#like it's actually a physical pain in my chest

[m4rv3l-girl]

Not the kind of partner I’m used to..

Bucky is referred to a paired therapy program..

Warnings: None, little bit of angst…Kind of?

The chair was too small.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched like a caged animal. The walls of Dr. Raynor’s office were the same off-white shade of every other government-sanctioned therapy clinic he’d been forced to visit, and the fluorescent lights hummed in a way that made his teeth itch. He hated it here. He hated therapy. And, most of all, he hated whatever new hoop Raynor was making him jump through this time.

"This is stupid," he grumbled, voice low and flat. "I don't need a - what do you even call this? A therapy buddy? A trauma pen-pal?"

Raynor gave him that look. The one that said she was just barely tolerating him. "It’s a paired therapy program."

Bucky rolled his eyes.

"You agreed to try," she reminded him, flipping through her clipboard. "The point is to help people with… let's say, complicated pasts, to build social connections. Get used to interacting. Being normal."

"Great. So you’re admitting this is a group project."

"Not a group," Raynor corrected, sitting back in her chair. "Just the two of you. One-on-one. You can do that, right? Make one friend?"

Bucky sighed through his nose, glaring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

"Well, lucky for you, she’s not thrilled about this either," Raynor continued, glancing at the door as voices echoed from outside the office. "I warned her to be civil, but fair warning - she's not exactly a social butterfly."

Bucky’s interest piqued at that. He listened, keen ears picking up the muffled sound of a woman’s voice.

"Look, Doc, I’m just saying - do I actually have to?" The voice huffed. "I don’t need a therapy partner. I’m doing just fine avoiding people all on my own."

Bucky smirked.

"Y/N, you promised," the other doctor’s voice responded, a familiar level of exhausted patience in her tone.

A pause. A groan. The sound of a doorknob turning.

Then she stepped in.

Y/N had the kind of posture that screamed reluctant participation. She entered the room like it physically pained her to do so, crossing her arms and scanning the space with an expression that read: ‘this was not my idea, and I hate it here.’ When her eyes landed on Bucky, she froze for a fraction of a second - just long enough for him to notice. He was used to that reaction. The pause. The flicker of recognition. Like she was debating whether to acknowledge who he was or pretend he was just some guy.

Bucky arched a brow. "You must be thrilled about this."

She gave him a flat look. "Over the moon."

Raynor clapped her hands together, the universal therapist signal for ‘let’s begin.’ "Great! Now that you’ve met, let’s set some ground rules. The goal here is casual interaction, low-pressure conversations. Just get to know each other."

Y/N’s mouth twitched like she had about ten sarcastic things she wanted to say, but she bit them back.

"I’ll leave you to it," Raynor announced, already making for the door. "Try to keep the glaring to a minimum."

Then she was gone.

The silence stretched. Bucky stared at Y/N. Y/N stared at Bucky. The tension between them was less hostility and more… mutual disinterest. Like two kids forced to work on a school project together, neither wanting to be the first to break the silence.

Bucky sighed. "Guess we should start with the basics. Name’s Bucky."

"Y/N," she responded, shifting her weight. "But I already know who you are."

He tilted his head, not really surprised. "Yeah?"

She gave him a look like he was an idiot. "Because you’re Bucky Barnes. The white wolf. The Winter Soldier. Avenger. Internationally recognized brooding champion."

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. "Brooding champion?"

She shrugged. "You do have a very… ‘resting murder face’ thing going on."

Bucky stared at her for a beat, then snorted. "That’s a new one."

Y/N shifted again, looking slightly less miserable than before. "So, uh… what exactly are we supposed to do? Just talk about our feelings until we magically become better people?"

Bucky smirked. "Pretty sure that’s the idea."

"Gross."

"Agreed."

A beat. Then-

"Wanna get out of here?" Y/N blurted out.

Bucky blinked. "What?"

"Not, like, run away forever," she clarified. "Just… sneak out. Get a coffee or something. We can pretend to do the therapy thing and check it off the list."

Bucky considered this. On one hand, Raynor would definitely give him hell for it. On the other… he really didn’t want to sit in this room for an hour talking about his feelings.

He stood, stretching. "Alright, partner. Lead the way."

Y/N looked surprised for a split second before masking it with an easy smirk. "Try to keep up, Grandpa. We have an hour."

They stepped into the hallway, and Bucky couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia. It reminded him of old missions—sneaking around, trying to keep a low profile. Only this time, there were no explosions or rifles. Just the muted sounds of people trying to put their lives back together. The smell of over-brewed coffee and sadness.

"This way," Y/N whispered, jerking her head towards the stairs. "The café's less crowded." They descended the stairs, Y/N moving with the kind of ease that came from spending too much time in places like these. Bucky followed, watching the way she moved—like she was trying to be invisible, but couldn’t quite pull it off. She had a presence about her. Something that made people look, even when she didn’t want them to.

When they reached the café, it was indeed quieter than he’d expected. A few patients nursed their drinks, staring into the abyss of their pasts. The barista looked up, giving them a nod that suggested he’d seen this sort of thing before. Bucky couldn’t blame them—therapy was a weird gig.

They claimed a table in the corner, far from prying eyes and eager ears. Y/N slid into a chair, her eyes scanning the room with the kind of wariness he understood all too well. She was checking for threats, even though the biggest threat here was probably someone asking how their week had been.

"So," she said, breaking the silence. "What’s your damage?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" "Your tragic backstory," she elaborated, rolling her eyes. "You know, the reason you’re stuck in that soul-sucking building." He leaned back, arms crossing over his broad chest.

"You first."

Y/N’s smirk grew. "Okay, fine. I was in the military. Mission went tits up, ended up with a few too many pieces missing. Now I’ve got metal where there should be meat and therapy where there should be… well, anything else."

Bucky nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. He liked her. "Sounds like a blast," he said, voice dry.

Y/N chuckled, a low, dark sound. "It was. Literally."

The conversation flowed from there, surprisingly easily. They talked about their military backgrounds - Bucky’s HYDRA days, his time as a SHIELD agent. It was like two old soldiers swapping war stories, except the enemy was less about bullets and more about inner demons. She had a sharp wit, he noticed, and a way of cutting through bullshit that was refreshing. No pep talks, no pity. Just raw, honest words that stung a little.

As they talked, Y/N’s defenses slowly started to lower. She spoke about her past missions with a passion that was palpable, her eyes lighting up with a fierce intensity that made him want to lean in closer. And as she spoke, he realized that she wasn’t just some girl with a tragic past - she was a fighter. A survivor. And she’d earned every single one of those metallic scars.

Bucky found himself telling her more than he’d ever told anyone else. Stories of Steve, of the Avengers, of the endless nights spent trying to drown out the echoes of his past with a bottle of whiskey. The words poured out of him like they’d been damned up for too long, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel the need to censor himself.

Y/N listened, really listened, without judgment or the need to fix him. It was a strange feeling, one that made him feel both exposed and oddly at ease. They talked about their fears, their regrets, their hopes for the future - things that Bucky hadn’t allowed himself to think about in a long time.

The bell over the door chimed, and they both looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion of reality. The café was emptying out, the sun setting outside the window in a wash of orange and pink. They’d talked for hours. And they’d be in deep shit. Oh well.

Y/N’s eyes searched his, something unspoken passing between them. "Thank you," she murmured, voice low. "For not making me feel like a freak." Bucky’s smirk grew into a small smile. "You’re not a freak," he said softly. "You’re a survivor."

They stood, gathering their things. As they made their way back to the clinic, Bucky realized that maybe, just maybe, this therapy buddy thing wasn’t going to be so bad after all. It wasn’t fixing his life - not by a long shot. But it was a start.

They re-entered the building, the sterile air hitting them like a slap in the face after the brief taste of freedom. Y/N’s shoulders squared up again, the wall sliding back into place.

"You know, Bucky," she said as they approached the elevator. "I didn’t hate that." He chuckled. "Me neither, kid." The elevator doors dinged open, revealing the all-too-familiar corridor. Y/N stepped in, punching the button for their floor with a little too much force.

"So, what now?" Bucky asked, leaning against the railing. "We just go back to her office and pretend we talked about our feelings?" Y/N rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "If that’s what it takes to keep them off our asses." The elevator lurched to a stop, and they stepped out into the hallway. As they approached the room they were supposed to be in, they could hear the muffled sounds of a conversation - Raynor’s voice, and another therapist, discussing their patients.

"Looks like we’ve got company," Bucky murmured, glancing at the clock. They were cutting it close. Y/N nodded. "Let’s make it look good." They both took a deep breath and stepped into the room, trying to look like they hadn’t just blown off their session.

Raynor looked up from her notes, raising an eyebrow. "You two look… enlightened." Bucky and Y/N shared a look, the unspoken challenge passing between them.

"We had a breakthrough," Y/N said, deadpan. "A real emotional rollercoaster." Raynor’s gaze flicked between them, trying to gauge their sincerity. "Well," she said, after a beat. "I’m happy to hear that. Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it?" Her voice was skeptical.

They sat, and Bucky launched into a half-true, half-exaggerated story about their heart-to-heart. Y/N filled in the blanks with sighs and eye-rolls, and somehow, it was convincing. They had a rhythm, a way of finishing each other's sentences that made it seem like they'd been friends for years instead of minutes.

"So, you've discovered the importance of sharing your feelings," Raynor said, scribbling on her clipboard.

"It's life-changing," Bucky deadpanned, and Y/N snorted. This might not be so bad…

——————————————————————————————————

Here you go, My Lovelies! I just love the thought of someone matching Bucky’s energy in total contrast to the usual grumpy/sunshine trope 🫶

[sacr1ficialang3l]

walking to a house, not a home. (but my home is you)✧.*

SAM WINCHESTER X READER

SUMMARY: She's so used to hiding her pain, but Sam and Dean show her that she doesn't have to anymore. 2.0k

WARNINGS: mentions of self-harm (scratching). allusions to an unhealthy home environment. a little angsty but with a fluffy end. fem!reader.

NOTES: I had an awful day yesterday and I wrote this with puffy eyes and a headache at three am. pretty shorter than what I usually write but anyways. English is not my first language! Enjoy<3

Your body shakes with every sob that vibrates through your chest as you curl up in a little ball, laying down on the floor in the corner of the empty motel room.

Even though your chest burns like it is being torn apart and your throat aches with all the pain you are swallowing down, not a sound leaves your mouth. You had learned from a very young age how to cry in silence. You had perfected the right way to breathe —first through your nose and then through your mouth so there's no sniffing— the correct way to reduce your sobs and sometimes wails to only a throbbing rumble down on your ribs, not even letting them reach your throat. You had found out that if you dug your nails into your thighs, even dragging them down your leg until you drew blood, it kept even the worst of noises away.

And old habits die hard, you guess. Because now, years after you had left the home house you grew up in, when you could cry and weep and scream all you wanted and no one would say anything, your mouth stays sealed tightly. 

You tremble like a leaf in the wind, arms pathetically wrapped around your knees like the grip will somehow keep you together. When the pressure on your chest starts to feel a little too strong, like someone has a hand around your heart and is trying to rip it out, your fingernails finally puncture the tender skin of your thighs. 

The pain offers a momentary but also addictive relief. Your throat untightens a bit and your brain shuts up for a second. It won’t last long and it isn’t healthy, but it is the only way you know how to not lose yourself to the voices in your head. 

You are so distracted by the pain, both physical and emotional, that you don’t notice when Sam and Dean walk through the door. You had assumed they would spend all night at the bar you left them in, where you gave them a plastic smile you had also perfected long ago and claimed to be too sleepy to stay up with them, making sure to keep your voice steady, your eyes bright and your fists unclenched. It had always worked with everyone else.

You should have known by now that the Winchester brothers weren’t everyone else.

You nearly break Sam’s nose when he suddenly kneels in front of you and takes one of your hands off your thigh. He dodges the punch with the reflexes of someone who’s been in fight-or-flight mode since the moment he became aware of his existence, but his expression remains gentle.

You try to wipe away your tears with your other hand, but Sam quickly grabs it too. There is blood under your nails this time, and Sam studies it for a moment. You open your mouth, trying to justify yourself. Anything, say anything. You watched a sad movie, you hit your toe really hard against the leg of the bed, it was that time of the month. Anything but reality.

Before you can even start to mumble and stumble through half-assed excuses, Sam looks into your eyes with the softest look you had ever seen on him.

“You can actually cry now, you know?” You look at him with wide, startled eyes.

“Yeah, we promise not to make too much fun of you.” Dean adds, his always present teasing tone still there but lighter. You look up at him where he was sitting on the bed, and his expression changes to a more serious one when he takes in how red your cheeks are from rubbing your face and how raw your lips are from biting them. “You are safe now.”

“You can let go.” Sam leans in a little closer, just enough so that it makes your breath hitch, your throat contracting and your eyes glossing over again. “You don’t have to keep quiet here. We got you, so let go of all of it. Just let go.”

You try shaking your head. No, your pain has always been such an imposition. You are a reverse Midas, every single thing you touch becomes sick with sadness. Everything around you turns gray and burns down into ashes when you let go. You couldn’t let that happen to this. To them. To your boys.

They are the life ring you had found when you were so close to drowning, and now you are about to destroy them too.

“I don’t—” 

But it is too late. The brothers’ words echo in your head and your face scrunches up against your will. The first sound that leaves your mouth is choked and rusty, and then you can’t stop. You bury your face back in between your knees, but now each of your sobs resound through the small room. You don’t even recognize the noises that rip themselves out of your throat. Every single whimper, hiccup, and gasp escapes you violently, leaving a scorching sensation inside. It’s as if they’d been subjugated for so long, they were desperate to make their way to freedom.

The boys don’t say anything else, just stay there in silence. You thought that crying in front of them would make you feel even more pathetic than you already do, but it actually doesn’t. It is liberating, letting it all out while they are with you. It makes you feel less alone, less scared. Like you won’t be consumed by the ghosts of your past, because you have someone to pull you out. You are showing them the ugliest, most disgusting part of you, and they still stay. 

You try to pull your hands back from Sam’s grasp. You didn’t even feel like hurting yourself anymore, but you need the reassurance that even if you did, he wouldn’t let you. And he doesn’t. He keeps his hands wrapped around yours tightly, not letting you move even an inch. 

“No, pretty girl. Let’s not do that.”

The nickname only makes you sob harder. You are sure you look anything but pretty right now, face wet and dirty with mascara running down your cheeks, eyes red and puffy, snot smeared on the edge of your shirt. But Sam doesn’t seem to care, he still calls you pretty. When the shaky gasps get a little quicker, a little more consecutive, a little too close to hyperventilating, Sam moves again. 

But this time he pulls you against his chest. You are so surprised that you stop bawling for a second. He drags you into his lap and moves until his back is resting against the wall you were previously leaning against. He wraps a hand around the back of your neck and guides your face to his neck, not minding the fact that you will inevitably soak his shirt with tears. His other hand remains around both your wrists, solid and safe.

“Breath with me, baby. Follow my lead.”

Baby, your mind registers between all of the pain. He called you baby. 

There are more pressing matters at the moment, like the fact that your breath is getting more and more ragged, so you decide to deal with that later.

You press your chest to Sam’s, focusing on the rise and fall of his exaggeratedly deep breaths. You try to inhale when he does, exhale when he does. Your attention on the way your chests move in unison, the touch of his fingertips on your nape, the way his voice sounded when he called you pretty and baby. 

You don’t know for how long you two stay like that, but by the time you drag your face away from the crook of Sam’s neck and force yourself to face him, your breath is back to normal and you have stopped crying.

You’re still sniffling when you meet his eyes, shivers running down your spine from the exhaustion and the slight breeze coming from the open door. But at least you’re not tearing up anymore.

Apparently, Dean left at some point to buy some food, and he is just now coming back. That means that you had spent a long time sitting there on Sam’s lap. You are sure that will haunt you once you can actually process what it means. But right now, you are just exhausted and ready to eat something before going to sleep and forgetting this ever happened.

But Sam insisted on cleaning up the scratches on your thighs, even though most of them aren’t even deep enough to actually need cleaning. There are three angry red lines with dried blood around them in one of your legs, though, so you begrudgingly let Sam play nurse.

It is only once you are sitting on one of the beds, with a blanket around your shuddering frame and a whole box of four chocolate donuts with sprinkles on your lap —“You need to replenish your sugar after all that, princess. Eat.”— that the shame finally washes over you. 

You bite down on your lip harshly, already dreading the whole situation. You want to apologize, convince them to forget the whole thing even happened, maybe cry some more. You prepare to hide, run away and bury yourself somewhere dark until you feel you’ve pulled yourself together again. But Sam and Dean, always ready to save the day, come to the rescue before your brain can get too cruel. 

Dean clicks his tongue and shakes his head, while Sam, who had already finished patching up your barely-there wounds and had taken a seat next to you on the bed, uses his thumb to free your lower lip from your teeth. 

They don’t say anything, don’t try to contradict the voices in your head that they know are louder than anything they could say. Instead, Sam pulls you into his arms on the small motel bed and Dean puts on some cheesy rom-com on the tv. Both brothers make silly jokes throughout the film, loudly criticizing the characters and groaning at every cliché. They don’t force you to talk, but they manage to keep the voices at bay. 

By the second donut eaten and the fourth time the main characters in the movie almost kiss before being interrupted, you start giggling along. Sam’s arms are firmly wrapped around you, keeping you pressed to his chest long after you stop trembling. You turn slightly and offer him a bite of the donut, both of you laughing when Dean starts grumbling as a musical number begins.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me, man.”

You sigh in contentment, snuggling closer to the comforting warmth of Sam’s body while you start to defend the honor of musicals. Sam presses a kiss to the top of your head then, and it is a lot more intimate than what you usually do. Physical displays of affection between you two usually don’t go further than a slap on the shoulder after a teasing joke or patching each other up after a hunt. 

You don’t question it, though. You had craved this for years, even before you had met the brothers. You think your body had been yearning for Sam Winchester from the moment you were put on this earth, an ache rooted deep in your bones that only his touch could soothe. So you don’t move, don’t ask, you just let it happen.

Because maybe you would feel ashamed again tomorrow, and maybe you would wake up with the worst headache the next morning and jeopardize the case, and maybe you weren’t sure what all of this meant for your relationship with Sam, if you were overthinking things or if your feelings were actually reciprocated. 

But there is one thing you do know: you had finally broken free from all your restraints. You’ve released the beast you’d kept caged inside for so long, and the Winchesters had welcomed it with open arms. You won’t scare them away, your unrelenting sadness won’t break them, they are too strong for that. You could let go now, you don’t have to hide your pain anymore, because they will be there to catch you.

Here, cradled in Sam’s arms as you bicker with Dean, you are finally home.

NOTES: thank you taylor swift for writing the bridge of dear reader and ruining my life.

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[l1li4n]

i would actually slit my own throat if i ever get to see long haired max verstappen

[inspotlight]

ive been in a very weird mood for a couple weeks now, maybe even a couple months, and i finally feel like i can sit and do some replies, so hopefully i'll have a more active queue to be posting soon but in the mean time, you're always welcome to yell with me about our muses in dms or on dis.cord

[zarophod]

hi guys i am reaper76 brainrotted rn

[rosetinted--clouds]

"it's all in your head" lies it's in my chest too

[kohakhearts]

not to be Hashtag serious about anything because that goes against my principles but this was the first year since i was 18 that i didn’t take antidepressants at all and the first time since i was 16 that i didn’t attend regular therapy (or at least Think i Needed to attend regular therapy) and yeah i wouldnt say i had a Good mental health year but. But. thats a big step for me actually and one i am very pleased with. go me

[fusulyesheep]

I had never finished eizouken's anime in 2020 but was already one of my favourites somehow just because of the themes and animation. I never had the time till this weekend and I did it.

Just one tiny problem: I got COMPLETELY obsessed but the fandom died 3 years ago and now im scrapping for ANYTHING about it now

where are my incredible specific fanfics at

[badolmen]

I didn’t know reading fanfiction could feel like this <- has waited all week, working in mud and mosquitos and eyes blurry from staring at bark fragments, to read 7k words of the most tender and beautiful writing known to man

[sololosabelaluna]

i MISS bad buddy so much, like what am i supposed to do? move on?

[alxclaremont]

i think i’ve created new stages of grief today

[mosspapi]

I can't tell if I'm just having a massive costo flare or if I've actually dislocated and/or cracked my ribs somehow.

I know I need to ask my parents abt it but I had a massive argument with my mother about it earlier today because apparently the reason I have chronic pain is because I don't take Advil (absolute bullshit on many levels and she knows this but she refuses to admit when she doesn't know something), so I don't want to have to deal with her again but also I don't want to leave this if it IS a bigger issue ya feel.

Like it feels like just a really bad flare, but they don't normally last for 3+ days in a row, 24/7, at the "sharp, hard-to-breathe, plus aching, plus reduced mobility" level. That type of flare usually lasts at most a couple of hours. So I'm concerned it's a bigger issue than that, but I'm also paranoid about health things so idk if I'm overreacting ya feel?

[urfriendlywriter]

How to write angst ?

@urfriendlywriter | req by @everynowandthenihaveacrisis @aidyaiden :)

know your character. from their deepest fears to what they cherish the most. know your deepest fear, ask yourself how you will react and feel at that moment. "oh shit, if this happened to me I'll lose my mind" what's that type of scenario for you? write it. :)

decide on the type of angst you are going for!

major, minor, physical, emotional, paranormal, spiritual, verbal, abusive, quarrel, misunderstanding, etc.

and then, decide on--what reaction you can take out of your character by doing what to them.

are they gonna be, held at a gunpoint to give something up? or have their soul wrecked by whom they thought were close to them? or is it going be horror, or etctec, decide on it.

moving on to actually writing it-

Tip 1 - Use sensory details.

her eyes brimmed with tears

his chest heaved

pain clawed at his heart, as his face twisted with hurt

his scream pierced my heart

her lips quivered

she dug her nails into her palms (to distract herself, to stop it from shaking, etc)

show what is happening to ur MC, instead of telling it.

Tip 2 - how to actually write it.

If they're panicking, make them notice too many things at once, show every detail that they're seeing, feeling, from touch, to that burning sensation on their eyes, the blood on the ground, that dryness of their throat, the buzzing in their head and their parted lips unable to trust their own sight, and--and, boom! have them register that they're really really in trouble. and that they've to act fast.

use short, very minimal type of writing for this. make it long, but not long enough that it feels like it's being dragged.

the readers should hold themselves back from skimming the page out of curiousity, they should be in their toes to find out what happens next.

what does your MC do in times of panic? do they chant calm down to themselves, do they get angry, or start crying.. or?? what makes your character genuinely feel an emotion so hard that they'll burst?

there's always something, someone that'll always give them love and easily can be that something or someone to take it away. yk.

Tip 3 - crying.

what is close to your character that u can deprive them of? will it make them cry? beg for it?

what will make ur character cry so hard, that their scream fills everyone's ear, stays in their minds like ghosts and always haunts them?

make a character who never cries, burst out with tears.

while writing crying, focus on the 5 senses, one after the other.

focus it on their breath, make them run out of breath, gasp for air, feel like they're being choked, cry so scrutinizingly. it shud punch the reader's gut.

have them replay what had just happened over and over again in their head

best books and writing styles (for angst) to analyse and learn from (in my opinion);

3rd book in the AGGTM series (yk it hit hard like a truck. it got me depressed in bed the entire time lmao)

Five Survive by Holly Jackson. The moments of red outside of the truck, and moments leading to it.

there's this book called " Warm by @untalentedwriter127 " in wattpad. the author served angst for breakfast, lunch anddd dinner.

and if there's more angsty ones, drop em in the comments! :)

Hope this helps, tag me when yall write a masterpiece! ;)

[kashverse]

can you do sukuna accidentally upsetting his daughter LOL

there are a lot of things sukuna is afraid of. well, actually, no. there aren’t. but if there were, the absolute sheer disappointment on his baby girl’s face right now would be at the top of the list. "papa," she says, in a voice so cold it sends a shiver down his spine. "did you just say rainbow dash is an earth pony?"

sukuna squints at the tiny plastic figure in her hand. "uh… yeah?"

a gasp so loud and horrified that it could be mistaken for an exorcism fills the room. "you—" she clutches her chest, like she’s physically in pain. "you’re WRONG!"

"am i?" sukuna frowns. "she’s blue, she has rainbow hair, and she looks like—"

"papa, she has wings!"

"oh." sukuna leans closer, inspecting the little toy. "…huh. would you look at that."

"YOU DIDN’T KNOW?"

"i—" sukuna pauses. "doesn’t she do farm work?"

the wail of despair that comes next is so ear-piercing that you shoot up from your power nap in the next room, heart racing.

"what the fuck is going on?!"

sukuna sighs, rubbing his temples. "bad word," he mutters. your daughter whips around to face you, eyes filled with betrayal.

"papa doesn’t my little pony!"

you blink. then, still half-asleep, you turn to sukuna. "…seriously?"

"what?!" he huffs. "why the hell do i need to know that shit?!"

"because it’s her favourite," you deadpan. "yes!" your daughter nods furiously, still visibly wounded by his betrayal. "and he thought rainbow dash was applejack!"

you gasp. "you WHAT?"

"oh, for fuck’s sake—"

"BAD WORD!"

you cross your arms, shaking your head. "wow. father of the year right here."

"see?!" your daughter gestures wildly. "papa is the worst papa ever!" sukuna groans, running a hand down his face. "you know what?" he grabs his phone. "i’m fixing this. i’m fixing this right now."

"how?" your daughter pouts. he holds up his phone. "i’m watching all the fucking episodes."

"BAD WORD!"

"yeah, yeah—whatever."

you smirk. "this is gonna be fun." your daughter narrows her eyes at sukuna. "you better pass my next quiz, papa." sukuna scoffs. "bring it on, brat."

two hours later, you walk into the living room to find sukuna gripping his head, looking like a man who’s seen some shit.

"what," he says, voice hollow, "the fuck is a cutie mark crusader?"

[sturnsblogs]

can you do like a chris pda oneshot, not cringy tho yk. just chris being rlly touchy with reader and his brothers reactions

TOUCHY. C.S

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chris was never the type to be overly affectionate in public. Sure, behind closed doors, he had his moments—pulling you onto his lap, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly, playing with your fingers just because he could. But in front of other people? Especially his brothers? It was rare.

Well… usually.

Today, though? Today was a whole different story.

Since the moment you walked in, Chris had been all over you. His hands were constantly on you—your waist, your hips, your back—his lips brushing against your skin whenever he got the chance. And the craziest part? He wasn’t even trying to hide it. It was like he wanted his brothers to see.

You were filming a Blind, Deaf, and Mute Challenge video, and chaos was already in full swing. Nick, who was “deaf,” had noise-canceling headphones on and was absolutely butchering the lyrics to Barbie World, screaming them at a volume that could probably be heard from space. Matt, assigned to be mute, sat off to the side with duct tape over his mouth, arms crossed as he watched you and Chris with a growing look of horror. Meanwhile, you and Chris, both blindfolded, were supposed to be making a cake together.

But Chris? He seemed way more interested in you than the cake.

You reached for the mixing bowl, blindly stirring the batter, trying your best not to make a mess. But just as you felt the whisk hit the edge of the bowl, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you into a familiar embrace. Chris pressed his chest against your back, his large hands sliding over yours as he took hold of the whisk, guiding your movements with an unnecessary amount of closeness.

His breath tickled your ear as he dipped his head, lips grazing your temple before he murmured, “You’re making a mess, baby.”

You paused, eyebrows raising beneath the blindfold. “How do you even know that?” you challenged, tilting your head slightly in his direction.

Chris huffed out a small laugh, his grip tightening as he leaned in even closer. “Because I just know you,” he said smugly. “And I can hear the batter sloshing over the sides.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to be all over me.”

Chris didn’t even try to deny it. “Maybe,” he admitted, nuzzling his nose against your jaw before pressing a slow kiss just below your ear.

That was the final straw for Matt.

With an exaggerated groan, he ripped the duct tape off his mouth with a sharp RIIIP, ignoring the way he winced in pain before snapping, “CAN Y’ALL CHILL FOR LIKE TWO SECONDS? JESUS.”

Chris barely even reacted. “Nope,” he said simply, pressing another kiss to your cheek just to be annoying.

Nick, who had up until now been blissfully unaware of the situation, suddenly yanked his headphones off. “Bro, what is going on? I can’t even hear anything, and I know y’all are being nasty.”

Matt threw his hands in the air. “THEY’RE ALL OVER EACH OTHER, NICK. LIKE FULL-ON ‘GET A ROOM’ LEVEL.”

Nick groaned, running a hand down his face. “You two are so gross, bro. Like, actually disgusting.”

Chris just smirked. “Sounds like a you problem,” he said, tightening his hold around you.

Matt looked seconds away from lunging across the counter and physically separating you two. “IT’S AN EVERYONE PROBLEM.”

And you? You just smiled, leaning into Chris a little more. Because, honestly? You were loving every second of it.

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A/N- I’m very sorry if this is to cringe or not pda enough i just thought it would be kinda cute (:

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @jimmasterflashh @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys

[julymusings]

will you hold me instead, and tell me that it's over now?

i look forward to a little me and you, so now i hope that you don't tell me that it's over

or; patching jason up after an intense mission [2.1k]

jason todd x fem!reader; angst/fluff; brief mentions of human trafficking and allusion to murder (he's talking about how the mission went); mention of his scars; jason being insecure & thinking he's not good enough😞; description of injuries and the first aid applied to them (please do not take anything as actual medical advice); this is me hard-launching my physical touch x touch starved!jason agenda

You don’t know how early it is when you hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, just that it’s too early. It’s not like you could sleep anyway; you spent the night drifting in and out of semi-consciousness, too worried to let yourself relax. You always got like this when Jason went away on missions. Several days, and sometimes even weeks, spent anxiously anticipating the state in which he would return home—you haven’t been able to get a manicure since before you met him.

You’re still a little delirious when a hand ghosts up your arm, stirring you from your half-sleep. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room and register the sight in front of you. Your boyfriend is on one knee on the floor in front of you, brushing strands of hair out of your face with endearing eyes.

“There she is,” he says when you lift your head off the pillow and reach out to him. He catches your hand and kisses your fingertips, spreading a warmth up your arm that combats the midnight chill. You push yourself up to a sitting position, and he takes the opportunity to cup his hands around your face and bring you in for a kiss.

“Missed you,” you mumble against him, and his lips curve upwards against yours.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.” His mouth travels up from yours towards your temple, leaving a path of gentle kisses in his wake. Your palms, pressed flat against his chest, slide up to loop around his neck. He tenses, choking back a strained grunt. But you catch it.

You pull back abruptly. “Are you hurt?” Your eyes frantically dart around, scanning his entire body. Now fully alert, you reach over to the bedside table and switch the lamp on.

“’s just a bruise, baby, I’m fine.” A hand comes up to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. But with newly unobstructed vision, you can see more than just a bruise. He has a busted lip, a shallow gash on his temple, and splotches of purple and red peeking out of his shirt collar.

“You’re bleeding, Jason,” you chastise him, getting up off the bed.

He stands alongside you with a huff. “It’s nothing,” he sighs. “Doesn’t even hurt.” But when you take his hand and start pulling him to the bathroom, he follows without argument. You lead Jason to sit down on the edge of the tub and fetch the first aid kit from under the sink, setting it down next to him on the bathtub ledge. You stand between his legs, your positions making you a half-head taller than him. He gazes up at you and for the first time tonight, you notice how dark and deep the skin under his eyes is.

“Off,” you order, dragging up the hem of his shirt. He helps you pull it off, wincing when it requires him to lift his bruised arm.

“Someone’s eager,” he muses, raising his eyebrows in a teasing manner. It earns him a swat on the arm; he grunts loudly and doubles over in pain.

You gasp. “Oh my god! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I—”

But when he looks up, it’s with a coy smirk and a twinkle in his eye. You swat him again.

“Asshole,” you mutter, but you can’t help the slight twitch at the corner of your lips. “Why didn’t you take care of this earlier? Alfred wasn’t at the manor to help you?”

He shrugs his good shoulder. “Don’t know. Came straight here.”

“Did you tell anyone where you were going?” You ask.

He looks at you blankly, as if to say, don’t you know who you’re talking to?

You sigh, exasperated. “You shouldn’t have done that, Jason. What if ended up becoming serious? And you didn’t make it here in time? What if—” 

He interrupts your doom spiral by pressing a finger to your lips. “I know, honey, I’m sorry. But I wanted to see you.”

You sigh. There’s a sadness to it, one that comes from familiarity with the fact that he does not care for himself as much as he should—as much as he deserves. But there are no words to make him believe that you haven’t tried, so all you do is lean your forehead against his, hoping he can hear what you're not saying. You need him to hear you.

“You’re not sorry,” you whisper.

“No, I’m not,” he whispers back.

You start with his shoulder, which is decidedly not ‘just a bruise,’ but rather several bruises, all clumped together to form one giant Franken-bruise which covers his entire shoulder. It gets rubbed with ointment and you’re not sure who it pains more, because while you’re spilling out frantic apologies as you try to speed through it, Jason is white-knuckling the edge of the tub with a wad of gauze between his teeth. 

His lip doesn’t require any medical attention, but he insists you kiss it better anyway, and who are you to deny him? 

You tend to his temple last, but he’s antsy now. His leg bounces up and down, one hand is drumming its fingers on the tub, and the other is fiddling with the loose threads that hang from the hem of your shirt; you have to scold him into sitting still.

“Where’s the dermabond?” You ask, sifting through the contents of the first aid kid.

“Used it up last month, remember? After you just had to feed that fuckin’ squirrel.” His voice is gruff at the recollection. “Should be a new pack under the sink.”

You fetch the new box, picking at the plastic wrapping. “Can you blame me? He was so cute.”

“Yeah, was. Until that greedy fucker decided he wanted the whole picnic.” Jason sees you struggling with the plastic covering and takes it from you, breaks it open, then hands it back. “Bastard.”

You giggle. “You know, you could’ve just let him have the cupcake. It wasn’t worth risking rabies for.” You fish out the glass tube of surgical glue, tossing its cardboard box aside.

“‘Course it was. My girl wanted red velvet, she should get her red velvet.” Jason’s hands finally rest on the backs of your bare thighs, squeezing them lightly. He grins when that makes you let out a little squeak.

You roll your eyes, though there’s a warmth flowing in your veins that courses from the tips of your ears to the bottom of your feet. “My hero,” you muse with a smile.

There’s a pause. Then:

“I’m not a hero,” he responds. His tone is still light, but his eyes feel far away.

You start to clean the blood from the wound, which has since clotted and dried, with a saline-soaked cotton pad. He stares at you while you clean and then close the cut with the glue. And when you finish, supplies set aside and glue cured, he’s still staring. His eyes are traveling all over your face, taking in each feature, committing every ridge, every angle, every pore, every freckle to memory. The light-hearted teasing demeanor from mere moments ago is long gone. You're a deer caught in emerald headlights.

You recognize this shift. You noticed hints of it since he arrived home, but assumed it was just due to the pain. Now it’s obvious that there’s more. It’s the same shift that comes when the news becomes a circus, or when he stares at his scars in the mirror for too long.

His hands slide up your body slowly, reverently. One stops at your waist while the other continues, blazing a trail up your ribcage, over the side of your breast. He pauses at your shoulder for a split second, squeezing the flesh every so gently before continuing up your neck. His thumb drags across your collarbone, brushing against the spot that always lights up your senses and parts your lips in a breathy sigh. He stops when he reaches your face. He cups your cheek. Your hand covers his and you lean into his hold, the stroke of your small, soft fingers juxtaposing the rough callouses of his knuckles. You stay here for a moment before turning to press your lips to his palm once, twice, thrice, four times, each one lingering a little longer than the last.

“What is it, Jason?” Your hands come to cradle his neck before dragging up to his hair, and his move to wrap around your torso and pull you closer into him. You place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm?”

“I’m not a hero,” he says again, softer.

“Jay,” you whisper. “You know that’s not true.”

He says nothing, only heaving a heavy sigh and burying his face into the crook of your neck. You’re content to stand like this, to simply hold him and graze your nails against his scalp for as long as he needs while he inhales the comforting scent of your skin.

After what could have been one minute or twenty, he pulls back to look up at you. He looks exhausted. “It was a human trafficking case,” he says. “They knew we were closing in on ‘em, so we had to act fast. They were…trying to…” He trails off, unsure how to put it in words delicate enough to spare you. He breaks eye contact. “Destroy the evidence,” he finishes.

You don’t respond. Despite the heavy silence that follows this admission, you know he’s not done. It takes another several minutes of stroking fingers and feather-light hairline kisses to coax it out of him.

“There was a woman. She…we didn’t—“ His voice cracks. “I didn’t get there in time.”

“Oh, honey.” You run your palm over his forehead, pushing back his thick waves. His eyelids slide down over glassy irises as he sinks into your touch. You lean down to press your lips to his forehead. “You know that’s not your fault,” you whisper. He shakes his head, eyes still closed.

“But if I’d just—”

“No, Jason.” You grip his face between your palms. He opens his eyes at the sudden sternness. “But nothing. You did everything you possibly could—”

“You don’t know that,” he interrupts.

“I do know that. I know because you are always doing everything you can. For me, and for everyone in this city. And I know that it wasn’t just you on that mission. Do you blame anyone else for what happened?”

He says nothing, but his eyes are welling with tears.

“You saved so many other people, Jason. You are a hero, and you know that. You have to know that.” Some of his tears spill over, but you brush your thumbs across his cheeks and kiss them away.

He pulls you onto his lap so your legs are straddled over his and rests his head against your sternum. His arms squeeze impossibly tight around your waist, but you don’t say anything. When his shoulders tremble and you feel the dampness on the front of your shirt, you still don’t say anything. And when he places a hand on the back of your head to pull you in for a hard, searing kiss that leaves you both breathless, you don’t say anything. You just look at him, at how pretty he is, and hope that he can hear you.

The sounds of buzzing echo in from the next room. To your dismay, he turns away, towards the direction of your phones. “I should get that,” he says. His voice is hollow. “It’s probably the bats wanting to know where I am. They’ll send a search party if I don’t check in.”

He’s about to move you off his lap, but you stop him. “In a minute, Jay.”

Jason’s forehead crinkles. You use your thumb to smooth it out.

“Please?” You breathe out. “Just let me look at you a little longer. I love looking at you.”

He relaxes back into his seat. And you keep looking at him. At his beautifully rosy cheeks and shining eyes, his puffed lips. The scar that runs diagonally down his slightly crooked nose.

It’s dawn now; the tangerine beginnings of sunrise elicit a soft glow that spills through the window. Jason takes it all in. The two of you together in the home you share, arms around each other, your face all honeyed and beautiful in the light.

And you know he can hear you.

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