#lifeline+x+reader

[dontbethatguy20]

could you do some hcs for lifeline with an s/o who has adhd? it's ok if you don't want to do it! i just like to think that since she spent sm time with tavi she might know how to handle it well.

Lifeline with ADHD S/O

Sorry if it's inaccurate in any way. If it is inaccurate in any way, please tell me, and I will change it. Also,if you want me to add something, tell me as well. Also, sorry it's so short, but hopefully, you still enjoy it.

______________________________________

In her life, she has quite a few people who have ADHD. Knowing those people, she learned and knows how to deal and help with it when they want it or desperately need it.

When it comes to you having trouble paying attention, she will try to make it more interesting. Say you're studying for a history test and you're having trouble studying because you can't keep your attention on it. She uses something you like to help. Like, say you are learning about WW2, and you're really interested in dinosaurs.

If you're forgetful, she'll personally remember, or she'll find a way to get you to remember it.

If you get distracted well out and about, she'll usually let you be distracted. Only if you both are doing something important will she try to get your attention off it.

She'll also buy you fidget toys if you fidget, and even if you don't, she'll still buy it, so maybe you could focus on it

[fawnindawn]

loser! Luke Castellan who has a pathetic crush on you.

loser! Luke Castellan who follows you around camp like a lost puppy, under the guise of having nothing to do and wanting to help you out with your tasks (as if he wasn’t knee deep in camp counsellor responsibilities).

loser! Luke Castellan who gets distracted during sword fight practice because he so happened to hear the ghost of your laughter echoing through the meadows, rendering his heart to a stutter.

loser! Luke Castellan who brings by leftovers from his table to you when you’re stuck in the infirmary if it meant having some alone time with you, not giving a fuck about offerings to the gods when any moment spent with you meant worlds more.

loser! Luke Castellan who very intentionally shows off whenever you’re around with some fancy combat trick or the stretch of his arms, showing off his toned muscles in the hopes that you were watching him.

loser! Luke Castellan who hopelessly longs for you with pining stares obvious to everyone but him, eyes like magnets to your presence, catching you across the room or the battlefield.

loser! Luke Castellan who gets so jealous when he sees you laughing too closely with some other guy at the bonfire, and foolishly stalks over to interrupt the conversation without thinking of a proper excuse.

“Hey, Luke! What’s up?” You call warmly to him, making his heart spasm in his chest at the sound of his name leaving your lips.

“I need your help with.. something.” He stumbles through his words with a wince. “It’s urgent.”

loser! Luke Castellan who feels relief and mind-numbing euphoria settling in his chest when you wordlessly agree without question, choosing him instead. An apologetic smile crosses your face as you bid goodbye to whatever jerk you were talking to before following in Luke’s footsteps.

loser! Luke Castellan who can’t resist the urge to toss the quickest smirk to the kid who was hogging your attention, before it disappears like it was never there.

loser! Luke Castellan who drags you over to a quiet space in camp before admitting quietly to you that he didn’t actually have a reason for dragging you away.

loser! Luke Castellan who tries to pour out his heart to you, hands shaking and heart racing as he tries to form the words that could encapsulate the intensity of his feelings, growing frustrated when his brain keeps freezing when looking at you. The moonlight is casting an ethereal glow over your face, and he goes minutes without speaking in hopeless admiration before realising you're waiting for him to continue.

loser! Luke Castellan who’s on the verge of passing away from the embarrassment before you stop him with a grin so bright his mind stops working over the disbelief that he was the reason for that pretty smile.

loser! Luke Castellan who sees stars when you pull him in for a kiss, and holds onto you like you’re his lifeline.

loser! Luke Castellan who mutters sweet promises into your ear as he pulls you in closer, embracing you so close to his racing heart, in hopes that you would never let go of him.

loser! Luke Castellan who is so completely in love with you he can’t bear the thought of existing in a world without you.

[tra1nchi]

SO SINCE THIS IS A PRETTY FREAKY BLOG THOUGHT I MIGHT ADD TO IT SINCE THIS IDEA HAS BEEN IN MY MIND LATELY 🌚 BEAR WITH ME

SO FTM! READER WITH THE ALIENS THAT INVADED YOUR SHIP FUCKING U 24/7 AND NOT WANTING TO REPLACE YOU BLAH BLAH BLAH....BUT ONE DAY AS THEYRE FUCKING YOU THEYRE WONDERING WHAT THIS STRANGE LUQID THAT JUST CAME OUT OF YOU IS AS YOU SQUIRT OVER THEIR ALIEN COCKS >_<!! ALSO THE ALIENS THINKING THE BINDER YOURE WEARING IS LIKE ATTACHED TO YOU ONLY FOR IT TO GO LOOSE AND FOR ONE OF THEM TO REMOVE IT AND BOOM TWO BOUNCY STRESS BALLS :0 LIKE A MYSTERY BOX !!!

okay this probably the freakiest thing I ever written or thought of 😞 my bad pookie ITS 100% OKAY IF YOU DONT WANNA DO THIS IM JS RAMBLING YK THOUGHT IT MIGHT MAKE A GOOD FIC, TYY HAVE A GOOD DAY :) ♡

MINORS DNI!! Bttm ftm reader,, threesome aliens,,reader has bewbs,,an3l,,

You've lost track of time since your ship had been taken over by the monstrous creatures,,they weren't aggressive and had no interest in killing your crewmates but rather claiming you as their own,,

Your crewmates betrayed you,,making a deal with the aliens to let their ship go free while they take you on their own,,claiming you as they're sweet human pet,,which soon led them wanting or rather needing to mate with you,,you seemed like the perfect vessel for their spawn!!

Fucking you for the first time was exhilarating for them,,one of their long slimy dicks deep inside of your ass,,while another's claws runs curiously around your body,, it's hands slipping down to investigate your wettening boypussy,,

The one who was fucking you from behind assumed that the binder that was hungging your chest tightly was some kind of armour protection for your species,,they weren't the smartest of species and they couldn't figure out the shiny metal clips came apart!!

It had been hours since they started fucking you,, a soft whimper could be heard from the alien when he feels you grow even wetter,,the sex was growing even more intense that you could barely handle it,,a shiver runs down your spin as you feel your binder come loose,,

The alien seems surprised and almost concerned thinking you were injured until his clawed hands opened the binder all the way!! His eyes widening as it reveals squishy mounds from your chest,,curiously moving to squeeze then which seem to only spur the two aliens on!!!

[livingslime]

Alright so we all love Dr. Anselm LITERALLY JUST FAX 💕💕🙏🏾 BUT what about you? Tell us more about yourself! Like what sorta games you wanna make--stuff like that! Obviously if you're comfortable of course! _(^^;)ゞ

HAII MAII POOKIEE (灬♥ω♥灬) sorry ur asks took awhile to get to SOBSS.

HMMM I guess it's no secret I love otomes/dating sims in general! Like idk I just love 2D men 😭😭💗💗 I feel so happy seeing others share the same enthusiasm. I just feel like, FINALLYY MYY PEOPLEEE 😏😏😫💓

I am interested in having a character that's the opposite of Anselm's personality? like a brat with no morals? black cat personality? HAHA

I always found those sorta characters intriguing, one side of me wants to punch them in the face but they're usually so charismatic (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

But right now my focus would be on prescription:LOVE waha!

[ibiggiecheese]

This is an INCREDIBLY old draft that I found in my google docs 😭😭 thought i’d share it here😔😔 Anything revenant related im an immediate dog for🙏🙏

Warnings; a lil NSFW, reader has female anatomy, (im not sure if i referred to the reader as she/her)

Breathy moans could be heard around the voyage ship echoing from wall to wall due to how silent it was.

Almost all the legends were out at some bar in the outlands playing pool, celebrating and drinking. The few other legends decided to stay back at the dropship and enjoy their free time alone.

You were one of the many legends who did decide to go out and celebrate the performances of your fellow peers. Mirage had invited you to go with them stating how a ‘breath of fresh air is good for the brain’ you weren't doubting it was, it just sounded bizarre coming out of his mouth. He had also whispered to let Revenant know about the invitation, seeing how you weren’t scared of talking to the synthetic nightmare considering you had a decent friendship with him.

You’d dressed in a silky black dress exposing your back. The other legends dress in their own formal ways. Valkyrie wearing a suit, Loba a beautiful red dress, and so on.

You touched up your makeup a bit as you awaited the other legends to meet up at Mirage’s ship. You were so concentrated on your plush lips that you hadn’t seen the dark figure which silently entered. You squeaked when you felt cold metal fingers touching your bare shoulder. You were more concerned about the fact that your lips had a red smudge.

“Revenant you made me mess up !” You said as you turned around only to find a tall simulacrum wearing a black hood along with a black suit and a red tie. To say you were stunned was an understatement, you’d grown so accustomed to seeing his regular red robotic body that you never thought about the fact that he might actually be able to wear ACTUAL clothes.

He let out a raspy chuckle as he leaned down, his cold metal fingers softly rubbing the spot your lipstick stained.

“Nothing you can’t fix” He said as he stood up and walked out of the room. You were still in shock at the fact that he was wearing a suit. The noise of the other legends arriving quickly snapped you back to reality.

The small party was entertaining nonetheless but whenever you weren’t conversing with Loba and Valkyrie you’d find your eyes straying to Revenant's bright golden eyes only for his to already be staring back from across the room, he’d been sitting with Path, bloodhound, Octane and Mirage. But he couldn’t careless about what they talked about, only letting out hums of approval whenever they tried to talk to him.

His main focus was on you.

Revenant stood up without saying a word and left the bar, you knew what he was doing and you hated it, all it took was fifteen minutes and there you are following him like a puppy.

You never knew seeing Revenant in a suit would drive you crazy. Which is exactly how you got into this predicament.

Your clothed cunt grinding against Revenants thigh on the main couch of the voyage ship. Your hands were wrapped around his neck, his arms were just laying on the top of the cushions, letting you do all the work.

“F-fuck…” You whispered as you grinded like an animal in heat. Your heels were long off as you concentrated on reaching your climax. Your face hidden on the side of his neck. You whimpered as you felt the electricity-like sensation go across your body as you hit a certain spot.

Revenant would never admit it, but seeing you in that silky black dress did things to him. But he hated how the rest looked at you, Loba slyly flirting with you, and Octane repeatedly looking back at you. He knew you two were just ‘friends’ but that didn’t stop him from treating you like you were his.

You felt tears well up at your eyes, small moans being released as you started to grind against his a thigh a little faster.

“Fuck Rev, making me do all the work h-huh” Your voice broke up a bit as you felt Revenant leg jolt up hitting just the right spot on your soaking cunt.

“Oh shit” You moaned, you felt Revenants long metal fingers run through your hair, his other hand snaking down toward your pussy.

“Shhh don’t want anyone hearing us now do we?” He said as his thumb started to rub your clit in tiny circles. You gasped at the feeling

[vasito-de-leche]

a little prompt, if you don’t mind

what about mercenary!reader and symbiote!Pavia? it’s just Pavia’s ult/wolves kinda remind me of Venom and i think it would be fun to imagine him being something like Venom

;R1999 PAVIA - "under your skin"

Symbiote!Pavia x Mercenary!Reader 2.5k words body horror What you and Pavia have is nothing more than transactional—you need him to make a living, and he needs you alive to ensure a comfortable life. It's taken some time to get used to these changes, to share everything you have with him for the sake of convenience: your home, your food, your job. And most importantly, your body. Perfect symbiosis, or dysfunctional parasitism? You've yet to figure out where you two stand. One thing is clear, though; he's the best at getting under your skin.

i just want you to know that this prompt speaks to MY SOUL bc i love venom and pavia so fucking much. you dont understand how hard i think about the concept of a symbiotic relationship between symbiote and host. so I went extremely self-indulgent with this one <3

as usual, this is written to be read as platonic or romantic, whatever floats your boat!

Bang!

A clean kill.

The only reason you watch as the body drops to the ground is out of respect for the work you do, nothing else. You've done this a dozen times, and you will do it a dozen more -- the gun in your hand has become a reliable friend rather than a tool for mindless murder, its familiar weight a fleeting comfort in the tedious routine. A shame it came from the most annoying person you know.

Screaming ensues as everyone surrounding your target runs around in panic. You remain, eyes locked on the target. When someone moves their body, attempting to cradle that lifeless corpse, you see it; a bullet right between their eyebrows, the perfect shot.

You feel a tug, but it comes from within your chest cavity. Something squirms inside you, pulling you back, and you understand this as your cue to slide back into the shadows. It begins with a single step backwards, then another, until you feel the texture under your shoes shift -- what was once solid ground is now a dark, velvety mass, floating upwards and fading away like smoke. It licks at your ankles, providing an initially cold sensation that permeates your clothes, and then it continues upwards to your calves, your knees, your thighs. The gun slowly dissolves into slime, taking the shape of what you assume to be a hand, horrible and sticky fingers intertwined with yours, pulling you downwards.

By then, you feel that burning sensation, and then you're dragged into the abyss.

"That was a lousy shot."

A voice echoes in your mind, it is not your own. It feels like a thousand ants marching alongside your cranium. Or rather, what you assume to be your cranium -- in this current state, you can't separate yourself from the embrace of the void. The voice might as well reverberate all around you.

You scoff and insist. No, it was a perfect shot.

"Perfect my ass. You were off by 2 centimeters," the biting remark makes you clench your jaw. You don't reply. The voice does the same, it remains still, only a semblance of white noise, but you understand its silence as a smug victory.

Suddenly, vertigo takes hold of you. It only happens for a split second, always unannounced, but you know better than to brace yourself. Doing so, as you've learned, would only make you nauseous, dizzy and weak -- instead, you let go and the shadows gently coax you back into the light before dissipating in the air.

You find yourself in front of your apartment door, an odd and anticlimactic way of ending a productive day. What, no snack run today?

"Not feeling it today. So you either open the door on your own, or I'll do it myself. Get a move on."

Some of these threats tend to hold more water than others, but more often than not, they're just empty words and loud, useless barking. And so you've learned to ignore them all -- however, you feel a faint prodding inside your back pocket, like a tentacle in search of something. Right, your keys. The roll of your eyes and the slowness in your movements are the only means of rebellion you have against this annoying entity in your head, it continues to breathe down your neck, impatient as ever, until the door opens and you step into your safe haven.

"Finally! Guess there's some activity in that brain dead head of yours."

You're forced to make a bee-line for the kitchen and the fridge, puppeteered by a force much more stronger, much more ancient than every insignificant emotion you've ever felt: the damn parasite inside of you is hungry.

As you both scan the leftovers -- your leech of a roommate seeing through your eyes, smelling through your nose -- the voice returns, this time in a more playful tone, less grating than before.

"Scusi, what's with the silent treatment today?" You bite the inside of your cheek and it laughs at you. "Don't tell me, wolf got your tongue? Are you mad that I saw right through your poor, shitty technique?"

A suffocating presence crawls inside you, starting from somewhere below your rib cage and making its way upwards through your esophagus and trachea, shifting until you feel the prodding of cold, slimy fingers in your mouth. They are tasteless and you can still breathe, your body not even bothering to perceive this as an obstruction or an intruding force that must be coughed and spat out. They are careless in their movements, pinching the tip of your tongue and pushing against your clenched teeth in an attempt to get you to open up.

And the worst part is that this is nothing but a mocking gesture, you've come to understand this over the years. To you, this is no different than someone poking at your sides, childishly asking for your attention. You obediently open, enough for a single digit to slip out, one you recognize as the middle finger. It presses down on your lower lip.

And then you bite down, hard.

It dissipates instantly, it is absorbed back into your body through every inch of skin it makes contact with. There is a new sound in the back of your mind, one you weren't quite expecting. Your parasite laughs, amused, no trace of that usual condescending tone.

"Good, you still know how to use that petty mouth of yours. I don't have to worry about teaching you how to chew down your food."

This makes you stand up straight, turning your head and glaring at an empty space, where you assume this presence would manifest if it chose to stop taking residence in your body, "I'm not eating while you're still in there. If you want dinner, then get out."

There is a beat, a momentary silence. You don't give the parasite any time to bargain, "I'm serious. Use your own damn mouth if you're so hungry. I already have to do everything on my own, I'm not going to start spoon feeding you, too!"

The reply comes out faster than you expected.

"Fine."

For a moment, your vision doubles and your body feels like it's being painlessly torn apart. For a moment, you have two sets of eyes, two sets of arms, two sets of legs and two minds. You are both yourself and him, simultaneously. It is like someone is cutting your soul in half, shoving each part into two different bodies.

It is over in the blink of an eye, and there is a presence looming behind you, made from the same material that took you here, the same material that often travels in your veins and every other crevice, nook and cranny available between your organs and bones. The lights of your apartment flicker, and you take notice of his shadow cast over you.

His predatory gaze burns holes in the back of your head, and in the stillness of it all, you hear his steps, the sound his leather pants and the shifting of his shirt fabric as he steps closer -- until you feel his chest against your back. An arm slides into view, closing the door to the fridge and resting there, preventing you from escaping. It is decorated with all the useless, silver jewelry he's taken from your targets, a hand covered with tattoos you've often traced with your very own fingers in the past.

Oddly enough, you do not feel like prey. Not anymore. Your instinct tells you that you should, but truth be told, you could not care less. Especially when you feel his chin dig into the top of your head, his weight pressing lazily on you.

"…But in exchange, I'm cooking tonight. You got 10 seconds to get outta here." He shifts, and his cheek nuzzles into you as he yawns, like he's ready to move on from this conversation.

"Huh?" You slide from under him, finally looking at the parasite concealing as a man -- one you recognize as the bane of your existence, Pavia. "Uh, like hell I'm trusting you with the food! I've seen the stuff you put on your pizza."

"Like you're one to talk! You add too much salt to everything you make. If you wanted to ruin your liver, you should've just let me eat it from day one. 5 seconds left before I throw you out. C'mon."

"Do you even know how to cook? Any actual recipes that don't require winging everything?"

"Does pasta with a side of 'mind your fucking business or I'll make us eat rat poison' sound good to you?"

"I swear if you put anything funny in the food--…"

"Time's up. Out!" Pavia picks you up, manhandles you even, and tosses you out into the living room. As soon as you land on the couch, the door to the kitchen closes and you're left all alone.

It's easy to forget that you have no fucking clue as to who or what Pavia even is.

No last name, no records, no personal information at all. You've touched him before—he looks and feels just like any other person. If you didn't know any better, you could've sworn he bleeds the same way you do. But there are times when that outer layer of normalcy is peeled back just enough to remind you what you're dealing with. Sometimes, the outline of his form darkens, as if the light around him couldn't affect him in any way, and his eyes go dark, so very dark.

You've seen him in this form, unhinging his jaw to uncomfortable degrees and revealing endless sets of saw-like fangs and teeth. His nails have grown longer, thicker and sharper than expected in many occasions. You would find those on the ground, like a wild dog who has never known, let alone needed, a trimmer.

And most importantly, you've allowed him entry to every pore of your body, every piece of cartilage, every muscle, every vein.

That's when you get a small glimpse into the eldritch monstrosity living under your roof—sometimes, he's a thick fog. Sometimes, he's an oozing pile of slime. Sometimes, he's the big, bad wolf. Sometimes, you can't even understand what you're looking at when he manifests in front of you. Regardless, you're certain of something.

Pavia is darkness, eternal and haunting as the night.

He is also a huge, ungrateful, bastard.

"Hey! Where'd you leave the gelato!? This freezer's a damn mess!" His voice is heard, muffled. It doesn't carry the same cadence and weight as it does when you hear it from within your mind. He sounds more annoying, in fact.

It's a strange experience, to have him coexist right beside you as if he weren't some sort of parasite, one hair away from eating your organs. But at least like this, he cannot read your mind nor attempt to puppet your body like a moron in broad daylight. You don't answer, fully aware that he's only trying to piss you off and lure you into another argument -- as if he'd ever lose sight of his precious dessert, anyway. Instead, you busy yourself with the usual routine; finishing what is left of your work, contact your employers and whatnot.

Soon enough, the kitchen door opens and Pavia slides into the room with a single plate of warm food. You look at him, eyes wide in indignation. Oh, he wouldn't …

"Huh? What, I thought you didn't trust me to cook, so I just made something for myself. There's some leftovers from your poor excuse of a lasagna, though." The smarmy expression plastered all over his face as he licks the sauce off his spoon is unbearable, and you rush to the kitchen either to find the biggest knife to drive into his chest or to resign yourself and eat those leftovers.

And then you see it, another plate resting by the counter. Full of delicious looking pasta.

Son of a bitch.

"Bring me some of that orange juice you bought yesterday while you're in there, yeah?" Pavia never gives you time to settle down, demanding your attention and your frustration time and time again, unable to form a single coherent thought nor opinion about him.

He's annoying, that's all you've been able to figure out so far.

He's annoying, and he's made a mess out of your kitchen to cook this meal for both of you. He's annoying, and stingy when it comes to sharing his favorite snacks and desserts, but he never attempts to steal your own. He's annoying, and he offers you a power beyond your wildest dreams, to get rid of inhibition and embrace the abilities of an eldritch beast. He's annoying, and he hogs all the fucking blankets at night, planting his cold feet against your legs or back to add insult to injury.

He's annoying, and he's calling out to you once more, telling you to hurry or else you'll miss "that one stupid show" you like, that he'll switch channels if you don't sit down with him to eat. You sigh. The nerve, the hypocrisy. You know the things he likes to watch -- he has no right to criticize your taste like this.

"I'm coming, calm down! Christ …"

You notice that he never lingers nor invades any of your usual places, always picking the same spots for himself, and this is ironic in every way possible given his fickle nature. There's no doubt that as soon as you two retire for the night, Pavia will make a show out of sliding back into your body, to rest with the warmth of your blood and the soothing rhythm of your heart. And you will tell him to fuck off and sleep on the couch, reminding him of that one time he got a little too comfortable, clutching your heart in his claws, causing you to believe you were having a heart attack. Then, morning will arrive, and you will find Pavia either sprawled out or gone, but never truly leaving you alone. You will feel him, that inky slime, both cold and warm in your veins. You will go to work, and you will return home to start all over again. This is the routine, one you stopped questioning a long time ago.

This parasite who gets under your skin, both figuratively and literally, is annoying. He's annoying when he teases you, forcing you to admit that he can cook a mean pasta. He's annoying when he laughs, loud and boisterous, at those stupid moments he often criticizes in all of your favorite shows. He's annoying when he gets clingy, using you as a pillow because he can't be bothered to reach out for one of the many other pillows scattered around.

He's so very annoying when he looks at you with a curious gleam in his eyes, obviously noticing the way you've chosen to rest your head in the crook of his neck. Time stands still as you simply look at each other, as you lose yourself in those bright, sharp eyes.

You stick out your tongue at him, and Pavia blows a raspberry at you. Sure, he might be plenty annoying on his own, but together you're both insufferable and unstoppable.

[freaknerd33]

hi!! could you please do some of my favorite girlies (lifeline, loba, valkyrie, wattson, and vantage) with an s/o whose love language is words of affirmation??

Hey I’m back! Sorry for the wait. I had a weird month. Shoutout to women <3

The Legends and Words of Affirmation

pairings: lifeline / wattson / vantage x reader

content included: fluff, mentions of loss (for wattson’s part), sweet-as-cookies comfort, gn reader

•°. *࿐

Lifeline

༻ I see her love language also being words of affirmation! Giving as well as receiving. In a group, she’s the one who builds up the rest of the team’s esteem with encouraging words and the prowess of her own spirit alone.

༻ Though it’s not always easy keep up, even for someone as bright and uplifting as her. She’s a pillar for most, but still has her own burdens and moments of self-doubt. It would be good to have someone who could comfort her when she’s feeling down. And not just physically, but emotionally, with empathy and understanding.

༻ As much as she loves Octane, he absolutely does not have the interpersonal skills for things like that. So it’s a very good thing she has an s/o who does.

༻ Your words are needed when conflicts with her parents weigh on her most. Times where her self image and individuality feel overpowered by her family name and reputation. She worries if no matter what she does, people will never see her for who she is, or fully trust her to be the golden-hearted provider she is.

༻ “Some people might have their own assumptions about you, but I promise you what you do, and the amount of people you help, always outshines all of that. They don’t know you like me and your friends know you. It’s in people’s nature to judge, but I’m always here to remind you how wonderful you are, Ajay.”

Wattson

༻ For her, I see words of affirmation usually coming in the form of compliments. They make her blush like crazy but she’ll always excitedly return your kind words. Loves to add a big hug with that, and or a cute pun.

༻ “Thank you, my sweetheart. You have a way of… amping my heart, you know? I’m always… ec-static to be around you.”

༻ It’s rare for her to be feeling super down. She already has a huge support system with the other legends, so it’s been a while since she last felt as though any heavy burden was really weighing on her shoulders. But when she does feel that way every once in a while, and the legends can’t help because of how bad she feels, it’s typically when she’s reminiscing on the loss of her father.

༻ She will always miss him more than anything, and wonders if he would’ve been proud of her and her accomplishments. She’s accomplished amazing things, anyone would agree, but it’s hard for her to take it in. Especially because her biggest supporter and inspiration is not physically there to congratulate her.

༻ “Of course he’s proud of you, Nat. Very proud of you, wherever he is. You have such an amazing, innovative mind. How could he not be? He may not be here, but he will always be a part of you.”

Vantage

༻ creature…. /aff

༻ Dear is still learning more social skills by the day. So words of affirmation are especially great at letting her know she’s doing well adjusting to being around other people. While she isn’t adamant on “fitting in” in any particular way, she does want to be able to socialize and learn about other people.

༻ “You did great today!”

༻ “Thank you… dear!” She also occasionally tries her shot at pet names.

༻ Blushes and struggles to hold back a smile when you encourage her along with a kiss on the cheek. She found her body’s natural reaction weird at first (“What did you do to me? My face is burning—”), but has gotten more used to it.

༻ Words of affirmation also help when she’s stressed about her mother’s framing. She’s always worried that she’s not doing enough, or that she might not ever be able to free her mom.

༻ “You’re doing everything you can, Mara. The fight hasn’t ended yet. Your mom ismstrong, you’re strong, and I know you—we— can figure this out.”

༻ Likes to try and give you words of affirmation as well. “Don’t worry about it—” she pauses to think of a pet name, “Honey. You’re awesome! Anyone who says otherwise is probably weak and very easy to kill. Their words are their only defense. All bark and no bite— I think the saying goes.”

𓆉 banner source 𓆉

[quirkfics]

hello dear! may i please request "rise" for all might/toshinori yagi?

Even seeing him with your own eyes, it's hard to believe that it isn't just a fairy tale. He lies in perfect repose, hands clasped, hair a golden halo around his hollowed cheeks - still breathing behind the glass. In the daylight, it's hard to tell, he almost gleams- but in the dead of night? You can hear him.

"He'll rise again, you know," you've heard the faithful say for days on end. "When we need him, when mortal toil calls to his kindly heart? He'll rise."

Maybe he will, though you've always had your doubts. Whatever enchantment, whatever quirk of fate it was that left him in eternal slumber, you don't think "mortal toil" will draw whoever he was back. Some of the glittering rubies that serve as buttons down his doublet, however?

You lift the lid, teeth clenched as it creaks. He doesn't move though, doesn't stir, not even when you tap at his chest, jumping back reflexively. You step forward, hesitant, but the first button is in your pocket as soon as you take a blade to the thread. You get through three before you notice that his doublet isn't laying flat again his ribs, that his arm is keeping something... silver? Hidden. You press against his arm, shifting it away, only to gasp when the needle pricks your finger.

"What the hell?" You grumble, pinching the needle and pulling it out of the fancy fabric- and it's just your luck, of course, that he wakes.

[brainbleach6]

Caustic x Reader NSFW Headcanons

Caustic x GenderNeutral!Reader (and some extra bits at the end for trans men) Headcanons:Warning: NSFW, Food Kink (slight), Mention of possession, Mention of underwear stealing --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Caustic considered himself a man above simple things like desire. He simply didn't have the time nor interest for it.

*At least that's what he thought until he met you.

*You were also a contester in the games. A good-looking one at that. He was intrigued immediately when you introduced yourself to him as if he was an average Joe.

*Surely you had watched the Apex Games and seen him before? Why were you so nonchalant with him?

*At first, it infuriated him. You acted as if he wasn't this amazing man of great capabilities.

*Then it excited him, to his extreme surprise.

*He liked that you treated him like a normal man, not a psychopath like everyone else did.

*It started slow.

*At first, it was just simple, innocent thoughts about what you could be up to when he was alone. Were you preparing for a game? What did you do for fun when alone?

*Then it got a little less innocent. He thought about how you'd sound in bed. Were you breathy and quiet? Or gaspy and loud? Were you a screamer? Maybe if he did it right, you'd be.

*He wasn't ashamed of these thoughts, but surprised. He hadn't thought about sex in a while, with all the games and hiding he was doing.

*Sure people had made approaches. Usually, younger girls who liked the mysterious vibe he gave off (and the idea of a sugar daddy), but he always declined with disgust.

*But here he was, fantasizing about you the way those girls did him.

*It was awkward at first for him. He'd think about you and then have to work with you in a game. It was often harder (wink wink) to work when he wanted to just take you right then and there.

*Especially when you teased him.

*It was innocent enough. You making jokes at his expense about his stamina in game or how old he was. But it made him want to prove you wrong and fuck you sore right there in the abandoned building.

*Or when you cooked food on off times. It was a love language he found very enticing, especially when you hummed and wiggled your hips while cooking him something.

*It made him want to skip over the meal and have you instead. (Or integrate the meal into bed ;))

*Speaking of food, he loved when you ate in front of him. You weren't really messy, but you weren't careful in the slightest and he enjoyed watching you scarf down your favorite food after a rigorous match.

*It made him wonder (and jerk off to the thought of) how you'd go down on his dick.

*He often spent multiple nights fisting his cock at the thought of you bouncing on him.

*He often came to the thought of you riding him in one of his coats.

*He didn't know why, but he enjoyed "owning" you in some way.

*And don't even get him started on the idea of stealing your underwear.

*It's taken him all of his self-restraint some days to not grab a few pairs and stuff them in his pocket while you had him help with laundry.

(A few extra for my fellow trans men) *He's surprised.

*He didn't know he was attracted to men?

*He's pretty chill with it though, often telling you scientific proof that gender is a social construct to make you feel better if you're dysphoric.

*If you still have a pussy, he'll have you sit on his face for HOURS. He wants to make you feel good.

*Grab his hair while he eats you out and suddenly you're riding him?

*Like? How tf did that happen? Jk jk, he'll give you a warning (and see if you're okay with riding him when you're so sensitive)

*If you have top surgery, he'll trace your top scars with his tongue, looking up at you all the while. 🤤

*If you don't he'll just lick and suck at them like a starved man. (and look up at you ofc)

*He'll also suck you off (whether you have bottom surgery or not). He'll sit there are suck on your T-dick and afterward tell you how nice you taste.

A/N: I think I went a liiiiiiittle crazy with this one, (704 words for a list of headcanons kinda crazy) but to be fair I haven't written in like 4 or 5 months and I actually was able to write this without much trouble… (also this is my first time posting a fic on Tumblr so idk if this is good, but I might start posting here more)

Links: Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LV2Obsess Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_WueKCrCs0&t=550s (don't ask idk)

[enanamikaze]

Enchanted (Minato x Reader) | college AU

⋆˚꩜�� Teen to mature (Chap 7 & 8 contains sensual content)

⋆˚꩜｡ slow burn, romance, hurt/comfort, slice of life.

⋆˚꩜｡ fem! reader

⋆˚꩜｡ 8 parts!

#minato namikaze x reader #minato x reader #college au #modern au #slow burn #taylor swift inspired #enchanted au #fanfic series #naruto fanfiction #library love #emotional intimacy #romantic angst #slow burn love story #reader insert fanfic #soft boy minato #writingblr #fic recs #long fanfic #enemies to lovers lite #crush to lovers

---------

The library at 5:46 p.m. always had a certain glow to it.

Maybe it was the way the setting sun filtered through the arched glass, spilling over the long tables and catching dust in the air like glitter. Maybe it was the quiet—not sterile, but alive with turning pages, fingers tapping softly against laptop keys.

Or maybe it was just this season. Autumn. The golden hours always feel like they mean more when the air is colder, like the light is trying harder not to fade.

You were here for a reason.

Political Science 230: Comparative Democratic Systems. The midterm was next week.

You hadn’t slept well. Hadn’t eaten properly either. Your planner had three different pen colors bleeding into the margins, all screaming for time you didn’t have. You were three chapters behind, one existential crisis deep, and dangerously close to losing your scholarship if you didn’t keep your GPA steady.

You hated that it came to this.

Cramming at golden hour, when you should’ve been walking through campus wrapped in a scarf, sipping shitty vending machine hot cocoa, talking to someone about nothing.

Instead—highlighted text and underlined section headers.

Fun.

You were deep into your second page of notes when someone sat down across from you.

No sound. No chair scraping. No hey, is this seat taken?

You looked up, pen still in hand, half-prepared to glare—

—and froze.

He was looking down, flipping through a thick mechanical engineering textbook. Tall. Blonde. Tousled hair, the kind that looked like it had volume without product (and you hated that you noticed that).

Sharp nose. High cheekbones.

Button-down sleeves rolled to the elbows.

You blinked.

He didn’t even look up.

No eye contact. No apology for invading your table.

Rude, you thought.

But then—His eyes lifted. Just briefly. Blue, light, startling.

You met them.

Just for a second.

He smiled.

Not flirtatious. Not smug.

Just… surprised. Like he didn’t expect you to be real.

And then he looked back down at his book.

You stared for longer than you should have.

Who the hell was this guy?

You’d been in this library every other afternoon this semester and never seen him. And it wasn’t like you didn’t notice people. Your brain had a little filing system:

Architecture bro with the headphones

Girl with pink Crocs and seventeen highlighters

Couple that always makes out in the reading room like it’s not 2 PM on a Tuesday

But him?

New.

Unfiled.

Unfamiliar.

And yet—

Why did he feel like a memory?

You went back to your notes. Or tried.

But every few minutes, you’d feel it.

That tiny prickle on your skin.

You’d glance up and—there it was.

He was watching you.

Not in a weird way. Not lingering.

Just these fleeting glances, like he was confirming something.

As if you were a question he didn’t know he’d been asking.

After maybe twenty minutes, he leaned over.

“Sorry,” he said. His voice was low. Warm. Just a little hoarse like he didn’t speak often.

You looked up, startled. “Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to be weird. I just—” he gestured vaguely, eyes flicking to your open notebook. “You have really clean notes.”

You blinked. “…what?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry. I know that’s random.”

You stared at him. “You were watching me because of my notes?”

He had the audacity to look embarrassed. Rubbing his jaw, glancing down.

“Well. That and, uh… you looked really focused.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You know you sat at my table, right?”

“Technically,” he countered, “these are all public-use spaces.”

“Wow.” You laughed. “That’s the nerdiest flex I’ve ever heard.”

That made him grin—bright and real. A little crooked. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at too long.

“I’m Minato,” he said, holding out a hand. “Minato Namikaze.”

You took it before you could think. His grip was warm, calloused.

“Y/N,” you said. “Poly Sci major. Possibly dying.”

“Engineering,” he replied. “Possibly already dead.”

You smiled.

He held your hand a moment longer than needed.

You didn’t let go.

part 2

[dahyunsrealgf]

jeongyeon writers where are you :((

[alliddewrites]

hey!! can you do Lifeline NSFW headcanons please? (reader being AFAB if not gender neutral) :D

Ajay ‘Lifeline’ Che NSFW Headcanons

Content disclaimer:

Female reader,

Switch Ajay,

Fingering,

Edging,

Scissoring,

Never written lesbian sex before-,

Masterlist

A switch, definitely.

She already has so much on her shoulders that she just wants to be pampered and taken care of sometimes. On the other hand, she loves helping people, something that also translates to the bedroom.

Her favorite type of foreplay is cuddly that slowly turns into grinding.

Maybe watching something in your shared apartment, in the living room, one of you sitting in the other's lap. Throughout the runtime, the one on top gets more antsy and needy, subtly trying to rock back and forth on the other's thigh, not wanting to disturb the peaceful moment. Something that never lasts too long before the teasing starts.

A mean, but very caring dom.

She'll have her fingers inside of you, thrusting it back and forth in the most torturous ways while cooing at you.

“You're doing so good.” - “Give me another one.” - “You're so pretty when you squirm.”

If there is a time when she wants to get really mean, she'll even edge you. Of course, this is naturally with a safeword chosen beforehand. This isn't too common though, most of the time she just wants some loving.

When she's subbing, she doesn't want to follow any orders, she only wants pleasure and relaxation.

Kind of a pillow princess, but will still give back, she can't resist pleasuring you.

She loves it when you lay her out, spread her legs and go to town. Finger her, eat her out and rub her clit. If you start rubbing your pussy against hers, basically using her, spreading both of your juices all over, she'll go insane.

Queen of aftercare! When both of you are satisfied, even if you were on top, she wants to make sure you're completely okay.

Gets both of you water, makes you go to the bathroom, and if it's late, she'll even run a bath for the two of you.

Support me on Ko-fi or Patreon!

[livingslime]

hwiwnaiwj 1 MORE QUESTION FOR TODAY 🙏🏾

Will there be a kiss scene at some point in the game? 🤭 A lil smth, smth? >:3 💙

And btw, I told my friend about this game! They don't like blondes, but they like Dr. Anselm!! (*＞∇＜) "I kinda like Dr. M&Ms" they call him, (the M&Ms coming from the M in his name) 😂😭

Hmm! I feel that would be a very romantic idea!

Right now, I haven't thought about implementing a kiss scene since the story of the VN is still in its early stages! But I'll see how I can implement this for one the "good" endings!

I just hope I can draw kissing Anselm without him looking like a fish... LOL xD

Waaawaa!! (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞♡♡ Thank you for sharing with your friends pookie! WAHA M&M? Maybe they would like... M&M Anselm better? (◕ ꒳ ◕✿) hehe !

Thank you for reaching out pookie ♡♡

[luvmoonie]

oh well that’s just mean

took the "what's your red flag" quiz and got emotionally unavailable, bitch I KNOW

[ibiggiecheese]

Okay chat i’ve been brainstorming this idea for a while, but since there’s a small amount of revenant fics, i might have to fix it😔🙏

So i have a lil idea, revenant where like yk he’s like with the reader while she’s sleeping and he’s like just holding her and watching her as she sleeps. And so he gets the idea to like try and get some shut eye even tho he knows it never works. But like somehow he ends up dreaming. SOOO and he like realizes that he’s human again and he’s wearing his regular suit and everything yk, and then he notices the reader in his like complex or apartment(im not sure chat😔) and she like walks out of there bedroom wearing his like shirt or something and she’s still sleepy and everything, and revenant it does ALOT of things to revenant which he hasn’t felt in a long time. Reader goes up to revenant whilst rubbing her eyes and she hugs him, kissing him on his cheek and she tells him to have a good day at work. And revenants still stuck on the fact that he could feel everything, he felt your hands on the back of his neck, he could smell the cologne of his shirt you were wearing. And he felt the way your lips touched his cheek. Revenant didn’t realize that he was holding the reader so tight until reader rested her hand on his own. He just looks at her as if she’s an angel that’s ready to take him to heaven and he kisses her out of pure happiness and likeee from then on it gets a lil wild.

Okayokay this was kinda like a lil reminder for me or like to just establish my scenario yk. Bc either way im not sure how to develop the plot bc i just think of one thing and then i immediately jump to like the freakiness

[marvelstoriesepic]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising