Like you already know, Im a Witch, 33 years old.But i really dont feel my age.. It is like in one of my favorite rock songs.. Im forever young.
My name is Lucia, in a Slavic version, because Im from Slovakia, but since my 18 i live in Prague, Czech republic. Yes, that is the famous tourists city, also most of the actors came here to make their recent movies And no i have not meet any of them đđđ ( i almost saw Sebastian Stan, when they was shooting here TFAWS, but that is another story đđđ)So, yes. Im a slavic girl, gypsy (from father side), but i feel my real home is somewhere in UK. You know the feeling, when the soul recongnize the place where you belong to. I had this moment in London
Im a writer..not the good one as many of the authors i also follow, but still.. I love writing, is my personal escape from life.. And it helps my mind to calm down. Im writing, here, for Oscar's characters (for now its Moon boys, Poe Dameron And Santiago Garcia , but i have an strong inspo for Jonathan Levy also đ, also one soulmate AU inspo for Duke Leto )
But i am able to write for any of MCU characters And when it comes the right time there will be some Mando fics.
My writing style is... Well, Im bad at describing feelings And other things at the moment. Im wirting more like, i could say.. Like story for movies đ€đ€if this could be a term i can use. You know how its in end credits "based of a story from.. " yeah, that will be mine description of my writing style.
Also, i love to create a whole new stories And put there my favorite actors, to give my characters a visuals. So i can tell, in the future, you can find here a story like that.
Most important aspect for my writing is music. I hear a song And if the song match my imagination, i see it him in pictures, first it looks as a trailer, then i play with the idea And here, we have another story. So, what kind of music i like.
Music :
Deffinetly a rock, heavy metal, 80's rock. But when the song have something i can feel differently i love it. So on the scale, im listening everything. Disco, dance, hip hop, r&b, classic, oldies (Im a big 50's music fan) pop, country etc. But in my heart, Im a metal girl, still. Music is important for me, like really important.
Im a Witch, since my 12 years, i feel connecton with this "world", plus i was always into this magical stuffs, it comes to me as a natural thing. And Im an eclectic witch with chaos magic (yes, this magic is Real đ)
Besides wirting And magic, i love to make edits, Again i found always inspo in music. So Im making lil movies or Just put together random clips And add a right song to it.
And i love make collages And other make overs with pictures.
Here we are at Midsummer, we have arrived at the longest day and the shortest night of the year. The earth is awash with fertility and fulfillment, and this is a time of joy and celebration, of expansiveness and the celebration of your achievements. It is a turning point.
Rituals to celebrate:
đ„ł With people, visit a honey farm and bake honey cakes.
đœïž In the kitchen, use lemon in your salads, sea foods, cakes, tea, everywhere!
đš Get crafty, by making a suncatcher and hanging it at your window.
đ Dress up, with shades of deep green and yellow to represent the union of earth and sun.
đ Write in your journal, about a difficult topic that needs addressing in the second half of the year.
đź Meditate, about what makes you feel strong and full of life.
Other ideas to celebrate:
Worship the sun by watching it rise and set.
Take a nap in the sun to absorb its inspiration and energy.
Use sunlight to cleanse your room and charge your crystals.
âą this blogger is never going to judge you for unfollowing
âą this blogger is never going to hunt you down
âą this blogger doesnât check who blocks them
âą this blogger doesnât send anon hate
âą this blogger respects your space
summary: you and Steven are colleagues. You exchange Secret Santa gifts.
word count: 1.6K
IMPORTANT A/N: I am very aware Moon Knight/Steven are Jewish, and therefore do not celebrate Christmas, which is why this fic does not include him actually celebrating the holiday, but just participating in a Secret Santa.
I hope this doesn't come across as disrespectful, I just know how hard Christmas can be for some people and I hope that a fic including Steven, a comfort character, may help. If it is offensive in any way I will remove the fic immediately.
-
It was the last day of work before Christmas and you were ecstatic.
Last night it had begun to snow outside and by the morning the roads and streets were covered in the stuff. The view from your window looked like a winter wonderland.
And even though you left the house that morning with multiple layers on, and a chill in your fingertips, you still went to work with a smile. After all, it was the big day.
The day you and your colleagues exchanged Secret Santa gifts.
You hadn't been working at the museum long, maybe six months in fact, but your colleagues quickly became like a second family. Well, most of them anyway. Your boss Donna wasn't the friendliest of people, but your colleagues joint fear towards her was something that brought you together.
Now, it was the end of the day - the museum was closed to tourists, the lights were off and the security team had headed home for the holidays.
"Are we all here?" Donna sighed, glancing at her wrist-watch.
Even people who hadn't been on shift that day had arrived for the occasion, and while you all sat in the staff canteen you did a quick headcount.
The staff canteen had two rows of individual tables, each with two chairs sat opposite one another. You were sat alone.
There was Jim and Theresa, the gang who worked in the gift shop. The other tour guides, people who manned different exhibitions and rooms. And there was one person missing.
"Actually, Steven's not here yet." You piped up, answering Donna's question.
"Steven?" Donna rolled her eyes, "Of course it's him that's late. He's got another ten minutes or I'm starting without him."
You thought Donna's words were a bit harsh, after all she was the one who forced him into joining in on the Secret Santa festivities. The poor guy didn't even celebrate Christmas. You felt bad for him, and you absentmindedly starting playing with the ribbon you had tied around your present.
We can't start without him though, you thought, I'm his secret Santa.
And you had been excited about it too.
You had been one of the first people to pull a name from the box, hoping you didn't accidentally pick out your own, and you hadn't. Instead, you had picked Steven's.
"Who did you get?" He had asked during your shared lunch break after you'd picked his name.
Between bites of food you had said, "If I tell you, it wouldn't be much of a secret, would it?"
You had laughed at him, not in a mean way of course. It was just because Steven always made you laugh, without him even trying to.
He gave a small smile, "Oh right, yeah. Forgot that."
And then you had felt bad - because that's when you remembered.
"I guess you don't usually celebrate this stuff, right?" You asked and he had nodded.
"Well not really. But Donna she's persistent, kind of scary, actually. I couldn't say no." You knew how that felt; Donna was one boss you didn't want to mess with.
"And," he continued, "once I saw who I got, I thought getting them a gift wouldn't be too bad."
He smiled at you and you thought about how kind and caring he was. "That's nice of you, Steven." You had said, "But don't tell me anymore. It's a secret Santa, remember?"
After that conversation you had spent every waking minute trying to find the right present - you knew he was a massive Egyptian mythology nerd, knew he had a goldfish. You even knew that he was vegan, and his favourite chocolates cane from a store down the road.
But, you hadn't wanted to get him something generic or boring. When you had told a friend about it they had suggested buying Steven a copy of 'Night at the Museum'. You had told your friend that was an insult to to Steven's intelligence.
So, you went above and beyond.
You went to the library and scoured through their mythology section. There you found a book Steven often referred to. In the front page you could see how often he checked the book out - at least once a month.
"Where can I buy this book?" You had asked, slamming the heavy, well-read book onto the librarian's desk.
She had given you all the information she could, and then you were on the hunt. It took two weeks of communicating with a rare-book seller to finally get hold of the thing, and then another week for it to arrive in the post.
It had arrived yesterday and you had spent the evening wrapping it to perfection.
The canteen door swung open.
"Sorry I'm late," Steven came in wrapped up in his winter coat and scarf, "I'm here now."
There were a few mumbles of appreciation, some of annoyance, from the rest of your colleagues.
You watched how his eyes scanned the room for a spare seat, and how his face lit up when he saw there was one spare opposite yours.
"Do you mind?" He asked, gesturing to the chair.
"Not at all." You smiled at him, moving your hand to cover the present's tag with Steven's name on it.
You noticed how he didn't have a present on hand, and you wondered if Steven - sometimes clumsy and forgetful Steven - hadn't remembered to bring a gift.
"Cold out, innit?" He asked, blowing on his hands for warmth.
"Freezing." You replied. The urge to get your gloves out from your coat pocket and give them to him was almost overpowering. Then, Steven glanced at the gift under your hands and another urge took over, one that wanted to tell Steven that you were his secret Santa and he deserved the world, not just one gift.
"Right." Donna's loud voice cut through your thoughts like a knife. "Everyone eyes closed and presents on the table. I'm gonna switch them all."
You looked at Steven, who was already looking at you. He shrugged, cheeks slightly aflush, and closed his eyes.
You closed yours, still wondering if Steven had brought a gift for someone or not.
Donna went around the room. He heels against the floor were the only sounds you could hear.
"If I see you peaking, " she announced, "I'll deduct a day's wages and put you on inventory for a week." Even at Christmas, Donna was mean. She was a Scrooge, all year round.
You heard her approach your table, felt her pick up your present. She moved towards Steven, "Interesting choice, Stevie."
You were dying to know what her comment meant but you didn't dare open your eyes. Instead you kept them shut tight. There were a few minutes more of hustling and bustling then Donna's voice: "Open your eyes and presents. Go on. Merry Christmas or whatever."
Wasting no time, with the anticipation practically killing you, you opened your eyes.
Infront of you was a small, red envelope with your name written neatly on the front. You looked around the room briefly, watching everyone tear into wrapping paper like they'd never received a Christmas present in their life.
Even Steven was beginning to peel away the sticky tape from one of the edges. His cheeks were a glorious shade of pink.
You went for it.
Inside the envelope was a small card. It was a luxurious business card of an expensive restaurant nearby, with a time and date printed in a fancy font. The bottom of the card read 'table for two'.
You were astonished. It was a gorgeous restaurant, one where reservations were hard to come by because it was so popular.
Once again you scanned the room, hoping for any sign of your secret Santa so you could thank them.
You didn't have a partner or any family close by to join you for this table for two, but you were sure it would be easy enough for you to change the booking. It wasn't like your secret Santa could've known these things.
"I hope it's okay." Steven said suddenly. He hadn't opened his present yet, he had only unpeeled a corner.
"Sorry?" You asked.
"I uh, hope it's not too presumptuous of me." He spoke fast, "The reservation."
There was a beat of silence, then he continued, "I can cancel it if you want."
Your face felt warm, "This was you? Thank you, Steven, honestly!"
"It's for the both of us." He wouldn't look at you, "Only if that's what you want."
Finally the realisation of all his rambling hit you, and your heart involuntarily did a funny dance, one that you were used to when you were around Steven. "Oh my gosh, yes. That would be brilliant, Steven. Sounds like a date."
He looked at you then, all brown, adoring eyes. He smiled, wide.
"You haven't even opened yours yet." You prompted, trying to take the attention away from yourself.
You hoped you weren't blushing as much as you thought you were.
"Oh yeah...is this from you?" He asked, gently stroking the wrapping paper.
"Yeah it is. I know you don't celebrate it and all that, but Merry Christmas, Steven. This is my gift to you." His eyes lit up at that, as if those six words were the greatest gift of all.
"Thank you, Y/N."
Steven ripped the wrapping paper then, revealing the present you had spent so long trying to acquire.
"Oh my- this is amazing!" His voice was full of joy, "I can't believe you got this for me!"
Without even flicking through the book Steven stood up and moved towards you. You instinctively stood up and Steven embraced you in a hug. He was warm like jasmin and vanilla.
From somewhere in the room you heard a "finally".
You pulled away from Steven to find the room staring at you, all of them grinning like Cheshire cats.
Donna rolled her eyes, but there was a small smirk on her lips, "About time."
I donât generally do this but just for safety Ima TW sh scars
My first tattoo
âThereâs no point being grown up if you canât act childish sometimesâ with Jelly babies, a quote from the 4th doctor from doctor who. V accurate for me Iâm a goof
The ss enterprise
This was gonna be a half sleeve with all my space ships, but I got distracted with other tattoos đ«„ Iâm not even that into Star Trek I just like next gen but people think Iâm a huge fan đ oh well itâs a great tattoo
Tardis: self explanatory
Teddy bear: child abuse blue, the teel ribbon is sexual assault awareness. Named Chester after Chester Bennington of linkin park, a victim of both
On my foot:LISTEN. I joked to a friend about getting the loss meme tattooed, she said I wasnât allowed. So I left her house and got it an hour later. It was supposed to be filled in but I couldnât take the pain đ
(For the one around my ankle bc for some reason it wonât let me place this below it) Impossible to get the whole thing but it wraps around my ankle and says âI was a cosmic kid in full costume dressâ from Growing up, Bruce Springsteen. It fits bc 1. Springsteen 2. âCosmic kidâ I love my sci fi 3. Full costume dressâ I have a tendency for dramatic clothing â ïžâ ïž
âTo love another person is to see the face of Godâ from the musical Les Miserables. I was so far up the ass of the les mis fandom 2013-16, but itâs also important to me bc Iâm a big lover, I love people, and itâs so true for me, I think thereâs something special when you are surround by love, in all itâs forms.
Tryna take this without showing yâall my ass đđ I like the show, but this is more inspired by the handmaids tale book
Yes, I know itâs supposed to be te, not to. I swear I checked the spelling a million times đđ great tattoo artist, I just told him what I was going for, the color symbolism I needed and he just drew this up in like 10 minutes?!?!? Amazing.. fav tattoo
âHow we survive is what makes us who we areâ -survive, rise against. V special too me bc I used to wear a BUNCH of rubber braclets to cover my harm, and then the scars as I entered recovery. This tattoo I got when I decieddd Iâd no longer be ashamed of my scars, and wouldnât cover them anymore
Those tattoos are art for me personaly.. I really appriciate you show them AND you have my huge respect, because i do love tattoos, but in scared to death from needles đđ can't Stand them... The needles
Im in love with the blue teddy...
Thank you so much Again â€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïžthey are really beautiful
Not to beat a dead horse but this has been brewing in my brain for months and I can't hold it in any longer, considering there are now people here for Twitter I feel the need to reiterate what has been said a million times. Content creators need engagement if you want them to post on a regular basis.
A few points first.
Hearts are good but they mostly just let someone know you stopped by.
Comments are wonderful and can make someone day. They don't need to be long or make sense, I like a string on letters or emojis just as much as I like long comments. It's just that I will return to long comments when I'm feeling down about my writing or need some motivation.
Reblogs are what get people's work out there, if you're going to reblog, do it with tags. One or two is fine.
Here are some general guidelines, these are based on my own feelings but any writer/content creators that see this are welcome to add to it.
First and foremost, we are not robots that churn out content for you. Asking when something will be updated but not engaging otherwise is a good way to make someone like you don't value them. This is the same with requests, the bare minimum is a please and a thank you. Sending the character with a prompt or scenario and nothing else feels like a demand.
Spam liking is great but if someone goes through all my stuff and never says anything, it's kinda strange because I have no idea why you're here. Did you read it? Are you saving it?
Follow the rules of someone's prompt/request list. It feels pretty shitty when I put in the rules "you must comment and/or reblog", and the person uses the loophole of doing a blank reblog and nothing else. I shouldn't have to explain every single thing, it should be assumed that if I'm doing something for you, you let me know you liked it.
There is a difference between giving constructive feedback and just being an ass. @withmyteeth gave me some advice in a DM and @darklydeliciousdesires gave me some advice when she reblog the request I made for her, this greatly helped me, and I'm now going through and fixing my mistakes. If you want to give feedback, remember that most people do this do it for fun, and some of them have different brains from you. Don't ick someone's yum by being a dick about it.
Similarly, be nice. We are people and if you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all.
Respect when someone says their requests are closed, most people make it pretty clear.
Don't steal shit, if fucking sucks and I've seen content creators leave because of theft.
Similarly, don't read or talk about anything on another platform without asking first. if I found out someone was reading my stuff on TikTok, I would have a heart attack.
This might be the most important one. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION AND YOUR TIME ONLINE, BLOCK PEOPLE YOU DON'T LIKE AND MOVE ON.
Hi kitty!!! For the winter fics, could I request smut with santi, caught under the mistletoe
Maybe with some uuuhhhh thought riding and praise kink
Thick Thighs Save Lives
Benny set Santi up to get laid
Words: 815
beta: myself I can't spell sorry
Rating: explicit 18+ only minors DO NOT INTERACT
Warnings: Pet names (Baby, sweet girl, good girl), Daddy Kink, Thigh Riding
You watched from the doorway of Will and Bennyâs kitchen while your partner in crime made his move. Benny kept up a string of chatter with Santi while covertly hanging a piece of mistletoe over his head. When the sprig of greenery was hung on a convenient hook above the sofa, he flashed you a thumbs up. That thumbs up was also a sign for Frankie and Will to make themselves scarce. They didnât know what youâd planned, but they werenât willing to risk it, all three men left the apartment leaving you with Santi sitting under the mistletoe.
You slipped off your panties and cupped them in your hand before heading over to Santi. You were tempted to hike your skirt a little higher but that seemed a little excessive for what you had planned.Â
âLook up,â you told him with a small smirk.
He sat his beer on the floor and glanced up. âHow the hell? Ben?â
âBen,â you agreed while you strutted over to him. You put a little extra sway in your hips, watching as his eyes traced over your body before you climbed into his lap. âIâve got a gift for you since youâre under the mistletoe.â
âYou know the mistletoe is for kissing, not giving gifts,â He replied, even as his hands moved to your hips holding you in place.
âWell, if you donât want my gift Iâll go,â you told him while you moved to climb off his lap. Somehow the action ended with your legs on either side of his thick thigh and your damp core pressed into the denim covering it.Â
Santiâs grip on your hips tightened, stopping any further movement. âGive me your gift, baby.â
You raised an eyebrow at the pet name but passed him the panties that were cupped in your hand. He shook the small piece of lace out not understanding what it was at first; you watched as shock and comprehension crossed his face. âAre these what you wore here?â
You gave him a quick nod, âtook them off just for you.âÂ
âDo you need me to fuck the good girl back into you baby?â Santi asked in a low voice. The drop in tone sent a shiver down your spine as you nodded. âShow me how badly you need it.â
You gave another nod and reached for his belt buckle, determined to show him just how badly you wanted him. But his quick hands stopped you. âRide my thigh baby. Make yourself cum for daddy,â he ordered softly.Â
To emphasize his point, Santi gripped your hips and dragged your hips across his thigh. You keened as your clit caught against the rough denim sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you. Your hands flew to grip his shoulders for leverage while you rocked your hips seeking your pleasure.
âSuch a good girl for me,â he cooed as you rocked your hips. âMy sweet girl is making such pretty sounds while she makes a mess.â
Santi dropped your panties into his lap and reached up pulling your top down and exposing your tits to his lust filled gaze. He brought his mouth to your nipple licking at the sensitive bud making your hips stutter to a halt.
âCome on, baby youâre supposed to cum for me,â Santi encouraged against your breast. When your hips rocked against his thigh, he replaced his lips with his hands, pulling and tweaking your nipples.Â
A thin sheen of sweat coated your skin while you rode his slick coated denim covered thigh. You whined out your frustration as your pleasure grew but you didnât cum. Your hands tightened on Santi's shoulders trying desperately to reach your peak. Â
âYouâre doing so good for me baby, just let go. Cum for me,â he cooed softly.Â
At Santiâs words the pleasure snapped through you pulling you screaming into your orgasm. Santiâs mouth crushed over yours muffling your screams of pleasure while you rode out your release. Once the aftershocks passed you slumped into Santiâs chest with a tired sigh. You could feel your slick cooling under and you felt like you should move but Santiâs arms wrapped around your waist holding you in place.
âYou were perfect baby. Now Iâm going to take you upstairs and fuck the good girl into you like I promised,â he told you with a dark smile.Â
He stood and hoisted you into his arms in one smooth motion that couldnât have been easy on his knees and carried you upstairs to Benny and Willâs guest room. Heâd barely closed the door when voices started from downstairs signaling Will, Benny, and Frankieâs return. You giggled softly as they made a lot of noise almost like they were trying to make it known they were home in case you were in a compromising position. Judging from the glint in Santiâs eyes you would be soon.Â
Summary: She broke his heart but you're not going to let her win. Bucky deserves the best and you're going to give it to him.
Pairing: Chubby Baker!Bucky x Reader, mentions of former relationship with OFC.
Word Count: 4K
Warnings: Smut, Oral (fem receiving), body shaming by OFC, language, mentions of insecurities. painful break up (not reader) bit angst, fluff. As always 18+ only.
A/N: Do not copy, rewrite, repost or translate my works. Comments and reblogs are welcomed. Beta'd by the lovely @deann and @makbarnes but all mistakes are my own.
A/N II: @star-spangled-bingo 2021 Squared filled: Curtain fic and @gotnofucks Body positivity challenge
"Wait till you try this. I think this is my best batch yet." Bucky promises as he pulls the tray out of the oven with his vibranium hand.
You cringe for a second before remembering that he can handle the heat.
You stretch, looking around the large bright kitchen. A fresh breeze floats through the open window carrying in notes of rain and freshly cut grass and the faint sounds of the neighbor's kids playing with their dogs.
Leaning back in your seat, you turn your gaze back to him, a faint smile on your lips as he blows on the pastries, cute little puffs he named after you.
His blue eyes shine under the soft yellow lights, an apron under the swell of his pudgy belly. He looks incredible, wearing only a pair of black boxers that stretch across the curves of his ass. His hair is pulled back into a small bun at the nape of his neck, and there's always something smeared across his cheek.
Yesterday, it had been red velvet frosting, and today, cherry.
Bucky scoops a puff on to a small white plate, grabbing a fork from the drawer. He beams, his entire face radiant as he walks towards you.
That's the look that makes your stomach twist and leaves you feeling dizzy.
Dating Bucky has been a dream. He's loving, kind and he looks at you with such love that you lose your breath just thinking about him.
According to him, you've improved his life in several ways; he swears his food tastes better now, that you somehow make his cakes perfect, his frostings sweeter, and well, he canât look at a peach without grinning like a drunk-in-love idiot.
Youâve spent many late mornings and lazy afternoons watching him patter around the kitchen, listening to him explain his baking processes while you lounge in a chair.
You donât understand half of what heâs saying, but he speaks with such passion, his hands animatedly flying in the air as he talks about chocolates, melting points, and the differences in pans.
Bucky has discovered early on that he loves to watch you eat. To be more specific, if it's his food. Only his food, if heâs being honest. He gets so nervous every time that his stomach plummets because he wants to make things for you.
Give you so many things.
Starting with your own custom-made pastry.
âHere, Peach, it just melts on your tongue,â his deep voice lowering to a near moan.
He slips the pastry into your open mouth, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip as you swallow. Oh, your eyes almost roll back in your head when the flavors explode on your taste buds. Youâve never tasted anything that wonderful.
âOh my god, Bucky,â you gasp, leaning forward for more. âI-thatâs so good! Can I have another?â
He grins, lopsided and wide, his heart thundering so hard it feels like it might fly out of his chest. Bucky will give you pastries as much as you want if you keep looking at him like that. He puts his all into his baking and the fact that you enjoy it makes him feel as if he can walk on air.
Bucky kisses your forehead as you chew, pushing away from the table, he slides on his sock-covered feet to the fridge. âWhat do you want to drink?â
âWhat do we have?â You giggle as he dances in front of the fridge, calling out options for you.
Itâs hard to believe that the carefree man in front of you is the same one that was ashamed to remove his shirt a few weeks ago.
Bucky holds your hands at your sides, fingers laced between yours as he feasts between your thighs. He promised to make you come for him at least three times and you swear itâs been double that by now. His warm, wet tongue flicking over your swollen, sensitive clit over and over, sucking and pulling it into his mouth like he canât get enough of you.
You moan incoherently, voice hoarse from begging and mewling, your legs limp around his broad shoulders. âBuc-Bucky, oh right there, Bucky,â you plead, feeling pressure build in your belly as his tongue traces patterns over you.
Bucky grinned, his face covered in your slick. He canât remember the last time he had a better meal in his life. âThatâs my girl, so sweet, need one more taste, just a little more,â he whispers before his lips wrap around your clit again. Your mouth falls open in a wordless scream, back arching off the bed when he gently shakes his head, sucking so hard that you see stars.
Bucky groans actually groans deep and vulgar when you cum,and you feel it as your body explodes, waves of pleasure surging through you until youâre gushing on his beard. He eases up, nuzzling into your puffy folds as you come down from your high. Bucky looks up, his dark slate-blue eyes taking in your heaving chest, a bead of sweat rolling down your belly.
âOne more?â he says hopefully, wanting to dive back into your pussy.
Your eyes widen as you frantically shake your head. âNo. Oh no. Bucky, I canât, I really canât, Iâm not sure I can handle any more.â You laugh breathlessly, tugging one of your hands free from his tight grip. You rake your fingers through his hair, smiling down at him. "Besides, Iâve been dreaming about you fucking me until I canât walk.â
A faint blush sweeps across his cheeks as he averts his eyes. âPeach,â he mumbles shyly like he just didnât spend the past hour worshiping your pussy with his mouth.
Bucky stands up, wiping a hand down his face. He stares at his glistening palm for a second, and then his pink tongue darts out, swiping across the wet surface. You wonder if heâs aware that he's moaning, your pussy throbbing at the guttural sounds.
âYouâre filthy,â you jest when he does it again. His face gets even redder as he sucks on his finger.
âYou taste better than my pies,â he retorts. âI could eat you all day, every day.â
âTomorrow, for sure, but right now I want you inside me.â
His smile drops a little when you tell him to get undressed. Heâs been dreading this moment, doing everything he can to avoid it. You scoot back on the bed, reaching out for him. Bucky looks down at his body, at his belly, his eyes narrowing, he scratches the back of his neck, telling himself he can do this.
He lifts the edge of his navy blue Henley, freezing when he hears her voice in his head. âWho would want a fatty? No one is going to love you looking like that.â Even now it stings thinking about her. Bucky glances over at you, his heartbreaking at the thought of you rejecting him.
Bucky drops his shirt and reaches for the lamp. âOne second.â He says. An unmistakable hint of sadness in his voice has you sitting up. Heâs never sounded like that before.
You tilt your head to the side, searching his face. âBucky, whatâs wrong?â
âJust gonna turn the lights off first.â The corner of his lips lifts in a weak, watery smile.
You move to your knees and grab his large hand before he can switch them off. âWhy?â
Bucky swallows, âno reason, just like the lights off, 'is all.â
Buckyâs admittedly good at a lot of things, but lying isnât one of them. He briefly meets your gentle gaze, worry and fear swimming in his beautiful clear blue eyes.
Placing your hands on his chest, you grab his chin. âBucky, look at me.â He immediately follows your soft command. âWhatâs wrong? Did I do something?â
Bucky blinks, shaking his head, almost confused at the thought that you could do anything wrong. âNo, no, youâre perfect! Itâs me. I donât wanna disappoint you.â His voice tapers off in a whisper, hearing her sharp laughter the last night they were together. âI know Iâm fat, so it would be better if we turned off the lights, that way you donât have to look at me. â
You stare at your generous, doting boyfriend. âWhy wouldnât I want to look at you?,â you question, befuddled because who on earth would jump at the chance to see a naked Bucky Barnes.
He shrugs a shoulder, his somber eyes drifting down. He grabs his belly and jiggles it. Another shrug followed by a quiet, âI look different with my clothes off.â
You crane your head back, âI love your belly, itâs perfect. Who made you feel like you have to hide it?â
Bucky sighs, rubbing his cheek into your palm. âMy ex, Moxie- â
Bucky dated her two years ago. She latched on to him when he and Steve bought the bakery, wanting to be the girlfriend of the rising baking star.
Bucky slowly gained weight as he sampled his baking and designed dessert menus for local restaurants, his joy for baking expanding each day, finally getting to see his dreams become reality.
He hadnât noticed the changes in his body until one night Moxie cruelly pointed them out.
He was getting ready for bed, eager to be with his girl after a full day of running around. He had been telling her about how another restaurant wanted his input, so excited to share his news that he didnât notice the way she glared at him.
Tossing his shirt in the hamper, he turned to her and smiled, his hands on his belt. âIâve been thinking about you all day baby, I canât- â
Moxie sneered at him, pretending to gag. âAre you serious?â
Buckyâs brows furrowed. âUm, what?â
âUm, what,â she mocked, pulling the blanket up to her chest. There's a pause, tension seeping into the room. âYou know what, I have to say it, I can't take this anymore James. Look at you and look at me, why the fuck would I let you touch me anymore?â
Moxie sighed, âcan you put on your shirt back on or something because that- âshe gestured at him â-is disgustingâ She let out an irritated groan when he flinched at her words.
A punch to the gut would have hurt less. Bucky felt his heart split. âMoxie,â he whispered, unable to find words to express the pain currently ripping through him.
âLook, I didnât sign up for this, you were in shape when we got together, what the hell happened to you? Why do you think I stopped letting you touch me.â She ranted, ignoring his soft pleas for her to stop.
âEither lose the weight or Iâll fuck Steve, at least he still looks good.â She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, yawning, âcan you go somewhere else, I donât want you accidentally rolling over me and squishing me in your sleep.â
His mouth floundered open, but he couldnât speak. It all hurt too much, and he felt like he couldnât breathe, the air was too thick and his chest grew tighter with each breath; he needed to get away, terrified of what might happen if he cried in front of her.
Bucky shuffled out the room, his heart shattering with every step. He thought she was happy, that he made her happy. Her laughter following him out to the hallway made his head droop even more.
What did he do wrong?
He spent the night on the couch, staring at his old pictures through tear-filled eyes, Bucky always had a little fullness to him, but he was always happy with his body. And he had been having so much fun with the grand opening and all the new opportunities that he never noticed that he stopped needing belts and his shirts were a little snug over his belly.
Bucky called Steve, his best friend fuming when he told him what happened. By the time he was done speaking with him, Bucky felt a little better, his heart may have been in pieces but he knew what he needed to do.
He kicked her out the next morning.
Much to Moxieâs surprise and Bucky's. He may be chubby but he's not going to be her pushover either.
Bucky ignored her apologies and said she had to go. It shocked her when Steve had shown up with a roll of garbage bags, tossing them at her feet with a sharp quip that he doesnât fuck losers. Both men stood side by side, watching silently as she packed her belongings.
The only things she left behind were his broken heart and a few nagging insecurities that plagued him.
He finishes, his broad shoulders slumped under the weight of his confession, you want nothing more than to stamp out the sadness marring his beautiful eyes.
âI thought she loved me but--â he sighs, â--I donât want you to look at me the way she did, I love you too much, Peach, and I know I should probably lose a few -â
Youâve never been angrier in your life. You want to punch little Ms. Moxie in her throat, she better hope she never runs into you because they will have to pry you off of her.
Clearing your head, you clasp his face in your hands and pull him down for a kiss. âBucky Barnes, you are the sweetest man I know, youâre beautiful and I love everything about you.â
You silence his objections with another kiss. âI mean it Bucky, I love all of you. You donât need to change anything.â
Bucky swallows the small protest, letting himself relax. Youâre not her, you wonât hurt him. Placing a kiss on his soft, round belly, you murmur, âyou have no idea how sexy you are, honey.â
You stand on the bed, holding on to his bicep for balance, and tug his shirt off. Looking down at him, you bite your lip. Heâs ridiculously handsome and youâre going to prove it to him.
You pepper kisses along the curve of his neck as you sink back down, praising him and telling him how much you love him, describing in vivid detail how each part of his body is perfect.
His confidence and love for you growing with each word. By the time you reach the band of his boxers, he panting, his eyes darkening with an almost feral need to possess you.
Bucky tears off the last barrier keeping you from him and he pounces. You giggle as he pushes you into the soft blankets, the solid, comforting weight of his body encompassing you as he kisses you with such passion you forget to breathe. His warm lips melding into yours, his wet tongue dipping into your mouth, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue as it dips into your mouth.
Bucky reaches down with one hand, grabbing his cock, his other hand cupping the back of your head as he deepens the kiss. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on yours so he can gaze into your eyes. Bucky watches your mouth fall open, a gasp pouring out when he guides his thick cock into you.
He rolls his hips, moving deeper into your wet, hot heat. âThatâs it Peach, youâre so good,â He brushes his lips across yours, swallowing your oh Bucky as he stretches your tight pussy around him. The slight burn gives aways to pure bliss, you circle your hips after a minute. A quiet Iâm ready breathed into his mouth.
Bucky thrusts languidly into your pussy, each deliberate slow drag of his throbbing cock against your soft walls sends bursts of pleasure up your belly and down your spine. His lovemaking tender, yet so possessive that your head is reeling.
He makes sure that you feel all of him, each inch as you clench down, greedy for more of him, even as he goes deeper and deeper, his soft lips caressing your neck. His body keeping you pinned, so you have to take everything heâs giving you.
That pressure builds again, heavy and hot in your belly, digging your heels into the top of his thighs, you meet his strokes, pleading with him to please move a little faster, you need it so bad.
You donât have to beg; he wants you to cum for him; he wants to feel your sweet pussy flutter around him as you cry out his name.
Bucky sucks a bruise on your throat, his hips pounding into yours. The headboard smacking against the wall with each powerful thrust. The dull thuds drowned out by your loud moans, the pressure getting more intense.
âBucky,ââ you cry out, scratching his lower back when he grinds his hips down, ââoh fuck, do that, do that again,â you frantically chant, slapping your hands on his ass, keening when he does, god yes, he does it just right, hitting a tender spot inside your cunt so hard that you bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.
âThat it Peach, is that what you need.â He slips a hand between your bodies, his wide fingers circling your clit, âGo on, cum for me, give it to me Peach, be my good girl, and cum for me.â
You do, your walls clenching down as the pressure snaps, sensations firing off as your orgasms winds through you. Buckyâs pace falters, becomes erratic when he feels you milking his cock, unable to hold himself back any longer he lets himself go, relishing in your warmth until he spills inside you.
He tries to roll off of you, but you wrap your arms around him, murmuring for him to stay for a minute. You smooth your hands over his slick back, Bucky relaxes on top of you, grinning at your contented sigh. âI love you Peach.â
âLove you too,â you respond, plotting all the ways youâre going to let him know how much he means to you.
After that night, you began to praise Bucky, complimenting his body every chance you got, smacking his ass whenever he walked past you, hugging and kissing him.
The first couple of weeks, he would hide his face behind one of his large hands and his cheeks would resemble one of his bright red apples. âPeach, you donât have to, I mean Iâm-â he would stammer each time, always tucking his hair behind his ears.
It took you three days to figure out that he has a praise kink and you amped it. He barely opened his eyes before you were saying something that made him hide his face behind his pillow, laughing when you wiggled under it to tell him how good he looks when he smiles.
While you loved making him blush, you cherished how confident he became. And you reaped the benefits, one second he was a bashful baker with buttercream frosting on his forehead, the next he was bending you over his counter, railing you so good you couldnât even scream his name.
After a while, he stopped avoiding the bathroom mirror in the mornings. And you couldnât wipe the grin off your face, the first time you saw him cooking, shirtless, in the kitchen. He turned when he heard your footsteps, his face turning that familiar shade of red as you openly gawked.
âCâmon Peach, donât you start-â he playfully grumbles, his lip twitching as he held in his smile, he moved back to the frying pan turning off the stove as he braces himself.
You squeal, flinging yourself at him, peppering his back with kisses. You couldnât contain the litany of praises on your tongue, so proud of him. Bucky twisted in your grasp, cupping your face in his hands. âGod I love you Peach.â
Bucky and Steve are celebrating the grand opening of another bakery. The largest one to date. The new building is full of investors, press, other bakers and chefs, a live band playing in the corner, drinks, and food everywhere, and of course the tower of desserts in the middle of the room. The atmosphere light and airy, glasses clinking, people dancing and every kind of cake, pies, and pastry imaginable on silver platters through the room.
Youâve never had so much fun, although a slightly buzzed Bucky is having an even better time because youâre wearing one of his favorite dresses. You remember when he first saw you in it, you twirled out of the dressing room and he nearly lost it in the middle of the store.
The more he celebrates, the more heâs giving you that look. Steve has to keep interfering, heâs close to going feral in front of all his guests.
Steve sent him to the kitchen after he caught him trying to put his hand between your thighs. Youâre laughing as a contrite Bucky gets up from the table to refill the rapidly diminishing display.
âYou know Iâve known Buck my whole life and Iâve never seen him this happy.â Steve remarks as he takes a seat across from you. His warm blue eyes glistening. âThank you for that. Heâs been through a lot and youâre the best thing that happened to him.â
Your cheeks get heated at his words. Steve leans forward, holding your hand between his. âI mean it, even though heâs getting on my last nerve talking about you.â
Steve squeezes your hand as he looks up at the ceiling for a second. âGod, the man never shuts up, and Iâm this close to strangling him if he compares you to another peach, but I love-â
He cuts off, his head jerks back so fast, you think something struck him. âWhat the fuck is she doing here?â
You turn around in your chair, searching the crowded room. âWho are you talking about?â
âMoxie,â Steve spits out, his hand curling into a fist. âWhite dress by the bar.â
You find her flirting with one of the investors. Moxie puts her hand on his chest, her shrill laugh cutting through the surrounding conversations. Whatever she tried fails spectacularly. The tall, sturdy blonde grimaces and walks away. You would almost feel bad if you didnât want to slam her face into the wall.
She spots Steve and waves, making her way through the crowd. âHey, long time no see.â
Steve raises a brow, his eyes hardening. âWhy are you here?â
She laughs, patting his shoulder. âIâm here to apologize to Bucky, I know he misses me, he must be lonely.â
âReally?â you question, keeping your voice light and even.
Moxie dismissively glances at you before returning her attention to Steve. You chuckle under your breath, tapping your heel on the floor.
Donât ruin your manâs event. Donât ruin your mansâ event. You repeat the thought as you inhale through your nose.
âSo I heard you two are doing really well.â She says, her manicured nails roaming over Steveâs suit. âReally well.â
Steve flicks her fingers off him, âWe are. No Buckyâs not lonely. He doesnât miss you. Heâs very happy. With her.â
Moxieâs polite veneer cracks when Steve points at you. Waving your fingers at her, you grin at her. âYou go near my Bucky and Iâll rip that cheap necklace off and shove it down your throat.â
She turns to Steve, gesturing to you as if she's the innocent one here; he raises his glass, blowing a harsh breath through his lips. âDonât look at me, I still donât fuck losers, but Iâll call you if that changes.â
You laugh in your empty glass when she sputters. She turns to you, hand on her hip. You slowly raise your eyes, returning her stare. Part of you wanting her to do something, so you can wipe the smirk off her overly painted face.
âWhatever, I donât need this. Keep the fattie. I can find another rich loser like that.â She snaps her fingers, storming over to the bar. You blink a few times in disbelief. The audacity of this bitch, thinking that she can stay and mingle at his event.
You're debating if you should have her thrown out by one of the staff or if you should drag her out by her hair.
You look her up and down as you ponder your choices, pausing when you see the edge of a tag sticking out the back of her dress. Hmm, interesting. She must plan on returning it after tonight.
A devious smirk slowly takes over your face, you know exactly what youâre going to do to little Ms. Moxie.
You glance at Steve, picking up his wineglass. Steve shakes his head while grabbing your hand. âHey hey, I know what youâre thinking, and no.â
Before you can say anything, heâs pouring more burgundy wine into the glass until itâs nearly sloshing over the sides. âIf youâre going do it, you gotta do it right.â
You exchange knowing glances. No one hurts Bucky. You saunter over to her, keeping your hand steady, not wanting to lose a single drop on the floor.
âHey Moxie,â you call out. She turns around and you âtripâ over your heels, the deep red liquid flying forward in a perfect arch, splashing across her ivory dress, her face and you even got some in her hair.
âOops, gosh, I am so clumsy,â you state, hiding your grin as she shrieks.
Steve jumps up, offering to help before she can swing at you. âI got you, darling.â
He places a hand on her back, quickly ushering her away âa little club soda will get that right out,â he reassures a pouting, whining Moxie.
He's lying through his teeth, that stain will never come out. Steve gets a peek at the price tag, almost laughing at the $899 imprinted on the card. He maintains his façade, leading her through the room, he stops, giving her a wide smile.
âAnd you can find some at the drugstore down the street.â He states, opening the front door and pushing her out. Her indignant shouts cut off when he slams the door in her face.
You throw your head back and cackle, startling some guests around the bar, you apologize for your outburst between fits of laughter, wiping the tears pricking at your eyes. You wave down the amused bartender, placing an order for you and Steve.
Steve joins you, raising his fresh glass of wine in a toast. âNo one fucks with Bucky.â
But what you and Steve did was even better, the love of his life and his best friend always looking out for him.
Loving him unconditionally.
And just like that, the last traces of his insecurities vanished.
Later that night, you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. He smiles at your hand on his belly. He places his large hand over yours, wondering how he got so lucky to have you.
And if Steve would kill him if he named another dessert after you.
Summary: the Baby Daddy Santi chronicles are back, baybee!
Warnings: a little angst, a little fluff.
Rating: 18+ ONLY. minors DNI.
Word Count: 5.2k
A/N: I KNOW IT'S BEEN FOREVER (see: "definition of "forever"", meaning: 107 days). thank you for being so patient. As always reblogs are rewarded with a virtual hug if you're into that sorta thing. And if you're not on the taglist and you distinctly remember asking me to add you to the taglist, pls lmk, I'm dreadful at keeping that stuff organized. Much love to you all.
Fish disembarks with a playful nudge of your woodpile with the toe of his boot. âGood luck with your project, hermosa.âÂ
âYou can come check it out on Thrusday, bring me a little housewarming plant for it, huh? Something pretty.â
He gives you a lazy salute and wink. You donât watch as he pulls out of Santiâs driveway. You zone out, staring at the clean vertical lines of your freshly shorn lawn. You can hear Santi still wrenching and clanking around in the kitchen. You didnât hear their whole conversation, just bits and pieces, the fucking window was open and it wasnât like you were trying to give them privacy anyway. You feel a bout of nausea swell in your throat and you canât tell if its guilt, or if itâs morning sickness, or if its from the ungodly heat or a bodily reaction to the fertility hormones, but you feel on the edge of vomiting. You rest a palm over your lower abdomen. It could be in there right now. Jayâs face pops into your head and you want to cry. You take a deep breath and rest your head against the slatted outer wall of your craftsman home. You donât know how long youâve been staring out at the lawn with the echos of Fishâs words humming against the insides of your skull when the clanking stops and Santi comes to join you on the porch.
âFilters all set up, Iâm letting the water run. The booklet said it has to go for an hour until itâs good to drink.â
You donât respond, so he continues,
âI put the five gal under it though, so it catches all the water⊠I googled it and it said that the filtration test water is safe for plants, so maybe you can use it on someââ
You cover your face with your hands to hide the tears that well up in your eyes.
âHey!â Santi crouches down to your level quickly with his popping knees and puts a reassuring arm around your shoulder. âWhatâs wrong?â You shake your head, still hiding your eyes and you laugh incredulously.Â
âNothing. Nothingâs wrong. Thank you, Santi.â You sniff a sob and laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
âCouldâve fooled me with the waterworks, Iâ whatâs this pile of⊠stickers?â
You wipe your eyes to see that Santiâs brow is scrunched, investigating the clump of alphabetâd small stickers in between his fingers.
âItâs⊠I thoughtâŠâ you hiccup. Dammit.Â
Santi laughs. âDonât tell me, Vin. Did the little earthquake I caused make the stickers fall off?âÂ
You sniff the snot back into your nose and you nod. âYou know what? Thatâs exactly how it happened.â
âAnd then they all banded together in a pile to hide from the aftershocks?âÂ
âNailed it. Two for two. Youâre on a roll.â
You take a deep breath, hiccuping despite your best composed efforts, and Santi fully lowers himself beside you, arm still around your shoulders. He squeezes you close to his side. He smells like sweat and basil, lemons and lawn clippings.
Santi follows your line of vision to the freshly manicured lawn. âAre you crying about the hedges? I know I did them a little bit short this time, butââ
âI heard Fish.â
Santiâs grip loosens almost imperceptibly and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.
âHe doesnât know what heâs talking about, Vin. Love the guy to death but heâs been a martyr since recovery. â
You nod in reluctant agreement.Â
âHeyâŠ.People are going to think what theyâre going to think. It wonât stop with Frank.â
âYeah I know itâsâŠâ
The lawn is pretty. You hone in on a bee writhing on a violet blossom.
âItâs the hormones, I think.â
You know its a lie, even as it leaves your mouth. It doesnât convince you and you sure as shit know it doesnât convince Santiago.Â
âHormones, huh? Sorry about that.â
You hiccup and laugh, ânot your fault. No need to apologize.â
Santi stretches his legs out from under himself and sighs. âWell if the turkey basting did itâs job, I think itâs only fair I share partial blame, donât you think?â His grip tightens on you once more and you laugh through a fresh bout of tears, you rest your head on his sweat dampened cotton shirt, wriggling your nose to alleviate the itch.
âIâm sorry.â You whisper as a fresh flood of tears escape.
âCâmon, Vin. You donât have anything to be sorry about.â He kisses the top of your forehead casually and rubs your shoulder, letting you shift closer to him, wrapping your arms around his middle.
âBut I do. I really really do.â You bury your face into his cotton clothed chest. âEven fucking now, I can help myself⊠I cosign you to all my bullshit. Youâve been picking up my broken pieces, letting me cry into your t-shirts since day one, since ground zero. Itâs not fair to you.â
âThis shirt is filthy anyway.â
You shake your head against his chest.
âThis is the hormones talking. That ovulation injection is no joke.â
âMaybe you should go lie down.â
âIâm not tired.â
âDelusional and stubborn, huh?â
You smack his chest lightly.
âGo take a nap, Vin. Lie down. Iâll get you some water⊠some fresh reverse osmosis water⊠in an hour.â
Itâs hard to move, to leave this spot on the sweltering porch, itâs not exactly comfortable on the floor, but your face is resting on the soft cotton of Santiâs t-shirt. Heâs content to let you, just like heâs always been; content to let you call the shots, to dictate the direction, no matter what fucking storm you decide to steer the ship towards.Â
You eventually concede to a nap and Santi walks you upstairs. He takes off your shoes, and tucks you into your bed, clothes and all. He leaves for a while and in your in-between-states-of-consciousness, Santi sets a glass of water on your nightstand. Heâs certainly thinking youâre fast asleep as he pulls your duvet snugly to your ears. You fall asleep totally after he softly closes your bedroom door and when you wake up two hours later, thereâs a fully constructed plant shelf on your front porch.Â
The next few days pass like any other. Every morning you arise to bake something new, forgoing the oven on Tuesdayâs sweltering morning temperatures to concoct some no-bake oatmeal cookies that cause Santiago to outright hoard the batch in his fridge, making you promise not to give them out. Youâre too cranky and tired on a novel lack of caffeine to put up much of a fight.Â
You never mention the plant shelf to Santiago, but on Wednesday morning thereâs a large pot of vibrant green basil on the shelf which youâre certain is his doing.Â
On Thursday morning you head to the fertility clinic to test to see if the initial âturkey bastingâ was successful. They take your urine sample and you twiddle your thumbs, seated with your bare ass on the butcher paper in the empty exam room⊠they tell you it has.Â
Youâre pregnant. Pregnant. Your heart rate picks up and you have to lie down, the paper crinkling under your back and behind your hair as you cup your mouth with your hands and begin to cry⊠again. Fucking hormones.Â
The usual surly nurse congratulates you and tells you to come back in eight weeks for the ultrasound. Ultrasound.Â
You donât trust yourself to drive home straight away. You wonder around the neighboring shopping complex and people-watch families. Families on evening walks, families out to dinner, families smiling, families bickering⊠You hold your abdomen and laugh to yourself. And cry. Again.
By the time you get home, the sun has already gone down. Santiâs driveway holds additional cars, like most Thursday evenings. the boys are over to watch the game. You quietly exit your car, you sit in the dark on your porch swing and watch Santi, Will, Benny, Frank, and Tom through Santiâs dining room window. They clap shoulders, hold cans of beer and shout playfully at one another. The noises are an unintelligible hum that swells in your heart. After about 30 minutes, Fish drags Santi to the front window and points to the street. Santiago cups his hands against the blaring light of his living room to peer out into the darkness. Heâs looking at your car.Â
In a matter of moments, Santiago is walking down his driveway and up yours. (he never jumps the hedges. Fastidious, that one.) you smile to yourself as he fixes he hair and squares his shoulders, preparing to ring your doorbell when he spots you in the dark on the swing.Â
âVin!â He takes a step towards you and pauses.
âHeyâ You donât know if he can see your face in the shadows or not, but something keeps him from advancing, from joining you on the two-person swing.
âWhy arenât you over there? You didnât even tell me where you were going today, but, thatâs, thatâs okay. Everyoneâs been asking about you. Ben brought that dip you like and Fish swore up and down that he hasnât told anyone, besides Rach, obviously. So itâs not as if you have to explain anything. If you donât want to.âÂ
Santi scratches the back of his neck and takes one more shuffling step closer to the swing. Hesitant. âVin?â
âI have to tell you something.â
Even in the dim lighting you can see Santiâs demeanor sobering up. He crosses his arms and immediately responds, âOkay, yeah, I have to tell you something too.â
âIâ huh?â You werenât expecting any new information.Â
âYou first.â You canât see his face but you know him so well that you know by his tone of voice the exact face heâs making. That defensive clenched jaw thing that he does with the upwards chin tilt. Youâd bet a million dollars that his chin is high in the air.
âCome sit.â
It takes a few beats before Santiago joins you on the porch swing, but he eventually does. The chains creak, his knees pop and he exhales expectantly.
You donât want to keep him from the game, god only knows what important plays he might be missing, so you decide to come out with it.
âI went to the clinic today andââ
âYou did?! Why didnât you tell me? I could haveââ
âI wanted to go alone, just in case, Iââ
âWhatâd theyââ
âIâm pregnant.â
Youâre grateful for the darkness of the porch which keeps Santiagoâs expression a mystery. Beyond the hedges, through the glow of Santiagoâs living room window, a muffled cheer erupts. Shouting, clapping. Mustâve been an impressive score.Â
âHow are you feeling?â
âBeen crying like crazy. Not sad crying. Just lots of crying. Crying for no reason. At sunsets. At families holding hands. At life insurance commercials⊠At my best friends watching a football game one house awayâŠâ
Santi sits there in silence. You canât even hear him breathing. You continue.Â
âOther than that, Iâm good, Iâ it still feels unreal, you know? But I feel good about it. It was so quick, too. Wasnât it? I donât know why, but for some reason because of all the rigamarole the clinic put me through I thought this process was going to take months or years or something. But, first try, and bam. Which sounds about right when I think about it. Itâs you, after all. Mister tactical soap. Of course your swimmers would get into formation and attack at dawn. No survivors.â
âThose ovaries didnât stand a chance.â
âNo they did not.âÂ
âYou donât have to come over if you donât want toâ I can give you some space.âÂ
âNo. I want to. I want to see everyone. I know its only been a few weeks but I miss those idiots.â
âLets do it then.â Santi rises and you hook your arm through his offered elbow. Once you step out into the illuminating glow of the street lamps you see the way his mouth is quirked up in an easy smile. His eyes are slightly glassy from the lagers and the texture of his stubble, the way it folds in at his barely visible smile line⊠without thinking you run the tip of your finger from the corner of his mouth, up to his ear.Â
âI like it when you smile, old man.âÂ
The lines deepen around his mouth when his smile expands.Â
âCongratulations, by the way.â
âThanks.â
- - - - - - - - -Â
The get together is a typical Thursday evening fare. The only difference being your abstinence from alcohol and general lack of interest in football has relegated you to maidly duties of replenishing drinks and snacks while the testosterone crew shouts at Santiagoâs flatscreen.Â
The boys are invested the game, but you enjoy watching them watch the game. Benny is by far the most into it, which makes him the star player of the crew. He throws his poor worn ball cap to the ground when the play doesnât go his way, stands up when he shouts. He claps and hollers when his preferred team scores and paces around during time outs. You might blame his passion on his proximal youth, but you donât believe time will be capable of stripping him of his fervent fanaticism.Â
By the time you get there itâs past halftime and the âgames a dead horse anywayâ according to Will (Benny disagrees). You collect your hugs from each of the boys. The hug from Frankie is longer and tighter than usual.Â
After the game is over, the boys play some low-stakes poker and one by one each of the crew retreats to the living room to ârest their eyesâ, the place is a mess, the boys are sloshed and and passed out on the various soft surfaces of Santiagoâs living room. You help Santiago clear away the detritus of a night well spent and just before midnight Santiago offers to walk you back home.Â
âWould you? I wouldnât want to get lost on my way in the dark, and this sure is a bad neighborhood. Just last week someone stole the Grossman kidâs skateboard off the front lawn. These streets are dangerous.â
âPipe down, youâll wake up Tom.â
You glance down at a particular patch of cozy carpet on the living room floor where Tomâs long body is splayed out, snoring like a logging factory. You roll your eyes and stage whisper to Santiago, âYeah seems like a real Princess and The Pea situation. Better slip out quietly.â You exaggeratedly tiptoe out of the front door and put your finger up to your lips and whisper-yell at Santiago, âClose the door GENTLY!!âÂ
Santiago shakes his head, shuts the door, and joins you on the driveway.Â
âOh! Look at the moon!â Its a full one, slightly yellow and impossibly big this evening. âSo pretty.âÂ
You donât know it but Santiago isnât looking at the moon. Heâs looking at you look at the moon. The way your eyes are all big and glittery. That awestruck smile you have. At something as simple and as constant as the fucking moon. âLook at the moon she says, how could I possibly look at the fucking moon when sheâs so⊠So what, Yago? What is she?â
Santiago stuffs his hands in is pockets and looks up at the moon. It is pretty.Â
You grab him by the elbow. âLets lay on the driveway and look at the sky for a little bit?â
âWhat? Right now?â
âNo. Not right now. How horribly convenient would that be? Lets meet back here at oh three-hundred hours when weâre too sleepy to enjoy it.âÂ
âFine, wait here.â
Santiago turns to go back in the house.
âWhatâre you doing?â
âIâm not laying on the driveway without a blanket.â
âGood idea⊠oh, Santi, while youâre in there can you make me a cup of tea?â
Santi raises his eyebrows. âHerbal tea?â
âYes. Iâve come around. Matured. One herbal tea please.â
âComing right up.â
You lay out on the driveway in the warm summer evening, stretching out with your hands behind your head. You get lost in time for a bit, staring at the beautiful clear sky.Â
Santiago stares at you from the porch. Blanket and tea in hand and admires you quietly, bathed in moonlight. Content. Pregnant. Pregnant with his child. Not his. Yours. Dios.Â
Santiago spreads out the blanket next to you after handing you the steaming mug. You set it down and scoot over till youâre on the flannel fabric. He lays down next to you, mimicking your hands-behind-head position.Â
You donât turn your head to look at him when he speaks. You continue to stare up at the full moon, the clear sky, terrified that he might not be looking up at all.
âYou hoping for a boy, or a girl?â
âHmmm, I donât know⊠I guess Iâve always wanted a girl. But after taking care of these dopes for so long, I feel finely attuned to caring for dudes⊠Iâll be happy either way. How about you Santi, do you have a preference?â
âDo I have a preference? No⊠no.. I mean. I know youâll be great no matter what.â
âYeah, thats a given.â You laugh and nudge his elbow with your own, âbut have you had your heart set on either?âÂ
Santi shakes his head, staring at the sky, âI havenât had my heart set on anything, Vin.â
âI think the gender is the least of my concerns anyway.â
âWhatâs the most of your concerns?â
âRaising it as a single parent⊠if Iâm co-signing them to a doomed lifeâŠâ
âYouâre gunna do great Vin. Donât be nervous. Iâm here for you.â
âI know. I know you are. You donât have to be.â
âI know I donât HAVE to be but I want tââ
âWhy though? Why do you feel endebted to me? Why did you do this, let me walk all over your life without a fight? Is it guilt? Guilt I can understand. Iâm well acquainted with guilt. Is that what it is? Or is it pity?â
âPity? For what?â
âFor the Widow next door that you have to entertain, the sad girl you invite to your get togethers. The crazy plant lady who canât hold a screwdriver.â Your hands drift to your stomach.
Santi huffs with incredulity and shakes his head. âItâs not pity. I want to help because⊠thatâs just who I am. I donât know Vin, I see you, youâre there, you need help, I help. Itâs not that complicated.â
âNot that complicated? Youâd call this ânot that complicatedâ?â Hot tears betray you, you hardly even try to stop them. Not here, in the open blanket of night, Santiago tilting his head in concern towards you.Â
âDonât cry. Please Vin. Youâve been crying to much lately, whatâs wrong?â
âI miss him. I miss Jay every fucking day. I wake up and his photo is right fucking there. I think about putting it away⊠I did put it away for a while, but I even missed THAT⊠so I put it back. On the nightstand.â
âWhat would you say to him?â
âHuh?â
âIf Jay was hereâŠ. Not alive, but a spirit or ghost or something⊠what would you say to him? If he materialized right now?â
You wipe your eyes. âIâd ask if he was happy. If he was safe⊠Iâd probably ask him if heaven is real. If heâs in heaven. If he met ElvisâŠâ You laugh.
âAnd what else?â
âAnd then Iâd say⊠I⊠I needed you Jay. I needed you. Iâd say that sometimes Iâm still so angry that youâre not here that it makes me scream. Iâm angry that we never went to that stupid âParty Time Tacoâ restaurant we kept getting flyers for, just to see how bad it was. Iâm angry that you didnât have a fucking last will and testament, so it was on me to guess at everything you would have wanted. Iâm angry that you left me alone. And I think sometimes I get so angry, because if I felt sad instead, Iâd fall apart.â
You donât know at what point in your sobbing rant that Santiagoâs arm came over your shoulders, but youâre grateful for his steadying embrace as your tears slow down to faint hiccups.Â
âYou wanna know what Iâd think heâd say?â
âWhat?â
âThat heâs proud of you. Heâs proud of how strong you are. Heâs proud of you for getting out of bed every morning. He knows how hard it must be. And that he couldnât imagine anyone being a better mother⊠and how badass he thinks it is that youâre doing this on your own.â
âThanks, Santi.â
âHe also says you shouldnât be watering the backyard for fifteen minutes in the evening. Do five in the morning and 10 at nightâ
âOh he said all that did he?â
âYep. donât shoot the messenger.â
âWhat was the thing you had to tell me?â
âHmm?â
âThe thing. When you were on the porch you said you had somethingâŠâ
âYeah. I⊠Iâm taking a job in South America.â
âWhere at?â
âCanât say.â
âYou donât know?â
âNo. I know.â
âOhhh⊠one of those.â
âYep.â
âHow long will you be gone?â
âDonât know.â
âYou donât know at all?â
âNot really.â
âNot even a guess?â
âVin. Câmon you know I canât tell you.â
âA week? A month?⊠longer? Blink twice if itâs longer than a month.â
âI donât know.â
Your hand drifts to your stomach.
Santi breathes out, âAre you upset?â
âNo! Why would I be upset?â Your voice squeaks defensively.
âBecause I wonât be around while youâreâŠâ
âI said Iâm fine! Iâm doing this alone and I meant that!â
âYeah I know. Iâm just worried.â
âAbout?â
âOh I donât know Vin, If something happens to you and you canât get in contact with me.â
âIf I were you Iâd be much more concerned with doing some sort of clandestine mission in a foreign country.â
Santi is silent.
âWill you call?â You ask softly.
âIf I can.â He replies at the same quiet level.
âSend a postcard?â
Santi barks out a laugh, âYeah Iâll send you a postcard. Greetings from redacted! With all incriminating details blacked out in sharpie.â
âYou going alone?â
âNo. The guys are going with me.â
âAll of them?â
âThe whole gang.â
âMust be a big job.â
âYou could say that.â
âWhen do you leave?â
Santi takes a deep breath. âTomorrow.â
âTomorrow?! As in, like, today-tomorrow?â
âYeah. Iâm all packed. Tonight was a last hurrah stateside.â
âHow long have you known about this job??â
âA while.â
"And when the fuck pray tell were you planning on telling me?"
âFuck I donât know Vin, I didnât want to stress you out. I kept trying to find the right moment to tell you but, I donât know, I didnât want you to worry and youâve started crying again and..â
âHormones!â
âRight, hormones. I didnât want to stress you out.â
âWell Iâm considerably less stressed now, learning that you were so worried about this trip yourself that you decided it was better to keep me in the dark and wait till the last possible second to clue me in rather than just tell me. Did you tell the guys to keep it a secret from me too? A last hurrah party and not one of them mentioned the international travel plans the whole night?â
âIâm sorry.â
âItâs fine. It is. You donât have to tell me everything, right? Thatâs⊠youâre not⊠itâs fine.â You pat his back âSorry for freaking out. If you say youâre going to be fine then I should trust you, right? You know what youâre doing.â
Santi nods and is tight-lipped when he mutters, âRight.â
âYou need me to water your plants or anything while youâre gone? Get your mail?â
âAlready taken care of.â
You nod and click your tongue, âWell, itâs getting late.â You dump the contents of your herbal tea onto the lawn and hand Santi the mug. âWill I see you before you leave?â
âWe leave in, Santi checks his watch. 5 and a half hours.â He says with tight apologetic eyes.
âFive and a half hours,â you mutter under your breath. âYou need a ride to the airport?â You ask more loudly, already deciding that if he says âyeah thatâd be greatâ youâll laugh in his stupid chiseled face.
âWe have a shuttle coming⊠but thanks.â He looks so tired. But so what if he is, itâs his own fault if he isnât well rested for his trip.
âWell then, you better get your beauty rest. Those boys are going to have raging headaches tomorrow.â
You get up and rock back and forth on your feet facing Santi. His knees are bent, one hand clasping his wrist, eyebrows downturned with concern.
âIâll see you in⊠well⊠when you get back.â
âVinââ
âGoodnight, Pope.â
He doesnât rise to chase you. Doesnât grab your wrist and force you to hug him goodbye. Doesnât wipe away your tears with his thumbs. He remains sitting on the driveway when you get inside your home. And when you lay down in your bed, tears soaking your pillow, heâs still out there, staring at the fucking moon.
You have a nightmare. Not the usual horror of Jay collapsing in the middle of highway 1, the recurring playback panic of the last two years. No, in this nightmare youâre sitting on your porch in a rocking chair, holding a potted plant, one so big it crushes your thighs. Santiâs house, usually pristine and well kept, is condemned, paint chipped, windows smashed, lawn overgrown. You rock faster and faster out of control until the ceramic pot falls off your lap and crashes to the floor.
You wake with a gasp and leap out of bed. You nearly trip over the sheet still caught on your foot when you rush over to the window. Itâs still dark outside. Santi isnât out there any longer, neither is the blanket or your mug. You look at the clock. 4:30. You sigh in relief. They havenât left yet.
You throw on a robe over your nightgown and go downstairs. You turn on the kettle before getting the ingredients out to make biscuits. Those idiots really shouldnât have drank so much last night. You figure the least you can do is make them some breakfast sandwiches they can take with them. Itâs not like youâll be able to get back to sleep.
Youâre wrapping up the last of the sandwiches (seven in total, one for Santi, Fish, and Redfly. Two for each of the voracious Miller brothers) when you see a blue shuttle van pull up in Santiagoâs driveway. The sun has barely risen and the muffler steams as the driver beeps twice. You put the sandwiches in a paper bag and forget your slippers in a hurry, meeting the boys with their pack laden arms as they unload their bags into the van.
âMorning, Vin!â Fish greets you, causing Santiago to nearly snap his neck when he turns around in surprise. You hand the bag of breakfast goods to Fish.
âMmm whatâs this?â Frank pokes his nose into the bag and breathes deeply.
âJust a little something to soak up any remaining tequila.â
âUgh, please donât say tequilaâ Benny groans, shuffling off his pack into the trunk before he wraps you up in a hug. âTake care, Vin.â
âI will.â
In turn, each of the boys hugs you and thanks you. You tell them all to âbe safeâ and that the âwelcome home party will be at casa de Vinita. With plenty of tequila.â Benny groans again. Santi watches you, arms folded leaning against the passenger door of the running shuttle. The boys load in and buckle up. Benny is already ripping into the parchment paper of his breakfast and will snatches the bag with a gravelly, âyouâre an animal, Ben.â
You lock eyes with Santi, a strange anticipation tingling in your fingers. You both jump slightly when the shuttle driver beeps his horn. Santi glares at the driver who points at his watch.
âPinche⊠give me a minute, Kay?â
You take two barefooted steps towards Santi and wrap your arms around his middle, resting your head on his chest. He holds you close, like heâs giving you a concentrated dose of hugs, giving you a full monthâs worth of embraces in one sitting.
âI had a nightmare about you last night.â You whisper so only he can hear. He inhales deeply and rubs his hands carefully up and down your back. You can feel the gripping dance of his fingers through the material of the robe and it makes you shiver. You grip him closer. âBe safe. Please.â You whisper, hoping youâre the only one who registers how desperate your plea really sounds.
Santiagoâs hands skim up to the sides of your face and he gently pulls your head away from his chest. You choke back the makings of a whine. You donât want the hug to be over, not yet, youâre going to miss him. He rubs his warm thumbs against your cheeks and thereâs no warning at all, no hesitation, no eyes flicking to your lips, no sweep of tongue to wet his own, when he kisses you on the mouth.
Itâs slow. Achingly slow. Your gasp of surprise is muffled by the insistent pressure of his mouth. You canât be sure, but, if he he had been hugging you in prepayment of all the embraces youâd miss in the coming weeks, then this kiss is surely back payment, with interest, for all the times heâs stopped himself from kissing you in the past. Recompense, remuneration; a distilled unspoken passion. Thereâs nothing âfirst-kiss' about it, not clumsy, not awkward, not unsure. It feels practiced, steady, anticipated. The tingling in your fingers makes total sense and you use those same fingers to glide through his silvery thick curls when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him.
He twists your form in his broad arms, angling your faces away from the van, causing one of your bare feet to leave the ground and lift slightly like a wilting ballerina in swan lake or something out of an old movie.
Thereâs a romantic reverence in the way his tongue moves with yours, his nose pressed against your cheek, hot steady breath blowing comfortingly against your face.
You both jolt again and break apart your lip lock when the shuttle driver lays on the horn.
Santi doesnât so much as furrow his brow at the driver when he steadies you back on two legs.
You blink rapidly and stare at your feet. What the fuck?
âIâll be back soon.â Santi promises, squeezing your hand assuredly before climbing in the passenger seat and closing the door.
Frankie gives you a wide eyed smile before sliding the back door closed and you can hear the muffled admonitions of the driver as he hastily pulls out of the driveway and speeds off down the residential street.Â
