stands up with you in her arms walking to her bedroom.

you place feverish kisses on her neck as she makes her way. you are dropped on your back on the the soft surface of her bed. she flips you on your stomach pulls you to the end of the bed before propping your hips up so your ass is in the air. she kisses down your lower back to your thighs. "this ok?" she askes you. you look back at her with your face pressed into the bed and nod with a hum, as she pulls your under wear off and uses her thumbs to spread you open.

you moan as abby licks your clit before sticking her tongue in you. you try to fuck yourself on her tongue before she pulls away, placing a kiss on your clit before rolling it around with her tongue, she pushes two fingers into you. you tremble and reach behind you to grab her hand that's gripping your ass. "baby, omg dont stop!" abby's not even sure if you meant to call her that but it sounds so good coming from you.

"say it again, princess," she stands up pressing her front against her back. she doesn't stop fucking you with her fingers and she rubs her thumb over your clit, "you like it?" you hump at her hand, "yes yes, i love it, baby." you lift your head peering at her face with your mouth hanging open, lewd sounds coming out.

abby presses kisses to the back of your neck as you cum on her fingers. she watches as your body shutters when you peer into each others eyes. she feels a burst of pride in being able to get you to come undone like that. hearing the way you talked to her was enough for her as she settles on her back trying to pull you to snuggle with her.

"what are you doing?" you ask her sitting on your knees. "oh im sorry. i shouldn't have assumed you would want to stay-" you cut abby off, "no no, its your turn." you say resting your hands on her pants buckle. "you don't have to."

"why wouldn't i?" you look at her confused. abby wasn't expecting to get anything back from you, most of the time women just took from abby, never wanting to give back but she should've known that wasn't you. your everything she has ever wanted. so she nods as she leans against her pillow and you pull her pants down.

you place your hands on her thighs obviously enjoying the thick, hard muscles under your hands. you kiss the inside of her thighs, biting them slightly; abby groans at the sight. you wrap your arms around her thighs before looking up at her and resting your head against her thigh. "you're beautiful."

abby cant help but blush at the compliment when you begin to slide her underwear off. you kiss around where she wants you before you suck on her clit, rolling it around with your tongue. abby whines and places her hand against the back of your head. "your such a good girl," she gasp out as her hips buck up into your face, "your always such a good girl."

your tongue slips into her hole and your nose bumps her clit just right so she rides and humps your face trying desperately to get off. she repeats your name over and over peering down at those beautiful round eyes. her hips start to jerk and you run your hands over her thighs as she rides out her high on your tongue.

"your so perfect." she whispers in astonishment. "im gonna tie you down, mama."

[reiding-writing]

For a Christmas fic you could do a Secret Santa with cold!reader where spencer gets her name and freaks out cause he had no idea what to get her you could make it more fluffy whatever you're feeling like <3

SECRET SANTA — SPENCER REID!

spencer’s a little stumped on what to get you for secret santa.

s6!spencer x cold!reader 1.5k fluff cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — requests have been open for like 12 hours and i have 7 new requests alreaady 😭

A teacup is thrust in front of your face.

“What the hell are you doing-?” You give Garcia a less than impressed expression as you push the mug away, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched enough to leave frown lines.

“Secret Santa! Pick a name sweetness,” She’s not deterred, and the flowery cup is held out towards you once more.

“Yeah, no thanks,” You shake your head decidedly. There was no way you’d participate in something as idiotic as picking the name of some random coworker out of a proverbial hat only to buy them a useless, crappy present because you didn’t actually know, nor care about, what they actually liked.

”You can’t just not,” Morgan tuts. “Embrace the spirit of the holidays, Ice Queen,”

Your eyebrows twitch. “No?”

“Awe come on,” There’s a soft jingle as Garcia leans her torso towards you. “Please? It’s only the main team, and we’ve got a 25 dollar limit,”

She shakes the mug again, and you eye it like it’s full of cockroaches instead of paper.

“At least pick a name,”

You concede with a exasperated huff, begrudgingly picking a piece of paper and unfolding it between your fingers.

You didn’t look too happy with the result. Or maybe you did. Spencer didn’t have a clue really. You could be overjoyed right now for all he knew.

He was mid sip of coffee when Garcia turned her efforts to him.

“Your turn genius,”

Spencer froze with his mug halfway to his lips, the steam curling up into his face. He placed it down carefully and stared at the teacup Garcia was shaking with far too much enthusiasm.

“I don’t think I—”

“No excuses, Doctor Reid,” Garcia interrupted, her tone light but insistent. “It’s team bonding. Don’t you love us? Don’t you want to show us your undying affection through a thoughtful and budget-friendly present?”

Spencer hesitated, then gave in with a reluctant sigh. He reached into the mug, plucked a folded piece of paper, and unfolded it. His heart sank.

Your name stared back at him, bold and unmistakable.

His stomach did a little flip, and his heart thumped louder in his chest. You. Of all people, he had to get you.

Not Morgan, who would have been happy with anything sports-related. Not Garcia, who would squeal with joy at something glittery and eccentric. Not even Hotch, who would surely appreciate a simple tie.

It was you. The cold, guarded enigma who somehow made his palms sweat whenever you gave him one of those rare, fleeting smiles.

Garcia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s that face, boy wonder?”

Spencer blinked rapidly, trying to school his expression into something less... panicked. “Face? I’m not making a face.”

For a profiler, he really was horrible as masking his tells.

“Oh, you have to tell us who you got!” Garcia said, leaning in eagerly.

Spencer immediately clutched the paper to his chest like it contained state secrets.

“Doesn’t that defeat the point?” You speak over the rim of a book, pulling a coffee receipt from between it’s pages to continue where you’d left off, quickly having moved on from whoever you’d landed like you didn’t want to waste any mental energy on it.

He wished it was that easy for him.

Garcia pouted, but Morgan laughed. “Look at him. That’s the face of someone who’s in over his head.”

And Morgan wasn’t wrong.

What was he supposed to get you? You liked coffee, but only from recognised establishments, you liked reading, but he didn’t know what you had and hadn’t read, you disliked mint, maybe, and anything else was anyone’s guess.

He wanted to get you something that proved he knew you, but it also had to be practical, you wouldn’t appreciate something that you had no use for.

He figures he should at least start with something familiar to him, so he drops by a bookstore first.

His local bookstore may as well have his name on it, and he greets the owner like an old friend as he begins his browse, running his fingers over the spines of books as if they could somehow tell him what you would want. He had to make this right. He needed it to be perfect.

Although his gaze quickly wandered away from the novels as he wandered past a trinkets table. Nothing too out of the ordinary, some business cards, a few pens, some small book lights and bookmarks.

And then he’s decided.

Now, Spencer’s own books were in several states of distress. Cracked spines and creased covers were practically a staple, either from second hand buying or how fast he read through them, but yours were practically pristine.

You liked to take care of your possessions he’s noticed, and every book you read in the office is treated as carefully as any case file, although with one highlighted exception.

You liked to take breaks, and when doing so, saving your page was done in a rather… impulsive manner.

A sticky note, a bus ticket, a receipt from a coffee shop or even sometimes a pen, although never for too long with the latter.

You‘d never buy yourself a bookmark, you’d probably say it was a waste of your money, that a scrap piece of paper would do the job just as well, but that was kind of the point of gifts wasn’t it? To buy something for someone that they wouldn’t necessarily buy themself?

So he sets off home with a mission. Find you the perfect bookmark.

He had a two week time limit, and a 25 dollar price limit, so no custom ordering anything from an obscure European website, but it had to be good.

He didn’t want to buy yourself some flimsy piece of cardboard with a crappy design. He wanted something sleek and cool, something that fit you and your personality.

Simple but not too simple. Practical and attractive. And not too expensive. You’d kill him if it was too expensive.

—

You’ve gotten Hotch a tie pin if the size of the box, and it’s rattling tell the room anything, a half awkward press of your lips together in what’s probably meant to be a smile.

Hotch’s retrieval of your gift isn’t any more graceful, but trust the two most stoic members of the team to be paired in one direction.

“Alright, Spencer’s up next,” Garcia eggs him on with a small nod and a smile, and he sucks in a breath before holding out his gift to you.

Your a little surprised as you take it from him, royal blue tissue paper crumpling under your fingernails as you offer him a strained “thanks,” before glancing back at Garcia to urge her to move on and take the attention away from you.

You shove it into your pocket without opening it. And Spencer doesn’t know why he feels so disappointed.

It was only like you right? He should be grateful you even accepted it at all, right?

Maybe he was being a bit too optimistic at how close the two of you had gotten. He at least thought you’d open it. Let him see your reaction so he could know how to improve next time.

The thought still prays upon him by lunch, and he stares blankly into the little chess piece battery lamp that JJ’d got him like a moth to a lightbulb.

“You’re going to ruin your vision doing that,”

And like always, you cut through everything else.

Spencer blinks, and true to your words there are stark spots of light that cloud his eyes as they flicker across your opposing desks towards you.

Sometimes he swears you have a sixth sense. You weren’t even looking at him, your nose buried in some new novel you were reading.

“Yeah, sorry,” Spencer clears his throat as he attempts to clear his eyesight, blinking harshly.

It manages to clear up just in time for him to watch you stretch in your chair, reaching under your monitor before sliding a gleam of metal between the pages of your book.

It sticks out over the pages just enough for Spencer to catch the snowflake engraving at the top, and he swears he forgets how to breathe.

[emmyrosee]

The sky is pink in my neck of the woods guys ☹️🫶🏻

—

“Sukuna! Kuna- baby, look-“

“Wake me up, and I’ll have to kill you.”

Sukuna doesn’t know what time it is, and he doesn’t care. All he knows is it’s far too early for your nonsense, nonsense you’re always willing to subject him to.

All that he’s willing to listen to.

“But- but Sukuna,” you whine. He feels you leave the bed, and he makes a blind reach to try and keep you to the warmth of the covers to no avail. He grumbles in annoyance and moves to hike the blankets up and over his head, blocking out your noise and the sunlight coming in.

“It’s pink outside…”

He grumbles and pulls the blankets from his head, “huh?”

“It’s pink!” You giggle, genuine joy in your voice. “The sky, it’s making everything look pink! The trees, the houses, the cars-“

“Yeah, got it, shits pink,” he grumbles, sitting up and stretching deeply. “Take a pic and come back to bed.”

“Don’t you want to come look at it with me?” You pout.

He could kill you. He could! Honestly, with how obnoxious you are, he wants to.

But he knows, deep down, he won’t. Because you ask him to come look at the pink sky at who knows what time in the morning. Because you stole a cookie from his plate last night, and you popped a blackhead on his nose when he was talking to Yuuji on the phone yesterday. Because you cling to him like a koala and smother his bony cheeks in kisses, and you sit on his lap to block his view from the tv, and you take the cheese off of his pizza to eat it.

Because you’re you. And you’re not going to change, and he loves you for it.

With a grunt, he yawns and turns his head to look at you, perched in front of the window. Your body is carved in the pink light, your face turned to him expectantly. You look ethereal, a pure soul sent to him specifically, with your bottom lip jutted out and your eyes curved, flashing him your best set of puppy eyes.

He swings his legs over the bed and stalks over to you, smacking his lips and wrapping an arm around you once he approaches you. You nuzzle into his chest and press a kiss to his pec before turning your gaze back outside, fixating on the pink.

“It’s literally 5 am,” he says, breaking up the peace.

“It’s so pretty,” you mewl, and Sukuna looks down to admire you.

“Sure is, babe,” he hums, gently rubbing his thumb over your shoulder.

“Sure is.”

[glitchgh0sty]

Decepticon!Prowl: Cycle 51. Signal

Context ✨ Previous ✨ Next

————————————————————————

Prowl: hmhmm,, I fear I misheard you. So, I’ll ask again,, who are you sending out right now???

- Soldier 664 NZ? He’s up next on the spread.

Prowl: … [but? - he wasn’t supposed to be sent out for the next 3 joor??]

[and Prowl definitely didn’t *cough* mess around a bit to make sure that was the case, 3 joor ago]

[twilightzoneletters]

[3:11 pm]

you stand there, completely shocked. eyes wide and staring at your boyfriend, yunho.

he's currently standing in front of you, with wide and toothy grin plastered on his face, as he holds out towards you with both of his hands , a puppy. and the puppy in question is also looking at you, feet dangling, tail wagging, tongue out and happy as can be.

"happy birthday sweetheart!"

your heart skips a beat just like always at the petname, and finally you're able to react.

"yun..." you look at him with what he sees as puppy-dog eyes, and he cant help but to cradle the actual puppy in one of his arms and pull you closer to him.

you wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his chest, trying not to cry. not that you were sad or anything, just overwhelmed.

yunho's heart melts the moment you do so though, and he pats the top of your head with his free hand.

"do you like her?"

you look up at him and then to the tiny puppy, who as soon as you lay eyes on her makes an attempt to reach your face and lick it. you giggle and shift so your arms are free and can take the little bundle of joy into your own hands.

her tail just wags and wags as she excitedly climbs up towards your face, nose nudging you and licking all over your face.

"i love her yun."

he giggles watching the pup, "i think she might love you too."

your smile doesn't fade for one moment as you lean into yunho. he gives a questioning look when you suddenly look up at him, eyes full of love.

"i have two puppies that love me now, this little lady here," you take your hand to boop the puppy's nose, "and a giant one," you do the same and boop yunho's nose just like you did the pups.

the rest of the day is filled with birthday wishes and calls from your friends as you three go around pet stores shopping for toys and beds and treats for the new little furball of light in your life.

[lomliverpool]

someone — jude bellingham  ₊˚ෆ

contents: 1.6k words, fem!reader (she/her), fwb!bellingham is down bad, lil angsty but happy ending, they like each other so much SIGH

🍓 hana’s note: hi my loves!! hope u enjoy <33 i actually had fun writing this, please tell me what u think 🫶 sorry if nothing makes sense LOL

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Jude was sure that the muscle on his wrist had gotten stronger in the span of three days. He moved to check his phone again for the hundredth time that day. The whole situation feels like a thirteen year old boy waiting for his girlfriend to reply to his text. 

The only difference is that he’s twenty one years old, and his ‘girlfriend’ is not actually his girlfriend. 

His gloomy mood attracted his assistant who was off clicking the keyboard computer.

“Whose text are you waiting for?” they asked, immediately bringing him out of his little pity party.

His heart stuttered, “No one.” he replies, shaking his head, before tucking the phone away into his pocket.

A skeptical look was thrown, “Yeah, sure.” 

Jude took a minute before he relented, “She’s…someone.” he sighed, not really in the mood to throw up his gut to his assistant.

He ran his hands through his hair down to his face, frustrated.

They were sure this ‘someone’ was not just anyone, “The same ‘someone’ who had you giggling and kicking your feet last week?” his assistant smirked, noticing the little smile that Jude always wears every single time he stares at his phone.

But not in the last few days.

Recently, he has been more sad when he stares at his phone.

Heat trailed from the back of his neck to his cheeks, “I was not giggling and kicking my feet.” tummy twisting with nerves.

“Oh, you so were. She has you wrapped around her fingers, Bellingham.” the keyboard clicking stopped, as a teasing smirk was sent his way.

Jude’s heart made a backflip–oh she definitely does– “She’s just.. special. And I really really like her.” his cheeks heating up more as your pretty face fresh flashes in his mind. 

“So? Why don't you ask her out on a date?”

He sighed, “I would, but she’s ghosting me.”

“Someone ghosted THE Jude Bellingham? Damn, your ego must be hurt.” they laughed.

Jude took a deep breath, “It's not about my ego, I just–” he paused, “I thought we were going somewhere, I like her and I thought that she liked me but I guess...” his voice trailing out as sadness coats his words.

His assistant noticed how Jude’s head dropped in disappointment, immediately feeling bad for him, and an idea lightbulb immediately went off, “Go to her place then.”

“What?”

The assistant shrugged their shoulders, “Go to her place. Ask her out.”

He coughed out, “She doesn’t wanna see me.”

“Ask her face to face, get confirmation. If she really doesn’t wanna see you then, fine. But try at least! Fight for her!” their encouragement send Jude into a full dedicated state. Already having a full plan in his head.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Screen lights from the tv illuminated your already dark room with a movie playing in the background. You really should be asleep right now. But your mind was too cloudy with a certain, seriously attractive, very sweet and nice footballer. 

What did you think was gonna happen?

Getting into a friends-with-benefits with someone you harboured a big fat crush on was not the brightest idea. 

Jude is a bigshot footballer, everyones’ starboy, all he needs to do is smile and all girls fall to his feet (including you). The strategy of pushing him away was pretty solid, considering that he might not even notice that you haven’t been replying to his texts. 

He probably has hundreds of girls on his phone anyways.

Not that you care, he can do whatever he wants, he’s not your boyfriend. 

Not your boyfriend. 

Then why does it still bother you?

A sudden knock, broke you out of your spiralling session, shooting your heart rate up. Who knocks at 2 in the morning?

A buzz from your phone alerted you.

—

bellingham :)

I’m outside your apartment

I need to talk to you

—

You contemplated opening the door, what do you even say to him? Another knock. 

Another buzz.

—

bellingham :)

Please.

—

The door swung open and Jude was met with the sight of you, with tired eyes and a scowl on your face. You don't look too happy seeing him, and he doesn't blame you.

“Are you insane?! What do you want, Jude? It’s two in the morning!” you huffed out, taking his wrist and pulling him inside. You do not want to get a complaint from your old cranky neighbours. 

Both of your hands tingle the second it touches, fingers twitching as you hope the other doesn't notice. You move to pause the movie, hands gravitating towards the blanket on your couch before draping it around your shoulders. Trying to cover up your well-loved worn pyjamas.

You look like a mess. 

Jude’s hand sweats in his pockets, his heart was pounding after finally being in your presence. With your messy hair, pretty droopy eyes, paired with your profile being highlighted by the tv. His heart rate shoots up when your eyes meet his. 

You look really pretty.

Focus, Bellingham!

He awkwardly coughs, trying to cut the thick tension in the room, “You still watching that show?” he voiced out, hand gesturing to the tv behind you. 

It was a show recommendation from him. You had made fun of it at first, but then the plot was too good to be ignored, you needed to know how it ends. 

You shrugged your shoulders, “Yeah, I was curious.” voice small as your hands tightened around the blanket, bringing comfort to you.

A beat of awkward silence went on.

And Jude has had enough of it and decided to go for it, head first, no thoughts.

"Why are you ignoring me?" he finally said, saddened brown eyes met yours. You can feel your defence chip away the more you look at him.

You avert your eyes immediately, trying to formulate words, "I'm busy."

"That you ghosted me for three days straight?" he scoffed.

"Jude-"

"I don't think you understand how much you’re in my head." his voice shook, heart trembling in his chest, “I wake up and my first thought is to check if you have texted me back and you know how embarrassing it is to not see anything?"

You scoffed, “So this is about your ego?”

“No! I didn’t say that–“

Another scoff, "Jude don’t lie, you get messages every single day. Your notifications are always flooded! Don’t act like I’m suddenly special!” you rolled your eyes, lungs burning with anger.

His face contorted into confusion before turning into hurt, “Did I give you that impression? That I don't care because you’re not special?” Jude’s voice cracked, maybe it was your head playing tricks but you swore his eyes were glossy with tears. 

Anymore second looking at him than you might just break. 

“Jude-” you started.

“Because I do! I’ll buy you more flowers, pick up your favourite coffee, watch those reality shows that you love so much, we can have a picnic or even a fancy dinner!” he rambled, hands animated as his feet started to move towards you, eyes pleading. “I really want this to work. I want to be in your life, as your boyfriend.” 

The distance between two got so small that you can feel his warm breath hitting your lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

He smells like mint.

Did he chew one before he got here?

The call of your name hits your ears, his voice soft and sweet. You really like how he says your name. You miss it. You like him. You miss him.

“Please say something.” Jude whispered, eyes involuntarily dropping to your lips, cheeks warming under his gaze.

“I really really like you.” you softly said, nothing but a whisper but it sends just into cloud nine.

His eyes shined, mouth already opening to say something before you cut him off.

“But-“

His heart dropped.

“But?”

“Jude, you can literally have anyone you want in the world!” you raised your voice. Tears pricking at the edge of your eyes. Why does he have to be so complicated? Why won’t he understand that you will never be enough for him?

By now, he can have a general sense on why you ghosted him. You have been insecure and worried ever since this little relationship started. Jude partly understands it, his popularity is intense and the media is poking at every nook and cranny of his life. Judging at the littlest things he does.

But he also doesn’t understand because-

“But, I want you! Don’t want anyone else!” he exclaimed, big calloused hands move to the sides of your face, thumb softly running on your cheeks. “I want you.” he added, softly pressing a kiss at the apple of both of your cheeks.

A lovesick smile broke out on your face before you can even control yourself. “I want you too.”

Jude eyes twinkled at the sight. His heart elevates in the process. Was this a dream?

“Pinch me.” he snickered.

Your hands move around his waist to pinch his skin, “Dork.” you giggled, his smile getting wider at the sound.

A comforting silence blankets over you both. Smitten eyes staring at each other with heavy yearning. Hearts fully enamoured with the other.

A soft kiss was planted on your lips, tender and gentle as his hands moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. He can’t get enough of you.

Your whole body was on fire. It has been so long since you both got together.

“Jude-“

“Mhm.” he hummed, lips still pressing against yours. His hands wander to wrap around your waist. It feels like he wants to eat you whole.

He definitely does.

You carefully pull away, chuckling at the small whine that leaves him as he chases you again, “It’s late.” you affectionately scolded.

“Let’s go to sleep then.”

“Together?” you teased.

“Yes, please.”

Well, how can you say no to that?

reblog for a kiss <3

[osamiiya]

warnings// maybe suggestive!

— — —

Blinking awake next to Osamu, who’s eyes are still closed and his breathing even.

There’s little red marks that litter the column of neck and his chest.

“Physical evidence that you love me.” He’ll murmer later, laughing slightly as he traces them with a gentle hand, eyes staring softly in the mirror.

But now, his hair is messed up, pressing against the pillow. You’re sure he’ll have the most wicked cowlick.

One arm is lazily looped over your waist, the other under your head. And later, Osamu will grumble that he’s sore, but the next time you two slip into bed, he’ll pull you into his arms just the same.

His arms tighten every time you shift, and if you shift a little too much, his own soft brown eyes will blink open, bleary with sleep and gentle with the remnants of dreams.

“Morning.” Osamu’s voice is gravelly with disuse, breathing in deeply to stretch his back.

He blinks a couple more times, before a lazy smile creeps up onto his face as he simply looks at you in his arms.

There isn’t much light in the room, a sliver of light projected on the wall from Osamu not closing the curtains all the way. And, you know it’s cold in the room, but, Osamu runs hot, and you’re starting to overheat with his body pressed against yours.

“It’s hot.” You grumble back, trying to push and wiggle your way out of his grip, but his arms tighten as a low displeased groan makes its way out of Osamu.

“Stay, please.”

And who are you to deny a man what he wants?