#and this is by far the one i’ve spent the most time on

[movingmusically]

can u pls austin x wife!reader or pregnant!reader?

Word Count: 7,237

Masterlist

All of Us

Married life with Austin had been a dream—mostly. Sure, there were the occasional quirks to adjust to, like his habit of leaving guitar picks everywhere or the way he somehow managed to steal half your blanket in the middle of the night. But those small annoyances were overshadowed by the warmth of being with someone who loved you deeply and made you laugh every single day.

Still, life hadn’t slowed down after the wedding. If anything, it had sped up. Austin’s career was booming, and your own schedule wasn’t far behind. Between your work commitments and his time spent on set or promoting his projects, your days felt like a never-ending whirlwind. Yet, even with the chaos, there’d been moments of quiet clarity—conversations about your future, about the family you both dreamed of having one day.

The decision to stop using contraception had been an easy one, even if it felt a little surreal at first. You weren’t actively trying for a baby, but you were open to the idea. “If it happens, it happens,” Austin had said with that easy smile of his, his hand warm and reassuring on yours. “And if it doesn’t right away, that’s okay too. We’ve got time.”

You’d carried those words with you ever since, a quiet reassurance whenever the thought of parenthood felt overwhelming. But in the back of your mind, you’d assumed it would take time—months, maybe even a year or two. Enough time to keep the idea comfortably abstract.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Lately, though, something felt… off. It wasn’t anything obvious, just a subtle shift you couldn’t quite put your finger on. You felt unusually tired, dragging yourself out of bed each morning despite a full night’s sleep. Your appetite was off too—some mornings you couldn’t stomach breakfast, while other days you found yourself craving the strangest combinations of food. And then there was coffee. The thought of it made your stomach turn, which was almost laughable considering how much you normally relied on it to function.

You brushed it off at first, blaming it on stress or a passing bug. But it was hard to ignore the way you felt during brunch with a close friend one weekend. As you sat across from her, pushing a perfectly good cappuccino to the side, she gave you a curious look.

“You okay?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “You’ve been looking a little pale lately. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’ve seen you skip coffee twice now.”

You waved her off, trying to muster a casual smile. “I’m fine. Just tired, I think.”

Her brows knit together, her concern evident. “Tired, queasy, and avoiding coffee? Those are classic signs of pregnancy, you know.”

You froze, her words landing with an unexpected weight. “I—what?”

She shrugged, clearly not thinking much of her comment. “I’m just saying, maybe you should check. Stranger things have happened.”

The idea hung in the air between you, filling the silence that followed. She moved on to another topic, chatting away about her plans for the week, but you barely heard her. Your mind was racing, replaying her words over and over.

Could I be?

The thought unsettled you, not because it was unwelcome but because it hadn’t even crossed your mind until now. You and Austin had been so focused on life as it was—work, travel, settling into your marriage—that the possibility of pregnancy felt like a distant concept. And yet, as you sat there, your hand resting absently on your stomach, you realised it wasn’t as impossible as you’d thought.

Your thoughts drifted back to when Austin had come home for a whirlwind weekend visit about a month ago. It had been one of those rare breaks in his filming schedule, and the two of you had made the most of every second. You’d spent lazy mornings in bed, stolen kisses in the kitchen, and tangled limbs in the quiet intimacy of nights that felt too short.

You’d even joked as he packed to leave again, “Don’t get too comfortable on set. I’ll need you to come home and warm up my side of the bed soon.” He’d grinned, pulling you close and murmuring something cheeky about how he’d done more than warm the bed. The memory made your cheeks flush now, the timing suddenly clicking into place in your mind. Could it really have happened then?

By the time brunch ended, you couldn’t shake the idea. As much as you wanted to dismiss it, the possibility lingered, growing stronger with every passing moment.

The idea of being pregnant was impossible to ignore now. The symptoms, your friend’s teasing comment, the gnawing curiosity—it all pointed to one possibility. But even as the thought settled in your mind, you felt a flicker of doubt. It could be nothing. Just stress. Or something I ate. It doesn’t have to mean…

Still, the thought lingered. By the time you got home that evening, the nagging question had grown too loud to ignore. You paced around the living room, chewing your bottom lip as your mind raced. Part of you wanted to wait—wait until Austin was home so you could do this together. You’d always pictured it that way, the two of you holding hands and staring at the little test stick together, waiting for the result.

But he wasn’t here. He was halfway across the country on set, wrapping up the last few days of a gruelling shoot. And though you knew he’d want to be part of this moment, you couldn’t wait any longer. You needed to know.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you grabbed your keys and headed to the nearest pharmacy. The fluorescent lights felt harsher than usual as you scanned the shelves, your eyes darting between the rows of pregnancy tests. There were so many options—some promising fast results, others boasting extra accuracy. You grabbed a box at random, barely reading the label, and hurried to the counter.

The drive home felt surreal, the little box on the passenger seat seeming heavier than it should. You couldn’t believe this was happening. Just a few days ago, pregnancy hadn’t even crossed your mind, and now you were about to find out if your entire world was about to change.

Back at home, you set the test on the bathroom counter and stared at it for what felt like an eternity. The instructions were simple enough—pee on the stick, wait three minutes—but the weight of what those three minutes might reveal made your hands tremble. What if it’s positive? What if it’s negative? What if this is all a big mistake and I’m just overthinking everything?

You exhaled shakily and opened the box, your fingers fumbling slightly with the wrapper. “Okay,” you murmured to yourself, trying to steady your nerves. “It’s just a test. You can do this.”

The seconds that followed felt both rushed and agonisingly slow. You did what the instructions said, placed the test stick on the counter, and set a timer on your phone. Then you sat down on the edge of the bathtub, hands clasped tightly in your lap as you stared at the little white stick.

Your mind raced with a thousand thoughts at once. You thought about Austin’s easy smile and the way he always reassured you whenever life felt overwhelming. You thought about the quiet conversations you’d had late at night, whispering about what the future might hold. You thought about how surreal it all felt—this tiny piece of plastic holding the answer to a question that could change everything.

The timer buzzed, jolting you out of your thoughts. Your heart felt like it might beat out of your chest as you stood up and reached for the test. For a moment, you hesitated, your hand hovering just above it. This is it, you thought. Whatever happens, everything changes now.

With a deep breath, you picked it up and looked at the result.

Two lines. Positive.

You stared at it, your breath catching in your throat. A wave of emotions crashed over you all at once—disbelief, excitement, nervousness, and something you could only describe as pure joy. “Oh my god,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips. “Oh my god.”

You sank onto the floor, the test still clutched in your hand as tears pricked your eyes. It felt surreal, like a dream you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to imagine yet. You were going to have a baby. You and Austin were going to have a baby.

For a moment, you let yourself sit there, basking in the quiet wonder of it all. Then the realisation hit you: Austin didn’t know yet. The thought made your heart race all over again, but this time, it was with excitement. He’d be home in just a few days, and you wanted to tell him in person. This wasn’t something you could share over the phone, not when it was this important.

You stood up, your mind already racing with ideas. If there was one thing you knew, it was that Austin deserved to find out in a way that was as special as the moment itself. Something meaningful, something that would capture just how much this moment meant to you both.

The day Austin was due home, you could barely contain your anticipation. You had cleaned the house twice, set the table for his favourite dinner, and even spent longer than usual deciding what to wear. The news you carried felt like a treasure burning a hole in your pocket, and you wanted everything to be perfect.

When you heard the familiar rumble of his car pulling into the driveway, your heart jumped into your throat. You hurried to the door, your hands trembling slightly as you opened it just in time to see him stepping out of the car, his bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired but still so impossibly handsome, his broad shoulders and easy smile lighting up the fading daylight. The sight of him made you realise just how much you’d missed him.

“Hey, baby,” he called out, his voice warm and familiar, the sound washing over you like a balm.

You didn’t even wait for him to close the car door. You rushed down the porch steps and into his arms, wrapping yourself around him tightly. He dropped his bag to the ground, laughing softly as he pulled you close, burying his face in your hair.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured, his voice low and full of emotion. His arms tightened around you, one hand stroking your back as if to reassure himself you were really there.

“I missed you too,” you said, your voice muffled against his shoulder. You felt his lips press against your temple, soft and lingering, before he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said, his voice a little hoarse as his fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You laughed lightly, your heart fluttering under the weight of his gaze. “You’re just exhausted,” you teased. “Come inside—I made your favourite.”

His eyes lit up, and he kissed your forehead before grabbing his bag. “You didn’t have to do all that,” he said, following you into the house. “But I’m not complaining.”

Inside, the warm, familiar scent of home surrounded you both. The table was set, soft music played from the speaker in the corner, and the faint glow of candles gave the room an inviting warmth. He paused to take it all in, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he said, his voice tinged with gratitude.

You shrugged, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in your chest. “You deserve it. It was a long shoot.”

“The longest,” He set his bag down and turned to you, his hands sliding around your waist as he pulled you close. His lips were warm and familiar, the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world fade away. You melted into him, your hands curling around the back of his neck, your fingers threading into his hair.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded as he smiled softly. “I still can’t believe I’m home,” he murmured, his voice like a warm embrace. “Being away from you… I hated it.”

Your heart pounded as you smiled up at him, your hands resting on his chest. It was now or never. “We hated it too,” you said, your voice soft but deliberate.

His brow furrowed slightly, the words taking a moment to register. “We?” he repeated, tilting his head as he looked at you.

You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping as you stepped back and reached into your pocket. “We,” you echoed, holding up the pregnancy test.

The moment the test came into view, his eyes widened. He blinked, as if unsure whether he was seeing things correctly, before slowly reaching out to take it from your hand. He stared at the little screen, his breath catching audibly, before looking back at you.

“Are you…” he started, his voice trembling. “Are we…”

You nodded, tears springing to your eyes. “We’re having a baby,” you said, your voice breaking with emotion.

He stared at you for a beat longer, the weight of your words sinking in. Then, without warning, a brilliant smile broke across his face, and a shaky laugh escaped his lips. “Oh my god,” he breathed, running a hand through his hair. “This is real?”

“Yes,” you said, laughing through your tears. “It’s real.”

He let out a breathless laugh, dropping the test on the counter as he swept you into his arms. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re going to have a baby.”

You held onto him tightly, feeling the warmth of his embrace as his body trembled slightly. He buried his face in your neck, and you could feel the dampness of his tears against your skin. “I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world.”

“I love you too,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. His cheeks were wet with tears, his eyes bright with a mix of disbelief and joy.

“We’re going to be parents,” he said, his hands moving to frame your face as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheeks, then your lips. “This is everything I ever wanted.”

You laughed softly, sliding your hands into his hair as you kissed him back. “It’s everything I ever wanted too.”

For the rest of the evening, you stayed close to him, basking in the joy of the moment. Dinner was an afterthought; you spent most of the time on the couch, his arms wrapped securely around you as he asked a million questions about how you’d been feeling, how long you’d known, and what the next steps were.

As the night wore on, you felt a sense of calm settle over you. The secret you’d been carrying was now shared, and seeing Austin’s reaction had eased every worry you’d had. This was the beginning of something new, something beautiful, and you were ready to face it together.

*

The first ultrasound appointment marked the next big milestone, one that felt surreal even as you sat in the clinic waiting room. Austin had cleared his schedule the moment the date was confirmed, insisting that no rehearsal or meeting could be more important.

The two of you were seated side by side, his knee bouncing slightly as he held your hand. “You nervous?” you asked softly, glancing at him.

He looked at you with a small, sheepish smile. “A little. It’s just… we’re going to see them,” he said, his voice catching slightly. “I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Me neither,” you admitted, your own nerves bubbling under the surface. “But it’s exciting too, right?”

“Exciting doesn’t even cover it,” he said, leaning over to kiss the top of your head.

When your name was called, Austin stood so quickly that he knocked over the magazine he’d been pretending to read. You giggled as he sheepishly bent to pick it up, his hand finding yours again as you walked together toward the exam room.

The technician greeted you warmly, explaining each step of the process as you got situated. Austin stood next to you, his hand never leaving yours, his eyes flicking between you and the screen with equal parts anticipation and awe.

When the image finally appeared on the monitor and the sound of the heartbeat filled the room, the air seemed to shift. It was a sound so steady, so alive, that it sent a shiver down your spine.

“That’s your baby,” the technician said with a kind smile, pointing to the tiny figure on the screen.

Austin let out a shaky breath, his grip on your hand tightening. “That’s… that’s them,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His free hand came up to wipe at his eyes, and when he turned to look at you, his face was lit with a mix of wonder and joy. “That’s our baby,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Instead, you squeezed his hand, letting your tears fall freely as you both stared at the screen, watching the tiny heartbeat that had changed everything.

That evening, as you sat curled up together on the couch, Austin couldn’t stop looking at the ultrasound photos. He held one up, studying it intently before glancing at you. “Okay, we need a nickname,” he announced suddenly.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “A nickname?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding firmly. “We can’t just keep saying ‘the baby.’ They need something special, something that fits.”

You tilted your head, considering his words. “Alright, Mr. Creative. What do you suggest?”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Bean,” he said, holding up the photo again. “They’re tiny, they’re cute, and it just… feels right.”

You laughed, shaking your head but secretly loving the name. “Bean,” you repeated, testing it out. “Alright. Bean it is.”

From that night on, Bean became a part of your everyday vocabulary. Austin greeted your belly every morning with a soft “Good morning, Bean,” and every evening, he read stories or played music to your growing bump. His guitar, his piano, even his voice—all of it became a nightly ritual, his way of connecting with the little life you were creating together.

One evening, as you both lay on the couch watching a film, you felt it—a small but unmistakable flutter low in your belly. You froze, your hand instinctively pressing to the spot.

“What’s wrong?” Austin asked, immediately alert.

You grabbed his hand, your heart racing as you placed it where you’d felt the movement. “Just… wait,” you whispered.

A few seconds passed. Then it happened again—a tiny kick, soft but distinct. Austin’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping slightly. “Was that…” he started, his voice barely above a whisper. “Was that a kick?”

You nodded, tears springing to your eyes. “Yeah. That was them.”

He let out a breathless laugh, his hand pressing gently against your belly. “Hi, Bean,” he murmured, his voice filled with wonder. “It’s me. Your dad. I can’t wait to meet you.”

The kicks became more frequent after that, each one a little reminder of the life growing inside you. Austin couldn’t get enough of them, often resting his hand on your belly whenever he was near, his face lighting up every time he felt a movement.

When a brief press tour took him away for a few weeks, the separation was harder than either of you anticipated. But even from afar, he found ways to stay connected. Every night, without fail, he FaceTimed you, his guitar in hand as he sang softly or read aloud.

"It’s Dad," he’d say, his voice warm even through the screen." Just checking in to see how you’re doing.”

You’d laugh, your hand resting on your belly as you said, “I think they’re listening. They always move when they hear your voice.”

By the time he returned, you were both ready to tackle the next big project: the nursery. The two of you spent hours picking out decorations, arguing over paint colours, and laughing as you assembled tiny pieces of furniture.

“You know,” Austin said one evening as he struggled to attach a crib railing, “I’m starting to think Bean might just have to sleep in a cardboard box.”

You laughed, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him. “Don’t give up now. You’re doing great, Dad.”

He looked up at you, his expression softening as he smiled. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” he said, his voice quiet. “We’re going to be parents.”

You walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We are,” you said softly. “And I think we’re going to be pretty good at it.”

As the nursery slowly came together, it became more than just a room—it was a symbol of the life you were building together. Every little detail, from the fairy lights strung along the ceiling to the shelves filled with tiny books, was a labour of love.

Standing together in the finished room, your hand resting on your belly and Austin’s arm around your shoulders, you felt a deep sense of peace. “It’s perfect,” you whispered, leaning into him.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, his other hand covering yours. “It’ll be even more perfect when Bean’s here,” he said, his voice filled with quiet wonder.

And in that moment, as you stood there dreaming about the future, you knew he was right.

*

Still, no amount of Austin’s sweetness could stop the physical toll of late pregnancy from getting to you. One evening, as you were getting ready for bed, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and stopped, groaning audibly.

“I feel huge,” you groaned, turning sideways to examine yourself. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”

From the bed, Austin looked up from his book, his gaze softening as he took you in. He set the book aside and got up, crossing the room to stand behind you. His hands slid around your waist—well, as much as they could with the bump in the way—and he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re not huge,” he said, his tone playful as his eyes danced with mischief. “You’re radiant.”

You rolled your eyes, still frowning at the mirror. “Radiant? Austin, I look like a science experiment gone wrong. My ankles are swollen, my back is killing me, and I haven’t seen my feet in weeks.”

He smirked, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re carrying our baby,” he murmured, his hands dropping to cradle your bump. “That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You snorted. “Sexy? I’m wearing mismatched pyjamas and haven’t shaved my legs in days.”

He turned you gently to face him, his eyes twinkling with a mix of affection and mischief. “Still sexy,” he said, trailing kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. “And for the record, I don’t think Bean cares about your legs.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound turning into a soft sigh as his hands moved to rub your lower back. “Fine,” you said, leaning into him. “You win this round.”

That wasn’t the only way Austin had been taking care of you. On nights when sleep felt impossible—when the baby seemed to think your bladder was a trampoline or your hips ached from the weight of it all—he’d do everything in his power to make you comfortable. One night, after watching you fidget and sigh for the fifth time in an hour, he rolled out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back, steam followed him.

“Bath’s ready,” he announced, holding out his hand. “Come on.”

You let him guide you into the bathroom, the warm scent of lavender filling the air. The tub was filled just enough for you to soak without feeling like a beached whale. As you eased in, Austin climbed in behind you, his legs bracketing yours as his hands moved to rub your shoulders.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured, leaning back against his chest.

“Of course I did,” he said, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re growing a whole human. The least I can do is help you take a load off.”

“Besides, I like taking care of you,” he replied simply, his hands moving to your bump as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

As his hands traced soothing circles over your belly, the two of you fell into an easy conversation about names. It had become a favourite topic of late, though you hadn’t settled on anything yet.

“What about Lori?” you suggested softly, tilting your head back to look at him. “If it’s a girl.”

Austin stilled for a moment, his eyes glistening as he met your gaze. “After my mom?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your hand covering his where it rested on your bump. “She meant so much to you. And I know she’d be proud of you, of us. It feels right.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, clearly trying to keep his emotions in check. “I think she’d love that,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

The moment stretched between you, warm and tender, until Bean decided to interrupt with a particularly enthusiastic kick. You both froze before bursting into laughter.

“Guess they like the name,” Austin said, grinning as he pressed his palm against the spot where the baby had kicked. “Hey, Bean. You’ve got good taste.”

As the weeks passed, the anticipation grew, but so did the love and humour that kept you both grounded.

*

The due date came and went without so much as a twinge of labour pains. You’d counted down the days on your calendar, convinced that by now you’d be holding your baby, but Bean had other plans. The doctor reassured you that everything looked fine and that it was perfectly normal for first babies to take their time—though they did mention that if nothing happened in another two weeks, they’d induce labour.

It wasn’t exactly the news you wanted to hear, especially since patience wasn’t exactly your strong suit. “Two weeks?” you groaned on the drive home, slumped in the passenger seat. “That feels like a lifetime.”

Austin, ever the optimist, glanced over with a calm smile. “Hey, your mom said she always went past her due date with you and your brothers. Maybe Bean’s just taking after you.”

You gave a dramatic sigh, though his hand finding yours on the armrest softened your mood. “If that’s the case, Bean owes me a big apology for making me this uncomfortable.”

“I’ll make sure they’re on their best behaviour when they get here,” Austin said with a wink, bringing your hand to his lips for a kiss. “But for now, you’re stuck with me.”

As the days passed the news of your overdue baby had spread among your family and friends, and with it came an avalanche of unsolicited advice on how to speed things along. Your phone pinged with messages every few minutes, each suggestion more bizarre than the last.

“Your sister says I should try eating spicy food,” you told Austin one evening, scrolling through yet another message as you sat with your swollen feet propped up on the coffee table. “And my cousin swears by bouncing on a yoga ball.”

Austin, seated beside you with his guitar in hand, raised an eyebrow. “What about the one from your aunt? Didn’t she say something about pineapple?”

“Pineapple, acupuncture, castor oil... oh, and Claire suggested a long walk and warm baths.” You let out an exasperated sigh.

Austin chuckled, setting down his guitar and shifting closer. “Anything else?”

You hesitated, biting your lip as you scrolled through one particularly cheeky message. “Well, uh… Ashley had a suggestion that worked when she was pregnant with with Jupiter.”

“Oh, this should be good. What is it?” He grinned, giving you a playful nudge.

“She said… sex might help.” You glanced at him from under your lashes, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “Something about the hormones and stimulating labour.”

Austin’s grin turned downright devilish. “Now that’s advice I can get behind.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile at the way his hand slid to your belly, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles. “It’s science,” you teased, leaning into his touch.

“Science, huh?” His voice dropped, the playful glint in his eyes turning into something softer. “Well, far be it from me to argue with science.”

Before you could reply, his lips were on yours—soft, warm, and filled with all the love and anticipation that had been building over the past nine months. He kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and for a moment, you forgot all about your swollen ankles and aching back.

You melted into the kiss, your fingers curling into his shirt as his hand slid around your back, pulling you closer. The warmth of his touch, the way his lips moved with yours—it was enough to make you forget, if only for a little while, the discomfort and impatience of these last few days.

When he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath was warm against your lips. “You know,” he murmured, his voice a low hum, “I think science might be onto something.”

You laughed softly, the sound turning into a sigh as his hands traced gentle, soothing circles on your lower back. “You’re impossible,” you teased, though the fond smile on your face gave you away. “But fine. If you’re so dedicated to the cause, who am I to argue?”

His grin widened, and he leaned in to kiss you again, slower this time, his hands sliding to cradle your belly. “You and Bean,” he whispered, his voice thick with affection. “My whole world.”

Your heart swelled, and you reached up to cup his face, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice soft and full of emotion.

For a while, the two of you stayed like that—wrapped up in each other, the world outside forgotten. The discomfort and impatience of waiting melted away in the warmth of his embrace, replaced by a sense of peace and quiet joy. In moments like this, it was easy to remember why you’d fallen in love with him in the first place: his unshakable optimism, his unwavering support, and the way he always managed to make you feel like the most important person in the room.

When you finally pulled away, your hands still resting on his shoulders, you couldn’t help but smile. “So, Mr Butler,” you said, your tone light but teasing, “what’s your next plan to convince Bean to make their grand entrance?”

He chuckled, his hands still cradling your belly. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of tricks up my sleeve,” he said with a wink. “But first, I think we should start with a good night’s sleep. You need your rest, mama.”

You rolled your eyes but allowed him to help you up from the couch, his hands steady and sure as he guided you toward the bedroom. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right—you needed all the rest you could get. After all, Bean could decide to arrive at any moment, and you wanted to be ready.

As he tucked you into bed, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Maybe tonight would be the night. Or maybe not. Either way, you knew you were in good hands—with Austin by your side, there was nothing you couldn’t handle together.

It was the middle of the night, two days before your scheduled induction, when you woke up feeling... off. At first, you thought it was just another bout of pregnancy discomfort—the kind you’d grown used to over the past few weeks. You shifted in bed, trying to find a position that didn’t make your back ache, but something was different this time. A dull, rhythmic sensation began to spread from your lower back to your belly, each wave stronger and sharper than the last.

“Austin,” you whispered, reaching over to shake his shoulder gently. “I think…”

He stirred with a soft groan, his hair a dishevelled mess as he blinked up at you, still caught in the haze of sleep. “What’s wrong?” His voice was thick with concern. “You okay?”

You nodded, though your breath hitched as another wave rolled through you, stealing your focus for a moment. “I think it’s starting,” you managed, your voice trembling.

It took him a moment to process your words, but when it clicked, he shot out of bed like someone had lit a fire under him. “It’s happening?” he asked, his voice pitching higher. “Like… happening happening?”

You nodded again, gripping his hand as the contraction gripped you. “Definitely happening.”

His reaction was instant and chaotic, a blur of nervous energy as he darted around the room. “Okay, hospital bag—where’s the hospital bag? Car seat’s in, phone’s charged—oh, wait, I need to call the doctor—”

“Aus.” Your voice was steady despite the pain, a small smile tugging at your lips as you watched his frantic motions. “Breathe.”

He stopped mid-step, running a hand through his hair as he looked at you with a sheepish grin. “Right. Breathing. Got it.”

The contractions were coming steadily now, but still far enough apart that the doctor advised waiting at home a little longer before heading to the hospital. Austin stayed glued to your side, his energy shifting from panicked to determined as he settled into a rhythm of supporting you. Every contraction was met with his steady voice, his warm hands on your back, and the constant reassurance that you were doing amazing.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his tone low and soothing as he rubbed circles over your lower back during another wave. “I’m so proud of you.”

You leaned into him, his presence a grounding force as the hours stretched on and the contractions grew stronger. He timed each one with the kind of precision that would’ve been comical if you weren’t so focused on riding out the pain. At one point, you caught him muttering countdowns under his breath, and you couldn’t help but crack a small smile.

“Relax, Coach Butler,” you teased faintly when the contraction passed, your voice breathless but fond. “I’m not running a marathon.”

He grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re doing something way more badass than that.”

When the time finally came to leave for the hospital, Austin was at your side in an instant, helping you into the car as though you were made of glass. “You know I’m not going to break, right?” you teased, though your voice hitched as another contraction tightened your belly.

His gaze softened, his hand brushing your cheek as he murmured, “You’re carrying my whole world. I’m not taking any chances.”

The drive to the hospital was a blur of flashing streetlights and the steady pressure of his hand holding yours. He murmured soft words of encouragement every time a contraction hit, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your skin. The excitement and nerves hung in the air between you, tangible and electric, but through it all, his love and steady presence anchored you.

By the time you arrived, you were ready—ready to meet the little person who had turned your world upside down in the most wonderful way.

The hospital was a flurry of activity as soon as you arrived, the nurses greeting you warmly as they guided you to a room. Austin stayed glued to your side, his hand firmly in yours as they asked you questions and hooked you up to monitors. The rhythmic sound of Bean’s heartbeat filled the room, steady and strong, and it was enough to ease some of your nerves.

“You’re doing great,” Austin murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead. His voice was calm, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened every time you grimaced through a contraction.

Labour was a whirlwind—hours that felt both endless and fleeting, a blur of pain, anticipation, and the steady presence of Austin by your side. He held your hand through every contraction, his voice calm and reassuring as he reminded you to breathe, even when you were ready to throw the ice chips at him.

“Doing great, baby,” he said, his hand brushing damp hair from your forehead. “Almost there.”

You gave him a look that could’ve melted steel, the pain sharp and unrelenting. “You say that one more time…” you panted, gripping his hand hard enough to make him wince.

“Noted,” he replied with a lopsided grin, "I’ll file that under ‘things not to say to a woman in labour.’" Though he didn’t flinch as your grip tightened again with the next contraction.

Hours later, when the time finally came to push, everything else faded into the background. The world outside the room ceased to exist, and all you could focus on was the determination to meet the tiny person who had been growing inside you for the past nine months. Austin’s voice was a constant, grounding you when the pain threatened to overwhelm.

It was his strength, his unwavering presence, that carried you through the final moments. “You’re so close,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can see the head.”

With one final, all-consuming effort, a sharp cry filled the room, cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion. The world seemed to stop for a moment as the doctor lifted a tiny, wriggling figure into view.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor announced, their voice warm with joy as they placed her on your chest.

Time seemed to slow, her cries quieting the moment she felt your warmth. She was perfect—tiny fingers, a button nose, and a head full of fair hair that reminded you so much of Austin. Your heart swelled to the point of bursting as you traced her features with trembling fingers.

“Hi, Bean,” you whispered, tears spilling freely now. “Hi, baby girl.”

Austin leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hand rested gently on hers. You both sat there for a moment, the world fading away as you took in the miracle between you. It was Austin who broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “Lori,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “If you’re still okay with it… I think it’s perfect.”

You nodded, your voice too thick with emotion to speak. You glanced down at her, stroking her soft cheek. “Hi, Lori,” you whispered. “Welcome to the world.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. The love in his gaze was enough to undo you all over again. “She’s so tiny,” you said, your voice breaking. “And she’s ours.”

“She’s ours,” he echoed, his voice no more than a whisper.

The minutes that followed were a haze of firsts: the weight of her in your arms, her tiny hand curling instinctively around Austin’s finger, the soft, exhausted smiles you exchanged as the world outside the delivery room faded away.

When the nurse came to take Lori for her first check-up, Austin hesitated, his hand lingering protectively on her tiny head. “You’ll bring her right back, right?” he asked, his voice laced with both awe and worry.

The nurse smiled. “We won’t be far, Dad. She’s perfect, by the way.”

As Lori was carried out of the room, Austin sank into the chair beside your bed, his head falling into his hands. You reached for him, your fingers brushing his wrist. “Hey,” you said softly. “You okay?”

He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed but filled with a quiet, overwhelming joy. “I just… I can’t believe she’s here,” he said, his voice trembling. “She’s real. And she’s ours.”

You smiled, your own exhaustion forgotten as you reached for his hand. “She’s everything, isn’t she?”

He nodded, leaning in to kiss you, his lips lingering on yours for a moment that felt like it could stretch forever. “You’re the strongest person I know,” he murmured against your skin, his forehead resting against yours. “Thank you for her.”

You looked up at him, your chest tight with love and exhaustion. “We made her together,” you murmured, your fingers lacing with his. “She’s all of us.”

When they returned with Lori swaddled in a soft blanket, Austin reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he cradled her for the first time. The way he looked at her—his gaze full of wonder and tenderness—made your breath catch.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over her tiny hand. “I’m your dad.”

You couldn’t look away. Seeing Austin holding Lori—his large hands supporting her tiny body as he murmured soft, loving words—solidified everything you’d been through together. It wasn’t just love; it was the kind of connection that grounded you, that made everything you’d ever dreamed of feel possible. This was your family, built on a foundation of unwavering devotion and joy.

“She looks so much like you already,” Austin said, glancing up at you with a watery smile. “Same little nose, same pout. She’s beautiful.”

“She already has you wrapped around her finger,” you teased softly, though your voice was thick with emotion.

Austin looked up, his expression unapologetic. “Completely,” he admitted with a small, wobbly smile. “She’s got me for life.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur of exhaustion and wonder. You eventually dozed off for a little while, but when you woke, the sight before you took your breath away: Austin was still cradling Lori in his arms, his head bent as he whispered to her.

“I can’t wait to show you the world,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise. “We’re going to have so many adventures, baby girl.”

You blinked back tears as you watched him, the love in his voice resonating deeply within you. If you had any doubts before, they were gone now. This was everything you had ever wanted, everything you had dreamed of, and so much more.

Austin glanced up and caught your gaze, his lips curving into the softest smile. He came over, settling beside you on the bed, and placed Lori gently in your arms. Together, you stared down at her, drinking in every tiny detail as the weight of the moment settled over you. It was a beginning—a brand-new chapter, a fresh adventure. And you couldn’t wait to live it.

[moonmaiden1996]

Love at First Sight (According to Nagumo, Anyway) Part 2

I honestly didn't think this story would be as popular as it was. Here is part two. I love this man! Requests are open for him!

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into Sakamoto’s convenience store for the second night in a row. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a dim glow over the aisles of instant noodles and neatly stacked snack packs. It was late, you were exhausted, and the only thing keeping you upright was the promise of caffeine.

What you didn’t expect was the man waiting for you like a lovesick puppy.

Nagumo was already there—this time perched cross-legged on the counter, juggling a few snack packs with the effortless grace of someone who had far too much energy for this hour. The motion was fluid, almost mesmerizing, but it all came to a screeching halt the moment he caught sight of you.

His entire face lit up like a firework.

“She’s back,” he breathed, voice dripping with awe, as if your mere presence had turned his world right-side up again. All at once, he lost control of his juggling act, snacks tumbling to the floor and rolling away unnoticed. In one smooth motion, he leapt off the counter, landing in front of you with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his life making grand entrances.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “...Do I know you?”

Nagumo froze mid-smirk.

Behind him, Sakamoto let out a long-suffering sigh from his place behind the register, his expression screaming, why is this my life?

Nagumo, however, looked as if you had just physically struck him. His hand clutched his chest dramatically, eyes wide with betrayal. “You��” He pointed at himself. “Don’t remember me?”

Your gaze flickered over him. Messy hair, smug yet strangely charming grin, an energy that radiated mischief and unwavering confidence—none of it rang a bell. “No?”

Nagumo staggered back, gripping the counter for support as if he had taken a mortal wound. “No?” he echoed in disbelief.

Sakamoto rubbed his temples, not even bothering to look up. “She was exhausted last time. You probably didn’t leave much of an impression.”

Nagumo gasped, turning on him like he’d just been betrayed a second time. “How could I not leave an impression?!”

Sakamoto shrugged, utterly indifferent.

Nagumo turned back to you, determination blazing in his sharp eyes. “Okay, okay. Let’s fix this.” He smoothed out his jacket, took a deep breath, and then flashed you the most dazzling smile he could muster. It was the kind of smile that could sell you anything, the kind that dripped with charm and dangerous intent all at once.

“I’m Nagumo. Master of disguise, incredibly skilled assassin, and—most importantly—your future husband.”

You stared at him, then glanced at Sakamoto for confirmation. “He’s joking, right?”

Sakamoto didn’t even glance up. “I wish.”

Nagumo pouted, but there was an eager glint in his eyes, as if he found your skepticism utterly endearing. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. We had a moment yesterday.”

You squinted. “When?”

“When you spoke to me,” he said, as if that explained everything. “That word made me fall in love with you even more.”

“…Move?”

Nagumo sighed dreamily. “She said it again. My heart cannot take it.”

You exhaled sharply and stepped past him toward the fridge, your patience already wearing thin. “Listen, I’ve had a long day, I’m tired, and I just want my coffee. I can’t… I don’t… I want nothing to do with this.” You scrubbed your eyes tiredly. Maybe it wasn’t them; maybe you were hallucinating. That would make more sense than this…

Nagumo followed, utterly undeterred. “I can make your days better, you know. Imagine this: you wake up, and I’m already making breakfast—probably something impressive, like a perfect omelet. Followed by a back massage. Then, we go on a date. Maybe just the park. Maybe Paris. I’m flexible. I am very flexible, if you know what I mean.” His eyes wiggled frantically in front of your face.

You grabbed a can of coffee and shut the fridge door in his face.

“Not interested in you or how flexible you are.”

Nagumo gasped, reeling back as if you had just delivered a killing blow. He turned to Sakamoto, devastated. “She rejected me again.”

Sakamoto, unbothered, continued ringing up your drink. “You’re surprised? You’re being a creep.”

Nagumo turned back to you, his expression shifting from mock devastation to something more resolute. His amber eyes softened, but the mischief never fully left them. “That’s okay. I love a challenge.”

You groaned, trudging toward the register. “This is harassment.”

Nagumo grinned, trailing after you. “It’s romance.”

Sakamoto sighed, tapping the loudly beeping register. “Please stop encouraging him. ”

Nagumo placed a hand over his heart as if making a solemn vow. “I am but a humble man in love, Sakamoto. I will make her see how I am her perfect husband.”

You paid, took your drink, and turned toward the exit. “I’m leaving now.”

Nagumo leaned against the counter, watching you go with the kind of expression that belonged in a dramatic romance film. “See you tomorrow, my dear. I’ll be waiting! Your devoted husband-to-be…”

You didn’t even dignify that with a response.

The moment the door shut behind you, Nagumo exhaled sharply, slumping onto the counter. His fingers curled into his jacket as he stared at the door with an expression of pure longing.

“Man, she’s perfect.”

Sakamoto gave him a flat look. “You’re a disaster.”

Nagumo grinned, undeterred. “A romantic disaster.”

Outside, you cracked open the ice-cold coffee. “I gotta find a new convenience store. This one is full of weirdos. Assassin my ass.”

[jumpingjoltiks]

Um hiii!! Could I request an x reader for ingo and emmet (seperately) with a reader who is autistic but like. REALLY masks? Like a level of masking where the boys don't even know that they're autistic at first, and they're VERY different when they aren't out in public/don't feel the need to mask. I love ur writing btw >_<!!!

AAAA Thank you smmm! I’m so happy you’ve enjoyed my work! <3 <3 <3

I’ve already written a little bit about the twins being autistic already, so I’m happy to get to finally write some x reader stuff to go with it!

Biiiiig mood. I've spent most of my life masking, so I think a lot of this will probably come from my own experiences. I ended up making this a few different sections instead of just one, all coming out of different ideas I had. :)

The twins with someone who is also autistic, but masks heavily

Ingo Gets It. He understands the fear and the pressure to fit in. Emmet doesn’t, but he tries his best to respect your decision (though, secretly, he wishes you’d be more yourself. Both boys love when you’re being the most authentic version of you, but Emmet really wants to see it all the time).

Being actually comfortable around them takes a while (as it would with anyone) – its hard work to decondition yourself like that, to convince yourself you’re really, genuinely safe being yourself – but the twins’ (especially Emmet’s) refusal to mask is enormously helpful in this regard. Their unabashed devotion to being exactly who they are is inspiring.

Emmet devotedly listens to your infodumping, especially if it’s something he’s also interested in. Ingo is thrilled to find someone else who will listen to him too. Late in the evening, when Ingo is cooking and you’re all three in the kitchen together, you all talk like no one has ever looked at you strangely before – open and honest and genuinely excited just to share knowledge and enjoy this moment together.

There’s a certain amount of bluntness between you three, but none of you really mind. If hurtful words are ever said, you can be sure that they weren’t really meant to be cruel. You can always talk things out. Emmet, in particular, has trouble with his straightforward attitude, and sometimes says things that come out wrong – do you as well? He knows how hard it can be to find the right way to say things.

And if you don’t feel like spending time together right now, the twins understand that too. There have been plenty of days when one or the other will come home and lock themselves in their room for a while, just to cool down. If you should come home from your job or a grocery run and need some time, they’ll handle the rest.

Decompression

Would it surprise you to know that it’s Emmet who catches on first? There’s a good reason for that! He’s had a lifetime of keeping an eye on his brother, who also used to heavily mask.

Your own tells are different then Ingo’s, to be sure, but they’re there regardless.

After a tough day, you’re taking the subway home. He notices that your posture and gait are different & your expression is stiffer. You’re clinging to your sense of self-control.

He’s got things he needs to attend to, but you’re a dear friend… your wellbeing comes first, he decides. Emmet doesn’t hesitate to fall into step next to you as you traverse through the station.

“Good afternoon! Are you doing alright?”

You know he’s not one for small talk… so what is he doing? The flash of a puzzled look crosses your face before you smile up at him. It’s humiliating, but you can’t seem to summon up words right now. This will have to do.

Emmet knows smiles. Yours is tight and strained, not at all like your usual smile. And you haven’t answered. He doesn’t like this at all. All signs are pointing to a systems crash.

“Your engine is overheated. I can tell. Do you need a place to step aside for maintenance? My office isn’t far.”

You stare at him blankly, trying to parse exactly what kind of metaphor he’s making.

But you’re too overstimulated and tired to put too much thought into it. Eventually, you sigh and nod. He leads you through the crowd with swinging arms and legs, and people part before him.

The office is an open space that is fastidiously tidy. A sofa is tucked against one wall, opposite is a set of shelves with all kinds of books and files neatly arranged. A pair of matching desks are stationed toward the back of the room. You’ve never been in here, but somehow you instinctively know that this is a safe place for you.

“I have a mini fridge. You are welcome to any of the snacks and cold waters I have. There are also noise cancelling headphones if you want. I know that Gear Station can be verrrrry noisy when overstimulated.”

You think that’s the longest stretch of words you’ve ever heard Emmet say, and you can only stare up at him wordlessly in response. You didn’t realize he had you figured out. Shame threatens to creep in, but then he smiles as he holds out a bottle of ice water to you. He smiles like he knows. There isn’t a single trace of pity or belittlement in it, only understanding.

You take the bottle of water with a small, genuine smile of your own. It’s the first one you’ve had all day.

When you sit down on the couch, Emmet takes off his coat and places it over your shoulders. It’s pretty big on you… but it’s also really heavy. You hadn’t realized it was weighted this whole time. The pressure feels nice, and you bury yourself into it. Emmet seems pleased, like he knew this would happen.

“I am going to do some paperwork at my desk. Would you like the lights off?”

You nod wordlessly and he flicks the light switch off in response. The only light in the room is the warm glow of a desk lamp, focused down onto his work station and away from you. Even the faint hum of electricity that would usually come out of a lamp like that is silent, which is an enormous relief.

The only sound for the next hour is Emmet’s pen near silently sweeping across the pages of his work. You stay quiet and buried under his coat, eyes closed and dozing somewhere between sleeping and waking. You feel safe.

After what feels like an age, you shift from under the coat and re-emerge, feeling much better. Emmet’s eyes flick up to you.

“Do you feel any better?” he asks. His voice is quiet.

“Yes.” You answer, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

He cuts you off. “Do not apologize. Ingo and I have spent many afternoons doing the same. I’m just glad I was there to offer help.”

From that point on, things are… different between you and the twins. Emmet must have told his brother about what happened, because Ingo is more open around you.

You’ve been friends for a long time, but something seems to have unlocked now. The three of you quickly catch like a struck match.

Parallel Play

You spend a lot of time over at their place, and they at yours. Expect Ingo to politely ask if he or Emmet or both can come spend time with you.

This worried you at first, when you were still friends and not yet dating, but the twins don’t actually want your attention, per say. They just want to be in the same room as you while they do their own thing. Not having to “host” takes so much pressure off of you that you wonder why anyone entertains any other way.

Ingo will be reading, curled up in one of your chairs or on a couch, so still you’d think he was asleep if not for the intermittent turn of a page. Emmet is reviewing battle plans and notes, spread out across your table, one leg bouncing. Occasionally, he gets up to pace and mutter to himself, not looking at either you or his brother. You’re working on one of your hobbies in the living room. Not one of you bothers the others. It’s… peaceful. And nice, just having them unobtrusively nearby.

Do you stim? They have a cache of puzzle-y, twisty toys and clickers in a drawer. You’re more than welcome to them, or to anything else you need.

Eventually, if you’d like, you can curl up with Ingo underneath the weighted blanket he’s got spread across his lap. He’ll swing an arm around you without looking up from his book, and you listen to his heartbeat and steady breathing as you nod off.

Or Emmet might come over to you and quietly offer you a warm mug of hot chocolate. The two of you sit back-to-back in silence, sipping your drinks and working on your respective projects.

How nice it is, you think, to spend time with those who understand.

[nephilimeq]

Getting to Know You

Prompt: Double Date

@bucktommyfluffebruary

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62721625/chapters/161306896

Tommy stared at himself in the mirror above the dresser, ignoring the sounds of his boyfriend getting ready in the bathroom. Why had he agreed to this? He had debated dressing nicer, but Evan had told him that it was just Bobby and Athena and the boardwalk, so to not worry about it.

He was worrying about it.

“I can hear you fretting from here!” Evan called out from the bathroom. “You’re fine, Tommy!”

“Yeah, whatever,” he snipped, unable to keep the irritation from his tone, knowing that he was toeing a fine line of being mean��but he was terrified that he was going to mess it all up.

Unlike his boyfriend, he had not spent any time with Bobby and his wife, Athena, outside of work. He respected Captain Nash as a captain, and he knew Evan saw him a surrogate father—and after having met his father, he knew why. But Athena…god, he didn’t know how he was going to keep it together. Despite having worked with her once or twice while on calls with Booby before he had left the 118, he was not comfortable with the casualness of the situation that he was about to find himself in.

He looked up when he heard feet shuffling behind him to see Evan staring at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Care to change your tone?” he said, and Tommy let out a sigh and replied, “…Sorry. I just…I don’t know them the way you do, Ev. I’m nervous, okay? You know Bobby far better than I do, and then there’s Athena, who I’ve only met outside of the job maybe…twice?”

His boyfriend chuckled as he stepped up behind him and put his hands on his hips.

“Don’t worry about it, babe. ‘Thena is great, and she won’t grill you. Much.”

He raised an eyebrow right back at him.

--

“Okay, there it is. It looks good, right?” Evan said as they approached the barbecue place that Bobby and Athena had texted them about, and Tommy nodded—though he still felt a flicker of apprehension run through him as he approached the front doors.

“Yeah, looks…good.”

“Gee, could you sound a little more enthusiastic?” said a voice from behind them, and he turned to see Athena standing right behind him with her husband. “Good to see you two still intact after a few days. How’s living together treating you?”

Tommy hesitated…but then answered, “Very well, actually.”

“Good to hear,” Bobby said, his arm circled around the back of his wife’s shoulders. “Now, I think we should go in and stop holding up anyone else who might want to come in,” he added politely, and Tommy chuckled and moved through the doors, instinctively ushering Evan ahead of him with a hand at the small of his back…and as he did so, from the corner of his eye he saw Athena give him an approving glance and he made a mental note.

Once they were all inside, they were quickly seated and Bobby explained as they sat down, “Found this place back when ‘Thena and I started dating, and it’s sort of become a favorite spot. I’d recommend the pan seared steak, it’s to die for,” he suggested. and Tommy nodded.

“Sounds good. Just might try it,” he said—and then Evan said, “I’m a sucker for a good steak, but I’d rather see if they have any pulled pork,” and the airman shook his head.

Before he could say anything, however, Athena said, “Of course, you would. Why am I not surprised?”

And everyone but Evan chuckled…though his boyfriend didn’t seem offended and took the gentle ribbing well. The four of them then lightly bantered as they figured out what they were each going to order, and Tommy saw his boyfriend eyeing the dessert menu, knowing that his sweet tooth was one of the most dangerous ones that he had ever come across in his life—and he thought for years that Sal was bad, but it turned out that Evan Buckley could eat more cinnamon buns in one sitting than anyone he had ever seen.

By the time dinner came, the four of them were tossing jokes back and forth, and soon Tommy was laughing as Bobby and Athena regaled him with the time that Evan had gotten in trouble for stealing a firetruck in order to show off to a girl and have sex in it.

“Oh, why…why does this not…not surprise me?” Tommy gasped out as he reached for his water.

His boyfriend gave him a look.

“Hey, can we not besmirch my character? That was Buck 1.0, remember? I am now Buck 3.0 and better than ever, thank you very much!” he defended himself, emphasizing his point by stabbing his side salad with his fork. “I would never do that now!”

“Not even for me?” Tommy said with a smirk and a sip of his drink, not thinking about what he was saying—and then realized what he had said and froze as he darted his eyes across the table, scared of what he had just implied right in front of the two people that Evan saw as surrogate parents.

There was an awkward moment of silence…

…and then Bobby chuckled and shook his head and remarked, “Oh, okay. I see it, now. You two…oh, what’s the phrase? Right! ‘Match each other’s freak,’” and the airman nearly choked, coughing hard and doing his best to get his breath back, his boyfriend patting his back in an attempt to help clear his throat—and as he attempted to breathe, he wondered where the hell Bobby had heard that phrase? Because that was not normal, to say the least.

Before he could ask, Evan beat him to it, saying, “Okay, what? How the hell do you even know that phrase, Cap? That feels…oh, it sounds so wrong coming from you,” and continued to pat Tommy’s back, as he was still trying to get his breath back.

Once he did, he narrowed his eyes at the older man across from him.

“Okay, now that…that was a low blow,” the airman said—

—and then caught Athena muttering under her breath, “That’s what he said,” and he looked at her with wide eyes, as did everyone else at the table, and she let out a huff and rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, what? Like the three of you are the only ones allowed to make the dirty jokes because you’re men? When are you gonna remember that the other sex has just as dirty a mind as you do? Maybe even more so,” she added with an arched eyebrow as she sipped at her soda.

Tommy wanted to be upset…but instead found himself laughing and shaking his head as he said, “No, nothing like that. Just…honestly, I’m impressed. I should have seen that joke sitting right there, you know? Good catch,” he acknowledged, raising his glass to her, and she lifted her glass to his and they clinked them.

He saw Evan smiling and knew that he was happy that they were getting along.

They managed to steer the conversation to lighter subjects, and then when the dessert option came along, Evan opened his mouth to order—but Bobby cut him off.

“No, kid. No dessert here. I mean, they make some amazing things, don’t get me wrong,” he said as he pulled out the bills from his wallet for a tip, “But there’s a little place along the beach that has the most amazing frozen yogurt you’ve ever tasted, trust me! Now, how about we get going?”

Tommy hooked his hand through Evan’s and pulled him from the booth, shaking his head at the disappointed pout that lingered on his lips. Even though he found it rather adorable, he leaned in and whispered, “Hey, stop pouting, babe,” and pecked a kiss to his cheek, pleased when it slowly disappeared, replaced with a soft smile—the one that always made his heart skip a beat and have him questioning if he ever needed to look at anyone else ever again.

As they made their way down the boardwalk, however, Tommy found his boyfriend walking ahead of him with Athena, with Bobby falling back to the airman’s side.

He had a feeling that a serious conversation was about to be had.

“So, Tommy…” Yeah, the tone was right. “…You and Buck are finally living together. How’s it really going?” he asked, and the airman chuckled and honestly answered, “Well, I’ve found out that Evan constantly forgets to pick up his socks, likes to sing boy band music off-key in the shower…and that I’ve never been happier.”

He gave the older man a broad smile, unable to keep it from his face, and Bobby gave him a scrutinizing look, as if not believing him…but then he grinned wide and said, “That’s good to hear…and for some reason I am unsurprised about the socks.”

Tommy laughed a second time.

“Yeah, actually that’s driving me a bit crazy. I think I already have the driving desire to shove one into his mouth in order to make him understand the gravity of the situation. I have hardwood floors,” he explained, and Bobby threw back his head and laughed. “I mean, I love him until the end of the world, but in the past week alone I’ve nearly broken my neck five times, and I am ready to sit him down and tell him that if he doesn’t put his socks away, then I’ll be burning all of them.”

Bobby gave him a look…and then said, “I remember when Athena and I first moved in together. She left her things everywhere. Like, no rhyme or reason, you know? And me being a bit of a…”

“Control freak?” Tommy suggested with a straight face, hands tucked in his pockets, and his ex-captain stared at him, as if trying to figure it out whether or nor he was joking.

“…Stickler for cleanliness,” Bobby finished with a wry grin, “I was more than a bit irked at her, shall we say, lackadaisical approach to organization. At first, I didn’t say anything, too in love to want to rock the boat. But then after a month, I blew up at her and we had an argument that I’m still ashamed of to this day.”

Tommy nodded.

“I get what you’re saying, Cap, but don’t worry. We’ve talked about it and Evan has said he’s gonna work it. I trust him,” he finished, casting a fond look in the direction of hos boyfriend, where he was coming back to him with two large cups full of frozen yogurt, and the airman already knew that the one covered in blueberries, granola, and honey was for him…whereas the confection topped with drizzles of chocolate and chunks of oreos was Evan’s.

With a wide grin, his boyfriend said, “Look at what I got you!” and lifted the one with the blueberries towards him.

Once he was within reach, Tommy grabbed at the treat and replied, “Looks great, babe,” and placed a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth, noting the way Athena did the same to her husband, and he felt something warm settle in his chest as he realized that both of them approved of him.

The four of them began to walk along the boulevard closer to the beach, and Evan gently nudged his shoulder with his own.

“So, what were you and Bobby talking about?”

Tommy shrugged.

“Nothing important. You know, how much we love our partners…how you leave your socks everywhere,” he added, smiling when his boyfriend nearly choked on his dessert, and then he said, “You sold me out to Bobby?” and he shrugged a second time.

“Not really. Turns out Athena is messier than you.”

They shared a look…and then they both burst into giggles as they trailed slightly behind the other couple—and once more Tommy was viscerally reminded of the fact that he wanted to keep doing this with him for the rest of his life, and that soon enough he would have a ring on his finger and let the rest of the world know that Evan Buckley was all his. As he stared at his profile as he laughed, watching the wind catch the curls in his hair, his blue eyes sparkling with humor, the airman couldn’t help but be angry with himself for ever letting him go to begin with.

God, he loved him.

He was lost in the moment…and then it was broken when Athena called out to them, “Hey, you two lovebirds gonna catch up, or what?” and he tore his eyes away and was about to shout up to her—but Evan beat him to it, saying loudly, “Hey, we’re young and in love! Deal with it!”

Tommy grinned and shouted, “Ditto!”

They continued to trail behind them until they made their way to a spot along the beach that was fairly empty…

…and then he stood frozen in confusion as Evan handed him his frozen yogurt and kicked off his shoes, tore off his socks, and then shoved his jeans up his muscular calves as best he could as he ran towards the water, yelling back over his shoulder, “Race you!” and Tommy just shook his head, incredulous—and then was taken off guard when he saw the Captain suddenly follow after his boyfriend, copying him, shoving his dessert onto his wife and tearing off his shoes and socks and running after him into the tide, while he and Athena stared after them with wide eyes.

Giving her a curious glance he said, “So…like father like son?” and they broke into badly contained laughter, both of them shaking their heads as they watched their partners regress into children as they tried to tackle each other in the surf.

Tommy then watched as Athena shook her head and muttered, “Sometimes I wonder if they don’t have some of the same genetics running through their veins, somehow…”

He gave her a sideways glance.

“I’ve met Mr. Buckley, and let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if he shared not a single allele in common with that man.”

They shared a knowing look…and then the airman wasn’t surprised when the sergeant asked, “So, you and Buck. You’ve been living together for a week…and he’s still alive. You must love the man,” and his mouth split into a wide grin before he could stop it and he nodded.

“Yeah, I kinda do.”

She nodded.

“Good. Then I won’t have to shoot you.”

Without even thinking about it, he quipped back, “I was army. I’d like to see you try.”

—and then realized what he’d said—but before he could retract his words she replied, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your army file. You a good shot?” and he hesitantly admitted, “I scored Expert in my proficiencies. All of them,” and she gave him a look.

“You and I should go to the range sometime. Maybe you could show me a thing or two…”

He felt the last bit of tension dissipate from between them and gave her a toothy grin and said, “I’d like that,” and then the next thing he knew his boyfriend was barreling towards him with damp ankles and calves, arms wide open, and he did his best to move the frozen yogurt out of the way so it wouldn’t get squashed between them, and he let out a grunt when Evan wrapped his arms around him and even slightly lifted him off the ground.

“We gotta come to the beach for a date, babe!” Evan said, sounding almost giddy, and Tommy smiled and nodded, saying, “Yeah, but…weren’t we already planning a beach date?” and his boyfriend pulled back and rolled his eyes and let out a long sigh.

“God, you’re gonna be like that for everything, aren’t you?” and the airman nodded a second time.

“Yep.”

He then leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to his lips, cutting off anything else he might say, and he knew that he was the happiest he’d ever been. As they pulled back from the kiss, Evan looked up at him with those pretty blue eyes of his and said, “Can’t wait…”

Neither could he.

[hana-bobo-finch]

spent the evening drawing a little something to commemorate my first time playing hollow knight

just entered greenpath and I LOVE the ambiance of it, i really couldn’t do it justice here

[designernishiki]

man I’m so glad makoto got to heal and live a full happy life rgg studios was so real for that

[heybaetae]

.

[dahldahlbills]

nano day 7

total word count: 1085

made it through the first week!!

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[exopelagic]

talking to him more very much achieved. we just talked for like 4 hours in the kitchen holy shit I need to sleep

[ketchuppee]

During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.

It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. I’ve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.

That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.

I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. She’s currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.

One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. She’s fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once she’s out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.

My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesn’t mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.

I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.

I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.

All of this to say, there’s more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, you’ve already lost, but that’s a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.

None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but don’t forget that we need diversity in actions taken.

[cherienymphe]

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, mentions of prostitution, mentions of infidelity

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies 

summary: turning your life around is easier said than done when you tempt the very man meant to lead you to salvation.

♱

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned…”

The familiar words tumbled from your lips, and your gaze remained on your lap, eyes following your finger as you traced patterns into the solid black skirt on your frame. It kissed your ankle as you shifted your feet, and the reminder of the long fabric had you swallowing down less than gentle thoughts. You slowly reached up to touch the collar of your shirt, eyes briefly falling closed as you cleared your throat.

You’d spent hours agonizing over how you’d leave the house…

“It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Like clockwork, you listed the time you cursed for some accident or another and the time you took the Lord’s name in vain and the brief impure thought about that attractive man you’d seen in the grocery store. Every week, it was the same. Sins that you yourself would never have considered as such months ago that you were now hyper aware of. They climbed out of your throat seamlessly, remembering every single one until only one was left.

The silence between you and the man just on the other side of that wall stretched—a familiar occurrence—and you took your lip between your teeth. You could taste blood as you worried it, swallowing it down before clearing your throat again. You smoothed your hand over your skirt, and you furiously blinked, struggling to blink away the tears that had started to collect. As you sat in silence, you wondered why you were trying so hard to impress people that had already written you off?

“I’ve had���some hateful thoughts as well.”

You struggled to get the words out, always struck by just how emotional this made you. You looked up towards the ceiling, eyes roaming, and you hadn’t even realized that your breathing had started to pick up until he spoke.

Father Mayhew.

“Take your time,” he gently encouraged. “Speak when you are ready.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words, recalling your first ever confessional and how you’d cried. It was as embarrassing now as it was then, but it was necessary. You were determined to live differently now—to be different, now.

“Although I have abandoned my former life and…occupation…” you thought you heard him shift. “...I feel as if I will never truly be forgiven for it.”

You swiped your tongue between your lips.

“...will never be accepted.”

You recalled the eyes that often found their way to you during mass—the judgment, the disdain, the way in which some stared at you as if they didn’t know how to place you. 

Every sunday it was the same. You’d wake up and agonize over how to present yourself in a place as holy as this. You’d fret that this skirt was too short and that dress was too tight. You’d fiddle with your hair for far too long and every lipstick you wiped off would stain your lips a little more than the last. You were constantly at a crossroad, torn between wanting to look nice for church and concerned about looking like…well…a whore.

You struggled to swallow.

“I see the way they look at me,” you eventually whispered, staring at nothing. “I can’t hear what they whisper, but I know it’s about me.”

You touched your throat, hating how tight it felt.

“It’s…discouraging.”

You didn’t want to use that word, but it was the only word that was appropriate. It made you sad, and you often wondered why you kept returning to a place that made you sad. Surely a church wasn’t necessary to ‘find God’...right? You didn’t think so, but you had wanted to start somewhere, and considering that none of your friends even owned a bible, they had been of no help. Stepping foot into a place that had only ever served to be ominous and oppressive in your eyes was the most terrifying thing you’d ever done.

…but then you had laid eyes on Father Mayhew.

He’d been the only one in the church at the time, and you would never forget the curious glint in his dark gaze. You’d had no doubt that he could see you were scared and unsure and in an environment you were wholly unused to. You’d appreciated the gentle way in which he talked to you, guiding you towards a pew in the front as you asked him questions that some people had answers to their entire lives. He hadn’t treated you like you were stupid, but more importantly, he hadn’t treated you like you didn’t belong.

You were willing to bet that he hadn’t even known about you then.

Although, months later, you were willing to bet that he did now…even though you’d never told him.

“Humans are flawed,” his smooth voice reached your ears through the wall. “We all fall short—even the most devout of us—and we find ourselves falling prey to the temptation of judgment…pride…lust…”

You intently listened. After all, he’d never said these words to you before, always giving you some speech about God’s love trumping all.

“I have no doubt that it is trying, but I am sure you will come to give them grace for their sins just as they will give you grace for yours. We are all God’s children striving to lead a life in his image…”

His voice lowered at that, and you frowned slightly, looking towards the wall and thinking to yourself that he almost seemed to be talking to himself now.

“He wants his children to love one another, a feat that is not without difficulty I’m sure you know…” that actually made you hold back a chuckle. “...but God’s love is powerful and he always grants forgiveness to those who genuinely yearn and ask for it.”

At that, you did smile.

You told him that you were truly sorry for your sins, and he told you to say ten Hail Mary’s, and you stepped out of the confessional feeling better than you did thirty minutes ago. You didn’t know how long the feeling would last though, and so you wanted to hold onto it for as long as you could, but you knew from experience that was easier said than done.

You touched the crucifix around your neck as you stepped out of your building.

It had once belonged to your mother, and despite how long she’d been gone and how down on your luck you’d been ever since, you could never quite find it in you to pawn it. It was real gold—probably the only real piece of jewelry you ever owned—but you just couldn’t do it, and you supposed that you were never meant to. Despite the many years you’d lived life as the complete opposite of a God fearing woman…it felt right sitting just below your collarbone.

Even if many would not agree.

You were no stranger to several men in this town—and the ones who often passed through on their truck routes—but that had not stopped you from seeking solace and guidance from a place you’d never stepped foot into in your life. You couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel…strange to be in the same building as some of the men you’d serviced before, their wives and children at their side as they furiously avoided making eye contact with you. It felt even worse to watch the way the women would congregate together after church, excluding you all the while talking about you.

It felt somewhat pathetic for your only ally in the place to be the priest.

Although you sometimes wondered how true that was these days. You’d never once confessed that you used to be a prostitute—although the kids called it sex work these days—but you weren’t stupid. As godly and devout as they claimed to be, you knew that the church was filled with gossip and there was no telling who’d let it slip to the dark haired man. You knew when he knew though…

…because he looked at you different.

It wasn’t a bad different—thank God for that—but just…different, and while it wasn’t necessarily bad, you still didn’t think you liked it. Confession—being anonymous—never allowed for you to tell him your name, and considering you’d only ever spoken to him once outside of confession months ago, you didn’t know if he ever knew it was you he was talking to. You didn’t know if he knew that the woman he spoke so gently with each week and listened to cry on the other side of some window was the same woman who often shrunk under his heavy gaze as he looked down on his congregation.

You never felt like he was judging you, no, but you also never felt like he was looking at you as he did that first day, a gentle curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t your friend—far from it in fact—but he felt like the closest thing you had to one in this church, and so you often forced yourself to find excuses for it. He watches you because he wants to make sure you’re settling in okay. He watches you to observe how other members of the church are treating you. He watches you because he’s wondering if you’ll ever come to confession, convincing yourself that he’s never recognized your voice all this time.

That is why he watches you, you told yourself.

No other reason. 

“You always come to pray at least three times a week…”

The familiar voice startled you as you stood, hand lowering as you’d just finished signing the cross. Your hand was still on your chest as you turned to face him, a small smile on your lips as he stood directly in the center of the aisle. You hadn’t even heard him make a single sound, and you wondered how long he’d been standing there.

He slowly returned your smile with one of his own, although it was smaller, and the silent way in which he stared at you reminded you that he’d said something to you. 

“Yes,” you finally said, moving away from the altar. “It helps with…um…really everything.”

He blinked at you, and you noticed that a strand of his hair was threatening to go rogue. He always looked so neat and perfect that it was hard to miss. Father Mayhew was handsome—if anyone had seen enough men to know it was you—but he was handsome in a way that you would categorize as flawless. Divine even. In a way that was untouchable and only meant to be admired in the most innocent of appreciation. 

He slowly nodded at your response, and you didn’t miss the way he studied you—dark eyes drinking you in and taking note of every stylistic choice you’d made today.

“You know, I think I might see your face far more than those who have been coming here for years,” he lightly told you, a slight laugh on his lips.

You laughed with him, only offering him a shrug.

“I’m still new. I’m sure it just seems that way because you aren’t used to seeing me.”

He started to shake his head before you could even finish talking, and you watched him move closer.

“No,” he murmured—so low you almost didn't hear him. “I think you are perhaps my most…devout congregant.”

He touched your crucifix as he said this, dark eyes tracing the shape of it, and he was so close that you could smell his cologne. You blinked at the scent, finding it strange to know that he wore cologne. It shouldn’t be strange, you supposed, but you realized then that you didn’t quite view priests—view him—as human. As normal…

His eyes lifted then to finally connect with yours, and a crooked smile danced along his pink lips.

“It’s admirable,” he whispered. “More of my congregation could stand to follow your lead.”

You couldn’t ignore the way your chest bloomed at those words, almost hating how much validation you wanted from this place. Validation that you were a good person…you weren’t who you used to be…that you were worthy of something more, you didn’t know. It just felt relieving to hear such a compliment from Father Mayhew when no one else in the church would even give you a chance.

“Thank you, Father,” you quietly replied to him. “That means a lot to me.”

You watched him slowly inhale as he dropped his hand, and he seemed even slower to step out of your way. When you walked past him, you could feel his gaze on you—always watching—and you smiled when he called out to you, telling you that he looked forward to seeing you on Sunday.

No one was more sad than you when you had to disappoint him.

An unexpected cold had you bedridden for days, and while you knew that an illness was a perfectly valid excuse to miss church, you couldn’t swallow down the disappointment. You hadn’t missed a single Sunday since you first started going, and you thought to yourself that the first thing you’d do when you returned was explain your absence to Father Mayhew.

You had never anticipated him showing up at your door to get it himself.

No one ever knocked on your door these days, so the sound had taken you by surprise. Your friends—while supportive of the direction your life had taken—didn’t quite understand it and so you didn’t see them as often, and as for anyone else… Well, there wasn’t anyone else who would come knocking on your door. You didn’t do that anymore so no customers were going to be greeting you on the other side with their money in their hand and an eager grin on their lips, and you doubted any of the women in town would want to sit down for a chat anytime soon.

Your shock at Father Mayhew’s presence was all over your face.

“Father,” you stated, the lilt in your voice hinting at your surprise.

He looked just as you were used to seeing him—clerical collar still on, not a hair out of place, and a hint of a smile on those pink lips. You stood there gaping at him for all of five seconds before it struck you how rude you were probably being.

“I…I’m so sorry. Um…come in,” you told him, stepping out of the way and widening the gap in the doorway.

He didn’t respond nor move right away, looking past you into your small house with a look in his gaze that you couldn’t name. If he were anyone else, you might worry that he was judging where you lived. You watched his jaw briefly tighten, a noticeable strain in his face, and it only just occurred to you that maybe this wasn’t appropriate? Although you were positive you’d heard of priests and pastors visiting the sick before, and while you certainly weren’t on your deathbed, you didn’t see why this would be different.

Before you could say another word though, his foot crossed the threshold, and you closed the door behind him.

“I do apologize for the unexpected visit,” he said to you, gazing around before his eyes landed on you again. “...but when I noticed that mass was absent of a face I’d grown to look forward to, I became concerned.”

You couldn’t stop your smile at his words

“Oh,” you softly said. “Well, there’s no need to be concerned. It’s just a small cold that will be gone in a day or two.”

You watched him exhale at that, nodding to himself, and you studied him, surprised to see that he looked genuinely relieved at that.

“I’m glad to hear that’s all it is…”

At that, your brows furrowed, and you watched him slowly walk about your living room.

“I had feared that some of your fellow church goers had scared you off.”

Your lips parted at his words, and he turned and looked at you.

“They often fall into the temptation of judgment, after all…”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you didn’t know how to react with the knowledge that he knew it was you who came to see him once a week. You’d only spoken to him face to face twice, and you swallowed, looking away.

“I thought it would be a shame if they scared you off,” he confessed, and you noted that he was closer now. “I wondered what I would have to do to convince you to come back. Drag you, perhaps.”

You gave a soft laugh at that, although he didn’t join you, and it awkwardly faded. He stared at you in silence for what felt like a long time, and just when you were considering asking him if he wanted anything to drink, he reached out to touch the crucifix around your neck again.

“So devout,” he quietly said to himself. “It almost makes me ashamed…”

At that, you gave a heavy laugh, wondering how you could ever shame a priest.

“Why?”

“...because I see why they flocked to your door…money in hand.”

His gaze lifted as he said that, and you were still as you both just stared at each other. His words made you blink, and you were suddenly very aware of his hand practically on you. You couldn’t stop the slight frown that fell over your face, and for the first time in months—since you first stepped foot into that church—you felt…wrong.

“I see why their eyes trace every inch of you when you’re not looking…as if to relive the memory of what you felt like—tasted like.”

You finally took a step back, hand coming up to cover your necklace as if protecting it from his touch.

“What memories they must have of you…”

You wrapped your other arm around yourself, mind whirling to reconcile the man before you with the same man who’d always been so welcoming and gentle. Not once did you ever think he judged you for your past, and you supposed that you were right, but not once did you ever think he also might…

You hadn’t done that in over a year, but had it really escaped you so quickly that a seemingly devout man was still…a man?

“Father, I think you should-.”

“I don’t say any of this to offend you,” he interrupted, tilting his head. “I say it because I fight the urge to touch you every time you’re in my presence.”

You moved by him to make your way to the door, but like an ever present shadow you only just noticed, he was close behind.

“You can cover up as much as you’d like—wear skirts down to your ankle and shirts up to your chin…” his hand on the door halted your movements. 

You felt his chest just barely grazing your back, and his lips followed suit, the softness of them brushing against your ear as he spoke. That familiar cologne invaded your senses.

“...but none of it can hide the temptation you pose by merely existing.”

You shrunk away from him at that, tears in your eyes as he verbalized the same fears you had every time you walked into the building. You flinched when his lips touched the back of your neck, heart dropping to your stomach, but you reached for the door handle anyway.

“Father, I’d like you to leave-.”

Your words were cut off by your own sharp scream, taken aback by the feel of his fingers harshly pressing into the skin of your throat. His hand rested on the back of your neck, and you pressed your hand to the door when his lips grazed your cheek.

“They’re all like rabid dogs…just waiting to pounce,” he mused against your skin, sliding between you and the door and forcing you further into your house with every step. “Just waiting for you to give up this charade and go back to taking their money for a quick fuck.”

You blinked, and a few tears escaped.

“...but they don’t know you like I know you.”

He grinned against your cheek, and you winced as he lightly nipped at the skin there.

“They don’t know that you come to church at least thrice a week to light candles and pray…”

You were full on sobbing now, and you could feel the cool metal of his ring against the back of your neck.

“They don’t know that you never miss your weekly confession, telling me every time you so much as say the Lord’s name in vain.”

His free hand was reaching for the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one, and you gasped when his fingers finally met skin. He dipped his head, mouth finding the skin of your shoulder and collarbone interesting before his hand searched for your wrist.

“They don’t know that you are the most pious woman to walk through those doors,” he purred, pressing gentle kisses to the inside of your wrist. “...and that I just want to ruin you for it.”

When his hand dipped between your legs, you were quick to try and stop him, still wincing at the tight grip on the back of your neck. Father Mayhew made a noise of disapproval, and your hand faltered when he harshly bit your shoulder.

“We are…and always will be…sinners…”

Once his fingers were inside of you, it was like the point of no return. You found it funny that he likened the men in church to that of rabid dogs when he himself was behaving like the very thing he used to insult them. When your knees buckled, he followed—one arm around you and holding you in place while the fingers on his other hand curved into you.

Every thrust of his fingers made you wetter—embarrassingly so—and when he pulled your head back, he forced a kiss onto your lips. He swallowed down your whimpers and noises of protest, a moan escaping him as he tasted the inside of your mouth. With him so close to you, you could feel the muscles and contours of his frame beneath his clothes, and you were forced to recognize your predicament and his strength and what that meant for you.

When you were face to face with him again, his hair was nowhere near as neat as it was when he first walked through your door. His pink lips were swollen and reddened from kissing you and dragging over your skin. Your pajama top had long been discarded, the bottoms long ripped and pulled off of you. Father Mayhew’s—Charlie—clerical collar was long gone, his shirt pulled open and hanging off of him.

You recalled the way your mouth had parted into an ‘O’ shape when the head of his cock finally dipped into you, stretching you with every inch and making your heart momentarily stop. His hand covered a breast, the feel of his ring cooling that singular part of your skin, the rest of you so overheated. His other hand was wrapped around your throat, and you clawed at his hand as he fucked you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in your tiny home, the only sound to rival it being his harsh grunts and your strained voice. Any fight that you’d put up had been quickly squashed down, shown in the harshest manner just how strong your priest was. You hated how good it felt, hated that you didn’t want this but was now forced to enjoy it. Nevermind the fact that you hadn’t enjoyed sex for the act itself in years…

…but of all people to find yourself in this predicament with.

Father Mayhew’s hands never stayed in one place for long. He seemed determined to touch every part of you he could get his hands on, lips tasting the saltiness of your skin. Sweat clung to your frame and his, his fingers sliding over you as he kneaded your thighs and your waist and your chest. Every time you reminded yourself how wrong this was, he’d push his cock into you to the hilt, and you’d involuntarily throw your head back.

You could feel your crucifix pressing into your skin, and your eyes watered.

“I must admit that I was—am—jealous,” he dragged out, voice hoarse and throaty and wholly unlike how you were used to hearing him. “Your devotion to God inspires an envy within me that I never knew existed.”

You took note of the scars on his back underneath your fingers.

“...a desire to have you completely devoted to me,” he bit out, covering your lips with his own. “You so desperately desire forgiveness and acceptance…and all the things you didn’t think you were worthy of having.”

He harshly thrust into you, making you gasp.

“...and I can give that to you,” he whispered into the kiss.

The power behind his thrusts had you scratching at both his back and the floor, eyes squeezing shut at the way his fingers dug into your skin. It was like he was both holding you to him and trying to prevent you from ever walking away. Your chest arched up into his as you gasped, choked whimpers climbing out of your throat with every push of his hips. He growled against your skin as his lips traveled to your neck, the sound almost demonic to your ears.

When you came around him—your first orgasm in over a year—you couldn’t swallow down the noise it forced out of you. You could feel blood beneath your nails and a slickness on the inside of your thighs, but all the while Father Mayhew didn’t stop.

With one hand pressed against the floor, he pushed himself up to look down at you. His free hand slid up your sweaty frame, coming up to wrap around the crucifix that rested against your skin. He tightened his hold around it, and he pulled on it, forcing you to lift your head and meet him halfway for a kiss.

“I want you just as eager to get on your knees for me…”

[rmview]

accidentally sending a nude, SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — what happens when the stray kids boys accidentally send you an inappropriate picture!

contents — crack, flirting, suggestive.

bang ⁺ chan

bang chan was known for being responsible and composed, but even the most reliable people had their moments. he had been working late, distractedly multitasking between responding to texts from the members, fans, and — most nerve-wracking of all — you.

you two had been flirting back and forth for weeks, and tonight was no different. your witty banter put him in a good mood, and before he knew it, he was sending a selfie from the gym, shirt drenched in sweat.

but in his rush, he didn’t notice that the picture he sent wasn’t the one he intended. instead of the gym selfie, it was an older picture—one of him just out of the shower, shirtless, with a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.

seconds later, he realized his mistake.

his heart stopped.

“oh my god,” he muttered, staring at his phone in horror as the “read” indicator popped up. his mind raced. should he delete the message? send a follow-up explanation? throw his phone into the nearest body of water?

before he could do anything, your reply came through.

...well, that’s not what i expected, but i’m not complaining.

his face turned a deep shade of red as he ran a hand through his hair, groaning in embarrassment.

“i am so sorry,” he quickly typed, his thumbs trembling as he sent the message. “that was not meant for you. i was trying to send a gym selfie. please ignore that. oh my god, i’m mortified.”

you replied almost immediately.

relax, chan. it’s not like i haven’t imagined you looking like that anyway. 😉

his jaw dropped. was this flirting? were you actually flirting back after he’d just humiliated himself?

“wait… really?” he replied, cautious yet intrigued.

really. but next time, make sure you send the right picture.

chan exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as he smiled at the screen. “noted,” he typed back, still mortified but secretly thrilled. maybe his mistake wasn’t such a disaster after all.

felix ⁺

felix was a bit of a perfectionist, especially when it came to interactions with you. he’d spent weeks carefully navigating the line between friendly and flirty, hoping to gauge your interest without coming on too strong.

so when he accidentally sent that picture, he nearly dropped his phone in panic.

he’d just finished a workout and taken a picture to check his progress — a mirror selfie of him shirtless, muscles taut, and a playful smirk on his face. he’d meant to send it to chan, but somehow, it ended up in your chat.

“no, no, no, no!” felix exclaimed, his freckles standing out against the sudden flush of his cheeks.

he stared at the screen in horror, the little “delivered” icon taunting him.

your reply came faster than he expected.

wow… nice progress, felix. 👀

he froze. were you teasing him? he wasn’t sure if he should laugh, apologize, or crawl under a rock. finally, he decided to address it head-on.

“i am so sorry!” he typed furiously. “that was not meant for you. please ignore it. i’m mortified.”

you replied with a laughing emoji.

it’s fine. honestly, i didn’t know you were this fit. guess i’ve been missing out.

felix’s heart skipped a beat. was that… interest?

“well… thanks, i guess?” he replied, still unsure how to handle the situation. “but seriously, i didn’t mean to send that. i’m usually more careful.”

well, i’m glad you weren’t this time.

felix smiled at your cheeky response despite himself. maybe his mistake wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

lee ⁺ know

lee know had always been careful about boundaries. he enjoyed teasing you and keeping things light, but he never pushed too far. that’s why, when he realized he’d sent the wrong picture, he felt a wave of panic unlike anything he’d experienced before.

the picture wasn’t obscene, but it was suggestive — a shirtless shot of him lounging in bed, his sweatpants hanging low, with a hint of his toned stomach on full display. he’d taken it to mess around with hyunjin but somehow sent it to you instead.

his phone buzzed immediately.

...well, this is a surprise.

lee know stared at your message, his ears turning red as he groaned, tossing his phone onto the couch. “i’m such an idiot,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands.

after a minute of debating whether to respond, he finally picked up his phone.

“that was not for you,” he typed, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “sorry about that. just… forget you saw it.”

your reply came swiftly.

forget it? why would i? you look good, minho. 😏

his heart skipped a beat. “are you teasing me right now?” he replied, his confidence creeping back in.

maybe... or maybe i’m just being honest.

lee know smirked at the screen, his embarrassment fading. “well, if honesty is what we’re doing, then maybe i should admit that i don’t mind you seeing it.”

“good,” you replied. “because i didn’t mind seeing it either.”

for the first time that evening, lee know relaxed, realizing that his mistake might just have opened a door he hadn’t been brave enough to walk through himself.

hyun ⁺ jin

hyunjin had always been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and his interactions with you reflected that. he adored teasing you with his flirtatious comments and playful winks, but he never imagined crossing a line — until tonight.

he was sitting in his art room, surrounded by scattered sketches, when he decided to take a break. swept up in a moment of self-appreciation, he snapped a quick mirror selfie to show off his post-dance practice glow — shirtless, slightly tousled hair, and his sweatpants riding dangerously low. he sent it off to his group chat with the caption, “behold: the main character.”

or so he thought.

when he saw your name at the top of the chat instead, his heart plummeted.

“no, no, no…” he whispered, fumbling with his phone. his fingers hovered over the “unsend” button, but it was too late — your message popped up almost instantly.

well, that’s something i wasn’t expecting tonight. 👀

hyunjin’s face turned crimson, and he buried his head in his hands. his mind raced with what to say, every option feeling inadequate. finally, he mustered a response.

“its not what it looks like,” he typed, his embarrassment palpable even through the screen. “i meant to send it to the group chat. i’m so sorry, seriously.”

your reply came faster than he anticipated.

aw, don’t be embarrassed, hyunjin. you look… good. really good.

he froze, rereading your message. was this real? were you flirting back?

“wait… are you being serious right now?” he asked hesitantly.

completely serious. but if you’re this shy over a picture, i can’t imagine how you’d react if i saw you in person like this.

hyunjin let out a breathy laugh, his embarrassment melting into nervous excitement. “you’re not making this easier, you know,” he replied.

who said i’m trying to make it easier?

he leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips at your teasing response. “you’re trouble, you know that?”

don’t pretend you don’t love it.

hyunjin shook his head, his heart pounding. what started as a mortifying mistake was quickly turning into the most exhilarating conversation he’d ever had with you.

i.n ⁺

jeongin prided himself on being composed despite his age, but tonight, all that confidence vanished in an instant. he’d been lounging on his bed after practice, casually snapping a picture to capture the golden glow of the setting sun through his window.

the photo was innocent enough, or so he thought — a relaxed pose, shirtless, with the blanket barely covering his hips. it was meant for seungmin, who’d jokingly challenged him to “prove” he was resting properly.

but in his sleepy haze, jeongin accidentally sent it to you instead.

he realized his mistake almost immediately when your name popped up with a notification. his stomach dropped, and panic set in.

your message arrived seconds later:

uh… is this the kind of ‘resting’ you meant to show me? 😳

jeongin groaned, burying his face in his pillow. “oh my god, i’m an idiot,” he muttered. he typed back as quickly as his trembling hands allowed.

“i am so sorry. that was not meant for you. please, just delete it and pretend this never happened.”

you replied almost immediately, and his heart raced as he opened your message.

delete it? why would i do that when it’s such a nice view?

his mouth fell open, a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief coursing through him. he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or crawl under his blanket and never come out.

“are you seriously teasing me right now?” he finally typed, his cheeks burning.

maybe... but can you blame me? you’re not exactly making it easy to ignore.

jeongin let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head. “you’re impossible.”

i know.

jeongin sighed, a reluctant smile spreading across his face. while the initial shock of his mistake lingered, he couldn’t deny that your reaction made it worth the embarrassment.

han ⁺

han had always been impulsive, and that trait extended to his texting habits. he’d just finished a late-night studio session and decided to take a mirror selfie to show off his new haircut. the picture wasn’t inappropriate, but it was suggestive — he was shirtless, his hair slightly damp from a shower, with a cheeky grin on his face.

he meant to send it to chan, but in his half-asleep state, he sent it to you instead.

it wasn’t until your message came through that he realized his mistake.

right in front of my salad? 🤨

han’s eyes widened, and he sat up so fast he nearly knocked over his coffee mug. “oh no,” he muttered, his hands shaking as he typed back.

“omg, i’m so sorry! that was not meant for you! i was trying to send it to chan. please just forget you saw it.”

your reply came a moment later:

why? it was a nice picture. you should send me more.

han’s jaw dropped, his mind racing. was this really happening? were you actually flirting with him?

“wait, are you serious right now?” he replied cautiously.

very serious. you look good, han. don’t be so shy about it.

his face turned red, but a smile crept onto his lips. “i’m not shy!” he typed back defensively.

sure, you’re not...

han let out a laugh, shaking his head. “you’re dangerous, you know that?”

says the guy with his tiddies out for the world to see. wait, i wonder how much i can sell this for on ebay...

he flushed and sighed, leaning back in his chair. what started as a mortifying mistake was quickly becoming the most crack-filled interaction he’d ever had with you. maybe his impulsiveness wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

seung ⁺ min

seungmin was always known for his sharp wit and calm demeanor, rarely letting things rattle him. but tonight, that composure was nowhere to be found.

after a long day, he decided to respond to a group chat message with a selfie he’d taken earlier — a casual, post-workout shot that showed him in a tank top, his hair slightly messy, and his usual confident smirk. the picture wasn’t provocative, but it was undeniably attractive.

except he didn’t send it to the group chat. he sent it to you.

seungmin froze as he realized what he had done. his usual sharp mind went blank, replaced by a surge of panic. before he could even think of a way to delete it, your reply came through.

well, i wasn’t expecting this, but i’m not complaining. 😏

he stared at your message, his ears turning red as he tried to come up with a response. this wasn’t like him at all — how could he make such a mistake?

“uh, that wasn’t meant for you,” he finally typed, his thumbs trembling slightly. “i was trying to send it to the group chat. my bad.”

your reply came almost instantly.

no need to apologize, bbg. honestly, it’s nice to see this side of you. you look good, seungmin.

his jaw clenched as he reread your words. you were complimenting him?

“i didn’t mean for you to see it,” he replied quickly. “but… thanks, i guess?”

why so shy all of a sudden? i didn’t think you’d get flustered this easily.

“i’m not flustered,” he replied, though your teasing and his red face told a different story.

sure you’re not. but for what it’s worth, you’ve definitely made my night.

seungmin let out a small, awkward laugh, his confidence slowly returning. “well, i’m glad my mistake could entertain you,” he replied.

it’s more… eye-opening, than entertaining. although my rose toy would disagree.

seungmin choked, rereading your words. maybe this wasn’t the disaster he thought it was.

chang ⁺ bin

changbin was naturally confident, his playful energy making him the life of any room. but even he wasn’t immune to moments of pure, unfiltered embarrassment — like the one he was having now.

it started innocently enough: he’d taken a mirror selfie at the gym to show off his progress, flexing his biceps with a grin that screamed, “look at me, i’m unstoppable.” it was meant for chan, who’d been teasing him about skipping arm day.

but in his haste, changbin accidentally sent the picture to you.

the moment he realized his mistake, his stomach dropped. “oh no,” he muttered, staring at the screen in horror.

your reply came faster than he could process.

wow, changbin… showing off for me now? 👀

he groaned, his confidence taking a nosedive. he quickly typed back, “that was not meant for you. i was trying to send it to chan. please ignore it!”

you didn’t ignore it. instead, you replied,

why would you send it to him? and why should i ignore it? you look amazing honestly, you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.

changbin blinked, your words catching him off guard. were you… complimenting him?

“wait… are you kidding me?” he replied cautiously.

of course not, i mean, if you’re gonna send me pictures like this, don’t blame me for appreciating them.

changbin let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “well, i wasn’t exactly trying to impress you, but… thanks, i guess?”

who said you didn’t impress me?

his heart skipped a beat at your tease, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “i guess if you’re not mad, i shouldn’t be so worried,” he typed, his confidence returning.

not mad at all. in fact, feel free to send more anytime.

changbin laughed out loud, shaking his head. “you’re trouble, you know that?”

and you love it.

“maybe i do,” he replied, surprising even himself with his boldness.

what started as an embarrassing mistake had suddenly become one of the most fun conversations he’d ever had with you.

notes: hoez in the house ( my smut fic is taking forever to finish :( )

[fastandcarlos]

One Domesticated Man : ̗̀➛ Lando Norris

summary: lando tries his best to prove to you that he can be a domesticated guy

“If I find one more of your dirty pairs of pants lying around I’m going to swing for you Lando Norris!” 

A mischievous grin appeared on Lando’s face as he heard you shout through the house, watching as you walked into the bedroom to where he was. 

He was busying himself, placing the washing that you had done for him back into his wardrobe, sorting through what he needed to pack with him as he prepared to head off again for the next rest on the calendar. 

“I just forget to pick them up sometimes,” he innocently smiled, “there’s so many other things on my mind, my pants are the least of my concerns.” 

Your eyes rolled as you threw the pants into the washing basket before watching him. His brows were knitted together as Lando tried his best to fold one of his shirts. You watched for a while before snatching the shirt out of his hands, showing him how it was done.  

“I’m learning,” Lando defended as you threw the top into the drawer of his wardrobe. “No one’s ever really shown me how to do all of this stuff, I’ve just had to learn how to do it all on my own.” 

“Lando, you barely do anything,” you sighed, sending him a knowing glance. “When was the last time that you hoovered? Or took the rubbish out for bin collection day?” 

There was a brief pause as Lando let what you said sink in, realising for himself how little he did around the house, watching as you usually darted around and got everything sorted out for the both of you. 

“Remember when I washed up the other day?” 

“What? In cold water, of course I remember.” 

Whilst Lando laughed, your eyes rolled, finding yourself often having to go back and fix things once he’d done them. Lando was far from the most domesticated man in the world, relying on others to get him by with how little time he actually spent at home. 

You folded the last of Lando’s bits before leaving him to it, walking downstairs and into the kitchen as you started to get yourself sorted for preparing dinner. 

Soon enough footsteps followed behind you as Lando joined you in the kitchen, sitting up on the worktop. You could tell straight away that he was bored, following you around like a shadow. 

“How can I help you?” Lando asked as he watched you open up the fridge. “You always sort dinner out, so I want to be able to help you out tonight.” 

Your eyes flickered around to look back at Lando, “is this because of what I said upstairs? It’s alright Lando, go and do something if you want, I really don’t mind.” 

“No, I want to help and do something around here.” 

Your head nodded, opening up the cutlery drawer and taking out a knife, placing it down on the chopping board, tapping it for Lando to move across to. 

“You can be trusted with this, can’t you?” You teased, pointing at the knife. “I’m not going to end up having to drive you to hospital, right?” 

“I’m not completely incompetent babe.” 

You took the vegetables and showed Lando how you wanted them cut, making sure that your instructions were clear, making it impossible for Lando to go wrong. He listened intently to what you had to say, determined to prove to you, and himself, that he could help. 

There were a few nerves as Lando got started, his eyes full of concentration as he chopped things up. He didn’t want to put a foot wrong, it was a simple job, but for some reason Lando felt the pressure. 

“Maybe once we’ve eaten tonight, we could look at building your new desk for your office,” Lando suggested as he stopped for a moment, noticing you freeze beside him. 

“Washing, cooking, building, are you sure that you’re going to cope?” 

Lando’s head nodded, an excited smile on his face, full of encouragement. “I promised you weeks ago I’d build it and I haven’t, it’s unfair to leave you waiting around for it any longer.” 

“Do we have the equipment to build it though?” 

Lando gasped, his head nodding back at you, with his toolbox hidden around somewhere. He wasn’t quite sure when he last used it, but he knew with a bit of a search around he’d locate it. It was an old one, one that his dad gave to him for times like this, one that Lando had very rarely used. 

He could still feel your eyes watching him, doubtful as to how things would go, knowing that construction anything more than Lego was a tricky job for Lando. 

“I can do it,” he assured you, his voice a lot more insistent. “And if I get stuck then I know where you are so you can come and help me.” 

There was a confidence in Lando’s voice that had you trusting him, having done most things yourself, you weren’t going to deprive him of his chance to be a little more domesticated. 

“If you want to help out, I’ve got a long list of things that need doing around the house,” you smiled, walking over and snaking your arms around his waist. “I could keep you entertained for weeks with all these jobs.” 

“You’re right though, I should be doing more to help you,” Lando whispered. 

“You’re busy Lando, when you come home it’s important that you rest,” you replied, resting your head against his back. “I’m not expecting anything from you.” 

You didn’t expect, but Lando did of himself. He’d never thought about how much he contributed around the house, but now that you passed a comment, even just a joke, it definitely had Land thinking. 

“You’re busy too, just because you’re not flying around the world to do it. We’re a team, therefore this house needs to be taken care of by two people,” Lando assured you. 

“If you want to do more, then I guess I wouldn’t mind.” 

Lando nodded as he finished up the job that you had given him, with your body still pressed up against his. He wanted to learn and do more, hoping one day to teach his own child how to do all of the jobs that his dad had taught him to do. 

I really do, more than anything.” 

You could see just how sincere Lando’s eyes were, how serious he was. The thought of you continuing to run around after him was one that made him feel so uneasy. 

“Why don’t we have dinner and then we can build the desk together?” You proposed, “that way you can help out, and we can have fun doing it together.” 

“I’d like that, a lot,” Lando whispered, “I want to be more domesticated, like those men you see in all the movies, the ones who can just figure everything out, can take on a job no matter how big or small.” 

“You want to be a hero?” You teased, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “What am I supposed to do though if you’re doing all of these jobs for me now.” 

“You can just sit and relax,” Lando instructed, “that’s the least that you deserve anyway, I don’t want you to do anything other than that.” 

“I can just sit and tell you when you miss a bit,” you laughed, “or when you’re not doing a good enough job.” 

“That’s the least that I’d deserve, right?” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[brunchable]

How's retirement, Bucky? | Bucky Barnes x f!reader.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Themes: Funny. Bucky trying to find things to do to kill time, while also being a menace to Y/N and the neighbours. Prequel to 'Ouch, My face.'

Summary: Bucky decides to retire and leave the super hero world behind, but now he doesn't know how to be normal citizen.

A/N: Just another scenario tha rudely popped into my head. . .

Bucky Barnes was retired.

It still felt strange, even after months of settling into a life of quiet mornings and unhurried afternoons. He had fought in wars, spent decades as an agent of chaos, and dedicated years to redemption and healing. Now, here he was—waking up whenever he pleased, making breakfast in a house that didn’t have bullet-proof glass windows or a panic room, and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his day.

Today, like most others, started off simple enough: a run through the neighbourhood, a cup of coffee, and a lazy scan of the news. He’d even managed to fix the leaky faucet that had been bothering you for weeks, earning a soft kiss on the cheek as a reward.

But then… the day stretched on. There were no missions, no tactical planning, no world to save. Just the quiet ticking of the clock and the gentle hum of suburban life around him.

So, Bucky set his sights on something—or rather, someone—far more interesting: annoying you.

And thus began the saga of Bucky Barnes’ Retirement Phases.

Phase 1: The Handyman Hero Phase

Duration: One Month

Bucky started off strong, becoming the ultimate handyman of the household. Everything was fair game for improvement. Leaky faucets, creaky floorboards, wobbly shelves—if there was a screw to tighten, Bucky was on it like a well-oiled machine.

“Bucky, what are you doing?” you asked one morning, sipping your coffee as you watched him carefully measuring the distance between each picture frame on the living room wall.

“Making sure they’re exactly one inch apart,” he said without looking up, his voice deadly serious.

“Why?”

“Because last night, I noticed this one—” he pointed to a frame on the far left “—was slightly off-center, and it’s been bothering me ever since.”

You blinked. “Bucky, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Y/N. It’s one and a quarter inch apart. Do you know what happens when things aren’t balanced?” He gave you a haunted look, as if you’d just suggested destabilizing the world order.

“Chaos,” you muttered.

“Exactly.”

Within weeks, Bucky had rebuilt half the house, repainted the walls (twice), and installed a state-of-the-art security system that even Tony Stark would envy. You came home one day to find the couch moved three inches to the left, the coffee table completely gone (“I dismantled it; we don’t need it”), and Bucky seriously contemplating whether the kitchen would look better with marble or granite countertops.

“Bucky,” you said slowly, trying to remain calm, “I’m begging you—stop fixing things.”

He blinked at you. “What do you want me to do then?”

You panicked. “Anything. Just—find a hobby!”

He gave a solemn nod, as if you’d just entrusted him with a new mission. “Okay. A hobby. Got it.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. If only you’d known what was coming next.

Phase 2: The Google Scholar Phase

Duration: Two Weeks

With his newfound free time, Bucky discovered the internet. And when Bucky Barnes discovers the internet, chaos ensues.

It started innocently enough. You’d come home to find him glued to his laptop, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What are you doing?” you asked, setting down your bag.

“Research,” he said ominously, fingers flying over the keys.

“Research on… what?”

He glanced up, his eyes wide. “Did you know sharks have been around longer than trees?”

“Uh—”

“And that banana slugs can grow up to 9 inches long?” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s a whole website dedicated to weird animal facts. I’ve been reading for hours.”

And so, you were subjected to two weeks of nonstop trivia.

“Hey, Y/N!” he’d shout from the kitchen. “Did you know an octopus has three hearts?”

Or: “Did you know cows have best friends?”

And: “Do you want to hear about the deepest point in the ocean?”

“Not really—”

“It’s called the Mariana Trench, and it’s seven miles down!”

You tried banning Wikipedia, but he just switched to obscure forums. You blocked YouTube, and he found a random chicken fact blog. The worst part? He’d share his newfound knowledge with anyone who’d listen.

“I’m calling Sam,” you muttered one evening after hearing Bucky recite the entire history of the humble potato to the mailman. “You need social intervention.”

Phase 3: The Home Décor Perfectionist Phase

Duration: Two Exasperating Weeks

Denied access to his newfound internet pursuits, Bucky turned to interior design. You were caught off guard one Saturday morning when he asked, “What do you think of paisley?”

“What’s a paisley?”

“Pattern. I’m thinking of reupholstering the couch.”

“Bucky, no—”

Too late. Within days, every room was a different colour. You came home to find polka-dotted curtains in the bathroom, and he’d somehow managed to install a chandelier in the laundry room.

“Bucky, why is there a 10-foot mirror in the hallway?”

“It makes the space feel bigger.”

“Bucky, this is a two-bedroom house!”

He paused, squinting at the living room wall. “I think the polka dots need to go.”

You nearly wept with relief when he announced he was moving on to the garden.

Phase 4: The Amateur Detective Phase

Duration: One Overly Suspicious Month

After redecorating the entire house, Bucky set his sights on the neighborhood.

“Y/N, did you see that guy across the street?” he whispered one morning, peering through the blinds with a pair of binoculars.

“That’s Mr. Henderson. He’s eighty-five.”

“Yeah, and he’s up to something. No one goes to the mailbox that often.”

“Maybe he likes getting his mail?”

“I’m telling you, something’s not right.” He tapped the binoculars. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.”

And so began Operation: Neighborhood Watch. Every delivery truck was scrutinised. Every dog walker received a full background check. The poor Girl Scouts who came to sell cookies left looking slightly shell-shocked.

The Girl Scout Incident: When Bucky Barnes Met Thin Mints

The Girl Scout incident started out innocent enough—just a kid selling cookies to the neighborhood. But when Bucky Barnes answered the door, things took a turn.

It was a sunny Saturday morning. You were in the kitchen, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when you heard the doorbell ring. Before you could even get up to check, Bucky’s voice echoed from the living room.

“I got it!” he called out, already making his way to the front door.

Curious, you peeked around the corner just in time to see him open it. Standing on the porch was a sweet-looking little girl, no more than nine or ten, decked out in her green uniform, clutching a clipboard and flashing a bright, eager smile.

“Hi, mister!” she chirped, clearly undeterred by the stern look on Bucky’s face. “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies today?”

You watched as Bucky’s expression softened just a bit, his head tilting to the side in confusion.

“Cookies?” he repeated, as if she’d just offered him nuclear launch codes.

“Yep!” She held up a laminated chart with pictures of the various cookies, pointing to each one with a tiny, rainbow-colored pen. “We have Thin Mints, Tagalongs, Samoas—uh, I mean, Caramel deLites—”

He squinted at the chart, clearly trying to make sense of it all. “Why would you need to sell cookies?”

You nearly face-palmed. Oh no.

The girl’s enthusiasm didn’t waver. “It’s a fundraiser! To support our troop activities and trips.”

“Fundraiser?” Bucky’s voice dropped suspiciously. “Who’s your troop leader?”

The girl blinked, a little taken aback. “Uh, Mrs. Patterson?”

“Uh-huh. And how many boxes of these so-called ‘cookies’ are you supposed to sell?”

Her smile wavered just a fraction. “Um, as many as possible?”

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “And where does all this money go?”

“Bucky—” you tried to interrupt, stepping forward, but he held up a hand without looking back, eyes still locked on the bewildered Girl Scout.

“It goes to our troop!” she answered nervously, glancing down at her clipboard as if for reassurance. “For badges and supplies and—”

“Supplies,” Bucky echoed, his tone suddenly sharp. “What kind of supplies?”

“Uh… arts and crafts…?” she stammered, clearly starting to get uncomfortable.

“Arts and crafts?” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Or something else?”

You saw the poor girl’s eyes widen, her grip tightening on her clipboard as if she was contemplating using it as a shield.

“Bucky, stop,” you hissed, stepping forward to intervene. But he was on a roll now.

“Who gets the money, huh?” He narrowed his eyes, peering down at her like she was an enemy combatant. “Do you get it?

“Or does it go to some mysterious ‘troop leader’ who’s hiding behind a desk somewhere, raking in profits from innocent cookie sales?”

“M-Mister, it’s just cookies,” she squeaked, glancing nervously at the boxes stacked beside her. “We just wanna go camping this summer.”

“Camping?” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “And what kind of ‘camping’ are we talking about here? Deep-woods recon training? SERE training?”

The girl blinked up at him, clearly having no idea what he was talking about.

“Bucky, she’s nine!” you practically shouted, rushing over to save the poor child from what was rapidly escalating into a full-blown interrogation.

“But Y/N, this could be—”

“It’s not a conspiracy, Bucky!” you snapped, turning to the girl and giving her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sweetie, how much for a box of Thin Mints?”

“Uh… f-five dollars?” she stammered, still eyeing Bucky like he might suddenly sprout fangs.

You reached for your wallet, pulling out a ten-dollar bill and handing it to her. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, ma’am!” she squeaked, stuffing the money into her pouch with trembling hands.

You shot Bucky a glare. “Apologize.”

He crossed his arms, looking mulish. “But—”

“Bucky.”

He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Uh… sorry… for, um… asking about your troop leader and, uh… the money laundering?”

The girl blinked up at him, clearly not following.

“Bucky!” you hissed, elbowing him sharply.

“I mean, sorry for… for… being weird,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The girl gave a hesitant nod, glancing back at her stack of cookies. “Um… would you like another box, mister?”

Bucky frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe. Which one’s the best?”

“Bucky—” you started, but he was already leaning down, listening intently as the girl launched into a detailed explanation of the flavour profiles of Samoas versus Tagalongs.

Twenty minutes later, Bucky was the proud owner of a dozen boxes of Girl Scout cookies, which the girl somehow managed to upsell him into buying. The look of relief on her face as she walked away was palpable.

You turned to Bucky, hands on your hips. “Really, Buck?”

“What?” he said defensively, clutching his armful of cookies. “I needed to make sure it was legit!”

“Uh-huh. And that’s why we now have enough cookies to feed an army?”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I guess I got carried away.”

“Just… try not to scare any more children, okay?”

“Hey, I was just being thorough,” he muttered, glancing down at the boxes. “Besides… these ‘Samoas’ are actually pretty good.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Because only Bucky Barnes could turn a simple cookie sale into a full-scale interrogation—and then end up buying out the entire stock.

“Whatever you say, Bucky. Whatever you say.”

He gave you a sheepish grin, holding up a box of Thin Mints. “Want one?”

“Sure,” you sighed, reaching out to grab a cookie. Because, at the end of the day, this was Bucky Barnes: ex-assassin, super-soldier, and now… terrifyingly dedicated Girl Scout cookie connoisseur.

The Girl Scout incident, unfortunately, didn’t mark the end of Bucky’s neighbourhood watch endeavours.

“Hey, Y/N, that’s the third day in a row Mrs. Higginson has gone jogging past our house,” Bucky muttered a few days later, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

You glanced over from your spot on the couch, raising an eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” you replied absently, already wondering if now would be a good time to text Steve for a little ‘rescue mission.’ “Maybe she likes jogging?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not natural. It’s a cover for something. Probably espionage.”

“Bucky, she’s seventy.”

“Exactly. No one that age moves like that. She’s gotta be a retired agent.”

“Or she’s trying to stay in shape?”

“Or she’s spying on us.” He narrowed his eyes, peering through the blinds. “Maybe she’s HYDRA.”

“Bucky, she brought us homemade banana bread last week.”

“Which tasted suspiciously good,” he muttered darkly, tapping his pen against his chin. “I’m keeping an eye on her.”

It didn’t stop there. He began obsessively tracking patterns—when neighbors took out their trash, when they left for work, who picked up their mail first thing in the morning. His conspiracy board rivaled the one you’d seen at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, complete with photos, string, and a suspiciously large map of the neighborhood.

“Y/N, I need to talk to you.”

You blinked, looking up from your book. “What’s up, Buck?”

He leaned in, his voice low and serious. “Did you know Mrs. Patterson’s dog peed on our lawn three times this week?”

“I—what?”

“And Mr. Thompson left his house twice yesterday. Twice.”

“…is that a crime?”

“Yes. Who leaves the house twice in one day? He’s clearly up to something.”

“Like… groceries?”

Bucky frowned. “No. Something bigger. I saw him walking to his car, get this—without any bags.”

“Maybe he forgot something?”

He shook his head, eyes narrowed. “It’s a diversion tactic. I’m keeping a close watch on him.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re stalking the neighbours.”

“Of course not!” He paused. “I’m… observing. For science.”

“For science?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Buck. I’m putting my foot down,” you finally managed. “You need to stop this. The neighbours think we’re crazy. You’re scaring the kids and… the mailman won’t come to the door anymore.”

Bucky looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”

“Because you interrogated him about his route last week!”

“He was being shady!”

“He’s a mailman!”

There was a long pause as you stared each other down, Bucky looking defiant and you looking exhausted. Finally, you sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

“Buck… I know retirement is hard. But you need a new outlet. Maybe something a little less—”

“Paranoid?” he offered, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. And a little less terrifying for the neighbours.”

He sighed deeply, like you’d just asked him to hang up his shield all over again. “I was just… trying to be useful.”

Your heart softened immediately. Because that was what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? The man who’d spent his life fighting wars and doing battle against his own mind was now left trying to figure out how to fit into a world that no longer needed him to save it.

You walked over, placing your hands on his shoulders and giving him a soft smile. “You’re always useful, Buck. Even if you’re not interrogating the mailman about federal postal regulations or… spying on seventy-year-old retirees.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “I might’ve gone a little overboard, huh?”

“A little,” you agreed with a grin. “Maybe you should find something else to watch over.”

“Like what?” he asked, looking genuinely curious.

You bit your lip, thinking. “I don’t know… Maybe get a pet? You could… I don’t know, babysit a cat or something.”

Bucky blinked at you. Then his eyes lit up like you’d just handed him the Holy Grail of retirement activities.

“A cat,” he murmured slowly, as if testing the word. “A cat.”

“Yes, a cat,” you repeated cautiously, wondering if you’d just unleashed some new kind of havoc on the house. “You could train it to… I don’t know, not scratch the furniture or something.”

“Or… I could train it to keep an eye on the pigeons,” he muttered to himself, looking thoughtful.

“Wait, what?”

But Bucky had already gone inside, the gears in his mind clearly turning. You shook your head, deciding to let him have this one. After all, how much trouble could he really get into with a cat?

Phase 5: The Pet Phase (aka Operation: Find a Feline Friend)

Duration: Ongoing, with Fur Everywhere

You didn’t think he’d take it seriously. Until you came home the next day to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a small, white ball of fluff curled up in his lap.

“This is Alpine,” he announced proudly.

You stared at the kitten, then at Bucky, then back at the kitten. “Bucky, what… why…?”

“You said get a pet,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So I did.”

And that’s how Alpine, the grumpy old woman in a cat’s body, became part of your household. Bucky spent weeks trying to train him (“Sit, Alpine! Sit! … Okay, fine, just glare at me, that works too.”), set up elaborate obstacle courses (“Alpine, jump! No, don’t walk away—okay, you know what, just do your thing”), and spoiled her rotten with toys and treats.

With each phase, Bucky’s retirement became a new adventure. And while it drove you absolutely crazy at times, you couldn’t help but smile when you saw Bucky lying on the couch, Alpine curled up on his chest, both looking completely content.

“Retirement isn’t so bad, huh?” you teased one evening, curling up beside him.

He hummed thoughtfully, scratching behind Alpine’s ears. “I don’t know… I think I could use a new project.”

You groaned, but your groan turned into a laugh when he grinned at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Oh no,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “No more projects, Barnes. You’ve nearly redecorated us out of house and home, scared the mailman half to death, and—”

“Don’t forget the gourmet cookies,” he interjected with a cheeky smile.

You shot him a playful glare. “I’m trying to forget the cookies, thank you.”

“Aw, come on. I think I finally got the recipe down. I’ll just try one more—”

“No!” you practically shouted, your voice echoing through the living room. Alpine, unbothered, merely lifted her head, gave you both a disinterested look, and went back to napping.

Bucky chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. No more cookies. No more redecorating. No more… scaring the Girl Scouts.”

“Or spying on the neighbors.”

“Or spying on the neighbors,” he agreed, still looking a little too amused for your liking.

You sighed, leaning back into the couch and resting your head on his shoulder. “You know, most people take up hobbies like gardening or painting in retirement.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, but those aren’t as exciting.”

“They’re not supposed to be exciting. They’re supposed to be calm. That’s the whole point of retirement, Buck.”

He glanced down at you, his gaze softening. “You really think I’m the ‘calm’ type, doll?”

You snorted. “No, not really. But it would be nice if, just once, I didn’t come home to find you plotting to build a moat around the house.”

“Moats are an excellent defense mechanism,” he said matter-of-factly. “But okay, I get it. I’ll tone it down.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “You promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up his right hand. The glint in his eye, however, told you he was already planning something new.

“Bucky…”

“What?” he asked, all innocence. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not for a second.”

He chuckled, then pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “Alright, no more projects. I’ll just focus on Alpine. She’s a full-time job anyway.”

You glanced at the cat, who was now sprawled out like she owned the place. “You’ve turned her into a diva, you know.”

“He’s just refined,” Bucky said defensively. “He’s got standards.”

“Uh-huh. Like the way he refuses to eat unless you hand-feed her?”

“Refined,” Bucky insisted.

“And how she sleeps on your side of the bed and shoves you off with her tiny, evil paws?”

“Selective.”

“And how she sits on the counter staring at you like she’s plotting your demise?”

“Observant.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’ve created a monster, Bucky.”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug, smirking down at you. “I’ve handled worse monsters. She’s a good one. Besides,” he added, scratching Alpine’s head fondly, “she’s family.”

Your heart softened at his words, and you smiled up at him. “Yeah, I guess she is.”

There was a comfortable silence as you both sat there, content in the peaceful moment.

Then Bucky cleared his throat, and you glanced up to see him shifting slightly, like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So… I was thinking…” he began slowly.

“Bucky.”

“No, no, hear me out,” he said quickly, raising his hands as if to ward off your incoming refusal. “What if we… I dunno… made a baby?”

You blinked, certain you hadn’t heard him correctly. “What?”

“A baby,” he repeated, his voice steady, though there was a telltale blush creeping up his neck. “You know, a little human—our human. Someone we can train to take over the world… or at least keep me entertained.”

Your jaw dropped open. “You want to have a baby—because you’re bored?”

Bucky gave you a sheepish grin. “I mean, I was thinking it could be a good project… long-term investment… future troublemaker…”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, placing your hands on his shoulders and staring at him, bewildered. “Are you seriously suggesting having a child like it’s another DIY project?”

He shrugged, looking as nonchalant as ever, but his eyes were soft and serious. “Maybe. But I was also thinking it’d be nice to have something, or someone, that’s just… ours. A mix of you and me. Something that isn’t tied to the past, or fighting, or… all the other stuff.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your mind around the sudden turn the conversation had taken. “You really want a baby, Bucky?”

He nodded slowly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I do. Don’t get me wrong, Alpine’s great and all, but…” He sighed, his smile turning tender. “I just think it’d be amazing to have something more. I’ve spent so much of my life taking orders or fighting ghosts. But starting a family with you? That’s something I get to build. Something that’s ours.”

You bit your lip, heart swelling at his words. Despite the completely unromantic way he’d suggested it, there was sincerity in his gaze, a yearning for something deeper than fixing leaky faucets or buying out the Girl Scouts’ entire cookie stock.

“And you think you’d be a good dad?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Please,” he scoffed, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’d be the best damn dad. I’d teach our kid how to throw a proper punch by age five, dismantle a toaster by six—”

You laughed, shaking your head. “So, what you’re saying is… you want to raise a tiny super-soldier?”

His grin widened. “Hell yeah.”

“Bucky, we are not turning our child into a mini-Winter Soldier.”

He pouted dramatically. “Not even a little bit?”

“Not even a little bit,” you affirmed with a chuckle. You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “But… maybe we could talk about it. You know, actually talk. Not just… plan a tactical baby mission.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “Yeah. We can talk about it.” He paused, then added with a mischievous glint, “After we practice a little more.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Oh my God, Bucky.”

“What?” he asked innocently, his grin widening. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

You shook your head, letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love me for it,” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Yeah,” you whispered when he pulled away, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I do.”

You glanced down at Alpine, who was still sprawled across Bucky’s lap, looking utterly uninterested in the conversation. A baby. You hadn’t really thought about it seriously before, but now that Bucky had put the idea in your head… you couldn’t help but wonder.

There was a brief pause as Bucky gazed at you, his expression growing thoughtful. “You know,” he began quietly, “after that whole Girl Scout cookie fiasco… I kinda started thinking… I’d really like to have a daughter.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “A daughter?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice softening. “That kid was just so… brave, you know? Standing there, staring me down even though I was being a total idiot. It reminded me of you—fierce and unafraid. I couldn’t stop thinking… what if we had a daughter like that? Strong, smart, and completely capable of putting me in my place when I get out of line.”

You felt your heart clench at his words, his quiet admission making your chest ache. “You want a little girl because she’d keep you in check?”

“That,” he said, smiling softly, “and I think I’d like the challenge. I’ve spent so much of my life dealing with people who only saw me as a weapon. I just… want to prove that I can be something else. That I can be gentle… and kind… and love someone unconditionally. The way I love you.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently. “Bucky, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“I know,” he murmured, his gaze warm and intense. “But I still want to try. And I want to be the kind of dad who isn’t just a protector, but a friend. Someone who’d sit through endless tea parties and help her build pillow forts… and buy all the Girl Scout cookies she wants without scaring anyone.”

You laughed softly, tears stinging your eyes at the picture he painted. “You’d be a great dad, Bucky.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice low and hopeful.

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling up at him.

There was another beat of silence before Bucky leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “So… when do we start?”

You felt your cheeks heat, a mix of laughter and surprise bubbling up in your chest. “Bucky!”

“What?” he asked, his smile as innocent as ever. “I’m just asking. I mean, you know I’m a man of action. Gotta have a timeline.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands as Bucky laughed softly, his arms wrapping around you.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No rush. We’ll take it one day at a time, sweetheart. But just know… I’m ready whenever you are.”

And somehow, you knew this next phase—whatever it looked like—was going to be the best one yet.

× × × ×

Ten months later

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the nursery in a warm, golden hue, casting gentle shadows on the pale blue walls. The room was still, save for the quiet creak of the rocking chair as Bucky swayed back and forth, holding the tiniest bundle of joy in his strong, yet tender arms.

His daughter, barely a week old, was nestled against his chest, her small, delicate breaths in sync with the steady rhythm of his own. Her tiny fist curled around the fabric of his shirt, as if she knew just how safe and loved she was in her daddy's arms.

Bucky hummed quietly, the familiar melody of an old lullaby drifting into the air. It was a song his mother used to sing to him when he was no older than his sweet little girl was now. The words came softly, almost whispered, as if they were sacred—meant only for his daughter.

“Darling, you're my bloodYou have my heartbeatYou have my heartbeat, beating loud,”

His voice was gruff, yet softened by emotion as he sang, the gentle rocking lulling his daughter further into her peaceful slumber. His fingers brushed through her soft, downy hair as he looked down at her with nothing short of awe. How had he, of all people, gotten so lucky?

He had been through so much darkness in his life—seen and done things he would never be able to forget—but here, in this quiet moment, everything seemed to fade away. The world outside could wait. Right now, his whole universe was cradled in his arms, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes felt at peace.

Unbeknownst to him, you stood at the door, your heart swelling at the sight before you. You had come to check on them both, worried that Bucky might need help with the baby. But when you saw him there, rocking your little girl and singing so sweetly, you couldn’t bring yourself to interrupt.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you leaned against the doorframe, content to watch the love of your life in this vulnerable, beautiful moment. 

Bucky was a natural, even if he didn’t believe it. You had seen the worry in his eyes when you first brought your daughter home—the fear that he wouldn’t be good enough, that he wouldn’t know what to do. But here he was, proving himself wrong in the most heart-melting way possible.

The lullaby continued, each note filled with so much love it made your eyes mist over.

"You are my lighthouseA peak of light from the dark cloudsI've lived under my whole life. . .And there's nothing I won't do for you."

Bucky’s voice cracked just a little on the last line, overcome with emotion as he gazed down at his daughter and carefully wiped his tears away. 

She had his eyes—bright and full of wonder, even when they were closed in slumber. He couldn’t help but trace the delicate features of her face with his gaze, committing every tiny detail to memory.

Finally, you couldn’t resist any longer. You stepped into the room quietly, not wanting to startle him. Bucky looked up, surprise flickering across his face when he saw you standing there. His expression softened when he realised you had been watching him.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked, his voice low so as not to wake the baby.

“Long enough,” you replied, your smile widening as you walked over to him.

Bucky blushed, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I’m not exactly a professional.”

“I beg to differ, I think you’re the best dad in the world.” you whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple. 

Bucky’s heart swelled at your words. He never imagined he would be here—sitting in a nursery, holding his newborn daughter while the love of his life stood beside him, calling him the best dad in the world. It still felt like a dream.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, looking back down at the baby. “So fragile. I didn’t think…I didn’t think I could love someone I barely knew this much.”

Your hand gently rested on his shoulder as you gazed down at your daughter. “You’ve got a big heart, James. I always knew you’d be amazing as a father.”

He glanced up at you, eyes soft and full of affection. “You’re the amazing one.”

You reached out to gently stroke the baby’s cheek, and Bucky leaned into your touch, feeling more complete than he ever thought possible.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he admitted after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “A family. A reason to feel…whole again.”

You knelt down beside him, resting your head against his shoulder. “You deserve it, Bucky. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

Bucky kissed the top of youe head, holding you close as he continued to rock your daughter. The world outside could be chaotic and unforgiving, but in this room, in this moment, everything was perfect.

× × × ×

Baby at six months

The house was peaceful, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow through the windows. You were out running errands, leaving Bucky home with their now six-month-old daughter, who was currently kicking her chubby little legs and babbling on her playmat. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she reached for her favorite stuffed bear, the one Bucky had given her the day she was born.

Bucky sat beside her, legs crossed, watching her every move like she was the most fascinating thing on the planet. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. 

“You know, blossom,” he began, glancing over his shoulder dramatically as if checking to make sure Y/N wasn’t around. “Your mom thinks she’s the boss.”

Their daughter let out a high-pitched squeal, and Bucky grinned. 

“Right? Can you believe it?” he continued, keeping his voice low as if sharing the biggest secret in the world. “She thinks she’s in charge around here. But between you and me, we know the truth.”

His little girl giggled again, her tiny hands grasping at the air as if she was agreeing with him.

“See, you and I?” Bucky said, tapping his finger gently on her nose, “We’re a team. We know how to get things done. I mean, just look at us—surviving nap time, figuring out how to stack those weird little ring toys, and we don’t even need to look at the instructions. Meanwhile, your mom still thinks I can’t fold laundry properly.”

He paused for dramatic effect, raising his brows. “Can you believe that? Laundry. I fought in World War II, and she’s worried I’ll mess up the towels.”

His daughter let out a delighted shriek, her little legs kicking excitedly. Bucky reached over and tickled her belly gently, making her burst into even more giggles.

“Oh, yeah, I know you think it’s funny,” Bucky chuckled. “But trust me, your mom’s got some pretty high laundry standards. I tried to fold one towel, just one, and she came over with this look like I’d committed a crime. 'Bucky, that’s not how you fold them!' she said. And I’m standing there like, ‘It’s a towel, not a top-secret mission.’”

He leaned in closer, as if telling her something top-secret. “She doesn’t know this, but I might’ve folded them wrong on purpose so I wouldn’t have to do it anymore.”

His daughter cooed, her tiny hand reaching out to grab his finger, which she promptly brought to her mouth to chew on. Bucky let her, his heart melting at the sight. She was his little sidekick, always hanging on his every word, even if she didn’t fully understand yet.

“And don’t even get me started on the bedtime routine,” Bucky continued, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “Your mom’s got this whole plan—bath, story, lights out. Meanwhile, you and me? We’ve got a better plan. We chill, we rock, maybe sing a little. You get all cozy, and bam—out like a light.”

“Bababababa,” His daughter babbled something back at him, her little voice full of enthusiasm, and Bucky nodded seriously. 

“Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying. We’ve got this figured out.”

He scooped her up from the mat and held her close, her head resting comfortably against his chest as he walked them over to the couch. He sat down, cradling her in his arms, and continued his lighthearted rant.

“And the thing is, she’s always right, which drives me crazy. Like, the other day, she told me you were gonna try to crawl soon. I thought, ‘Nah, she’s too young.’ But then what happens? Two days later, you’re scooting around like you’ve got places to be. I swear, your mom’s a psychic or something.”

Bucky gazed down at his daughter, who was now looking up at him with those wide blue eyes that never failed to melt his heart. She let out a happy gurgle, and Bucky chuckled softly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“You know I’m just kidding, right? Your mom’s the best. She takes care of both of us.” He sighed, feeling a rush of affection as he thought about Y/N. “Don’t tell her, but I’m pretty lucky to have her. She keeps me in line.”

Just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house, and Bucky’s head shot up in mock panic.

“Uh-oh,” he whispered to his daughter, his eyes wide with exaggerated worry. “The boss is back. Don’t say anything.”

You appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow as you saw Bucky and the baby cozied up on the couch. “What are you two up to?” you asked, a knowing smile on your lips.

Bucky gave you his most innocent look, bouncing your daughter gently in his arms. “Oh, nothing. Just hanging out with my best girl here. Right, darling?”

The baby let out a little squeal, clearly delighted by the attention.

“Mmhmm,” You said, stepping closer and giving Bucky a playful look. “You haven’t been filling her head with nonsense, have you?”

“Me? Never,” Bucky replied, trying to keep a straight face. “We were just talking about how great you are. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”

Bianca, oblivious to the conversation, giggled and reached for you, and took her from Bucky’s arms and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Well, if she grows up thinking she’s in charge, I’ll know who to blame,” You teased, casting a glance at Bucky.

He grinned, leaning back on the couch. “Hey, she’s gotta learn from the best.”

You smiled, shaking your head in mock defeat. “You’re lucky she likes you so much.”

Bucky stood and wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both looked down at your little girl, now happily nestled between you. “I’m lucky to have both of you,” he murmured softly, kissing the side of your head.

And in that moment, with his two favorite girls in his arms, Bucky couldn’t imagine a better kind of luck.

[ceilidho]

I’ve been watching Spartacus with my dad and I must share with you the vision I had.

Gladiator 141 and the sweet little thing they got as a reward after a fight well fought.

this is very old:

Sometimes he spends as much as an hour staring at you through the bars of your cell. 

You haven’t yet worked up the nerve to say something to him. Not while he still wears the silver-plated galea that obscures most of his face. You can still see thin lips through the middle slit of his helmet, where the cheek plates don’t meet and the thin strip running down the bridge of his nose gives way to his philtrum, and the barest slivers of dark eyes. 

Apart from his helmet, he wears little else—sometimes the customary leather pteruge around his waist or a simple tunic belted at the waist. Nothing that would hinder his movements. It keeps the bulk of him on display. A prized fighter then, you surmise, as if the helmet weren’t enough to make that known. 

He still gleams bronze from his fights under the sun. Perhaps he’s counted at least a full hand’s worth this week alone. He comes to you sometimes after those very fights, still dripping sweat and prowling the length of your cell like one of the lions kept beneath the arena. You never know what to say to him then. There’s little you can do apart from curl up into yourself in the far corner of this cell you’ve come to know as a temporary home and eye him warily. 

It’s hard to reckon with the size of him. That’s what keeps you wary, watchful of him when he comes to keep you company for reasons unbeknownst to you. He hasn’t made them known yet, in any case. 

There isn’t an augur to warn you the day he chooses to speak. 

“Where'd they take you from, pretty bird?”

You flinch at the sound of his voice. It comes from the pure depths of him, Tartarus deep. You think it would take nine days for it to reach you, like a bronze anvil falling alongside it. In the days that he’s spent at your side, haunting the length of your cell like a sentry bound to his post, you’ve never once heard so much as a whisper.

His words take a moment to register. Across from you, he sits back on his haunches, thick thighs bunched up under the fan of his pteruge. It’s hard to tell how long he’s been there—the hallway outside your cell is relatively dark, the only windows being on the leftmost side of the building, near the door where he must have quietly slipped in. 

“East of here,” you answer hesitantly.

He hums, nods his head. Ruminates on your words. 

In truth, you can only guess—the village where you grew up, where you suckled at your mother’s teat and played with the other children in the glen surrounded by mountains jutting up from the earth and ochre yellow and green wildgrass, the fog sometimes sitting so low in the valley that you could lose yourself in it, is far from here. At least a month’s walk, perhaps more (you lost time along the way). Your feet are still blistered from the march back to Rome, legs still covered in sores and bruises; even now your cell is a poor comfort, the dirt floors harsh on your knees and shins, abrasive to the partially healed skin of your feet. 

You’ve never been very worldly though, never known more than the four walls around your bed. Perhaps the walk wasn’t nearly as long, as treacherous; maybe you came from the west instead, or the south. You can only guess. 

“I came from the north,” he says, breaking the silence again. That startles you somehow. The thought of him under the thumb of another feels inexplicably gut-wrenching; if a man with a virile, sweat-laden chest like his, arms corded with muscle that yours will never see in a thousand years, has been yoked to Rome’s chariot, what hope do you have? 

You wonder for a moment if he’ll tell you more, but he falls silent after that simple revelation. The weight of his gaze still pins you in place.

“…You’re a prisoner then?” you ask, considering briefly whether to say like I, before discarding the thought. Like I, like me. Are you too in a cage, like me?

It’s difficult to suppress the urge to ask him more, but you do. It does you no good to endear yourself to men that move and stare like beasts. There’s something malignant in him, you think, a rot burrowed in deep. You can feel it stir in you too when your eyes dip too low, halted by the muscles of his thighs and the thick slabs packing his arms. You’ve seen beasts copulate; you imagine he’d be much the same. 

He tilts his head, considering your words. Wolf-like, and you’ve seen wolves before. Though the ever-present helmet obstructs most of his face, the sharpness of his eyes pierces through. “They don’t put me in a cage anymore. What would you call that?”

Your chest collapses under his words. Hopes dashed. Does he go in the cage of his own accord then? Does he lock the door himself, deliver the key to the guard standing watch? You think people taken from their homes should see their plight in each other, but the gladiator before you doesn’t look at you like the two of you share a fate. 

“A slave?” you postulate, perhaps too boldly. Worry crawls inside the walls of your belly when his lips flatten, almost imperceptibly.

“Do I look like a slave to you?” he asks, and you can hear it this time. A gentle warning. A rebuke. A question that tells you all that you need to know about this man and how he sees the two of you. 

You remain silent, cowed under his stare and the tone of his voice. Perhaps he’s right, in a way; he’s not the one in the cage. He seems free to come and go as he pleases, his movements unrestricted. Unlike your own. You’ve hardly left this cell once since a faction of the legionaries left you at the gates of the city to be handled by those in charge, watching slave after slave made empticii, helpless, until finally you were dragged to the stand for viewing. 

You flinch when he grabs one of the bars of your cell, thick fingers coiling around the metal and overlapping easily. 

“What did they take you for, pretty bird?” His fingers tighten around the bar, knuckles whitening. “Every day I fight and yet they never offer you as a prize.”

The new scars on his body make sense then, fresh lacerations across his arms and legs that have multiplied by the days since he started visiting you. Why he gleams with fresh sweat every day, correlating with the fights you hear in the arena above you, the cacophonous chants and stamping feet. You can imagine him in front of a crowd frothing at the mouth for blood and gore. 

He comes stained in it sometimes. You hold your breath until he leaves on those days, reminded too much of your village in the aftermath of the plundering. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, tucking your legs into your chest and trying to get as close to the wall behind you as possible. 

It’s the truth. No one tells you anything. No one told you what would happen when they ransacked your village and burnt it to ash, the bodies of everyone you’ve ever loved still burning char black in the tall grass, whittled down by the flames. No one told you what would happen after they dragged you back a thousand passus to a city scorched in white marble and stone and immaculate gold. They dragged you here and shut the door. 

He seems frustrated at your words, lips thinning like he has to hold back his rage.

“I’ll slaughter a hundred more if that’s your price,” he says, his helmet knocking into the bars with a rough clang and making you jump when he leans in. His chest lifts with his quickened breaths, working himself up at the thought of more bloodshed. “Then give you their hearts. No other man will take you. I’ll rend their limbs if another man tries. Make you taste their blood on my fingers and lap it up when I split you on my—”

Your heel skitters across the ground, digging a small groove into the dirt and scattering small rocks across the cell. “I don’t k-know what they intend—”

You stare at him when he rises back up to his feet, words dying on your tongue. Standing, he towers over you, shoulders rolling back to puff out his chest. 

“You wait, little bird. Flutter your wings. Soon you’ll see the sun.”

You can only imagine what he means. The thought of sunlight on your face fills you with dread for the first time in your life. 

He leaves without another word, heavy footsteps carrying him to the door until you hear him pry it open, sunlight streaming in for a second before it slams shut. The silence in the absence of him feels monstrous, gargantuan. 

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath.