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He’s gotta have it.

Jabber Wonger x Male reader

Warnings : feminization, use of “ma”, “mama”, and “papi” (if you don’t like that you don’t gotta read it!), extremely gay sex. mdni.

A/N; I didn’t proofread any of this shit. ENJOY!🩷

You never considered yourself to be queer. Honestly, you didn’t care much about that stuff — you just liked who you liked.

So when your girlfriend was on your phone spouting some bullshit like, “I cheated on you, it was an accident, I’m sorry!” you decided… to pull some crazy shit. Because who would you be without that crazy personality of yours, right?

You managed to coax your now ex-girlfriend into giving you the guy’s number. And that’s really all you needed to get his IP and then, of course, his address — ‘cause what else did you go to tech classes for? Computer science? Bullshit.

It didn’t take long. You pulled up to the house (which was big as shit) on an off Saturday when you didn’t have work. There was a car in the driveway — two, actually. Hopefully, the dude just had two cars. So, the guy must’ve been home. You got out your car, looking down at yourself to make sure you were straight — couldn’t embarrass yourself in front of the nigga who sent you a “she busy rn” text. You looked fairly decent: baggy, stylized jeans, a graphic tee, and a designer jacket that hung off your shoulder just a tad.

You took a deep breath. The plan was simple: meet the guy, press him, fuck the absolute dog-shit out of him, record it, send it to your ex. On some petty shit. You were confident you could pull it off — you were handsome, about 5’11 (but you say you’re 6’0), pretty smile. How could he ever resist falling for your charm? It’s never failed you before.

Finally, you knocked on the door — a good three times. You stood there for about a minute before a man opened it. Six feet, light skin, long dreads adorned with various rings. The dude was shirtless, abs rippling despite his lean build. His pink eyes were barely focused on you, a blunt perched between his lips… and his hands? Just didn’t make no damn sense.

“The fuck is you?” the man said, finally acknowledging you and raising an eyebrow. You cleared your throat — time to lock in.

“You Jabber, right?” you asked, shoving your hands in your pockets. You had a taser, just in case this bitch was crazy.

“Yeah. Jabber. Jabber Wonger. Now you gon’ answer my question or not? Who the fuck are you?” Jabber leaned in a little, exhaling smoke from his blunt right in your face. By reflex, you flinched back a bit, holding in a cough.

“My name’s […]. I’m Kaz’s boyfriend.” You crossed your arms, leaning in too. “You the nigga who was plowin’ her shit in, wasn’t you?”

Jabber squinted his eyes at you, like he was trying to decipher what the fuck you were saying. No fucking way you were about to ruin his high over some bitch he fucked ‘cause he was bored.

“Yeah, and? You tryna press me ‘bout it?”

“I’m gon’ do more than press you ‘bout it. Don’t even worry ‘bout that.”

That made Jabber chuckle slightly before he looked you up and down — like he had the audacity to size you up after what he did. You couldn’t help but scowl. This bitch.

“I don’t see why the fuck you’re laughing.”

“‘Cause you at my door over some bitch. What, you wanna run the ones?”

Suddenly, Jabber leaned in real close — so close you could smell the weed on his breath. Reflexively, your thighs squeezed together a little.

“Or are you here for somethin’ else?”

This bitch had no right to be so fine. You could see exactly how your easy-ass ex fell for him. But you weren’t about to fold that easily.

“I’m here for something else entirely — believe that.”

Without another word (’cause your ass was done talking), you shoved Jabber back into the house before stepping in after him, closing the door behind you. You pushed him up against the wall, and he only smirked — blunt still perched between his lips like this was just another casual Saturday.

“Ohh, I see what you’re trynna do,” Jabber laughed — actually laughed. You almost swung on him right then, but before you could, his arm hooked around your waist and pulled you close. Way too close.

“Don’t think I ain’t seen this kinda move before,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded but sharp. “But I’ll be damned if I let it happen to me.”

“Man, you’re bullshittin’. Let me go!” You tried to pull back, but that only made his grip tighten.

“Nah, you wanted to put on a show for that lil’ ex of yours, huh? So that’s what we’ll do.”

You froze for a second, heartbeat loud in your ears. Everything about this was backwards — you were supposed to have the upper hand here. But Jabber just kept that smug grin, like he knew he’d already flipped the script.

For a moment, the air between you turned heavy. His breath was laced with smoke, his voice low and taunting. You could practically feel the heat rolling off him, the challenge in his stare.

Technically, everything was still going as planned… just not the way you pictured it.

Jabber leaned closer, his tone dripping with amusement. “What happened, tough guy? Thought you came here to handle business.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to look away. “I did.”

He tilted his head, smirking wider. “Then quit hesitating.” Before you could even respond to that utter blasphemy, Jabber took a quick puff of his blunt before pulling you into a heated kiss, the smoke invaded your mouth as well as his tongue.

You could taste the weed on him. Technically..everything was going as planned- you didn’t intend on kissing the nigga though.

After a few seconds of processing the situation you reluctantly kissed back. Then it became a battle for who would dominate the kiss.

Jabber pulled you closer making SURE you felt the print in his sweatpants rutting against you. You felt him groan into the kiss as he started pushing you towards the nearby couch. Tripping you up and making you fall back against the arm rest. You let out a surprised gasp, feeling your back hit the plush cushions.

You pulled away from the kiss, desperate for some semblance of air, but Jabber grabs your face and pulls you back into it with a grin. His other hand is already sliding up under your shirt. His hands were cold- as hell. You fought back a shiver until his hand made it up to your chest, his fingers brushed across your pierced nipples, making you flinch.

Jabber pulled away from the kiss to kiss roughly down your neck before coming up to whisper in your ear as he pinched and pulled on your nipples, watching you squirm. “I bet you knocked on my door thinkin you was finna have my ass, now look at you..overly hard.” He chuckled. The faced he used to grab your face was now palming your bulge.

You tried to fight back the moans, squeezing your eyes shut. Jabber licked his lips.

“Fuck..you cuter than that bitch when you moan, don’t try and hide it. Cmon lemme hear them sweet sounds ma.”

“Ma? I’m..haah- not no damn bitch.”

“You moanin’ like one though ain’t you? Bitch.” Jabber presses his hand down harder to apply pressure, which makes your legs clamp around his hips with a sharp whimper. He laughs.

“See? Look at you, now let me hear that shit..” His voice gets lower, feeling his own erection peak through. You were just so pathetic right now, it turned him ALL the way on.

He refused to wait any longer, his fingers hooked to the waistband of your boxers and started yanking them off you- taking your pants and your boxers off in one go.

The action was suddenly very sobering for you, becoming overly aware of the situation you were in right now. With a soft gasp you struggled to cover your now exposed lower half.

“Mmtch..fuck is you coverin’ up for?” Jabber huffed, you were being extremely difficult. “Cmon ma, let me see.” He leans in close, til your noses are almost touching. He moves your hands, peppering your lips with soft kisses, trying to make you ease up.

And by god it was working. Your hands slowly move and settle on your stomach. But your breath was still heavy. Jabber leaned back and grabbed your knees, and before you had time to question he lifted them up and put them over his shoulder.

“The f-fuck are you doin’?” You try and give him some attitude, to retain some sort of dignity here, but it was cut short when Jabber shoved two of his fingers in your mouth, moving them around and around,, deep in your throat to draw out a few gags.

“Mhm..lube up this fingers baby. You like that don’t you? Being treated like some bitch?”

He snatched his fingers out your mouth, drawing out a few coughs from you. He brings his slicked hands down to your entrance, rimming his fingers on your hole before shoving them in without warning.

“A-augh!—“ You gurgle out before you feel a hand come down and smack your ass.

“Shut that shit up. You was talkin allat shit and look at you..mmtch..” Jabber starts moving his fingers. Those long, strong fingers going in and out of those gummy walls, you can feel him reaching deeper and deeper.

You bite your lips and efforts to quiet yourself, but you’re huffing and groaning peeks through either way. Your back arches slightly and you can feel your thighs trembling. Jabber reaches deeper, rubbing the pads of his fingers against a certain spot that makes your back arch completely.

A warm feeling washes over you- and you came. You seriously came from his fingers, you can feel yourself heating up from embarrassment. You’ve never been fingered let alone like this, who could blame you?

But Jabber just giggles. “You just came from my fingers? Hm? You like that pretty boy?” He murmurs as his fingers relentlessly assault that specific spot. Your hands clutch the cushions so hard you’d think you’re about to tear them open, your breath quickens.

“Fuck! Fffucck,, slow down..” A whine escapes you despite how hard you try and fight it. The more he moved his fingers the louder you started to moan.

Jabber laughed before pulling his fingers out, eliciting a whimper out of you. He pulled his sweatpants down, and of course the nigga wasn’t wearing boxers. He lined himself up with you, wasting no time.

He made sure you were looking him in his face before slammed into you with a groan. “Ssshit ma, yo pussy tighter than that bitch’s isn’t it? Hm?”

He started thrusting his hips. The size was entirely too much for you, you could barely handle it. Your eyes started to roll back from how hard he was ramming into you. “Oh..oh fuck! FUCK!” You moaned out harshly, unable to keep up with the pace.

Jabber looked down at your fucked out face and a grin pulled out his lips. While he was currently ramming the fuck out of you, he reached in his pocket, pulling out his phone and starting to record, his phone pointed right at you.

With a pathetic noise of surprise escaping you, you covered your face as he started ramming into you harder.

“Uhnt uh..take yo fuckin’ hands off your face. Let that bitch see how much you love this dick.” He grinned from behind the camera, giggling at you as he angled himself deeper.

“Noo..no- fuck no!” You said, your voice muffled from your hands.

“Mmtch..Take yo fuckin hands off before I stop.” He said, his grin fading. He was dead serious. You huffed a few times before actually removing your hands. Fuck him, fuck him and his good dick too.

“Yeahh, that’s what I like to fuckin see, you like when I fuck this pussy, hm? Say it!”

“I love it papi- fuck! You fuck me so gooodd ohh fuck!” The words slipped out of you before you could even control yourself. You glanced down and saw a bulge in your stomach popping in and out as he rammed into you.

“You feel that mama? Hm? You feel that good dick in your tummy?”

“Mmm fuck yes papi!” Your voice cracked, your eyes starting to roll back as he hit that spot again.

“Look at you mama, you look so fuckin beautiful like this.” He kept the camera of the phone steady aimed at you, making sure not a single blur or tremor would be in this masterpiece..that he would surely beat his shit to later.

“J-jabber— slow down-“

“Who the FUCK is Jabber? Say my name right, bitch.” His voice dropped and he landed a harsh smack on your ass, the glint in his eyes proved he enjoyed watching that jiggle each time he did. You had a pretty fat ass for a guy..

“Pa..ha- papi, slow down!”

“That’s what the fuck I thought.”

And yet..Jabber didn’t slow down. No, not at all. Sure, he had stopped recording..sent the video to your ex with the caption “lol, this ya nigga?”, then blocked her. But he turned you every which way BUT loose. In all sorts of positions in different places around the house. Couch, floor, bed, somehow yall ended up in the kitchen, and then finally back in the damn bed again. By this time you probably came a good 5 or 6 times and you were worn out, full of cum, and couldn’t feel your legs.

Jabber looked down at you, relighting his previously discarded blunt with a grin as he smacked your ass one last time for good measure. “You good as fuck ma, think I’ma keep yo ass around…”

End.

A/N; I hope you all enjoyed this🥹🩷 This is my first fic I’m ever posting here I hope it’s good enough! Thank you for reading 🥳 also love to my crew !! @misshoneysplayhouse nd evb else in the server much love 🥹🩷

#gachiakuta #jabber wonger #gachiakuta jabber #jabber x reader #male reader #m4m #m4m nsft #first fic #idk how to tag this #black reader #black writers #fanfic #fandom #jabber smut #jabber x you #jabber x y/n #hispanic reader #diorsdorkydiary

Wrong Dorm

Pairing: John Logan x Latina!Reader

Summary: after a party, Dean had the brilliant idea to play wingman

A/N: I lied…I have one more thing to get out of my system. Inspired by that scene in Gilmore Girls

Dean was sprawled on the couch, to drunk to make it to his room. It wasn’t until he slid off the couch that he woke up.

“Fuck, my head.” Dean held his head in his hand, as if it could calm the pounding. Bits and pieces of last night began playing in his head, he remembered talking to a girl for Logan, she told him her dorm number.

#hispanic reader #latina #hispanic #john logan x reader #off campus

happy hispanic heritage month!! much love all my latino/hispanic brothers, sisters and siblings <33 also this can be read as platonic or not!!

hispanic reader who’s part of the 141 and is there when they go to las almas, the team expects them to be okay and maybe even thinks that they’ll thrive since they’ll be around other people who speak their native language and surely they’ll be able translate anything they might not understand!!

except growing up you were a no sabo kid (someone who cant speak or understand it despite being hispanic— for my non hispanics who don’t know) you just never told the team cause they never asked or had to speak or translate spanish when they’re around.

in this case you can sorta barely understand spanish!…..just not all the time, you just know surface level words and phrases but if someone were to ask you anything other than ‘hola, como estas?’ you begin to sweat bullets.

you try to speak spanish when you can but being made fun of for not ‘sounding good’ while growing up stunted you so bad that you get anxious trying even when you’re by yourself. (me frfr)

so when you meet alejandro and rudy you’re kinda nervous but for the most part you haven’t had to break the news or, god forbid, break out your very broken spanish.

everything is going well !!

and then they say something to you in spanish, you think they were trying to joke with you?? everyone stares at you expectantly.

you just stare back like—

"Supposed to be an Adult, but fuck it, I need a minute."

First Chapter!!! i did cross post this on ao3 aswell, under my ao3 account called anniewasnothere143. ENJOY THIS IS MY FIRST EVER FANIC

Summary: Y/N L/N, never thought she would ever even consider moving to Pittsburgh, but when her favorite attending (her pseudo brother) tells her he's switching hospitals and would love his favorite senior resident to come with him (is he serious??), she can't say no, which leaves her here, moving from hot Miami beaches to windy, cold Pittsburgh, and where does she end up?, PTMC.

word count: 2,676

Baby, I tried to call you:

You've never had trouble adapting to your brother's random bullshit. You're an ER doctor for Christ's sake, you can take a bit of change, you're a big girl. But walking into work, you swear you can already feel how bad today's going to be. Now you know you're no oracle, not by a long shot, but today just feels like doom and despair wrapped up in a blanket. So imagine your surprise when you bump into a tall, built figure.

"There you are, I've been waiting for you for like 30 minutes," says a suspiciously familiar voice.

You look up to see that it's your brother who is looking up at you with the most disturbing smile a man can make at 7 in the morning. "I'm too good at my job for you to give a damn, and also, there was traffic since you forgot we live in a tourist-infested city," you say, looking up at him with a deadpanned face and a sarcastic tone.

"I missed you and your positive outlook on life. Did I ever tell you how much of an Amazing resident you are, and how you're my favorite sister forever and ever?" He says with a sly grin, looking at you, like he didn't just try and sweet talk you.

"Carlos, what the fuck are you on? It's seven fifteen in the morning-" he cuts you off by shoving a suspicously large sized iced coffee from your favorite coffee place downtown, right in your face. "Do you know how much I love you and your...presense" you say quickly as you grab the iced coffee and make your way around him to the locker room to put your duffle bag away."

"That's the reaction I wanted, now just hear me out and don't freak out...or hit me." You stop mid hallway, dread crawling up your spine. "Carli, what. did. You do." You turn, slowly shifting your head to glare at him. You've known Carlos Cruz since birth; your parents made sure of that since your grandparents were best friends, then your mother and his father were best friends, and now you're basically stuck with him because of generational bonding, it's like having a built-in best friend, but with all this information, it means you know him better than you know yourself so you know when he's up to absolutly no good.

"Why do you assume I did something? I'm not always the problem, you know," he says with an overly dramatic, exasperated voice while running a hand through his blonde curls.

"Yeah, all your exes would beg to differ," you say, trying to read him for any signs of what might come out of his stupid mouth.

"Jesus, knew you came in irritated, but didn't know it was this bad. I would've brought donuts too, or some Xanax pills to calm you down," he says with a smile. Your face starts to form a grin, but you quickly remember that he’s currently deflecting. "Okay, not funny, and you know why, so stop asking and just tell me what you did so I can fix your mess like always," you say in a frustrated voice.

"How would i now whats got your panties in a twist- Oh....." he looks up for a second like a though just rammed straight into his head at 90 miles an hour, "Shit- I forgot, your dad right? he still in the hospital?" he says with a gentle tone leading me down the hall to the break room instead of the locker room.

"Yup, another one of his guilty conscience calls begging me to come see him, still no apology though, which is funny because even on his deathbed that old man still can't see that he's wrong," you say in exasperation. looking around and taking in the chaotic ER, floor as nurses and other doctors run across the room like headless chickens, attending to traumas and other patients. You forgot it's winter break, and everybody, for some ungodly reason, wants to travel to Miami to escape the cold, chilling weather of wherever they might have come from. That's the one reason you prefer Miami, Florida, the weather, sure it would be Nice to have seasons every once and awhile hut better than freezing your ass off.

"He's a miserable old man, who is starting to regret not being in your life up until now, since everyone's already left him, just remember you owe him nothing, okay, and I'm ten toes behind you, if you need anyhting just ask." he says in a serious tone, staring at me with an affectionate expression.

"Thanks, but enough with the depressing stuff. What did you have to tell me, hot-shot?" you say, glancing up at him since you finally made it to the break room.

"Nothing much, just got a call from someone called Gloria in Pittsburgh, and she gave me an offer to come and work for her." You stay and stare at him for thirty seconds before breaking out in a smile and tackling him with a hug.

"Oh my God, Carli, that's amazing! why didn't you tell me before, you big idiot?" you say with a huge grin on your face. "Sad you're going to leave me here to deal with all this crap though," you say in a thoughtful tone before continuing, turning around to pick up your duffle bag you flung in the air due to excitement, "But that's life i guess dont worry ill man the fort while your gone." you about to continue until you turn around and see literal death and misery stare back at you with a happy grin.

"You won't have to man anything, because you'll be coming with me!" he says in a cherry tone and squeals while you feel your heart drop to your ass.

"What?" you say in a shocked and numb voice. There is no way, you heard that right, you, him, PITTSBURGH???. You know you said you wanted to move at some point in your life, but not to pittsburgh thats like giving up Cocaine for dollar store vapes, okay, you will admit not the best analogy, but you get the point.

"Before I stab you in the eye, with a scpale please, for the love of everything good and well, tell me I didn't hear you right," you say with your hand rubbing your eyes furiously.

"Nope, last i checked your hearing was 100% normal so you heard me nice and clearly, You, Me and a one way trip to Pittsburgh for however many years we decide to work their, i get a fully funded deparement and a nice pay raise and you get to continue you fellowship away from family drama, i think thats a win-win," he says in a extaic voice, hands waving ammicably in the air while talking.

"Carlos, I cannot go to Pittsburgh!" you say, dropping your duffel bag and grabbing a fistful of your hair while turning away from him in panic.

"I pinky swear it will be good for us!" he says, chasing after you with a pep in his step. "we despreatly need a change of pace, and you know it, you've been going off your meds more and more, and you're having more episodes!"

You turn abruptly, "Don't you dare call them that im not fucking psycho!" you say fianlly fucking done with all this nonsense. You feel a hand grab your shoulder and manhandle you to face him,

"Please, look at me, listen i know it's not ideal, and I'm sorry for being impulsive, but we need. this you're not crazy, and you're a grown 27-year-old woman who can make her own choices, but you know I wouldn't get involved unless it was bad, and I'm not leaving you here alone to pick yourself up again like last time," he ends quickly and out of breath while staring at your panicked face.

"I-" you start, but before you can even get a word out, the door bursts open and a day shift nurse rushes into the room "Dr Cruz, Dr L/N, we need you Ambulance’s five minutes out, car crash, high-speed collision, male, mid-30s, unconscious, GCS seven, massive chest and leg trauma, hypotensive, tachycardic, suspected pneumothorax and internal bleeding. EMS says vitals are unstable, trauma team’s prepping.”

You turn quickly to Carlos, "Well, talk about this later," you say out of breath before speed walking out of the room, past the nurse you think is called sarah and into the locker room at breakneck speed and change into your black scrubs. and rush out of the room to head towards the EMS bay.

You grab a gown and are about to tie it on when you feel hands grab it for you. You glance back a bit to see Carlos.

"Listen i know-"

"Carlos, i dont care. We can talk about it later, alright?" you say in an annoyed tone. You can hear him let out a sigh and feel a little guilty, but quickly push that feeling away. You hear the ambulance before you see it, and start to get butterflies in your stomach. The one thing about the ER that never stops is the bursts of adrenaline you get right before a trauma.

You feel Carlos come to stand right beside you; it feels reassuring even when you hate his guts right now. The ambulance skids to a stop right in front of you and Carlos, tires squealing slightly on the wet pavement. Doors slam. EMTs leap out, a stretcher in tow, shouting vitals as they wheel the patient toward the ER doors.

“Male, mid-30s, MVC, GCS seven, hypotensive, tachycardic, massive chest and leg trauma, suspected pneumothorax and internal bleeding!” the EMT calls over the chaos.

You and Carlos met them halfway, eyes snapping to the gurney as the patient’s blood smeared the stretcher sheets. The team had already started moving: four nurses, two med students, a respiratory tech, all converging in Trauma room 3.

“Bed clear!” one nurse yelled.

You counted down, voice steady. “On three-one, two, three!” The patient was lifted and shifted onto the trauma bed with a jolt. Blood soaked the sheet beneath him, and a faint metallic scent hung in the air.

“Airway?” Carlos barked, hands moving to check tubes.

“ET tube in place,” you responded, glancing over the monitors.

“BP eighty over forty, pulse 140, massive external hemorrhage left leg and chest!” a nurse shouted.

“Two large-bore IVs running, fluids started,” you called back.

One of the med students squinted at the cardiac monitor. “Uh…is that…maybe a third-degree AV block? I mean, the rhythm looks-”

"You crouched slightly, calm but precise. “Close. It’s a sinus tach with frequent PVCs. Keep watching-we don’t treat it like a block right now. Good eye, though, notice the irregularity.”

Carlos smirked faintly. “Who knew you were such a good teacher?"

“Shut up...” you muttered, turning back to the patient. “FAST scan shows free fluid in the abdomen-likely internal bleeding.”

“GCS seven, pupils unequal,” the other med student called out.

“Right,” you said, nodding. “Unequal pupils could indicate rising intracranial pressure, but nothing we intervene on surgically just yet. Keep your eyes on vitals and bleeding.”

Alarms blared, monitors beeped frantically. Blood streaked the bed, the patient’s chest rising in shallow gasps. You moved quickly, coordinating lines, fluids, and airway while Carlos assessed wounds and instructed the nurses. “Vitals holding for transfer,” Carlos said. “General Surgery paged, OR is free. He’s going up.”

The team readied the stretcher, nurses, and med students, helping to secure the patient for transport. IVs and monitors followed. You glanced at Carlos, expecting him to go with the team, but he stayed put, arms crossed, watching as the trauma room cleared.

“Carlos…?” you muttered under your breath, a mix of confusion and curiosity, as the last nurses wheeled the patient toward the OR.

"We need to talk," he says, looking at me seriously.

"We." I say, pointing back and forth from him and me, "We are not doing this right now." You're about to walk out, but Carlos blocks the door.

"No we are talking about this right now, because if not it'll take all day for us to talk and by then our shift will be over and you'll be too burnout and numb that you'll just go home without giving me a second glance, so yeah where talking right now," he says shoulder staright and feet planted firm a determined look on his face.

You can feel the fight leave your body, "Fine, but this doesn't mean I'm saying yes," you say quickly, wanting to get this conversation over with. When you meet his eyes, you can see them soften at you, and that breaks your resolve just a little, but you would never admit it.

Carlos smirks, like he’s won a small battle. “You don’t have to say yes yet. Just…consider it. Think about it like…a weird, slightly insane adventure.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Adventure, huh? Right. Moving my entire life to a freezing city because you can’t resist a pay raise, just great."

He steps closer, soft but firm. “I don’t need a yes yet. Just…hear me out. Think about it, not as us leaving everything behind, or leaving our mess that we call lives, think of it as a chance. For both of us.”

You huff, crossing your arms, trying to hold onto every bit of stubbornness left. “A chance? You mean freezing my ass off in a city I didn’t even want to live in, for how many years?”

He shrugs, eyes warm. “Yeah. That. But also…a chance to work together, to make things…better. And I want you there. With me.”

Something twists in your chest. You hate admitting it, but he’s right. Part of you does want this, a fresh start, a new ER, the chaos, the adrenaline. And the thought of doing it with him makes it…slightly easier.

You take a deep breath, finally letting some of the fight go. “Okay,” you mutter, voice tight but resigned. “I’ll…consider it.”

Carlos smiles, just a small, quiet smile. “That’s all I need for now.”

You look away, biting your lip, letting the tension ease just a fraction. The thought of Pittsburgh still terrifies you, but the idea of facing it with him doesn’t seem impossible anymore.

Carlos steps closer, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear. "Remember… cuna a la tumba, I’m right there with you.”

You blink, staring at him for a second. The phrase lands-familiar, warm, a little funny in his serious tone. His hand brushes yours briefly, and somehow it steadies everything spinning in your head.

The rest of the day drags by. Patients come and go, monitors beep, lines run, consults call, one thing barely finished before the next begins. The ER isn’t chaotic, not in that explosive way, but it’s exhausting in that relentless, teeth-grinding way that leaves your muscles sore, your brain foggy, your chest heavy. You patch wounds, stabilize vitals, run labs, and at every step, Carlos is right there-quietly checking, coordinating, catching the things that almost slip through the cracks.

Finally, the last patient before the end of your shift is wheeled into the OR. You drag yourself and Carlos into the locker room, scrubs sticking to your skin, gloves tossed somewhere, sweat and fatigue clinging to every inch. He leans against the lockers, calm, steady, watching you with that look that makes it impossible to lie.

You drop your bag with a thud and exhale as if it might never stop. “Yeah…sure. Why not, dude?” The words feel heavy, tired, almost sarcastic, but there’s a spark buried in there, a tiny, reluctant relief that maybe this move isn’t as impossible as you thought.

Carlos’s smile is quiet, small, and proud. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

You lean back against the lockers, close your eyes for a second, letting yourself feel it-exhaustion, relief, uncertainty-and for once, it doesn’t feel terrifying.

#the pitt #the pitt season 2 #michael robinavitch x reader #jack abbot x reader #ao3 #fanfic #polyamory #slow burn #will update as i go #original male character #hispanic reader

Meeting your Family (Hispanic!Reader)

(Amir, Chance, The Hanks, Hector, Mac, Parker, Skips)

Summary: A vaguely self indulgent post about my favs meeting the reader’s family.

Warnings: Hispanic!reader intended and has a reference to a lot of Hispanic family dynamics, culture, details, and foods. Gender neutral reader (no specified pronouns, gender identity, or anatomy). The characters are obviously human here but that could either be for the sake of a human au or you’ve realized them. There’s one mention of that idea in Amir’s part but that’s it. Mentions of drinking and alcohol.This is also based slightly around my family a little bit so it might not be entirely like yours but I feel like it’s open enough in most of it towards common characteristics within other Hispanic families that I’ve seen in my community.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Grow Up

Billy Hargrove

I've grown up as a Hispanic(puerto Rican) girl in the Midwest. I know exactly what I'm doing here yall. Give me space to cook. Billy... you complex character that I can't choose what to think about...

Hispanic reader!

Warnings: swearing, a big TW/CW for racism/slurs(that I can say), blood, abuse mentioned (verbal/physical, not done by reader or Billy to each other...except the one time she smacks him),

——

#×reader #angst #slow burn #part one maybe a part 2 in the future if yall like this one #billy hargrove #billy stranger things #billy hargove x reader #hispanic reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things #steve harrington #stranger things s3 #yes she practices Santeria 😁 I do too

Home is where the chanclas are

(The full love story)

⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ────𝜗𝜚────⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

(Simon Riley x Hispanic! Reader)

Warning ⚠️ : there will be lots of Spanish in here that isn’t translated (might come back and translate it later!) 😞 sorry babies, it took me so long to write this tho so hope you enjoy 💋

Simon hadn’t wanted to be there.

Not at this quinceañera, not in this crowded backyard strung with papel picado, not in this sweaty button-up that his buddy Alvarez had made him wear. He’d rather be on the base, in a gym, or hell—even on patrol. But Alvarez’s girlfriend insisted he bring a “plus one,” and since Simon was the only guy around not completely allergic to loud music and family functions, he got dragged along.

“You’ll be fine,” Alvarez had said. “Just nod, smile, and eat whatever they give you. Everything’s delicious.”

Simon wasn’t so sure. The party was in full swing—laughter, dancing, the smoky smell of carne asada filling the air, and Spanish flying in all directions. Kids were running around barefoot. Abuelitas were blessing people and handing out tamales. And the music—Jesus, the music was loud.

He stood near the punch table like a glorified coat rack, arms crossed, trying not to scowl.

That’s when he saw her.

Bright red dress, heels too high for comfort, hair falling in waves to the middle of her back, and a laugh that cracked through the noise like a spark. You were dancing with your cousin, hips swaying, arms up, a glass of pink agua fresca in your hand and glitter shimmering across your collarbones like you belonged in the center of attention. And maybe you did.

You caught him staring.

He looked away.

You walked straight toward him.

“Oye,” you said, voice full of playfulness. “Why you lookin’ so miserable? You allergic to fun or something, white boy?”

Simon blinked, caught off guard by the directness—and the accent, the attitude, the glow of your skin in the backyard lights.

“I’m not… miserable,” he said.

“Coulda fooled me.” You took a sip of your drink and looked him up and down. “Who invited the bodyguard?”

He almost laughed.

You held out your hand. “Come on. I don’t let sad statues stand by the juice table. You’re dancing with me.”

“I can’t dance”

“But you will.”

And somehow—you made him. You dragged him onto that dance floor with no rhythm, no clue, no chance of escape. He was stiff, awkward, completely overwhelmed. You were warmth and perfume and sass, spinning and swaying and talking a mile a minute. And somewhere in that blur of movement, laughter, and corridos, Simon Riley forgot how to be a shadow.

You let him breathe but never let him go.

⸻

The end of the night came too quickly. You were sitting together on the porch, heels kicked off, eating elotes from the snack cart your cousin had rolled in as a surprise.

“I think I tore something trying to keep up with you,” Simon said, groaning softly as he leaned back against the steps.

You snorted. “¿Qué? Didn’t you tell me earlier you were, like, a military soldier or something? No manches, you can crawl through dirt with a hundred pounds on your back, but you can’t handle a little dancing?”

He gave you a flat look, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I wasn’t trained for this kind of cardio,” he muttered.

“You did great,” you said, bumping your shoulder against his. “You only stepped on me three times.”

He looked down, sheepish. “I’m not exactly built for salsa.”

You leaned in, grinning. “You’re built for something. Just not spinning.”

He looked at you then, really looked—your glitter had faded, your lipstick was smudged, your earrings had come off. But you were still radiant. Still bold. Still everything he didn’t know he’d been missing.

“You should give me your number,” you said, casual but firm, handing him your phone.

He typed it in without hesitation.

“Because I know you’re gonna pretend you don’t want to call me, but you will.”

And he did.

⸻

Date one: late-night tacos under a flickering light, you judging his choice in hot sauce.

Date two: you made him dance again—badly—this time in your living room in socked feet, laughing when he nearly fell trying to copy your cumbia steps.

Date three: you brought him to a family cookout, where the meat was sizzling, the music was blasting, and your tíos—all three of them built like ex-wrestlers with gold chains and mirrored sunglasses—descended on Simon like a tactical unit.

They sat him down at the domino table with matching smirks, passing around beers and grilling him in rapid-fire Spanglish.

“So you’re military, huh? Qué curioso, we don’t scare so easy either.”

“Mijo, how many weapons you know how to use? Because I know at least four ways to disarm a man with a chancla.”

“Would you ever kill a man for making our sobrina cry? ’Cause we might.”

Simon, a trained killer, had never been more alert in his life.

Even bootcamp hadn’t rattled him like that.

Your parents were there too, of course—your mom dishing out second helpings while chatting with your tías, your dad working the grill and dancing with one of your cousins—but the crowd was thick and the music loud. They saw him, hugged him, gave warm but distracted greetings in between serving plates and telling kids not to run near the fire.

It was warm. It was chaotic. It was too much to be personal.

So when he came over a week later to your childhood home on a quiet Sunday afternoon, just for dinner, it was different. Quieter. Sharper.

You warned him. “My dad’s a clown. My mom will feed you like you’re starving. And everyone talks very fast. Don’t panic.”

Simon had never been more panicked.

Your mom answered the door in slippers and a full apron. “¡Mira, qué guapo!” she declared, cupping Simon’s face in both hands before dragging him inside by the arm like he weighed nothing.

Your dad? He cracked a beer, clapped Simon on the back like it was a tactical blow, and said, “You break her heart, I break your knees. With love.”

But over the meal—enchiladas, arroz, frijoles, and homemade salsa that made him sweat and cough and keep eating anyway—he relaxed. He laughed. Your family didn’t let him sit in silence like some stoic monument. They teased. They overfed. They asked questions and cracked jokes until the stiffness fell away.

They didn’t let him be a statue.

They made him real.

And then came date four.

You were in that oversized hoodie he loved, curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, barefaced and radiant.

He kissed you—slowly, reverently—his rough hands holding your face like he wasn’t sure you were real.

“I want this,” he murmured. “Whatever this is. I want it.”

You smiled, kissed him again, and said, “Then you better learn how to dance, mi amor.”

⸻

Your parents weren’t thrilled at first when you told them you were moving out—but they softened when Simon showed up on a Saturday morning with a truck, coffee for everyone, and rolled-up sleeves ready to work.

He packed every single box himself. Labeled everything in neat capital letters. Didn’t let you lift a thing heavier than a purse.

Your dad tried not to hover, but he stood in the hallway watching. Your mom kept walking in and out of your bedroom, touching things she’d folded for you years ago—blankets, little photo frames, the corner of your old dresser.

It’s not that they didn’t trust you.

They knew you were grown, strong, smart. They saw how happy you were. How steady he made you. But it was hard. It was hard watching their little girl leave and knowing she wouldn’t be coming home to them anymore. That the light in your old room would stay off. That the seat at the dinner table would be just a little more empty.

But Simon—quiet, tall, sharp-eyed Simon—was gentle. Respectful. Patient.

He thanked your mother for the lunch she insisted on making mid-pack.

He listened when your father gave him unsolicited advice about rent, plumbing, and fixing leaky windows. Nodded. Took mental notes. Didn’t flinch.

And when he opened the truck door for you later, he helped you in like you were something breakable and precious.

At the apartment, he gave you the bigger closet.

He built you a custom rack for your shoes out of reclaimed wood because “your heels deserve better than a cardboard box.”

He let you hang your neon pink “Bad Bunny, Good Heart” sign in the living room—right above the TV. Didn’t even blink.

When you stress-cleaned the entire place twice a week, blasting cumbia at full volume and moving furniture that didn’t need to be moved, he just grabbed the broom and started sweeping.

No questions. No complaints. Just a kiss on the forehead, a “You missed a spot,” and a smile.

You became a team. A home. A weird, glittery, soft kind of forever.

⸻

He proposed after almost two years, during a quiet evening at home. Just the two of you.

No crowds. No photographers. Just takeout containers on the counter, a few candles flickering on the coffee table, and the soft hum of your favorite playlist in the background.

You were in sweats. He was barefoot. Your hair was in a messy bun.

And still—he looked at you like you were made of gold.

He reached for your hands, callused palms warm and steady, thumbs brushing across your knuckles.

“You’ve been mine since that dance,” he said, voice low, eyes soft like velvet. “But I want to make it real. Marry me, my love.”

You blinked once. Twice. Then burst into tears, nodding as you choked out a “yes” and launched yourself into his arms.

You kissed him for ten whole minutes, barely stopping to breathe, let alone look at the ring.

When you did look, you gasped like it was the first diamond ever made. “¡Ay Dios mío! It’s so pretty!”

And then you scrambled for your phone, hands still shaking, dialing your mom before he could even get off the floor.

“Mami—¡ME VOY A CASAR!”

Your mom screamed so loud he flinched. Then came more screaming. Then the crying. Then the chaos of trying to conference call every tía you had.

Simon sat there watching, utterly overwhelmed and utterly in love.

⸻

You married in the spring.

The sky was the soft kind of blue that felt like a blessing. The church was big—white stone, wooden pews, sunlight spilling in through tall stained-glass windows. Every seat was filled with someone you loved: family, friends, cousins on cousins on cousins, all dressed in color and joy and gold jewelry.

Your dad cried more than your mom, wiping his eyes with the same folded handkerchief your abuela had given him when you were born. Your mom clutched her rosary and whispered prayers and compliments in equal measure, dabbing at your cheeks with a tissue between gasps of, “Mira qué hermosa te ves, mija.”

And near the front, seated on Simon’s side of the aisle—looking just slightly out of place in their suits but trying very hard to behave—was his other family.

Price in a crisp navy three-piece, standing a little taller than usual. Soap, already misty-eyed before the ceremony even started, practically bouncing in his seat from excitement. Gaz, freshly shaved, clutching a small gift box and nudging Soap every five seconds with whispered comments like, “Mate, you think Ghost is nervous? He looks like he’s about to faint.”

They were his brothers. His lifeline.

Simon had never expected them to come. He’d told them they didn’t have to—had muttered something like, “No big deal, just a wedding.” But all three of them had shown up anyway. Early. With matching pocket squares and their names painstakingly written out in your mom’s loopy handwriting on the guest list.

Soap cried again when he saw you walking down the aisle. Even Gaz got a little glassy-eyed.

And Simon—who had once walked through hell with these men at his side—stood there in a light gray suit, sweating bullets under the collar, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world.

And then—when it came time for vows—he cleared his throat, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a little folded piece of paper.

“Desde el día que te vi… supe que eras el caos que necesitaba.”

The entire room gasped.

Your tíos straightened in their seats. Your abuela whispered “¡Ay, qué lindo!” Your cousin grabbed her chest. Even Price cracked a grin.

His accent was clumsy. Thick. Adorably white-boy. He butchered the rhythm, said “izquierdos” like it had three syllables too many, but he didn’t stop.

“Te prometo bailar contigo… aunque tenga dos pies izquierdos,” he said, voice shaking. “Te prometo amarte, escucharte… y protegerte. Siempre.”

You sobbed.

No delicate tears, either—ugly crying, mascara-streaked cheeks, hands to your face like you could somehow hold all the love inside your chest. You kissed him before the priest could even finish, threw your arms around his neck and laughed into his shoulder as the room exploded in cheers and clapping and whistles.

He whispered, “You okay?” against your hair.

You nodded. “Estoy loca por ti.”

The reception was held in a big hall your family rented just down the road. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling. There were papel picado banners in every color fluttering from beam to beam. A whole wall was dedicated to desserts and pastelitos. Your primo Luis was DJing. Your tía Rosa was already barefoot by the first slow song.

Simon hadn’t let go of your hand since you’d said I do.

You walked into the room to applause and whistles, Simon still looking like he couldn’t believe this was his life. You in your dress. His team in suits. Your family everywhere.

It was loud.

The music, the laughter, the sound of kids running around with too much sugar and not enough supervision. The food was endless—carnitas, arroz con gandules, tamales, fresh tortillas that your tía Alma insisted on making on-site even though she was technically supposed to be a guest.

And Simon?

Simon was glowing.

At first, he stuck close to you. At his usual edge-of-the-room comfort zone. But your tíos—yes, the same ones who had interrogated him months ago like he was being recruited into the CIA—didn’t let him stay there long.

One of them clapped a massive hand on his back. “Come on, yerno. You’re family now.”

Another one handed him a beer. “We made bets that you wouldn’t survive us. But mírate. Still standing.”

The third one pointed toward the dance floor. “Now dance with your suegra before she gets mad.”

Simon turned to you, wide-eyed.

You grinned. “She’s right there waiting, babe.”

And there she was: your mom, already swaying to the rhythm of the cumbia, snapping her fingers with that look that said, don’t make me ask twice.

He didn’t hesitate.

He walked to her, took her hand like it was sacred, and let her guide him through a slow, gentle dance. She beamed up at him, one hand on his arm, the other gesturing like she was giving him detailed instructions only she understood.

“Keep the shoulders loose,” she said. “Sí, like that. Mira qué guapo. My daughter married a soldier who dances. I’m so proud.”

When the song ended, she kissed both of his cheeks and whispered something in his ear that made him go still for a second, then nod with a soft, grateful smile.

You watched them, heart swelling.

But that was just the start.

The next song came on—fast, loud, full of horns—and your cousins pounced.

“Oye,” one of your primas whispered loudly to the others. “I want the one that laughs a lot. ¿Cómo se llama? El que llora fácil. Está bien cute.”

Another one pointed. “No, no, no. El serio. El que se ve todo elegante. I want that one.”

“I call dibs on the moreno with the earrings,” someone yelled over the music. “Mío. Lo vi primero.”

Soap, Price, and Gaz looked like deer in headlights.

“Jesus Christ,” Soap muttered. “Are they fighting over us?”

Gaz took a nervous sip of his drink. “You didn’t tell me her family was this intense.”

Price chuckled, adjusting his tie. “You lot better get out there before they start drawing blood.”

So they did.

Soap got dragged into a group dance with three primas shouting instructions at him like he was in a Zumba class. Gaz ended up cumbia dancing with tía Marta, who kept twirling him like he was the bride. And Price—stoic, unshakable Price—nodded solemnly, took your abuela’s hand, and led her into a slow dance that had the whole family swooning.

Simon couldn’t stop smiling.

He was a little pink in the ears. Still stiff in the shoulders. But he looked at you like he was seeing heaven. Not because of the venue. Not the decorations. Not even the fact that you were now his wife.

It was because—for the first time in his life—he belonged.

Not to a mission. Not to a ghost of a past. But to you. To this noise, this color, this chaos, this home.

He pulled you in as a love song started. Held you tight, swaying to the music while your dress whispered over his shoes.

“Married,” you whispered, still not quite believing it.

“Mine,” he murmured back, resting his forehead against yours. “Forever.”

And when you kissed him this time, there was no ceremony. No audience. Just the quiet promise that whatever storm life brought next—you’d face it together.

As husband and wife.

As a family.

⸻

The honeymoon was bliss. Sunburnt kisses. Slow mornings tangled in hotel sheets. You barely left the room—too busy rediscovering each other with no schedules, no missions, no noise. Just soft laughter, whispered promises, and Simon’s hands never far from yours.

And when you finally came home—back to your little apartment with the creaky floorboards and the window that never quite closed—it felt like stepping into a new chapter.

Your first night back as husband and wife, you didn’t even bother with pajamas.

The suitcase sat half-unpacked near the door. A few candles still burned low on the windowsill. The soft rustle of the curtains was the only sound as you lay across Simon’s chest, asleep, your leg draped over his, one hand resting just above his heart. Completely bare. Completely his.

He couldn’t sleep.

He stared at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around you, thumb tracing idle circles into your back. His heart felt too full. Too loud. Like it was trying to tell him something he hadn’t been ready to hear before.

He thought about the future.

About the way your last name sounded when you said it with his.

About the way you had started talking about “someday” like it was real. Like it was close. A bigger place. Maybe a dog. Maybe… kids.

Simon exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss into your hair.

He couldn’t imagine going back out there. To war zones. To shadows. To any place that didn’t end with your voice saying, “Hey, babe, I’m home.”

He’d been a soldier most of his life. A weapon before he ever got to be a man.

But now?

Now he had something to protect that wasn’t a flag or a mission.

It was you.

It was this.

Maybe it was time to step back. Take an office job. Talk to Price. Let the younger lads run into fire while he stayed here, safe, solid, something softer.

Not weak. Never that.

But grounded.

Tethered.

Waiting for you.

He looked down at you, your lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep.

And for the first time in his entire life, Simon Riley wasn’t afraid of the future.

He was ready for it.

All of it.

——-

The house was small, warm, full of sunlight and mismatched furniture. A place stitched together by shared coffee mugs, throw blankets, and the smell of your cooking in every room. Your glittery “Home is where the chanclas are” sign went up in the kitchen the same day you moved in.

Simon, ever organized in his quiet, tidy way, had his own mug shelf and a dedicated hook for his tactical gear—right next to your keychain that had a fluffy pom-pom and a tiny bottle of Valentina hot sauce.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

One morning, still groggy and in your robe, you stepped out of the bathroom with a plastic stick clutched in your hand, your eyes wide and shining, your lip trembling just slightly.

Simon was in the kitchen pouring coffee. He turned at the sound of your footsteps and immediately froze when he saw your face.

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

You opened your hand.

He blinked at the test.

Then at you.

Then back down at the two clear pink lines like he wasn’t sure if he was awake.

“Is that…?”

You nodded. Your throat was too tight to speak at first. Your eyes filled faster than you expected, tears spilling over your cheeks without warning.

He crossed the room in two strides, coffee forgotten on the counter, and took your face in his hands.

“Are you serious?” he breathed. “We’re having a baby?”

Your voice cracked. “We’re having a baby.”

He kissed you, soft and slow and sweet, like he wanted to kiss the tears away. His eyes were glassy too.

“We’re having a Riley-sized baby,” he whispered into your temple, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Riley-sized baby”—something you two had joked about many, many times after the first serious talks about having kids. Mostly because Simon was huge. And you? Absolutely not.

You pulled back just enough to stare up at him, horrified. “Ay cabrón,” you muttered, eyes wide. “¿Tú sabes lo grande que estás?”

Simon blinked. “…I think so?”

“Oh my god. Voy a tener que empujar un bebé del tamaño de un pinche tanque.” You stared into the middle distance, processing. “Dios mío. Estoy jodida.”

He choked on a laugh and pulled you tight into his chest, pressing kiss after kiss into your hair while you dramatically buried your face in his shirt.

“Cálmate, baby,” he murmured, still laughing softly. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I need snacks,” you sniffled.

“I’ll get you snacks.”

“Pickles. And Takis. And that mango with the spicy powder.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

You wiped your face, still sniffly but already recovering. “And maybe a crib. Eventually.”

He looked down at your tummy—soft and familiar beneath your robe, the same one he’d kissed a hundred times before—and laid his hand there gently. “I’ll build it. Big enough for a little chaos gremlin like her mamá.”

You snorted, leaned into him, and let yourself smile through the nerves. “Ojalá que tenga mi nariz y no la tuya.”

“Oh, thanks, love.”

“You’re welcome.”

You were scared. He was terrified.

But standing there in your beautiful kitchen, sunlight warming the tile, your arms wrapped around each other and a baby on the way—there was nothing you couldn’t face.

Together.

And you couldn’t wait to tell your family.

⸻

And that little stick in your hand became a heartbeat on a monitor. Became tiny kicks beneath your ribs. Became midnight cravings, swollen ankles, and Simon sitting on the floor rubbing your back while you cursed the universe in Spanglish.

He read baby books. Took notes. Practiced holding a teddy bear like it was your newborn. Built the crib by hand—then rebuilt it because the first one wobbled the tiniest bit “our baby is not sleeping in a death trap, cariño.”

You decorated the nursery together. Soft colors. A little mobile that played lullabies. He painted the walls while you sat in the doorway, crying over a diaper commercial because “that baby had such chubby cheeks, Simon!”

One night, curled up together on the couch, your belly snug against his side, he asked quietly, “You think she’ll look like you?”

You smiled, running your fingers over the stretch marks blooming on your skin. “If she’s lucky.”

He kissed your shoulder. “We still haven’t picked a name.”

You tilted your head, thoughtful. “I’ve got a list.”

“Course you do.”

“Four pages.”

Simon blinked. “Bloody hell.”

You giggled. “Well, you better start narrowing them down, papá.”

And somehow, between back rubs and baby kicks and whispered prayers in the middle of the night, one name kept rising to the top. Soft. Strong. Full of light.

You were still tossing names around the day of the anatomy scan. You held Simon’s hand tightly as the ultrasound tech moved the wand across your belly, the screen glowing with fuzzy, miraculous shapes.

“Baby is right there,” the tech said gently, smiling. “Looks like you’re having a healthy baby girl.”

The world seemed to stop.

All the weeks leading up to this you both had speculated you would have a baby girl, already referring to the baby as ‘her’/‘she’

Simon stared at the monitor. Then at you. Then back at the monitor.

His hand slipped from yours so he could cover his face, his shoulders shaking—he was crying before a single word left his mouth.

You reached for him, brushing his hand aside so you could cradle his cheek. “Simon,” you whispered, eyes already stinging. “Hey. Look at me. Mi amor.”

He did, eyes red, lashes wet.

“A girl,” he choked. “We’re—we’re having a little girl.”

You kissed him, fingers in his hair, grounding him through the flood of emotion. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Our little girl.”

He held you the rest of the appointment.

And he never let go—not once. Not ever.

He held your hair when you threw up, held your hand at every checkup, held you close every time the fear crept in.

When the reality that you would be bringing your baby into the world became too scary.

He was there.

And when the time came, he was still right there. Strong. Calm. Pale as a ghost, sure—but solid. He whispered to you through every contraction, wiped sweat from your forehead, kissed your temple as you screamed and pushed and cried.

And then she was here.

Graciella Riley.

With her little scrunched-up face, her soft cries, her full head of light brown hair.

Simon cried the second he held her.

You held her next—shaking, sobbing, overwhelmed. And he was there, wrapping himself around the both of you, whispering, “You did it, my love. She’s here. You did it.”

And that led to today.

Coming home.

Gracie in the back seat, facing backward in the safest spot—middle of the car, mirror on the headrest so you could keep looking at her the whole way.

Your stitches pulling with every step.

Simon helping you out slowly, carefully, like you were made of glass. One big hand holding yours, the other cradling the carrier like it held the whole world.

#x reader #x Hispanic reader #a love story #Simon Riley #CALL OF DUTY #141 #fluff #simon riley blurbs #simon riley x reader #simon Riley love story #simon ghost riley #Hispanic family #Hispanic reader #wedding bells #simon Riley x wife #cuteness over load #Spanish speaking #long chapter

REVÓLVER SEXUAL | HC

supernova trio x gn!reader (separately)

very light angst + implied nsfw + hispanic/latin reader + past fat shaming + insecurities + fluff + mentioned past unhealthy mechanisms

a/n: totally not self indulging. this has been in my drafts for a year LMAO please like 🧍🏻‍♀️

૮ ּ ۟ monkey d. luffy ׅ ۫ ✧

when you first joined the crew, luffy KNEW you had some sort of trouble with food

you were so hesitant of EVERYTHING that he found himself insisting and making sure you ate well, along with sanji

“y/n, eat more.” you felt like he was your MOM.

you could hear the “estas muy flac@” from your family members or the “ni que estuvieras a dieta” from your mother

but it was so HARD to say no to luffy, captain or not.

Grow Up

Billy Hargrove

Hispanic reader!

Warnings: swearing, a big TW/CW for racism/slurs(that I can say), blood, abuse mentioned (verbal/physical, not done by reader or Billy to each other...except the one time she smacks him),

——

#hispanic reader

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