#I can just barely imagine a voice if I try really really hard. one at a time. and it takes a lot of practice. other than that?

[davinawritings]

Wrong Name

Hello! I hope you like this little Drabble! I did it with an unspecified monster so you can kind of imagine him how you want (although I did mention claws).

Pairing: Non-Specified Monster X Reader

Warnings: Sex, Creampie, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Slight Size Kink

You aren’t quite sure why you thought your little prank would turn out any differently than it did. You were bored, and you just wanted to see if you could get under your boyfriend’s skin a little. Granted, calling your possessive monster boyfriend by your ex’s name… well, let’s just say it wasn’t the best idea.

The second your ex’s name left your lips, you practically felt the air shift. Your monster’s body tensed, and you heard the low growl rumbling in his chest. He stood to his full height, and your fight or flight kicked in. Obviously, a fight wouldn’t work against your beloved yet massive boyfriend, so that left the option of flight.

Could you have run to your bedroom, which has a soft bed and a feeling of comfort? Yes. 

Did you run to your bedroom? No…

Your next bad idea was taking off out the back door and heading for the woods behind your home. You aren’t really sure why your brain seemed to think that was a good idea, but honestly, you aren’t sure there was a lot of thought behind your actions anyway.

Do you have a good sense of direction? Not particularly, and it’s even worse at night, which it currently is.

Could you outrun your monster boyfriend? Absolutely not.

You only made it past a handful of trees when your feet left the ground. Large claws manhandle your body until you face your boyfriend, legs dangling several feet above the ground. 

“It was a prank!” you say quickly. His eyes turn into a glare as you try and give him your best innocent look. He walks forward until your back is pressed against a tree, your legs wrapping around him out of instinct.  

His voice is deep and rough as he says, “I don’t ever want to hear that name come out of your mouth again. You’re all mine and ONLY fucking mine!”. He uses sharp claws to tear the clothes from your lower half. “I’ll spend all night making sure you forget that name and never speak it again. The only thing that pretty little mouth will be able to do by the end of tonight is moan and scream”.

He thrust in your embarrassingly wet cunt with one hard stroke, the fat length stretching you open and leaving you breathless. He shifts so your legs hook over his arms, leaving you spread wide and at his mercy.

He bounces you up and down as he pleases, listening to you moan and whimper as he brings you to the edge over and over. His cock glistens with your juices, and he releases his own moans and growls as he feels you clench around him repeatedly. He fills you with his cum, marking you from the inside,  but he keeps going. 

Eventually, he moves you to the ground, fucking you hard and deep in the middle of nature, claiming your body like a feral animal.

You don’t know how long it’s been or how many times you have both cum. Your cunt and thighs are a sticky mess of fluids, and overstimulation has set in. The pain mixes with pleasure in a dance of overwhelming ecstasy.

You are barely aware of being carried back to your home, the sun just rising on the horizon, and your monster’s hands are gentle on your body. You are in desperate need of a bath and sleep, but more than anything, you are content to be in your monster’s arms. 

Pranking your boyfriend might not have been the most brilliant idea, but you’re pretty happy with the outcome now.

[sereia4skz]

i just need felix begging...

drabble | late night on the phone

pairing: sub!felix x reader

genre: smut

warnings: begging, phone sex, orgasm denial, sleepy sex

word count: ~700

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

You’re barely awake when your phone buzzes, and when you answer, Felix’s voice is low, warm, and tired.

“Hey, baby…”

He sounds soft around the edges, voice a little raspy from singing, eyes probably half-lidded, skin still warm from stage lights. You can hear the distant hum of a hotel AC unit behind him, maybe a rustle of sheets as he settles into bed.

“You okay?” you murmur, voice hoarse from sleep.

“Yeah. Just missed you.”

There’s a pause, quiet and comfortable, like the two of you are lying in bed together instead of miles apart.

“I always call when I miss you this much,” he adds, a little sheepish. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You smile faintly. “You want me to talk you down?”

“Maybe…” he says, teasing at first, but then it tapers into something real. “Or maybe just talk to me.”

So you do, about your day, what you had for dinner, some dumb video you saw online, and he laughs at all the right parts, murmurs little hums of agreement. But the longer you talk, the quieter he gets. Breath slowing. Words sticking.

“Lix?” you prompt, amused. “You falling asleep on me?”

“No,” he says too fast. “I’m just thinking. About you.”

Another pause. This one heavier. “What are you wearing?”

You blink, then laugh softly. “That’s subtle.”

“I’m serious,” he says, voice a little rougher now. “I miss your voice. Your body. Everything I keep thinking about your hands.”

You shift under the covers, heart starting to thrum.

“Felix…”

“I’ve been thinking about it all night,” he admits, suddenly breathless. “The way you touch me. The way you talk when you’re teasing. I’ve been hard since I got back from the venue.”

“Are you touching yourself now?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, then the softest sound, a barely-there gasp, the faint slick of lube, “Yeah,” he breathes. “I couldn’t wait.”

“God, you’re needy.”

“I know,” he whines. “I’m so fucking needy. I wish you were here. Wish I could lay between your legs and just stay there.”

“You wanna be used, baby?”

“Yes. Please. Just wanna be your good boy. I’ve been so good, haven’t touched myself all week. Just waited for you.”

“Liar.”

“No, really,” he pants. “I wanted it to feel better when I finally did. I wanted you in my head. And now, fuck I’m so close already, baby, please.”

You let your voice drop, slow and indulgent. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“You, on top of me,” he moans. “Your hands on my chest, your voice in my ear. The way you sound when I make you come. The way you tell me I’m pretty when I beg.”

He’s gasping now, the slick sound louder, faster, he's not even trying to hold back anymore.

“Please let me come,” he whispers. “I’ll do anything. Just say it. Say I can, please?”

“Not yet,” you purr.

He whines, so needy and desperate it borders on pathetic. “Please. I can’t, I’m gonna- fuck, I can’t stop it-”

“You better hold it,” you warn, voice low and sharp. “Be a good boy.”

“Trying- trying so hard!” He hiccups a breath, muffled whimper caught in his throat. “Please, I wanna come with you, please, baby…”

You start to talk him through it, slow and cruelly sweet, tell him how pretty he sounds, how flushed his cheeks must be, how hard he gets just from your voice.

“Are you touching yourself too?” he asks, and the heat in his voice is all-consuming now. “Please tell me you are. I wanna imagine you soaked and moaning, please, I need to hear it, need to come with you, I’ll be so good-”

You smile, wicked and fond. “Go on, baby. Come for me.”

A shattered moan punches through the receiver, thick with sobs of relief, body jerking as he spills into his hand. You don’t stop talking him through it, praising him, cooing soft and filthy things in his ear, and he takes every word like it’s gospel.

Afterward, he’s panting, dazed, voice trembling. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You ruin me. I’m gonna dream about your voice every night until I get home.”

You hum, smug. “Then you better call again tomorrow.”

“I will,” he murmurs, already half-asleep. “But next time, I’m gonna make you beg.”

"Sure, you will" you mumble as he drifts off.

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss

taglist pt2: @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Wreakage

bob floyd x fem!reader

warning: mentions of death

Bob’s living room was lit only by the warm flicker of the television and the low lamp in the corner. A quiet movie played, but neither of them was watching. They were tangled together on the couch, her head resting against his chest, his thumb drawing soft circles into her shoulder.

It had been months. Real months. Real love. Not the kind that fizzles out when you see each other in daylight. The kind that grows roots.

Still, there was one thing—several things, really—she had never said. And tonight, something about the way he held her made her want to stop hiding.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob looked down at her, eyes soft and steady. “Of course.”

She sat up a little, fidgeted with the blanket on her lap. Her throat was tight. “It’s kind of heavy.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll carry it with you.”

She exhaled shakily, fingers knotting and unknotting. “I didn’t want to fall in love with you. At first. Not because of you. Because… I thought it would kill me.”

Bob went still, watching her with unwavering attention.

“I had a boyfriend a few years ago. He was a Formula One driver. Big, famous, fast. We weren’t together long, but it was… it was intense. And then he crashed during a race. A mechanical failure. It was horrific. I was there, in the paddock. I watched the car spin out. I saw the smoke. I felt it in my bones before they even told me.”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t stop.

“He didn’t die right away. It was weeks. Weeks of surgeries, machines, hopes getting raised and crushed. And then he was gone. Just… gone.”

Bob reached for her hand. She let him take it.

“And before that,” she continued, “when I was sixteen, my first love—my childhood boyfriend—he died by suicide. He had depression. He never told me. His mom found him. He left a note for me.”

Tears spilled quietly. Bob didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fix it. He let it hang in the silence, his hand still wrapped around hers.

“I didn’t think I’d ever open myself up again. Not to anyone. Then you showed up and… you were kind. And patient. And safe. You made me want to try.”

Bob blinked slowly, clearly holding back tears of his own. “I’m honored that you told me,” he said, voice thick. “I can’t imagine how hard that was. But I’m glad you trusted me with it.”

She nodded, throat tight. “I didn’t want to keep it from you. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

“You said it perfectly.”

He kissed her knuckles. Then her forehead.

“And now I want to tell you something, too.”

———

Three months later. The Hard Deck was alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and music that hummed under the sound of crashing waves. Everyone was there—Rooster, Phoenix, Hangman, Payback, Fanboy, Mav, even Hondo. Bob and Y/N had just wrapped a joint mission sim. The mood was light. Everyone was celebrating.

She looked stunning—hair down, skin golden in the sunset, wearing the worn Navy sweatshirt Bob always gave her when she got cold. She was barefoot, drink in hand, teasing Bob for getting caught in a G-lock scenario during the sim.

“You know what your problem is?” she said, smirking as they stood near the bar.

“Oh, please enlighten me,” Bob replied, grinning.

“You trust your tech too much. You’re supposed to trust your gut, Lieutenant.”

“And your gut says what?” he challenged.

“That I could fly your F-18 better than you.”

The group laughed. Hangman whistled. “She’s got you there, Floyd.”

Bob flushed, playing along. “Oh yeah? Maybe if you didn’t scream during turbulence—”

“Excuse me!” she gasped.

He raised his hands. “I’m just saying—”

“It was one time, and that was on a commercial flight over Kansas in a thunderstorm—”

They were all laughing. It was harmless. It was fun. Until Bob tried to go for the final blow. A smartass joke to win the teasing round.

“Well, with your track record,” he said, shrugging casually, “I should probably start prepping for a crash of my own.”

The entire bar went quiet.

Phoenix looked confused. “Wait—what?”

Rooster blinked. “What does that even mean?”

Her heart stopped. She froze.

Her glass slowly lowered to the counter.

“What did you just say?” she said, voice sharp.

Bob paled. “I—I was joking—”

She stepped back like he’d slapped her. “No. Say it again. Say it in front of all of them.”

“Y/N…” His voice was low, panicked. “I didn’t mean—”

“I told you that in confidence,” she spat. “I told you privately about my past. About the people I’ve lost. And you think it’s a punchline?”

The rest of the group looked at each other—concerned, confused.

“What’s going on?” Phoenix asked, stepping forward.

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, fury and betrayal clashing in her chest.

“You wanna know what’s going on?” she hissed. “I told Bob that both of my exes died. One in a brutal, drawn-out wreck. The other took his own life. I told him that because I trusted him.”

Everyone went still.

“And he just turned that into a fucking joke.”

The group’s faces changed instantly—shock melting into anger.

Hangman’s voice dropped cold. “What the hell, Floyd.”

Rooster shoved off the bar. “Are you serious right now?”

Phoenix stared at Bob like he was a stranger. “You said that knowing?”

Bob was frozen. Pale. Lips parted but silent.

“I can’t even look at you,” she said, chest heaving. “I trusted you with the worst parts of me. And you used them to win a bar argument.”

“Y/N, I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“No. You did mean it. Maybe not in the way you think. But you meant it. And now I do too—I’m done.”

She stormed past the crowd, out the front doors and into the night.

The wind whipped her hair around as she stomped down to the beach, the surf crashing in rhythm with her heart. Her hands were trembling. Her lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves.

She yanked the necklace Bob gave her off her neck and hurled it into the waves.

Footsteps crunched in the sand behind her.

“Y/N—”

“Go away.”

It was Phoenix. Alone.

“Please don’t chase me. I need to breathe.”

Phoenix stopped a few paces back. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m not,” she snapped, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “I’m not okay. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be consoled. And I sure as hell don’t want him anywhere near me.”

“Understood,” Phoenix said softly. “We’re here if you need anything.”

She nodded once. Then walked further down the shoreline alone, disappearing into the night.

Back at the bar, no one spoke to Bob. Not a word.

Not Hangman. Not Rooster. Not even Hondo.

Phoenix returned later, cold and furious. “Don’t call her. Don’t text her. Don’t try to fix it. Just stay the hell away.”

Bob stood there in the empty bar, surrounded by the fallout of what he’d destroyed with one thoughtless sentence.

———

It had been forty-five days. Six weeks and three days since she left Bob standing on the beach, his hands empty and his soul gutted.

She hadn’t planned to go back. She hadn’t planned to feel anything again.

Then she checked her mail.

At first, she thought it was a mistake. A stack of cream-colored envelopes, each one dated. None with a return address. All addressed in his familiar, looping handwriting.

She carried them inside, stunned.

One letter. Then another. Then ten. Then twenty.

They were all from Bob.

He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t emailed. He hadn’t begged.

But he wrote. Every few days. Heart poured out in ink. Some only a few lines. Others several pages. Some were soaked with what she could only imagine were tear stains.

“I think about that night every single time I close my eyes.”

“There’s no excuse. Just regret.”

“You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve me like that.”

“I would give anything to go back. Not to erase what happened—but to be better in the moment when it mattered most.”

“You once said you were afraid to be loved again. And I proved your fear right. I’ll never stop being sorry.”

She sat on her living room floor, surrounded by the wreckage of his remorse, every letter like a piece of him bleeding out into her hands.

That night, the rain came hard—thick sheets of it hammering the rooftop, the sky rumbling like it was angry too.

She didn’t hear the knock at first.

It was soft. Hesitant.

But the second time—louder, more urgent—she froze.

And when she opened the door, there he was.

Soaked to the bone. Hair plastered to his forehead. Shirt clinging to his skin. Eyes full of something like hope and grief and desperation all wrapped into one broken expression.

She stepped out onto the porch, rain pouring all around them.

“Y/N—” he started.

She held up a hand. “Did you think I wasn’t going to see them?”

He blinked. “The letters?”

“I didn’t know you left them. You didn’t even sign most of them.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel obligated to read them,” he said softly, rainwater dripping from his jaw. “I just… needed to put the words somewhere. Somewhere close to you.”

“You stood on my porch and dropped off pieces of your soul like love notes,” she whispered.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there in the storm, his breath visible in the cold.

She took a shaky breath. “Do you know what it felt like, reading those? After everything?”

“No,” he rasped. “But I hope it felt like truth.”

She looked at him—really looked at him. The wet lashes, the trembling shoulders, the silence like a wound between them.

“I don’t forgive you,” she said, voice low but steady.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I needed you to see me trying.”

“I do.”

He exhaled.

“I see it in the way you wrote them like you were bleeding. In the way you never tried to spin it, or justify it. You just… owned it.”

Bob’s lip trembled. He bit it hard.

“Come in from the rain,” she said finally, stepping aside.

He didn’t move right away—afraid it was a trick, maybe.

“Bob,” she murmured.

He looked at her like she was salvation. Then stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him.

But neither of them moved. They just stood there—wet, shaking, eyes locked.

“You’re still the safest place I’ve ever known,” she said, voice cracking. “But if you ever use my past against me again, I won’t walk away—I’ll disappear.”

“I’d never deserve you again if I did,” he said hoarsely.

She reached for his hand. He took it like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

The porchlight glowed behind them. Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, they stood in the eye of it—damaged, drenched, and finally, finally beginning to rebuild.

———

Three months later.

She forgave him on a quiet Sunday morning.

No dramatic lead-up. No long-winded speech. Just her, lying next to him in bed, fingers drawing lazy lines across his chest.

“I forgive you,” she whispered, soft enough that the words nearly vanished into the sunlight bleeding through the window.

Bob had stilled beneath her hand.

“What?” he asked, careful. Like the words might break if he moved too fast.

She looked up, resting her chin on his chest. “I said I forgive you.”

He blinked. Just once. Then he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months.

His eyes filled. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say anything. He just pulled her into him and kissed her like a man finally stepping out of his own prison.

For the next two weeks, everything felt right. Like the world had finally balanced itself again.

They made plans. To drive up the coast. To get a dog. To spend one weekend not talking about work or grief or the past—just them. There was talk of maybe, someday, something permanent. A ring. A home.

She didn’t expect forever.

But she didn’t think two weeks would be all they got.

⸻

The knock came on a Thursday.

Rain drizzled against her window. Her tea was still warm. She’d just texted him: Be safe up there. I love you.

She opened the door to two officers in uniform.

She doesn’t remember what they said.

Only the parts her soul refused to forget.

“Mid-air systems failure.”

“Immediate loss of control.”

“No recovery.”

“Lieutenant Floyd died on impact.”

She hadn’t even gotten a text back.

⸻

The funeral was quiet.

She didn’t wear black. She wore the faded blue sweatshirt of his he always made her return and never really meant it. She kept her hand clenched around the last note he wrote her, the one he left on her nightstand two days before his flight:

“Loving you changed me. I don’t know how long we’ll get, but I promise to never waste it. Not again.”

She read it at the graveside.

She didn’t cry. Not in front of them.

But at night, she sleeps in his side of the bed, buried in the sweatshirt and silence, whispering the same thing over and over again:

“You were forgiven. You were loved. You were so loved.”

Two weeks.

That’s all they got between healing and loss.

And somehow, that made it hurt even more.

Because this time, she was ready to stay.

And he was already gone.

[orellazalonia]

Would you consider doing a version of Borrowed Time where the reader stays with Bucky and he takes care of her?

Also thanks for making me cry when I read this one. You're too talented for your own good.

Hello there! Thank you for the kind words!! I’m so glad you enjoyed that fic, I really loved the angst in that one!

It was interesting to imagine what would happen if she stayed. There were so many directions I could take it so I had difficulty narrowing down. Btw, this takes place sometime after the first part. Regardless, thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Borrowed Time (Alternate Ending)

Summary: After weeks of hiding your illness from Bucky and trying to push him away to spare him the grief, the truth finally came out when your body collapsed, forcing you both to face what was coming. Even as the disease worsens and your time grows shorter, Bucky stays by your side, loving you through every moment, even the ones where you can barely hold on. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.9k+

Main Masterlist | Part 1 | Original Ending

It started as a sharp ache behind your ribs.

You’d felt it before, the tight pinch that wrapped around your lungs and made it hard to breathe for a few seconds. You’d usually press your palm to your chest and wait it out. Breathe shallow, keep walking, keep pretending.

But this one was worse.

It hit you in the hallway between the training wing and your room. No one else was around and the Tower was unusually quiet, late enough for everyone to be scattered, lost in their own rooms or their own recovery.

You dropped your file folder first, pages fluttering across the floor. Then your knees buckled. Your vision swam as blackness surged in from the edges.

And then–

Nothing.

You woke up to warmth and a hand on your forehead. There was distant hum of voices, muffled as the light overhead was soft, not clinical but golden from a lamp.

You blinked and found Bucky was sitting at your side, brows furrowed, and jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. His eyes were wet.

“Hey,” He said, barely above a whisper. “There you are.”

You tried to sit up, an instinct or habit, but your body didn’t listen. Your chest throbbed and your head spun.

“Don’t move,” He spoke quickly, gently pressing you back down. “Just rest.”

“Bucky…”

“You collapsed,” He didn’t look away from you. “You were out cold for almost two minutes before I found you.”

You closed your eyes, your throat burning.

“I had to carry you to the med bay myself,” He went on, voice cracking. “You were freezing, pale. And I–” He stopped for a moment, swallowing hard. “And then they told me what you wouldn’t.”

Your eyes flew open.

“I found your file, the reports, your scans.” He exhaled shakily. “I had to go through Bruce to confirm it. You’d hidden it so well.”

You didn’t speak. What could you say?

“I thought I’d failed you,” He said. “Thought you didn’t want me anymore or that I’d done something–“ His voice broke. “And all this time, you were dying, alone.”

Your chest heaved.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” You whispered. “I didn’t want you to go through this again.”

He reached out slowly like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast, and took your hand.

“Don’t you get it?” He whispered back. “I’ve already been through hell. I’ve lost too many people. I don’t want to lose you too; but if I have to, I’m not doing it from across a room. I’m doing it holding your damn hand.”

Tears slid down your cheeks silently. “I didn’t want you to watch me fade.”

“Too late,” He said. “I’m here and I’m not leaving.”

You looked at him, broken, loyal, and terrified and you knew: he’d never let you go through this alone.

And maybe… maybe you didn’t want to anymore.

As the day pressed on, it became quiet. Not the silence of secrets or pretending, but the heavy hush of truth finally spoken. Of something raw and irreversible, hanging between you.

The Tower was asleep. Somewhere down the hall, a television buzzed faintly. You were tucked beneath blankets in the infirmary’s private room, warm and safe but unbearably tired. Your body aching and lungs sore from the pressure of collapse.

Bucky sat beside you, unmoving, eyes fixed on your hand in his.

You’d barely spoken since he’d found out. Not because there was nothing to say but because now, everything felt too heavy to speak aloud. And maybe, in the back of your mind, you were still waiting for him to leave.

But he didn’t.

“Did you think I’d be mad?” He asked finally and quietly, voice hoarse. “That I’d hate you for it?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was thick and your chest still ached from the inside out.

“I thought if I made it easier to let go,” You admitted softly, “You wouldn’t have to grieve me.”

He exhaled sharply, bitter like a laugh, like a wound.

“I was grieving you anyway,” He said. “I just didn’t know why.”

You looked at him. “I didn’t want you to watch it happen.”

He leaned forward.

“I don’t care,” His hand tightened around yours. “I don’t care if I have to watch every step of this. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes stung. “But you could. You could get out now. You could still walk away before it gets worse.”

His expression hardened, not cold, but resolute.

“I don’t walk away from people I love,” He stated. “Not anymore.”

You blinked fast, trying to breathe around the ache in your chest. It wasn’t just the illness now. It was guilt. Fear. Love. All of it tangled up in the space between you.

“I didn’t want to be another name you lose.”

“And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing I wasted your last days not loving you.”

You let out a shaky breath.

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned forward and kissed your knuckles, slow and reverent, like something holy. Like you were still here. Still his.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe it.

Over time, you learned how he stayed and handled everything. See, Bucky didn’t hover.

He didn’t rush into plans or force you into treatments. He didn’t bombard you with medical questions or act like you were fragile glass. He just stayed close, steady as gravity, quietly shifting his world to make yours hurt a little less.

The first morning after another collapse, he came into the room before you woke. When you opened your eyes, he was there with a mug of tea and one of your hoodies freshly washed, soft and warm like the gentleness in his voice when he said, “Hey, sunshine.”

You hadn’t cried. Not until then.

He rearranged his schedule without asking. Pushed back mission rotations. Trained with Sam in the mornings, then came back in time to sit with you during your first real consultation with the doctors. He held your hand the whole time, didn’t flinch when the word terminal came up. Didn’t move when timelines were discussed. Just squeezed your hand, thumb brushing over your wrist.

You didn’t realize until later that his own hand was shaking the entire time.

He also cooked more.

At first, it was all too much. Food with overwhelming flavors, too rich or too heavy. Your stomach wasn’t the same anymore, but he noticed and learned quickly. He started making light soups. Soft eggs. Oatmeal with just the right amount of brown sugar because you didn’t like it too sweet.

One night, when your appetite vanished entirely, he sat with you at the kitchen table, eating slowly and carefully, never commenting on the untouched plate in front of you. Then he reached over and offered you a single grape, resting it in your palm like something precious.

“Just one,” He said gently. “Just so I know you’ve eaten something.”

You ate it.

But inevitably, your body got weaker. You hated it. Hated the way your muscles ached, how even standing sometimes made your vision blur. You hated needing help and hated the way people looked at you differently now.

But Bucky never did.

He adjusted to your new limits like it was second nature.

Lifted you effortlessly on days when your legs gave out. Made bad jokes during blood draws. Held your hair back without a word when nausea hit too hard. On the worst nights, when sleep wouldn’t come and pain crawled through your bones, he curled up on the bed beside you and whispered stories about the old Brooklyn, the good parts. His voice lulled you to sleep when nothing else could.

One afternoon, when he found you crying in the bathroom not from pain, but from frustration, you expected him to look panicked. Lost. Angry at the world.

But he just knelt down beside you, wiped your cheeks with his thumbs, and whispered, “You’re still you, y’know. That hasn’t changed.”

“I don’t feel like me anymore,” You admitted.

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. “Then I’ll remind you every day. However long we’ve got.”

You didn’t know how much time was left. Neither of you did. But you had today, and he was still here.

However, out of all the things Bucky did, he never cried in front of you.

Not when he found out. Not when you collapsed. Not when the doctors laid out the truth in cold, clinical terms.

He was calm, present, and gentle. He held your hand, kissed your templd, and whispered soft promises like I’m not going anywhere and We’ve still got time.

And you believed him. Because his voice didn’t shake. Because his smile never cracked. Because he was so damn steady.

But that’s not the version Steve saw one week later, down in the weapons vault, where Bucky had gone under the excuse of needing “to check something.”

Steve had followed him. He knew better and had found Bucky standing in front of the shelves, back turned with his fists clenched. Still, silent, and breathing too hard to be calm.

“Buck,” Steve called out gently.

Nothing.

“You okay?”

Silence.

Then, like a dam snapping open: “I can’t save her.”

Steve stepped closer.

“I hold her hand,” Bucky whispered, “And I pretend like I’m not thinking about the time running out. I cook her food she can’t eat. I listen to her breathing at night, praying it doesn’t stop. I lie through my teeth every time I say it’s going to be okay.”

He finally turned. His eyes were red and his voice was breaking.

“I’ve lost a lot, Steve. I’ve buried people. Been the one doing the burying. But this? Watching her fade in slow motion?” He shook his head. “This is killing me.”

Steve didn’t speak. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his oldest friend, letting him collapse into his chest like they were just young boys again that the world hadn’t broken yet.

Bucky didn’t sob loudly, but his shoulders shook, and Steve held him like he could carry some of that weight for just a little while.

Meanwhile, Sam found Bucky a few nights later.

He was sitting on the rooftop just outside your shared bedroom, door cracked open so he could still hear you if you called. His hands were folded in his lap. Jaw tight and eyes distant.

“You’ve been up here for a while,” Sam said quietly.

“Can’t sleep.”

Sam sat beside him. Didn’t say anything at first, letting him talk when he was ready.

After a minute, Bucky spoke.

“She’s scared to die,” He said, voice low. “But I think she’s more scared of me watching her go.”

Sam looked over. “You ever tell her that’s not her job? To protect you from it?”

Bucky let out a bitter breath of a laugh. “She’s too damn kind, always has been.”

Sam nodded slowly. “You’re allowed to be scared too, y’know.”

“I am.”

“Then tell her.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just looked out over the quiet city lights and murmured, “She already carries so much. I don’t want to add more weight.”

Sam sighed. “Then let us carry some of yours.”

For a while, they sat in silence. Two men who had seen too much, lost too much, and said nothing more.

But when Bucky finally went back inside, he crawled into bed beside you and wrapped both arms around your waist, tighter than usual.

And though you didn’t say anything… you noticed he didn’t fall asleep that night.

The morning started with sunshine.

You hadn’t seen it in days actually. The clouds had smothered the city with rain tapping against the windows, always cold, always gray. But this morning, when you stirred in the early light, you blinked into the soft warmth of sun across the blankets. Real, bright, golden morning sun.

You turned your head to see Bucky was already watching you.

He didn’t say anything, just brushed his fingers over your hair and smiled, small, tired, and full of something soft.

You whispered, “Feels like a good day.”

His hand stilled. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Think I can walk a little. I want to go outside.”

He didn’t ask twice.

By noon, you were bundled in your favorite hoodie, sitting beside Bucky in a quiet corner of the park just a few blocks from the Tower. He’d picked it since it wasn’t too crowded, and it was near enough to find help if you needed to leave yet far enough from everything that it felt like the world had paused just for you two.

The sky was impossibly blue. Trees rustled gently above, their leaves whispering secrets. Children laughed in the distance, chasing one another through patches of clover. You tilted your head back against the bench and closed your eyes, breathing it all in.

Bucky leaned close.

“You okay?” He murmured.

You opened your eyes, smiling. “Better than okay.”

He smiled back just a little. Like he didn’t want to jinx it.

Not long after, you got to feed ducks.

You hadn’t done that in years, maybe since you were a kid, but when Bucky handed you a crumpled paper bag of oats from his jacket pocket, you laughed out loud.

“You planned this?”

He shrugged. “You always stared at them through the window when we’d pass by.”

“You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.”

The words were quiet and gentle, but they left you warm all the way through.

You sat in the grass later, your head resting against his shoulder. He read aloud from one of your favorite old paperbacks, voice low and steady even as your eyes slipped shut. The sun soaked into your skin. You hadn’t felt this light in weeks.

At one point, you whispered, “If I forget this day, remind me.”

He closed the book.

“I won’t let you forget.”

You looked at him and said the one thing you hadn’t said in a long time:

“I love you.”

Bucky blinked. Then leaned forward and kissed your forehead, his voice like a promise:

“I’ve never stopped.”

You both went home just before sunset.

Admittedly, your body was sore and your limbs were heavy. But Bucky carried you up the elevator without complaint, whispering some silly story about Steve trying yoga in the '40s just to make you laugh.

And that night, curled in his arms, tired but content, you whispered into his chest:

“Even if there’s not a lot of time left… I think this is what I’d want it to look like.”

He held you tighter.

“We’ve still got time,” He murmured. “And I’m going to fill it with as many good days as I can.”

Sadly, the next day wasn’t as kind. It started with a chill.

Just a small one, pretty harmless. You brushed it off as nothing. It was the kind of ache that lingered after too much sun, too much walking, too much happiness. But as the morning progressed, you couldn’t keep water down. By noon, you were struggling to sit up without your chest hurting.

Bucky called Bruce.

You begged him not to, saying “It’s just a bug, it’s nothing, please don’t fuss”, but your voice was too weak, your skin too pale, and your hands too cold.

And he looked at you like he already knew what was coming.

They moved you back to the infirmary that evening.

The fever came fast along with the shaking. You drifted in and out of sleep, and time stopped meaning anything. You weren’t always sure if Bucky was there or not, but you heard him a lot. His voice low, warm, and rough, threading through the pain like a rope.

“Stay with me, sweetheart.” “You’re okay. You’re still here.” “You’ve had worse days than this. Just hang on, yeah?”

Once, you woke up and saw Steve sitting at the end of the bed. Sam leaning against the far wall. Both of them quiet. Both of them looking at you like they were trying not to hope too loudly.

That night, the machines beeped slower.

Bruce said it softly in that way that meant he’d already tried everything. That your body was tired. That there might not be another rally after this.

Bucky didn’t leave your side.

He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. Just held your hand, wiped your face with a cool cloth, and whispered things into your hair that didn’t quite make sense anymore.

“You know the first time I saw you smile? Really smile? I think it broke me. I didn’t think I was allowed to have something like that again.” “You make the worst coffee in the Tower. I drink it anyway.” “Please.”

That one was barely audible.

The fever peaked just before dawn.

You stopped responding. Just laid still, breath shallow, and lips parted.

And Bucky… shattered.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, forehead pressed to your limp hand, shaking. Not sobbing, he didn’t have the breath left for sobbing, but broken all the same. Every muscle in his body was tight like wire, jaw clenched against the weight of everything he couldn’t fight.

“You weren’t supposed to go yet,” He whispered. “You promised me more time.”

The room stayed quiet. Until–

You stirred, just barely. Your fingers twitched against his palm.

Bucky lifted his head in a second, eyes wide, desperate. “Sweetheart?”

Your lips moved dry, slow.

He leaned in. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

You didn’t say a full word. Just one sound. A small, rasping breath like “Mm.”

Like “Still here.”

And Bucky, the man who’d once fallen from a train, from grace, from his own mind, finally let the tears fall as he kissed your hand again and again.

[bintheredreamedthat]

OK LISTEN.

You said something dumb. I mean you always do—and this time he gives you this look, one that said “i’m barely holding it in together”, hidden behind that kind of smile. The one where his dimple almost shows, but doesn’t. A look that says, “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Come here,” he says. You should run…but you don’t. The next thing you know, you’re in his arms, your face shoved half into his chest, half into the crook of his arm—and dear god, he is solid. Not just toned or lean. Solid.

He’s not even putting his full weight into it. Not like he needed to because that bicep is already caging you in like a steel bar, warm and unrelenting, every subtle shift of his muscles reminding you that escape is not an option.

Not that you were really trying…

“Say it again…”he murmurs.

And you so try. You try to be bratty—to keep up the act, but the way he’s holding you so firmly, careful, and easy, like he knows exactly how much you can take. All of it just short circuits your brain, turning all your thoughts into mush~

“Oh?~ You’re not running your mouth now?”

You should’ve shoved him, said something snarky. But instead you were just… there. Pressed up against him, breathing uneven, head tilted up slightly looking up at him with glaring eyes—yet behaving like such a good girl. He’s looking down at you like he knew exactly what game you were playing.

However, he doesn’t loosen his grip, he just… smiles. One that was a little too soft yet full of teasing.

His grip doesn’t change. Still snug around your neck, bicep firm against your jaw, forearm curved just enough to tilt your chin up. He’s not holding you hard, but it was firm enough to keep you close.

It was getting to your head. Not just the pressure or the warmth but the fact that he was deliberately mocking you to see how far he could push you.

“You can handle it, right? You liked it last time.”You blink up at him and your throat catches.He notices it too.

“…You alright?” he asks. You don’t answer his question, a little too preoccupied with your situation so you just nod. Barely.

But that was all he needed. His hand loosens just slightly, his knuckles grazing your collarbone, fingertips brushing your neck with this ridiculously gentle touch that makes your whole spine light up. The tension didn’t ease, only changing it’s shape.

You swear you feel him exhale near your temple.

“Didn’t mean to shut you up that bad,” he chuckles lowly.

You can’t speak. Not when his thumb lingers just beneath your jaw, not when his breath is that warm and that close. The moment stretches long enough for you to feel it thicken and to realise he hadn’t let go yet.

In fact…he tightens just a little. A slow flex. Just to see what you’ll do.

And you—

You actually whimper. It’s soft and embarrassing, as if giving yourself away already.

Your hand flies up to his arm, like you’re going to push him off, but you don’t—You couldn’t anyways—so you grip his forearm instead, fingertips digging in just slightly, like that’ll anchor you to something that isn’t whatever this is spiraling into.

His voice drops to a low and dangerous hum.

“…Huh.”

He leans closer.

“You really do love it~”

What could you have possibly said? I’m imagining something stupid like “u got 3rd place again? man, u suck ;P” lmao

[fernslivers]

I BEGGGG for the mordern Mizu contunuation from the begining 🙏🙏🙏 or any hc along with it, anything. I live for it (all your works, but this one specificly 🫠)

YOU GOT IT ANON

HERES MODERN MIZU Pt 4 (i think)

(And thank you anons for your patience, I see you!! I'm moving halfway across the country in two months so everything is crazyyyyy)

You guys are awesome!! Please, keep the requests coming! I know I take forever but they are so fun to work on!

TW: passing mentions of sexuality, illness

Mizu When Reader Gets a Cold

The first sign of trouble is the day Mizu is sitting at her laptop in the kitchen, and you come stumbling out of your room, hair crazy, blanket over your shoulders.

Both of you stare at each other in surprise.

She knows damn well you have classes all day today

She got home in the early hours of the morning, crashed for a few hours and assumed you had left already.

She's almost never home when you're home

Because her crush is starting to get really bad and she's panicking

So you weren't expecting to see her just hanging here.

“Oh- … hey,” you croak, and her eyes widen before narrowing

“... You're sick.”

“Eh … s’fine. Just a day cold thing.”

You don’t expect her to make a fuss, and you want to keep it a minor thing

You're shocked when she stands up abruptly.

“You're supposed to rest when you're sick.”

“I just needed some water–”

“I'll bring it. Go back to bed.”

Her tone brooks no argument.

You go, though you're completely mystified by this sudden, terrifying nursemaid you've acquired.

Truth be told, she's surprised at herself, too.

She's not normally very nurturing, but you’ve come to mean so much to her.

She can't stop fretting (not that she lets you see that).

She actually almost never gets sick, so she's not really sure what to do.

She calls everyone she knows

Well–almost everyone

Ringo of course is full of food-related remedies

But they are backed up with a surprisingly in-depth amount of medical knowledge

Akemi recommends pampering: “make her feel like a princess, let her rest and not have to do anything”

Taigen shouts in the back of Akemi’s call that Mizu should try some supplement someone was hawking on Reels

Akemi tells her to ignore him

(She was already planning to)

Eiji has several more traditional recipes and suggestions

He also, of course, recommends staying active

“Do not let the body rest too long, the congestion will settle and stay longer. Work is a remedy.”

Mizu shudders a little at some childhood memories that THAT statement brings up

She even calls Madam Kaji. The woman has surely nursed many girls with the goal of getting them back on their feet fast, so she MUST know effective remedies.

Madam Kaji is blunt as ever:

“orgasms”

Mizu goes red, while remaining stoic on the phone: “I'm serious. This is not the time.”

Kaji sighs. “Orgasms release feel-good chemicals to the brain. You want her to feel better? Give her a hard infusion of oxytocin,” she purrs, voice dripping with innuendo.

Mizu hangs up abruptly.

(Madam Kaji laughs herself silly with her girls, imagining Mizu’s flustered expression.)

(Truth be told, she just uses OTC cold medicine.)

With you fully unaware, dozing in your room, Mizu paces

She's got no idea which one is going to be most effective

With her usual dogged determination, she decides she'll just try them all until one seems to be working.

Well–except the sex one. She should have known better than to ask Madam Kaji

Truth be told, she'd be happy to help with that one … but she doesn't think you'll go for it

So that's how you find yourself shuffled out to the couch where she can keep an eye on you

You try to protest, worried about getting her sick

But it's Mizu. A barreling train would barely slow her down.

You're banned from getting up for any reason, except for one supervised walk around the apartment every hour, in deference to Sword-Father.

If it weren't so bizarre, it would be hilarious how Serious she is about all this.

She gets you blankets, food, hot tea, medicine, ice cream, ginger ale … all the pampering things

But she gets them for you with the same Intense Focus and silence that she uses when training, or hunting leads on her father, or studying.

Brow furrowed, jaw tense, words sparse.

It is sweet, though, if strangely out of character for her.

She did hand you the remote and tell you to put on whatever you like to watch

But it's kind of hard to focus on the TV when piercing blue eyes keep appearing around the doorway to the kitchen, or over the top of her laptop from the other chair in the living room.

At one point, you innocently get up to use the bathroom…

…

“What are you doing?”

JEsus

God, your HEART

She just materialized out of nowhere

You think she might have actually scared the cold right out of your body for a minute

“Why are you getting up? What do you need? Sit down, I'll get it.”

“I need to PEE, Mizu. I don't think that's something you can do for me.”

She gets a bit huffy, but she can't really argue

She hovers around you the entire way to the bathroom with her grumpy-cat expression, her eyes sharp on your every shuffling step.

She's so close behind you that she's the thing most likely to trip you.

You stop at the doorway. “Do NOT follow me in here.”

“I wasn't GOING to!”

(The jury is still out on that ...)

“Just– … call me if you think you're going to fall.” She calls through the door.

Miracle of miracles, you somehow manage to use the bathroom without keeling over.

She hovers the rest of the way back to the couch.

At one point, you see her take a call–she looks so serious that you assume it must be business or school related.

Then, she hangs up: “Ringo is bringing soup.” She tells you, as though he were bringing over Serious Documents.

You can't help but smile.

Despite the unconventionality, she's so Mizu that it’s intensely charming.

Not to mention how strangely special this is all making you feel.

Nobody has ever fussed over you like this, and her unusual intensity makes you feel like your comfort is genuinely important

This is also the most attention she's paid you in a while, and it's good to have her close again

Even if she won't let you really talk

She says you need to rest your throat, but of course, it does help with deflecting awkward questions

Like where she's been disappearing off to lately ...

Later in the evening, after Ringo has delivered the biggest vat of soup you've ever seen, you end up falling asleep on the couch.

Mizu puts her laptop aside, and quietly watches you sleep for a few moments

Your face is so peaceful, and it's been so good to be sharing space with you again

All day she's been wondering why it's Madam Kaji's advice that won't leave her head.

She's long since accepted her crush, but with it being such a hopeless case (she thinks), it should have fizzled out by now

Instead, she spent her whole day caring for you and she doesn't even mind that it set her plans back and used time she can't spare

She doesn't even question that it was worth it, and that scares her a little.

Sighing, she gets up and pads over to readjust it blanket to cover you better

Then, she hesitates.

This is the closest she's been to you in a long time.

She can feel your warmth where her knuckles are brushing against your shoulder, smell your unique scent.

You look so … vulnerable. She knows how fragile human life can be, better than most. But you trust her, even after everything you've seen of her life.

… maybe she should spend more time with you.

Yes, the crush is hard, but you've been so accepting, she knows she's been pushing you away lately.

You're precious to her, and she truly doesn't want to lose you.

After another brief hesitation, she says your name softly, checking that you're asleep.

When you don't stir, she leans down and presses her lips to your forehead, just softly.

The way she can just barely recall Mama doing for her once when she was sick as a child, one of her happiest childhood memories, one of the only times during that period before Eiji that she felt safe.

She doesn't know how to take care of people. But she's going to try fucking hard for you.

With another sigh, she walks into the kitchen to get some more soup for herself now that you're asleep.

As soon as she's out of the room, your eyes open

What the hell was that?? Did she just–

From the kitchen, you hear a slight sneeze.

Well.

Shit.