#with the speed and ideas of hurling

[wherebeeslive]

Have I, on my sixth reread of aftg, just realised exy is hurling with lacrosse gear and slightly modified rules on possession and contact?

[ann1-wr1tes]

Save a Horse, ride a Cowboy

Synopsis: You make the mistake of placing Leon's cowboy hat on your head and you have no idea what the "Cowboy rule" is...

Warnings: Smut, Adult themes, filth

Word Count: 2,692

A/N: Cowboy. Leon. Two of my most favorite things.

-----

Your eyes dart around the entire space around you as your ears are drowned out by cheers and screams for the person who was currently riding a bull. Your friends thought it would be fun to go see a rodeo and so far it had been fun.

You got to see tons of people getting hurled off bulls which was entertaining in itself but you also couldn't help but agree with your friends when they all started to gush over how "hot" some of the cowboys were. Everywhere you looked you saw bandannas, flannels, cowboy hats, and flared jeans. You felt a little bit underdressed wearing your usual jeans and t-shirt but it was still fun getting to see all the hot cowboys and Southern charm.

As your friends ranted about this one man they saw who was about to ride a bull, you found your eyes stuck on someone else. Your eyes were glued to this one cowboy who was busy trying to calm the bull down enough to get the rider on top.

You couldn't see fully from where you were sitting but you could see the man's pretty blonde locks sticking out from underneath his cowboy hot and his crystal blue eyes that narrowed in concentration as he coaxed the bull into temporary peace. You didn't want to admit that you were drooling over him but you knew your friends would tease you if they saw how much you were staring at this guy.

Soon the rider is situated on the bull and a gunshot rings through the air. The gate that leads to the field is kicked open and within a second the bull is running out and thrashing wildly with the rider on top. You can audibly hear all the "ooohs" and "ahhs" as the rider holds on. Your friends are all squealing and cheering themselves as the man almost gets thrown off.

Then with another flail, the rider is thrown off the bull and ends up painfully tumbling onto the ground. As soon as that happens there are people going onto the field to scrape up the rider from the floor as others go to subdue the bull.

You can't help but cheer and holler as well as a smile comes to your face. What a show.

---

After the rodeo was over you wanted to conclude the evening by venturing to a nearby bar. It seemed like a lot of the people from the rodeo came as well as you noticed that once again you were surrounded by Southern accents and cowboy hats.

Your little group made their way to the bar and started to hover around it as the bartender asked everyone what they were getting. As soon as the orders are taken you are about to pay but as soon as you are about to give some cash to the bartender you are interrupted by a thick southern drawl.

"Drinks are on me, darlin'."

Your head turns and you are met with the same face you were admiring earlier. The fluffy blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, and oh…you could see him much better now and god did the man look heavenly in the candlelight that emitted from the bar.

You could now make out the stunning facial features of the man and you could feel your heart speed up tenfold when your eyes grazed over his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. The way the cowboy hat sat on his head made something buzz inside you.

You are broken out of your thoughts when you hear your friends snicker from behind you. The man even seems to notice your sudden shock as a subtle smirk comes to his face.

"You don't need to do that." you smile nervously as the man's eyes rake over you. You think you might have gotten lost in those eyes. "But thank you anyway."

"No need to thank me, sweetheart. Something as pretty as you should have all the men 'round here buyin' your drinks." He winked at you making your cheeks heat up. Your friends snickered again but you ignore them with a small roll of your eyes.

"The name is Leon by the way, Leon Kennedy." he introduces while holding out his hand. You take it and introduce yourself in return and you're immediately caught off guard when Leon goes to press a kiss against your knuckle.

You were so relieved when you finally got your drinks. You thought you were about to combust just by being around Leon. Leon on the other hand was relishing in your flustered looks and shy behavior, in fact, he thought you were the cutest thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

Though soon your shy, flustered behavior was pushed back by liquid courage. It was sped up by how quickly you were drinking your beers but soon you didn't even notice how you were practically leaning into Leon, muttering things about the rodeo and how hard it seems to ride bulls.

"I mean…I thought the guy was gonna be dead…how he got flung off that thing.." you murmured to yourself with a silly grin as you looked up at Leon.

"Well ridin' is all in the hips sugar~" Leon hummed while leaning back on his elbows. Your stomach fluttered at the suggestive tone and you took another sip of your beer to try and quell your nerves. In an attempt to change the subject, your eyes dart to his hat and a smirk starts to pull at your lips.

"Y'know you look great in that hat…" you compliment as you eye it. Leon chuckles and gives you a smile that has you wondering why it makes your heartbeat pick up.

"Is that so?" he asks. You nod but there's a glint of playfulness in your eyes as you look at the cowboy hat.

"I think it'd look better on me though~" your hands reach out and pluck the hat right off of Leon's head and you place it on yours. You adjust it and tilt it just right on your head like it was on Leon's and then you look at him with a wide grin.

"Well, how does it look?" You ask. Leon seems frozen for a moment as his mind starts to comprehend what you just did. You notice the sudden hesitance for a moment and you almost think that you did something wrong but a smirk soon returns to Leon's face and there's an amused look as he flicks the brim of the hat up.

"It suits you well sugar, but do you know what happens when you put on another cowboy hat?" he asks.

Suddenly you're hit with confusion and it reads all over your face as Leon chuckles. Even the bartender seems to laugh a little and he quickly turns around and starts to clean out glasses when you look at him.

"No…?"

"Well, we have a rule called the Cowboy Rule. If you wear the cowboys hat, then you have to ride the cowboy." Leon explains calmly before taking a swig of his drink. You blink in surprise and you can feel the blush start to creep onto your face. You look down at your drink to hide it.

"Oh," is all you manage to croak out. Your throat suddenly feels incredibly dry. You feel a hand hook under your chin you meet Leon's piercing gaze. His eyes are filled with amusement and it sends shivers down your spine.

"If I do then can I keep the hat?" you cheekily ask. The corners of Leon's mouth tug up and it causes your insides to flip. Your heart begins to beat quicker.

"Wanna find out?" Leon says as he leans forward until his lips are barely inches away from yours. It takes everything in you to not close the space between you two. Instead, you nod your head frantically hoping that he understands your silent request for more.

---

Hungry hands rake across your body as your own hands run down Leons. The feeling of his skin against yours makes every single nerve in your body burn as you slowly unbutton his shirt and he reaches for yours as well. Your bodies collide together like magnets practically, there's such a strange pull that seems to be between you two as your mouths clash together.

Leon's teeth nip at your lower lip and you moan softly as he slides his tongue past your lips and deepens the kiss. In return you rake your hands through his blonde strands, tugging lightly when Leon's hand trails along your sides, going down to rest on your hips.

The cowboy hat still sits on your head as you lean back, breaking the kiss to sit back on your haunches. The sight in front of you was heavenly. Leon was laid back, his legs slightly parted, his shirt halfway unbuttoned and exposing his chest, then of course there was the glassy, lustful look in his blue eyes as his swollen lips were slightly parted.

The entire image made your cunt flutter with need.

You take off the hat for a moment and place it back on Leon's as you yank your shirt up and off your body and then your hands work to unbutton the rest of his buttons on his shirt. As soon you are done, Leon slips his shirt off and yanks you back on top of him by your hips.

In that action, your hips accidentally roll against his causing you both to have a moment of pleasure from the friction.

"Fuck darlin'…need to feel more of you.." Leon huskily utters as his hands tighten around your hips a little more.

With a hum of agreement your rest your hands on his chest and go to straddle his lap a bit better so that your heated core is pressed right up against his erection that is straining through his jeans. Teasingly, you roll your hips again and you both let out a long moan.

"Shit…stop teasin' me," Leon mumbles, his voice rasping and rough as it sends shivers down your spine. You giggle breathlessly, pressing your hips harder against the bulge in his jeans, grinding a little more.

"Why would I stop? I wanna see how many pretty noises I can get out of you cowboy." you coo.

Leon growls in response as he roughly pulls you back towards him, slamming a searing kiss to your mouth. This time he moves his free hand down and it slips down your jeans, finding your clothed clit and he rubs small circles against it. Your hips buck in response and you let out loud moans against Leon's lips.

"That's it baby…let me hear you." He grunts.

It's practically music to your ears as you rock your hips against his fingers as he continues to rub your clit and you feel the knot in your stomach tightening. Leon suddenly pulls his fingers away and you whine. You're left with nothing but the ache between your legs.

In desperation, your hands fly down to Leon's belt buckle and you start to undo his belt as quickly as you could.

"Easy there honey, I'm not goin' anywhere." Leon chuckles. He replaces your hands with his and soon he's tugging his pants down along with his black boxers to reveal his hardened cock. Its springs to life and slaps against his stomach.

You groan at the sight of it. It's big and thick and you almost want to take him in your mouth until his hands are already working on your own jeans.

He unbuttons your jeans and pushes them down your thighs. You kick them the rest of the way off and reposition yourself on top of Leon. Right as you are about to sink down onto Leon's length he interrupts you.

"I think you're forgettin' something.." Leon takes his cowboy hat off and puts it back on top of your head, tilting it just right.

"Beautiful." Leon breathes in a low tone.

"I think it looks better on you." You smile as Leon's hand grazes over your cheek and tucks a stray hair away from your face.

"That's nonsense, it looks stunnin' on you." He smirks and his thumb drags up and down your jawline, gently rubbing your cheek. The butterflies in your stomach flutter even more as he leans in closer to you, your noses brushing against one another.

You rub your slick folds back and forth on Leon's tip and slowly sink down onto his length, letting out moans at the stretch.

"L-Leon… it..so much" You pant between clenched teeth, gripping onto his broad shoulders.

"It's okay sweetheart, let me help.." he coos. The hands on your hips slowly start to help you roll into his, making sure to go slow and his grasp was decently gentle as he helps you build up a good pace.

"It's all in the hips sugar…." Leon whispers in your ear, sending tingles down your spine.

Soon on your own accord, you start to ride him faster. It catches Leon off guard as waves of hot, blinding pleasure course through his veins. He throws his head back with an audible moan as you bounce up and down on his cock.

"Good girl, keep rollin' your hips like that.." Leon praises, his voice rumbling low in his chest.

You nod and do as you are told, your body starting to twitch against Leon, your hands clenching onto his forearms tighter as he starts thrusting upwards, trying his best to push himself inside of you and meet your steady rhythm.

A whimper escapes your mouth as Leon sits up, connecting his lips to your neck. One of his hands trails up your back and plants itself on the nape of your neck as his lips suck and kiss your sensitive skin.

Your mind is spinning, your heart beats furiously. There are no words that can describe how amazing it all feels. Especially as the euphoria grows and the knot in your belly tightens. Leon, in his own desperation to chase his oncoming high, continues to buck his hips up into yours wildly from below.

His head has fallen back against the pillow as he feels your cunt tighten around him.

"Jesus…you feel so good darlin'." Leon groans in appreciation. You don't say anything, only moaning loudly and moving your hips with more vigor. The sounds from your mouth cause Leon to shudder as he watches you move against him. The sound of his name falling out of your mouth is driving him crazy and you look so damn pretty in his cowboy hat.

After a few more moments of bliss, you finally come undone releasing all of the fluids onto Leon's cock as your eyes roll back into your head and you slump down on top of Leon. Leon helps you along by moving his hand down to toy with your clit as you shudder from the waves of your orgasm.

"Look at you, you pretty little thing. So beautiful.." he grunts.

His hand comes up to the back of your neck as he holds you to his chest while burying his nose in the crook of your neck.

Your breathing is heavy and you wrap your arms tightly around his torso, feeling warm all over your body after your climax. Leon sighs as he starts to rub small circles into your back.

"Damn sweetheart, you may just be the death of me." he coos. A soft smile forms on your lips. Your head rests firmly on his chest, and you peer up at him.

"Does that mean I can keep the hat?" You ask with a sheepish smile.

Leon chuckles and rests a hand on your hat-covered head.

"Yeah, I 'spose so. It suits you."

[sharkwidow]

Maybe an aunty yelena fic with Natasha’s/blackhills daughter? Love your work!

Mission: Survive Yelena | Yelena Belova x Blackhill's Daughter Reader!

Summary: One mission. One slightly chaotic aunt. Mutant waffles, pillow training, and the fear they might not come back.

Content warning:humor, chaos, mild childhood anxiety, tenderness.

Word count: 993 words

Note:Thanks! I loved the idea, really 🫶🏻 And thanks for your kind words too.

The clock reads 7:03 a.m., and you're wrapped in your blanket like a human burrito.

At the door, Maria adjusts her earpiece while Natasha kisses your forehead. “We’ll be back tomorrow. Just a surveillance mission. Nothing explosive.”

“Sure?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “No helicopters?”

Maria gives you a soft smile. “Promise. No helicopters... this time.”

Natasha gives you a thumbs up. “I’m leaving you with someone highly skilled, professional and… well, kind of responsible.”

Yelena appears from the kitchen holding a spatula and a confused expression. “Are waffles made with butter or… car oil?”

Your moms exchange a look of resignation. “You’ll be fine,” Natasha says, like someone flipping a coin and hoping for the best.

When the door closes behind them, Yelena crosses her arms, grinning mischievously at you. “Alright. Now that the bossy ones are gone, we do things my way.”

Your day begins with a culinary adventure. The waffles turn out to be mutant pancakes with chocolate chips, drenched in syrup and… French fries? “To balance the sweetness,” Yelena explains, using the logic of someone who clearly shouldn’t be in charge of kids—but here we are.

“We’re not telling your moms, right?”

“Confidential mission,” you reply, giving a serious military salute.

After a breakfast that could be considered a crime against waffles, Yelena decides it’s training time. “Today, we’re getting you ready for anything. If someone messes with you... you tell me. No, seriously. You tell me,” she says, with the serious tone of someone fully embracing the “aunt” role.

The living room becomes your personal training field. Yelena places some cushions on the floor, takes off her jacket, and signals you to stand. “Okay, basics first. If a villain throws a surprise attack at you, you... do what?”

You pause, eyeing the cushions. “Hide?”

Yelena laughs and shakes her head. “No, no, no. Never hide! You defend yourself. And hit hard!” Then, smirking, she adds, “If it’s a plush toy, you can run. But if it’s not… you punch.”

Training begins. The goal is simple: dodge the flying cushions Yelena hurls at full speed while shouting instructions. You fall a few times, but you keep trying. Her laughter encourages you.

“That was better, but you still look like you’re fighting a pillow!” Yelena throws another cushion, and you duck to dodge it. You succeed—only to lose balance and crash to the floor, laughing like a goof.

“Told you not to let the pillows win!” she says, helping you up. “Come on, one more round, and this time... give it your all!”

The next challenge is the “sofa flip.” Yelena makes it look so easy you have to try. The result: an awkward jump ending with your back against a cushion while Yelena bursts into laughter.

“That was… epic! But next time, don’t land like your spine’s trying to quit,” she says, giving you a thumbs-up.

Between giggles and tumbles, you start to feel like maybe you could defend yourself from a villain—or at least a pillow. “Training’s over for today. You’ve earned a break!” Yelena declares, handing you a glass of juice and a couple of cookies.

Training is interrupted only by art experiments. “Now, we’re going to create something… shocking.” And so, in the living room, you end up painting the ceiling in bright colors. How did the paint get there? No one knows.

“Your mom told me to tell you bedtime stories,” Yelena says, shrugging, as the paint dries. “But did you know your moms are the best? Seriously, they’re amazing at everything they do. No one even comes close.”

You curl up on the couch, hugging your plush shark. Yelena lies beside you, covering you with a blanket that smells like coffee. It’s her way of taking care of you. She falls silent, staring at the painted ceiling, until she gently taps your arm.

“Aunt Lena…”

“Hmm?”

“Have you ever been scared when mom and mom go on missions?”

Silence. A few seconds. Then her voice, soft and sincere, breaks the quiet. “Yeah. I still get scared sometimes. But your moms are the strongest women I know. Well, after me, of course.”

You smile, comforted.

“What if they don’t come back?”

Yelena gently strokes your hair. “Then I’ll stay with you. I’ll make you midnight pancakes. We’ll draw on the windows with markers. And we’ll break so many rules that your moms will come back just to scold us.”

You giggle, feeling safer, calmer. “But they will come back,” you say, believing it a little more.

“They always do,” Yelena says with a soft smile. “Because you are their home.”

Eventually, sleep claims you, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket and Yelena’s calming presence.

Before you drift off completely, Yelena whispers, “Now sleep, and dream of flying a helicopter. Or not. But sleep.”

And with that, you surrender to rest.

The next morning, the smell of coffee wakes you. Natasha is in the kitchen, while Maria checks you like you’re made of porcelain.

“Did you survive Yelena?” Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Barely,” you mutter, hiding a grin.

Maria sighs, clearly relieved. “Did you eat any vegetables?”

“Do pickles count?”

The two exchange a look, and Natasha smirks. “We’re going to need a real babysitter next time.”

From the couch, Yelena mumbles half-asleep: “I am professional!”

[rigby-oconnell]

Smash Everthing.

A/N: 2 post in one week! 🥳 Regina Geroge 👑 x Reader

Summary: When Regina’s world explodes, you’re the only one who follows her into the wreckage. But love doesn’t stop her from pulling the trigger — not even when it’s pointed at you.

Tags/ Warnings: Body dysmorphia, Self-hate / insecurity, Body shaming, Emotional manipulation, Closeted relationship, Toxic dynamics, Emotional abuse, Mental health themes, Betrayal of trust, Vulnerability used against the reader.

Request are open!

To say the past few weeks had been weird would be the world’s biggest understatement.

Today, everything exploded.

Regina got kicked out of the Plastics.

Literally kicked out. Gretchen had screamed something about “ruining everything,” Karen cried the whole time, and Cady just stood there, wide-eyed and quiet like she didn’t start the entire damn thing.

And Regina—Regina just stood there and took it, face unreadable, lips twitching like she wanted to smile but couldn’t remember how.

You were the only one who followed her out of the cafeteria.

“Regina!” you called after her. She didn’t stop walking. Her heels clicked furiously against the tile, her breathing fast. You had to jog to catch up. “Reg, talk to me!”

She didn’t look at you. “They’re dead to me.”

You placed a hand gently on her arm, feeling the tension vibrating beneath her skin. “I know.”

“I’m not even mad,” she added. “Just... disappointed.”

That was a lie. You could see the rage simmering behind her eyes. 

You  could see it — the barely-contained fury pulsing just beneath the surface. Her jaw was clenched, her nostrils flaring. Regina George didn’t do “disappointed.” She did war.

But you didn’t call her out on it, instead just kept walking beside her, knowing damn well that this was the beginning of something big.

Something loud. Something mean. Something regal.

You ended up back at her place.

Regina didn’t speak much. She stormed straight to the treadmill, threw on workout clothes, and cranked the speed until it looked like she was trying to outrun her entire life.

You sat on her bed, watching her pace like a caged lioness. That’s when you noticed it.

A pile of Kalteen bars by the treadmill. 

“I let my guard down for five minutes, and she turned everyone against me. Gretchen? Karen? They’re nothing without me! And I let them treat me like I’m the problem? ME?!”

Your stomach sank.

“Regina... why are you eating those?”

She barely acknowledged you. “They help me keep my energy up.”

“They're weight-gain bars.”

Her feet faltered, just for a second. “I know what they are.” Her tone was sharp, almost desperate. “Cady gave them to me. Said they were Swedish nutrition bars. Said they’d help me lose weight.”

The realization hit you both at once.

Regina screamed, ripping a towel off the treadmill and throwing it across the room. “That bitch! I trusted her! I let her in! She lied to me! That bitch lied right to my face! And I—God, I’ve been shoving these things down my throat every morning thinking they were helping—”

“Regina, it’s okay—”

“Don’t.” Her voice dropped into a venomous whisper. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some pathetic charity case.”

You stood up quickly, walking to her. “Reg—”

“I swear to God, I’m going to end her,” she growled, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at the mirror.  

“Regina, it’s okay—”

“Don’t.” Her voice dropped into a venomous whisper. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some pathetic charity case.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did!” she shrieked, throwing the Kalteen bar at the wall. “You pity me. Just like the rest of them. You think I don’t know what people say about me? That I’m fat now? Washed up? A psycho bitch?” Her voice cracked. “You think I don’t see it when people look at me like I’m nothing anymore?”

Your chest tightened. “That’s not what I think. Regina, I love you.”

“No, you love the idea of me,” she snapped. “You love the queen bee. The hot, untouchable bitch on top. Not this.” She gestured at herself like she was disgusting. “Not the girl who’s gaining weight and losing control and screaming at the only person who actually gives a damn.”

“Then let me be that person!” you shouted back, stepping toward her. “Let me in! Stop pushing me away every time things get hard!”

Regina stared at you, chest heaving. Her hands balled into fists.

And then—

She broke.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice raw. “I don’t know how to let anyone love me unless I’m perfect. I don’t know how to exist if I’m not the one in charge.”

You reached for her. She didn’t move, but she didn’t pull away.

“Then let’s figure it out. Together.”

For a long second, she just stood there, trembling.

Then she whispered, “I hate feeling like this.” 

“I know.”

“I want to ruin them.”

“I know.”

She looked up at you, something dangerous gleaming in her eyes, so you slowly take her hand. 

“Okay. You need to get this out. But not by destroying your mom’s house.”

She paused, panting. “Then where?”

You took her to the old baseball field behind the school.

No one ever went there after dark. The place was quiet, lit only by the flickering parking lot lamps. You handed her a metal bat you found in your car trunk.

“What’s this for?”

You pointed at a stack of long-abandoned buckets and glass bottles behind the dugout.

“Smash everything.”

She blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

She grinned for the first time in days.

Regina unleashed.

Screaming, grunting, swinging that bat like a warrior queen. Bottles shattered. Buckets flew. She cursed out Gretchen. Janis. Cady. Herself.

She wanted to stay there for hours, but you knew that soon she'd tired out at the rate she was going.

And when the rage finally burned out, she dropped the bat, breathing hard, cheeks flushed.

You handed her a water bottle. She took it with trembling hands.

“Feel better?” you asked.

She nodded. “Thanks, babe.”

You offered her a tired smile. “Anytime.”

She drove you home in silence. Halfway there, you reached for her hand across the console. She took it.

When you got to your house, you didn’t want to leave. “I can stay—”

Regina shook her head. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I just... need to be alone.” Her voice was quiet.

You nodded, reluctantly stepping out. She didn’t kiss you goodbye.

You stood on your porch, watching her taillights disappear.

Regina sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by glitter pens, lipstick-smudged photos, and vengeance. Her hair was in a messy bun. Her face was bare. Her eyes were sharp.

The Burn Book lay open in front of her like a loaded gun.

Y/N L/N.

She stared at it.

Her chest tightened.

You weren’t like the others. You never betrayed her. You were the one person who stayed when she came unglued.

But that was the problem.

You saw the real her. The unpretty, angry, vulnerable her. And if she was going down in flames, no one could be spared.

Not even you.

Regina clicked her pen.

~Acts chill but is desperate to be liked. Can’t take a picture without a filter because she hates her face. Pathetic.

She didn’t stop. She couldn't stop. ~Says she “doesn’t care what people think,” then cries in the dark because her body isn’t Instagram-ready.

~Wears baggy clothes to hide the fact that she hates herself. And the worst part? She thinks that makes her deep. 

Regina stared at the words. Her heart pounding. Her jaw clenched.

She remembered the night you told her that secret — whispered it while wrapped in her arms, voice shaking, eyes glassy. She remembered telling you that you were beautiful. That she didn’t see you the way you saw yourself.

She remembered how you smiled at her like she was the only person who ever made you believe it.

And now?

She had taken that secret and carved it into the page like a confession in reverse.

Because that’s what Regina George did when she was hurt — she hurt back. She used love like a blade.

She underlined your name. Twice. hard enough to nearly rip the page

The ugliest part of her screamed that she was protecting you — that if she pushed you away now, you wouldn’t be around when she blew up everything else.

Because if you ever saw this… If you ever read those words written in Regina’s own hand…

It would ruin everything.

And maybe that’s what she wanted. Or maybe it was what she was too scared to admit she didn’t.

Because the truth is Regina was scared. Scared that you loved her in spite of everything. Scared you meant it. Scared that if you stayed… she’d have to believe she was worth it.

So she did what she did best.

She attacked.

And the Burn Book smiled back.

🔥FIN.

Like always please don't repost my work :) But pretty please comment and reblog! I’d love to get input back from the audience.

Taglist:

@gaydetectiveperson @reneesghostinthelivingroom @haileebelova @frogs00

Peace and Love, Rigby🌱

[urdreamydoodles]

Alright hear me out…

X-men x Teen!reader who joined the brotherhood for vengeance after loosing a friend to a sentinel??

Imagine the reader and X-men had a parental bond. Like they were the readers real first loving father/mother figure?? (Maybe a sibling like bond for the younger characters?)

Possibly a hurt/comfort trope?

May I also ask for it to be with characters: Hank McCoy, Scott Summers, Ororo Munroe, Logan Howlett, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, Jubilee, Erik Lensherr + [any of your personal favs!!]





[Feel free to ignore this, but for what it’s worth…

You’re so much stronger than you know and I wish the best of luck on your future operation and speedy recovery 💕 Your a wonderful writer and you brighten so many peoples day. WE LOVE YOU!!!]

X-MEN CHARACTERS X GN!TEEN!READER

You leave the X-Men and the person closest to you to join Brotherhood after you lost a friend to mutant-hate

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Kitty Pryde, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Jubilee & Alex Summers

Reply to Beatle: Someone asked for platonic hurt/comfort headcanons? HERE IT IS AND I FUCKING LOVE IT! Thanks for your words, I also hope the surgery goes well... "Brighten so many people's day" Oh my god, I'm going to cry. I'm so happy that my passion makes people as happy as it makes me. LOVE ♡

Logan Howlett

- He never believed in fate, never put stock in the idea that people were meant to be in each other’s lives, but then he lost you, and something inside him twisted, snapped, and reformed into something unrecognizable. He was supposed to keep you safe. He had held you close when you were small, when the world still felt like it had softness left in it. He had promised you, in that gruff and clumsy way of his, that no one would ever take you from him. Then the Sentinels came, and in their cold, unfeeling metal grip, they didn’t just take your friend—they took you too, in a way far worse than death.

- He had known grief. He had known rage. But when he saw you standing beside Magneto, eyes filled with something distant and sharp, he felt something worse than anger. You, who once curled up beside him on the couch, who followed him like a shadow and made jokes about how he smelled like cigars and trees—now you stared at him like he was nothing. He never thought anything could hurt worse than the sound of metal on bone, but the look in your eyes cut deeper than any blade.

- He never stopped watching over you. Even when you hurled your anger at him, even when you screamed that he hadn’t been there when it mattered, he stayed. He let you rage because he knew it wasn’t really him you hated. You were drowning in grief, and the Brotherhood was the only place that let you breathe. But he saw the way your hands trembled when you fought, the way your shoulders curled inward at night. You weren’t as far gone as you wanted to be. And Logan—stubborn, unyielding, impossibly protective—was going to make damn sure you found your way back.

- One day, when the war had quieted, when the rage had burned itself out, he would be there. He would open his arms, and whether you crashed into him like a wave or simply stood there, hesitant and brittle, he would wait. Because love, the kind he had for you, wasn’t something that faded. It was adamantium, unbreakable, buried deep in his bones. And no matter how far you ran, he would always be home.

Remy LeBeau

- You were always quick. Quick with your hands, quick with your words, quick to laugh. But grief had stolen that speed, replacing it with something heavy and leaden in your limbs. He saw it in the way you moved now—slower, sharper, less like the bright ember you used to be and more like a knife, waiting to be drawn. It hurt, cher, more than he’d ever admit. He missed the way you used to grin at him, full of mischief and warmth, the way you’d steal the cards from his deck when you thought he wasn’t looking. Now, the only time he saw you smile was when fire danced in your palm, ready to be thrown.

- He called you mon cœur once, absentmindedly, like he always had, and for a moment, just a flicker of one, your breath hitched. But then your expression hardened, and you sneered, called him a traitor, told him he didn’t understand what it meant to lose. His easygoing smirk faltered, just for a second. He wanted to tell you that he knew loss too well, that he had spent a lifetime running from ghosts, that the weight of regret sat heavy on his shoulders. But he just tucked his cards into his pocket and let you go. For now.

- Remy had always been patient. He knew that love—real love—wasn’t about forcing someone to stay. It was about waiting, about showing up again and again, even when it hurt. So he left small reminders, little things that only you would notice. A card slipped into your pocket, a joke thrown your way in the middle of a fight, a whispered “Take care, cher,” just before he vanished into the night. He wanted you to know that no matter where you stood, no matter how far you strayed, he wasn’t letting go. Not really.

- And when the day came, when the storm inside you finally broke and you stood before him, tired and aching, he would only smile, lazy and warm, like you had never left. "Took you long enough," he’d tease, but his eyes would be soft, filled with all the words he never said. He would deal the cards again, slide one across the table to you like an invitation. "Stay awhile, mon cœur. Ain’t no rush."

Kurt Wagner

- You were the first person to tell him he was beautiful. Not in a passing way, not as a joke or a hollow reassurance, but as if you truly meant it. You had cupped his face in your hands once, traced a fingertip over the indigo skin of his cheek, and smiled. "You're like the night sky," you had said, "full of stars." And he had laughed, unsure how to carry the weight of that kind of kindness. But he held onto those words, tucked them somewhere safe in his heart.

- When you left, he prayed. Every night, he prayed for your safety, for your heart to find peace. He prayed that one day, you would look at him again the way you used to—not with anger, not with grief too heavy for your young soul, but with love. It wasn’t fair, losing someone before you even had the chance to fight for them. But faith, his faith, told him that love did not die so easily. You were lost, not gone. And the difference between the two was hope.

- He never stopped reaching for you, even when you recoiled. He never flinched when you lashed out, never turned away when you called him naive. You told him he didn’t understand vengeance, that his faith made him weak. But he only smiled at you, that same soft, unwavering smile, and said, “I understand love, mein Schatz. And I know it still lives in you.”

- The day you returned, you did not fall into his arms. You stood, hesitant, uncertain, your fingers twitching at your sides. And Kurt, with all the patience of the heavens, simply reached out a hand. No pressure, no demand—just an invitation. And when you took it, his fingers curling around yours, he whispered, "Welcome home, my star."

Scott Summers

- You had always looked up to him. He had been the steady presence in your life, the one who taught you how to stand your ground, how to lead with both your heart and your mind. But grief had torn through you like a wildfire, and in the ashes, you had found something sharp and unyielding. You had traded caution for recklessness, traded kindness for anger. And Scott, ever the strategist, ever the careful one, saw you slipping through his fingers like sand, and it terrified him.

- He had never been good at emotions. He wasn’t like Logan, who could weather your storms with quiet strength, or like Kurt, who could soften your anger with warmth. He was rigid, controlled, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel. It meant that when you called him a coward, when you told him the X-Men’s way had failed you, he didn’t have the words to make you stay. He could only stand there, jaw tight, fists clenched, watching you walk away.

- But Scott Summers did not give up on his people. Not on his team. Not on you. He watched from a distance, saw the way you fought with fury instead of purpose, saw the exhaustion in your stance when you thought no one was looking. And so he waited, standing at the edge of the battlefield, offering you not empty words but a promise. "When you're ready," he told you once, voice steady despite the storm between you, "I'll be here."

- And when you came back, not as the same person you once were but as someone tempered by loss and experience, he only nodded. No lectures, no demands. Just quiet acceptance. Because that’s what family did—they waited. And Scott had always been willing to wait for the people he loved.

Jean Grey

- You had always been bright, vibrant, full of fire. She remembers how you used to lean against her shoulder, laughing at something she said, your energy like a spark catching onto everything around you. But when the Sentinels took your friend, they took more than just a life—they took the light from your eyes. Now, you burn in a different way, not as a star but as a wildfire, reckless and untamed, swallowing everything in your path. And Jean, who has seen what unchecked power can do, aches to pull you close before you consume yourself.

- She feels your pain like it’s her own, even when you refuse to speak it. Your thoughts, sharp and jagged, bleed into her mind despite the walls you try to build. She hears the echoes of your grief, the quiet whispers of doubt that haunt you in the dead of night. And no matter how far you run, no matter how fiercely you try to sever the thread between you, Jean holds onto it. Gently, patiently, like a mother refusing to let go of her child’s hand in the dark.

- There are moments, rare and fleeting, where she sees glimpses of the you she once knew. A joke muttered under your breath, the way your fingers twitch like you want to reach out but don’t. She never forces it, never pushes. She simply remains—an anchor, a presence, a warmth you can always return to when the cold becomes too much. "I’m not asking you to forgive," she tells you one night, voice as soft as the wind outside. "I’m asking you to remember who you were before the pain."

- And one day, when the anger has settled and the grief is no longer a wound but a scar, you come to her. You don’t say anything at first, just press your forehead against her shoulder like you used to. She exhales, a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and wraps her arms around you. "Welcome home," she whispers, voice thick with unshed tears. And in that moment, she feels it—your fire, no longer burning out of control, but warming, steady, alive.

Ororo Munroe

- She always knew you were a storm waiting to break. Even before the Sentinels, even before the Brotherhood, there was something untamed in you, something raw and powerful that the world never quite knew how to handle. But where you once raged like a summer thunderstorm—brief, intense, but passing—now you were something colder, a hurricane that never ended, a sky that never cleared. She watched you from a distance, a goddess unable to interfere, aching to call you back before you lost yourself completely.

- Ororo was never one for begging. She did not plead, did not chase. But that did not mean she did not care. She simply loved like the sky—constant, unwavering, always waiting. She sent rain when you were exhausted, let the wind carry her presence to you when she could not stand by your side. And when you looked at her with resentment, with the weight of your pain pressing against your bones, she did not flinch. "I do not blame you for your anger," she told you once, voice steady as the earth beneath your feet. "But I will not let it destroy you."

- She saw it in the way your shoulders sagged after a battle, in the way your hands clenched when someone spoke your friend’s name. You were tired, but you did not know how to stop. So she waited, standing at the edge of your storm, arms open but never forcing. And when the first crack of lightning faltered, when your rage finally gave way to exhaustion, she stepped forward—not as a leader, not as a mentor, but as the woman who had loved you like her own from the moment you first called her family.

- The day you returned, there were no words. Only the sound of the wind shifting, gentle and warm, as you fell into her embrace. She said nothing as she ran her fingers through your hair, as she held you like she had so many times before, letting the weight of your grief settle between you. She did not promise that things would be easy. But she did promise, in the silent way that only she could, that she would never let you stand in the storm alone again.

Rogue

- You had always been stubborn, always had that fire in your gut that made you stand taller, fight harder, push forward even when the world tried to knock you down. She admired that about you. Looked at you like a little sibling she never had, someone who reminded her of herself when she was younger—raw, reckless, full of fight. But grief had turned that fire into something else. Something colder, sharper. And it killed her to watch you go.

- She tried to stop you, back when you first left. Grabbed your wrist, held on tight, told you that revenge wasn’t gonna bring your friend back. And you had looked at her with eyes so full of pain it almost broke her. "Then what will?" you had asked, voice shaking. She hadn’t had an answer. And so you left, and she let you, even though it tore something inside her apart.

- But Rogue wasn’t one to give up easy. She still found you, still reached for you in the only ways she knew how. An old jacket left in your path, a song you used to love playing on a distant radio when she knew you’d hear it. She was never good at words, never good at convincing people to stay. But she was damn good at loving people even when they didn’t want to be loved.

- When you finally came back, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet moment, the two of you sitting on the steps of the mansion, looking at the stars like you used to. She nudged your shoulder with hers, let a slow grin spread across her lips. "’Bout time, shug," she said, like you had just been gone for a day instead of months. And in that moment, you knew—she had never really let you go.

Erik Lehnsherr

- He had seen many children lost to war. Had watched bright, hopeful souls turn into weapons, into shadows of the people they used to be. And yet, when he looked at you, something inside him twisted in a way it never had before. You were young, too young to know the true weight of vengeance, but still, you carried it like a soldier. He recognized the fire in your eyes, the hunger for justice that had consumed so much of his own life. And so, he welcomed you into his ranks, not as a leader taking in a follower, but as a man who saw himself in the child before him.

- He did not coddle you. Did not tell you to grieve gently or to find peace where there was none. He trained you, sharpened you, molded your anger into something useful. He taught you that the world would never be fair, that mercy was a weakness, that power was the only way to ensure you never lost another loved one again. And for a time, you believed him.

- But even as he strengthened you, as he guided you into becoming something unstoppable, he saw the cracks forming. The hesitation in your strikes, the moments where your fury wavered, the late nights where you sat alone, staring at nothing. And Erik—who had spent his life convincing himself that vengeance was all he had left—wondered if he had done you a disservice.

- The day you left, he did not stop you. He watched, silent, as you turned back toward the people who had once been your family. And when Charles asked him why he had let you go, why he had not fought to keep you, he simply closed his eyes and said, "Because they deserve a chance to heal in a way I never could.”

Charles Xavier

- He had always seen such potential in you, long before tragedy turned you into someone unrecognizable. He remembers the way your mind used to shine—full of curiosity, full of dreams, full of questions that made him smile. You had been more than a student to him; you had been a light, a reminder of why he built his school in the first place. And then, the Sentinels came. And in their wake, they left you hollow, bitter, distant. He had reached for you, but grief had made you untouchable.

- He had tried to speak to you, tried to offer solace in words he had spoken too many times before. But you had looked at him with eyes that burned, accusing, shattered. "You weren’t there," you had said, and it had struck him deeper than any blade. Because it was true. He hadn’t been there. He had failed you, as he had failed so many others. And so, when you left, when you turned your back on everything he had taught you, he did not stop you. He only hoped—prayed—that the path you walked would not destroy you.

- Still, he never let go. He kept you in his thoughts, in his dreams, in the quiet corners of his mind where he held onto those he could not save. He followed your movements, not as a spy but as a man who could not bear to lose another child to war. And when your thoughts occasionally reached him—flashes of regret, of uncertainty, of loneliness—he did not intrude. He simply sent back warmth, a reminder that you were not as alone as you believed.

- The day you returned, it was not with words, not with apologies or explanations. It was simply a presence, a step through familiar doors, a quiet acknowledgment that you had found your way back. He did not demand answers. He did not ask for promises. He only smiled, eyes soft, and said, "It is good to see you home." And in that moment, he knew—you had been lost, but not beyond reach. Never beyond reach.

Wanda Maximoff

- She understood loss better than most. Understood how grief could shape a person, twist them into something unrecognizable. When you left, she had not blamed you. How could she? When she had once stood where you stood, when she had once believed that pain could only be answered with more pain? She had watched you go with a heavy heart, with the aching knowledge that sometimes, love was not enough to keep someone from walking into the fire.

- But she had never stopped looking for you. Never stopped listening for your voice, even in the quietest moments. Magic had a way of finding what was lost, of revealing truths that words could not. And in the echoes of the universe, in the spaces between time, she felt you—angry, lost, searching. And oh, how she longed to reach through the veil and pull you back, to tell you that vengeance would never fill the emptiness inside you. But she knew. She knew you would not hear her. Not yet.

- So she waited. Watched from the distance, sent quiet spells of protection when she thought you would not notice. She never intervened, never forced her presence upon you. But when the nightmares came, when the weight of everything became too much, she was there—in dreams, in whispers, in the way the wind carried her voice when you needed it most. "You are not alone," she murmured into the spaces between reality, hoping—praying—that one day, you would believe her.

- And when that day finally came, when you stood before her with uncertainty in your eyes, she did not demand explanations. She only stepped forward, cupped your face in her hands, and smiled—soft, knowing, full of understanding. "You found your way back," she whispered, and it was not a question, not a reprimand. It was only love, unconditional and unshaken.

Pietro Maximoff

- He had never been good at patience. Never been good at waiting, at letting things happen as they would. When you left, when you turned your back on the X-Men, he had wanted to chase after you, to shake sense into you, to demand that you stay. But he hadn’t. Because he knew what grief could do. Knew how it could turn a person inside out. And for all his arrogance, for all his sharp words and sharper wit, he had understood that this was not a battle he could win by force.

- That didn’t mean he didn’t worry. He watched from afar, always keeping track, always knowing where you were. He told himself it was just habit, just a precaution, but deep down, he knew the truth—he missed you. Missed the way you used to laugh at his stupid jokes, the way you used to roll your eyes when he bragged, the way you had never treated him like he was just a fast-talking nuisance. You had been his friend, his sibling in all but blood. And losing you had felt like losing a part of himself.

- He never said it outright, never admitted how much it hurt to see you on the other side of the fight. Instead, he did what he always did—he covered it up with sarcasm, with teasing remarks, with challenges thrown your way whenever your paths crossed. "You’re slower than I remember," he’d quip, even when he could see the exhaustion in your eyes. It was easier that way. Easier than saying, I miss you. Please come home.

- When you finally did, when you stood beside him instead of against him, he didn’t make a big deal of it. Didn’t get emotional, didn’t ask for explanations. He just nudged you with his shoulder, smirked, and said, "Took you long enough." But later, when no one was looking, he stood next to you in the quiet, a rare moment of stillness, and murmured, "Don’t scare me like that again." And for once, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could go back to the way they were.

Hank McCoy

- He had always admired your mind. You had been sharp, inquisitive, eager to learn. A student not just of textbooks and science, but of the world itself. He had enjoyed your questions, your endless curiosity, the way you challenged even him to see things from new angles. You had been brilliant. And then, grief had stolen that brilliance, turned your hunger for knowledge into a hunger for vengeance. And that had broken something in him.

- He had tried to reason with you. Had tried to make you see that revenge would not bring back what you had lost. "Justice and vengeance are not the same," he had told you once, voice heavy with the weight of experience. But you had looked at him with eyes full of sorrow and rage and said, "Then tell me what justice looks like when they’re already dead." He had not had an answer. And so, you had left. And he had let you go, because what else could he do?

- But he had never given up hope. Even as you fought against them, even as you stood with those who did not share his ideals, he had never truly believed you were lost. You were too bright, too thoughtful, too full of something deeper than just pain. And so, he waited. Watched. Hoped. And when you stumbled, when the weight of your choices became too heavy, he was there—not to scold, not to lecture, but to remind you that you had always had a place to return to.

- "It is never too late to choose a different path," he told you when you finally came back, his voice warm, steady. "No one is beyond redemption." And though you said nothing, though the guilt still sat heavy on your shoulders, you let him lead you inside. And for him, for the man who had always seen you as brilliant, that was enough.

Emma Frost

- Emma had always been good at reading people, at peeling back the layers of their minds and seeing the truth beneath. And you—once bright, once full of so much untapped power and potential—had been one of her most promising students. Not because you were eager or obedient, but because you questioned things. Because you had never accepted easy answers. And then, the world had turned cruel. Had taken something from you that could never be replaced. And instead of questioning, you had chosen rage.

- She had watched you go, arms crossed, face unreadable, offering no words of comfort or dissuasion. Because Emma knew better than anyone—when someone decided to burn, there was little anyone could do but wait for the fire to run its course. She had been there herself, once. Had felt the sharp edges of grief carving through her, turning her into something ruthless. But still, she had wanted—hoped—that you would not lose yourself entirely to the flames.

- When you crossed paths again, when you stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, she did not waste time with lectures. She only looked at you, eyes cool, sharp, assessing. "I see you’ve grown bolder," she remarked, voice almost lazy. But underneath, there was something else—something softer, something worried. She did not say it outright. Did not tell you that revenge would never satisfy, that grief would never truly fade. Because she knew you wouldn’t listen. Not yet.

- And so, when you finally found your way back—battered, exhausted, uncertain—she did not greet you with warmth, but neither did she turn you away. She simply placed a perfectly manicured hand under your chin, tilted your face up, and said, "Are we finished with the self-destruction phase, darling? Or should I prepare for another dramatic exit?" And when you laughed—shaky, real—she allowed herself a small smile, the kind that meant I knew you’d come home.

Laura Kinney

- Laura had never been good with words, had never known how to give comfort in ways that weren’t sharp and blunt and a little too honest. But when you had still been with the X-Men, she had understood you in a way others hadn’t. There had been something familiar in you—something raw and wounded and angry at a world that had taken too much. You had never feared her, never looked at her like she was a weapon instead of a person. And in turn, she had allowed herself to see you as something like family.

- When you left, she did not chase you. She knew what it was to be consumed by pain, to feel like the only thing left was the urge to strike back. She had seen it in herself, in Logan, in too many others. But that didn’t mean she had stopped caring. She still kept track of you, watching from the distance, stepping into fights she had no reason to be in just to make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed. She never made it obvious. Never let you see. But she was there, always there.

- When she did see you again, it was in battle—claws out, movements precise, eyes locked on yours with something unreadable in them. "You're being reckless," she told you, voice flat. And when you scoffed, when you accused her of being a hypocrite, she only tilted her head. "Maybe. But I’m still alive. Will you be?" It was not a threat. It was a warning. A quiet, desperate plea that she would never say aloud.

- And when you finally returned—not with words, but with bruises and exhaustion and a weight in your eyes that had nothing to do with battle—she did not ask why. Did not demand explanations. She simply stepped beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, and muttered, "Next time, don’t make me wait so long." It was the closest thing to I missed you that she could say. And for you, it was enough.

Wade Wilson

- Wade wasn’t the sentimental type. At least, that’s what he told himself. And when you left the X-Men, when you joined the Brotherhood with vengeance in your eyes and grief clawing at your ribs, he had pretended it didn’t bother him. "Kid’s gotta go through their rebellious phase," he had joked. "I give it six months before they realize villain monologues get really old." But underneath the jokes, underneath the wisecracks, there had been something else—something that felt a lot like worry.

- He checked in on you more than he cared to admit. Showed up to Brotherhood hideouts just to cause trouble, just to see how you were holding up. "How’s the whole ‘vengeance’ thing working out for ya?" he’d ask, grinning, leaning too close. But there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something real. And when you snapped at him, told him to leave, he only sighed, exaggerated and dramatic. "Fine, fine, I’ll let you have your little angsty villain arc. Just… don’t get too murder-y, okay?"

- And then, one day, you were on the ground—wounded, bleeding, caught in a fight that had gone wrong. And Wade was there, standing over you, guns still smoking, mask tilted slightly to the side. "Wow, look at that," he mused. "Turns out I do care if you get yourself killed. Who knew?" And when you tried to argue, when you tried to push yourself up, he just crouched beside you, voice unusually quiet. "You’re not as alone as you think, kid. You never were."

- When you finally came back, when you hesitated at the mansion’s doorstep, unsure if you were still welcome, Wade appeared beside you like he had been expecting you all along. "So, does this mean I get to say ‘I told you so’ or is it too soon?" And when you actually laughed, tired but real, he just slung an arm around your shoulders and grinned. "C’mon, let’s get you inside before one of the serious ones gives you a dramatic redemption speech. I promise mine will be way more fun."

Kitty Pryde

- You had been like a sibling to her. Had shared late-night talks, had trained together, had whispered about dreams and fears in the quiet moments between battles. And when you left—when the weight of loss became too much and you turned your back on the X-Men—Kitty had felt it like a wound. Had wanted to reach out, to shake you, to tell you that running wouldn’t make the pain go away. But she hadn’t. Because she knew what grief could do. Knew that sometimes, words weren’t enough.

- Still, it didn’t mean she stopped caring. She watched from afar, always hoping—always believing—that you would come back. And when you crossed paths again, on opposite sides of a fight, she had hesitated. Had looked at you with something raw in her eyes. "Is this really who you are now?" she had asked, voice shaking, half-daring you to prove her wrong. And when you hadn’t answered, when you had only turned away, it had felt like losing you all over again.

- But Kitty was stubborn. And she refused to believe that you were gone for good. So, she left reminders in the places she knew you’d see—old photos, scrawled notes in places only you would think to look. "You’re not alone," one had read, written in the messy handwriting you used to tease her about. "We still love you." She didn’t know if you ever read them. But she hoped.

- And when you did return, when you stood in the doorway of the mansion with uncertainty in your eyes, she was the first to reach you. No hesitation, no anger, just arms wrapping around you in a hug so fierce it knocked the breath from your lungs. "Took you long enough, dummy," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. And when you clung to her just as tightly, she knew—you had been lost, but never truly gone.

Warren Worthington III

- Warren had always been something untouchable—golden, radiant, too bright for the world to dim. But you had been one of the few who had seen past the perfect façade, past the easy smiles and effortless charm. You had known him before the weight of expectations had settled fully on his shoulders, before the world had tried to clip his wings. And in return, he had been your light—your first real glimpse of warmth, of family, of something good.

- And then, you had left. Had walked away with fire in your eyes and vengeance in your heart, and Warren had watched it happen, powerless to stop you. He had wanted to go after you, had wanted to remind you that pain didn’t have to be carried alone, that grief didn’t have to turn you into something unrecognizable. But he hadn’t. Because he knew what it was to feel lost. Knew what it was to crave control when the world had taken everything from you.

- When he saw you again, it was mid-battle, and for a moment—just a moment—his breath caught. You were still you, still fierce and beautiful and untamed, but there was something new in your gaze. Something hardened, something tired. "This isn’t you," he had said, voice quieter than it should have been. And when you had laughed—bitter, sharp—he had only clenched his jaw, wings flaring behind him. "If this is what revenge is doing to you, then maybe it’s not worth it."

- When you finally returned, he was waiting. Not with anger, not with lectures, but with an understanding that settled deep in his bones. "Took your time," he murmured, wings folding around you like a shield, like a promise. And when you leaned into him, exhausted and undone, he simply held you there, unshaken, unwavering. Because he had lost you once, and he would not make the mistake of letting you go again.

Morph

- He had always been the first to make you laugh, the first to pull you out of your worst thoughts with some ridiculous joke, some exaggerated impression. He had been your safe place, your soft landing, the one who made the weight of the world feel just a little lighter. And then, in the wake of your loss, in the wreckage of everything you had once believed in, you had turned your back on all of it. On the X-Men. On him.

- But Morph wasn’t the type to let go so easily. Even when you had stormed off, even when you had sworn you weren’t coming back, he had never truly left you alone. He popped up in the strangest places, appearing as the most absurd disguises—a Brotherhood grunt, a news anchor, a lamp post, for God’s sake—just to remind you that he was still watching out for you. That he still cared. "You miss me yet?" he’d ask with a grin, but his eyes were always too serious, too knowing.

- And when battle forced you face-to-face, when you found yourself staring at the one person who had never stopped believing in you, he had only sighed, shaking his head. "You look terrible," he said, shifting into a mirror image of you, exaggerated and over-dramatic. "All broody and tragic. Really not your best look." But then, softer, quieter, he had added, "You know I’d still choose you, right? No matter what side you think you’re on?"

- When you finally stumbled back into the mansion, worn and weary, he didn’t make a big show of it. He just grinned, opened his arms wide, and said, "Took you long enough! I was this close to staging a dramatic rescue mission." And when you actually laughed—small, tired, real—he knew. Knew that, even after everything, he had never truly lost you.

Jubilee

- She had idolized you once, in the way younger siblings idolize their older, cooler counterparts. You had been the one to teach her things the others wouldn’t—the best ways to sneak out undetected, the secret stash of candy hidden in the mansion’s walls, the perfect balance between mischief and heroism. She had loved you big, had looked up to you like you hung the stars. And then, just like that, you were gone.

- She had been angry. Had felt betrayed in a way she hadn’t known was possible. "Fine," she had muttered to the others when they tried to comfort her. "They wanna be a villain? Let them." But even as she said it, even as she crossed her arms and pretended not to care, she had found herself keeping track of your name in news reports, hoping—praying—that you weren’t beyond saving.

- When she saw you again, her first instinct had been to blast you with fireworks, to demand answers, to shake you until you listened. But instead, she had only stared at you, wide-eyed and wavering. "Did it help?" she had asked, voice smaller than she wanted it to be. "Did joining them make the pain go away?" And when you hadn’t answered—when you had only turned your gaze to the ground—she had known.

- And when you finally came back, hesitant and uncertain, Jubilee did not hesitate. She threw herself at you in a hug so fierce it nearly knocked you both over. "Don’t you dare leave me again," she whispered, voice choked with something dangerously close to tears. And when you promised—soft, raw, real—she only held on tighter, refusing to let go.

Alex Summers

- He had always understood you in a way that few others did. Had known what it was to live in the shadow of grief, to carry anger like a second skin. He had seen the way loss had shaped you, had recognized something too familiar in the sharpness of your gaze, the set of your jaw. And when you had turned your back on the X-Men, when you had chosen vengeance over family, he had not chased you. But he had understood.

- That didn’t mean he had forgiven you easily. When you faced each other again, when battle had forced you to opposite sides, his expression had been unreadable. "This is really the path you wanna take?" he had asked, arms crossed, jaw tight. And when you had met his gaze—defiant, unyielding—he had only exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Do what you have to. Just try not to die being stubborn."

- And then, one day, you had almost did. Had nearly let yourself be consumed by the very fire you had been chasing. And it was Alex who had pulled you from the wreckage, who had stood over you with an expression torn between fury and relief. "You’re a damn idiot," he had muttered, helping you up. But his grip had been steady, his hands warm, grounding. And when he added, "Come home when you’re done running," you had almost believed you could.

- When you finally did, he was waiting. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Took you long enough," he said, but there was no real bite to it. Just relief, just familiarity, just the silent understanding that had always existed between you. And when you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, he only bumped his shoulder against yours and muttered, "Welcome back.”

[chubbeh-seel]

❤️‍🔥Cyber Sex🩷

SMUT WARNING!!! MINORS GO AWAYYYYY

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Female!reader

Word count: 660

Summary: Bucky sends you a rather explicit picture while he is in his office and you are waiting for him at home with a cold during your ovulation cycle.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship (engaged), technical voyeurism?, sick reader, smut, phone sex

Authors note: no use of y/n, minor usage of “doll” as well as other nicknames. This is my first actual Bucky x reader so please bear with me as some words may be misspelled or events are out of order, it's been a while since ive written a fic.

Bucky knows that when you have a cold that you dont want him to get sick so you won't kiss him, which has been driving him crazy. He won't say it out loud but he loves to be touchy with you, he only likes PDA if it's between you and him. 

He may not be the best at expressing his love for you, but he definitely shows you that he loves you in various ways, with either having you as his meal, or doing things around the house that he knows you dont like. One Christmas he made a silicone replica of his cock for when he is away on business trips or in a different country for a press conference. You and him both know it’s nothing like the real thing though. 

~~~~~

One day while you were home sick, Bucky was feeling pent up and having indecent thoughts about you while at work. Having the mind that he has, he decided to send you a picture of himself with his dress pants unbuttoned and unzipped with the tip of his hafrdened cock peeking out of his boxers, not to mention the outline of his member easily being seen in the picture. 

Not even 3 minutes later you received an audio message. James Bucky Barnes, the mostly quite and stoic super soldier, had the idea to send you an audio of his groans and moans as he started to play with himself. He knows you like the noises he makes during sex so he took this time to give you one thing that you love. 

The moment you got his message and listened to the audio, you called him. “Bucky, aren’t you at work?” you asked him as he hummed in response, you could tell he was still messing with himself and trying to be quiet about it so no one walking passed his office could hear. “What am I going to do with you?” you said as you smiled and shook your head. Though you are sick, youre feeling significantly better today so you felt up to entertaining him over the phone. 

“Please my love, I know you don’t feel good, but I need you” he says as he groans again, his hand never being enough but it will do for now. You were getting one of the few vibrators you owned and getting onto your bed. “I know, when you get home we can do whatever you want” you say to him as you get undressed.

You could tell that he quickened his hand because he moaned out a shaky “Fuck..” under his breath. At that moment, you immediately turned on your vibrator and pressed it to your awaiting bud, letting out a soft moan. “I miss you” you said as you moan and turn up the speed on your vibrator. “I miss you too, doll” your horny congressman said as he groaned “Oh shit..” he breathlessly moaned, feeling his impending release getting closer with every stroke down his thick length.

“Not yet. Don’t finish yet.” you told him as you moaned. He huffed and slowed his hand down, knowing that the finish line would be better to cross if you did it at the same time as him. The constant vibrations and the sounds of your fiance’s moans over the phone make your release come hurling towards you like a feight train. “Okay now!” you said as you and Bucky both came at the same time, turning off the vibrator after you rode out your high. 

“I love you, baby” Bucky says while panting from the moment you two just shared over the phone. “I love you more” you replied and smiled, relaxing against the bed you share. 

“We can continue this when you get home, Bucky, how does that sound?” you suggest to him as you smile quietly 

“Sounds wonderful, my love” He replies and ends the call, excited for when he gets home to you.

💓💓💓💓

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my first proper fic, please leave suggestions!

[hopelesslydimwitted]

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face i hope you don’t mind that i wrote smth for the hunger games au. the worms got me 😔

idk who the tribute is. hes probably as big or bigger than stanley tho— i like the idea of two bigger boys going toe to toe, one trying to brute force his way thru a fight while the other one (stan) just… dances around him

i also wanted to work in that trident aro mentioned. idk if stan keeps it for more than fishing (i don’t see him killing anyone with it)

tw for violence, this is a hunger games thing

Maybe, just maybe, if Stan stayed really still, the hulking tribute in front of him wouldn’t see him. The other boy wouldn’t notice him, and definitely wouldn’t point that fucking trident at him. He wouldn’t charge at Stan, trident raised, and try to kill him.

They both take a breath, Stan’s pulse steadily thumping in his ears, and the other boy charges.

Fuck.

Stan does what he does best-- evasive maneuvers. He ducks the first jab of the trident, hearing the heavy metal whistle past his ear at a speed that would have definitely impaled him. He quickly dodges around the boy’s other side. He’s light on his feet, boots dancing along the grassy floor as he tries to stay in the tribute’s blind spot. Stan just needs long enough to untangle his net and then--

Stan throws the net high, over the tribute’s head, the knotted rope spreading like the wings of the totem pole. It’s only half-finished, but it should be large enough to tangle this kid up. This boy knows Stan’s strategy-- throw the net, pin them down, and take off-- he should, he’s been caught by Stan’s net twice.

This time, he won’t let himself be trapped and tied down. He manages to swing the trident around fast enough to avoid getting tangled in the net himself. The tribute roars, both with fury and victory, trying to shake the net off the barbed ends. Stan lurches forward, grabbing the tail of the net and yanking.

It’s a deadly tug-of-war for a few moments before Stan finally manages to wrench the trident out of the boy’s hands, blindly hurling it to his left. He only just hears it clatter to the ground as he turns right and bolts. He’s about a hundred yards from the lake. He knows this tribute can’t swim-- if Stan can get close enough to dive in, he should be able to--

Something crashes into his legs, sending Stan face-first into the damp dirt of the beach. The breath is knocked from his lungs.

The tribute crawls the rest of the way up his torso. He grabs Stan by the arm and flips him around, pinning him. Stan kicks, heart frantic between his ribs.

This is bad, get up get up get up

A fist lands across his jaw before he can swing. It bursts with pain, but it’s not enough to knock him silly. The tribute settles on his hips, raising his fist for another blow-- Stan gets his feet on solid ground and bucks, managing to knock the boy off of him. Stan rolls, scrambling away as fast as he can. He kicks at the hand that finds his ankle and manages to drive his heel into the boy’s nose.

Stan rises to his feet. He’s accidentally put the tribute between him and the lake, and the other boy is standing before Stan can skirt around him.

His eyes are wild, locked on Stan with deadly intent.

Stan decides he’d rather fight here than up closer to the tree line-- if they get close enough to where he threw the trident, he’ll be in trouble.

The tribute approaches with a wide swing. It’s one of the worst hooks Stan’s ever seen, and he dodges it with ease. The boy’s left himself open, too, and Stan lands a quick jab to his abdomen. It goes like this for a while-- the boy throwing wild, desperate punches that reek of poor training. Stan dancing around him, trying to get to his other side. The tribute must know this-- he refuses to let Stan get even a foot closer to the lake.

Stan’s legs are starting to burn, fists aching from the fighting. It’s been too long with too little food-- he needs to get away.

“C’mon, man!” he finds himself shouting. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, if anything.

Then, he sees an opening. The boy lurches and steps wrong, his ankle twisting out from underneath him. He falls, and Stan goes to circle him.

Stan’s not expecting the hands that clamp down on his leg, sending Stan crashing to the ground.

“Get off!” he shouts, kicking wildly behind him. He’s yanked backwards towards the other boy.

They wrestle, hands bruising and nails scratching each other as they fight. Stan’s lungs are on fire. Fighting for your life is exhausting, and he can’t do this much longer.

Why won’t this bastard let me run?

When Stan finds himself on top, one of the boy’s arms crushed under his knee, Stan takes the opportunity. Not to run-- he knows how that will go-- but to rain down punches. His knuckles are torn up and bloody as they batter the tribute’s face. Stan can feel bone crack under his fists.

“Let-- me-- go!” he’s yelling. He doesn’t know he is.

The tribute’s grip on his arm loosens, staggering as his head lolls on the ground. Stan’s fist falters for a moment, and he can’t feel his body. The boy groans, dazed and half-dead.

I-- Stan’s whole body freezes. He has to force himself to stop, to not give in to the arena-fueled adrenaline that begs him to kill this boy. This child.

His feet slip once as he rises. He accidentally steps on the boy’s arm, and he hears an answering cry.

He’s not dead, Stan thinks. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or not.

He runs.

He runs to where dirt turns to sand, less than 20 yards from the shoreline. He’ll have to swim above water; he doesn’t have enough breath to dive--

Pain lights up the side of his thigh.

For the third time, his knees hit the dirt. Hot blood starts to stain his pants.

“Get--” he hears behind him. “Get back here!”

Stan didn’t realize this tribute had more than one weapon on him. He scrambles forwards, ignoring the shooting heat from the cut. He feels his throat tighten with desperation-- he was so close to escaping.

The small knife finds purchase in his calf. Stan screams and kicks back. The tribute is already on him, crushing him against the earth. The knife in his hand is wavering, even if the look in his swollen eyes is determined.

Stan tries to punch his jaw, his face, his neck, anything, but the boy is too high above him. He claws, grabs, bites, kicks instead, trying to worm his way out again. He wonders if he’s sobbing yet.

When the knife comes down, it’s slow and messy. The tribute sways. Stan registers it, somewhere in the back of his mind. He can’t think about it, not yet-- not when his body is still fighting for his life.

They roll. The boy goes too easily. He’s reacting too slowly, and the words coming out of his mouth are wet and slurred.

“Jus’ die already,” he spits. He’s missing a tooth from where Stan’s knuckles knocked it loose.

The tribute lands on his back, head knocking hard against the ground. Even that is enough to daze him again, his eyes losing focus. Stan can’t think about it. He can’t think about how weak this boy already is, how he’s still so intent on killing Stan, how this boy shouldn’t even be here.

He can’t think.

He strikes instead. The first punch lands solidly against the tribute’s cheek. The knife is dropped from his slackened hand.

Stan takes a shaky breath in.

The second punch connects with his temple. Stan tries to ignore the way it buckles under his fist.

Why couldn’t he let Stan run away?

The third bursts the boy’s eye. There’s more than just blood flowing from the wound.

He wants to leave.

The fourth dislocates the tribute’s jaw. It hangs, bouncing with each following strike.

He wants to go home.

The fifth. The sixth. The tribute is still making sounds, low moans and wet sobs from deep in his chest.

He wants Ford.

Seven. Eight. Stan’s knuckles are numb. His whole being is numb. He can’t feel the tears on his face.

Stan doesn’t know he’s speaking. He can’t hear how rough his voice is or feel the rumble of his vocal cords. He can’t hear the choked pleading coming from his lips. The cameras pick up every “I’m sorry-- I’m so sorry” that he weeps.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

The tribute stops moving. Stops making noise.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Stan can’t stop crying, can’t stop apologizing. Who is he apologizing to? The television personalities will argue this for days to come.

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

There’s a cannon above him. It’s the only thing that makes Stan stop. The boom echoes in his ears, halting his blood-soaked fist midair. He slowly comes back to his senses.

The boy beneath him is dead, unrecognizable.

They finally did it.

Stan quickly takes the knife-- it’s no bigger than a pocket knife, really-- and pockets it. Hands fly across the corpse’s body, taking whatever they can find.

He only spares a brief look around the treeline. He sees no bodies, hears no voices, hears no cracking of branches. His eyes land on the trident, and it’s in his hands before he can think. He refuses to look at the boy on his way back to the water.

His goal is to swim. To dive in and swim away.

His actions are to kneel. To plunge his hands into the water. To scrub the blood away with heaving breaths.

They made me kill someone.

He refuses to cry. His mind slots back into place. His face is still numb-- thinks he might say something, a smart quip or dumb joke that falls in line with his persona.

He doesn’t care if he manages or not. The capital will have to forgive him for putting on bad television.

He scrubs his palms.

He scrubs his knuckles.

He scrubs his fingers.

He scrubs under his nails.

He can’t reach the blood under his skin. The poison that slips into his veins. He doesn’t want to feel this way again.

He knows he doesn’t have a choice.

He will feel this way again. When he kills someone else.

He wants to go home.

[eat-limes-bitches]

Coming Home

PAIRING: Female Avenger! Reader x  Bucky Barnes

SUMMARY:  “Falling for you was like nothing I imagined.” Her voice started to give out as the door to the safe house burst open, “It was coming home.”

WARNINGS: ANGST, ANGST, ANGST! but it has a happy ending, mentions of death, dying, blood, stab wounds, violence, Sad! Bucky, nausea

Word Count: 1913

A/N: Hi! Here is another installment of my febuwhump series! Like I said, completely out of order but I couldn't wait it share this one with you guys!

Enjoy! <3

Divider by Rookthorne

Y/n knew when they left for this mission that something wasn’t right. It was too clean, the information was too good. Despite the many reassurances from Bucky when they landed, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Now, as she ran, she made a mental note to shout, ‘I told you so’ at her partner as soon as they reached the safe house, that was, if she could get out of the collapsing building. Skidding around a turn she pushed herself harder, desperate to reach the exit. She was almost there when there was an excruciating pain thrumming up her left leg. Whipping her head around, she saw a knife embedded in her calf and a trapped HYDRA soldier holding onto the handle. 

“If I’m going down, you’re coming with me, sweetheart.” the soldier grimaced as he twisted the knife. Y/n glanced at the fast-approaching collapse of the ceiling before looking at the trapped man.

“You fucking wish,” she growled before shooting the man. His hand, now lifeless, released the handle so she continued her rapid sprint to the exit, somehow stumbling out the doorway and collapsing in the grass just as the rest of the building fell into a pile of rubble. 

“Y/N! Are you alright?!” Bucky's worried voice shouted in her ear, causing her to wince.

“Just fucking peachy.” She grumbled, closing her eyes as a headache started to form in the back of her head. She re-opened them, however, as she heard rapid footsteps approaching, looking over just in time to see Bucky’s approaching form. He slid to a stop and took in her battered form on the ground.

“Are you hurt darlin’?” Has questioned, as he leaned down to help Y/n back to her feet. S he winced as her left leg started supporting weight again. 

“Yeah some bugger got me in the calf on the way out, but it's not bleeding too badly, we can take care of it at the safe house I think.” She groaned, putting more weight on Bucky's shoulder. He glanced over her shoulder to observe the wound in question and nodded in agreement. 

“Yeah, I think so too but let's get you to that safe house faster.” Bucky led her to the bike that was hidden in the tree line and gracefully set her down on the back seat before hopping on the bike himself and speeding off down the dirt road. 

The longer the pair drove, the worse Y/n felt. Her head started spinning and her stomach churned. By the time they reached the safe house, she all but flung herself off the bike and hurled what was left of her breakfast that morning into the bushes. 

“Shit, you ok doll?” Bucky asked, crouching down next to her, running a hand up and down her back. Y/n let out a groan.

“Been better I’m not gonna lie.” As Bucky wrapped an arm around her frame and pulled her up to move her into the house, she couldn’t decide if the butterflies in her stomach were from being this close to him or the nausea. Once inside the small safe house, Bucky placed Y/n on the kitchen table and dashed off to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. 

She tried to get an idea of what was around her in the room but the more she tried to focus on one thing, the more it spun around in her vision. Unable to prop herself up any longer, she lay flat on the table trying to stop the world from moving around her. Bucky returned moments later and placed a wet rag on her forehead, causing her eyes to flutter open. 

“I’m gonna get this knife out now, ok doll?” Bucky said as he rounded the table. All Y/n could do was make a soft ‘mhm’ and groan as he pulled the knife out. 

The first sign that something was wrong was the orange tinge to the blood that came pouring out of the wound. The next hint was the remnants of a yellow powder on the blade. The more strange orange liquid oozed out of the wound, the faster Bucky’s heart sped up.

“Y/n? You feeling ok darlin’?” He called out, looking up from the wound when he heard no response. Y/n’s head was limply lying to one side. He cursed under his breath as he tightened the tunicate and dashed around the table to place a hand on her face.

“Y/n? Open your eyes for me darlin’.” Bucky called out desperately, his thumb brushing over her cheek, taking notice of how cold it was to the touch. Her eyes fluttered open and her blown-out pupils focused on Bucky’s face. A wistful smile decorated her features.

‘Hey Buck, when did you get here?” Bucky’s heart sank, he knew the signs all too well from his time in the war. The faraway look, the disorientation, she was dying, but she couldn’t be, not yet.

“I’ve been here the whole time doll. Can you keep your eyes open for me?” He pleaded as he started to back away to try and return to her wound to keep patching it up. He was stopped by her hand coming up holding his hand to her face, keeping him in place. 

“You know I always knew that this was going to happen.” She mumbled, locking her gaze on his face. Bucky riffled through his pocket looking for his emergency transponder.

“W-what are you talking about, baby? You’re gonna be fine!” He stated, fumbling over his words as he pulled out the little remote and pressed the button. Y/n shook her head.

“No, I’m not and you know that just as much as I do.” Her voice was becoming airy the more she tried to talk. Bucky felt the hard knot in his throat starting to form as he shook his head, willing the tears to go back into his eyes.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about doll. I’m gonna get you patched up a-and we are going to go home and you are gonna take me to that noodle shop you promised me right?” Y/n shook her head softly, not having a lot of energy to move at this point.

“You know I won’t. But please know, none of this is your fault”. Her voice was light and airy as she spoke. Bucky shook his head wildly.

“No, not like this, Y/n, please not like this!” He cried, bringing his other hand up to cup her face, trying to keep her gaze locked on him. She soothed him, bringing her other hand up to place it on top of his head, burying her finger into the dirty chestnut locks. 

“It’s gonna be ok, Buck.” She whispered, a smile still decorating her face. Bucky decided that even as she lay there dying on the table, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 

“Don’t be sad, the stars are going to shine tonight.” Bucky took a shaky breath, letting his eyes slip close to savor the feeling of her fingers in his hair one last time.

“A-and when you see them, know I am watching over you.” Y/n gasped as her body began shutting down causing Bucky’s eyes to flash open in alarm. Y/n shook her head a bit, a breathy laugh dancing off her lips.

“There is so much to say, so many wonderful things I have to tell you, but with so little time left.” Her voice was only a whisper now, but even as quiet as her words were, she couldn’t hear the jet engine roaring in the background. 

“Like what darlin’?” Bucky whimpered as he watched her eyes grow dull the closer the footsteps got to the door.

“Falling for you was like nothing I imagined.” Her voice started to give out as the door to the safe house burst open, revealing a disheveled Steve and Bruce barreling in, with the rest not far behind. With a final breath, she looked Bucky right in the eye.

“It was coming home.”

       ~~~~~~happy ending after the cut but if you want to be sad stop here~~~~~~~~

The cry that left Bucky as her hands went limp and her eyes slid closed was going to haunt the team for the rest of their lives. Bruce, who had been tending to the wound the first chance he got, looked to the rest of the team.

“She still has a pulse, all be it faint. I know what's wrong with her, we can save her.” 

To Bucky, everything after that was a blur. Steve pulled Bucky away from Y/n and Tony scooped her up, rushing her back to the jet as the rest rushed after him. Back at the compound, Y/n was placed in the med wing as Bruce began treatment. Bucky didn’t understand much other than “Radiation sickness. Uranium on the knife. Nothing he could have done.”

Nothing he could have done? He watched the love of his life basically die in his arms, in his care and there was nothing he could have done? After being forcibly made to shower and change clothes to rid himself of the Uranium on his clothes was he then allowed into her room. He resumed the position he held at the safe house, clutching her hand and waiting for any signs of life, other than the beeping from the monitor. 

Bucky moved his gaze from her face to the window. The light danced off the windows of the other building unfiltered by the cloudless sky. It was beautiful, but he couldn’t appreciate it, it looked dull in comparison to the woman on the bed.

���I thought I told you to not be sad.” Her voice was so soft that Bucky thought he imagined it but when he snapped his gaze to her face, he saw her bright eyes staring right back at him. Bucky choked on a sob and rested his head on the bed. The relief flooding through his system was too much for him to handle. Her nimble fingers took their rightful place on top of his head, brushing through the now silky hair strands.

After a moment, Bucky lifted his head and captured Y/n’s hand as it fell from his head, pressing a kiss into her palm before holding it in his hands. 

“It’s hard not to be sad when the one person who brought life into the darkest parts of my life was dying in my arms.” He returned his gaze to lock onto Y/ns. For a moment the pair sat in silence before Bucky spoke again.

“I thought I lost you.” Y/n just smiled softly, not saying a word. Bucky just stared at her, trying to bask in the warmth of her gaze as long as he could. The more he basked, the more the nightmarish pain of losing her was becoming just that, a nightmare. 

“But I’m still here.” Bucky’s grip increased slightly, fearful that he may hurt her, but needing to feel her to keep himself grounded, keep himself from falling off the edge of reality in the abyss of ‘what ifs’. Bucky had so many things he wanted to tell her, so many different things he could and should say but the only thing that managed to slip out was, “Yeah. Yeah you are.”

[forwards-beckon-rebound]

kiss and cry

summary | you’ve learnt to build your walls sky high in the wake of dick grayson’s abrupt departure from the world of skating. but one decade later, he’s back like nothing ever happened, and you’re back to square one. prompt | language of flowers event: a bouquet of purple hyacinths in blue wrapping paper with a pink ribbon ♡ pairing | dick grayson x gn!reader wc | 3.2k warnings/tags | pairs figure skating, childhood friends to strangers to ???, mutual pining, repressed feelings, angst, swearing, insecurity, no use of y/n, very liberal interpretation of how you’d qualify for the olympics ty @strangergraphics for the divider!

Brian Orser is a liar. 

“Oh c'mon kid, I had no idea. I thought this was a good kind of surprise! You might have a chance at the Olympics this time around!”

You should’ve known something was up when he asked you to stay after practice. The old man is annoyingly close to catching up with you, and if you weren’t wearing skate guards right now, you’d speed walk to the lockers faster. 

“Isn’t this good? You need a new partner, Dick finally decided to call me back, and anyways, I thought you l-”

You don’t need to hear the rest of his sentence to know what he’s about to say. “I didn’t. And I don’t anymore.” Neither of you seem convinced, but at least it gets him to shut up. 

What pains you the most is you can’t even be mad at the older man. You can’t cry, or scream, or throw a tantrum like you were 9 again, because at the end of the day, this is the coach you had begged to take you on. The one who has been behind so many legends and basically built your career up from the ground. Had this been any other situation, any other person, besides the Boy Wonder himself, you would probably be on the verge of much happier tears. But you know, just like last time, he won’t be here to stay. And you don’t know how much more heartbreak you can take.

Before you get the chance to talk him out of it, a pair of footsteps joins you. Speak of the fucking devil.

It’s like they had planned some flanked attack, with Brian herding you towards the front of the building and Dick stepping in to cut you off as you’re about to make your grand escape. No idea, your ass. Brian knew you wouldn’t be able to say no if they had you cornered like this.

“Dick!” he exclaims, pushing past you to wrap the black-haired man in bear hug. Normally, you think you’d be hurt by how his face is practically illuminating (he had never greeted you like that before). But you have your own worries to deal with: namely, a heart that is currently trying to claw its way out of your throat and lungs that have forgotten how to inhale air. You think Brian might still be speaking, but if he is, you’ve tossed that all to the side in lieu of studying the man in front of you.

You make it a point not to meet his gaze, even as you feel him trying to meet yours. Perhaps it’s pride, perhaps it’s fear, but either way, you know as soon as you look at him, properly look at him, any objectivity will fly out the door.

So you settle for the obvious things. He’s taller, and his face is sharper, no longer rounded by baby fat. Even the spiky haircut you used to tease him for is grown out now. He looks good—but nothing like the boy you have enshrined in your memories. This isn’t the boy who would stay behind to help you practice your jumps. This isn’t the boy who would pack an extra lunch for you in case you forgot yours. This isn’t the boy you cried yourself to sleep over for months, the boy who almost made you quit the one thing you loved most in the world because the thought of skating alone made you want to hurl.

This? Him? It’s just a bitter reminder that figure skating wasn’t the only thing he left behind all those years ago. 

You think you hear the two of them discuss the technical details. Practice schedules, song choices, choreography—it all goes in one ear and out the other. It’s a conversation you have with the older man at the start of every season. An annual promise that that year would be the year you finally earn the recognition you had worked so hard for. 

Technically, everything had been perfect. Technically, you were good. Enough to consistently land a spot at the Grand Prix Final.

But not good enough for a medal. It was never enough. No matter how much training you did, how many extra jumps you crammed into your programs, how many partners you had cycled through. There was no use in denying it: after Dick had left, you hadn’t been the same skater.

It’s pathetic. Your crush had not only abandoned you at 14, but any hopes of even making it to the podium had been crushed then as well. And you hate that 10 years later, you still haven’t moved on. Not enough to say no to his offer. Because like it or not, chemistry is everything in pairs, and there’s nobody like him. There is nobody like Dick Grayson.

It’s silent now. They’re waiting for you. 

You finally look up to meet his gaze. “Okay, I’ll do it.” 

—

It’s too easy to fall back into step with Dick. He always greets you with a smile, brings you snacks before practice (homemade ones at that), and carries your bag to your car for you, even though you insist that you’re more than capable of doing it yourself. He’s certainly trying, but the more effort he puts in, the more you can’t help but resent him. 

His kindness is all just a means to an end for him. He’s buttering you up so your movements are less goddamn stiff when you’re next to him, so you at least vaguely resemble an evenly matched pair. You know from Brian that he’s only coming back because of a stupid bet he made with his brother. He’s just here to prove he can make it to the Olympics. Your childhood dream, what you’ve decided would be the sign that you’ve made it—to him, it’s just another achievement he can use to inflate his ego. The worst part about it is he’s good enough that he could genuinely make it happen that effortlessly. And once he’s satisfied with that, he’ll waltz out of your life just as quickly as he came in. 

So when he offers you a hand as you step out of the rink, when he happens to have an extra energy drink, when he suggests a “team bonding” dinner, you don’t accept. You’ll let yourself entertain him on the ice for the sake of the skate. But nothing more. 

At the very least, you can admit that your performance aspect has definitely improved since skating alongside Dick. You breeze through Eastern Regionals, then Skate Canada, then Skate America, and in no time at all, you’re at the Grand Prix Final: the one barrier you’ve always hit. 

The short goes even better than you imagined it would. Too good. You’ve seen the posts that the fans have made about the two of you, digging up old skating clips to support their theories about the two of you. There’s a poorly worded interview by Brian that does nothing but fuel the flames, and even some of the commentators have been talking about how good the two of you look together. All signs seem to be telling you that you have nothing to worry about; the two of you are perfect. They don’t understand that that’s exactly what you’re worried about. 

You don’t catch yourself until it’s too late. You’re slowly getting consumed by him—by his soft smiles and whispers of encouragement and stupid, stupid puns. You’re back where you started, feeling weightless as the two of you skate your free program, actually losing yourself to the music. There’s nothing to prove anymore; this isn’t a performance—this is just how it’s always meant to be. It should feel right. But it doesn’t, because you’re terrified that if you let yourself get comfortable in his embrace, you won’t be able to skate like this ever again.

You pop the triple Lutz. Then you go into an Euler and a double toe loop that’s under-rotated too. You don’t understand, your jumps have always been pristine, especially your doubles. You haven’t made a sloppy mistake like this in a while. The last time was when–

Shit, you’re too early into the step sequence, the turn too sharp at the corner. You meet his gaze repentantly, like that will absolve you of your guilt. You don’t know what emotion you’re expecting to find in eyes. Maybe anger? Frustration? That’s certainly how you feel at the moment. Whatever it is, it’s certainly not adoration. 

You want to ask him what the hell is going on, but there’s no time. Last move. Death spiral. You have to hold hands, and the contact makes your skin burn. You don’t have the heart to look at him again. You’re afraid of what you’re going to find.

Suddenly everything feels too tight: the rink, your chest, the skates around your feet. You have to get out of there. One revolution, two, three, four. You can hold on, it’s almost over. Another four. He pulls you back towards him. It’s your final pose. The two of you are chest to chest. 

You just have to hold this for a second, and then you’re free. You can do it. You can do it. And then he’s leaning in even closer, until his forehead is pressed against yours and your lips hovering over each other. 

You can’t do it anymore and all you can think about is how to get out of there. You don’t even bother to wait for your score; you’ll deal with Brian’s scolding later. But you know if you stay out there any longer, you won’t be able to scrape together what little sanity you still have left. 

You’re leaving. You have to leave.

And as you run back to the lockers, you realize somebody’s been calling out your name.

“Hey, wait! Is everything okay?” Of course, the one person you don’t want to see would follow you. “Why did you leave like that? Did I do something wrong?” His hand hovers over your arm for a moment before he pulls it away and you don’t know whether you should laugh or cry. He used to do it with practiced ease back when you were kids, when you would joke that he had cooties but let him do so all the same. Now, you’re not sure if you can stand his touch, and from the look on his face, it seems to break his heart.

”Nothing, let’s just forget about this.” You feel like you’re being strangled and it takes all of your energy not to burst into tears at the moment. 

”No,” he says softly. “No, I know you, I know you’re not okay. Please, let’s talk about this.” 

And suddenly, everything’s just too much. He’s acting too nice to you, like he actually cares. Like maybe the fervent glances and lingering touches on the ice mean more to him than just pandering to the judges. But you know he doesn’t, because then he wouldn’t have left.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “No, you don’t know a single thing about me. So don’t act like you care about me now.”

”I do though!” 

“Bullshit. We’re not anything to each other.” 

His face crumples immediately. He takes a step back. This is the closest he’s ever been to tears.

On a kinder day, you’d take it all back. You’d apologize and beg for his forgiveness and he would be disgustingly kind like he always is and you could both forget about this. But you’re tired of dancing around the issue and you think there’s a sick part of you that revels in his pained expression. 

You take a step forward. “You’re just a coworker. This? This act where we pretend like we can stand to be in the same room as each other? This isn’t real. So stop acting like it is. You didn’t care about me when you left. So why the change now? Do you know how fucking hard it was for me to move on? I couldn’t even skate afterwards. I thought my career was over. And I’ve had to fight every single day to prove that—that I’m still a capable skater, that I have a place in this sport.” 

Your voice trembles, and it takes all of your strength to swallow the lump in your throat. “I had to fight to be able to skate without you. To have the courage to stand on the ice alone. So I’m sorry that I’m not willing to welcome you back with open arms, because I know this is just some stupid game to you. You’ll get to the Olympics, because of course you will, and I’ll get to ride on the coattails of that. And that will be the greatest moment of my career, but to you, it’s just another thing on your checklist. Then you’ll go back to whatever you decided is more worthy than m–” You choke on your own words. “Than skating. And I’ll have to pick up the broken pieces again. But frankly speaking, I don’t know if I can do that a second time.”

It’s dead silent, save for your panting. You feel like you just ran a marathon. And Dick? You can’t read him, and that’s what scares you the most.

”Forget it.” The silence is driving you insane, and you just start running your mouth. “Fuck, forget it. I should just be grateful you’re even my partner this season. It’s the only way I’ll make it to the Olympics. I know you’re thinking it, you and Brian—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—that’s why you left, isn’t it? Didn’t want to be tied down to a pathetic fucking loser.”

“I never said th—”

”I can’t blame you. I’d leave me too—“

“I DIDN’T LEAVE YOU!” 

Now you’re both silent. You’ve never heard him raise before. You’ve never seen him this desperate either. He’s shaking as he stands in front of you. “You’re right, I didn’t care about skating. It was always just a hobby to me. But I stayed because of you. Because I was young and stupid and in love and the only way I knew how to show you that was to skate with you. And it killed me when I had to quit, but I just…I saw how much passion you had for skating. Like it was the air you needed to breathe, but I knew I couldn’t dedicate myself to the sport like you could.. And you deserved a partner who would love skating as much as you do.”

You think your brain short circuits after “in love,” and if he says anything else after that, you certainly aren’t processing it. “…You loved me?”

Dick laughs like you’ve just asked if water is a liquid. ”Of course I did. Everybody knew it too. Brian used to tease me about the way I would look at you. And I figured I would finally tell you after I quit, in case it would make things awkward, but then…”

“I blocked you.” You whisper in horror. 

“Yeah, so I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me after that. I didn’t realize quitting meant I would lose you too.” 

And suddenly you’re 14 again, watching the boy you’ve had a crush on for over half of your life tell you that he doesn’t want to skate anymore, and you feel so small and so stupid. “Oh god. So all of those years…”

He nods, “I lied about the Olympics thing. Or well, I really did have a bet with Jason, but when Brian told me that you needed a new partner…I came back hoping it would be a chance to make it up to you.”

You’re still having a hard time wrapping your head around the fact that maybe Dick had genuinely been trying to make amends with you. “So you being nice wasn’t just for show or team-building or whatever?”

“Team-building? God, I don’t think there’s a world where I can love you in any other way.”

The first realization that he had loved you in the past had been enough to nearly give you a heart attack. But to hear love? In the present tense? You think back to how he’s been acting for the past few months. All of the weird incidents that you can’t just explain away by saying that he’s making fun of you or being civil to you as a teammate or just being nice because that’s how he is. 

Because there’s no other explanation for why he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, why he lifts you with a reverence that could rival the likes of Keats and Byron, why he lingers on the ice after every practice, like he’s chasing the last vestiges of your warmth. 

And you have so many words dancing on the tip of your tongue, ways in which you can lay down your heart for him as he has done for you. But both of you know that even this stolen moment is just that: stolen time.

”Shall we go back?” He offers you his hand evenly, but there’s a tremble in his voice that gives him away. Like he’s worried that even after all of this, there was a universe in which you still don’t reciprocate his feelings. 

Your heart is screaming at you to assure him, promise that yes of course, you would accept him. But the words evaporate from your mind before you have a chance to grasp onto them. So you hope that at the very least, your actions can convey a fraction of your feelings. Hand in hand, you make your way back to the rink. No matter what the result is, you think it’ll be alright if you have Dick’s shoulder to cry on after this is all over. 

—

“And with a free score of 129.44 and a final score of 205.57, that puts America’s own duo from Gotham at third place in the Grand Prix Final!” 

Third, the word echoes in your head, taking you a few moments to process. Third, and there were no other American teams on the podium. Sure, it isn’t exactly the most fairytale ending, but it’s better this way—more real. You turn to look at Dick, who you’re sure has the exact same look of astonishment that you do. You remember Brian doing the math before you guys had even made it to the venue. Based on this event and the rest of your results this season, it was clear that the two of you were the uncontested pair in the whole country. 

“You’re going to the Olympics!” Brian whoops, hugging the both of you and jumping for joy in a way you think only he can get away with. You’re grinning so hard your muscles are starting to twitch but honestly you could care less about that. All of the training, all of the sleepless nights had finally paid off, and you felt like you had really, truly made it. And the fact that you did it with Dick makes it all the sweeter to you. 

You got a medal, a boyfriend, and that day, the kiss and cry finally lived up to its name.

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[scary-grace]

The Yawning Grave - a Shigaraki x F!reader fic

Tomura and his friends might look like a team of paranormal investigators, but they're actually professional hoaxers -- every episode of their hit show has been faked. The episode they're filming in an abandoned town in a temperate rainforest is no different. At least at first. Rated T trending M in later chapters, found footage horror tropes, filmmaker!Tomura. Title/chapter headings based on The Yawning Grave by Lord Huron.

omens and signs

Tomura wakes up slowly, but he’d rather not be awake at all – and what he hears when the grogginess starts to fade doesn’t do much to change that impression. “I’m not pulling over again, Dabi. Take your Dramamine.”

“How am I supposed to take my Dramamine if I can’t stop hurling long enough for it to work?”

“Maybe we should pull over long enough for Dabi to take his Dramamine and then digest it,” Twice suggests. “No, that’s a bad idea. Let’s make him throw up until he’s empty and we don’t have to stop again.”

“How about we don’t do any of that,” Toga says. Her voice sounds sweet, but Tomura knows just as well as anybody what she sounds like when she’s about to cut a bitch, and it’s a little too close for comfort. “Dabi, keep your mouth closed. Spinner, don’t floor it around the curves. Jin, don’t laugh. Tomura, don’t –”

Tomura pretends he’s asleep. Toga reaches into the backseat and punches him in the arm, at which point he sits upright in a hurry. “What?”

“Tell Spinner to drive slower,” she says, smiling at him, “and tell Dabi to stop talking.”

“Stop talking,” Tomura says to Dabi. Dabi gives him both middle fingers, way, way up. “Spinner has to drive fast. We need to be there and setting up camp by nightfall.”

“Yeah. Otherwise our nighttime shaky-cam breakdowns won’t be anywhere near as scary.”

“Right.” Tomura doesn’t need to be awake for this. He can film a found-footage documentary hoax in his sleep.

Tomura used to be into debunking this stuff. Then he realized that he could make a hell of a lot more money faking it, and have a lot more fun in the bargain. Now, instead of trying to prove that reality really is as boring as it looks, Tomura and his friends have turned their professional skeptic side-hustle into a full-time business faking the stuff they used to debunk. And because Tomura’s still a skeptic at heart, he knows how to skeptic-proof his hoaxes.

First step: Pick a spot that’s no more than locally famous. Find some local legends – there are always at least a few. Case the joint, figure out what type of haunting or infestation would be the most believable, and then make it look and sound as real as possible. Sometimes that means wholesale making shit up, which is fine. Tomura and his crew have gotten called out plenty of times, but they’ve never been caught before.

“I don’t know, guys,” Twice says as Spinner takes another curve at slightly less than warp speed. “I feel weird about this one. That guy at the gas station acted like we were nuts.”

“Gas station guys always act like that.”

“Not exactly like that.” Dabi sounds like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “He said it was a paper town. Named after that book. But I looked it up before Spinner started auditioning for fucking Formula One, and it’s been on the map since before the book was published.”

The book – ’Salem’s Lot, by Stephen King. Tomura read it, liked it, and then, when he was scanning maps looking for a place to plan the next hoax, he spotted it. A rain-drenched dot on the map, in America’s Pacific Northwest, labeled Jerusalem’s Lot. Same as the town in the book that gets overrun by vampires. “So he named the book after this place,” Tomura says, and Dabi twists around to glare at him. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re getting spooked.”

“Twice is right. There was something weird about that guy,” Dabi says. “We spooked him, not the other way around. There’s something going on here that –”

Spinner zips around another bend in the road, and Dabi scrambles to roll the window down. “He does have a point,” Toga says, like there’s not rain and wind whipping through the car and Dabi gagging like a cat with a hairball. “There aren’t legends about this place or anything. We’ve gotten the dumb-college-kid treatment a million times –”

“Which is dumb,” Spinner puts in. “We’re not in college.”

Toga ignores him, too. “But that guy looked surprised at first. Then he looked nervous. And he said something weird.”

“Play it back,” Tomura instructs. Toga digs out the camera.

Gas station guy looks like every other gas station guy they’ve encountered, but as Toga plays it back, Tomura watches the same emotions she named cross his face. Surprise, then nerves. “Salem’s Lot is a paper town.” There’s a pause. “Ain’t nothing living up there that’s human.”

“Nice work getting that line out of him,” Tomura tells Toga, who was doing the interview. “It’ll be great for the promos.”

“Nothing living up there that’s human. He could just mean animals,” Twice pipes up. “The more rural it is, the weirder everybody talks. Remember those old guys with the accents?”

Even the films Tomura’s made in rural Japan has featured old guys with accents. They’re practically a genre staple. “It’s true. People use different syntax in rural areas than in the city,” Spinner says. “Still, though. It’s –”

Dabi pulls his head back in through the window and rolls it up. “It’s easy to hear that line as meaning that there’s something inhuman in ’Salem’s Lot.”

“Which is why it’s perfect,” Tomura says. “Don’t crack up on me. Any of you. If something had happened here, there’d be legends about it. Local myths. Something other than an old guy at a gas station talking about paper towns.”

“There’s one reason why there wouldn’t be legends,” Spinner says from the front seat. “If nobody made it out alive.”

Tomura doesn’t expect that kind of shit out of his crew, and for a split second, he wonders if there’s anything to what they’re saying. Then he spots the blinking red light of one of their pocket cameras, and a mic settled down in the hood of Toga’s jacket, and swears. “You all think you’re fucking hilarious, don’t you?”

“You should have seen your face,” Twice wheezes. “We got you so good –”

“How much of it did you just make up?” Tomura snaps. “Did you bribe that old guy while I was taking a leak?”

“No, he just said it,” Toga says. “All the stuff we said is true. And if it spooked you for a second, Tomura-kun, it’s definitely going to spook the audience.”

She’s right. Still, Tomura doesn’t like ending up on the wrong end of a hoax, and he’s pretty sure he knows whose idea this was. “Did you fake being carsick, too?”

“Did I fool you?” Dabi asks – and then Spinner whips around a corner too fast, and Dabi lunges for the window again. The carsickness is for real. Tomura wonders if he can convince Spinner to drive even faster.

They make it to Jerusalem’s Lot just past four o’clock, which leaves them enough daylight to poke around, record some B-roll, and get a few exterior shots in. The guy at the gas station was bullshitting them – there’s clearly a town up here. Houses, a main street, buildings, streetlights, all of it well on its way to being swallowed up by the rainforest. “How fast do you think stuff like this grows in?”

“These are all native plants,” Spinner says from where he’s crouched down, examining a nest of ferns. “This is their optimal environment. So if nobody was cutting them back, this could happen in – a few years, maybe. Most of these buildings are wood. If we came back fifteen years from now, there’d probably be nothing left.

Which means it can’t have been abandoned for very long – well within living memory. Tomura rolls his shoulders, limbering up. “Let’s find an establishing shot and get this done.”

Tomura calls the big shots, but everybody else fills in with smaller ones they think they might need in the editing process. Tomura puts up with two or three extra shots from everybody before they refocus. He should have written a script. What’s going to come out of his mouth is probably going to be pretty stupid.

“I’m Shigaraki Tomura. We’re the League of Villains. Today we’re investigating Jerusalem’s Lot, an American small town – which, according to the locals, doesn’t exist.”

They asked one local. They’ll go back with the camera on the way out and bother some people until they pick up enough footage to make it look like they’re trying to hide something instead of just trying to get away. This is where they’ll splice in Gas Station Guy with his creepy comment. “As you can see behind me, Jerusalem’s Lot is very real – or it was. Join us as we try to figure out what happened here, and if there’s anything alive in Jerusalem’s Lot after all.”

“Nice, boss,” Twice remarks. It’s a good thing it’s cold out. Tomura gets sweaty when he’s on camera, and he needs to air his armpits out. “The mic might have gotten fuzzy because of the wind, but we can dub over it in post, easy.”

“I like the lighting out here,” Toga says. “There are some holes in the canopy where sun will get through. If it’s ever sunny.”

“It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow,” Spinner says, shivering. “It better be. I’ll freeze to death.”

Dabi rolls his eyes. “Sure you will.”

“I will. And then you guys will probably use my body to jazz up a shot, because you all suck –”

Tomura tunes them out and goes picking his way up what was probably the main street of ’Salem’s Lot. He’s visited a lot of small towns, even more ghost towns, but there’s something different about this place. Maybe it’s all the greenery. Ghost towns in other places fall to dust. It’s not usual to see one that’s actively being eaten alive – or dead – by the woods. People lived here. People either got up and left or they died here. The former, almost always. Tomura identifies a couple houses that look semi-structurally sound as potential filming spots for tomorrow, then makes his way back to the others.

Coming to Jerusalem’s Lot was the right choice, and as they set up camp and build a fire, the League’s mood is good. Unusually good, given the conditions they’re camping out in. “I think this one is going to be awesome,” Toga says, the firelight glinting off her teeth. “This place would be spooky even without the buildings. All the moss and lichen – and the fog –”

“We could do a haunting for this place,” Spinner suggests. “Ghosts and stuff. We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Yeah, the last time was that mansion in New Hampshire,” Twice says. Then he frowns. “We didn’t have to fake that one.”

No, they didn’t. They all saw things in that house, enough for them to scrap the episode and not come back. Tomura has a strict hoaxes-only rule these days. “Ghosts are easy to do in post-production, but for a town this size, we’d need to fake multiple ghosts,” Dabi says. “And if we have that many ghosts, we have to explain where they came from.”

“Maybe an epidemic?” Toga suggests. “We haven’t done disease in a while, either.”

“That would be tough to pull off, unless we invented something,” Tomura says. “They don’t have the Ebola virus up here.”

Nobody likes it when Tomura mentions the Ebola virus. He sees their expressions and decides to pay them back a bit for their bullshit earlier. “There’s always plague, though. Pneumonic and septicemic plague could both kill fast enough that they wouldn’t have had time to get help.”

“Then we should keep an eye out for skeletons tomorrow,” Spinner says. “And somebody’s gonna need to hold Twice’s hand so he doesn’t freak out and drop the camera. Again.”

“That was one time!”

“We can’t fake skeletons,” Dabi says. “We can fake creatures.”

Tomura rolls his eyes. “You know how hard it is to fake creatures. What would we even fake around here?”

“Vampires,” Twice offers. “Like that book.”

“That would be really hard to fake,” Toga remarks. “Isn’t there some kind of cryptid that’s native to this place? Something tall and furry?”

“Yeah, it’s like a –” Tomura thinks back on his notes. “Sasquatch. Or a Bigfoot.”

“We can’t use that,” Spinner says at once. “It sounds too goofy.”

“Yeah, the airport kiosks were selling it on t-shirts,” Twice agrees. “No vampires. No big furry guys. So that leaves – uh –”

“We could try crawlers,” Toga suggests, and Dabi starts to argue. “I know we’ve used them before, but – why can’t there be different subspecies? Crawlers in a temperate rainforest wouldn’t look anything like crawlers in the Andes mountains.”

It’s quiet for a second. “If you guys are going to make me wear the crawler suit again, I want overtime,” Spinner mutters, and Dabi grins across the campfire. “So what are we doing tomorrow, then – film documentary stuff in the morning, crawler stuff in the afternoon?”

“Works for me.” Tomura yawns. “I’m tired. Don’t forget to put the fire out.”

Inside his tent, Tomura sets up his personal camera to record. He’s not sure if everyone else does, too, but they’re supposed to – to pick up any weird things that happen during the night, any inexplicable sounds or shadows, whether they wake up to it or not. Usually it just catches him tossing and turning, and he deletes the footage in postproduction. Tomura unzips his sleeping bag, shuts off his camping lantern, and closes his eyes. This shoot is going to go well. There’s enough here for a solid hoax. Aside from Spinner in a crawler suit, they’re not going to have to make anything up.

Tomura sleeps solidly, straight through the night. He wakes up without an alarm, better rested than usual, and fumbles for his phone, which he’s pretty sure he left on the pillow next to him. The phone’s not there, but something else is, something small and cold and metal. When Tomura blinks sleep out of his eyes, lifts it to inspect it, he finds that it’s a heart-shaped locket, clinging to life on a frail chain.

Tomura’s friends are going to be on their bullshit for this entire shoot, it looks like. Still, the locket’s a nice touch, and if they fuck with the shot of Toga planting it on Tomura’s pillow, they can make it look like it appeared out of nowhere. Even if they’ve decided on crawlers, it won’t hurt to wave a red herring about ghosts.

But when he shows it to Toga, he gets a blank look and nothing else. “I didn’t put that there. I’ve never seen it before.”

Tomura’s about to tell her to cut the bullshit when he realizes that Dabi’s camera is on. No way is Toga dropping the story while she’s being filmed, and Tomura might as well play along. “Take a look at it. Maybe it’ll give us a clue about what happened here.”

“Hmm.” Toga lifts the locket out of Tomura’s hand and starts inspecting it between sips of coffee. “14-karat gold – not bad, but not over-the-top expensive. It’s on a box chain, which is interesting. They’re not as common as other varieties of chain, but they’re sturdy. See how tightly they’re interlocked? Something like this wouldn’t break easily. And the clasp’s still intact. The person who owned this took it off on purpose.”

She glances up at Tomura, eyes exaggeratedly wide. “What’s inside it?”

By this point, they’ve drawn Spinner and Twice over. They and Tomura hover over Toga’s shoulders as she pries the locket open. “There are photos,” she starts, and then her shoulders slump, her voice going small. “This was a kid’s. A little girl’s.”

Toga’s the best actor on the team. The rest of them need to take lessons. “How do you know?”

“On this side –” Toga holds it up, and Spinner digs up his phone to zoom in. “There’s a picture of two people. Based on their age, I’m guessing they’re her parents. And on the other side – that’s her dog.”

“Right. An adult would have photos of their spouse,” Dabi says from across the fire. “Or their kids. Parents and dog says kid. How do you know it’s a girl?”

“How many boys do you know who’d wear a heart-shaped locket?”

Dabi starts ribbing Toga for being sexist, and she argues back that he wouldn’t wear a locket if she paid him, and under cover of an argument that’s only half-staged, Tomura inspects the locket a little closer. It’s definitely a dog on one side of the locket, some goofy mutt-thing with bright eyes and floppy ears, and looking at it pulls Tomura’s vocal cords tight. He’d maybe have worn a locket as a kid, if his sister or somebody else had given him one. And he’d definitely have put a photo of his dog in it.

But Tomura’s got a couple screws loose. His family made that crystal clear. He snaps the locket shut, then cuts off Toga and Dabi’s stupid argument. “Hey. How old do you think this is?”

“Um –” Toga studies it. “Not an antique. More than ten years, less than thirty.”

“That’s within the time frame,” Spinner says. “How did it end up on your pillow?”

Tomura’s getting tired of this bit. He waits a second or three, then calls cut. “We have a lot to do today. Let’s get going.”

They have an evidence bin for stuff that shows up on shoots, but since the locket’s a joke his friends are playing, Tomura doesn’t feel bad about pocketing it. They left it for him, anyway. Tomura wonders what’s gotten into his friends. They’re a lot more into this shoot than they’ve been on other ones, but maybe that’s a good thing. If there’s one thing Tomura’s work has taught him, it’s that every good hoax needs a small piece of truth at the center of it. The expression Dabi’s camera probably caught on his face when he opened the locket is a good start.

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @lvtuss @deadhands69 @xeveryxstarfallx @cheeseonatower @agente707 @warxhammer @handumb @atspiss @f3r4lfr0gg3r @shikiblessed @evilcookie5 @dance-with-me-in-hell @babybehh @boogiemansbitch @baking-ghoul @minniessskii @issaortiz @aslutforfictionalmen @lacrimae-lotos @stardustdreamersisi @koohiii

[see-arcane]

Do you think a Dracula adaptation set in the modern day could work?

It'd need some logistical tweaking. Lots of updating in the tech department.

Considering the speed at which transactions and travel happen and how the surveillance state has expanded, there'd need to be some major tweaks in how Dracula and the Drac Attack Pack operate through their respective roles.

There'd definitely be good scare potential in discovering Dracula is literally impossible to capture by camera or voice recording; a fact that might be hinted at early on when this esteemed client refuses/is unable to do anything so simple as phone or video call with Hawkins. Everything is down to text and human go-betweens to get around the technological barrier. Jonathan could have a heart-stopping moment when

Trying to sneakily record via phone leads to Dracula never appearing and his voice being static -> Jonathan has to keep things on paper, old school

He wakes up one day to find all of his tech missing alongside the traveling paraphernalia. Not enough that the weather/castle aura keeps blocking any signal. Everything is just gone.

Bonus points if it's Jonathan's smartphone that gets the shaving mirror treatment, and young Mr. Harker has to watch his employer-captor hurl his actual phone out the window where it shatters into meaningless plastic on the stone.

Fun times.

It'd also be interesting to stretch Stoker's original 'vampires can't be depicted' idea and expand that to the gang literally being incapable of using electronics to type out or record anything about Dracula. Some magic interference keeps either glitching things out, or worse, turning the computers into dead bricks. They have to resort to paper and analog recording.

Other bells and whistles would need to be addressed, other character dynamics switched up for the 21st century, but I think it could be done

[junkiepunkie]

The kissing thing - Jegulus

Regulus hadn't meant for Remus to find out about his thing for James, but after a horribly awkward incident during one of their study groups when James had shown up and helped with a few charms questions (not that Regulus needed help, it was all a ploy), he had been caught staring, and Remus would not let it go.

"Is it because he did that thing? Because if it's that, I've got to warn you-"

"Thing?" Regulus asked.

He braced himself for some horrid news about death and ruin and straightness, all of the terrible things he hoped James would never face, but Remus' answer was somehow worse than all of that.

"Oh. You don't know about the kiss thing yet do you?"

"the kiss thing?"

Now Regulus was panicking, and Remus could see it, he shut both their books over in the hushed air of the library at midnight and looked into the younger boys eyes.

"Reg, don't panic, but James, well... James is convinced soulmates are a thing and, god this is awkward, the way James thinks you find your soulmate... is by kissing them."

Regulus nodded slowly. Okay that wasn't that bad, kind of sweet actually-

"And so far, he's 'tested' about seventy people."

"SEVENTY PEOPLE?!?!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days had passed since the day he had found out James' soulmate 'thing' and Regulus had felt perpetually sick ever since. Remus had explained it in part, James had heard him and Sirius discussing the magic of their first kiss, and the idea had come to him that that was the way to be certain who he was meant to be with. It's not that Regulus cared what people did in their own free time with their own bodies, but merlin, the thought of James with anyone else made him want to die on the spot. Of course, now that he could barely look at him James was desperate for his attention.

At breakfast, he had greeted James with a nod from across the hall only for James to get up and eat at the slytherin table, much to the horror of Sirius and Peter and the absolute knowing glee of Remus. James had bullshitted an excuse of course, something about getting to know the enemy quidditch team's techniques and ways to prank Snape, both things he could have just bribed Barty for information on (Barty was famously easy) and yet he only talked to Reg, leaving the poor boy shaking like a leaf.

In Potions too -Regulus had been moved up a year for his excellence- James seemed to flock to him in every single moment of silence and, much to Regulus' horror, stood close enough to smell. The broom polish and pine scent both made his heart pound and his flipping stomach settle, and when James' hair ever so slightly grazed Regulus' arm when he ducked to pick up his dropped quill, the younger boy had almost simply collapsed entirely.

It was the after dinner walk that had tipped Regulus over the edge. There he was, just trying to enjoy a brisk walk in chill of the early winter, when he had been accosted with a cloak, thrown over his entire being with such speed that for a moment he was back in the family residence being shoved backwards into the cloakroom and locked in for the day in the blackest of black without so much as a candle. The scream that left his mouth at the memory was instinctive.

"Reg! Reg?!" The cloak was hurled away from him to reveal a horrified James Potter. "Hey, Reg I'm so sorry. I've got you, you're safe, I've got you."

Regulus was crying and he knew it. It had been just long enough that he had managed to drive off the memories of home for the school year, but he couldn't stop his most primal of reactions to the thought of reliving the torture. Still, seeing James and his big hazel eyes did help ground him. Certainly, he wouldn't have stopped crying nearly as soon without said eyes boring into his own.

James waited until Regulus' gasps of air and heaving sobs turned into sniffing and wiping stray tears and then softly lowered them both to the ground. They were just ten feet from the shallowest point of the black lake now, a nice view all things considered.

"I'm sorry." Regulus managed to croak out, still wiping his wet face.

James doe eyes widened somehow in response.

"You're sorry? Reg, I scared the light out of you because I thought you looked cold. I should be the sorry one."

This brought a smile to Regulus' face.

"You threw a cloak over me because you thought I was chilly?"

James grinned. "Can't have you getting sick now can I? Without you my potions grades would... well actually they'd be better."

A slither of Regulus' pride had returned by now, so he took this for an insult.

"Excuse me? I'm the best in the class!" he insisted.

James laughed gently.

"Yeah, you are." he stated "But every time I look at you I forget where I am and I can't get the work done."

Everything in Regulus' mind stopped working for a second. What? James had been looking at him? James LIKED looking at him? Oh dear lord, James was distracted by him.

"Now come on, I'm hardly that interesting."

James rolled his eyes.

"Are you kidding? Reg, you might be the most interesting person in the world. You're so kind, but you don't let people see it, you're so beautiful but you hide behind your fancy robes, you're- You cry over cloaks which is SO interesting because who in the world does that-"

Regulus didn't want to cut him off, he never wanted James to shut up in the slightest, but he had to do it, he had to ask, lest his heart explode and his lips lay unused.

"Are you going to test me or what?"

James stopped his rambling and shot Regulus a look of confusion.

"Test?"

Regulus smirked.

"You know, that thing you do, kiss people to test if there's a chance they're the one."

James just stared at him and slowly but surely Regulus began to panic again. Had Remus lied to him? Was James really flat out not even curious if he was the one? Was he that unappealing??

As if James could hear the thought spiral he grabbed Regulus' hand and placed it over his chest, over his heart.

"Reg, first of all I don't know who told you about that test but that was definately a secret I was meant to die with."

"Remus" Regulus whispered, in awe of where his hand was.

James smiled at the dazed look on the boys face.

"Of course it was." He sighed. "But Reg, I have done that in a year, and that's because I don't need to anymore. Can you feel that?"

Regulus looked away from James' face -flushed and perfect as always- and down to his hand. He could, indeed, feel it. James' heart was working overtime, pounding like it was trying to escape his ribcage. It sounded a lot like Regulus' own heart did in his ear drums.

"That's the sign, not a kiss like I thought it was for Moony and Padfood, just this." He explained. "Every time I'm around you my chest aches for you. I just- well, Reg I need you. I need you so much i'm going insane. You haven't looked me in the eye until now for three days! Reg I've been going crazy thinking I'm losing you! Which is stupid I know because I haven't even got you in the first pla-"

Regulus grabbed James' shirt with the hand that had been placed there, and yanked the boy forward, connecting their lips with a desperate surge of energy and passion.

James melted into the kiss, his hands finding their respective paths like they had been training for this moment all their lives, one folding into Regulus' hair and the other grasping his waist. Regulus too unfurled, both his hands gripping onto whichever part of James they could as their lips slotted and their spit mixed and Regulus was sure James could taste the salt left by his tears.

When they separated they were red and panting, and James looked high on the taste of Reg.

"I love you." The older boy confessed, his lips plump and freshly familiar.

Regulus smiled the toothy way he had tried to hide from everyone for years.

"I love you too." he breathed and pulled James in for another kiss, this one quicker but just as electric as the last. "Don't ever do that test with anyone ever again. You're mine."

James bit his lip.

"No need to search around, I've found you now."

[justmeexistinghere]

W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T

pt.2 Tension

ˏ*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8

Summary:

Returning to school after a chaotic day, you hope to slip back into the background, but fate has other plans. A run-in with a familiar, sharp-tongued stranger turns routine into a battle of wits and nerves. Sometimes, the real fight begins long before any fists are thrown.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be, slow burn) -> Warnings: mentions of blood, bullying, swearing / strong language, emotional manipulation (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> Wordcount:  2.388  -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first story — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:

Your alarm wakes you up with a pandemonium the next day. You press your pillow to your face after using the snooze button for the second time, still not wanting to get up. You wince as you try to stretch. A dull ache tugging at your shoulders and back. Each movement reminds you how long it’s been since your last workout – the break wasn’t your best idea, but you didn’t plan to push yourself like that anytime soon, right?

By the smell of freshly brewed coffee, you finally motivate yourself to get up and ready for school. Fuck. Where is your second uniform?

You lift yesterday’s uniform and immediately wrinkle your nose. The sharp, metallic tang of dried blood and the sourness of sweat cling to the fabric. You hold it at arm’s length, shuddering – it was definitely not the scent you aim for today. Eww, no chance you would wear that again. Just the thought of it makes you feel sick.

Before tossing it into the laundry, you want to grab your name tag, since you had to attach it to your backup uniform, which you still have to find.

Then you realize – Shit – Yesterday's fight replays in your head... You used it in your fight and didn’t pick it up after. You clench your jaw and hurl the uniform in the laundry basket. The fabric hits it with a dull thud.

And with it, a bit of the anger you’ve been holding onto. Gone.

You find your other uniform shortly after and get ready at full speed, trying to cover up all signs of the fight as good as possible. Even if your dad would definitely love to hear about yesterday’s little ‘sidequest.’ Not. You didn’t want him to skin you alive before enjoying your morning drink, so check yourself again in the mirror.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The smell you sensed earlier gets stronger, the closer you get to the kitchen, where your dad made himself coffee and some toast, he eats appreciatively. Now sitting on his favourite kitchen chair. "Morning, sunshine!" he chirps, like some overly enthusiastic morning bird. You are not in the mood for this kind of energy, and avoid his bright gaze, eyes half-closed. He hands you your coffee as usual, warming your hands, while your lips form a small grin. After the first sip, bitter but comforting, you mumble a barely audible "Morning, dad" into your coffee cup.

You drink it much faster than normally, not caring about the burning pain that hits your throat. That doesn't stay unnoticed by your dad, whose right eyebrow rises without saying anything – yet. He looks at you curiously and finally asks: "Are you in a hurry? Don’t you still have some time? It's Friday and your lessons only start at 9am today, or am I mistaken?" You know he’s used to seeing you like this — grumpy, half-asleep, and only functional after caffeine — but still, today you feel more off than usual. His bites slow down as he waits for an answer. You take the last sip out of your cup, already pointing at the spot where your name tag is usually attached. Then you shortly reply: "Lost it yesterday. I think I know where, so I will take a look before school." Your dad just nods while you already take your leave, saying bye as you’re stepping out the door.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Back at the crime scene, you start looking for your missing name tag. To your surprise, all signs of yesterday's happening were removed. No trace of the chaos you left behind. No bloodstain. No spilled flower soil. Nothing.

Just the faint smell of lavender – probably the shop's cleanser – still fills the air. You start looking for your missing accessory, which seems to be nowhere to be found. Heat creeps into your cheeks, the result of the sudden tension gripping you as you stand here again, empty-handed.

The thought of it being lost — and having to explain how — feels like a kick in your stomach.

No trouble, a mantra you cannot fulfill anymore, you think. Great, now you can only hope the teachers are as unfazed as ever, and no one notices until you get a clue on how you explain your loss.

A sharp voice pulls you out of your thoughts. "Get lost!" The cashier from yesterday evening, differing from his appearance before, more expressive now, but not in a way that makes you feel any better. Perfect.

His arms crossed, a big frown on his face. "I hope you are here to apologize. I had to spend hours cleaning the mess and had to do overtime." Your heart pounds against your ribs, and a queasy feeling spreads through you at the sound of his words. Still, you don’t want to take all the blame. It’s not like you enjoyed redecorating the storefront. Okay — maybe a little, but you just reacted to previous actions. You mumble an apology, but he, on the other hand, barely acknowledges you anymore and just gestures with his hand for you to leave before heading back inside.

You take out your phone. 8:45. Fuck. You have to go – fast.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After an athletic sprint – your sore muscles definitely hadn’t signed up for – you finally slow down, while each step is sending a burn through your legs.

Probably looking like a damn mess, you run your fingers through your hair, trying to make it look at least a little less scarecrow-like. You do your best to blend in with the other students walking beside you—chatting, laughing, or trudging forward with eyes half closed. No questions, no explanations — just make it through the day.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

As you leave the building, you spot a familiar figure leaning against the school gate. That damn smile burned itself into your memory — and with it, the fury that rises every time you think about it. Why was he here? Judging by his uniform jacket, he's a student of Ganghak High School, so what led him here?

While thinking of a way to pass him unnoticed, you look at what he's doing, trying to find out about his motives. He’s playing with something in his hand — you can’t quite tell what it is.

As a boy passes him, his eyes go cold, and he suddenly grabs his collar and slams him against the wall. The scared look on the boy's face speaks volumes. Seems like he knows exactly who he's facing and what could happen if he didn’t do what is demanded. You stop walking, looking at the scene from a safe distance. All of a sudden, the threatened boy looks around, finding your eyes. Your throat tightens, you swallow, loudly, because apparently your body loves dramatic timing.

He says something, and the student from yesterday turns his head directly in your direction. Smiling. You shiver. He looks like a psychopath. Literally. Wtf!

Why were they looking at you like that? Did you have a sign on you that says, "Hey, I'm here! Ready to be your next victim" or something? You don’t know how to feel, but as the bully lets go of the boy, you feel the urge to run – even though you know you wouldn’t get far with your sore muscles. Bad idea.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You decide to lower your head and just walk past him. Easier said than done. As soon as you get near him, you're greeted with the oh-so-kind words, "Hey, sweetheart," followed by a giggle, sharp and mocking. The words hit you like a slap, and goosebumps rise instantly. You roll your eyes in disgust and annoyance, knowing exactly that there is no way out. You square your shoulders and meet his gaze with a cold, steady stare. Hiding isn’t an option anymore.

"What? Don’t you have some fight to get to, or something better to do than hanging around a school that isn’t yours?" you shoot back, your voice icy. A contrast to your boiling blood.

He just grins wider. “Relax, y/n. I’m not here to bite. Not yet, at least.”

Your stomach drops. He shouldn’t know your name. You clench your fists, feeling your whole body tensing. "How-" you start, until he cuts you off by pulling something from his pocket and stretching his arm high above his head. Your name tag. He holds it up like a trophy, like he wants to show it to everyone. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he swings it back and forth, letting the plastic catch the light. Then, he starts drawing out every syllable, reading your name aloud, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You can only watch, speechless, as he toys with your patience.

"Oh, i found this yesterday. You should really keep a closer eye on your things. Or did you leave it on purpose, just for me?” he continues as he saw your reaction, and wanted to play with you some more.

"Give it back" you snap, glare sharp enough to cut.

He shrugs, twirling the tag. “I don’t know… I think it suits me. Besides, after last night’s little performance, I figured I should keep something from the girl who messed with my boys. A little keepsake." His creepy laugh fills the air.

Not in the mood for games, you snort out a breath and turn your head to the side, biting your lip to suppress the rising anger.

When your eyes meet his again, he's already closer—so close his breath brushes your skin as his mouth hovers next to your left ear. "I wanna be nice today," he murmurs, voice low and almost amused."So I'll give it back. This time. But I won't forget your name, y/n." As he talks, his fingers fumble with your jacket, casually attaching the tag back where it belongs.

You feel the eyes of passing students on you, but in that moment, none of it matters. You hold your breath until he finally steps back, gives you a smirk, and turns away – slipping his arm around another guy, someone who must’ve been standing there all along, though you hadn't noticed.

"Nice." If that's what he calls nice, you're screwed.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued... ˏ*⁀➷pt.3

Yayy a new chapter 🥳 I hope you like it and its not too slow for you. I just like a good slow burn..ups...

I already have a concept for pt.3 so stay tuned 😊

If you have feedback, I would be more than glad to hear! Also thinking about some oneshots in the future, but lets see.

picture was generated with AI

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Taglist: @slovesyouuu

comment to be added hehe

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8

[vigilante24ish]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1553

Chapter 23:

With little time to spare, everyone rushed to find thick branches or tree roots they could somehow detach.

Then, they proceeded to wrap it with cords, leaves, or vines; each adding their little own touch to them. At the same time, Lilia was commenting on how she hated the brooms and flying due to how often media associated with witches.

The only one not participating was you, who simply kept guard; ready to blast magic at anything that moved.

When everyone had done the couple ritual, where two witches enchanted and exchanged brooms; only then did they notice you with no broom in hand.

"Wait, Y/N doesn't have a broom," Alice pointed out, earning the coven's attention.

"Can't we make her one?" Teen asked, surprised by the fact that you had remained quiet and broomless.

"Only if we were am even number. We can't give her one of our own brooms, " Jen explained.

You waved your hand dissimively to ease the worries of your coven. "I don't need it either way. I can use my magic to fly, " you explained, earning different expressions from them.

Teen smiled in excitement. "Wait, you can fly with magic?"

Jen scoffed. "Of course you can,"

Alice seemed interested. "If it is a spell that allows you, we should be fine,"

Surprisingly, neither Agatha nor Rio seemed to agree with the idea.

"Absolutely not," Agatha argued. "We need to stick together, and she can't match a broom's speed."

Rio nodded faintly. "Better her riding with someone. She can join me. "

"Safest option is with me." Agatha disagreed, arguing with Rio while you stood not so far away; having no saying even though the topic was about you.

Before anyone else could comment or extend the argument, one of the Salem Seven appeared almost out of thin air; close to Alice and Teen.

The protection witch, though, acted fast and used the broom to smack and attack the corrupted witch; sending them on the ground.

Just then, Lilia took notice of something by the end of her peripheral vision.

"Agatha!" She exclaimed as another Salem Seven witch had appeared and now too close to its original target.

This time, you were faster to react.

Sliding on the muddy ground, you managed to cover the distance between your lover and you. As you pushed your legs to stand up, you extended your left hand and wrapped it around Agatha's waist; pulling her closer to your body that was positioned sideways but also further away from the enemy.

At the same time, white magic had gathered in your right hand, and you extended it forward; placing it on the chest of the cursed witch.

Your magic worked like a powerhouse, causing pain to the mind hired witch while also sending them flying back; quite a distance.

The force and momentum of the attack had even caused a weak wind current that moved some of your strands back while you stood there, holding Agatha by the waist.

Agatha had not expected the blind attack from her sworn enemy, so to speak, and neither your interference. Yet here she was, both hands grasping your upper arm as the sudden pull had her losing her balance; resulting in her slightly leaning back.

She stared at your profile for a moment longer, surprised by your attack but also the position you two were in; momentarily forgetting the grave danger that was approaching.

"How did you do that?" Alice questioned, the first to break the odd silence and also ruin your little mood.

You helped Agatha stand properly and did not fail to glance at Rio first, taking notice of the face she pulled. It was her silent way of saying 'not bad' along with the lines 'I am impressed'.

"I find hurling and throwing your magic from afar rather risky and also makes it easier for the enemy to dodge or block" you explained as you turned to face her, your hand still wrapped around Agatha's waist and her hands still holding your upper arm for dear life. "Instead, unleashing your magic in close quarters has a higher chance of success, and the impact is more powerful."

Teen looked at you as if seeing their idol live on stage, his dark eyes glowing with interest. "Wow," he exclaimed, unable to find where to start his questions.

Jen cleared her throat, having enough of the unnecessary talk. Mind hived witches were after them, and she would love to get as far as possible from the danger.

"Think we can finish this later," she commented. "We need to go,"

"We still haven't decided who will fly with Y/N.

"She can fly with me," Teen said, lifting his hand halfway as he spoke. "I have never used a broom before... I mean an enchanted broom cause I have used normal brooms at home -"

"Enough, kid," Agatha said, lifting her hand to silence him. "Let us go. She flies with you. "

Rio looked at Agatha, clearly not fulling agreeing but said nothing. Instead, she watched you walk towards the teenager, the two of you exchanging a smile.

"Let's do this," you told him as you both held the broom in your hands.

Wasting no more time, you all started to run towards one direction. One by one, everyone jumped on the brooms and mounted them; quickly gaining height.

"Wait! How do I-"

You interrupted the Teen. "On my mark, mount the broom," you instructed, and as Lilia took flight, your chance arrived. "Now!"

Without hesitation, he jumped and mounted the broom. His hands held it for dear life just as you managed to mount the broom right behind him.

"Wow!" He exclaimed as the broom slowly started going up while also gaining more and more speed.

At the same time, you could hear Lilia laughing from joy and Alice having the time of her life, both exprtely navigating the broom.

The ones having he easiest time were Agatha and Rio, who have also taken the lead and had the most experience flying on brooms.

It was hard, at first, with the low branches, and the boy had stated to worry; feeling the loops and sudden moves would throw him off, even if your hands were around his waist.

"Oh, God!" Teen exclaimed.

Lilia was amused. "Try praying to the Divine Mother, kid," he advised the future witch.

Just then, an opening was presented, and one by one, the coven flew up; heading for the night sky.

Teen hesitated, seeing the claw like branches and the fact that he had to fly almost straight up; his mind reminding him of what gravity would do if he tried.

"Please, divine mother," he prayed and dared to closs his eyes as he tried to guide the broom up.

He felt a cold ethereal touch on top of his hands and then the sudden feeling of your stomach dropping while the pressure and change of air hit you all in once.

Thankfully for him, the up way was short and before he knew it; the broom was vertical again, and he could feel the cold night air against his cheek and curly hair.

Opening his eyes, he was left in awe at the beautiful sight of the Red full moon right next to everyone.

He looked down, noticing how small the trees looked, how normal the road seemed, and how fast you were going.

It was then he saw an extra pair of hands placed on top of his, remembering this ethereal feeling of magic he felt when he prayed to the Divine Mother for the first time. He turned to look above his shoulder, seeing you leaning against his back and having a smirk on your face.

"You're welcome, kiddo," you told him, making him smile faintly as a thank you. "Eyes forward and don't you dare close them again"

He nodded. "Yes ma'am"

As the coven flew in formation, Agatha took a moment to breathe the cold air and be reminded of the sense of freedom she had been denied for so long. Broom flying was always so freeing, offering a sensation few things could truly match.

But then she dared to look at her right and saw Rio, in all her supernatural glory, riding that broom; her face screaming confidence and raw power as the wind blew back her hair.

Conflicted and defeated, Agath tried to look at her left and take some comfort in the blood red moon when she noticed you and Teen gaining speed.

You giggled faintly as you were trying to instruct the boy how to hold the broom and how to command it.

At that moment, you seemed to be happy and relaxed, clearly enjoying teaching him. He was also chuckling faintly as he absorbed everything you told him, doing his best to make you proud and show you that he was paying attention.

Agatha could not help but imagine you, being the same to Nicholas had he ever the chance to grow. Spending time with him, teach him the brooms, the stars, and so many things.

Her heart felt heavy, and she did not dare to trail further down that path. Instead, she looked forward again and tried to focus on anything but you with the boy and Rio.

Chapter 24

[spoonfulofmilo]

okay i made a moodboard here, and @omgsuperstarg wanted a fic, so here, 1 year later, is their fic!

my masterlist can be accessed here

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist lmk :)

charles leclerc x male!figure skater!reader

“Charles, I promise you, this is entirely safe.”

“I nearly cut my hand on putting these skates on, mon cheri!”

“There’s a reason that we booked out the entire rink. And that’s because if we didn’t that there would be videos already up now of you,as a ferrari driver, would be all over the internet darling.”

“You’re also famous.”

“I’m not f1 driver famous. Also this is kinda my thing, not your thing, so it’s more common for me to be here.”

“OH FUCK” Charles had barely stepped on the ice and he had already slipped over and was clinging onto the walls for dear life.

“Darling.”

Y/N grabbed Charles’s hands and guided him off the wall. Y/N began skating backwards, slowly, while holding Charles’ hands, helping him slide across the ice. “Now pick up your left leg and then place it down in front of you.”

Charles shook as he did this.

“C’mon darling. It’s okay, it’s all safe. Would I be letting you do this if it wasn’t safe?”

“Yes, but mon cheri, you make it look so much safer when you are doing it all.”

“Okay, just breathe, one foot in front of the other, like walking”

“Except there’s blades on my feet.”

“Just breathe darling, I’ve got you.”

Y/N almost wished that they hadn’t booked the whole rink as he would’ve loved to see the videos of his boyfriend, normally all fearless as he hurled around a track in a car at 300 kilometres per hour, looking like a baby deer and clinging onto dear life onto his boyfriend’s arms as he laughed.

Charles slowly started to get the hang of it, slightly loosening his grip on Y/N’s biceps.

Charles was standing awkwardly in the center of the rink, his arms flailing like a windmill as he struggled to keep his balance. You couldn’t help but chuckle, walking over to him with a reassuring smile.

“You okay there, Charles?” you asked, your voice playful.

“I, uh, I think I’ve forgotten how to walk,” he admitted, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “How do you make this look so easy?”

You gave him a gentle nudge, guiding him toward the edge of the rink. “It takes practice. But don’t worry, we’ll get there. Just relax a bit, okay?”

“I’m trying,” he muttered, but his skates seemed to have a mind of their own, making him wobble slightly. You took his hand and steadied him, your fingers intertwining.

"Alright, Charles, let's start with something simple," you said, pulling him gently towards the middle of the rink. "Just glide, okay? No sharp turns yet, no speed. Just focus on staying balanced."

Charles nodded, still holding onto you for support. He hesitated for a moment, but you offered a warm smile, squeezing his hand in encouragement.

“Trust me, you'll get the hang of it. Just glide with me, follow my lead,” you said softly, your voice calm and soothing. With a little push, you both slowly began to skate together, side by side, with you guiding him through the gentle movements.

As the two of you glided around the rink, you couldn’t help but notice the way Charles kept stealing glances at you, his eyes filled with admiration, and a little awe. Despite his usual confidence, skating was an entirely new world for him, and he looked at you as though you were showing him the secrets of the universe.

“Okay, you’re actually doing really well,” you teased after a few laps, noticing his form had improved slightly. “I’m impressed.”

“I think I’m just following you like a lost puppy,” he grinned sheepishly, his grip on your hand tightening a little. “But I’m getting there, right?”

You nodded, your smile widening. “You’re getting there. Just keep your posture straight, and try to glide more with your legs rather than relying too much on your arms.”

Charles tried to adjust, but still looked like a deer on ice. The sight of him struggling had you biting your lip to keep from laughing. His natural competitiveness kicked in as he tried to be better, but it only seemed to make him wobble more.

"Charles, it's okay," you reassured him, leaning in close. “This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about having fun together."

He chuckled, finally relaxing a little. "I don’t know how you make it look effortless, but I’ll try not to make a fool of myself."

You laughed softly, teasing him. “You know, you might be the fastest guy on the grid, but on the ice, I think I have the advantage.”

That got him laughing as well. “Okay, I see how it is,” he said with a grin, skating closer to you. “I might need to learn a few moves from you after all.”

The two of you shared a few more quiet moments, skating slowly and easily around the rink. Charles' confidence started to build, and by the time you decided to work on a little more advanced technique, he was actually skating beside you without needing to hold on. Still not as graceful as you, but there was a noticeable improvement.

“Well, look at you, all fancy now,” you teased, leaning in for a playful kiss on his cheek.

Charles grinned, his breath warm against your skin. "Thanks for teaching me. Maybe I’ll have a shot at being a figure skater after all.”

You laughed, shaking your head. "Not so fast. You're still a few jumps away from competing with me, Mr. Formula 1."

taglist: @leosxrealm, @tallrock35, @wolf-knights, @janeholt3, @badblondebisexualboy, @ghostking4m, @camelliaflow3r, @koalapastries, @toodeepintofandoms

[staytinyzen]

Pay attention to me

Peter Maximoff x gn Reader

Friends to lovers / fluff

word count: ~1k

You’re hanging out in your best friends room (his mom’s basement) but he’s not paying attention to you, too focused playing his arcade games. After calling his name multiple times, you throw a pillow at him to have his attention.

(I think I saw this prompt somewhere but can’t remember so I’m sorry if it has already been made)

The soft hum of arcade machines filled the room, their neon lights flickering in the dim space. Peter Maximoff’s room had a sort of chaotic charm, cluttered with comics, old rock band posters, and an impressive lineup of retro games blinking in the corner. It was his sanctuary, a place where time seemed to slow down for him, but speed up for everyone else.

You sat cross-legged on his bed, watching him intently. For the past hour, he had been glued to the game screen, his silver hair falling into his eyes as his fingers deftly pressed the buttons on the machine. Occasionally, you'd try to start a conversation, you even tried to throw insults, but all you'd get in response were grunts or absentminded murmurs, his focus solely on defeating whatever boss he was facing.

"Peter" you sighed, stretching out your legs, hoping for a sliver of his attention.

No response. The sounds of rapid button mashing intensified.

“Babyyy” fake crying, thinking this will maybe catch his attention, but to no avail.

You rolled your eyes. Of course, this was how it was with Peter sometimes. As much as you loved hanging out with him, he could get lost in his games for hours, completely tuning out the world around him — including you.

Frustration started to bubble up in your chest. You were losing patience. Glancing around the room, your eyes landed on a pillow resting nearby. An idea sparked in your mind.

Without hesitation, you grabbed the pillow, stood up, and hurled it at him with all the force you could muster. Thinking that with all his focus being on his game, his speedy abilities wouldn’t be useful. You were right.

…

The pillow hit him square in the head, causing him to jolt in surprise. His character on the screen met an untimely demise as Peter finally looked at you, blinking rapidly.

"What the hell was that for?"

"For ignoring me" you shot back. "I've been sitting here for ages, and you haven’t even glanced my way."

Peter raised an eyebrow, pushing his silver hair out of his face, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, come on. You know I can multitask."

"You call that multitasking?" You gestured toward the screen, where his character lay defeated. "Doesn't look like you're doing so well to me. Plus why do you even call me over if all you’re doing is playing your games.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the machine, his posture casual, though there was a spark in his eyes now, a shift in the atmosphere. "Alright, alright. You want my attention? You got it."

There was something in his voice, low and teasing, that made your heart skip a beat (but this wasn’t unusual).

You had known Peter for years, but this, this felt different. There was a tension now (or maybe you were hoping), as his gaze lingered on you longer than it usually did.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling a little flustered under his scrutiny. "It took a pillow to the head for you to notice me, huh?"

He smirked, stepping away from the machine and slowly walking toward you. "Guess you gotta do what you gotta do." His voice was playful, but there was something else there, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could react, Peter grabbed the pillow you had thrown and tossed it back at you, but much more gently this time. You caught it, your fingers tightening around the fabric as the two of you stood there, only a few feet apart now. The space between you seemed to shrink by the second.

“So” he said, his voice dropping a little as he looked at you from under his lashes, “what else do you have in mind to get my attention?”

The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, and it made your breath catch in your throat. You had always had this playful, teasing dynamic with Peter, but this felt like it was teetering on the edge of something more, something unspoken that neither of you had acknowledged until now.

You bit your lip, feeling the tension growing. “I could throw something else” you teased, though your voice came out a bit shakier than you intended.

Peter’s eyes flickered to your lips, and for a split second, you swore the air around you crackled. He was close now, closer than he’d ever been before. His usual cocky demeanor seemed to falter just a little as he took another step forward, closing the gap entirely.

"Or..." he murmured, his voice soft, "you could just... ask."

“I did…” you mumbled.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, every nerve alive with anticipation. The playful banter was gone, replaced by something more serious, something more intense. His eyes were locked on yours, and the world seemed to slow down for once, even for him.

Without thinking, you reached out, your hand brushing against his chest. The moment your fingers made contact, Peter's breath hitched, and he leaned in, his face inches from yours.

“All you had to do was ask" he whispered, his lips barely brushing against yours as he spoke, the proximity making your head spin.

And then, finally, his lips were on yours.

The kiss started slow, almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if this was okay, if you wanted it as much as he did. But the moment you kissed him back, everything changed. Peter's hand came up to cup your face, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, years of tension and unsaid things pouring into that one moment.

The world outside his room didn’t matter anymore. The arcade machines, the games, even the time itself—all of it faded away as you lost yourselves in each other.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and a little dazed, Peter rested his forehead against yours, his grin lazy and satisfied.

“Well" he said, still catching his breath, "that was definitely more fun than any game I’ve played today."

You chuckled, your fingers still tangled in his hair. "I’ll keep that in mind the next time you decide to ignore me."

His laugh was soft, but his eyes were serious as he looked at you. "Trust me, I won’t make that mistake again."

And you knew he meant it.