#and when hes finished i tell him the name of the thing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

urdreamydoodles · 2 days ago

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Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

538 notes · View notes

neigepomme · 2 days ago

Text

˙ ✩°˖ ✈️ cute guy next door / caleb x reader

synopsis; you're woken up by your new neighbor moving in loud as hell on a saturday morning, but upon seeing his face, maybe you aren't that mad anymore.

🍎 pomme's notes — pushing my mark lee caleb agenda and experimenting because i have not written a series in a while but i think caleb boy next door/uni crush? the greatest thing ever. LET ME HAVE HIM

⋆ 700 words / fluff / fem reader / uni au (no evol!) / 2nd person

it was saturday early morning when you were brutally woken up by loud steps coming from the apartment next door.

god, your head was ringing. you had two ethics finals yesterday, and you couldn't even rest because your manager needed you to come in for a late night shift. today was supposed to be a sleeping-in kind of day, waking up at 12 or something — but instead, here you were, forced to listen to the steps of several movers at 7am on a saturday.

rough weekend start.

draping yourself in a cozy hoodie, you head out to check out all this commotion and provide your new neighbor with some strongly worded opinions about making so much noise on a weekend. when you swing your door open, though, you're met with resistance and a groan.

great. you just hit your stupidly loud new neighbor in the face with your damn door.

“oh my god, are you okay?? i'm so sorry!”

hands outstretched in the direction of the tall brunette in front of you, he peers at you with quite possibly the most gorgeous eyes you've ever seen. he waves you off with a bright smile, his hand still rubbing his reddening nose.

“all good, don't worry. i wanted to say hi and apologize for the noise — i'm caleb, your new neighbor.”

and man, was caleb a hottie.

clad in a sleeveless tank top and black sweatpants, you had to hold yourself back from ogling the guy you desperately wanted to tell off this morning. sweat trickled down his muscled arms from carrying boxes into his new place, and what a delightful sight it was. in his hands was a small glass container, which he handed over to you, and before you can even ask what's in it, you're interrupted.

"braised chicken wings. as an apology for all the noise," he laughs (and what a cute laugh it was, you think), “my specialty. hopefully, you aren't allergic?”

“no, no allergies at all. thank you, caleb.”

his name rolled off your tongue so nicely. you really needed to get to know him soon. maybe he attended the same uni you did? leaning against your doorframe, you look into his eyes again, and you thought the "getting lost in one's eyes" pickup line was a gross exaggeration until you met him. it's as if a million sunsets took place within his irises, and the way they'd close a bit when he smiled? was this love at first sight? after introducing yourself to him, you ask the question (to which you pray the answer is yes).

“are you here to attend skyhaven university? this place is pretty close, that's why i chose it.”

caleb gives you a nod, his face lighting up when you mentioned it.

“yeah, aerospace engineering major! i transferred from linkon uni. will i see you around?”

oh my god, he's cute, he knows how to cook, AND he's smart. yep, you were definitely going to get closer to him — even if it's just as friends. the sight of that face was going to help you not end it all when your philosophy professor assigned you a horrible team for your group projects.

“mhmm, i'm a humanities major. pretty sure the departments are pretty close by, so we'll definitely see each other around!”

while you two talked, the movers were getting close to finishing the job. they glanced at caleb and motioned for him to come check if anything was missing — your conversation had to be cut short. he turns to you before stepping away, and he ends up being the one asking the question lingering on the tip of your tongue.

“can i have your number, dear neighbor? since we'll be seeing each other a bunch in the next few months.”

and with your number on his phone, you return to your bed, a wide grin on your face, your day significantly better than how it started. caleb was about to be the highlight of your uni experience.

— secretly, caleb was also looking forward to seeing you around. a pretty girl as his neighbor instead of an old man, and you attended the same place? he'd have to 'run out of sugar' soon and knock on your door again.

🍎 pomme's final notes — think of this as an appetizer.. i need to figure out a plot soon but i needed to put this idea out in the world before i fell asleep and lost it LOL

#⋆ pomme writes #caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #lads x reader #lads caleb #lads #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #⋆ neigepomme

281 notes · View notes

stxxrlights · 3 days ago

Text

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘?... 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

headcanons of jjk men based on this ask

you set up your camera while your lovely boyfriend is laying on your bed, doom scrolling on his phone. you set up the camera, and angle were both you and your boyfriend are visible and hit record.

☆𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

"one thing you need to know about him first is that he's a big baby. so starting the call with 'hey baby', gets him swooning like a twelve year old with a crush"

"now hold on!", you're trying hard stifle a laugh as he sits up. "what are you talking about?"

"don't act like you don't like it"

"i didn't say that. it's just that how can you think i'm a bigger baby than you", he raises his brow at you, his phone now discarded on the bed.

"because you are", he rolls his eyes.

"weren't you the one who cried literal tears when you finished the ice cream?"

"that's different"

"literally, how?", he stands up and crosses his arms over his chest as you're both smiling at each other like idiots. "do not believe this girl. she is a pathological liar", he leans in and says to the camera and then turns his attention to you. "now, come to bed with me i wanna cuddle"

"look who's a big baby now"

"that's different!"

☆𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔

"so basically, my boyfriend blushed so hard when i call him my little adorable pookie wookie in the whole wide-"

"Wow, wow, wow...!", he interrupts you sitting up on the bed clearly offended. "why are we lying?"

"what are you talking about?", you ask, feigning innocence. he narrows his eyes, studying your face to make sure your not messing with him.

"anyways- as I was saying. he starts blushing and avoiding eye contact-"

"what the heck! literally when have i done that?"

"can you not interrupt me! i'm trying to make a tiktok"

"uh-uh! you are lying to these people", he gets up and walks towards you and spins you around in the chair. and in one swift motion he's got you on his shoulder making you let out a yelp.

"suguru!"

"no. until you learn how not to lie, then i'm gonna let you finish your cute little tiktok", he gives your as a light smack, startling you and then throws you on the bed. "for your punishment, your gonna cuddle with me until tomorrow"

"what! but we have things to do"

"should've thought about that before you lied"

☆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

"my boyfriend is the fucking cutest sometimes. especially on call, 'cause like he gets so flustered when i say 'i miss you so much', he just starts stuttering and-"

"sorry dear, but who are you talking you?", you turn around to look at your confused boyfriend.

"i'm recording a video ken", you lean so that he can see the camera, his confused face looking right back at him.

"what for?"

"well... to let people know how absolutely adorable and sweet my boyfriend is". he bows his head down and lets out a chuckle that makes you smile. he walks up infront of you and leans in, placing a lingering kiss on your lips. "what was that for?", you ask, a stupid grin on your face

"now they'll know how much i love you too"

☆𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

"as scary as my boyfriend looks, he can be so adorable sometimes. like when i call him something like big daddy, he gets so exited"

"damn right i do!", you quickly gets up, a shit-eating grin on his stupid handsome face. he comes closer to the camera still with that smile. you roll your eyes at him trying to control your smile.

"you're so childish toji. i wanna talk to the people"

"uh-uh. let me tell you what other names she calls me; prince charming, the future father to her kids, papi-"

"okay there. slow down! when have i called you papi?"

"you haven't but you will", he raises his brows at you making you smile. "infact, why don't you call me that now"

"what are you talking about?"

"don't act like you don't know ma. you'll finish this later. right now... i need you..."

☆𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍

he had seen you. watching you from his peripheral vision. he wasn't at all paying attention to his phone. but his attention on you was pulled further when you started talking.

"whenever my boyfriend's away, he's normally the one to call me. and he absolutely adores when i call him my sweet adorable baby"

"there has to be something wrong with you. because no", he suddenly says catching your attention.

"it's the truth though", he gets up and snatches your phone, reading the text and his brows furrowed even more.

"what is this? what trends have i missed?"

"it's not a trend. i'm just sharing my experiences to the world", you cross your arms over your chest.

"so we're lying now?"

"it's not lying if it's canon"

"i do not like it when you call me-"

"my sweet adorable baby", you say in a baby voice as his ears grow pink.

"that! i don't like that!"

"your body's saying otherwise", you tease him further, laughing as he narrows his eyes at you. he steps closer to you and lifts you up and you wrap your legs around his waist.

"i'm gonna teach you a lesson and we'll see if you still think i'm your adorable baby"

comments and reblogs are appreciated.

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crushpunky · 16 hours ago

Text

kook!reader walks rafe like a dog

masterlist | kook!reader masterlist

based on this ask :)

The music blared from the oversized speakers, the sea of teenagers and young adults scattered across the Boneyard moving along with each pound of the base. Y/n hadn’t really wanted to go to this party tonight, having already spent the whole day helping her mother plan her upcoming garden parties. After running to about five flower shops to see if they carried the exact flowers her mother wanted, searching downtown for a dress that fit the extremely specific dress code, and spending an hour tasting scones and tea cakes she could barely tell the difference between, the last thing y/n wanted to do was go to some loud, crowded party with a bunch of drunk kids.

However, after about an hour of Rafe’s insistent nagging (which showed no signs of slowing down), she relented. So, y/n, Rafe, Topper, and Kelce crowded into Topper’s Jeep before setting off for the Boneyard. Luckily, Topper had drawn the short straw as DD, so y/n could at least drink her worries about garden parties or, god forbid, college applications away.

Y/n found herself chatting with some girl from high school she hadn’t seen in a while (her name was Rachel, she thought), the two of them falling into a casual conversation as they swayed to the music. Y/n adjusted her bikini top, the fabric digging harshly into her skin as she took a sip of the drink Rafe had made her (he was the only one who could make her drinks, he insisted), finishing off the alcoholic concoction before dumping the ice into the sand.

“You want a refill?” Rafe said, suddenly appearing next to y/n in the sea of people. He wore an unbuttoned shirt, the fabric falling open to expose his muscled torso as he threw his arm over her shoulders in the crowded space. Y/n peered up at him, her eyes lingering on the slight flush in his cheeks and cheesy grin on his lips, evidence of the alcohol in his system.

“Sure. Thank you, boy.” Y/n grinned, handing Rafe her cup. He took it, pressing a kiss to the top of y/n’s head before disappearing into the crowd. Y/n giggled, shaking her head slightly. Rafe was naturally a very touchy person, but when he got drunk he tended to be a bit more affectionate, always hugging, pressing kisses to cheeks, or grabbing at hands. It was just how he was, even if y/n wished deep down it meant something more than drunken touches. So, brushed it off before returning her attention back to Rachel.

“So… how long have you guys been together?” Rachel asked, taking a sip of her drink with a raise of her brows.

“Oh, haha, we’re not together.” Y/n said, fiddling with a strand of her hair as she peered out into the crowd. She rose up onto her tiptoes, hoping to see Rafe’s buzzed head that usually stood a measured distance above everyone else.

“Really?” Rachel said. “I mean— I probably shouldn’t say this— but like everyone in high school was just waiting for the two of you to finally get together.”

Y/n chuckled nervously. She wasn’t completely oblivious to the whispers and rumors that floated around their high school and the rest of Kildare. I mean, hell, they even existed in her own house, her mother occasionally asking questions about her romantic life that usually ended up being about Rafe.

“Well, we’re just friends.” Y/n nodded, gnawing on her bottom lip. The two girls fell into silence, awkwardly swaying to the music until multiple shouts pierced through the air. Y/n’s head, along with everyone else's, immediately whipped around to the circle forming within the crowd of people. Y/n didn’t have to see who was involved, she felt it in her stomach as she began shoving through teenagers. As she pushed back Topper and Kelce, the two of them exchanged glances, but ultimately let her through.

“Nah, what the fuck did you say?!” Rafe shouted, grasping onto the front of some dude's shirt. The guy's eyes were wide, the color completely drained from his face as he held his hands up.

“I– I didn’t– it was just—” The boy stammered, Rafe staring sharply at him, his jaw clenched as he shook the boy harshly.

“Rafe Cameron!” Y/n snapped as she finally broke through the crowd of people. Rafe’s head whipped to the side, immediately releasing his grip on the boy's collar, but not before shoving him to the ground. The boy hit the sand with a groan, his back hitting the sand merely inches from where Topper and Kelce stood with scared expressions on their faces.

“Y/n, what—” Rafe started, wiping his hands on his shorts as y/n scowled at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Y/n said harshly, the crowd of people letting out a chorus of murmurs and chuckles as she scolded Rafe. Rafe opened his mouth to speak, his eyes darting around at the sea of onlookers, before he looked back at y/n.

“I wasn’t— he fuckin’ deserved it!” Rafe scoffed, running a hand through his hair as he let out a shrug. Y/n’s eyes narrowed further, her jaw clenching. It looked like she was going to say something back, some snappy retort about Rafe being a meathead or that he deserved to be slapped, but she didn’t. Without another word, y/n turned on her heels with a huff. She dove back into the crowd, pushing her way through.

“Y/n, what— where the fuck are you going?!” Rafe shouted, immediately moving to follow her. He shoved through the crowd, ignoring the snickers and muttered comments as he ran after y/n’s departing form.

“Where is she going?” Topper murmured, following Rafe and y/n, Kelce on his heels.

Once y/n broke free from the crowd, she kept walking away from the sand where the partygoers' cars lined the road. However, instead of going to Topper’s car (or anyone else’s for that matter), she just walked out onto the road and kept walking, arms crossed across her chest.

“Y/n, hey, stop!” Rafe said, finally catching up to y/n. She continued walking down the road, eyes fixed squarely on the road ahead of her.

“Hey, hey! Where the fuck are you going?” Rafe said, grasping onto her forearm. He attempted to stop her, but she quickly jerked free from his hold.

“I’m going home!” Y/n snapped.

“You’re walking the wrong fuckin way.” Rafe sighed. Y/n stopped for a second, Rafe letting out a snicker before she turned around, continuing her angry walk in the opposite direction.

“Seriously? You don’t even know what happened back there.” Rafe said, falling into step with her as the two of them walked along the road. Y/n rolled her eyes.

“Well, I know that you started another fight after you promised me you’d cut that shit out.” Y/n snapped, scowling at Rafe as he ran hand down his face with a scoff.

“I didn’t start shit, a’ight?” Rafe said, pointing at y/n harshly. “That guy was talking shit about you and I stepped in, ok? I did. I stepped in and put an end to that shit.”

Y/n blinked harshly, her eyes darting to meet Rafe’s as he raised his eyebrows with a cocky nod.

“You shouldn’t be getting into fights over me, no matter what people say.” Y/n shrugged, snapping her eyes forward.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Rafe said, grabbing onto y/n’s arm and turning her to stop and face him. His other hand grasped her opposite arm as he crouched down to meet her eyes. Y/n tried to avoid his stern gaze, but eventually relented, meeting his eyes with a sigh.

“That’s my job, ok? It’s my responsibility to make sure you’re ok, and I’m more than happy to do it because I care about you.” Rafe said, shaking y/n’s arms lightly as he spoke.

“It’s— it’s not your job, Rafe, I can take care of myself.” Y/n murmured, to which Rafe let out a small chuckle.

“Yeah but you don’t have to do it by yourself, a’ight? That’s what friends are for… and I’m one hell of a friend.” Rafe sighed, straightening out as he relinquished his grasp on y/n’s arms. He flung his arm over her shoulders, bringing her into his side. With a sigh, y/n snaked her arm around his torso. The two of them walked back down the road side by side in silence for a moment.

“So, you’ve given up on walking back, then?” Rafe smirked, causing y/n to shove him away playfully.

“Only because these shoes are uncomfortable and I don’t want blisters.” Y/n said as a pair of headlights appeared. The familiar screech of Topper’s tires skidded across the pavement as he came to a stop next to y/n and Rafe.

“You gonna come with us willingly or will we have to kidnap you?” Kelce said, leaning out from the passenger seat of Topper’s Jeep. Y/n groaned as she and Rafe approached the car, the boys letting out a round of chuckles as she willfully climbed in.

#obx #obx au #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x kook!reader #kook!reader

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twovialsofamortentia · 3 days ago

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sneaking away with james becomes a habit. 🍻❤️‍🔥

PART ONE

🎧 supermassive black hole- muse

warnings: smut. 18+, MDNI. unprotected sex, like VERY unprotected, mirror sex, rough sex, slight emetophobia warning, tipsy sex, james being a sex god (canon), james loving doggystyle bc he’s a man

You always sat next to James in the Three Broomsticks. Remus and Sirius usually sat across from you. Peter usually sat on a stool at the side of the table, but today he had swanned off to visit Zonko’s with Gilderoy Lockhart, a new friend of his. When they first started doing things together, James sulked for three days. Didn’t talk to anyone, not even you- he blanked out everyone who told him to get a grip.

That was by the by today, though, since James was in a good mood. You chalked that up to the fact that he had fucked you like it was your last day on earth approximately ten minutes before you left the castle.

You looked up at James through the corner of your eye while Sirius was off getting a round of drinks in. Sure enough, he was gazing right back at you. It made you laugh.

“What are you looking at?” you asked, catching him staring.

“Nothing.” he insisted, even though the look in his eye was suggesting the complete opposite.

“Don’t start being disgusting in front of me.” Remus protested, folding his arms. “I want no part of your weird foreplay, I’m telling you now.”

You dropped your head back and groaned, stomping your leg down onto the floor as you leaned back on the creaky wooden bench seat. You folded your arms in a huff, pulling on your best Moody Moony face.

“My name’s Remus Lupin, and I hate fun, because I’m all brooding and I smoke cigarettes while I pretend I’m not mentally shagging-”

“That’s enough.”

“Oh, it’s true though, you moody bastard.” you said quickly, slapping your hands on the table.

James was chuckling boyishly at your ridiculous impression, just happy that the conversation was deflected from his staring. James had a habit of getting carried away when he looked at you. His mind wandered frequently.

“Look who I found.” came Sirius’ voice, who was returning to the table with two drinks. He had Peter in tow, who was precariously balancing the other three in his hands. Impressively enough, he managed to set them all down on the table without spilling them.

“Finished with your boyfriend, Pete?” James asked, bringing one leg up to cross over the other, before resting his hand on his ankle. James was over the worst of his dramatics now, but he’d be a sad excuse for a marauder if he resisted the temptation to take the piss.

You kicked James sideways under the table and scooted up along the bench so that Peter could sit down next to you. You hooked one of your legs over James’ lap, letting it rest in between his own legs so that there was enough room for you all.

“You get anything good in Zonko’s, Worm?”

That prompted Peter to divulge into a several minute long rant about the haul of tat he bought from the joke shop down the road. Subsequently, because none of the marauders can ever shut up about anything, you ended up spending an hour planning your next six or seven pranks.

An hour of serious prank planning, though, meant another couple of drinks that got drained quicker than they would if you had nothing to talk about.

Which meant that by the time you shoved James out of his seat and stood up because you were gasping for a cigarette, everyone was a little unsteady on their feet.

You all stumbled outside, through the pub door and into the fresh air. You stuck a cigarette in between your lips, then one between James’, who was only a smoker when he’d had a drink- a smoker through association. Most of your friends had picked up the habit from Remus. Even Peter smoked occasionally when he wanted to look mysterious. James lit both of your cigarettes and shoved the small lighter in his pocket.

You gazed up at James as he leaned down to light your cigarette, smiling around where it was perched between your lips. You shot him a quick wink as you stood up straight.

“Behave.” he warned.

“Why?” you pressed, taking a step towards James and dropping your voice to a whisper. “I’m waiting for you to get wound up enough to actually take me in the bathroom.”

“You’re filthy,” he responded, in a low voice. James was very aware of the fact that not many people in the courtyard outside of The Three Broomsticks were still in possession of their hearing, so maybe he needn’t have bothered.

You giggled, nodding as you took another long puff of your cigarette, dragging your eyes painstakingly slowly over James’ figure. How nobody else had snapped him up by now was beyond you, but you weren’t complaining.

“Am I?” you asked, pulling your cigarette from between your lips, unconsciously darting your tongue out to wet them as you gazed up at James with an expression on your face that couldn’t have been interpreted any other way than please fuck me right fucking now.

That did it.

You felt James’ hand on the small of your back guiding you inside, and you followed because you knew what you were in for.

“Where are you two off to?” asked Peter, eyeing you suspiciously as you turned your back to him.

“Get another drink.” you lied over your shoulder, shrugging sheepishly at Pete as James whisked you off through the pub, straight past the bar and towards the little bathroom in the back corner.

It took a significant amount of restraint on James’ behalf to not manhandle you into the bathroom in a pub full of people. He wanted to drag you by the hair and throw you through the door. You wanted him to do the same.

He was, however, completely incapable of resisting once the door closed behind the both of you. James grabbed your hips and pulled you towards him. kissing you hard as he pressed your back up against the nearest wall- which happened to be the one with the sink on it.

“Merlin-!” you gasped, kissing him back as your ass found the edge of the sink, and you perched on it, back resting flat against the mirror above it.

As soon as you were sat down, however, James was gripping your waist and pulling you off of the sink, yanking you back to your feet. James quickly spun you round so that your back was to his chest.

“Look at you.” he muttered, leaning down so close to your ear that you could feel his breath on the side of your face.

“Please.” was all you could manage to say, your eyes locked on James’ reflection because he was just. so. fit. He was holding you by your hips, and you could feel him against you, already rock hard.

James would be damned if he wasn’t going to give you what you asked for, every time you asked for it. He winked at you in the mirror, and you just about died, before he hooked one hand over your shoulder and kept the other on your hip, hinging you swiftly forward until you were bent over the sink in front of him.

“Fuck-” you gasped, grabbing the sink for support and gazing at yourself in the mirror as your hair fell down around your face.

“You’re so beautiful.” James promised, eyes catching yours in your reflection.

You nodded slowly, almost believing it. You watched intently in the mirror as James bunched your dress up. Then you watched as he ripped your underwear down your legs so it was hanging around your knees.

James placed a hand flat in the middle of your back to gently push you further forward, so you were well and truly bent over for him, your hands steadying yourself by gripping the white porcelain of the sink.

You gasped when you felt James sink two fingers into you, but as quickly as they were in, they were out, and the feeling was replaced by him pushing all the way into you.

“Oh, fuck!” you whined as James slipped inside you, your thighs clenching around his hips. You were already a mess. You watched him in the mirror as he looked down to focus on where your body joined his, and you could see his eyes flutter shut as he drew almost completely out of you, then pushed all the way back in.

He had one hand splayed flat over your back still, and he was gripping your hip tightly with his other. Once James had established a rhythm of fucking in and out of you, the hand that was holding your back down against the sink slid up across your back and into your hair.

You moaned when you felt your head being jerked back by James grabbing a handful of your roots, and you caught his gaze in the mirror.

“Fuck me, darling,” James fawned over you, as you looked up at him in the mirror. “You’re perfect.”

His hand stayed twisted in your hair, so even if you’d wanted to look away, you couldn’t. But you didn’t want to.

You just nodded, whining indiscriminately about everything and nothing at the same time. You weren’t speaking to be heard, you just wanted to release some of your pent up energy.

“I know, my girl, I know,” said James softly, as you whined. It was a beautiful sound, but he couldn’t have you being too loud. “Shh.”

“Fuck, fuck! James, fuck, feels so- oh, fuck,” you rambled on and on, hands still gripping the sink for dear life.

“I know, just be quiet, darling,” said James, gripping your hair a little tighter to drive the point home. “Don’t want anyone to hear, do you?”

You were really had at remembering to have your wands on you for a silencing charm. You chalked it up to the fact that James got off on it, really. Filthy bastard.

You nodded, but it wasn’t much use, because the whines and curses were still spilling from your lips as if there was more than a flimsy wooden door separating you from everyone outside.

James leaned down over you, his hand slipping out of your hair and round to grab your face so tightly that it squished your cheeks together. He brought your back up against your chest, and dipped his head down to speak lowly in your ear.

“D’you need me to shut you up?” he warned through gritted teeth, staring down at you.

“Please-!” you mumbled, barely understandable because of how hard James was holding your face.

James got the message, and used the hand that he had holding your chin to push two of his fingers into your mouth, holding it open so that the sounds spilling from you were even less comprehensible.

��That better?” he asked.

You nodded, leaning slightly further forward and trying to tell James around his fingers that you were close, but you gagged around them and it all came out as a bit of a choked out mess.

“I know, sweetheart,” he assured you, and he was using that voice again. The voice that was only reserved for you, where his tone was soft against your skin, and he didn’t sound half as condescending as he did to anyone else. James knew that talking to you like that would let him get away with murder. He took his fingers out of your mouth and moved his hand around to the back of your neck, bending you roughly back over the sink.

You felt your legs starting to quiver, because being bent over like this meant James was hitting just the right spot. You had come to realise today that you were a complete and utter fool for James when he had you like this, because there was something so otherworldly about the way he looked when he was holding you down and drilling you like his life depended on it.

When James noticed that your legs were shaking, he knew you weren’t going to last that much longer. He brought his free hand round to your front, slipping it between you and the edge of the sink so he could reach down and circle his fingers over your clit.

James decided then and there that he loved having you like this, bent over for him, completely at his mercy, and resolved to bend you over more often.

“Fuck-” James huffed, snapping his hips harder against yours every time until he was lurching you forward every time he fucked into you.

“Please,” you begged. “James, I can’t-”

“S’alright, darling,” he told you soothingly. “Take it, you’re nearly there, I’ve got you.”

His fingers were digging into your hips, leaving little red marks over the ones he’d left earlier, which were already starting to transform into little pink bruises. They were tender, so the pain of James gripping you in the same spots was blinding, but so, so good.

“So gorgeous, darling, m’gonna- oh, fuck.”

It was at that point that you saw stars, because as soon as you felt a rush of warmth shoot up into you, your knees pressed together and you slumped against the sink, coming all over James’ dick for the second time that day.

James stilled as soon as he came, giving you the space to ride it out, but he twitched inside you involuntarily, your name spilling from his lips louder than it probably should have.

You couldn’t quite catch your breath as you went lax against the sink, hands pressed up against the mirror to try and keep you from hitting the floor. Your hips stuttered downwards and your thighs shook like you were freezing cold.

“Fuck.” you groaned, voice muffled by your own skin as you rested your head on your arms.

James watched your reflection for a moment, taking in how pretty you really were when you were like this, flushed bright red and bent over in front of the mirror.

“Love you.” he mused softly as he pulled your underwear back up over your ass before tugging at your dress so that it fell back down to where it was meant to be, the hem around your ankles rather than around your waist.

You hummed in response, sighing as you stood up straight. “Love you.” you echoed. “So much that I’m going to go back out there and sit with your friends while I’m leaking your fucking spunk.”

James laughed at that, pulling his underwear and jeans back up. He leant against the wall, still a little out of breath, eyes running across your face with adoration.

“It’s never ending with you.”

“You love it.”

There was no word of a lie. James did love it, almost as much as he loved you. You were kindred in your senses of adventure, and that was the most attractive thing about you in James’ eyes.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, opening the door for you and watching you duck under his arm and out of the bathroom. “I do.”

#james potter #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x reader #james potter smut #marauders #dead wizards from the 70s #harry potter #marauders era #dead gay wizards from the 70s #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #gilderat #wolfstar

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isaadore · 9 hours ago

Text

LINES WE CROSS LANDO NORRIS

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎pairing lando norris x leclerc!reader

SUMMARY loving lando was never supposed to be complicated. you weren’t hiding from the world: you were hiding from charles. because if he found out, it wouldn’t just be a fight. it would be a war. word count 0.8k

warnings use of y/n, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden romance, some arguing, charles being overprotective, happy ending

note requested! it's been awhile since i've written for lando so thank u anon for requesting hehe 😇 and i know the first photo is of george and carmen.. i didn't notice at first so crazy concidence

LN4 MASTERLIST EVENT MASTERLIST

MONACO AT NIGHT was always alive. The city breathed in neon lights and the hum of expensive cars, but right now, all you could hear was your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

"You should go," you whispered, but Lando didn’t move.

He was standing too close, the heat of his body seeping into yours as you leaned against the cold stone wall of an alleyway hidden from the street. His McLaren hoodie was pulled over his head, his face shadowed, but you knew that look in his eyes: stubborn, reckless.

"Do you want me to go?" His voice was quiet, but it carried weight.

Your silence was the answer.

He sighed, pressing his forehead against yours. "Y/N—"

"Lando, please."

You didn’t want this to end. But it had to.

Because the moment Charles found out, there would be no coming back from it.

Lorenzo figured it out first. Not because you told him but because he noticed things.

“You never liked Lando before,” he said one evening, watching you too closely. “Now, suddenly, you don’t roll your eyes when he talks.”

Arthur caught on a few weeks later when he walked into your apartment and found Lando’s hoodie on the couch.

“I don’t care,” Arthur had muttered, tossing it back to you. “But if Charles finds out? You’re dead.”

And that was the problem.

Charles had always been overprotective. He thought he knew what was best for you, and in his eyes, Lando Norris was far from it.

You knew why.

Lando was unpredictable, too playful, too much of a risk. And Charles? Charles was always afraid of things he couldn't control.

It was a stupid mistake. One moment of carelessness.

You were in the paddock after a race, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. Lando had finished P2, and when he pulled you into a tight hug behind the motorhomes, you hadn’t thought twice about it.

Until you heard your name.

"Y/N."

You froze.

Lando immediately let go, stepping back as Charles stared at you both, his face unreadable, but his eyes? His eyes burned.

“Charles—”

"How long?" His voice was eerily calm.

You hesitated.

Lando, on the other hand, didn’t. "Eight months."

You squeezed your eyes shut. Idiot.

Charles let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Eight months? And neither of you thought to tell me?"

"Because we knew how you’d react," you shot back, stepping forward. "Look at you now, Charles."

He turned his glare to Lando. "And you? What, you thought this was funny? Sneaking around like some joke?"

Lando didn’t back down. "I love her."

The words landed heavy between the three of you.

Charles flinched, just barely, but you caught it.

"You love her?" His voice was sharp, disbelieving.

Lando exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yes, Charles. I love her. And she loves me."

"Don't—" Charles shook his head, voice shaking. "Don't pretend this isn't just another game to you, Lando."

Lando's jaw clenched. "It’s not a game."

You swallowed hard. "Charles, please, just—"

But he was already turning away.

"Charles!"

He didn’t stop.

And just like that, the secret was out, and everything was so much worse.

You found Charles later that night, standing on the balcony of his apartment, staring at the Monaco skyline.

"You hate me now?" you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you. "I could never hate you."

Your chest tightened. "Then why won’t you talk to me?"

Charles exhaled, hands gripping the railing. "Because I'm scared."

That caught you off guard.

"Scared of what?"

He finally turned, and the exhaustion in his expression nearly broke you.

"Of you getting hurt," he admitted. "Of you trusting him too much. Of me losing you."

Your throat felt tight. "You’re not losing me, Charles."

"But I am," he whispered. "You're growing up, and I don’t know how to stop it."

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him. He stiffened at first, then slowly melted into the hug.

"I'm happy," you murmured. "Doesn't that count for something?"

He sighed against your shoulder. "It does."

Silence.

Then, begrudgingly:

"If he hurts you, I will end him."

A small laugh bubbled out of you. "I’d expect nothing less."

It took time. A lot of time.

Charles still wasn’t thrilled about Lando, but at least he wasn’t threatening to kill him anymore.

And Lando? He was patient. He knew Charles would never fully approve, but as long as he had you, that was enough.

"You think he'll ever like me?" Lando asked one evening, as you lay curled up on his couch.

You smiled. "Maybe when we’re old and gray."

Lando groaned. "That long?"

"Be grateful he didn’t murder you."

Lando smirked. "Yet."

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Give it time."

Lando grinned, pulling you closer. “As long as I get to spend all that time with you, I don’t mind waiting.”

#lando norris x reader #lando norris #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #lando norris angst #f1 x you #f1 fic #f1 #formula 1 #✷ isaadore #✷ tastes like sugar

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librarygarten · 1 day ago

Note

I love your ideas for isekai reader! but what about a reader who is a professional or hardcore gamer? in the sense that will probably finish the videogames with the minimum of items or with lower level weapons

all this based on my friend's experience, who when he completed final fantasy discovered that the weapons could be improved or that there were more powerful weapons to defeat the bosses

—————

the chain: this enemy is very difficult, we should upgrade our weapons and come back later-

Gamer reader: the life bar moved, it can bleed

the chain: ...b-but this enemy attacks from very close range-

Gamer reader: then attack from afar

gamer reader: If the enemy can bleed, it can die

As a certified baby that can't complete any game without a walkthrough, this is absolutely not my lived experience. It takes a special kind of crazy to do that. /pos

The battle was fierce. The monster was strong. The HP bar, something that apparently only you could see, hadn’t moved an inch. Honestly, it felt like you were playing Souls again.

You were no stranger to tough fights. What made this one different was the fact that you were actually in the fight, as opposed to controlling a game character. Getting up close and personal with a monster sure did change some things.

“We need to fall back!” Time yells over the sound of swords clattering uselessly against the monster’s thick skin. “Champion, cover us!”

Wild obeys, pulling out his Sheika Slate and sending chains of energy towards the beast. It will only keep it in stasis for a few seconds, but it was better than nothing. Sky lands one more hit as he flees and you see it: the health bar moves. It probably only lost 1 hp, but it was better than nothing. A few thousand more hits like that, and it would fall, no problem!

“The health bar moved!” you excitedly tell Time and Warriors as you sprint away through the forest.

“Congratulations?” Wars looks at you in confusion.

“That means we can beat it!” you insist. “We just need to get a few more good hits in and it’s toast!”

“We can come back after we upgrade our weapons,” Time decides. “The monster is too powerful to take on at the moment. We were barely able to get away as it is.”

“But we damaged it!” you try again.

“Not enough. We need to do more damage in a shorter amount of time if we stand any chance at beating that thing.” Legend pipes up, and you glare daggers at him. He wasn’t even part of this conversation! What was he doing, butting in and sharing his completely incorrect idea?

“Are you talking about the little nick I gave it?” Sky asks, coming to run alongside you. “I’d hardly call that damage. It barely bled.”

“If it can bleed, it can die.” You mutter. This was getting you nowhere. Fine. If they wouldn’t listen to reason, you’d finish the job yourself. Without so much as a goodbye, you turn on your heel and begin sprinting back through the trees towards the monster.

In your haste, you nearly mow over Four and Wind. Four curses as you pass by, momentarily thrown off balance. Wind somehow puts Four to shame with his own expletives.

“Where are you going?” You hear a voice call after you. “Do you have a freaking death wish!?”

You ignore it and keep running.

The monster is exactly where you left it.

You steady your breathing as it locks eyes with you. It charges. You roll. Your sword strikes against its side as you dodge.

-1 hp.

The best slams its fist into the ground, trying to squash you. It misses my millimeters. You stab at it again.

-1 hp.

Again. And again. You dodge. You strike. You slowly chip away at its health.

You’re not sure how long it takes. You can’t focus on anything other than your movement patterns. When it finally falls, the sun is beginning to rise. Weird. You thought it was afternoon.

“Y/N! What in Hylia’s name were you thinking!?” Your limbs feel like lead as Wild shakes you. It takes a few moments for you to connect that he’s even talking to you. Was he… scolding you? Him??? Mr. I-sled-down-cliffs-for-fun?

“That was… insanely reckless,” Time sighs. He’s standing behind Wild, and he somehow looks even more tired than you feel.

“Where did you guys come from?” You try to think back, but your thoughts are about as fast as cold molasses. They had left, hadn’t they? Why were they here? You feel yourself being sat down as Hyrule begins to heal you.

“Most of us went back to town,” Wind explains. “We were gonna fight it with better supplies.”

“I stayed back to watch. I was planning on pulling you out of the fight, but you… seemed to handle yourself alright,” Warriors massages his temples. “I swear, if I gray early I’m holding you and you alone responsible.”

“Why didn’t you wait?” Legend asks. His familiar snark feels strained. Awww, was he worried about you? If you didn’t feel like passing out, maybe you would tease him a bit. Instead, you decide to answer his question.

“Why would I?”

You can hear multiple Links’ blood pressures rise as they take in your words.

Congrats! Every Link has even more anxiety now! Are you happy?

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uhhlifeig · 2 days ago

Text

Sweat - March 25 - word count: 568 - @wolfstarmicrofic

The four fifth-years huddled around the piece of parchment.

It had taken years of their time, almost the entire time that they had already spent at Hogwarts, but it was almost done.

“Right, boys, we just need to sign now,” James said pompously. “Moony, you first- you came up with the idea.”

Remus nodded, dipping his quill into the pre-prepared magical ink, then signing his nickname.

He grinned with relief as the parchment seemed to absorb the ink, and his signature vanished. “Thank Merlin it works, I was sweating my tail off back here.”

James clapped his hands excitedly. “Alright, Moons, choose who signs next.”

Remus would have said Sirius even if his boyfriend hadn’t been looking at him with puppy-dog eyes. Being his boyfriend had perks, sometimes.

“Yes, Pads, your turn,” he sighed, rolling his eyes fondly.

Sirius cheered, pecking Remus on the cheek. “Thanks, Moonlight.”

He did the same thing that Remus had done before him, scrawling Padfoot on the sheet and watching his name fade.

“Wormy’s next,” Sirius said, grinning at James’s look of betrayal and disbelief.

“Sweet,” Peter said, snatching the quill and penning his own name, before handing the quill over to James.

“Thank you, Pete,” he said. “You’re a good friend, unlike someone.” He shot Sirius a playful glare.

Sirius stuck out his tongue. “It’s not my fault you’re always pining after Lily. Payback, Prongs.”

“Oh, fuck you,” James said in mock-anger, putting his own nickname on the parchment rather aggressively.

“No thanks, Moony’s already doing that quite well.”

“Oh, we know,” Peter said dryly. “We can hear, and no offense, Remus- your silencing charms are shite.”

“Oi, shuddup,” Remus said, flushing a deep beetroot. “We have a bit more to do.”

“The blood?”

“The blood,” he confirmed. “Now everyone stick out a finger- just a little cutting hex, and we’re done.”

James looked slightly queasy. “Are you sure we need this to finish the map?”

“If you want to add our personalities, then yes. Padfoot can confirm.”

Everyone looked at Sirius, who nodded in affirmation. “We need blood magic to infuse the Map with us. Otherwise it’s just another map.”

“Fine,” James huffed, looking away. “Just tell me when you’re done bleeding me dry.”

“We are done, Prongs,” Remus said amusedly. “Sirius was a great distraction. Now, let’s see what it does.” He pointed his wand at the parchment and muttered, “Revelio.”

Instantly, messages began to form.

Messr. Prongs is judging Mr. Lupin for forgetting the password already.

Messr. Padfoot would like Mr. Lupin to know that he looks quite dashing and intelligent today and that he would quite like to take Mr. Lupin to bed.

Messr. Wormtail would like for Messr. Padfoot to kindly shut the fuck up about Mr. Lupin.

Messr. Moony has no comment, for he is flipping Messr. Padfoot off with his incorporeal finger.

Messr. Padfoot would like to say that Messr. Moony has wounded him deeply and should now make up for it with kisses.

Messr. Prongs is attempting to strangle Messr. Padfoot with imaginary hands.

And on and on it went.

Remus whooped. “It’s working! Finally, thank Merlin.”

“I think Messr. Padfoot is right, Moons,” Sirius purred, scooting closer to his boyfriend. “You are very smart, and I would quite like to take you to bed.”

“And I think Messr. Wormtail is right,” Peter interrupted. “Stop traumatizing me, guys. I’ve already heard way too much.”

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sweetdispatch · 2 days ago

Text

Plane seat - V. Mancini

masterlist pairing: Victor Mancini x fem!reader summary: You and Victor met on the way to Vancouver and slowly fell in love with each other warning: none note: special thank you to the person who asked if i can write something for moose and to @hockeyboistrash who made a super cute blurb with him! they motivated me to sat down and finish something that was laying in my drafts❤️

It was unexpected information. Victor found out that he’s traded to Vancouver and has to arrive there the next day. He packed the most important things into his bag and went to the airport. He didn’t know how to feel. He was aware that trades were happening but deep down he hoped to stay in New York. Now, he was sitting on the plane on his way to Canada, far away from his family and friends.

You wished that the break would never be over. You were studying in Vancouver but your family was living in New York. Now, you have to come back to the reality of studying and working. You felt nostalgic. First week when you were back in Canada you were always sad that you’re again by yourself. You sat on the plane and noticed a cute guy sitting next to you. You smiled softly to him and Victor smiled back.

Victor didn’t want to be nosey but he noticed that you were writing in your journal about hockey. He thought you were pretty and he was scared to just start talking but this felt like a perfect change.

“Hi, I’m Victor and I noticed that you are writing about hockey and…” He didn’t know what to say more and hoped that you’ll talk back to him.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. I’m trying to get the information written in my journal so I have an easier task when I get back home to make an article” You explained to him.

“So you’re a journalist” Victor said and you giggled.

“Not really. I’m working for a hockey team and there’s been a trade so I need to write an article about it on the page” You showed him your notes.

“I see my name here, I guess we’ll be working together” Victor pointed on your page to show you.

“I guess we’ll be” You smiled at him.

For the rest of the flight, you and Victor had been talking about everything and nothing. You two understood each other. You proposed to him that he can stay in your apartment so he doesn’t have to pay for the hotel. At first, he was sceptical about this idea but you convinced him by telling that you’re alone in Vancouver just like he’s gonna be.

When you stepped into your place, you showed him your guest bedroom that now was his room. Victor thanked you and just like that, you two became roommates. You were happy that he agreed to stay with you because most of the time you were stuck by yourself in these four walls and now, you had someone to talk with.

After a week, it turned out that you and Victor won’t be working together. He was glad about it because he really liked you but he knew how strict the rules are about dating in the workplace. He was training and playing with Canucks while you were doing your part in Abbotsford. It was a perfect solution for you two because you weren’t spending 24/7 together.

Slowly, the feelings between you and Victor were growing. There were small touches when you were sitting in the living room and watching something or during dinner. He got a habit of kissing your cheek every time he was leaving for a roadie. Many nights you two were laying in your bedroom and just talking about how the day went. It was all perfect.

With each day together, you were craving more of him. You wanted Victor to be yours. Everyday you wanted to scream that you wanted to kiss his lips and call him your boyfriend but you never did it. You didn’t want to ruin your living together. You didn’t want him to be scared and run away from you. You needed him close no matter how much it hurts you that it’s only friendship.

What you didn’t know was that Victor wanted you too. Since the moment he saw you on the plane, he wanted to know you better and better. At every occasion he was implying that he wants more than just a friendship. He was kissing your cheek but he wished it was your lips. He was laying late at night in your bed but he wished he could sleep there and hug you tight. But you never reacted, you were always smiling but he didn’t know if this is because you’re polite or because you also want him.

One night, changed completely the dynamic between you and Victor. He asked you to go with him as a plus one to one of his teammate’s birthday party. Happily you agreed to go with him. You thought that this would be a perfect opportunity to get closer to him and show him that you want him. And you did it but not the way you expected. You got drunk at the party and pulled Victor into a kiss. He was shocked at first but he reciprocated the kiss.

The next morning you woke up with a hangover and went to grab water from the fridge. You noticed Victor sitting in the kitchen and eating breakfast.

“Good morning” You greeted him but he didn’t say anything back. That was weird because he wasn’t the smiley and cheerful person like he always is. “Something happened?” You asked him.

“Do you have any feelings for me?” Victor asked you out of blue.

“Yeah, you’re my friend” You took a sip from the bottle.

“Nothing more?” Victor tried to push you to talk. “Because after this kiss, I think we’re more than friends” The realisation hit you. You kissed him and didn’t say a word back.

“Okay, the truth is that I have feelings for you. I have had them for a long time and I really wanted to tell you this but I was scared. I wanted to tell you this yesterday but I got so drunk that I only kissed you” You told him and looked at him and noticed a smile on his lips.

“Good because I have feelings for you too. I tried to show you this but I never knew if this is mutual for you too and after that kiss, I knew I had to be sure” Victor stood up and placed a hand on your cheek, gently caressing it.

“Kiss me please” You whispered and Victor pulled you into a kiss.

#victor mancini #victor mancini x reader #victor mancini imagine #victor mancini fanfiction #victor mancini oneshot #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #vancouver canucks #v' work

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sturnsblogs · 1 day ago

Text

COMFORT IN ALL THE CHAOS

Teacher!Matt X Milf!Reader

—

You’d been trying to have a good week. Really, you had. But no matter how hard you tried, everything seemed to be working against you.

Eliana had been throwing tantrums left and right—big, screaming, kicking, crying fits that drained you more than you’d like to admit. On top of that, your baby daddy had suddenly decided he wanted to re-enter her life after five years of complete absence. Five years of silence. Five years of nothing. And now, he had the audacity to beg for time with her like he hadn’t vanished without a trace.

You were exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally—everything.

And Matt had noticed.

You’d been ignoring his texts all week—not on purpose, but because the days slipped away so fast, lost in the chaos of single motherhood and the overwhelming weight of everything hitting you at once. Every time your phone buzzed with his name, you’d glance at it, promise yourself you’d reply later… and then another meltdown or another stressor would pull you away.

You felt horrible about it.

So when your doorbell rang late that night, and you opened the door to find Matt standing there, you were both surprised and relieved to see him.

He stood there, looking a little unsure, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bag of Chinese takeout in the other. “Hey, uh, I know things’ve been rough, but I brought dinner. Thought I could—well, help you out. If you’re up for it.”

You blinked at him, feeling a mixture of guilt and comfort. Matt hadn’t pushed. He just showed up, simple and easy, like he was always there when you needed him.

“Hi,” you murmured, voice quiet, the weight of the week still sitting on your shoulders. “Thank you. I didn’t—” You broke off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. You didn’t mean to ignore him, but things were spiraling, and the last thing you wanted was to drag him into it all.

Matt’s smile softened, and his eyes, full of warmth, met yours. “I figured I’d check in. Rough week?” His voice was gentle, but there was a hint of concern beneath it.

You nodded, bottom lip trembling slightly, and instinctively, you stepped aside to let him in. He set the flowers and food down on the counter as if he’d done this before—like he belonged. Maybe that’s what you were trying to avoid—feeling too comfortable, too dependent.

But here he was, and you did need him.

“Yeah,” you said, finally able to speak, your voice breaking just a little. “It’s been a lot.”

You wiped at your eyes, the tears that had been building finally spilling over. Matt didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to fix it or tell you it would be okay right away. He simply stepped toward you, his arms opening in an invitation for comfort.

You didn’t hesitate this time. You walked into his embrace, feeling the weight of the last few days ease just a little as he wrapped his arms around you.

He held you without saying a word, his warmth surrounding you in a way that felt like a safe place. He wasn’t offering solutions. He wasn’t rushing you to feel better. He was just there, and for the first time in days, you could breathe.

After a moment, Matt pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Do you wanna talk about it?” His voice was soft but steady, like he genuinely wanted to know.

You swallowed hard, then nodded, not knowing where to start. You looked down at your hands, suddenly unsure of how to say it all without sounding like you were drowning. “I… I don’t know where to start. Eliana’s been so difficult. And then—” You paused, your heart aching. “He called. After five years. And now he wants to see her. And I’m just… I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know how to feel.”

Matt stayed silent, just letting you talk. His thumb rubbed gently over your arm, comforting you without overwhelming you.

“Why now?” you whispered, the anger and frustration creeping in. “He didn’t want to be there for her before, but now that he’s ready, he thinks he can just waltz in and fix everything?”

Matt’s voice was low, understanding. “It’s not your fault, Y/N. You’re doing everything for her. You’ve done everything for her.”

You exhaled shakily, feeling the weight in your chest start to ease. “I just want to do what’s right. But every time I try to make the decision, it feels wrong.”

Matt nodded slowly, his hand on your back. “You’ll know what’s right. And if you ever want someone to talk it through with… I’m here. No pressure.”

You sniffled, blinking back tears, and gave him a small smile. “Thanks. That… that means more than you know.”

There was a long, comfortable pause. Then Matt reached down and grabbed the bag of food. “How about we eat? Watch a movie? I mean, unless you’re not in the mood for that, but I figured if you wanted some company… I can do company, you know?” He raised an eyebrow, a soft smirk pulling at his lips.

You laughed softly at his attempt to lighten the mood, feeling the tension in your shoulders release. “I think company sounds nice.”

Matt grinned, his energy a bit lighter now, though still grounded in that caring, gentle way he always seemed to have. “Alright, then. I’m not going anywhere, so let’s get comfy.”

You sat down at the kitchen table together, unpacking the takeout and digging into the warm food. The atmosphere was more relaxed now, no rush, no pressure. Just two people trying to unwind after a long, exhausting week.

As you both ate, you found yourself slowly talking about anything and everything that wasn’t related to your stress. The conversation shifted from Eliana to your favorite movies, to funny moments from work, and even some of Matt’s own silly experiences in teaching.

You weren’t in a relationship with him—yet—but something about the way he made you feel, the way he listened and showed up when you needed him, made it seem like you weren’t so alone in this after all.

When the night ended, Matt stood up, brushing crumbs off his lap. He looked at you with that same soft, sincere smile. “You doing okay?”

You nodded, a genuine smile finally making its way onto your face. “Yeah. I think I am now. Thank you, Matt. Really.”

He smiled, and for a moment, you saw that quiet understanding in his eyes. “Anytime, Y/N. Seriously. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

With a small but meaningful glance, he gave you one last soft squeeze of the shoulder before he slipped on his jacket. “I’ll let you get some sleep. You’ve had a rough day. But if you ever need anything—”

You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in days. “I know where to find you.”

—

A/N- I did not listen to you guys last night and didn’t post what i had so why not do it now.. (updating all my AU’S)

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @slvtme0utt @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill

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heavens-crown · 3 days ago

Text

And The Were Neighbors PT.3

A/N: There is a brief description of prior domestic violence, it is not graphic details but is talked about

Warnings: Angst, mention of DV, minor wound care

Master list

“It’s a date.”

When the door to his apartment shut behind him Robby had to lean against it for support. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spent time with a woman like that, especially one who just seemed to get him. Groaning, he scrubbed his hands over his face. He needed to get it together, he was acting like a horny teenager. Spending half the night trying to fight off an erection had not been in his horoscope for the day he was sure.

“Get it together,” He muttered to himself. Stalking into the kitchen he grabbed a protein bar and sat heavily on his couch. Apparently peace was too much for him to ask for because the moment he sat down his mind assaulted him with image after image of Delilah. Before his mind could continue to perverse everything his new found friend did his phone began ringing. Grateful for the distraction he grabbed it from the coffee table and answered it.

“Where the fuck do we get the physical patient sheets?” It was Jack, Robby’s coworker and begrudged best friend.

“Well hello to you too. I’m doing great thanks for asking.” Robby chuckled hearing Jack’s annoyed huff. “Check in the filing cabinet near my desk. They should be in there if not I got no idea.”

“All the computers decided now was the best time to just shut down and not work and shit is just crazy here,” Robby could hear him shuffling through papers while he grumbled under his breath. “Found them, thanks brother.” With that Jack hung up.

Robby shook his head in amusement, he was used to Jack being rather prickly so the attitude didn’t bother him much. Now that it was silent again in his apartment Robby’s mind began to wander again and this time he didn’t stop it. Christ he was a dirty old man, he had no business wondering how soft her skin was. Or how she’d look spread out underneath him while he worked his way down her body. As his mind continued to wander a thought struck him, making him grab his phone. She had mentioned her art blog where she advertised her work, she had even given him the name of it in passing since it was apparently a joke of some kind.

It didn’t take him long to find it, and when he did he felt a flush work its way up his neck. The profile picture was her alright and when he began scrolling through the posts he damn near threw his phone. The first post that popped up was an art piece she recently finished, tentacles held a woman who looked eerily like Delilah in the air. The woman's legs were spread open and even though it was blurred he could tell the tentacles were in between her thighs, while another one was shoved down her throat. Fucking christ, Robby thought as he continued to scroll through the posts. She hadn’t been kidding when she had warned him about how graphic they could get. One post in particular caught his attention. In the description was a link to a secondary blog that was apparently for all her explicit work. Before he could stop himself he had clicked the link.

A full hour had gone by the time Robby had finally found the willpower to put his phone down. Apparently the second blog was more of her personal art along with random things she wanted to post at will. When it wasn’t monsters and women it was one particular character drawn in various scenarios. His first look through the blog he had failed to notice the captions and tags on each post but when he went back through his breath had hitched.

-I just want to be someone's toy. Is that too much to ask for?

That caption had been with another drawing of the character she seemed to favor bent over a couch. A fist was bunched in her hair pulling her head back while the other hand gripped her hip holding her in place. Robby’s gut had twisted when he’d seen the caption and he had to stop himself from picturing him and Delilah in that pose. He groaned when he felt his dick throb and laid his head back against the couch. He was a grown man and he should have better self control. A minute passed with no signs of his hard on going away before he groaned and shoved his hand down his pants. Hopefully Delilah never found out that her neighbor was jerking himself off to thoughts of her.

Delilah busied herself with finishing up a makeshift breakfast while trying to ignore just how horny she was. After Robby had left she had tried to sleep and when she failed at that she had tried to masturbate since that usually helped her sleep. Spoiler: it hadn’t worked. Even using her favorite vibrator hadn’t done jack besides make her over stimulated. So she wasn’t in the best of moods but at least she had cinnamon rolls and fruit to look forward to. Her phone dinged, pulling her attention away from the fruit she was chopping. Before she knew it she had sliced her finger instead of the cantaloupe.

“Fuck!” She yelped. Dropping the knife she grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it around her finger. Tears welled in her eyes as the wound throbbed. Her morning was looking like a real shit show, a few tears rolled down her face as she attempted to survey the damage done to her finger. Before she could there was a knock at the door. With a sniffle and attempt at wiping her Delilah made her way to the door, opening it to Robby standing there. He was all smiles until he saw the tears and her clutching the towel to her hand.

“Jesus are you ok? What happened?” Robby pushed himself into her apartment gently cradling her hand. He peeled back the tea towel as she explained what had happened. Delilah sniffled as more tears gathered in her eyes. She knew she was crying from more than just the cut, everything was threatening to overwhelm her.

“I’m sorry for crying so much,” She muttered as he continued to survey the damage. Frowning at her he pressed the towel back to her hand.

“Why are you apologizing? You’re hurt it’s natural to cry when you get hurt,” He brushed some of her hair out of her face. “Sit on the couch, I'm going to grab my first aid kit. Thankfully you don’t need stitches.” Before she could argue with him he was herding her to the couch and only left once she had sat down. When he returned he sat on her coffee table directly in front of her. His legs bracketed hers as he grabbed supplies out of it. Once he had what he needed pulled on a pair of gloves before gently pulling her hands towards him.

“I’m gonna clean around the cut just to get some of this blood off. Once that's done I'm gonna put these butterfly bandages on it ok?” When she nodded her consent he started cleaning off her hand. “I’m going to use this mild antiseptic solution, it’s gonna sting a bit.” When it did begin stinging Delilah winced.

“Shit you weren’t kidding,” more tears gathered as she tried to not flinch away from him.

“I know I'm sorry just hold still a moment longer,” Robby said as he finished up cleaning the wound. When she took in a shaky breath he gave her a warm smile. “That’s it good girl, take in nice deep breaths for me.” Delilah prayed to whatever higher being there was that he didn’t notice her squeeze her thighs together at his ‘good girl’ comment. Jesus she was a wreck, she shouldn’t be lusting after her neighbor while he bandaged her up.

“I’m sorry again for crying,” She said softly. “I think it was just sort of a straw that broke the camel's back. Things haven’t been great up to me moving here.” Robby finished applying the bandages to her finger. He didn’t let go of her hand as he studied her face.

“If you want to talk about it you can. I’m a really good listener," he offered. His thumb was rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand while his other hand gently cupped her wrist on her non injured hand. She hesitated for the briefest moment, but seeing the sincerity in his eyes and the way he didn’t push her to share anything made her crack.

“I have this ex, we met when I was 19 and he was 29. My parents had just died and I was an emotional wreck. He made me feel important and showered me with gifts, it's why when he suddenly criticized anything I did or got in my face during an argument I didn't immediately see what was happening,” Delilah paused, taking a shaky breath. “When I was 21 he started hitting me. It just escalated from there until two years ago he threatened to kill me if I left him. My friend Cherry managed to convince me that he’d kill me even if I stayed so I packed a bag with anything important and I left.”

“Delilah,” Robby started.

“You don’t have to say I'm sorry or anything, I know people tend to feel a little uncomfortable at first when I talk about this stuff.” Another deep breath and she felt less shaken. “After I left I bounced around alot, never staying anywhere for long. It was only a year ago that I reactivated my blogs so I could go back to art commissions. Then about 3 months ago my grandma called saying that she was going into a nursing home here in Pittsburgh and she wanted me to be close by. So i decided fuck it, and moved here.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Robby seemed lost for words and Delilah was just staring down at her hands still held in his. The timer on the oven dinged startling both of them. Laughing a bit Delilah pulled her hands out of his grip and went to stand.

“That’s the cinnamon rolls, let me go get them before they burn,” she went to stand but Robby stopped her.

“I’ll get them you sit and rest,” He said. “Doctors orders.” Winking at her he got up and made his way into the kitchen. Delilah turned so she could watch him in the Kitchen. He moved around easily, pulling the tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven and placing them on the stove to cool. He also put the bloodied knife and cutting board in the sink and washed them off.

“I got the icing ready for the cinnamon rolls. So in a few minutes I can come in there and we can ice them up,” Delilah said, enjoying watching him move about. Robby shot her a mark glare, his fits on his hips.

“What part of the doctor's orders do you not understand?” He scolded playfully. Making his way back to the couch he dropped down next to her and sighed as if she were a troublesome child. “Am I going to have to tie you to this couch to get you to sit still?”

Oh my god, Delilah thought. Logically she knew he didn't mean it that way, but her brain still kicked into overdrive at the images that statement produced. He was smirking at her, as if thinking she wouldn’t clap back. Before she could stop herself she found herself talking.

“My safewords ‘banana’ if you really want to play that game.”

Seeing the satisfied smirk on Delilah’s face damn near made his control snap. It took Robby a moment to get his thoughts together since he honestly hadn’t meant to threaten to tie her down, nor was he expecting her to say that.

“Cat got your tongue?” She teases. Sitting back with a triumphant look on her face Robby makes a split decision.

“Keep it up little girl, and i’ll put you over my knee,” it’s not a threat but a promise. He watches as her pupils dilate just slightly and a flush works its way up her face. It’s at that moment Robby has a lightbulb realization. She’s just as attracted to him, and fuck if that doesn’t make some of his self control start to fray. He’s leaning toward her about to say something completely inappropriate when all of a sudden his phone is blaring. Frowning he pulls it out of his pocket and he feels his stomach drop when he sees the message flashing across the screen.

[MCI Alert: Pittsburgh PA - Train derailment]

#michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #dr robby #the pitt fanfiction #michael robinavitch

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