⚠️Still on Hiatus⚠️ Kinta / Minami | INFJ-T | Multifandoms | Spontaneous Energy DNI | Kermit memes are my mood ❁Currently torn between Matt and Bucky 🥲
Masterlist || Harry Castillo x Reader || Part X: Confessions of a Castillo
Summary: Secrets come undone when the truth finally hits the table, leaving you reeling and unable to get out of bed for days. Late one night, a quiet exchange sheds new light on the story you’ve been told.
|| fake dating, angst!!!!!!!!!!! tabloids, Gossip Girl AU, socialite!reader, richgirl!reader, kinda bratty!reader, NYC, reader is in her mid 20s, old money lifestyle, trust fund babies, age gap, rich people problems, no spice, all drama, tw: mentions of ED (not reader) ||
wc: 4.7k
It was your father who spoke first.
“Pumpkin, what’s going on? Are you o—”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you cut in, your voice low and shaking with fury as you marched to their table. The three men hardly looked rattled. Chuck leaned back with a burrowed brow and twisted mouth, not even looking up at you. Your father’s surprise curdled into sternness. Sr. Castillo showed almost nothing at all, just the faintest crease between his brows.
“You’re going to tell me every ounce of truth you’ve got.” You jabbed your finger down at the circular wooden table, where their sweating cocktail glasses ringed the grain. The light was dim, casting deep shadows on their face. “Starting with why I’m only just finding out you’re not even my full brother.” Your hand snapped up, finger aimed straight at Chuck’s face.
Chuck’s brown eyes finally met yours. Your father blanched. Sr. Castillo’s mouth curved into a small frown.
There was a long, heavy pause.
“Sit down, Miss Montclair,” the eldest Castillo said with a sigh, almost gentle.
“No thanks,” you bit out, heat rising in your chest, your teeth grinding in your jaw.
“Sit. Down.” Your father’s voice cracked like a whip, the sternest you’d ever heard it.
You glared at all three of them before striding to the next table. Gripping the back of a chair, and you dragged it across the hardwood, the scrape shrill as nails on a chalkboard. You hauled it in front of them and dropped into it with a huff.
Both Sr. Castillo and your father looked to Chuck. He exhaled slowly, like it was all inevitable, then slid out of the booth. At the bar, he grabbed a crystal decanter of amber liquor, reached for a small glass, and carried both back to the table. Setting the glass in front of you, he arched a brow.
“I don’t want—” you began, defiant.
“Trust me. You will.” Chuck poured a finger for you, more for himself, then eased back into his seat with the decanter in the center of the table. “Father, why don’t you start us off?” His mouth curled. “Mr. Castillo, I mean.”
Sr. Castillo didn’t even react to Chuck’s teasing. He just swirled his whiskey, studied it, then said, almost idly, “I met your mother when she was about your age. She had no money, came from a poor family, and was looking for work. I gave her a position at my company.” He shrugged, as if the story had long since dulled for him. “We spent too much time together, got carried away, that’s all.”
Your stomach curdled.
“You knocked her up and threw her on the streets,” your father said flatly. Rage glinted behind his calm.
Sr. Castillo waved a hand, dismissive. “If she would’ve told me—”
“She did tell you, you—” Your father sat straighter, jaw set, then stopped himself. He scrubbed a hand down his face before turning to you. “Your mother can tell you the full story. Best to leave it to her. Or else I might end the night with assault charges.”
Sr Castillo only chuckled, Chuck was smiling into his glass too.
“So...how did she…” you asked, confused by the timeline. “How did you end up with her after that? I’m only a couple years younger than Chuck.”
“I met her a few months along,” your father said. “You know that story. I was on my lunch break, running late, rushing to keep up with what my father left me of his company. I barreled into her at a coffee shop, spilled it all down her blouse. I insisted she let me replace it and fell in love with her right then. Coffee stains and all. Bump and all.” His hand rubbed at his forehead, self-soothing. You’d never seen him like this before, not just a father, or a CEO, but a man with a past. A man who’d fallen in love.
Chuck snorted. “How sweet.”
Your father shot a look at him before going on. “I took her in when she told me what happened. We married quickly, let everyone think it was a shotgun wedding. I didn’t care. I loved her. She gave birth to Chuck and I gave him my name. And then you came a few years later. No one the wiser.”
Your palms pressed into your clammy cheeks, elbows on the table. You stared at him, your voice a broken whisper. “This is insane.”
Your father nodded slowly. “Everything was fine for so long. We were able to keep the truth behind closed doors, keep everyone in the dark—”
“Even me,” you cut in darkly.
He didn’t argue. Just nodded again, his eyes heavier now.
“And then Camilla got herself in a situation,” Sr. Castillo grumbled, shaking his head. “We had a family meeting to smooth things over. To decide what was best.”
“Which is where you come in, sis.”
Your ears perked. You turned to Chuck.
“I happened to see you and Harry at the bar that night, as I was leaving.”
“You were there?” Your eyes narrowed. You tried to rewind the memory—martinis, the hum of voices, Harry sliding into the stool with his solemn brow, ordering himself his pick of poison, and then the moment he offered you a deal. A fake boyfriend, neat and simple. But he’d said it himself: it had been a family meeting that night. You just hadn’t realized family meant your own brother, too.
You pressed your fingers to your eyes, rubbed hard against the confusion. “So you were at this Castillo meeting? Deciding what to do with Camilla?”
“We needed to keep her out of the papers, off social media,” Sr. Castillo explained. “And make sure no one dug deeper into the family. Our past.”
Chuck swirled the liquor in his glass, looking pleased with himself. “And then I saw you and Harry, hand on his shoulder, all sweet and simpering like you do best. It got my Chuck senses tingling.”
“Chuck senses?” you huffed.
“Spidey senses, Chuck senses—same thing.” He smirked. “I texted Blair to check in on you. We weren’t exactly talking at the time, but now you know why.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“That our breakups weren’t because of some cosmic fate, sis. Blair was always pissed at me for keeping the truth from you. Every few months she’d cave, realize why we couldn’t tell you, but then she’d flip again. She didn't understand that you were a liability. That there was a chance you’d spill to Gossip Girl the first chance you got. And when you started seeing Harry? She said it had to be fake, a setup to help with Camilla. Said he wasn’t your type. She wanted me to come clean so you’d finally give into Nate’s pursuits.”
You rolled your eyes, but bile rose in your throat. Blair knowing. Blair knowing everything when you didn’t...it made your skin crawl. Everyone knew but you.
Chuck went on, unbothered. “It didn’t matter to me, though. My hunch was confirmed by your soft launch the next morning, and again at Serena’s bridal shower when she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Not too hard to put together.”
You stared at him, ice sinking down your spine.
“I told the family,” Chuck continued, “but they said you were free to date whoever you wanted. That you and Harry had nothing to do with Camilla, nothing to do with protecting the name. But Blair and I saw it differently. You were the perfect cover. You wanted the spotlight? Fine. Better you than me.”
He tipped his glass toward you, like a toast. “So I kept feeding it. Knew you’d be at the Met Gala, didn’t know if Harry would show. And you know I don’t do the black tie philanthropy thing anymore. Got real tired of it. So I went to the afterparty instead. Harry had arrived before you, which was perfect. I saw the opportunity and I took it.”
“The…opportunity?” you asked, though the answer was already sinking in, and you whispered: “The bartender.”
Chuck’s smile was infuriating. “You’re catching on. Amazing what people will do for a crisp Benjamin.”
Your hands curled into fists on the table. “Why does any of this matter? We wanted Gossip Girl to see us, anyway.”
“It was helpful that you’d been plastered all over from your topless debacle, but I knew we had to keep the momentum up, that people might lose interest with how fast scandals cycle now. So I made sure I was there every step. Sending people I knew to snap photos and send to Gossip Girl, I had friends at TMZ and Murdoch’s papers plaster your pretty face all over Instagram and print. Keep you trending while also keeping Camilla and me out.”
“But it didn’t work all the time." you said, shaking your head, "Camilla still showed up in the headline, that one day after I saw Nate.”
Chuck shrugged. “Yeah, that was the one time we slipped up. As you know by now, Nate didn’t just happen to show up. Your father wanted him there. Thought maybe some nostalgic schoolboy charm would snap you back into line. You, being the eternally difficult child—his words, not mine—never went with the plan.”
You laughed, brittle. “Oh, please,” you shook your head, scoffing at the indignity of it, “I always went with the plan.” you looked at your father, “I’ve been following your life plan for me since I learned to walk. Sorry that I grew up.”
Your father’s eyes hardened just a fraction, but he didn’t correct you.
Chuck went on, “But you’re correct, Camilla’s nurse came forward with some gossip from the rehabilitation center, and we didn’t catch it in time. Whatever it was seemed juicier than your run in with Nate, only because of the headline. She didn’t give anything worthwhile after all. But everything collided. We needed to keep things neat and tidy again. A girl I’d been with the night before—don’t look at me like that, Blair and I were on a break again—sent me pictures of you and Harry over coffee—” he mimed signing in the air—“some contract, I presume? You need to be more careful about your meet up locations—and then kissing goodbye. But I paid her a good sum to keep her mouth shut about whatever it was you were signing, and Gossip Girl still got her blast of you two smooching.”
Your head shook, disbelief clawing at your throat. “But how? How did you even know where we’d be?”
“My son,” Sr. Castillo piped up smoothly, draining the last of his whiskey, “is predictable. His secretary keeps his calendar color-coded, updated by the hour. Whenever you two were scheduled to meet, I had it sent to me. Passed it along to Chuck.”
You leaned forward, gripping the sweating whiskey glass that your brother poured for you from the beginning, and swigged it down in one gulp, the burn welcome. “So… so you’ve been watching me like—like a marionette. Every choice, every move I thought I made—”
“Strings were already tied,” Chuck finished, unbothered.
You slammed your glass back onto the table. “Why? Why did any of this matter so much to you?”
“I thought you were doing it to get under my skin." Your father admitted, voice low, "That I was going to have to watch you make the same mistake your mother made. It’s why I got Nate involved. Thought, if anyone could, he would set your head straight.”
“I saw the same pattern I’d already lived through once. I wasn’t about to let another scandal drag my name through the dirt.” Sr. Castillo said with a dismissive shrug.
Chuck grinned. “And for me, it was simple. You were the perfect cover, as long as I kept the strings in my hands. I didn’t care why, I just cared that it worked. Until I realized Harry was starting to catch real feelings that night at the club.”
You sat back, arms crossed tight. “Feelings.”
Chuck's grin turned cheshire. “A man knows when another man’s gone soft, sis. It was written all over him. And you were getting close. Sooner or later he would’ve told you why he couldn’t actually be with you. That you share a brother, that history was repeating itself. But he was falling hard. No doubt.”
Heat crept into your cheeks, though you hated yourself for it.
“Luckily, the wedding was the next day. No phones, no evidence of Blair icing me out or you and Harry fighting outside” He smirked. “All neat and tidy.”
You wanted to crawl out of your skin.
Chuck leaned back. “Which leads us now. When's the gig up, by the way? Was Blair right all along?”
You gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, ignoring his smug questions. “How…” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard. “How much does Harry know?”
For once, Chuck didn’t answer immediately. He set the glass down, turned it slow against the wood.
“Harry doesn’t play these games. He hates them. I think he hates me." his voice had gone low, losing all its swagger, "I think he saw his father having an affair with our mother and never wanted anything to do with me." you glanced over to the Sr. Castillo who was impossible to read, his deep dark eyes on your brother, "So, no, he was never part of it. He keeps his head down, sticks to business. That’s why he was so easy to use. Predictable. A schedule, a habit, a lunch or dinner date with you every week at. Reliable as clockwork. But no—he didn’t know. Not then. Not ever.”
Something in your chest cracked open, but you kept your composure. You wouldn't let them see you break, even after everything.
Chuck leaned back, studying you with something that almost looked like pity.
“Don’t look at me like that, sis. I didn’t make the rules. I just know how they work.” a sad little smile began creeping back onto his lips.
“I’m Chuck Castillo, after all.”
You didn’t leave your bed for the next two days. The curtains stayed drawn, the air in the room gone stale, heavy with salt from the sea and the faint perfume of a crumpled dress still abandoned over the chair. Time blurred into shadows shifting across the wall.
Gloria came by more than once, balancing trays with steaming coffee, buttered toast, your favorite pastries from the café down by the boardwalk. The smell drifted in warm and sweet, but you turned your face to the wall. You wouldn’t eat. You wouldn’t talk.
“Miss Montclair,” Gloria called softly, her knuckles rapping gently before she eased the door open. Her voice was careful, delicate.
You didn’t move. Your eyes were raw and swollen, lids so heavy it hurt to blink.
“Miss, Mr. Castillo is asking about you.” She stood at the edge of the bed, her weight dipping the mattress as she leaned down, bringing the faint scent of starch and lavender with her.
You didn’t answer at first. You pulled the covers tighter, as if the duvet could shield you from the sound of his name. But at the mention of Harry, your mind betrayed you.
You saw him again, clear as if he were still standing there on the beach: the way his face had crumpled when you’d turned and fled, how his hand lifted like he might stop you, only to fall back to his side. His mouth parted, but no words came, only that look in his eyes: stunned, wounded, searching for you even as you disappeared into the dark.
Your throat closed. “Please leave me alone, Gloria,” you whispered, sounding so small, muffled into the pillow.
Gloria lingered, sighing softly, her hand almost resting on your shoulder before she thought better of it. You heard the padding of her feet retreating towards the door. Leaving you alone with swollen eyes, the salt-sting of your tears, and the image of Harry’s face burned against the dark behind your lids.
Once night cloaked your room that evening, you decided you’d had enough of your own tears. The air felt heavy, damp with salt and memory, your sheets clinging with the sweat of restless hours. You pushed out of bed, silk shorts and tank whispering against your skin as you padded barefoot down the hall. The grandfather clock ticked in the dark, its hands marking one o’clock as you crossed the main hall.
In the kitchen, your hands moved before your mind caught up, tugging open cabinet doors, searching blindly. A groggy fog still clung to your head after a day spent horizontal, eyes raw and swollen. You trailed your fingertips along the shelves, across jars of pasta, spices lined like soldiers, boxes of cereal you had no appetite for. Your nose stung, your fingertip catching another tear before it could fall. Everything felt upside down, as if the floor had shifted and no one had warned you. You didn’t know what to believe anymore, what to trust. Everyone spoke in riddles, pulling strings you hadn’t seen. You were tired. You felt impossibly small. A child lost in a house that suddenly felt too big, too empty.
“If you’re looking for the chocolate, I’ve got it.”
The voice made your heart leap into your throat. You spun, pressing back against the tall oak cabinets, only to find your mother perched on the counter, her robe tied close around her waist, silvered hair soft around her shoulders.
“You scared me,” you hissed.
She only smiled, holding out a bar of dark chocolate like a peace offering.
Cautiously, you crossed the kitchen and climbed onto the island beside her, your legs dangling, toes brushing the cabinet doors. The bar was warm from her hand when you took it, and when you bit into it, the richness flooded your mouth, bittersweet and grounding. You hadn’t realized how starved you were until then.
“Guess it’s genetic,” you muttered around a mouthful, trying for lightness.
Your mother’s smile tilted, weary and tender. For a while, the only sound was the crack of chocolate breaking between your teeth, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.
“When you were little,” she said finally, “I used to hide all your Halloween candy.”
You scoffed softly. “I remember.”
“I didn’t want you to end up like me,” she said. “I was terrified you'd… struggle the way I did with food. With how you looked. With how people looked at you. I didn’t come from a family with cooks or meal plans. My mother never told me no, and I thought that was the problem. So I overcorrected.”
She sighed, glancing down at her hands.
“It was selfish. You would scream your head off and I’d pretend I was standing firm, but really, I just didn’t know how else to protect you. I was trying to control the one thing I could.”
“I would get so angry at you,” you said, voice quiet.
She smiled, the kind that held regret. “It was always my favorite and most feared time of year. That bucket of candy felt like it had a hold on both of us.”
There was a long pause, the chocolate melting slowly in your mouth.
Then, softly, she added, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize until much later how much of my own fear I was projecting onto you. I thought I was protecting you. But I see now how wrong I was.”
“It’s my one vice now,” you said with a little smile around the candy bar, “this and Gucci shoes. I just can’t help myself.”
She smiled a little at that as you passed the chocolate bar back to her. She took a small bite, then sighed and handed it to you again.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“I know, Mom,” you whispered.
“I should’ve told you everything. I was just… so afraid.” Her voice wavered. “When I met Harold, it was all such a whirlwind. I thought it was love. I thought he was in love. That he’d leave his wife and we’d be together.”
Her eyes drifted to the stovetop, glazed over, focused on something far away. “But he was older. So much older. And I didn’t understand yet… how men like that could be.”
You reached an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into it just slightly, like it had been years since anyone had held her without needing something in return.
“Then I got pregnant,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper, “and everything changed. He showed his true colors—kicked me out, blocked my calls. I never heard from him again.”
She paused to steady herself. “And your father… he found me when I was at my lowest. Alone and scared and pregnant. I knew my family would disown me for the pregnancy, for being with a married man too. But he was so good to me. Truly. I know you don’t always see it, but that man has more heart than anyone I’ve ever known. He took me in, pregnant with another man’s child, and never once treated Charles as anything less than his own.”
She sniffled, taking a tissue from her pocket. “But your brother always knew. Maybe not at first, but deep down, he felt it. There was a tension between them, something… chemical. Like two bulls in a ring, always clashing.”
Her voice broke, but she kept going. “And when we finally told him the truth, it was all he needed to start pulling away. He started using. and shut us all out. Everything we hoped for him, everything we built for him—he just walked away from it.”
You could feel her breath hitch beside you.
“I was terrified the same thing would happen with you. That if you found out, you’d spiral too. That I’d lose you both. So I held on too tight. Tried to control everything. And in doing that, I hurt you. I see that now. I’m so sorry, honey.”
She dabbed at her eyes again, the tissue trembling slightly in her fingers.
“It isn’t just that Harry is Harold’s son,” she said softly. “It was… everything. The way he carries himself. The way you talk about him like he’s untouchable.”
You stayed quiet, her words wrapping around something tender in your chest.
“He’s older,” she continued, her voice thinner now. “Just like Harold was with me. And I know how easy it is to confuse that kind of attention with love. To think you’re being chosen for who you are, when really—it’s about control. About power.”
She looked at you then, and it felt like she was seeing you for the first time in years, her eyes full of something raw and aching.
“I was scared, sweetheart. Scared you’d go down the same path. That he’d take advantage. That you’d wind up pregnant and alone, just like I was. That you’d wake up one day with everything you wanted pulled out from under you, and no one left to help you pick up the pieces.”
You felt her hand move to yours, tentative but firm.
“I wasn’t trying to punish you. I swear to you. But I see now… I was projecting. I let my own mistakes get in the way of trusting you. And I’m so sorry.”
You put the chocolate onto the counter and turned toward her, your knee brushing hers as you reached out. She came willingly, folding into your arms, her head dropping against your shoulder.
It felt strange at first—the two of you perched on the counter like children, clinging in your nightclothes. But then her arms wound tighter, and you felt the shake of her breath against your collarbone.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered, voice breaking. “For all of it. For the things I said, the things I tried to control. I hope you know I never meant any of it, not the way it sounded. I was only scared for you. Always scared.”
You pressed your cheek into her hair, the silver strands warm and soft against your skin. Your own tears slipped quietly, salt tracing the corner of your mouth. “I know, Mom,” you murmured. “I know.”
For a long moment you just stayed there, holding each other while the refrigerator hummed and the clock in the hall ticked away the silence. The kitchen felt suspended, like the rest of the world had gone still so you could finally just be mother and daughter, nothing more.
When at last you pulled back, your eyes still damp, you blinked… and froze.
Because standing in the doorway was Harry, bed-headed and rumpled, a dark t-shirt clinging to him, charcoal sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. His eyes were heavy, tired, and fixed on the two of you.
Your mother’s head turned, following your gaze. And for the first time, she smiled at Harry.
“Come in,” she said quietly, sliding down from the counter. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”
She brushed her hand over yours one last time before padding toward the hall, her robe trailing softly behind her, leaving you alone with him in the hush of the kitchen.
“Hi,” you said, your feet kicking idly. Childish, feeling caught.
“Hi,” he whispered as he came closer, stopping just short of the counter, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. His hair was mussed, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and he smelled faintly of sleep and the salt air drifting in from the ocean.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
“You should be sleeping,” you murmured, picking at the wrapper of the chocolate bar in your lap.
“I couldn’t,” he admitted. He tilted his head to try to meet your eye, but you just kept your gaze down on your hands. “Haven’t been able to since we last…since I…” he shook his head, “Are you okay?”
Your throat tightened, heel dragging against the cabinet door below you, and your words came out as a hoarse whisper. “I don’t even know.”
You could feel his burning gaze on you as he took a step back to lean on the counter opposite of you. “That’s okay, you don’t have to have the answers now.”
A long pause rented the air, the hum of the fridge the only thing between the valley of space between you until he closed it again, restless, stepping closer, the hem of his shirt brushing your knee as he stood beside you.
“Talk to me,” he said softly. “Please.”
Your body felt so heavy despite the hours you’d wasted in bed, every muscle aching with the kind of exhaustion that had nothing to do with the lack of sleep.
Eventually you looked up and studied his face in the dim kitchen light — the soft shadows along his jaw, the mussed hair falling over his forehead, and those eyes. Brown and wide, worn with fatigue, but still warm. Eyes that had always looked at you in a way that made your heart clench.
They found you now, those puppy dog eyes, unguarded, and you felt yourself falter. For a moment you just stared at each other, the silence drawing long and thin, like a thread pulled too tight.
Once, you’d believed you could make him see it. You believed you could make him feel it, make him say it all out loud. But now, with him standing here, you weren’t sure of anything. You didn’t know what lived behind his careful looks, or if there was anything at all. Pretending had gone on so long you couldn’t tell where the act ended and the truth began. Nothing made sense anymore, nothing felt like it meant...anything.
You smiled then, a small, sad thing that barely lifted your mouth. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
He tipped his head, pleading without words, and stepped a fraction closer. “There is.”
You shook your head. The motion felt like a small, stubborn defiance. “I don’t want to talk anymore.” You dragged a slow breath down your ribs and willed the burn from your throat, the sting of your eyes, focusing back on your hands in your lap, “I don’t want to hear how hard I am to be around.”
The words seemed to hang there. He didn’t move, but you could feel him watching you, something unreadable flickering in the pause. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, “I never said you were.”
You were hardly listening, squeezing your burning eyes shut, your words coming out wet and throaty. ‘I can’t keep waiting for something that isn’t there. For you to finally admit what I already know you’ll deny.’”
You waited as he tried to form the right words, as if holding himself together like glass. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again, softer. “I—”
But he didn’t finish. The pause was not clumsy; it was a choice. Something unspoken folded back in on him.
“Let’s just…” you slid from the counter, wiping your eyes, “let’s just get through the White Party tomorrow, and we can be done. Camilla will be home, my dad said he’d give me back my credit cards and my store credit and my driver and my life will…will go back to normal.” you rushed it all out, trying to breathe, forcing a smile onto your tear-streaked face, “You can be done with me. No need to worry about me acting out or being…” your throat felt like it was closing up, “being difficult.”
Harry said your name softly, shaking his head as his hand reached up to touch your arm, but you pulled away.
“It’s okay, Harry. Waiting for you has hurt worse than anything they’ve ever said about me. I can’t do it anymore.”
summary: you can’t stop posting live updates of the civil war
warnings: avenger!reader, fox shifter!reader, comedy, chaotic dumbass reader, grumpy bucky, the team is so done with reader’s shit, mentions of bucky’s past, swearing, civil war tension?, reader is team cap, suggestive content, fluff
a/n: guess who’s back bitches!!! this isn’t a request or anything, i just wanted to write some cw!bucky x reader. i promise i’m working on all the joaquin requests🤞🏻anyways enjoy lovelies :)
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[caption: sokovia accords?? ho what?!]
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yourusername: throwback to that time my future husband almost killed my friends and i
Imagine Bucky Taking Care Of You Being Sick During YourBirthday Week
A/N: This is something out of my own delulu cause I was seriously sick on Friday, just 2 days before my birthday, today (April 27, UTC +8 Timezone) And had an idea what if Bucky took care of a sick Y/N
• It was midnight when Y/N's fever broke out from chills, Y/N went to the kitchen to get a cooling pad for her forehead. It helped with the cooling but it didn't help with the fever
• Morning came, Bucky felt his arm being warm. And he noticed the unusual. Y/N is not being her usual self days before her birthday.
• "Sweetheart, are you okay?" "I feel feverish" Bucky knew something was wrong, he got up immediately to make a few calls
• "Hi M/N, Y/N got a fever. How can I help to bring down the fever?" "I need to make sure she takes 3 intervals of Panadol (Tylenol for you US peeps, Malaysia we don't sell Tylenol as paracetamol med)
• Meanwhile in the room, Y/N is suffering from the fever pains. "Buckyyyy!!! GET THE BLANKET OF MEEEE!!!" Bucky came in with a bowl of soup. "Here's have some soup, its your favorite ABC soup. I mushed the carrots and potatoes so you don't have to chew"
• After coaxing Y/N to have her first meal and the first interval of her medication, she fell asleep from the meds. Bucky got to work to prepare minced pork porridge.
• By the time Y/N woke up its around noon. "Are you feeling better?" He placed his hand on her forehead to check her temperature. "You are still a bit feverish. But here, have your porridge first, then you'll need to shower off your sweat."
• Y/N ate the porridge without any protest. "Did you ask my mom how to cook this?" "Yes, and some of the aunties at Chinatown gave some pointers too when I told them you have a fever."
• After eating the porridge and rest, Y/N went to shower off her sweat. "Don't worry too much. Your mom told me to take you to the doctor's if your fever isn't breaking." "She also say to lay off fried food for a while."
• After shower, Y/N took her second interval of medication. "You did a great job taking care of me Bucky. You're lucky you don't get to fall sick anymore."
• Y/N fell asleep from the medication 3 minutes into ingesting the meds. And she slept through the afternoon. By evening time, she felt a lot better and lot more sweatier.
• "For dinner, your mom said something soupy would be better for you. So I made some Ham Choi Soup with tofu, i made sure it's not too salty as your mom also told me that you'll be very sensitive to taste when you are sick."
• Y/N felt loved and taken cared for eveb though she's sick. "I wasn't expecting to fall sick before my birthday. I was so excited for the week." "It's okay sweetheart. If you're not well by then we can always change our plans."
• After dinner and another shower later, Y/N took her third interval of medication. "I really hope my fever would be gone tomorrow..." Bucky kissed her forehead, "It will... It will..."
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