‘we write our own destiny now’

request guidelines

♡ i no longer write real person fanfiction - i will only write for fictional characters.

♡ i am open to writing for bucky barnes, joel miller (game or hbo), din djarin, frankie morales, marc spector, steven grant, and others. please message me if you have another character in mind!

♡ i will not write requests with any of the following content: r*pe/noncon, inc*st, self harm, m*rder/death, any weapon kinks, daddy/mommy kink/age play, and any dark content.

♡ i reserve the right to ignore any request that makes me uncomfortable, even if the content is not listed above!

♡ i generally write fics using she/her pronouns for an afab reader, but i am open to writing with they/them pronouns for a non-binary/gender fluid reader. i try my best to keep physical descriptions out of my fics regardless. i do not write male reader.

♡ i will not engage with asks from minors or empty blogs. for that reason, if you are making a request i ask that you are not anonymous. i promise i will be the only one to see it, i will not post the ask directly on my blog, and will not mention you in the final fic post unless you ask me to!

Jasper is occupied with Alpine in the living room, giggling profusely as he plays with the little white cat with her feather toy. 

“Yeah, Sweets?” he replies, and you follow the sound of his voice, trying to keep your knees from going weak at the sound of that pet name he’s given you. 

He’s stationed at the kitchen counter, starting on dinner for the three of you. 

“I just have something to tell you,” you fumble nervously with your fingers. 

“What’s up?” he pauses what he’s doing, turning to give you his full attention with a stupidly sweet smile - those steel blue eyes boring into yours. 

“I just wanted to let you know that I added you as an emergency contact and authorized drop-off and pick-up person for Jasper,” you state, then begin to overthink, doubts and anxieties drowning out any logical thoughts. 

Why did you think it would be okay to do this? He’s going to think you’re forcing responsibilities onto him for a kid that’s not even his. He’s going to think you’re insane. It’s a big enough ask that you’re living in his house. 

Now he’s going to think you’re just taking advantage of him. 

He’s going to leave you. 

Just like Jasper’s dad did. 

“I mean, not that I’m like, gonna make you pick him up or– or anything like that,” you ramble on. “I just figured, y’know, since we’re living with you now, if anything were to happen to either Jasper or me, you’d be the first to find out, besides Nat, I suppose, but I don’t expect you to do anything for him or for us or–”

“(Y/n), it’s okay,” his baritone voice calms your worries instantaneously. “I hope you know that I wouldn’t mind doing anything like that, anyways,” he gives you a smile as a sturdy hand makes its place on your shoulder, giving a soothing rub.

“You wouldn’t?” you ask, needing to hear the reassurance again.

“Absolutely not. I’d be there for him, and for you, in a heartbeat if anything were to happen, alright?” he promises.

One of the many promises he’s made - and kept - ensuring your unconditional support and unwavering security with him. 

~~

“You’re making a mess,” Jasper says with a giggle as Bucky spills some pancake batter onto the counter.

Bucky smirks. “Nah, that’s just my special technique.”

Jasper giggles, cradling his chin in his hands. “You’re not very good at it.”

Bucky gasps, feigning hurt, then coming around the counter to swoop Jasper up, making the little boy giggle even more. 

“Alright, you come over here and show me how it’s done, then!”

“Deal,” Jasper exhales with a smile as Bucky guides his hand to drop a scoop of pancake batter into the pan on the stove.

After breakfast, Bucky helps Jasper get dressed into the outfit you laid out on his dresser the night before - a pair of cozy, army green pants and a grey, long sleeve shirt with little jellyfish printed all over. Then, after making sure Jasper has a chance to say goodbye to Alpine, the two boys head down to finish up. 

Bucky kneels to zip up Jasper’s jacket, smoothing it over his small shoulders with a careful touch. 

“Alright, we got your lunch? Shoes on the right feet this time?”

Jasper nods solemnly. “Yes. Bubbles’ in my backpack, too.”

“Phew,” Bucky says, looking over the boy’s shoulder to see the shark stuffie sticking out of his backpack. “Close call. Could’ve been a code red.”

“What’s code red?”

Bucky leans in like he’s telling a secret. “It’s when you forget your stuffed animal and the whole day gets super wonky.”

Jasper gasps. “Oh no! I never forget Bubbles.”

“Of course not! You’re a professional,” Bucky says before scooping him up and heading out to the car.

~~~ The car ride is filled with music - some song by Queen with a lot of drums and a beat that makes Bucky tap against the steering wheel like he’s drumming in the band. Jasper sings along even though he doesn’t know the exact words, bobbing his head in time with Bucky’s. He’s strapped into his seat, little feet dangling and kicking to the rhythm.

Bucky glances at him at a red light, grinning. “You’re better than the radio.”

Jasper grins back. “I am the radio!”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky says, turning the volume up a little more, just in time for the chorus. “Okay, Sport, take it away.”

Jasper laughs out loud, then launches into a made-up version of the lyrics - half mumbles, half giggles, not a single real word in the mix. Bucky claps at the end like it’s a concert.

It’s a good morning. A golden kind of good.

~~~

When they pull up in front of the school, Bucky parks the car and steps out, walking around to Jasper’s side. He opens the door, unbuckles him carefully, and lifts him down onto the pavement. Jasper stands close to Bucky, the morning chill nipping gently at his cheeks.

He’s not scared, just quiet. The kind of quiet that comes when things feel too nice to let go of just yet.

“You okay, Sport?” Bucky asks, smoothing the front of Jasper’s jacket.

Jasper nods, eyes still bright from the car ride. 

“Can we do the drumming song again later?”

Bucky smiles. “You got it. You can even pick all the other songs for the way home, too.”

Jasper’s lips turn up in a little grin. He shifts his backpack on his shoulders, then reaches out and slips his small hand into Bucky’s flesh one. They walk toward the school slowly, side by side. Jasper steps over the cracks in the sidewalk with quiet concentration, and Bucky steps over them too, like it’s part of a secret game only they know.

When they reach the school doors, Jasper’s teacher is waiting inside, standing with a soft smile. Jasper sees her, but doesn’t walk forward right away. He turns to Bucky instead.

“Can we have a fun night tonight?” he asks.

Bucky crouches down to meet his eyes, brushing a curl from Jasper’s forehead. “Yeah, we can. I’ll pick you up right after school, and when we get home, you and me and Alpine’ll all wait for Mama together.”

Jasper smiles, reassured. He throws his arms around Bucky’s neck, holding on just a little longer than usual.

“I like when you take me to school,” he says softly.

“I like taking you to school,” Bucky murmurs into his hair. “It’s the best part of my day.”

Jasper pulls back and gives a little nod, like he’s made peace with things. He turns toward the door, his teacher greeting him with his name.

But before he steps inside, Jasper stops and turns around one more time. He lifts his hand in a high, open wave.

“Bye, Bucky!”

Bucky waves back, warm and steady. “Bye, Sport. I’ll see you real soon.”

Jasper grins, then disappears into the school with his stuffed shark peeking from his backpack, dark curls catching hues of the morning sun. 

Bucky stays there a moment, hands in his pockets, watching the door even after it closes. The morning air still hums with the warmth of Jasper’s little voice, the soft grip of his hand, the sleepy laughter over messy pancakes and gibberish singing. 

He turns back toward the car, slower now, and leans against the door before getting in.

You.

You were the missing piece this morning. Your absence felt in the empty mug by the sink, the way Jasper mentioned your name before his eyes even opened. And in Jasper, in the way he squints when he’s thinking hard, or how his laugh builds slowly and takes over a whole room, all Bucky can see is you. Not just in his features, but in the way he moves through the world.

Bucky lets out a quiet breath, eyes fixed on nothing for a moment.

He misses you.

You were all together just last night, and you will be again in a mere eight hours, but he always misses you in the mornings. Even though you live together. Even though you’re right within reach, and still, somehow, not his.

He shakes his head with a small smile, pushing off the car.

“Later,” he says under his breath, half to himself, half to the idea of you.

Then he climbs into the driver’s seat, the music still queued from earlier, and drives home with the echo of Jasper’s giggle still lingering. 

~~

Meanwhile, in preschool, Jasper spots his friend Nolan by the cubbies, carefully trying to hang up his backpack but getting one of the straps tangled. He runs over, feet thudding lightly on the floor.

“Hi, Nolan!” Jasper chirps, excited to see his friend as he hangs up his own backpack in the next cubby over.

“Hi, Jasper,” Nolan says, still wrestling with his bag. “My backpack's all… twisty.” He frowns and gives it a tug. “It’s malfunctionating.”

Jasper giggles. “That’s not a word.”

“Yes it is,” Nolan insists with a small frown. “It means it’s being rude to me.”

Jasper helps him straighten the strap, careful and focused in the way only little kids can be when they’re trying to be helpful. His fingers are quick, but gentle. Thoughtful. He doesn’t tug or pull, he just smooths the fabric, the way he’s seen you do when you fix his jacket in the mornings, and the way you’ve fixed Bucky’s apron at the coffee shop.

Nolan finally manages to hang his bag on the hook, and then after Jasper pulls his shark out of his backpack, the two boys walk toward the carpet together.

“Where was your mom at drop off, Jasper?” Nolan asks as they settle criss-cross on the rug.

“She’s at work this morning,” Jasper explains. “Bucky took me to school today.”

Nolan scrunches up his face. “What’s a Bucky? Is that like… your grandpa?”

“No,” Jasper says, laughing a little. “Bucky's not old like that.”

“Then what is it?” Nolan asks, pulling on the sleeve of his sweater. “Is that your cousin? I have a big cousin who can drive and a baby cousin who still wears diapers.”

Jasper shakes his head, curls bouncing. He has no idea what a cousin is.

Nolan blinks. “So… what is it?”

Jasper opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks at his knees for a second, thinking hard. He likes to think before he talks. Sometimes words feel heavy in his mouth, and he wants to be sure he picks the right ones. 

But this time? 

He doesn’t have a word. He just knows the feeling.

He doesn’t really know what Bucky is supposed to be. He just is.

“He’s just... my Bucky,” Jasper says at last, soft but sure.

Nolan seems to accept this answer like it’s a perfectly normal thing.

“Okay,” he says with a nod. But then, after a moment, he adds, “My dad took me to school today. He has a big truck with crumbs in it. He lets me beep the horn sometimes.”

Jasper tilts his head. “What’s a dad?”

Nolan looks at him like the question is strange, but not in a mean way. Just confused - the same way Jasper is confused.

“You don’t know?”

Jasper shakes his head. 

“It’s like…” Nolan scrunches his nose, thinking. “Well, my dad lives with me and my mom. He takes me to school, too. He’s big, like a teacher.”

Jasper thinks about it, his little hands twisting the hem of his shirt as a frown pulls onto his face as he tries to picture it. Bucky lives with him. Bucky is big. Bucky takes him places. But Bucky isn’t called ‘Dad’. 

He looks at the carpet, fingers absently brushing over Bubbles’ soft, blue fur. He’s quiet for a long beat, that familiar thoughtful tilt to his head. There’s always so much going on in Jasper’s little mind - the small things he doesn’t always know how to say out loud yet. He likes answers. He likes knowing how things work, why things are the way they are. But this feels like a question with no picture in his head to go with it.

“But I have a Mama,” he says slowly, like he’s testing out a math problem. “And a Bucky. Is that the same?”

Nolan considers this, his nose wrinkled. “Maybe. I think dads are just big people who do building stuff and carry the heavy bags. And they say stuff like, ‘Hey, knock it off!’”

“Bucky doesn’t say that,” Jasper says thoughtfully. “But he calls me 'Sport'. And he carries the grocery bags. And he makes really good sandwiches.”

“Well, my dad does all that, too. ‘Cept his sandwiches aren’t too good. Mom makes better sandwiches. Dad makes good cereal, though.”

Jasper turns the word over in his mind. Dad. It doesn’t feel familiar, like Mama, your name. It doesn’t feel warm like Bucky does. It’s just… strange. A shape he’s never had to fit into his world before.

Other kids have dads. Nolan does. Maybe other kids in his class do, too. And they call them Dad like he calls you Mama. So why doesn’t he have one?

Would he know if he did?

The question starts to press against his ribs, a little bigger, a little heavier than he expects. It stays with him through the morning—through coloring, through snack time, through story time.

He knows who he’ll ask.

Because if anyone can explain it, if anyone can make it make sense, it’s Bucky.

His Bucky.

Later, he decides, he will ask Bucky. 

Because his Bucky always knows just what to say.

You nod, and with a click of his tongue, he leans in to kiss your forehead, his large hands holding your throbbing head secure.

“C'mon,” he murmurs, shifting to guide you toward the stairs. “Let’s get you upstairs. You need a hot shower and some shuteye.”

You don’t argue, letting him steer you gently through the dimly lit house. The subtle creak of the wooden steps under your feet feels like thunder in your skull, but Joel’s hand stays firm on your back, his presence both comforting and grounding you through the excruciating pain.

Once in the bathroom, he reaches into the old wooden cabinet, pulling out fresh towels before turning the knobs on the shower. Steam begins to fill the small space, the water sputtering before settling into a steady stream. He helps you undress and cleans the day off of you with careful hands, all the while pressing soft kisses to your bare shoulder as he whispers sweet reassurances.

When you finally emerge, he’s there waiting, holding out a towel to wrap you in. Then, he helps you get dressed - a cozy pair of sweatpants and your favorite of his thermal long sleeved shirt. 

Then, he ever so carefully helps you into bed before swapping his own flannel and jeans for a grey tee and a pair of boxers. Before you know it, he's sliding underneath the covers beside you, his thick arms wrapping around you once again.

“There ya go,” he murmurs into your temple. “Just rest now, Darlin'. I’ll be right here.”

You barely manage a nod before sleep starts pulling you under, but you feel it - the press of Joel’s lips against your forehead, the quiet promise in his touch.

“Thank you, Joel. I love you,” is all you can say before your aching eyes finally fall shut to the sound of him repeating those three little words to you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep when the pain jolts you awake.

It’s worse now - pounding behind your eyes like a hammer against your skull. Nausea coils in your stomach, creeping up your throat. You turn over with a groan, squinting against the dim moonlight casting in from the window. Joel is beside you, sleeping soundly, one arm draped across your waist.

Biting your lip to stifle a groan of discomfort, you try your best not to wake Joel as you carefully wiggle out from under his arm and sit up, but the movement sends a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over you. You barely make it to the bathroom before you have to brace yourself against the cold, tile floor, dry heaving into the small, tin trash bin. 

A small whimper exits your throat as you grip the edge of the bin, black spots dancing in your vision. You want to call for Joel so badly, but you know he has patrol in the morning, and he needs his sleep.

But it’s like he reads your mind. 

You feel him before you hear him - strong hands settling on your shoulders, his mere presence bringing you some semblance of comfort during this terrible episode.

“Darlin’?” His baritone voice is thick with sleep but laced with concern.

You whimper once more, squeezing your eyes shut as your body expunges what little is left in your stomach from dinner in the dining hall less than twelve hours prior.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” he sighs, one hand coming up to hold your hair back while the other rubs slow, grounding circles into your back. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You cling to the trash bin, breathing heavily through the pain, but it’s relentless. 

“Joel, I can’t see,” you rasp, panic creeping into your voice as your vision blurs at the edges.

His grip on you tightens. 

“I gotcha, (Y/n), I gotcha. Just keep breathin' for me, Darlin’.” 

Carefully, he guides you down from your knees to sit between his extended legs and against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around you as he comforts you through the worst of it.

Minutes pass. You don't know how many. Time seems to move like molasses as the excuciating pain refuses to let up, leaving you wondering if this attack will ever end.

But Joel's steady warmth surrounds you, the rhythmic motion of his hands lulling you down from the worst of it. Eventually, the sharp edge of the pain dulls to something more bearable, leaving you boneless and exhausted against him.

“Think you can get back in bed?” he asks softly, noticing the shift in the way your muscles release themselves against him.

You nod weakly. 

“Atta girl,” he hums, lifting you from the floor of the bathroom, hoisting your arm around his shoulder, and slowly ushering you back to bed with one arm around your waist and the other bracing your midsection to keep you stable. 

He sets you down onto the bed, lifting your legs up and tucking you back under the covers. Then, he disappears only briefly, returning with a fresh glass of water, setting it within reach on the nightstand; a cool, damp cloth for your forehead; and your bottle of medicine from the infirmary. He shakes out a tablet for you, and you pop it into your mouth to allow it to dissolve under your tongue - chasing it down with a refreshing sip of water - hoping its pain and nausea relief comes soon.

“Thank you, Joel,” you murmur, resting your face on his broad chest. 

“Of course, Darlin’,” he replies, running his callused, thick fingers down the tense muscles of your back with one hand, and holding the cloth to your skin with the other. “But how come you didn’t wake me before it got this bad?” 

“Didn’t wanna bother you. Wanted to let you sleep,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

“Darlin’,” he sighs, shaking his head, “Your well-being is never a bother.” He leans in, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. “I wish I could take all this pain away for you.”

“You’ve done so much already,” you assure as you exhale shakily. “I’m just… I’m so tired.”

“I know. Just sleep, Darlin'. I got you,” he murmurs, holding you close, tracing slow patterns on your back until you finally drift off.

The golden morning light filters softly through the curtains, casting long, warm streaks across the wooden floor. The air is crisp, but not cold, and beneath the heavy quilt, the bed is still wrapped in the lingering warmth of the night. The quiet hum of Jackson waking up reaches your ears - distant voices, the sound of boots crunching through snow - but none of it feels as important as the steady creak of the bedroom door opening.

Joel steps inside, his movements careful, carrying a steaming mug in his hand. His gaze lands on you, and his face softens when he sees you awake. He walks over and settles onto the edge of the bed.

“Mornin’, Darlin',” he murmurs with a sleepy smile.

You blink up at him, still hazy, but for the first time in days, your head doesn’t feel like it’s full of broken glass. 

“Good morning,” you mumble, shifting under the blankets.

Joel studies your face, concern still evident in his golden hazel eyes. 

“Feelin’ any better?”

You nod slowly. 

“Yeah. Still kinda out of it, but… definitely better.”

He exhales, slow and relieved, then lifts the mug toward you. “Made you some tea. Peppermint. Read in one of those old medical books that it helps with migraines.”

You push yourself up against the pillows and take the cup from him and smile faintly. 

“You did research?”

He shrugs, a little sheepish - an endearing blush falls over his scruffy face. “Wanted to help.”

As you take a careful sip, he watches, waiting to see if you’ll approve. The warmth seeps into your chest, soothing, grounding. 

“You’ve helped me so much. Thank you, Joel,” you murmur.

He reaches down, rubbing slow circles over your shin through the blanket. There’s something hesitant in his expression, like he’s not sure if now is the time to bring it up, but he does anyway. 

“Don’t. Apologize.” He says, before you even have the chance to open your mouth again.

You press your lips together, guilt gnawing at you anyway. 

“I know, I just…I hate that you had to deal with all that last night. You need your sleep.”

Joel huffs out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Ain’t nothin’ I’d rather be doin’ than takin’ care of you.” His voice is warm, resolute, leaving no room for argument. He tugs the quilt back, slipping in beside you, his body solid and familiar as he settles in.

Your brow furrows. “But I thought you were scheduled for patrol this morning?”

“Went over to Tommy’s while you were still sleepin’. Told him I needed the day off.”

Your heart clenches. “Joel, you didn’t have to--”

He shakes his head again. “Yeah, I did. You need me more. And besides,” He smirks slightly. “Pain in my ass owes me one.”

You can’t help but smile at that, remembering a few occasions where Joel stood in for Tommy on patrol. 

“Maria sends her get-well wishes, too. Said she noticed you were strugglin’ yesterday.”

You sigh, nestling deeper into the pillows. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only to people who care about ya’,” he murmurs, pulling you closer against him.

Joel is all warmth as he tucks you against his chest, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand strokes gently up and down your back, steady, soothing.

“Thank you, Joel,” you repeat.

“No need to keep thankin’ me. You know I’d do anythin’ for ya. Now get some more rest, Darlin’,” he whispers. “I’m right here if you need anythin’.”

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat thrums beneath your ear, a quiet reassurance that you’re safe, that you’re home.

He holds you like you’re something precious - something worth protecting in a world that has tried to take everything from him. This cruel world has stripped so much away, left so many jagged edges, but Joel still knows how to be soft. At least, with you.