#I’ll be in bed in the middle of the night and see something I left out and I literally won’t be able to sleep until I put it away

[readreidsworld]

Bucky Barnes x Wife Reader

Summary Bucky goes missing on a mission.

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You didn’t remember the last time you slept.

Not really. Not deeply. Not since the mission. Not since Bucky disappeared.

It had been nineteen days.

Nineteen days since you last heard his voice through the comm, low and gravelly with that teasing warmth he only ever used with you.

Nineteen days since he’d said, “I’ll be back before you can miss me, doll.”

He was wrong.

Because you missed him before the jet even left the ground.

You hadn’t been able to sleep in the bed. It still smelled like him. You slept curled on the couch with his hoodie, waiting. Waiting for anything. For the door to knock. For someone to say he was okay. For the damn phone to ring.

But it never did.

Steve and Sam tried to reassure you. The mission had gone dark, but that didn’t mean he was

You couldn’t even think the word.

But your body knew. Nausea, insomnia, cold dread like lead in your lungs. You cried in the shower. You cried in the middle of the night. Then you stopped crying, which was somehow worse.

The house was a graveyard of memories. His boots by the door. The coffee mug with his fingerprint still smudged on it. His toothbrush.

Sometimes, you held it in your hand and whispered, Come home.

On day 20 Steve brought you tea. You snapped.

“I don’t want tea, Steve. I want my husband.”

Your voice broke. So did your knees. You collapsed into his arms and sobbed so hard your ribs hurt.

On day 22 you had a panic attack in the grocery store. The kind that makes your vision go black and your lungs forget how to breathe.

A stranger held your hand until it passed.

You went home, climbed into bed in Bucky’s hoodie, and screamed into the pillow until you saw stars.

On Day 23 You were folding laundry you didn’t remember washing when the knock came.

Three soft raps. You froze.

You didn’t rush to the door anymore. You had learned. Every time you did, it wasn’t him.

But something in your bones this time whispered: Go. Your feet moved on their own.

You opened the door and there he was.

Battered. Bruised. Blood crusted at his temple. Arm twitching like it hadn’t fully recalibrated. Eyes wide. Staring at you like you were the ghost.

He was thinner. Paler. But he was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

You couldn’t move.

Neither could he.

“…Hi, doll,” he whispered.

You launched yourself into his arms.

He caught you like muscle memory.

You kissed him like you were drowning, and he was air. You felt his hands trembling on your face. Felt his lips, desperate and raw against yours. Felt every broken piece of your soul stitching itself back together with every breath he took.

“I thought you were dead,” you sobbed. “I thought I couldn’t—”

“I tried to come back,” he choked out. “They had dampeners. No comms. No exits. I tried.”

“You’re here.” You clutched his shirt. “That’s all that matters.”

And then he cried.

Silent tears on your skin as he kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. His arms around you like he’d die if he let go.

“I kept your picture,” he whispered. “From our wedding. I looked at it every night. Every time I wanted to give up.”

You kissed him again, salty and breathless.

And you held each other in the doorway like a lifeline.

Because that’s what you were.

Bucky’s Pov

He knew he was going to die by day six.

No food. No comms. His mission partner dead. Trapped in an underground complex with a disabled arm and a fractured rib.

He wasn’t scared of death. Not really.

But he was scared of dying without seeing you again. So he didn’t. He lived. For you.

For your laugh, your voice, the way you kissed the corner of his mouth before he left on every mission.

For the photo in his vest pocket your wedding day. You were laughing, and he was looking at you like a man who had somehow been given heaven.

He slept on cold floors. Fought his way through armed patrols. Bled into his boots. And whispered your name under his breath to remind himself what was waiting.

He lost count of the days.

But he never forgot your face.

When he finally escaped, when the light hit his skin again and the pain caught up to him there was only one place he wanted to be.

Home.

And when you opened that door looking like you’d been shattered and still loved him anyway he knew he’d made it.

“I’m not dead,” he whispered into your hair. “I’m home.”

Two days later, you found him in the kitchen. Shirtless. In plaid pajama pants. Humming to the radio and flipping pancakes with a spatula like a goof and you burst into tears.

Happy ones.

Because this the sunlight in his eyes, the butter on the stove, the safety in your chest this was real.

“I’ll make yours extra crispy,” he said, grinning. “You always steal mine anyway.” You threw your arms around him and kissed him until he laughed.

Later, he ran a bath, just how you liked it.

You slid into the tub together, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you. The water steamed around you like a cocoon. You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

He traced circles on your thigh with gentle fingers.

“You fell asleep like this all the time before,” he whispered.

“I was never more at peace than in your arms.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’ll never be out of them again.”

You turned, slowly, water rippling, and faced him.

“I love you.”

He cupped your cheek, eyes glassy. “Forever, doll.”

Later, curled in bed in one of his old henleys, you fell asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bucky stayed awake just a little longer, brushing his thumb over your wedding ring.

Because you were safe.

Because he was home.

Because he came back to you.

[zou-rs]

Breakup PART 2

Six years later…

Leon S. Kennedy isn’t the same man.

He’s not the nervous 21-year-old rookie who cried into a bottle of cheap whiskey and passed out on the floor the night before his first day. That boy—with the soft blue eyes and chin dimple and hopelessly in love heart—died in Raccoon City.

What came out of it was something colder. Sharper. A man built from smoke and steel and sleepless nights.

But even now, after six long years of blood and orders and bone-crushing guilt, his heart still knows only one name.

Yours.

He remembers the way your voice cracked when you broke it off. He remembers the trembling plate of chocolate smiley-face dessert he had made for you that night. He remembers thinking you were his home—his future. And then, in one sentence, you were gone.

The city burned the next day.

He survived. By sheer chance, by terrible fate. He stumbled through hell with bloodied hands and a broken heart, shouting your name through empty streets and flaming wreckage. When he found a phone, he dialed your number like a man possessed—again and again and again until finally, mercifully, you picked up.

Your voice.

He collapsed against a bloodstained wall and cried, gasping your name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

You said you were safe. You had left before the chaos began. And then—you hung up.

But it was enough. It had to be.

Then they came for him.

The government. The mission. The threats.

He remembers the cold weight of the photo they placed on the table in front of him. Your face. Your eyes.

“If you don’t work for us,” they said, “we’ll find her. She’ll make an excellent test subject.”

Leon didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll do it.”

And that was that.

The training was brutal. The missions, unending. He bled, broke bones, clawed his way through warzones, nightmares, and things worse than death. And every time he thought he couldn’t go on, he whispered it to himself like a prayer.

For you.

Even when he was drugged and tortured.

For you.

Even when he heard you had started seeing someone else.

For you.

Even when he saw that blurry tabloid photo of you smiling on some balcony with someone who wasn’t him, it still didn’t stop. It just hurt more.

He never contacted you. Not once. But he always knew where you were. Not in a creepy way, not out of obsession. Just… to know you were alive. Breathing. Safe.

He had made a promise. Even if you hated him. Even if you never wanted to see him again.

And tonight, after another mission leaves his side bleeding and his back screaming, he sits on a hotel bed in some nameless safe house, staring at the last photo he took of you. The real one. From that last night. You laughing in his hoodie. The one with the academy logo and the stupid ketchup stain.

He touches the screen, thumb trembling.

He whispers the words he never got to say:

“I’m sorry I wasn’t better. I’m sorry I let you go.

————————-

You never planned to never see him again.

That night—when you told Leon you needed a break—it wasn’t meant to be forever. You just… needed time. A breath. Some kind of pause from drowning in your own mind. Depression had made everything heavy, even the bright, beautiful boy you loved since you were both in middle school. He was too pure, too golden-hearted, too good. You were sure if you stayed, you’d eventually drag him down with you.

You thought space would help. You thought he’d go to Raccoon City, do amazing things, and you’d heal in the quiet. Maybe you’d find your way back to each other.

But the universe had other plans.

Because the next day, Raccoon City was gone.

Just… gone.

You still remember the panic. The cold sweat. The deafening silence when your parents turned up the TV and the news said the city was under quarantine, and then the broadcast cut out.

You remember trying to call him, over and over. You remember praying—actually praying—to any god that might listen. Begging for just one more chance to say you were sorry. That you didn’t mean it. That you still loved him.

But you never got through.

You thought he was dead.

Until weeks later.

You were home. Still barely functioning. Still waking up in tears. You pulled your curtains back one early morning, and there he was.

Leon.

Standing in the yard.

Same place he always stood when he used to throw pebbles at your window. His hair was longer now. Messy. He looked thinner, older. Tired. But it was him.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

Sprinted down the stairs. Flinging the door open with a scream building in your throat.

But he was gone.

You stood barefoot on the porch, heart hammering, lungs burning.

Gone.

After that, it kept happening.

You’d see glimpses. A figure across the street. A familiar silhouette outside the corner shop. A flash of blue eyes in a crowd. You thought maybe you were losing it. Maybe grief was tricking you.

But some part of you knew.

Leon was watching. Still keeping his distance, still looking after you even when you didn’t deserve it. You wanted to run to him, fall into his arms, sob out every word you’d held back for years.

But you didn’t.

Because you were a coward.

You kept telling yourself it was just coincidence. That he didn’t want to be found. That maybe he did hate you after all.

Eventually, the sightings stopped.

And life moved on, in the way that it does when you’re numb. You moved to D.C. with a man who isn’t Leon. You didn’t love him. You still don’t. But you moved in because your family was getting tired of worrying. Because pretending to be okay seemed easier than explaining why you weren’t.

Your boyfriend isn’t cruel, not exactly. But he’s sharp in all the wrong places. Cold where Leon was warm. Dismissive. You feel lonelier with him than you ever did when you were actually alone.

He doesn’t notice the way you flinch when he raises his voice.

Doesn’t know you still sleep in the hoodie Leon gave you on your 17th birthday.

Doesn’t know you check the news every day, hoping, praying, that maybe—

And then today, it happens.

The headline explodes across your feed:

“Presidential Mission: Unknown Agent Saves First Daughter.”

You don’t care about politics. You barely register the details.

Until you see him.

The photo is blurry. Dark. He’s bloodied, tired, barely recognizable.

But you know him.

That chin dimple. Those shoulders. That look.

Leon.

Six years later, and it’s really him.

You drop your phone. Your lungs feel like they’ve collapsed. You fall to your knees in the bathroom, shaking, sobbing into your hands.

He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s still alive.

—-

After Spain, after that hell — the screams, the rot, the parasite in his chest trying to eat him alive — all Leon could think about was you.

Not the mission.

Not Ashley.

Not the president’s praise.

Just you.

It had been months since he let himself check in. Since he’d driven by your street like a ghost in the dark, headlights off, windows cracked just enough to catch a glimpse of your laughter through a window. But ever since you’d started seeing him — that guy who never smiled at you the way Leon used to — Leon couldn’t bear it.

Couldn’t stand the idea of you being touched by hands that didn’t know how you hated mint gum and loved thunderstorms. Of someone else kissing the tiny scar on your eyebrow. He’d rather chew glass.

But tonight… tonight he couldn’t stop himself.

Spain had taken everything from him. His body was still sore from the Plagas. His hands still shook. The government said he was fine now, that it was under control.

But Leon didn’t feel fine.

He felt like a grave.

So he came here — just to see you. For five minutes. Just one glimpse. Maybe you’d be walking to the store again in those fuzzy socks you always wore with the ripped hoodie he gave you back in ‘97. Maybe you’d lean out your window like you always did before bed.

He didn’t even get to the curb before the door opened.

You stepped outside.

And walked straight toward him.

At first, Leon thought he was hallucinating. He blinked, heart stuttering. Maybe the parasite wasn’t gone. Maybe he was still in the lab. Still strapped to a table.

But no.

You were real.

Real and walking toward him with the softest, saddest look on your face — like you knew he was coming. Like you’d been waiting.

And he panicked.

He hadn’t planned for this.

He looked like hell — hoodie soaked from the rain, hair still damp, eyes rimmed in red from too many sleepless nights. He hadn’t spoken to you in six years, and now here you were, five feet away, and his voice was gone.

“Leon,” you breathed, stopping in front of him.

Your eyes searched his face like they were trying to memorize him all over again. His throat worked around your name, but nothing came out.

“I saw the news,” you whispered.

He laughed, bitter and broken. “Great. Guess the government forgot to blur my face this time.”

“You saved the president’s daughter.”

“I didn’t come here for congratulations.”

“I know.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that stretches years wide.

Leon stared at you like he’d never seen you before. You were older now. Tired, too. But beautiful. The same softness in your lips. The same kindness in your eyes. And underneath it all, a guilt that mirrored his own.

“You shouldn’t be with him,” he said quietly. It came out like a confession.

You didn’t argue.

“I know,” you said, voice cracking.

Leon looked down. His hands were clenched in his pockets. If he let them out, he was afraid he’d touch you. Afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“I tried to stay away,” he admitted. “Thought I was doing the right thing. Thought you were happy.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I thought you hated me.”

He finally looked at you again.

And it was devastating.

Because all he saw in your face was home.

“I never hated you,” he said hoarsely. “I was in love with you. I still am.”

You sucked in a breath.

“I broke up with you to protect you,” you whispered. “I thought I was the one ruining your life. I didn’t know it’d be the last time— I didn’t know Raccoon City—”

“I looked for you that night,” he said, voice cracking. “I thought you were dead. I was crawling through blood and fire, screaming your name, thinking I lost you forever. I—”

He broke off.

His eyes were glassy now. His shoulders trembled.

You stepped forward slowly.

And wrapped your arms around him.

Leon didn’t move for a moment.

Then, like gravity finally caught up, he fell.

Right into you.

His arms wrapped around your waist like a vice. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like a man who had been suffocating for years.

“I missed you,” you whispered, clutching the back of his hoodie. “So much. I never stopped.”

“I’m not the same,” he said against your skin. “I’m not the boy you left.”

“I’m not the girl you loved.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand came up and cupped your cheek, thumb trembling as it traced the shape of your face.

“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “I’d still choose you. Over and over.”

For a second just as he was about to damn it all to hell and kiss you. His lips almost touching yours, trembling.

Two hearts beating loudly..

just as he was about to think maybe just maybe he could be happy too…

A voice cuts through the night, low and steady “ you gonna introduce me to your new friend or what darling ? “

Your boyfriend stands at the entrance of the building looking both calm and angry but with a false smile simmering in his eyes.

———————-

Sorry for the long intro guys😭

Part 3 anybody ??

[bruisedboys]

dead of the night — bucky barnes

bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. he’s got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. you’re too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! plot spoilers for thunderbolts

note: disclaimer guys I totally made some stuff up to make the scenario make sense lol hope u can forgive me

thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, one bed trope kinda, 4k words

You wake to the shrill sound of your phone ringing. At first you think it’s your morning alarm, and wonder why it feels like you’ve only been asleep a few hours. It takes blinking yourself awake to realise it’s still dark out, the street outside your apartment dead quiet. Your phone continues to ring, piercing through the quiet of the night, the screen lit up and flooding the corner of your room in white. You groan. Who on earth is calling you in the middle of the night? 

You sit up dizzily and grab for your phone. You stare blankly at the bright white screen, blinking hard until your eyes adjust and you can see the name that pops up. 

Bucky Barnes. 

You blink at your phone. Your boss? Well, he’s not really your boss, but you are his assistant, and you’re not really sure whether you’re friends or something else entirely, so he might as well be. 

You hit the answer button. 

“Bucky?” You’ve long passed the stage of calling him Congressman Barnes. Besides, any ounce of professionalism left between the two of you has probably now turned to dust, given the ungodly hour of his call.

“Hey.” He sounds tired, his voice strained. “Hey, I’m so sorry, doll, I know it’s late.” 

No kidding. You ignore the fact that he’s called you doll, ‘cos if you think about it too long you’ll be here all night. ”What’s the matter?” You ask. “It’s one in the morning, Bucky.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. I need your help.” 

His words make you sit up straighter. Bucky’s been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like he’s been waiting for something to happen. He’s been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentina’s assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because he’d wanted you to cover for him today while he “took care of something,” in his own, ominous words. He’s been MIA all day and you haven’t heard from him until now.

Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel. 

“Are you okay?” You ask on instinct.

“I’m okay, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off. “We, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.” 

Your brain ticks. “Hold on, we?” 

You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A man’s rough voice followed by a woman’s smoother one — and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into? 

“There's, uh, five of us,” Bucky says, like that makes it any better. 

There’s a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what he’s telling you. He … wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? You’re dumbfounded.

“I— what?” Is all you can manage. 

There’s another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I shouldn’t have called, I’ll just—“ 

“No, wait,” you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are who’re with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? “It’s alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?” 

Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitors’ sake than your own, and because it’s Bucky.

Bucky, who’s been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when you’d mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (He’d come round to pick it up and you’d cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when you’d gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You don’t remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it. 

You’re tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when there’s a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky. 

It’s me. 

You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it. 

Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Bucky’s at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They don’t look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - it’s absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is… John Walker? 

“Um, hi?” You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didn’t expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. “What can I do for you?” 

The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. “Funny,” he says bluntly. Then, softer, “Can we come in?” 

You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, he’s looking at you like I’m tired, I need help, just let us in please and I’ll explain. 

You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look — it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, you’d surely be dead by now. 

“Alright,” you say. “Wipe your shoes, please.” 

Everyone files into your living room. It’s not a huge space but it’s enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down. 

“Who is this, again?” The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you. 

“We work together. She’s my assistant,” Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. “Y/N.” 

“Hello,” you say awkwardly. 

They all just stare at you. You know what they’re thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistant’s place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? You’re asking yourself the exact same thing. 

“Y/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.” Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. “They— I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.”

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to yours?” Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question. 

“Valentina’s watching my place,” Bucky explains. “She knows by now that I’ve got you guys with me, she’ll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.” 

This only confuses you further. Valentina is … watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant — it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you should’ve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.

The others seem to understand Bucky’s explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly. 

You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. They’re all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, they’d probably be the toughest looking group you’ve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.

“I— yeah, okay,” you say. They’re already in your living room, already know where you live, what’s it matter now? “You can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. There’s water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.” 

The brunette — Ava, Bucky called her — gives you a tight smile. “Thanks,” she says, and collapses on your sofa. 

The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed. 

Pleasantries over, you grab Bucky’s arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you don’t give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him. 

“Bucky, what’s going on?” You whisper harshly.  “Who are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?” 

You’re so busy bombarding him with questions that you don’t notice the way he’s holding his arm, not until you’ve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and there’s blood all over the sleeve. 

“Oh,” you say stupidly, then even more so, “Bucky, you’re bleeding.” 

Bucky grimaces. “I know, doll.” 

You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face. 

“It’s looks bad,” you say, forgetting you’re not supposed to care about him as much as you do.

You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.

“Let’s, um,” you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything that’s happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. “I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.” 

You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why he’s bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where you’re rummaging through the cupboard above the sink. 

“Y/N, I’m—“ 

“Don’t say you’re fine,” you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, “Are any of your friends hurt?” 

Bucky pulls a face. “They’re not really my friends,” he says. “And no, none of them are hurt, they’re just tired.” 

You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what you’re looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.

You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid. 

“Show me?” You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection. 

You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, it’s not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way. 

Still, you frown. “How did you manage this?” You ask him. 

Bucky looks for a second like he’s reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, “I sort of flipped a truck?” he says. “Long story.” 

Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain what’s going on. 

“Right… I’m gonna clean it, okay?” You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. “It might hurt.” 

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m tough, doll.” 

You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what you’re doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesn’t protest. Actually, he doesn’t make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like he’s looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, he’s always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where you’re pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how you’re desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it. 

You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut. 

You’re unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. “So, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?” You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Bucky’s face stops you short. “They’re… they’re not assassins, are they?” 

Bucky purses his lips. “Well, you’re not very far off…” 

He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentina’s really been up to. Project Sentry — putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects. 

Then he tells you about how he tracked Mel’s phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a “predicament,” and “saved their asses,” as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why they’re now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, who’s vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches. 

By the time he’s done explaining, you’ve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. You’re not annoyed, you get why he didn’t tell you. Still, you wish he’d asked for your help earlier. 

“So, you’re going after Bob?” You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded. 

Bucky nods. “I guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentina’s hands, you know?” 

You nod back. “Yeah, I get it. Won’t it be dangerous, though? Going after him? 

You say it before you’ve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, who’s really just the guy you file documents for. You don’t owe him anything. 

Bucky smiles. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.” 

You frown. “You’re not an assassin.” 

You don’t care what he’s done in the past, you can’t see him as anything else but lovely. He’s brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches. 

Still, Bucky shrugs. “Used to be.” 

You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When you’re done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. “You make a good nurse.” 

For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. He’s very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin. 

“That’s me,” you say, faux casual. “Best nurse and assistant you’ve ever had, huh?” 

You might be imagining it, but you’re pretty sure Bucky’s eyes flicker to your lips. He’s distracted as he murmurs, “Uh huh.” 

A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You can’t feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. 

“Mm,” he hums back. He’s definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. “What, doll?” 

You blink rapidly. He’s so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne you’ve smelled on him before. 

“I— what are you doing?” You whisper, starting to panic. 

Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like he’s being pulled towards you and can’t stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles. 

“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’d be impossible to hear him if he weren’t this close. “Can I?” 

You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and you’ve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasn’t bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.

“Okay,” you manage, heartbeat turning frantic. 

You see a flash of his smile before he’s pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. It’s chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he can’t help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch — your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really don’t, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.

Too soon, Bucky pulls away. 

You blink at him. He’s still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heart’s a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear. 

His hand lingers at your jaw. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like you’re made of starlight. “Is it okay that I did that?” 

You nod. “Yes,” you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but you’re so dizzy that there’s no space to be embarrassed about it. “I— yeah.” 

Bucky smiles, but it’s not smug. If anything, it’s achingly fond. “I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I just … didn’t have anyone else I could call.” 

You shake your head. You won’t say it, but right now you’re infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. “It’s okay.” 

Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. “No one will hurt you while I’m here, okay? And we’ll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.” 

You nod around his hand. It’s hard to digest anything he’s saying while he’s touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though. 

“Okay,” you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but you’re much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, he’s moving away. 

“I think you should get back to bed,” he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. “It’s past two.” 

“Right,” you nod, not wanting to, but you’re too dizzy and too tired to protest. 

You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose he’s just better at hiding it, or maybe you’re just very sick in love. 

You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Ava’s head on Yelena’s shoulder, drool falling from the blonde’s open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.

Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that there’s nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other. 

“Do you want to—?” You start. 

“I can sleep in the—“ he says at the same time. 

You both pause. 

“Sleep in the what?” You ask him, incredulous. 

Bucky grimaces. “The car?” He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it. 

You roll your eyes. “You’re absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.” 

It’s ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, you’re both dead tired and you’ve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. What’s it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? He’s just kissed you, hasn’t he? 

You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put. 

“Y/N—“ 

“You said you wouldn’t let any of them hurt me,” you say firmly. “How’re you gonna do that from the car?” 

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. 

“I… don't know,” he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, “Are you sure?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s too gentlemanly for his own good. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” 

You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because he’s stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know he’d put between you, you’d be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep. 

It’s half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest. 

You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up. 

“Y/N?” He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special. 

“Yeah?” You hum back. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. You suppose he’s thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then, 

“With a pay raise?” You joke weakly. 

Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, “Whatever you want, doll.” 

You grin to yourself. Now that’s something you can fall asleep to. 

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[obsessed-mosquito]

obsessing over cleaning is all fun and games until I realise just how plain my room looks without all the clutter

PLEASE GIVE ME DECORATION TIPS 😭😭

[thepencilnerd]

Glasses Be Damned

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: Lazy Sunday mornings. You in his shirt. Him wearing—glasses? What could be better? genre/notes: domestic, tooth-rotting fluff, banter, implied-but-not-explicit smut, steamy and fluffy like the perfect scrambled eggs (or tofu), beard scruff, you being down so bad for your man in glasses, age-gap relationship word count: 1.8k a/n: happy sunday! I worship those damn 1x01 gifs that live in my head rent free

It was a sleepy Sunday morning. You’d stayed over the night before—his place, not yours—because he made a surprisingly excellent omelet and your apartment was a barren wasteland save for one expired can of soup and half a granola bar. You were planning on moving out soon anyway—leases expiring, schedules syncing, toothbrushes and charger cords already blurring the lines—and in with Robby.

One cold morning not long ago, you’d rushed into the hospital just a few minutes late, hair still dripping and teeth chattering from the walk over. Robby had looked up the second he saw you, eyes narrowing in concern, about to ask what was wrong.

You’d beat him to it. "My apartment’s basically falling apart," you said, breathless as you rubbed your arms. "No hot water, the heater’s busted, and I'm pretty sure there's black mold. I’ll call the landlord later. It’s fine."

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at you for a second longer, then quietly shuffled through the papers on the counter.

"You should move in with me," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked. "What?"

So he repeated himself, just as casually. "Move into my place."

He said it like it was nothing—like he was asking you to grab coffee, or teach the interns how to perform proper chest compressions. Calm. Nonchalant. Then, as if to prove his point, he started listing the benefits: less commuting, better water pressure, warmer blankets, shared groceries, an actual place to hang your coat that wasn’t a pile on your chair, cuddle cards redeemable for forehead kisses and back rubs, and—most importantly—no more freezing walks alone or in the dark. He even threw in something about matching mugs and leaving notes on the fridge like it was a feature, not a fantasy.

You opened your mouth, prepared to deploy every avoidant tactic in the book—because even after dating for a couple of years now, there was still a part of you that worried about taking up too much space, too much of him. But before you could spiral into worrying about boundaries, permanence, or him getting sick of you, he looked up again and softened.

"Hey," he said gently. "If you’d rather find a new place, I’ll help you. Really. I just want you safe, healthy, and not at risk for mold poisoning or hypothermia."

Then, with the same ease as his offer, he pressed a warm kiss to your cheek. "See you in five," he murmured, as if he hadn’t just tilted your entire world off its axis, and walked away.

You stood there, frozen—and slowly, a small smile formed at the corners of your lips.

And that was it. No grand declarations. Just a calm, matter-of-fact offer that left no room for protest. So you said yes.

Robby had frozen for a second like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. And then—he lit up. That slow, rare smile spreading across his face like sunrise. He pulled you into a tight hug, spinning you once in the middle of the hallway, laughing against your temple. He kissed you—your cheek, your forehead, your lips—soft and quick and too many times to count, like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like he didn’t want to waste a second not holding you.

"You're going to regret it," you teased.

"Never," he said, kissing you again. "Not in a million years."

Now your things were already half there anyway—socks in drawers, your favorite mug on the drying rack, your name scribbled under his on the mail by the door. And every morning like this only made it feel more like home.

You’d rolled out of bed in one of his soft, worn-in T-shirts—the one with the hem that just barely skimmed your thighs—padding barefoot toward the kitchen in search of coffee, warmth, and maybe a kiss if you looked pathetic enough.

You’ve seen Robby in a dozen different states—bloody scrubs, half-asleep during pre-dawn rounds, in command in a trauma bay, soft and half-melted in post-call cuddles. But you’ve never—never—seen him in glasses.

Until today.

You weren’t expecting it. And there he was, standing at the kitchen counter, hair still a little tousled, wearing black, round-framed glasses while flipping through the newspaper like it was the 80s.

You froze.

He glanced up. "Good morning."

You stared. Mouth agape. Said nothing.

"What?" he asked, wary.

You pointed. "Since when do you wear glasses?!"

He blinked, then winced, lifting a hand to take them off. "I—only for reading. Usually. I forgot I had them on."

"No. No, no, no, no." You crossed the room like a woman possessed. "Do not take those off."

He paused, hand halfway to his face. "Why?"

You stepped closer, practically beaming as you drank him in with eyes like saucers. "Because that—is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life."

He stared at you like you’d just said you were into spleens. "You’re joking."

You weren’t. "Robby," you deadpanned. "You look like the hot professor everyone has a crisis about in college. It's a rite of passage."

"I’m decades older than you."

"Exactly! And only by a decade and a half. It’s working for you." You took a step closer and lowered your voice in the hopes of enticing him. "And totally doing it for me." 

He squinted, expression unreadable for a beat. "They make me look old." But his voice was softer now—like he wasn’t entirely put off by the idea. Like maybe, just maybe, his interest had been piqued.

"They make you look like you read poetry before bed and know how to ruin someone emotionally and intellectually."

He blushed—actually blushed.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, tugging him close. "Why have you been hiding this from me?"

"Because," he mumbled, suddenly very interested in the crossword puzzle, "I thought you’d think they made me look... I don’t know. Grandpa-ish."

"You’re out of your mind," you said, tugging the paper from his hands. "This is my Roman Empire now."

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. "You’re never letting this go, are you."

You grinned into his hair. "Not a chance."

His fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt on your thighs—the one he always liked seeing you in, the one he claimed looked better on you than it ever did on him. His rough thumbs brushed against your bare skin in slow, reverent passes, toying with where the fabric met the soft curve of your hips. Goosebumps followed in their wake, your skin tightening under his touch.

He lingered there, gaze locked on the contrast between cotton and skin, the intimacy of it. The way you wore his shirt like it belonged to you—like he did. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his eyes darkened behind the lenses.

"You wore this on purpose, didn’t you?" he asked, voice low, one thumb brushing just beneath the hem like it had every right to be there.

You shrugged, playing innocent, but your smile was all heat. "It's pretty cozy."

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft but hooded, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or pin you to the nearest surface. "That’s not an answer."

You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. "What are you going to do about it, sir?"

His breath hitched, gaze dipping to your lips before dragging back up to your eyes, hungry and tentative all at once. You felt the shift in the air—warmth curling low in your belly as his grip tightened, just slightly, like he was reminding himself you were real. And here. And his.

"You are unbelievable," he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse, each word curling around the edges of a smile he couldn't quite suppress. There was awe behind it—fondness and a hint of reverence, like he still couldn't believe you were his.

"And you're absurdly attractive in those frames," you murmured, fingertips sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, curling gently as you tugged him down to meet you. The kiss you gave him was slow, thorough, but it carried heat—a teasing sort of promise beneath the softness.

His hands spanned your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin with growing intent as he kissed you back, deepening it until your breath hitched against his mouth. The glasses stayed on, slightly askew, and it only made your pulse race harder.

You gasped softly when his lips left yours to trail along your jaw, then just beneath your ear, the scruff of his beard dragging deliciously against your skin. It was just long enough to rasp, to make you shiver, to remind you that this wasn't just soft Sunday morning, off-duty Dr. Robby—this was all of him. "This what does it for you?" he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing your pulse point, beard scraping lightly as he spoke.

"God, I want you to ruin me," you whispered, lips ghosting the shell of his ear, your voice low and just shy of reverent. The grin on your face was wicked, but there was no mistaking the heat behind it—the way your breath caught, the way your body leaned into his like gravity had given up pretending.

He stilled for a moment, like you’d short-circuited something vital in him. Then, wordless and driven by something primal, he kissed you again—hungrier now, hands roaming, touch reverent and desperate all at once.

You giggled against his mouth, breathless. "Race you to the bedroom. Winner gets bragging rights and top position."

His eyes flared with something dangerous and amused. "Is that a challenge?"

"I’m just saying," you murmured, backing out of his arms with a wicked grin, "you’re not the only one with stamina, Dr. Robinavitch."

The next second, you bolted.

Robby cursed softly, then took off after you with a kind of urgency that had nothing to do with competition and everything to do with getting his hands back on you.

Your laughter echoed down the hallway—right up until he caught you halfway to the bedroom, spun you around, and pressed you back against the nearest wall like he’d just won gold.

"Called it," he murmured into your skin, beard scraping, lips insistent. "I can’t wait until this is every morning. Waking up to you, going to sleep with you…" he trailed kisses along your jaw, voice low and reverent as though he were citing a prayer.

You smiled against his mouth, fingers curling into his hair. "Then don’t let me go. Not tonight. Not ever."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and tender all at once. "You’re it for me."

The omelet could wait—left forgotten on the counter alongside the crossword and cold coffee. And the glasses? They stayed on. Fogged, slightly crooked, and forever etched into your memory.

[littlelamy]

req!! reader always have a hard time sleeping and is always sleepy and rafe’s trying all the methods in the books despite humself being sleepy as hell :3

lamy's note: hope you like it!

the bedside clock glared 3:47 a.m. in bold red digits, mocking you as you laid tangled in the sheets. your eyes burned from exhaustion, yet sleep clung just out of reach like a cruel tease. every time you closed your eyes, your mind whirled—memories, worries, stray thoughts—spinning in circles that left you breathless.

rafe stirred beside you, his usual heavy, even breaths now disrupted by your tossing and turning. despite the darkness, you could feel the concern radiating from him.

“still can’t sleep?” his voice was low, gravelly from fatigue, but soft, like he didn’t want to startle you.

you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “no. it’s like… my brain doesn’t know how to shut up.”

rafe shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. the moonlight filtering through the curtains caught the edges of his messy hair, casting shadows on his face. “what if i read to you? isn’t that supposed to help or something?”

“you hate reading,” you pointed out, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite the exhaustion.

“yeah, well, i’ll do it for you,” he said, already reaching for the book on your nightstand—one of those random novels you’d been meaning to finish for months. he flipped it open, squinting at the tiny text. “fuck, why is the font so small? what is this, a book for ants?”

you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you. “maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

“no, no, i got this,” he insisted, clearing his throat dramatically before reading aloud. his voice was monotone, the kind of flat, over-enunciated reading that made it impossible to focus on the story. still, you appreciated the effort, the way he stumbled over words but kept going anyway.

it lasted about five minutes before he groaned, slamming the book shut. “all right, new plan.”

“what now?” you asked, rolling onto your side to face him.

“heard somewhere that, like, breathing exercises help,” he said, mimicking slow, exaggerated breaths like he was leading a yoga class. “you know, in through your nose, out through your mouth. all that zen shit.”

you raised an eyebrow. “are you seriously going to sit here and make me do breathing exercises?”

“hell yeah, i am,” he replied, determined. “come on, follow me. in…” he inhaled deeply, shoulders rising dramatically, “and out.”

you tried to mimic him, but halfway through, his exaggerated exhale turned into a ridiculous wheezing noise, and you both dissolved into laughter.

“okay, that’s definitely not working,” you said, clutching your stomach as the laughter subsided.

rafe flopped back onto the bed, running a hand down his face. “shit, you’re right. i’m running out of ideas here.”

“you don’t have to do this,” you said softly, guilt tugging at your chest. “you’re tired too.”

he turned his head to look at you, his expression serious. “yeah, but it kills me seeing you like this. i just… i want to help.”

the sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten. “i know. and it means a lot.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet of the room settling around you like a blanket. then rafe sat up suddenly, snapping his fingers. “got it. i’m making you tea.”

“tea?” you echoed, watching as he climbed out of bed, his movements sluggish but determined. “it’s the middle of the night.”

“yeah, and tea fixes everything. ask anyone.”

you chuckled, sitting up as he disappeared into the kitchen. a few minutes later, he returned, a steaming mug in hand. “hot tea, freshly made by yours truly. careful, it’s probably hot as hell.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you said, but you took the mug anyway, the warmth seeping into your fingers. “thank you.”

he sat back down beside you, watching as you sipped cautiously. “so? does it taste like sleep?”

you smiled. “not yet. but it’s nice.”

he nodded, leaning back against the headboard. “good. because if this doesn’t work, i’m out of ideas. unless you want me to, like, sing you a lullaby or something.”

the thought of rafe singing was enough to make you laugh again, the sound soft and unguarded. “i think i’ll pass on that.”

“your loss,” he teased, but his smile was gentle, his eyes warm as he watched you.

eventually, the tea and the quiet began to work their magic. your eyelids grew heavy, your body sinking into the mattress as sleep finally crept in. rafe stayed beside you, his hand brushing lightly against yours as he whispered, “just close your eyes. i’m here.”

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx

[abyssyby]

beating, not still

— sylus slips into bed with you in the middle of his day to calm the specter that haunts you

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: sy’s chest has been thru the wringer so i wanted to show it some love. accidentally made myself sad writing this. something quick & cute, i’ll edit punctuation & caps in the morning hehe. enjoy! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | angst, fluff, mentions of killing, hurt/comfort, softsyloo

“you like that spot.” sylus murmurs, voice like caving ground and a simmering fire. his large hand comes up to brush your hair out of your face. warm like a furnace. through the curtain, you meet his sleepy gaze.

your lips press against his bare chest, just the tiniest tilt to the right of his sternum. he smells of clean soap, spice and something inherently him— crisp and familiar. the brush of your lips on his skin as you speak makes him shiver, ripples of sensation shooting through his nerves like fire. “good morning.”

“beloved,” he purrs, hauling you up by your shoulders to meet your lips in a tender kiss. “did you sleep well?”

you nod out of instinct. but you were awake in the middle of the night for a reason. he slipped in for a midday nap with you because of something you’d been doing in your sleep.

“are you sure?” he whispers, more sympathetically as he trails his thumb down the line of salt your tears left behind. he kisses your forehead tenderly, “Tell me.”

you turn away, crawling back down to his chest and planting your chin there as a silent protest. “i dont remember.”

he considers you— if you were being stubborn or secretive or brave yet again. but with the way you were trailing your fingers down the middle of his chest, how your ear is so meticulously close to his heart, listening for a thrumming heartbeat that was present and not still— he had a feeling he knew what it was.

“angel.” he implores you, large hand coming to rest on the top of your head. “i’m here.”

your chest tightens. a vacuum pulling every bone inwards until they shatter and crash into the cavity. and you are helplessly trying to ground yourself, match your breathing with the constant badump badump badump of his heart.

“i know.” you squeeze the words out, holding your breath when you do. controlling the amount you let out lest you let loose everything. “i know, sylus.”

“no, look at me.” his finger tilts your chin up from the spot. the spot he cherishes and the spot you despise. the spot you favor. the spot he kept protected until you. the spot where you pointed the gun, and where he pulled the trigger with your finger. the spot you hear his racing heartbeat. the spot you dug your sword into, and killed him the first time. once, a long time ago, relived in a dream.

he sees you. he sees every part of you in the darkness of your bedroom— and still you shine brighter than if all the stars in the sky were to combust. he holds your gaze, because let him keel over and die again and again instead of see you in this pain. “come back to me.”

something inside you stirs— not quite pain, but something deeper, more primal and abstract. your soul, like it was beckoned to heel. to be still as another wraps itself around it. to hold on to its other half that submits itself and never let go.

“i’m a monster.” you finally confess, shattering like glass, all too conscious of staining his palms red. of hurting him. of being foolish enough to take him away from you again.

his lips press into the skin above your brow— his favorite spot. his teeth graze it as he murmurs, “that’s not true.”

“sylus—“ you begin to argue, but he silences you with a kiss. you blink, but don’t let it deter you. “i hurt you.”

“have i ever complained?”

“dont do that.” because how could he not care? how could he look at you with such a loving gaze you do not deserve? how could he forgive you as easily as breathing?

he frowns and then studies your face. “you’re right. you have hurt me.”

and somehow that is worse. of course it is worse. your bottom lip trembles. his thumb comes to rest on the delicate flesh lightly. “my soul hurts with you. when you are in pain, so am I.”

his fingers dance down your spine and hook beneath one thigh. there, he pulls you up to his eye-line. your head rests on his bicep as he presses his forehead against yours. “so listen to me when I say you are the furthest thing from who you are in your nightmares.

“and if you are a monster, then so am I.” he rasps.

his heart races under your palm, his own hand spreading your fingers over his chest. “you’ve never hurt me alone. i’ve always been there to do it with you.”

“If you couldn’t heal—“ you start.

“Then I would have broken all my bones crawling back to you.” he vows.

“If you died—“

“I would have found you in the next life. And the next, and the next.”

“If you felt I hated you.” you hiccup, unable to hold back the tears. the thought of him believing for one second you felt anything but love for him devastated you beyond belief. His eyes fill with warmth as he lowers his tone.

“Then I would have done everything to remind you how much I love you.” He says steadily. “Don’t mourn over who we were, my heart.”

“We are here.” he says, kissing the tip of your nose. floating his lips over the lids of your eyes. “Come back to me and stay.”

ever patient, ever gentle and kind to you. he keeps you in his embrace until you calm, feathering the tip of his nose lightly up and down your cheek as he kisses each of your fingers.

you listen to his heart; to his steady breathing, swaying and cradling you like the push and pull of the tide. you listen to his words, turn them over and around in your head— once, twice, thrice— until they sink deep, deep in your heart. this truth settling like oil in your liquid thoughts.

he watches as you calm. and you melt back down his chest— to the spot where he found you.

“beloved?”

you kiss him there— over the invisible mark of the bullet and the sword and your hatred. what once was his undoing, but has always been his strength. the hand that killed him now holds him tightly, tenderly. lovingly and achingly so.

this is your promise to him— to undo all that was done.

to return. to love. to stay.

his face is almost feverish when you cradle it. his content smirk a charming twitch beneath your thumb as his eyes close at your touch.

your cheek to his chest, iron to a magnet— natural, inevitable. finally, you smile— small, but sincere. enough for him. “i like this spot.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

[storyslover]

Then i should stop trying too .

Charles leclerc x reader

Summary: After a heated argument, you and Charles stop talking. With Kika’s help, you decide to surprise him at the Japan Grand Prix, proving your love is worth fighting for.

Warnings: Angst, jealousy, miscommunication, emotional tension, fluff ending.

---

“You never have time for me.”

Charles’ voice was sharp, frustration lacing every syllable. His hands ran through his already messy hair, a telltale sign of his agitation. You stood in the middle of your shared apartment, arms crossed, trying to keep your own emotions in check.

“Are you serious right now?” you asked, disbelief making your voice tremble. “You’re literally in a different country every other week for races. I have a life too, Charles. You don’t see me throwing accusations every time you leave.”

His jaw tightened. “Can’t you at least visit me? Make time for me? Do you even care, or is there someone else?”

You inhaled sharply, his words hitting like a slap. “Excuse me?”

Charles scoffed, pacing like he was trying to hold himself together. “You always have an excuse. I’m trying, Y/N. I’m trying so damn hard to make this work, and it feels like I’m the only one who cares.”

Your chest ached. “That’s not fair, Charles. I love you, but I can’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice.”

His green eyes burned with frustration, but beneath it, you saw the hurt. “Then maybe I should stop trying too.”

Silence. It was deafening. The second the words left his lips, regret flickered across his face. But it was too late.

Your throat tightened. “Fine.”

You turned on your heel, grabbing your coat before he could say another word. The door shut behind you, leaving him standing in the wreckage of your fight.

---

Days passed. No calls. No messages. The silence was unbearable.

You missed him. God, you missed him so much it physically hurt. But your pride kept you from reaching out.

Nights were the worst. You’d roll over in bed, instinctively reaching for him, only to be met with empty sheets. His scent was still there, faint but lingering, and it made the ache worse. You wanted to believe he’d call, that he’d text something—anything—but your phone remained silent.

Then Kika called.

“You love him, don’t you?” she asked, voice gentle but firm.

You swallowed hard. “Of course I do.”

“Then come to Japan,” she said simply. “Surprise him. He’s miserable without you, Y/N. And so are you.”

You hesitated. “What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

Kika let out a soft laugh. “Trust me, he does. He’s been unbearable all week. Pierre and I are suffering.”

A small smile broke through your gloom. “Okay. I’ll come.”

---

The Suzuka paddock buzzed with energy, the air thick with anticipation for the upcoming race. But your heart pounded for a different reason.

You clutched the strap of your bag as you walked through the paddock with Kika, your Ferrari jacket zipped up, hood pulled over your head in an attempt to stay unnoticed.

“He’s been in the worst mood,” Kika whispered conspiratorially. “Snapping at everyone. You showing up will fix him.”

Your stomach twisted with nerves. “What if it doesn’t?”

Kika shot you a knowing look. “It will.”

As you neared the Ferrari garage, your hands grew clammy. Charles stood near the engineers, his arms crossed, nodding distractedly at whatever was being explained to him. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his usual vibrant energy completely dulled.

Then, as if sensing something, he turned.

His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, he didn’t move. The world around you seemed to slow, the noise of the paddock fading into a dull hum. His face went through a whirlwind of emotions—shock, disbelief, and then something softer, something vulnerable.

His headset slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor as he all but sprinted toward you.

You barely had time to react before he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tight it knocked the breath from your lungs. His grip was desperate, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“You’re here,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Your arms wrapped around him just as tightly. “I’m here.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face, his thumb brushing along your cheek. His eyes searched yours, filled with remorse and longing. “I’m so sorry. I was an idiot. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Tears welled in your eyes. “I know. I’m sorry too.”

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath shaky. “Don’t ever leave like that again.”

You smiled softly, fingers threading through his hair. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

A shaky laugh escaped him before he kissed you—slow, deep, full of all the unspoken words between you. The paddock melted away. For now, there was only you and him.

And no matter how far apart you were, you knew you’d always find your way back to each other.

___

Hello guys this is my first f1 x reader . Give me your opinion . And i take request for any driver or footballer . Hope you like it

[bjornsmuse]

ℭ𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔱 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

{part 1 of 2}

Summary: it’s just turned dark outside, the cicadas are chirping, the weather is getting warmer and your about to go to sleep after a long and exhausting day of dealing with cramps caused by your period- your about to lay down in bed until your interrupted by a knock on the door

Warnings (for this part): mentions of period + period blood, suggestive content, vampirism, slight stalking, southern gothic, very slight dirty talk, slight horror themes, reader is a little easy and naive

It was sweltering outside, it had been all month- even in the night, non stop heat. Of course you were used to this by now considering it always feels like summer in Mississippi delta - one thing you aren’t used to is strange men knocking on your door in the middle of the night.

You were getting ready for bed after a day of agony because of your period. your slipping your cotton nightgown on about to pull your blankets back, blow out the candle you lit a few minutes before and lay down until there’s three sharp knocks on the front door. At first you aren’t going to open it, you are in a very remote little town so it’s odd for someone to be knocking at this time. Eventually you do end up sighing out of exhaustion and walking down your hall to the front door to open it, you don’t open it all the way, just a little bit.

When you open the door there’s a man standing there, he’s wearing a very light blue which is almost white shirt with his sleeves rolled up, suspenders thrown lazily over his shoulders, hair slightly messy. “Sorry sir but I think you might be at the wrong house?..” your brows knit together in confusion, he gives you a polite kind of smile “Nah just wonderin’ around, nice night..but you wouldn’t mind if I came in would ya’ darlin’?, y’ see it’s sweltering out ere’ and I just need somewhere to rest for awhile if that would be okay with you” his voice was a low and sweet, like honey that was about to rot.

“Uh could you just rest on the porch? I can make you a lemonade or get you a cold cup of water while you wait out here?..” you offer hesitantly- your offer almost sounding more like a question. You do understand it’s extremely hot outside but you also know it’s just as hot inside- Heat clung to the house even though the windows were open, the sticky kind that made your nightgown cling to your thighs and the air heavy, so you wondered why he would rather be inside when it’s just as hot. “That’s real kind o’ you darlin but I really do think it would be rather cooler inside that house o’ yours, o’ course I don’t want ya’ to feel like I’m tryin’ to invade but it is really hot out ere, Don’t mean no harm, miss. Cross my heart.’” He runs his hand through his hair and shifts his weight from one foot to the other- he almost looks like a sad puppy that was left outside in the rain, the longer he stands there the longer you feel bad for him.

Deep down you knew not to trust strangers in the middle of the night..but, he doesn’t look very harmful and he just wants to relax for a few minutes, you shrug off any hesitance you had and give him a small smile. Unfortunately what you didn’t know was he’s only there for you. Still, something flickered behind his eyes. Something that caught the scent of you the moment you opened the door. The tang of blood beneath your skin, warm and thick, He could smell it from the woods. From down the road. A calling, And the moment you said “come in I’ll get you some water and then you can be on your way,” and turned your back to walk toward the kitchen, the decision was already made for you, Remmick stepped over the threshold, slow as syrup, closing the door behind him with the softest click.

“You know,” he said behind you, voice suddenly closer, “you’ve got a real nice house. Smells like lemons and candle wax. And somethin’ else…” You turned around, heart picking up a little “Somethin’ sweet.”

You clutched the cup of water tighter in your hands “You sure you’re just passing through?” you ask, a slight tremor in your voice now as you are very uncomfortable. He stepped closer, slow, polite like a preacher at a funeral “You didn’t think I just happened upon your house, did you?” His voice still held that low, syrupy charm. “You’re way t’ far off the main road for that.” Your breath hitched slightly in fear as you took a small step back, He took a larger step forward. your back hit the counter with a dull thud, The cup trembled in your grip, water lapping at the rim like it could sense your fear. Remmick was smiling now — but it wasn’t like before, Not polite. Not soft. No, this smile curled at the edges in a way that made your skin crawl, as if he were baring his teeth without actually showing them.

“W-what do you want?” you asked, trying to steady your voice, though it barely rose above a whisper. He didn’t answer right away he just stood there, hands still at his sides, that too-white shirt clinging to his chest from the heat. You noticed, belatedly, that despite the sweltering air, he wasn’t sweating. Not a bead. Not a drop. “I want what called me here,” he said finally, gaze dragging over you slow like molasses, heavy with hunger “You think it’s the heat that’s kept me up all night? Nah. It’s somethin’ else. Somethin’ inside you, cryin’ out like a song no one else can hear, I could smell it.”

You didn’t even process what he was saying, didn’t even think before you sprinted. You turned and bolted down the hall, feet thudding against the floorboards. You didn’t know what you were running for—the front door was behind you, the windows were all nailed from storms long past—but instinct screamed go.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” his voice drawled behind you, still calm, still syrup-sweet. “I ain’t even gotten my lemonade yet.” You turned into your bedroom and slammed the door shut, locking it—though you knew it wouldn’t matter. You pressed your back to it, heart hammering. The room was pitch black. The candle had died in here too. The night pressed against the windows, the heat smothering. You knew he was right on the other side of the door.

“Y’know,” he said, voice muffled now through the wood, “I don’t usually ask. But you opened that door real sweet. All polite. Makes me wanna take my time. Can make it nice for you darlin’..just have to lay back for me” you go completely still at that, you have no idea how to feel now- you swear he want from threatening you to basically offering you- and despite yourself being absolutely terrified of the situation your lower belly starts heating up with something other than period pains.

“What are you-“ you go to ask him what the fuck he means before he rudely interrupts with a slight chuckle “oh I think you know exactly what I mean. You ever had a man do it for you, darlin’? Really do it? Not just rut at you like a dog, but worship that pain outta you with his mouth? Cause’ I can do that for you..if you open this door up for me” he taps his knuckles against the door “c’mon..I’ll be nice.”

[rafeovermorals]

dbf!joel lets you ride his thigh.

joel was in charge of babysitting you for the weekend.

your dad was on a business trip. normally, it wouldn’t be an issue for you to just stay home by yourself— but after being recently grounded— he didn’t trust you to be left alone.

he probably thought you would invite over a boy from school. you had been sneaking around and giggling at your phone more than usual, but whenever he’d ask you’d say “it’s just a friend, dad..”

it wasn’t just a friend. it was joel.

you pretended to groan and complain, fussing about how it’s “not fair” and you’re “not a little girl anymore!”

but your dad didn’t falter, not realizing that’s exactly what you wanted.

joel on the other hand was trying everything he could to get out of it.

he knew your tricks all too well— you were acting out on purpose so that he would have no choice but to get someone to watch you. and that someone was joel.

the truth was that you were preying on joel.

it started a few weeks ago. he wasn’t sure what it was, or why, but you had become a fucking minx. he couldn’t keep you away, and god he tried.

you would show up at his door in the middle of the night without being invited over, leaving him no choice to let you in because it was too dark walk back— at least that’s what he told himself.

you also liked to send him seductive pictures in your tiny bikinis, tits practically spilling out of the halter.

you: [2 attachments] how does this color look on me?

joel: it washes you out. cover up.

even though he would secretly save it to his camera roll and jerk his cock to them later— pumping milky white ropes onto his phone screen and smearing it in to the photo.

but joel had his boundaries, and he wouldn’t cross those with you. you were his daughters age, it was downright filthy that he was even allowing himself to think of you in that way.

he distanced himself as much as he could, until he owed your dad a favor— promising to keep an eye on you while he was away.

now he was at your house, leaving the two of you alone for the next 48 hours. he ordered in chinese food for dinner, which you ate together until you pranced off to your room soon after. surprisingly, you were being good. suspiciously so.

joel was manspread on the couch, halfway to dozing off when you walked into the living room in your pajamas. you were wearing a cropped tank top and some frilly cotton shorts, leaving nothing to the imagination. well, fuck.

“t‘s late, you should be in bed.” he grumbled, his voice low and thick with a sleepy drawl.

“why don’t you come up there with me? tuck me into bed.”you offered, standing across from him with a smirk.

he sighed, too tired to amuse your behavior, “not happenin’, darlin’.”

“why not?”

“cause i said so.”

you bit your lip, your eyes shifting down to his lap. he hadn’t bothered to change clothes yet, still wearing his jeans. his hand was lingering between his legs— like he was covering something.

“fine, i’ll just stay down here with you.”

you sat down next to him, so close that he could smell your sweet vanilla lotion and coconut shampoo. his shoulders tensed, attempting to scoot over which only made you move closer.

he couldn’t help but stare at you a beat too long. your tummy was on display, showing off your dangling belly ring. the fabric of your pjs was so thin he could see through it, your nipples hardening from the cool air conditioning.

“y’need to stop this, doll. you’re gonna get us both in trouble.”

“i don’t care.” you whined like a child, “he’s not here. i want you so bad.”

you pushed his hand aside, replacing it with your own as you began to palm him through the material. his brown eyes had turned black, holding in a groan as he allowed you to continue.

“we can’t do this, ‘s not right.” he contradicted himself.

“but it feels right to me.” you referred to his erection, which couldn’t help but agree with you.

what was he supposed to do? a pretty girl throwing himself at him, desperate for his cock and he was supposed to deny her of it?

fuck this.

“get on my thigh.”

you paused for a moment, “really?”

“only telling you once.”

you crawled into his lap, straddling yourself on his left thigh. you went to unbuckle his belt when he stopped you, “nuh uh.”

“but—“

“no. you’re gonna sit here and ride my thigh until you cum, that’s all you’re gettin’.”

he grabbed your hips, pressing you down as he swayed you back and forth. the feeling was foreign, unsure how this alone was supposed to satisfy you, but then it clicks.

the friction of your clothes starts to heat up as you grind against him— the pleasure going straight to your core. he guided you slow and deliberately, rocking you up and down while he stared at you.

“feels good, don’t it darlin’?”

you whimper in response, mouth hung open. the denim of his jeans was rough against the fabric of your shorts, but you didn’t care, if anything it made you go faster.

your arousal was seeping through your panties, the cloth sticking to you as it wedged into your cunt from the motion.

he was enjoying every minute of it too. you were falling apart on top of him, eyes screwed shut and clit throbbing as you rubbed it with each movement.

“n-need more, please.”

“don’t be greedy. learn how to work for it.”

you whined, almost in agony at this point. you grabbed his bicep for support, chasing the climax that was building in your core. you were drenched at this point, a wet patch forming on his thigh where you sat.

he chuckled, urging you to look down as he mocked you, “see that? you’re makin’ a mess, doll.”

you blush in shame, sweat forming on your brow. he brought a hand to the strap of your top, pulling it down to release your tits. he pinched at the sensitive bud before putting it into his mouth, flicking his tongue and sucking on it greedily while his beard prickled at your skin

you were moaning uncontrollably, losing your rhythm in pace as the knot in your stomach was tightening. you threw your head back, bucking your hips as you use his leg like a toy.

“i’m so close, mr. miller. i- fuck. help me.”

joel grunted at your words, giving in to your request. he lifted you off just slightly, enough to loosen his belt and unbutton his pants to quickly pull them to his knees. he brought you back down, this time with your panties shoved to the side.

your smooth, bare cunt was sliding along his muscled, hairy thigh. your mind became cloudy, unable to talk or even think as he made you touch him skin to skin.

“all that damn begging and teasing you’ve been doin’, sluttin yourself out for me. better make it worth it.”

the sensation was enough to send you over the edge, nails digging into his arm as the coil in your belly snapped. you cried out, shaking and pulsating against him when you reached the peak of your orgasm. you fell into the crook of his neck with heavy, staggered breaths.

he held you there, kissing your shoulder before mumbling in your ear,

“ride it out, baby, i’ve got you now.”

[propertyofwicked]

ONE - LN

summary: the quadrant team find themselves in a hotel for the night, but there's just one issue - there's only one bed left.

warnings: none, just fluff ig

a/n: this is so short and i kinda really hate it im so sorry - i think this was requested but i cant find it in my inbox :(

masterlist the playlist

y/n had been working with the quadrant team for a while now, helping out with filming and editing their videos. it was a dream job, honestly, getting to travel around and hang out with friends, even if it meant dealing with a few chaotic moments here and there.

they were on location, ready to shoot some new content for an upcoming video. however, when they arrived at the small hotel only to find that there were only three rooms available for the night, chaos ensued as they tried to figure out the sleeping arrangements. three bedrooms, six beds, six people.

“lando snores - absolutely not,” max called out, grabbing niran quickly.

“y/n wakes up at 6am - absolutely not,” ria followed, grabbing araav too, leaving y/n and lando stood quietly next to each other, assigned to a room despite not getting a word in edgeways.

“it’s a good thing i’m a heavy sleeper,” y/n sighed, looking up at lando who smiled at her softly.

“it’s a good thing i don’t mind waking up early,” lando replied, grabbing her camera bag before leading the two of them to their room. y/n fumbled with the keys, trying to unlock the door quickly.

she opened the door and froze, lando walking straight into her back, not expecting the sudden stop. there, in the middle of the room, was a single double bed. y/n turned back to lando, who was standing behind her with their bags.

“um, lando, we have a problem,” y/n said, stepping aside so he could see.

lando peered into the room and his eyes widened. “oh, great,” he muttered. “one bed.”

“yeah,” y/n said, rubbing the back of her neck, trying not to be saddened by his upset at the situation, “we’ll figure something out.”

“i’ll take the floor. it’s fine,” lando sighed.

“no, you won’t,” y/n shot back. “i’ll take the floor. you need a good night’s sleep for filming tomorrow.”

“so do you,” lando argued. “we can’t have you exhausted either.”

“no, i’ll take the floor,” y/n shot back, crossing her arms defiantly.

“y/n, don’t be ridiculous. i’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”

“well, i’m not letting you sleep on the floor either,” y/n countered, voice firm.

the others watched the back-and-forth with amused expressions, until max finally stepped in, appearing suddenly in the open door.

“you two are adults. just share the bed. it’s not a big deal.”

lando and y/n exchanged hesitant glances. they had been friends for years, sure, but sharing a bed felt... different. still, they both nodded, realising it was the most logical solution.

“fine,” y/n said, a touch reluctantly, “we can share the bed.”

as they got ready for bed, both of them were internally stressing. as y/n stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth, she couldn’t stop thinking about how close they’d be, especially when the mirror gave her the perfect view of lando laying on the bed, arm behind his head as he scrolled his phone. lando was trying to ignore the feeling in his stomach at the thought of lying next to y/n all night, one step away from googling alternatives to a cold shower. still, she climbed into the bed, each of them staying rigidly on their respective sides, trying to give each other as much space as possible - y/n half tempted to set up a pillow between the two to add some distance.

time passed and y/n found it impossible to fall asleep in the unfamiliar bed. she tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, and with each turn, the sheets rustled loudly in the otherwise silent room. every few minutes, she let out a frustrated sigh, clearly unable to settle.

lando, who was on the verge of falling asleep, noticed y/n’s restless movements. he heard her get up and walk to the bathroom, the sound of the door closing quietly behind them. after a few minutes, y/n returned and climbed back into bed, but the tossing and turning continued.

another sigh escaped y/n, and lando, though exhausted, turned over to face her.

“you okay?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“yeah, i just... struggle to sleep in unfamiliar beds,” y/n admitted quietly.

lando sighed, his exhaustion outweighing his nervousness.

“c’mere,” he sighed, exhaustion outweighing his logic as he reached out, gently pulling y/n into his arms.

y/n’s heart raced, her body momentarily freezing up at the sudden contact but she relaxed into lando’s embrace as his hands settled on her hip, fingers extending along her skin. surprisingly, it did help. being close to him, feeling his warmth, was comforting.

as y/n’s breathing evened out, lando assumed she had finally fallen asleep, feeling a mix of relief and adoration for the woman that lay in his arms. he hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding. then, with a gentle, almost hesitant movement, he pressed a soft kiss to y/n’s head.

“good night,” he whispered, his voice tender.

“hmm night,” she mumbled back, barely conscious to recognise what was going on around her. it was better not to dwell.

[luckymousey]

He's the type of boyfriend that... (TWST)

⚠️ English is not my first language⚠️

Guess who still has to wait to watch the updates?

Exactly

This bitc-

So I wrote these self-indulging, fem reader, twst x reader headcanons, (or something like that)

Again, WAY TOO SELF INFULDING, PROBABLY CRINGE

And please, don't hate on me if you don't like these headcanons and don't tell me: "this character won't do this because of x reason", these are my headcanons and my own opinions, thanks

Riddle is the type of boyfriend that…is always practicing baking and cooking so that he can give you the best private tea parties

“My rose, I tried a new recipe, would you like to come over and try it?”

Trey is the type of boyfriend that…loves kissing you on your forehead

“Good morning, luv, did you sleep well? I heard you had a sleepover with your friends, I hope you all brushed your teeth before going to bed.”

I know Trey has British accent, I just know it >:3

Cater is the type of boyfriend that…is excited to take you an a date everytime a new trendy place appears

“Hey, hon! A new hair salon opened last week, and they say their workers are hot, should we go?”

Cater is also the type of boyfriend that doesn’t care if someone is good-looking or not, he blindly trusts his partner

Ace is the type of boyfriend that…over the time, instead of pranking you, he involves you in his plans

“Did you get the balloons, babe? Our names won’t be forgotten with this one!”

Deuce is the type of boyfriend that…wants to get matching things.

“Love, look! These matching tattoos are so cool! Oh, but we can get matching magic wheels if you don’t like tattoos, or rings, and, and- OHHH! MATCHING CHICK KEYCHAINS!”

Leona is the type of boyfriend that…buys anything that reminds him of you.

“What is it, pet? These? Just some gifts from Sunset Savanna….what do you mean this is too much? It only occupies half of your dorm.”

Ruggie is the type of boyfriend that…is excited to introduce you to his whole family.

“This is just a photo, bun, but here you can see my grandma, this one here is Hyaeni, the one in the right is Dae, at the corner you can see the tail of little Di, we don’t know his real name, but yeah, we call him that; and this one is Shen and the one on the…”

Jack is the type of boyfriend that…teaches you ski/snowboard when you visit him.

“Just follow me, baby, I promise you I won’t let you get hurt.”

Azul is the type of boyfriend that…is embarrassed to do so, but lets you see his baby photos.

“I can’t believe it, my pearl, what’s so good about these photos? I also can’t believe my mother had albums hidden in her room…”

Jade is the type of boyfriend that…helps you with whatever you need, no questions asked.

“So you need me to bring you shovels, a rope, hydrogen peroxide and some black, plastic bags…how big do the bags need to be, my dear?”

Floyd is the type of boyfriend that…likes seeing you wearing his things, and also likes wearing your things.

“You look dumb in my jacket, shrimpy, hahaha…what do you mean I look dumb too? I look ✨fabulous✨ in your skirt.”

Kalim is the type of boyfriend that…sends you 5000+ messages per day.

“No space left?…I sent too many photos?, don’t worry, sunshine, I’ll buy you another phone!”

Jamil is the type of boyfriend that…calls you in the middle of the night.

“Thanks to the Sevens you’re here, boo! I JUST SAW A SPIDER HIDING UNDER MY BED! HELP ME! KILL IT! SAVE ME!”

Vil is the type of boyfriend that…says snarky comments to those who insult you.

“Oh, well, at least my darling potato has a man who isn’t a cheater.”

He probably also has a black list in which he writes down the person's name to give Rook...a new mission

Rook is the type of boyfriend that…sputters embarrassed French words if you are the one saying romantic things.

“Oh, mon Dieu, s'il te plaît, attends une minute, trickster…non, non, mon amour, je suis juste un peu trop dépassé.”

Epel is the type of boyfriend that…always tries to impress you.

“Wait, sweetheart! Look! It’s you and me, my mom taught me how to embroider when I was little, but don’t tell Vil.”

Idia is the type of boyfriend that…even if he seems awkward or introverted, he is a drama queen when he’s with you

“My goddess, the light of my life, my one and only love, can you believe I lost a battle against some NPC? Who cares if it was on ‘extremely hard, really, don’t play this’ mode? I lost!”

Malleus is the type of boyfriend that…already has the wedding ring, the clothes, the rings and the guest list

“And if you would like, child of man, we can invite those little friends of yours, and that rabid familiar of yours with a bottomless stomach whom you spoil and love so much, of course.”

Lilia is the type of boyfriend that…tells you stories of some years ago.

“I remember this girl, she wanted to go to a ball but her step-mother and step-sisters ruined her pretty dress, fortunately, an old friend of mine helped her before she missed it. You remind me of her, my beloved, hardworking and beautiful.”

Silver is the type of boyfriend that…gives you handmade gifts every now and then.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was excited to give you this…do you like it, princess?”

Sebek is the type of boyfriend that…unconsciously lowers his voice when talking to you.

“HOW DARE YOU, YOU LOWLY HUMAN! YOU’RE IN PRESENCE OF- oh, good morning, human, as I was saying, YOU’RE IN PRESENCE OF THE GREAT—”

[holylulusworld]

How to cure a grump (3)

Summary: You’re losing your job on Christmas.

Pairing: CEO/Boss!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, grumpy Bucky, awful boss, mistaken identity, kinda fake dating trope, snowed-in trope

How to cure a grump (2)

How to cure a grump masterlist

Tonight, you don’t get much sleep. You toss and turn in your bed, knowing your boss, the man costing you your job and future, is sleeping right next door.

How dare he come here to demand shit from you after kicking you out two days before Christmas! Mr. Rogers knew about the password and PIN. He could’ve easily told your boss about it.

“Wait! That bastard!” You sit up on your bed and curse loudly. They are friends. Maybe this is some sick game they are playing. “I won’t be the butt of their jokes!”

When you get out of bed, you push your feet into the Santa Claus-themed slippers your mom got you for Christmas last year. 

Looking down at your body, you chuckle as the shoes look so different from the high heels you wore for work. They look like Santa's face. They have a white, fluffy beard and mustache. A red Santa hat sits atop each slipper.

“Fuck it,” you mutter and storm toward the door. If Barnes wants to mess with you, he’ll pay for it.

You storm into the guest room without knocking, immediately switching the light on.

“What?” Bucky looks at you like a deer in the headlight. He sits on the bed, in nothing but his boxer briefs. While you try not to stare at his abs, muscular arms, or the prominent bulge in his pants, he’s less subtle.

Bucky looks you up and down in your red and white Christmas-themed pajama set. “Are you often wearing onesies?” He snorts. Bucky never spent time with a woman wearing anything but silky nightgowns, or only a smile for bed.

You’re wearing a long-sleeved pajamas onesie style, featuring a fair isle pattern with elves, snowmen, and Christmas trees on a red background with white accents.

You huff. “I didn’t know you hold power over me in the bedroom too. It’s soft and plush, and I don’t give a shit if you like it or not. I want to know why you are here! Is this a trick? Do you and Rogers want to make fun of me?”

“Rogers must’ve forgotten you left the password,” Bucky grunts while wildly gesturing toward you. “I talked to him, and he didn’t mention it. If I knew about it, I wouldn’t have come here to spend the night at a guestroom in the middle of nowhere instead of getting drunk on Barbados, two hot blondes in my arms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Figures,” you huff. “I’ll call Walt. Maybe, he can help us get you to the airport so you can leave all the little ants working for you behind to spend an annual salary on your vacation!”

“Not my annual salary,” he dares to say. Bucky even smirks, and you lose your temper again. Right when he gets up from the bed to grab his pants, you jump into motion and tackle him to the ground. He yelps as you slap him across the face, once, twice, three times.

Bucky grabs your wrists in an attempt to stop you from hurting him.

“Munchkin is everything—” Your mother chuckles as she watches you sit on top of Bucky. “Oh, kids, I’m sorry. If only I knew you’re celebrating your reunion!” She closes the door behind her, leaving you and Bucky to your fight.

“Tomorrow morning you are gone, bastard,” you growl. “Now let go of me before I castrate you.”

He smirks. “Your mom believed we were having sex. Did you keep her awake often while you were still living here?”

“Says the man whore,” you wiggle in his grip, snarling as he won’t let go. “I’m not the one with an endless stream of women leaving my bedroom.”

“Not only my bedroom.” He still smirks when he finally releases your wrists.

You hurriedly get up and glare at him.

“I don’t care. In the morning, you’ll find a way to get out of my house, and my town. Use your money for something useful for once. And don’t contact me again! You are dead to me”

Slamming the door shut behind you, you huff. How can women fall for your asshole boss? You can’t believe they only see his pretty façade.

“Morning, lovebirds,” your mother chirps as you make your way into the kitchen. She’s humming Last Christmas while you are in a sour mood. Bucky Barnes has this effect on you. “Oh, where’s James?”

You take a deep breath, ready to tell your mother the truth. This is a serious case of mistaken identity. “Mom, uh—do you remember that I told you my boyfriend broke things up with me some time ago?”

“Of course, Munchkin,” she coos while flipping a pancake. “I’m all for second chances, Y/N. Maybe he finally realized how much you mean to him. But—” She points a knife in Bucky’s direction the moment he steps into the kitchen. “If he messes up again, I’ll castrate him!”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Bucky grumbles as he steps further into the room. “Good morning. Please don’t start the new day by castrating me.” He flashes your mom a stunning smile, earning a giggle.

“Oh, I was joking, James,” she says and goes back to preparing breakfast for a whole football team. “What do you like for breakfast? We have waffles, pancakes, bacon, and eggs, or French toast.”

“I usually only eat egg white.” Bucky pats his stomach, rubbing it. “I try to stay fit.”

“For the ladies,” you sarcastically say. “Mom, he won’t stay for breakfast. James will leave now and try to get a flight back to New York.”

“What? No! He must stay for breakfast,” she sniffles and uses her powerful puppy dog look to make your resolve to kick your former boss out crumble. “What about the Christmas dinner? I already planned everything. I was awake all night!”

“Mom,” you sigh. “He needs to take care of business.” It’s not a complete lie. Bucky wants to take care of a few things back in New York. “Do you think we can make it to the airport?”

“No,” she pouts before taking a large bite from one of the waffles. You watch her chew slowly before speaking again. “The streets aren’t the only problem. Maybe we could make it to the airport with your dad’s old truck, but the airport is closed.”

“I got a private jet,” Bucky throws in, earning an angry look from you. Of course, that rich bastard has a private jet.

“James, no plane will take off today, or for the next days. Not even a private jet,” your mother points out. “If you’d excuse me now, I must pick up a few things for Christmas.”

“Mom, what about the snow?” You hate to see her sad face. “Do you want me to get what you need? I was always the better driver.”

“Your dad was the best driver—” She stiffens, and you can see grief flash up in her eyes. No matter how long he’s gone, she’ll always miss your dad. “He taught me everything.”

“I know,” you murmur and hold out your hand to squeeze hers tightly. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Yeah.” She nods while struggling to hold back a sob. “I forgot to add a few things to my Christmas list. The streets should be free for now. We should hurry before more snow will keep us from leaving.”

Much to your dismay, Bucky decided to join you on your shopping tour. His pilot told him there was not a chance to get back to New York anytime soon. Now he needs a place to stay over the holidays and boots. It’s too damn cold to wear slippers.

“Over there you can buy boots,” you say, and point at the only shop in town selling warm boots. “I’ll get the things on the list, Mom. You can wait here.”

“Alright, Munchkin,” your mom says while watching Bucky look at you, brows furrowed. He dips his head to watch you storm off. “Don’t take it to heart, James. Christmas was always hard for Y/N since her dad passed away, and John left her for some other girl.”

“John, huh?” Bucky asks as you are busy buying everything your mom has on her list. “What happened?”

“It’s not my place to tell you, James. All I can say is that they wanted to marry the next spring and John decided to cheat.” She huffs. “Y/N moved across the county to get away from him, their business, and the girl he chose over her.”

“Their business?” Bucky presses on. “What kind of business?”

“Oh, nothing special. They—” Your mother gasps loudly as John steps toward you at your aunt’s bakery. “No, no! This will ruin Christmas for Y/N!”

“What?” Bucky follows your mother’s eyes, seeing you stiffen as John stands in front of you to chat you up. “That him?”

“Yes, I must stop him from hurting her!”

“Leave this to me.” Your mother smirks when Bucky enters the bakery. She even chuckles as John’s fiancé watches your former boss walk toward you.

Bucky, on the other hand, doesn’t know what came over him until he shoves John out of his way to cup your face and kiss you fiercely.

You whimper against Bucky's warm and plump lips. It's been a while since someone kissed you, and this kiss is on top of your list.

“Dude, excuse me! We were talking,” John grunts as Bucky and you part. You stare at Bucky, unsure what to do. “Hey! This is not the place to make out!”

“What?” Bucky turns around to smirk at John. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I was missing my fiancé, is all.”

“Fiancé?” John hiccups as you are too stunned to react. What just happened? Why did your former boss kiss you? Why is John here?

“Yes, fiancé. And I’d appreciate it if you stopped distracting her. Her mom is waiting outside, and it’s damn cold. We don’t want this lovely lady to get sick, don’t we.”

“Sure, sure,” John awkwardly stammers. “It was nice seeing you, Y/N. Have a good Christmas.” John and the woman he chose over you leave the bakery in a hurry.

You’re still shell-shocked and just watch them leave. What else can you do? If you slap Bucky’s face now, John knows this was all just play pretend.

Meanwhile, your mother stands outside the bakery, smiling to herself as Bucky nervously rubs the back of his neck.

How to cure a grump (4)

More tags in reblog.

How to cure a grump@cjand10, @nofingjustaninchident, @pettyjayy, @pattiemac1, @formulas-bitch, @winchestert101, @greatmistakes, @mrsnikstan, @jokersqueenofchaos

[novvabee]

could you write about the mauraders when they go to the shrieking shack for the full moon and there’s another werewolf? Idk something like that

ooooo, this gave me a really fun idea, hope you enjoy 💗

The Deer, The Dog, And The Two Wolves

summary: remus meets another wolf

word count: 2.3k

“I mean, did you see her? Talk about fit!” Sirius laughed, walking through the portrait into their common room. He was talking about the new girl, the girl who had started halfway through the semester.

Poor girl was paraded in front of the whole school for her sorting. She was obviously embarrassed and uncomfortable to be the center of the whole school’s attention.

“Too bad she was sorted into Slytherin,” Sirius said as he threw himself across a sofa in the middle of the common room, “I would have liked to get to know her.” This made Lily and Mary scoff from the opposite couch in front of the fireplace.

“Why’s she starting in the middle of the semester?” James asked.

“Maybe she just moved here.” Lily supplied.

“Lucky her,” James said, “she just missed midterm exams.” Everyone chuckled at that.

While everyone was conversing and laughing, Remus had dread looming over him. His muscles began to ache and he could feel the effects of the approaching full moon. The moon would be tomorrow night, but Remus had been feeling it all week. After a while of chatting, all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. 

“I am quite tired,” Remus said, standing and motioning for the boys to follow. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow?”

“Yeah! Just meet us in hogsmeade.” Mary says.

Remus nods, the other boys say their goodnights and they all make their way up to their room. As soon as the door was shut behind them, Remus was falling into bed.

“What is the plan for tomorrow?” James asked, they usually had no trouble sneaking out and waiting in the shrieking shack for Remus, but this time, the girls insisted the boys come with them to hogsmeade for the day. Only Lily knew about Remus, so sneaking away was going to be harder than normal.

“I was thinking I could cut away from the group with Remus and we could head to the shack while you help Lily distract the others.” Sirius said, having planned that out fairly quickly. “That sound alright?” he asked Remus.

Remus was too tired, too weary to answer vocally so he just nodded. The boys looked at him with pity, they knew how he was feeling, so they just opted to let him sleep.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The day spent in Hogsmeade was lovely, despite the pain and tenseness that Remus felt, he still enjoyed himself.

They made their way from shop to shop, buying candies from Honeydukes and gadgets from Zonkos. The girls begged to stop by Gladrags and the boys reluctantly agreed.

“Fine,” James said, rolling his eyes, “but only because I need a new tie.”

The group piled into the shop, the girls immediately rushing towards the new dresses and coats, Remus and Sirius turned to browse the rings and necklaces. 

Remus felt… odd. He felt the hairs on his neck stand and a chill run down his spine, immediately set on edge. He had never felt this before, a new experience for him. He put himself on high alert, scanning the shop, but seeing or sensing nothing out of the ordinary, just that unfamiliar tingle.

“Dear Merlin,” Sirius muttered from beside him. Remus followed his gaze across the shop to see Regulus. It seemed like the brothers noticed each other at the same time, because Regulus turned to his group of friends, and they swiftly exited.

“Still in a spat?” Remus asked Sirius.

Sirius huffed and replied “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Remus left it alone, seeing as the day was going very well, he didn’t want to ruin it in any way. 

James got his tie and the girls all bought different clothes and were ready to continue on. It was getting later in the day, the sun would set soon, so Remus wanted to finish the trip.

“Butterbeer, anyone?” he asked and the whole group perked up and started down the street towards The Three Broomsticks.

Remus opened the door for the group, allowing everyone in, before stepping in himself. Once inside, that grating feeling was back. He looked around again, but was met with the same outcome, there was nothing awry. Confused, he just figured the moon was messing with his senses.

The group found a table towards the back of the pub and they all squeezed in. Remus found himself sandwiched between Marlene and James. The whole bunch was lively as ever, laughing and joking, talking about everything and nothing at all.

The witch who ran the pub asked the table for their orders and James ordered butterbeers for the whole table. So typical of James, to order and pay for everyone, spend his fortune on his friends and a good time. 

Mary gasped from across the table, making everyone turn their attention to her. “Don't look now,” she said, “but that new girl is sitting with the Slytherins.” 

The whole table snapped their necks toward where Mary was looking.

“I said don’t look!” she squealed.

She was right, the new girl was sitting next to Dorcas and across from Regulus, looking like she was in a deep conversation with them. But, almost like she felt their eyes on her, she looked over to them. The whole group tried to turn and make it look like they weren’t just staring at her(it was so obvious), but she caught Remus’s eye before he could look away.

It was like she looked directly into his soul, and there was that feeling again. Remus could have sworn she sat up straighter, taken by surprise for some reason. She narrowed her eyes at him, looked him up and down, then returned to her conversation.

Odd… 

Their butterbeers arrived and Remus put the interaction aside, deciding to just enjoy the rest of the time he had with his friends. Once the group finished, Sirius casually yawned and turned to Remus. “Fancy a smoke?” he asked. Remus nodded and exited the pub with Sirius.

They began their journey to the shrieking shack, Remus feeling the nip in the air, but also that feeling. He took a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, handed one to Sirius, then lit them both. Perhaps a smoke would ease the odd sensation. Walking in comfortable silence, taking drags of their cigarettes, the boys eventually ended up at the shack.

Remus dropped the butt of his cigarette and snuffed it out with his shoe, Sirius taking one last drag, then doing the same.

“Now,” Sirius started, “James will meet up with us but it’s business as usual right?”

Remus nodded. “Yeah, just try to stay in the forest like normal.”

“Gotcha,” Sirius replied. “Gotta lock you in now, Moons.”

Remus opened the door to the shack and stepped inside. He pulled the door closed and heard Sirius mutter the spell to magically seal him in until he transformed, then one of them would open the door and they would spend the whole night racing and playing in the woods in their animal forms.

Remus didn’t enjoy a lot of his lycanthropy, but being able to run in an animalistic way with his best mates, that was one thing he did enjoy.

Remus made his way upstairs to the old, beaten up bedroom, and layed on the bed. He began waiting for the transformation. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Something was off, Sirius could tell. He and James, who had broken away from the group finally, were sitting at the edge of the forest.

They heard Remus transforming, which was never easy, but this time it seemed that he was having a particularly rough time. James winced from beside Sirius and shook his head. Once they were certain he was fully changed, James magically unlocked the door.

They both transformed into their animagus form, but Remus didn’t come out. Sirius and James looked at each other and Sirius went inside to check on Remus, coax him out of the shack.

Sirius padded upstairs, expecting to see the wolf destroying something or clawing at the furniture, but he was met with a completely different scene entirely. The wolf was pacing around the room in a circle, sniffing the air and whining. When it saw the black dog that had entered, it perked up, but still looked around, as if looking for someone else.

The dog raced downstairs, goading the wolf to chase it. The wolf gave in easily and followed the dog down the stairs and out of the house where they were met with the large stag. The wolf tackled the deer, rolling and play-fighting until the wolf’s ears perked up. It snapped it’s head to the forest and bolted.

The dog and the deer had no chance to wrangle it before it slipped through the tree line and into the dark forest beyond. The dog and the deer looked at each other and then dashed after the wolf.

Sirius didn't understand what had gotten into the wolf, but raced as fast as he could to catch up.

That is when the howl came from deep in the forest. Everything stopped, the whole forest seeming to be silenced. Then the answering howl sounded.

The deer and the dog followed the sound to an opening in the forest, a small field with a large oak in the center. They expected to find Moony there, chasing something, but they were not expecting to see two wolves circling each other.

They hung back at the tree line, watching but ready to protect Remus if anything were to happen.

The other wolf was smaller, a female, but just as dangerous, still a werewolf.

The two wolves continued circling each other, tense. The smaller wolf noticed the dog and the stag at the forest’s edge, and growled, hackles raising. Moony stepped between her and his friends, protecting them, and growled deep back at her. The other wolf turned her attention to him now, focusing all her anger at him.

Moony wasn’t backing down, determined to protect the dog and the stag behind him. He clawed at her, catching her right under the eye. She wasted no time in returning the favor, and swiped right back at him, getting him good.

Moony, shocked, stepped back and sat down, like a dog asking for a treat. The other wolf blinked, then mirrored his actions. Moony pounced and ran off, the other wolf following, chasing.

They were playing. 

The dog and the deer looked at each other, then back to the two wolves, then joined in.

It was slightly harder, keeping track of two wolves rather than just the one, but at least they could rough-house with each other and not be too afraid to hurt the other, like Remus often was with Sirius or James.

The two wolves raced each other and swam in the lake, the whole group having fun, until Sirius noticed the morning light. Dawn would break soon and Remus would transform back, they needed to get him back to the shack. Moony, however, was being more difficult than normal. 

The moment Sirius and James tried to corral him and chase him back to the shack, Moony refused. He kept wandering over to the other wolf, trying to continue to play. So James and Sirius decided that both the wolves had to be wrangled into the shack, if that was the only way to get Remus back in.

That task was incredibly difficult, Moony bouncing all over the place and the other wolf threatening to snap at the boys if they got too close. They eventually managed to lock both the wolves in the shack with minimal damage.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Remus woke on the floor of the bedroom feeling more tired than he had ever been after a full moon. He felt like he could sleep for ages. His aching body needed all the rest it could get.

Small moments from the night came back to him and suddenly…

He snapped his head toward the bed to see a sleeping figure curled up in the old and torn blankets. That feeling tingled the back of his neck again. 

The figure sat straight up, feeling the same feeling. Remus knew that face, the new girl. She made direct eye contact with him, then quickly scanned the room, unsure of where she was.

He could see she was scared, so he calmly said “It’s ok, you’re ok.”

She looked at him unsure. “W-where are we?” she asked, voice a little raw.

“This is called the shrieking shack, it's where I come… to transform.” Remus answered, still trying to calm her and get her to trust him.

“You’re the wolf I was with last night?” she asked, more like putting the pieces together.

Remus nodded. “My name’s Remus.” He smiled.

“Y/N” she answered.

“Nice to meet you Y/N.” He said, noticing how she seemed to start relaxing.

“And… that dog and the deer?” she asked.

Remus chuckled, not knowing exactly how to answer that. “They’re harmless.”

She nodded and they sat in silence for a minute before she spoke again. “I didn’t know there were others… like me.” she said.

Remus didn’t know how to talk about this with anyone, he had never met another werewolf. All he could seem to do was nod.

“H-how long have you been… you know…” she asked timidly.

Remus smiled sadly. “‘I was bitten when I was really young, about three.” He answered.

Her eyes widened and she gasped. “Three!?” she looked in disbelief. “I am so sorry, you’ve had to deal with this for a long time…”she trailed off. “I was bitten a couple years ago. That's why I transferred schools, the other one kicked me out, thought that I was a danger to the other students.”

“I am so sorry,” this time it was Remus’s turn to feel bad.

She smiled sadly. “It’s ok, besides, now I know someone else like me.”

[fallenprophets]

I will never let you go

robert "bob" reynolds x reader

can be read as a part 3 to a house in nebraska (part 1) and told you I'll be waiting/hiding from the rainfall (part 2)

summary: usually, he's the one having nightmares, waking you in the middle of the night with heavy breathing and anxious twitching. but this time is different. this time, you're the one plagued with memories. no use of y/n, gender neutral as always, still not proofread. no spoilers

warnings: swearing, mentions of drug addiction, mentions of a bad childhood, very brief mention of suicide?

a/n: WOAH back already? i know, it's insane. hope y'all enjoy this. i want to thank beyonce for inventing music so that i could listen to ethel cain while writing this. also thank you to my own experience with Feelings- who knew my ptsd would come in handy someday

He has nightmares often. 

Since the first night, he’s been living with me; won’t let me sleep on the couch or anything, insists that I stay with him. And who am I to deny those soft eyes, his grip on my waist or on my wrist a little too tight? 

So every night, I sleep next to him, even though the bed is almost too small. 

And almost every night, he has these nightmares. 

The first time, I thought someone had broken in. I was woken by strange sounds, and found him gone; so I pushed out of bed, tiptoed into the kitchen with the revolver I keep in the drawer next to my bed. Upon seeing him, though, I realised I was mistaken. 

It was only Bob, standing completely still in the middle of the room. His breathing was uneven; the only movement I could discern was the light rise and fall of his shoulders. 

He whirled around, eyes blown wide open and frightened. In an instant, I had dropped the revolver on the kitchen counter and almost run to him, catching him half-way as he stumbled into me. And we stayed like that, his arms so tight around me. 

He never remembers the nightmares- either that, or he’s lying to me. And I like to think that I can tell when he’s telling the truth, so I choose to believe him. All he recalls is a dark, empty, frightening feeling. Says that when he wakes up, he thinks everything is gone. Sometimes, I hear him mumble- something about a void.

But I don’t press, because I’m just happy to have him back by my side; in due time, he’ll talk to me, tell me exactly what happened between his disappearance in Malaysia and now. 

I’ve become a light sleeper, to say the least. 

But tonight, he’s not the one having the nightmare. 

Ever since the incident with the void, I’ve felt… strange. Like reliving those memories fucked me up somehow, took the box I’d created in my brain so carefully for my past and opened it. Tossed the contents all over the place, left me to pick them up with shaking hands. 

So, maybe Bob isn’t the only one having nightmares. 

Only this one is bad. It’s not like the others, which I have been able to push down, pretend that those aren’t my memories mixing with my imagination replaying freely when I sleep. This one is claustrophobic, and dark, and frightening- like something awful is reaching long fingers down my throat, clogging my veins, choking me slowly. 

I can’t claw my way out this time. Can’t kick and punch and scream- can’t even get high to pretend the walls aren’t closing in on me. 

I’m in the dream for what feels like years. The details are fuzzy around the edges, but one thing is crystal-clear: the feeling that something is missing. That I’ve lost something, somehow, and that I’m not getting it back. That I won’t even know what it is that’s gone until years later, when it’ll hit me and I’ll keel over and just- just die, and no one will notice. 

I’m still half in it when I wake up. 

I sit up all at once, gasping and choking, immediately reaching my fingers into my mouth to pull that suffocating darkness out, before it can fasten onto my lungs, where it’ll fester and rot and eventually, hopefully, kill me. The blinding panic that consumes me is overwhelmingly familiar; wrenches back memories of being a child all alone, of leaving home, of losing Bob. And the emptiness in my chest- that gaping hole of missing memories and a stolen childhood, of those few months before I checked myself into rehab when I was just drifting, barely alive.

I’m so scared, and for less than a second, I’m the only person on earth, about to be consumed and- and forgotten. 

Within moments, though, fingers wrap around my wrist, pull my hand away from my mouth. I lean over the edge of the bed, heaving and coughing and spluttering as terrified sobs tear through me, making my chest and throat burn. His hand is on my back, the other arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against his chest. 

He begins to rock me backwards and forwards as I grab onto his arm, digging my nails in. In the back of my mind, I hope it doesn’t hurt. 

My heart races, jumping like a rabbit trapped in my ribcage. I’m still breathing heavily, but his thumb begins to draw circles between my shoulder blades. He holds both of my wrists down in one hand, like he’s worried I’ll try to claw my throat open if he lets go. The pressure is reassuring, so I don’t move to push him away. 

Eventually, I turn my head slightly. He nudges forward, his nose pressing into my cheek. I lean into him, try to breathe in his presence. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of my mouth once the weight has somewhat lifted itself off my windpipes. My voice still wavers pathetically, and I clear my throat, shutting my eyes against the tears that threaten to spill. “Didn’t- didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Hey.” His voice is so soft; the tears come all at once again, following the tear tracks already made only minutes ago. “Don’t apologise- hey.” 

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb swiping away at the tears. He’s never been fantastic at comfort- remember when I’d have my freak outs while we were both high, he’d just squeeze my hand really tight, maybe kiss my shoulder or my neck for good measure. But now, as I feel his nose lightly graze my shoulder, the familiarity of it all is crushing. Seeking more of it, I tug my shirt down, expose the skin underneath to the cold of my room. He presses a soft, gentle kiss there, at the junction between my shoulder and my neck. There’s nothing sexual about it. We’ve never been like that- crumbling in moments of weakness, taking advantage of too many feelings at once. I think it’s why we were so good as a pair, in a way. 

Slowly, kindly, he moves up, pressing soft kisses up my neck, until he reaches my jawline. My face is still wet with tears; my skin probably tastes salty with it. I wonder if he notices. He must, because once again he brushes his thumb across my cheek, light and quick, a repeated motion. 

“Nightmare?” He asks finally, so quiet. I only nod. I can hardly remember the dream- just the aching sadness, the crushing hopelessness as I drowned. 

“I’ll be okay,” I say. My voice still shakes; I swipe at my face with the back of my hand as my lower lip starts to quiver again. 

His chin rests on my shoulder, and he draws me close. Neither of us are very good with words, and we’re used to silence; so I shuffle closer, turn my head so our noses bump. 

“Thank you,” I whisper finally. He smiles. It’s one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen, and once again, I am overwhelmed with the warmth of having him back in my life. I reach up and push his hair away from his face, trace his features with my fingertip. My heart still hammers in my chest, and I know that eventually, I’ll have to deal with the feelings, the stifling fear and sorrow of the nightmares I’ve been having. But for now, I’m with him, and I think that’s enough. 

I close the distance and kiss him again, letting my eyes flutter shut. 

This is the second time we’ve kissed. First time was his first night here, and we haven’t talked about it. But I don’t think he regrets it, because within half a second, he’s kissing me back, hand at the nape of my neck, drawing me closer. I tangle my fingers in his hair, tilting my head back ever so slightly. He’s kissing my neck, too, gentle, comforting; carefully moving the hem of my shirt out of the way again as he presses his mouth to my shoulder, then to my collarbone, right above my unevenly beating heart. 

He rests his forehead there, like he’s listening to my pulse thunder on. I let him, resting my chin on the top of his head. 

“I missed you,” I say softly, finally. “Think- think that’s maybe what the nightmare was about. Wanting you back. Like my brain hasn’t registered you’re here.” 

His grip on me tightens. 

“I love you,” he murmurs finally- quiet, vulnerable, maybe a little pathetic. 

“I love you too,” I answer, and it’s true- has been true for years. Maybe even from the moment I met him, I knew, somehow- I was stuck with him, and that really wasn’t so bad. 

I kiss his forehead, breathe in the warmth of him. “I’ll never let you go, y’know that?” I mumble. He nods- can feel it, before he shifts to rest his head on my shoulder, occasionally pressing a kiss to the crook of my neck. 

taglist - @foreverchangingmind

[ohimsummer]

more puppyboy!satoru pls !! 🛐

— minors dni, fwb au <<33, crack, jealous! puppyboy! satoru 🫣

it’s the ass-crack of morning—the sun isn’t even out yet. despite a long night of faking orgasms, you’re exhausted. you’re trying to get your current hookup out the door, but he’s too busy hunting for the shirt he left the other night.

“it’s a red sweatshirt.”, he says. whats-his-face. “i know i left it here.”

with his measly performance last night, he’s far past overstaying his welcome, and also ruining your beauty sleep. a crime that will be met with the fullest extent of your sass.

“evidently you didn’t or you would’ve found it by now.”, you mumble, turning over to pull the sheets over your head.

“can you help me look?”, he sighs.

“i’ll look later, just go ahead.”

you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “look, i really don’t have time to—“

“if you didn’t have time then you’d be gone by now and not still looking around for a shirt.”, you snap at him from underneath the covers. “if it’s here somewhere then it’ll still be here when i get up.”

there’s silence, and then you hear him storm out the room, slamming the door on his way out. it just makes you giggle before you nod back off to sleep.

when you finally wake up a few hours later, you find a set of strong arms wrapped around your middle and a larger body coiled around you.

“good morning, ‘toru.”, you mumble gently, reaching back to thread through the messy locks of his hair.

you can feel his ears twitch even in his drowsy state, before shuddering as his warm tongue meets the back of your neck. “good morning, i missed you.”

so clingy, and so cute. you know he crept into your room minutes after your fling left, as he usually does because he hates sleeping away from you.

satoru makes it difficult to get out of bed, but with the promise of kisses and breakfast, he allows you freedom from the sheets. by that time, you’ve long forgotten about searching for the sweatshirt, instead basking in the warm heat of his embrace. his body molds against yours. satoru keeps his arms caged around your waist to sleepily waddle behind you and join you in your morning routine.

you’re more alert after washing your face and such, so you now notice the spot of red in the hallway. picking it up, you realize it’s a piece of cloth, ripped and ragged at the edges from having been gnawed to shreds.

“satoru?”, you hold it up so he can see it better. “what is this?”

satoru barely glances at what’s in your hand, instead keen on snuggling his face into the crook of your neck. “dunno.”

he’s such a terrible liar. “…right.”

you stop by the kitchen to throw away the random cloth, only to be met with a pile of crimson already in the bin. it’s unnecessary to ask what it is. you recognize it by ripped pieces of the designer logo.

“satoru, what is all this?”, you ask him again, slightly more urgent. “why did you do this?”

when satoru doesn’t answer, you pull out of his grasp, turning to face him. you’re met with the guiltiest look he can muster—ears pulled back, head ducked, and eyes low to the floor as he nervously licks at his lips. despite all that, his lips still poke out in a pout, clearly upset about something.

“it smells like you” is the only explanation satoru provides.

“so?”, you respond.

silence, and then, “i don’t like that guy.” another beat. “i don’t like that your scent is on his clothes.”

with that statement, the pieces fall into place. you just give a sigh, tossing the last shred of fabric in with the others and pulling your pouty puppy to lay his head against your chest.

“you don’t have to be jealous, you big baby. you’re way better than him.”

“i know i’m way better, he can’t even make you cum.”

you chuckle. “what, were you listening to us last night?”

“…”

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