#where you're sleeping with your head on his chest

[dmitriene]

cw: hybrids, breeding, glimpses of consented somnophilia.

bear hybrid john price gets you to hibernate with him, it's not that there's much choice, of course, you wouldn't be wandering around the house and outside much when your spouse is sleeping away, tucked in the warm bed with all the furs and copious pillows, all arranged around him with comfortable softness, yet, he misses the most important, you, and he won't be willing to start his hibernation until you join him.

sure, it's not an easy thing, to match his sleepiness while you're not used to go through such a thing as a human, but your bear spouse will get you all cozied against his side, cradled in a crushing, squishing embrace against the brawny, sculpted plains of his softened chest, dappled in curling, brown thick hairs, coating every ounce of john's skin, his huge pecs, bulky, meaty thighs, the roughened fingers, fluffy as fur, warming you like a furnace, mapping a trail to beneath his underbelly and down to the groin.

you keep the fridge and all the shelves stocked with a lots of food of all kinds, to freshly cooked to something quick to make, and even canned, meats, vegetables, fruits, john needs a good nourishment, and you're too, because he doesn't let's you leave the bed, not with how his heavy body brackets your's against the rumpled, cottony sheets, not a single cloth separating his scarred, supple skin from yours, kindled with suffocating, simmering warmth, holding you close tight, broad fingers sinking in the slopes and dips of your body.

john doesn't wakes up mid hibernation to eat, doesn't really needs it, just as the rest of his kind, no, he flutters his pretty blues groggily and rubs a calloused palm over his bearded, prickly face to get a taste of you, dozed in a light sleep beneath his draping hand, your face pillowed on his bicep, pretty lips pouty, cheeks warm and rounded, flattened against his arm, and your ripe, sweet body is all naked in it's glory, splayed along the linens beneath, relaxed and leaning in the closeness between you both, cunt hidden between the sacred gates of your supple thighs.

the hot, gummy insides of your cunt heavenly around the pulsing, restless girth of his fat cock, dragging in the engulfing tightness of your soppy hole, getting you stretched out and loose to accommodate the thickening length of him, filling you slow and deep, patient, almost lazily so, movements languid as he pushes his wide hips, body bowing and draping over your whole form, cozy and limbless, even though you moan out quiet and groggy when you feel it, the weight of his cock alongside your tender, inner walls.

kissing away each keen and breathy whimper, devouring them eagerly, leaving your lush, kissable lips to nip and suck over the tantalizing curve of your neck as your head tilts back, eyelashes fluttering with the heavy closing eyes, your nails scrabbling over the tensing, rippling lines of his back, seeking purchase, clawing and scratching with crescent dents, your trembling body chasing the withdrawing movements of his hips, the battering ram of his cock, coercing for more, feeling the delicious dizziness that comes from the burning feeling that swoops up the length of your bowing spine.

the curve of john's tip butting against your gummy spot, withdrawing, pressing back, relishing in the gripping clutch of your sloppy, loose hole, your sensitive skin a feverish garden of different marks and bruises, sharp teeth's that leave blood rushing indents up your neck and covering over the rapidly hammering pulse point, the rasp of his beard still tangible, making you shudder, whole body itchy from where he rubs over you, but you keep in place, singing pleasure honeyed sounds, coaxing john for more, so as to feel the way he'd breed you.

groping and pressing in every nook and cranny of your form, forcing you into the mattress, nails biting and almost tearing in your flesh, followed by each bestial, guttural groan and rasp he let's out, gravelly, seeming to shake the stuffy air around you both, your little sounds turning in the pitched, frequently repeating gasps, the saucers of john's pupils bewitching in their intensity, enraptured as they look at you with animalistic affection, right until he get's you full with spurt after spurt of his fertile seed.

john makes sure to keep you plugged full, sated just as he is, with his cum making your tummy feel bloated, pumped inside your gaping, still spasming pussy until his seed would stop gushing out in milky streaks around his softening cock, each drop cherished, oughting to see your belly grown round and full with little cubs by the end of the winter, and tucking you back to the side, where you both drown back beneath the veil of sleep, nuzzling in your forehead, he hopes it would take.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[ilium-ilia]

have this short, unedited ghost x reader drabble thing that hit me violently in the head.

tw: drugging, non/dub-con, somno, implied breeding kink

He comes to you in dreams with heady breath that bleeds through black cloth to brush against your face like a lover's kiss.

But he is no lover, nor man.

Only monster—you call him Ghost.

Ghost arrives when you're in the slick, airy stage between slumber and consciousness, where everything shines too bright and yet is shrouded in a numbra so thick you swear it will choke you. Nothing but tendrils to morph and dance in your vision as you look up at the wide mass before you.

Each time he visits, he wears a mask. Black, with a chalky skull outline along his nose and where his mouth should be—only his eyes are visible. Pools of water darker than the lowest depths of the ocean, ready to drown you. Ready to feel the way your pulse quickens when held beneath the waves that have consumed him long ago.

He never speaks. Not to you—only to himself in deep growls that your fuzzy brain can scarcely make sense of. When he first came to you all those months ago, he stood at the edge of your bed—foreboding, looming taller than any beast you've ever seen or have yet to see since. You were only able to keep your brain awake long enough to make out the way his jaw dances beneath his mask to murmur the word perfect.

You think nothing of it until you start to wake up sore. It's more than odd bruises along your hips that sting when you poke them—it's the pounding in your head when you rouse, and the swelling of your cunt. Your lip is torn; split down the center. A curious tongue pokes at the blood that oozes from the crack, and it tastes suspiciously like love.

The next time he appears, he is on top of you. Hips pinning yours to the bed, hands on either side of your head, your body jostles. Every shockwave ripples through your body, shaking the fatty tissue along your thighs and stomach—you feel each thrust in your throat.

You groan, and he shushes you.

"Soon," he hisses. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, darkness consuming your vision, but not your hearing. "It'll take soon."

Countless nights pass like this. He comes to you, body joining with yours, murmuring things that aren't meant for human ears—that aren't meant for anyone corporeal. Each time you attempt to speak, you find your vocal cords painfully paralyzed. They die in your throat. Shrivel into useless tissue. All your questions bleed through your tongue to fester, leaving you with a sour taste in your mouth when you wake.

He's not real—your little Ghost. Only the most concerning reoccurring dream you've ever been plagued with.

You tell your friends about this dream. About this strange man who haunts your psyche when you can't quite get your bearings. You speak of his mask, and how he pins you with his gaze alone; how real his hands feel on you. Embarrassment forces you to omit the sensation of his cock and how it pummels you, but share the odd wounds you wake up with. Bitten lips, raw skin.

Their gazes shame you, and you do not speak of it again.

Some childish part of you had hoped that these dreams would cease the moment you spoke them out loud, but Ghost is persistent. He comes again, and again, and again. Hot breath wheezing. Tight throat growling. Firm hands squeezing.

Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon.

There is one night when your dream verges on the edge of reality, finally granting you the opportunity to talk to him.

Your Ghost.

Body rocking, legs bent and hips widened, your chest heaves as you force your eyes open as your question expels from your throat:

"Real?"

Ghost freezes. He stares down at you with the same, dark eyes he always does, and you try your best to keep your gaze locked on him. A shaky hand rises off of the bed, fingertips kissing his clothed cheek as you groan.

"Are you... real...?"

Ghost shrugs your hand off of him. "Sleep."

Unable to keep your eyes open any longer, you follow his order. Eyes fluttering shut, breath sighing from your nose, you allow slumber to capture you in her fickle grasp.

Though, you swear you feel clothed lips on yours and dull teeth piercing into your mouth before she can fully pull you under.

When Simon is finished with you, he stands at the edge of your bed like he usually does. Everything is tight. The knots that dot his back, the tension at the base of his skull—but everything feels quiet when he looks at you. There, in bed, ruined by him. Sleeping soundly, unaware of the apparition who's been taking you as his own for all these months.

Before he leaves, Simon pats the pocket of his jumper, and reminds himself to add more Benadryl powder to your sleepy-time tea mix before he leaves.

He can't have you asking questions like that again—not when he's too busy trying to make you his.

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][established relationship][praise, praise, PRAISE][soft dom jason][mdom][little bit of a daddy kink if you squint][fingering][slight somnophilia][jason speaks spanish btw, not a lot][slightly instructed masturbation][mating press][adoring][scar mention][implied creampie]

It's hard to believe that the hands that were bashing skulls just 30 minutes earlier, are the hands that are cradling your face so sweetly, calloused fingers gently patting sunscreen onto your face, caressing the soft flesh beneath the pads of his thumbs.

Emerald pools meet yours inbetween slow blinks, a warm and barely noticeable smile plastered on his face, dimples digging into those tanned cheeks as Jason lets out a soft breath.

"You're so pretty."

Jason murmurs sweetly, thumbs brushing over the skin beneath your eyes, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of you, thick thighs straining against his cargo pants, fabric tautly tugged as he sets his weight atop your lap.

Pinky fingers resting just below your ear, feeling the steady thump of your pulse as it beats beneath your skin and Jason leans forward, soft lips pressing against your forehead.

"So... So pretty."

He praises softly.

"Jay, are you okay?" You question with a snort, delicate hands lifting to wrap around as much of his wrists as you can, halting his adoring touches as you stare up at him through your lashes, a brow raised in confusion.

"You're a bit more.... Lovey." You add with a hum, soft thumbs brushing along the skin of his wrist, exposed by where his compression shirt had ridden up.

"No reason." Jason hums quietly. "I just saw a bloodstain that reminded me of you, so I ended patrol a little earlier."

"I'm sorry," you scoff, "a bloodstain?"

"Yeah. I hit a guy's head against the wall and it splattered like a heart." Jason reaches into one of the many pockets in his pants, obviously fishing for his phone. "Wanna see?"

"No." You sigh softly. "No, I do not."

It's a quiet type of affection when you're watching old episodes of 'American Dad!', on an outdated but still amazingly efficient Wayne Tech laptop, the device resting on the empty nightstand as Jason cards his thick fingers through your hair. The scent of leather, blood and gunpowder clings to him alongside that distinct scent of Moroccan coffee and the cacophony of smells envelop you as he curls a thick arm around you, his legs entangled with yours.

Your face remains buried in the thickness of the warm flesh of his neck, your body curled up to his chest as you absentmindedly listen, sleepiness and weariness slowly tinging your peripheral vision with blackness.

"You want me to turn it off?"

Jason's voice is soft, so sweet and low, as he shifts against you, looking down at you from long lashes and twinkling emerald eyes stare at your forehead adoringly. Watching the way your baby hairs curl and frame your hairline so prettily.

"No no," you murmur sleepily, "m'listening..." You reassure quietly, staring up at Jason with bleary eyes and fluttering lashes, before burying your face in the expanse of his chest. The action makes his breath hitch, and his fingers twitch with nervousness, because you're nuzzling right at where the autopsy scar bisects his chest.

The raised scar tissue does nothing to deter you from relaxing against him, your breaths even and low.

Every once in a while, a sleepy giggle slips past your lips from particularly crude jokes and comments, and you occasionally peek over your shoulder, eyes flinching at the brightness. Until you look back at Jason, and you nearly coo.

Eyes closed shut, eyelashes reaching his high cheekbones and his expression is pinched into that little frown babies have when they sleep. So angry and adorable, and you card your fingers through his hair, the white tuft earning an extra stroke before you allow yourself to succumb to the sleep, the cartoon continuing to play silently.

A deep breath leaves your nose just as you fall asleep, and the warmth of Jason's body lulls you sweetly, even as his fingers sleepily stroke patterns onto your lower back.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

"You're so pretty." Jason mutters sleepily, his gaze lowered to where your head rests on his thick bicep, your hips pressed against his as his deep, rumbly voice resonates through your back. Jason feels trickles of drool drip down his arm, pooling on the pillow below but he pays no mind to the liquid, his mind already focused on one thing.

"You're so smart and you're so loving and attentive."

A calloused palm slides down the waistband of your sleeping shorts, stretching the elastic of your panties as two digits drag through your slippery folds and your brows knit into a little frown. Lashes flutter and you tilt your head just enough to meet Jason's gaze.

"Birdie?" You murmur sleepily, swords slurred and you wipe your mouth with one of your hands. "Are you ok— oh..."

Your lips form that pretty 'o' shape that Jason just loves to watch take place, pouty lips glistening with spit and your brows twitch.

"You mind?" He asks softly, his fingers stilling from their ministrations and he leans over you a bit more to keep his eyes on your dimly illuminated face, bleary eyes staring up at him and you shake your head.

"...don't mind.."

Letting out one of those sleepy sighs, you allow Jason to manoeuvre your body, tossing your thigh over the leg tucked beside you, and your thighs are splayed beneath the covers. He continues his motions, fingertips rubbing soft and lazy circles around your clit, feeling the way slick coats his digits and a soft kiss is pressed against your forehead.

It's gentle.

Like you're the most precious thing he's ever touched, the most priceless art piece he's ever laid his eyes on and another kiss is planted against the hollow of your temple.

Fingers gently probe at your slickened slit, his knuckles brushing over your puffy and glossy pussy before gently easing a digit into you and he nearly whines, burying his face in your hair and inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

It's so... Luxurious. He should start using your shampoo more.

Your lips part and hot breaths leave your lips, eyes fluttering open and meeting Jason's gaze.

"You look so pretty..." Jason coos softly, nearly melting as he thrusts his finger into you, feeling the way your gummy walls tug and suck at him, the sticky give of your cunt makes the lewdest squelches that makes his cock twitch in his pants.

"...besitos..." You mutter sleepily, lips pursing and brows twitching as you feel the way his digit prods and rubs against that gooey spot that has you arching your back against the sheets.

"¿Quieres besitos, amor?" Jason questions softly.

He can't help but feel the way his heart thrums whenever you speak to him in Spanish, your words just a bit slurred from sleep but sweet all the same and he leans forward, lips brushing against your own.

"You want me to kiss you?" He teases softly, before pressing his lips against yours. It's sweet, the way his mouth moves against yours, pulling away in small recessions and he swallows the whine you let out when his second finger is nestled sweetly in your cunt and you're throbbing.

"Atta girl, keep taking my fingers."

His thumb continuously flicks and brushes over your slickened bud, the little nub sensitive underneath his fingers as Jason coaxes an orgasm out of you.

Pulling saccharine moans from your lips and watching the way tears gathered on your pretty lashes, your chest heaving and nipples pebbling beneath the fabric of your T-shirt and he hums softly, pressing a kiss against your cheek.

"Good job, baby, good job." He croons to you sweetly, shifting until he's hovering over you and he's peppering soft kisses along your collarbones. And he's gently pulling your panties and shorts off, setting them aside before his hands move to the backs of your thighs, pushing them towards your chest and he watches the way your sticky cum smears across your inner thighs and needy pussy.

And Jason's pushing his sweatpants past his hips, until you place a hand on his lower belly, feeling the way the muscles flex beneath your palm.

"Take... Take off your shirt this time?"

You murmur softly, the light of the laptop bouncing off your pretty irises and you can see the hesitance in Jason's eyes.

"Please?"

You know he's always been a bit nervous about his autopsy scar, the large 'Y' extended across his torso entirely, raised scar tissue pinkened and smooth.

And when you catch the way he anxiously grasps for the edges of his shirt, you reach for the laptop, gently shutting it and the sigh he lets out is audible.

"Thank you, baby." The rustle of fabric fills the air before Jason's bare chest is pressed against you, the fabric of your T-shirt doing nothing to stifle the warmth of his body as he kisses you, his hips slotting between your thighs and his thick cock resting across your mound, ending just below your belly button.

"You think you're ready for me to put it in?" Jason asks softly, his hand reaching down below, his thumb swiping across your clit sweetly and you let out a shaky breath, nodding your head.

"Mhm, I'm ready."

"Can you be a doll and put those pretty legs on my shoulders?" Jason whispers softly, rough hand wrapped around his base as he notches the flushed tip of his cock at your slick hole, tracing along the seam of your cunt as he waits, patiently for you. You shift and readjust, moving your legs to rest on his shoulders and Jason hums.

"That's my sweet girl." He praises you, and the dim lights of the street allows you to watch the way his expression crumples in pleasure, his plump bottom lip caught between his teeth to muffle a whine as he slides his cock into you.

"Fuck, you're so warm." Jason breathes out, brows twitching and his hands move to rest on either side of your head. Hot breaths fan your features and Jason's hips begin to move.

He's not thrusting or pounding.

He's rolling his hips. Hips carved into the slightest bit of chub, thick and scarred thighs on either side of you, sinewy muscles surround you from all sides and Jason groans lowly.

He's stretching your cunt to fit him and the burn is phenomenal, your nails dragging down his back as his rotund tip leaks against your cervix, precum and your cum mixing to form a creamy ring at his base.

It's sweet and perfect.

The way your cunt grips him tightly, the way your lashes flutter shut and Jason leans closer, pressing his lips against yours with a gentleness that seems so uncommon for a man of his size. Of his profession.

"You're perfect." He breathes out. "So fucking perfect."

Bated breaths and murmured praises, kisses planted along the side of your face as his hips occasionally still, just so he can push the ball of his nose against your pulse, feeling the erratic thrum of your blood. And his hips grind into you.

"Nice and slow, yeah?" Jason's hands fist the sheets, your ankles brushing against his ears and occasionally, he plants a kiss against the protruding bones. "Does it feel good?"

And you can only nod, whining under your breath before finding the ability to talk.

"Feels so good..." You breathe out. "Keep fucking me. I—" A gasp nearly shakes you to your core when his fat tip pushes against your cervix in a way that has your thighs shaking, "—'m gonna come..."

Jason nods his head, shifting your body just a bit and he removes your legs from his shoulders, veiny hands wrapping around your ankles as he pushes your legs towards your chest. And he fucks you deeper, grinding against you before he breathes out.

"Play with your pussy for me." He sighs, lashes falling shut as he feels the way your cunt spasms when your fingers swipe over your clit in one of those experimental ways. Clearly, you're not good at masturbation but it's fine.

He'll teach you.

"Circles baby, circles." He guides sweetly. "The circles are gonna feel good while I fuck you."

Jason's lips press a kiss to the sock covered arch of your foot, his eyes laser focused on where you tease your clit, whines and mewls slipping past your lips until you gasp, toes curling and chest heaving.

And your hips twitch when you come, sucking him in with vigor as you soak the sheets beneath you and your hand moves, brushing along the expanse of his scar. And Jason's cock twitches needily, a whimper slipping past his lips before his hips stutter just a bit.

"Don't make me lose my rhythm." He huffs out, a shaky laugh leaving him as the dimples in his cheeks deepen.

You're like if the ocean was a furnace.

Squelchy sounds and lewd sloshy sounds with each buck of his hips and Jason bites his bottom lip as he feels his orgasm slowly build, his skin prickling with goosebumps and his nipples stiffen in a way that he just knows has your ego soaring.

"Shit, 'm gonna come soon." He grumbles, his hand leaving your ankle to card through his hair, pushing the damp strands out of his vision. And before his lips can part to ask where you want it, Jason's body shudders when your hand moves, wrapping around the base of him and he feels the way he gets just a bit lightheaded.

"Don't pull out, okay?"

Taglist:

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@fayethefaerie 🦋

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@allycat4458 🪻

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@titchx0 🦆

[luvrrszn]

behind closed doors

BROTHER'S BSF!THEO NOTT x FEM READER (18+)

summary you're his best friend's little sister—off-limits, right?

warnings smut, theo's mean, fluff, angst i guess, idk

a/n guysssssssssss new week new obsession......soz send help

masterlist

being your older brother's best friend, theo was at your house all the time.

that meant he'd see you almost every day. the most gorgeous girl he'd ever seen, floating around. so close yet so far, always out of reach.

he knew he'd never be able to have you, no, your brother would never allow that. so he did the only other thing he could think of—be mean to you.

so he tormented you every day. called you names, even waited on your bed for you to come home so he could insult you about something new. you suspected it was just his way of getting to see you every day.

he acts like you're the biggest pain in the ass, just his best friend's annoying little sister. but the second nobody's looking? his hands are on you.

—

sleeping with him is casual, no strings attached. theo sneaks out of your brother's room at night after he's fast asleep, making sure that he never ever finds out what's going on.

when your brother is finally out of town for the weekend, theo still comes over. the two of you are watching a movie on the tv in your room, lying on your bed. his arm is wrapped around your shoulder, your head leaning against his chest. his other hand traces up and down your inner thigh under the blanket.

it's one of those rare moments in the in-between.

in-between fucking and being at each others' throats.

theo's hand slips lower, toying with the waistband of your pink lace panties. he traces over your wet cunt, chuckling under his breath, "amore mio, you're dripping, just for me, huh?"

"shut u—" you're immediately silenced when theo plunges two long fingers into your pussy.

a smug smile spreads across his face, “you’re squeezing me so tight, you’re gonna break my fingers aren’t ya? if your brother knew how much you think about me, he’d probably hex you himself.”

“t-theo, stop talking about my brother and start moving your damn fingers.” you pants, writhing against the palm of his hand, aching for some friction against your clit.

“as you wish, amore mio.”

—

one night, you’re sneaking back in after a party. your hair is disheveled, makeup smudged, slightly tipsy and boots in your hand as you try to close the front door as quietly as possible.

theo is the last person you expect to see. you curse under your breath. why is he always in your damn house?

the open kitchen layout gives him the perfect view of you sneaking back in at 3am. he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, grey sweatpants hanging low, black tshirt hugging his biceps. he drinks from a glass of water, a dark look on his face.

you roll your eyes as you put your boots down on the floor, preparing yourself for what’s to come.

“a bit late, isn’t it, piccola?”

you roll your eyes and brush past him, opening the fridge to grab some orange juice. gulping down the juice, you reply, "it's really none of your business, nott."

wrong answer.

before you can react, he's in front of you, blocking your path. he's so much taller, broader than you. the amused glint in his eye is gone.

"see, that's where you're wrong," he murmurs, tilting your chin up with two fingers so you meet his gaze, "it is absolutely my business, because we wouldn't want you messing around with young, dumb, horny boys would we?"

his forearms rest on either side of your head, pinning you against the refrigerator.

"oh yeah? and what are you?" you scoff.

"oh, bella, you already know the answer to that."

and you do. he's stronger, older, perhaps even more mature (when it comes to anything other than you) than whatever company you're keeping.

"i swear, you'd better not tell my brother about this." you groan, ducking under his arms as you beeline for the sink.

"there's no such thing as a free lunch, piccola."

and that's how you end up on your knees in your bedroom, short skirt hiked up as you gag around his fucking massive cock. his hands are tangled in your hair, mercilessly forcing you to take in every inch of him. tears stream down your face, spit pooling at the corner of your mouth. you look like a mess, but at that moment as theo looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, he swears he's never seen a prettier girl than you.

you look up at theo and take in the sight before you. his head is thrown back, hair messy. his jaw is clenched, and he smirks at you. you run your hands over his chest and toned abs, clawing at his biceps.

he's perfect.

—

oh, and when he catches you at a party?

it's over.

he drags you out by your wrists, forcing you into his blacked-out mercedes. he's driving well over the speed limit, desperate to get off the road before he loses his shit.

he'd seen you dancing with some guy you knew from down the street, dress too short, too tight, too low-cut.

he has one hand on the steering wheel, another running through his hair as his jaw clenches.

"didn't take you for the easy type, but i guess i shouldn't be surprised. you're not special, you know. boys will say anything to get them what they want."

his words hit like a slap. your stomach twists, and for a second, all you can do is stare at him, lips parted and heart pounding.

you want to ask what the hell he's talking about, but you already know.

he saw you dancing with that guy. saw the way his hands slid down your waist, how he leaned in close and whispered things in your ear. how you let out that sweet laugh, one that always made theo want to say "fuck it" and just kiss you in front of everyone. he saw the way you let it happen.

and he hated it.

and now he's punishing you for it.

when you remain silent, he continues, "you looked fucking ridiculous in there, you know that?"

and you feel so silly. to think that that evening, you'd picked out your favourite dress, made sure your makeup looked good, just in hopes that theo would notice you at that party.

"you're being cruel, theo. stop it." you murmur, turning to stare out of the window. you don't even notice that you've started crying.

when you finally notice, you wipe it away quickly. you hope that theo didn't notice, but of course he did. at that moment, he pulls into the driveway of your house, turning off the engine.

theodore nott has seen a lot of things—but he has never seen you cry like this. and definitely not because of him.

and it makes something in his chest clench.

"oh, for fuck’s sake—" his voice drops, no longer sharp but still frustrated. he drags a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly, like he’s angry at himself now, too.

for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you, at the way you’re biting your lip, blinking rapidly, trying so hard to hold it in.

then? he moves.

his hand reaches for your thigh, fingers curling around it, grounding. not forceful, but firm.

"hey." his voice is softer now, rough but not cruel.

"don't do that. don't fucking cry over me."

you try to shift away, but theo's grip tightens. not rough—just enough to make you stay.

"i didn't mean—fuck." he sighs again, shaking his head.

his thumb brushes against your knee, almost like a reflex, and for the first time ever, he looks uncertain.

"look at me."

you don't. you can't.

so he makes you.

his fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face towards him.

he isn't angry anymore. not at you. not really. his jaw is still clenched, his brows furrowed, but now? he looks almost desperate. like he wants to fix everything he's done, but he doesn't know how.

"i didn't mean it like that, bella."

you sniff, voice shaking slightly, "then how did you mean it?"

and that's when he just sighs. a weak, defeated sigh escapes the big bully of a man.

"i just—fuck, i don’t want to see you with other guys, alright?"

"why? we're not anything. you've made it clear, multiple times."

silence follows. his grip tightens.

then, he finally speaks. rough, low, honest.

"because i want you to be mine."

for a moment, you just stare at him.

his confession hangs in the air between the two of you. you're still hurt, still pissed. but something inside you shifts.

"say it again." your voice is quieter now, still laced with frustration but weaker.

theo's jaw clenches. he’s not used to being this vulnerable. but he doesn’t look away.

"I want you to be mine."

and then he moves. his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. he hesitates for just a second, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him.

but you don't.

so he kisses you.

it's not soft. not at first. it’s heated, desperate, full of all the tension that had been boiling between you. his grip is firm, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. but you don’t—you kiss him back just as fiercely, hands tugging at his shirt, anchoring yourself to him.

it’s messy and overwhelming and everything you’ve both been pretending not to want.

when he finally pulls back, both of you are breathless.

"we’re so fucked," you whisper.

theo smirks, brushing his thumb across your swollen lips. “yeah. but you like it.”

and the worst part?

you do.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Morning Sickness

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of sex in the past, pregnancy, etc.

Summary: Quinn is getting increasingly worried about you as you're sick every morning and every evening, you're adamant that you're fine. Turns out you're right in a way.

Notes: Thanks to the person who sent this idea in :)

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

It starts around a month after your honeymoon. Every single morning Quinn wakes to the sound of you throwing up and every single night he holds your hair back as you're sick over the toilet.

You pass it off as a bad stomach bug or anxiety, something different every time but Quinn doesn't believe you nor does he like what's happening. He's had many health scares with you; the chest infection that led to you being hospitalised after you nearly passed out at work being a prime example. As a result, he knows better than to assume that when you say you're fine, you're actually fine. Instead he sits with a heavy buzz of anxiety in his chest, a fear that something is seriously wrong but not knowing what and not knowing how best to convince you to get a check up and see the doctor about it. You’re stubborn to a fault. 

It's another one of those evenings where he's happily curled around in bed, blankets tucked in around both of you. You're in his arms, back to his chest, legs twisted together so that any movement jars the other, but you're so used to it at this point that sleeping apart is more difficult and less restful than navigating the tangled mass of limbs that the two of you become each night.

When you try to slip out of his arms he's awake like a shot, blinking through bleary eyes while you push his arms off you so that you can get up. Quinn lets you go, an instant release but he's quick to follow, footsteps padding on the carpet after you towards the bright light of the bathroom. Never once considering rolling over and going back to sleep.

"You okay, baby?" You're leaning over the sink, taking deep breaths, cheeks puffing out as you try your very best to not be sick again, nausea roiling through you. You’re so fed up of being sick, it’s become a routine that’s led to you being careful about what foods you eat in the morning and evening, learning what is the worst to throw up and what’s the least offensive thing to throw up.

All you can do is shake your head frantically before you're rushing to the toilet, knees hitting the floor with a loud thud as you lean over the toilet bowl to be sick. Quinn winces at the sound of your knees impacting tile and he's beside you in an instant, hands reaching for your hair to pull it back and out of your face so you don't have to worry about throwing up in your own hair.

"Oh, baby...just let it out..." A warm, free hand landing on your back, rubbing soothing circles as he feels the way your body jerks with each bout of sickness, your muscles contracting and relaxing each time. 

You’re crying, he can hear it, the way you whimper and whine because this is the worst and you’re fed up with being so violently sick…It only increases his worry because this has been going on for too long and it just doesn’t seem to be getting any better. 

He stays beside you, holding your hair and rubbing your back until you’re no longer vomiting. When you stop, cheek resting against the toilet seat in exhaustion he’s up and reaching for a glass to fill with water for you.

“Here, baby, have some water…” You take a mouthful only to spit it out in the toilet in an attempt to get the taste of vomit from your mouth, before downing the whole glass. It doesn’t really help much.

“I hate this…” You groan out, feeling silly because it’s not even like you feel ill most of the time, you just keep getting these random bouts of sickness in the mornings and evenings. Quinn shouldn’t be as worried as you know he is…it’s probably all in your head, maybe you’ve created a Pavolvian response to the morning and night time where your body expects to be sick, so you are?

“I know, baby…” Quinn runs a hand over your hair, pushing a few strands out of your face and behind your ear, he’s gentle about it, long fingers gingerly caressing your skin like he’s worried you’ll break, “You need to visit a doctor, baby.”

“It’s probably nothing, Quinn…I’ve just eaten something or have some sort of bug or something…” You don’t want to go to the doctors, you’re certain this will blow over soon, that it’s nothing serious and you hate the idea of taking more time off for it even as your husband looks at you like you might be the most stubborn human being on earth. 

“For weeks?”

“Quinn…” You sigh out his name because you don’t want to argue, because you’re tired. All you want is to go back to bed, curl up in his arms and get what little sleep you can before you have to go to work in the morning.

He must see how tired you are because whatever fight he had seems to leave his body, shoulders slumping, head nodding to himself like he’s made a decision in his mind to put this down for the moment even if he wants to keep going, repeat himself until you give in.

“Okay…okay, let’s get you to bed at least…” He gives up arguing because you’re so tired and have to be up at 6am for work. It’s bad enough you're not feeling well, let alone that you have to still teach like this, adding exhaustion to the mix is just a bad idea. He’ll keep pushing until you go to the doctors, but right now? Right now he can see you're tired and sleep is probably better for you than arguing at 1am. 

Quinn helps you to your feet, your hands resting in his much larger ones while he pulls you up. He keeps both hands on your hips the whole time as the two of you waddle your way back to bed, there’s part of him that worries you might fall or faint on the way back to bed, hands firmly gripping you just in case. 

He curls around you once you're both back under the covers, almost protective like he’s trying to shield you from some unseen threat and you nestle back into him, resting your head on the arm underneath you. 

The early morning throw up session had you completely wiped hours later, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise that you felt dizzy as the day went on. Even more so because food was just not enticing you and you had skipped lunch when your sandwich made you feel queasy just looking at it. Each lesson felt harder and harder to teach and your last lesson of the day had your head reeling. It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise with how dizzy you felt, how lightheaded you were, that you fainted completely in front of your students. Thankfully, you had felt it coming on, having lowered yourself to the ground mere seconds before it happened.

To give them their dues, your students who could have used that as an opportunity to cause a mess, do whatever they wanted and generally cause chaos, actually tried to help. They were so concerned for you that they got another member of staff to come help, David, your favourite trouble making hockey fan, put his rolled up Canucks hoodie underneath your head and Stacy checked you were still breathing. The fainting spell didn’t last long, within a minute or so you were back to consciousness and trying to sit up, staff and students trying to force you to lay back down. 

It’s Laura, the English teacher next door, who grabs your phone and calls your emergency contact, Quinn…even as you protest and tell her not to bother him, that you’re fine. All your protests go ignored by the forty year old, who had become something of a mentor and parental figure during your time at the school.

“Hi Quinn, sorry, it’s Laura from Y/N’s school?” You can’t quite tell what Quinn says on the other line, but you’re sure it’s along the lines of ‘what’s wrong?’ in a panicked tone because no one ever used your phone. You hate worrying him, he has so much on his shoulders already, so much weight there from the team, the season, his brothers…

“She’s fainted, do you think you could come get her? It’s the end of the school day anyway but I don’t think she should be driving home…thanks, Quinn.” 

You groan at her, tempted to tell her off for calling him against your wishes but you know she means well…you also know there’s absolutely no chance you’re getting away with avoiding the doctors now. In fact you wouldn’t be surprised if he drove you straight to the doctor's office after coming to get you…still, maybe you should see a doctor, what with throwing up all the time…and now fainting? 

Laura won’t even let you get up from your spot on the floor, packing your things away for you, getting your students to chill for the last 10 minutes of the day and waiting until Quinn arrives. You know she’s worried you’ll faint again, but it feels ridiculous, sitting on a cold, dirty classroom floor waiting for your husband to come get you.

“Hey, baby…” The way he stands in the doorway to your classroom when he finally arrives makes you want to cry. It’s like he’s scared you’re going to faint again, a sense of hesitancy and caution in his body language that you hate because Quinn is never like that around you. 

“Please don’t…don’t be scared of me, right now…” You feel like crying, wetness starting to fill your eyes and your voice coming out choked. You’re not even sure why you’re so emotional about him looking like that when Quinn’s always worried about you, it’s not a new development. He cares so he worries. 

“Hey, hey, I’m not scared of you…I’m worried, baby.” He’s crossing the space between you as quickly as possible, crouching down next to you with care, hands reaching for your face gently to rub his fingers across your cheeks to try and calm you down.

“I’m sorry…I don’t mean to be a bother…” Your eyes are so watery that Quinn’s face is a blurry mess, but even then you wouldn’t be able to mistake the serious set of his brow, the way his jaw clenches, how he always takes your concerns and worries seriously.

“Sweet girl, hey…you’re not a bother. You’re never a chore, okay? But I'm going to need you to accept that we need to go to the doctor's now, okay? I’ve already phoned them, they can see us in forty minutes.” You can’t really deny him, he’s been so patient with you, worried, but not pushing you to go to the doctors too much and you know he’s right…something’s not normal right now and you need to get checked out.

“Okay…” The smile he gives you is radiant, relief filled and bright like your answer is enough to make his day. It makes it worth it.

“Atta girl, right, let’s get you up off this floor, okay?” 

You nod at him, reaching for his outstretched hands and letting him grip yours tightly, your wedding rings gleaming and new under the fluorescence of the classroom lights. As Quinn stands he pulls you with him, helping you to your feet and holding you steady when you get a bit of a headrush from the sudden upright position.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, i’m good,” He doesn’t quite look like he believes you, “I promise, i’ll let you know if i’m not.”

He’s got an eye on you the entire way to his car, always watching in case you suddenly faint or trip or take a dive to the ground. You don’t, your dizzy spell has passed and now you just feel emotional and embarrassed about the whole thing. 

As is routine by now Quinn opens the car door for you and buckles your seatbelt, making sure it rests comfortably against you and isn’t digging into you at all. He goes a step further than normal though, reaching into the backseat to grab a blanket he keeps there for when you get cold, laying it over your lap and tucking it under your thighs like he’s worried you’ll get cold on the drive to the doctors. 

Quinn leans forward into the car, pressing a kiss to your forehead gently causing you to close your eyes, letting out a happy sigh. He lingers slightly, hand smoothing down some of your fly away hairs before he shuts the passenger side door and gets into the driver's seat. 

There’s a heavy silence that settles over the two of you while Quinn starts the drive to the doctor’s office. It’s a silence that screams that Quinn has things he wants to say, words he’s holding inside him right now and you wait patiently for him to break. 

It doesn’t take long, a few minutes pass before he’s watching you from the corner of his eye, “You need to start trusting me to handle knowing when something is wrong…” He sighs out at you, and you try not to cut him off, biting on your lip to force yourself to listen until he’s said what he needs to say. “I know you’re scared of being a burden and putting more stress on me, but, baby…I’m your husband. I need to know. I want to know. My job is to support you. I can’t do that if you’re not letting me in…” He reaches a hand across to squeeze your leg, an attempt to reassure you that he’s not mad, but that he wants you to trust him more and you get it…you do. You’ve been so reluctant to put any more stress on him, but here’s Quinn demanding that you do, telling you he wants to know when things aren’t quite right.

“I just…you have all this pressure on you and I don’t want to add to that.”

“Baby, the only stress you’re giving me is when you don’t let me help you…I need you to promise me you’re going to start relying on me more, please?” He can’t take it anymore. The way you try to hide how you’re doing, try to take all that onto yourself so that he doesn't get any of the pressure. You’re the only pressure he wants, fuck hockey, fuck the season, but he needs to know what’s wrong with you so he can fix it, so he can help you.

You reach for his hand on your leg, twisting your fingers in his and holding his hand tight, watching him glance at you out of the corner of his eye, focusing on the road for the most part. 

“I promise.” 

Quinn’s shoulders drop in relief, his need to support and protect you, to look after you already feeling better now that you’ve promised you’ll actually communicate with him properly. He loves you, but your fear of being a burden is his least favourite thing about you. He hates that people have made you feel like you have to minimise yourself, your problems. Hates that you’ve been trained to be so hyper independent and self reliant. 

“Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

You blink at the doctor like she’s insane because the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind that that was a possibility, that maybe you were pregnant.

“Uh, no…”

“Have you been using protection? Is it possible you’re pregnant?” You try to think back to your last period, late, try to think back to the last time Quinn and yourself had unprotected sex…your honeymoon. So over the moon, so giddy the two of you hadn’t really thought about it, forgoing the usual precautions because you were married now so it didn’t seem like such a big deal. 

You look at Quinn, the two of you sharing a look that says you’re both thinking back to your honeymoon, the two weeks of being absolutely feral for each other that you really didn’t think much about the consequences…well, you did, in a sense. Quinn had had a great time considering what you’d look like pregnant with his child, dirty talk filled with comments about getting you pregnant, but it had all been fantasies, silly in the moment dirty talk, neither of you had really considered (rather stupidly perhaps) that it might become a reality. You hadn’t thought…normally it wasn’t that easy for people and you’d always had concerns about fertility in your family in the past so why would it be that easy for you? 

“It’s…it’s possible.”

“Okay, I want you to go take this test and come back when you’re done. I think you might just be experiencing some really bad first trimester morning sickness.” You take the test offered to you, the little pee cup and pipette too, glad that she wasn’t expecting you to pee directly onto the stick…

“Do you want me to wait outside the door?” Quinn asks as you hesitantly get up, not really wanting to go alone, as silly as it was because all you were about to do was pee into a little cup and put some drops onto a pregnancy test, it wasn’t like you were going to do anything crazy. But, you’d never had to take a pregnancy test before, you’d never had to deal with the reality that you might be pregnant and even if it's with your literal husband it’s still kind of scary...

“Yes, please…” He’s reaching for your hand without any hesitation, guiding you out of the examination room and towards the toilets. 

You hesitate before entering, scared to find out the answer, unsure which you want to be true; that you’re pregnant or that there’s something else causing you to be sick and faint. You want kids, both of you have discussed it time and time again, but you always thought it would be planned, that the two of you would be actively trying when you got pregnant. 

“It’ll be okay, y’know? No matter what. If you’re not pregnant we’ll figure out what’s wrong and if you are? That’s a good thing, we wanted kids, baby.” Quinn can see you’re scared, the way you grip the test tighter, how you seem to stop breathing as you stare at the bathroom door. He’s trying to not get his hopes up, to temper some of the excitement he can feel because he really…fuck, he really hopes you’re pregnant, he’s so ready to be a dad, and it would be an added bonus to know you weren’t seriously ill, just dealing with the first trimester. 

“Yeah, just…wasn’t expecting it to potentially be this soon.”

“I know, baby, but it’ll be okay and mom’ll be over the moon.” You smile at the mention of Ellen, how excited she’ll be…heck Jack and Luke would be ecstatic to be uncles, suddenly things didn’t seem quite so scary when you considered the people around you, how supportive they would be.

“Yeah, she’ll probably scream down the phone…” If you’re pregnant goes unsaid but it’s there, the reality that maybe you’re both starting to get your hopes up for something that isn’t going to happen. 

“Okay…I can do this.”

“You’ve got this, baby…it’ll be okay,” He smiles at you one last time before you disappear into the bathroom.

Your hands shake the entire time you’re in there, completing the test and putting it on the side to wait. You pacing a hole into the floor, back and forth, back and forth as the time ticks down on your phone. In that time you start to get excited, nervous, but excited. The initial shock of potentially being pregnant disappearing in favour of thoughts about what it would be like to finally have your first child with Quinn…how he’d teach them to skate, how Luke and Jack would play with them at the lake house in the summer, how Ellen and Jim would be devoted grandparents, how you’d read them books every night and make your own Christmas traditions… Your nerves now centred on that possibility that you weren’t pregnant, that your hopes might be crushed.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look when the time was up, reaching for the door handle to Quinn pacing outside the door. His head shoots up the moment you open it.

“So?” Quinn looks so expectant, lips bitten and red from all his worrying, waiting for an answer. 

“I…I can’t look, can you check it for me?”

“Uh, yeah, course, baby.” You can tell he’s nervous too, but he steps inside the bathroom, locking it behind the two of you for privacy. You point to where the little, but no less life altering, test rests by the sink. 

You watch him walk over, watch the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at the little test, seems to read the marks, and then again, and again like he’s struggling to process it. You know the answer the moment his shoulders relax, the moment he turns to you with tears in his eyes and a wide smile, so wide across his face. He’s practically grinning, vibrant in the way he is after a won game or how he was at your wedding. The sort of vibrant that changes Quinn, his usually understated calmness wiped out in favour of pure unfiltered joy. 

“We’re…we’re having a baby…” Saying it feels unreal at first, that those two little lines can mean so much, that right now, in your tummy is your baby. The perfect mix of the two of you slowly growing into someone amazing, someone he’s so excited to meet. 

“Yeah?” You can feel your own excitement starting, hearing it is making it real, so fucking real. 

“Yeah, baby!” You’re crying, he’s crying, it’s a mess when you come together in a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you and lifting you off the floor to spin you around. You’re both crying into each other when his mouth slants over yours for a kiss, one of his hands cupping the back of your head, the other resting gently over your throat.

It’s a kiss that feels monumental, deep and filled with love, so much love that the taste of the salt from your tears does nothing to deter either of you as you cling to each other. The scratch of Quinn’s beard, the silky smoothness of his hair in your fingers, the way you cling to each other, you’ve not felt that happy since your wedding day, since you both finally said I do. It feels like the world has shifted on its axis in the most spectacular of ways and all that worry, all that fear is gone, just like that. 

He’s so fucking relieved, that’s part of it. God, is he excited that you’re pregnant, that he’s going to be a dad, but part of the excitement is relief, that you’re okay, that you’re not seriously ill. You’re just pregnant, just dealing with morning sickness and all the changes associated with growing a baby. 

When you pull apart neither of you go very far, foreheads pressed together, noses nuzzling against each other. His hands still cradle you close to him, his breath warm against your lips.

“We’re going to be parents…you’re going to be a mom…” There’s something about him saying it that makes it feel more real because it feels almost out of body of an experience, to find out you're pregnant when you had no plans to be. 

“Yeah…you’re going to be a dad…”

“Fuck, I love you…” Quinn kisses you again, soft but lingering as a hand comes down to rest against your belly, no sign yet of the bundle of cells that’s growing into a baby, “and I love this little bean too,”

“I love you too, you’re going to be so great, they’re going to love you.”

“They’re going to love us.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

It's Been Calling Me

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, light angst, shameless smut (oral f receiving, p in v sex), fluff, soulmates, dreams, told over many years, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams.

So sure, until you're not.

Author's Note: I love this one. I love using fake Marvel science logic. I love putting sad men in situations where they can't escape love. I love semi-linear storytelling. Enjoy!

Word Count: 10.9k

“I get… dreams.” You mumble, staring at an odd point over Dr. Raynor’s head. It’s always better than looking her in the eyes. “They’re weird.”

“The very nature of dreams is to be strange.” You can see the shrug of Raynor’s shoulders, hear the neural expression that must be on her face. “Although if you feel they’re worthy of note-“

“They are.” 

Raynor hums. She’s probably raising her brows. You still won’t look.

“You sound quite certain of that.”

“I am.” You tuck your knees up to your chest, frowning at the air. “It’s- They’re not new.”

“Ah.” Raynor pauses, then says your name. In the gentle but firm therapist way that you really hate. It makes you feel like a child. “This conversation may be easier if you would look at me.”

“No thanks, I’m-“

She says your name again. A little harsher. “We’ve discussed this. You’re here of your own volition-“

“That’s not true.” You mutter. “Court-ordered isn’t volition.”

“Well you could’ve chosen the inpatient ward.” Raynor’s shrugging again. “Look at me.”

You let out a long breath, and meet her gaze. You’d been right. She was raising her brows.

“Good work.” She gives you a tight-lipped smile and small nod of approval. “Tell me about these dreams.”

It takes a minute to find the words. Not because you don’t have them, but because you’d never expected to use them. You’ve rehearsed them in the mirror a million times, but they always sounded insane, and you didn’t need another reason to be called crazy.

“I’ve had them my whole life.” It’s easiest to start there. “But it’s- they’ve changed. Over time.”

“Changed how?”

“It’s hard to explain-“

“Try.”

You scowl. “I am trying, Christina, but there’s kind of a lot to say-“

Raynor sighs, giving you the patented look of disapproval that you might hate more than how she says your name. “How about telling me when they started. Is that do-able?”

It takes a long, deep breath, but you nod. “I was- I think I was ten. I fell asleep, and it was the first dream I’d ever had. The first one that I remembered when I woke up. It was…” You swallow, and there’s a sting in your nails as you rip more skin away. “Really vivid.”

——

This isn’t your body. It’s too big, too tall, and you’re not nearly strong enough to rip a door off its hinges. This body is sprinting across ice without ever breaking pace or falling flat with a crunch. You can’t even walk up stairs without tripping over thin air.

But this doesn’t really feel like a body at all. It feels like a shell, or tool. Hollow and pressed down, moving so mechanically you’d think it was a machine if you couldn’t hear its heartbeat in your ears. There’s a lot of pain in it. Strangely numb pain, as if the owner of this body doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, shuttering it off to the side as he moves.

You’re pretty sure it's a he. There’s hair in your eyes, but men can have long hair, and when the body’s arms swing into view they’re big and muscular. You’re also pretty sure there’s something between your legs that wasn’t there when you went to sleep.

And you can feel him. Very, very deep in your head, he’s bellowing and scraping at his own scalp. He feels like a caged animal, but this is his body. He’s roaring things that are more like feral sounds than actual words, and every time he gets loud enough for you to make out a real voice something clamps down on your skull—his skull—and it all goes quiet.

You can see another man in your line of vision. He’s on his knees, trembling and begging, but the noise is muffled and static. As if there’s a filter pushing anything coherent out of your head.

A gloved fist that’s attached to your body—but not yours to control—reaches out and grabs the man by his throat. It squeezes. 

He’s desperate. Locked down and furious, the ‘he’ who you’re possessing is almost pleading with himself to stop. 

But he doesn’t. 

And there’s a sickening snap that will echo in your ears for a long time after you wake up.

——

Raynor’s looking at you like you’re insane. You don’t love it.

“Did you…” She pauses, scanning over you with a small frown. “Did you see the hand?”

You blink at her. “Yeah, I just said-“

“Without the glove.” She clarifies. “The one that snapped the man’s neck. Did you ever see it without the glove.”

It’s an oddly specific question. And she seems to be looking for a certain answer, because in all your time of working with Raynor she’s never looked so obviously invested in a story. 

“Not for a while.” You keep your words slow, watching her wearily. “He always wore the gloves. And when he didn’t, he wouldn’t look at his hands-“

Raynor frowns. “So how did you know he wasn’t wearing the gloves?” 

“Because he knew.” You shrug. “I lived in his brain like, every night.”

“Every-“

“Night, yeah. That’s what I fucking said.”

Raynor hums, and you think she’s going to grab the notebook to write something along the lines of patient has lost her goddamn mind, but she just keeps staring at you. “You said you didn’t see the hand for a while. When did you see it?”

“When I was sixteen. The first time the dreams changed.”

“Changed from-“

“Being in his head.” You pull your lip between your teeth, weighing how much you want to reveal. Too much feels like a violation of his privacy, even if they’re your dreams. He’s a private guy, it took you years to get him to tell you anything, and if you’ve realized turns out to be the truth, you don’t want to ruin anything. “It’s- it was about six years of seeing everything through his eyes-“

“Everything?”

You wish Raynor would stop saying the word every like that. Like it’s a lie.

“All the murders.” You mutter. “There were a lot of murders.”

Raynor nods for you to continue, and you have to take a long, steadying breath.

“One night I went to sleep and he was… attacking some blond guy. We couldn’t really see his face. Then I fell asleep the next night, and it was different.”

——

You can see him. You’ve never seen him before. 

He’d never looked in a mirror, or described himself in his head for you like he’s a Wattpad character. He’s only ever been a body that moves out of your will, and a pained voice deep in your brain that didn’t seemed thrilled with what was happening either. 

But you’re not in his head, or his body. You’re standing in a bathroom—in your own body, wearing the same clothing you’d been wearing when you’d crawled into bed—and looking at him. 

He’s a lot more attractive than you’d anticipated. And you’d anticipated attractive. You’d built an image in your head of your imaginary dream assassin, basing it purely on a level of hotness that would justify all the murders he’d been up to. It had been a little fucked up, but you’d also been so goddamn sure he wasn’t real. That this was just a really odd and worrying coping mechanism for all the messed up shit in your real life. 

But he seems pretty fucking real right now. And almost impossibly handsome. Strong features that look like they’d been carved from marble, an almost hulking frame that’s somehow bigger when you’re looking at it from outside, and tangled, greasy hair that’s really working with the whole tortured expression on his face.

Because he does not look okay.

He’s gripping the sink and glowering at himself, scanning over his own face like he recognizes it less than you do. He’s bent like there’s a weight on his shoulders he doesn’t know how to shake off, and that’s impressive, because you’ve seen him pick up a car. 

The porcelain of the sink cracks, and he flinches back, looking between his hands and the rubble with wide eyes.

His eyes are blue. A really pretty blue. You’d always thought blue eyes were overrated—big whoop, you’re more sensitive to light—but there’s something silver in this man’s eyes that you really love. It feels like a deep storm you’d like to chase.

He’s really pretty. 

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would like being called pretty, but he is. In a natural and powerful way. Like something heavenly that’s burned through the atmosphere in a dreadful fall.

Pretty face, pretty eyes, pretty hands-

Metal hand. 

One metal hand.

——

Raynor looks worried now. You wish she’d go back to thinking you’re just batshit crazy. 

“Do you-” she clears her throat, sitting a little taller in her chair. “His name. Did you ever learn his name?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Does that matter?”

“Yes.”

It’s a flat, tense answer. It makes something coil in your throat. 

“I-“ You rub your own calves, soothing yourself in the careful way you’ve always practiced. “I didn’t, for a while-“

Raynor says your name, her tone short and clipped. “Stop telling me something didn’t happen for a while. If I ask a question, it’s because I need to know the answer. Not the buildup.”

You frown. “Need to know?”

“It’s…” Raynor sighs. “It is very important that you give me a name.”

“Why?”

“Therapist reasons.”

You give her a flat look. ���That’s not a real thing.”

“Yes, it is. Name.”

“If you need the name,” you say, raising your chin slightly. “You have to sit through my for a while.”

Raynor gives you a look of disbelief, shaking her head and muttering something that sounds like God, I can’t take two of them, before raising her voice. “Fine. What was for a while.”

“I couldn’t talk to him.” You explain. “For like, two years after I got out of his brain, he still couldn’t see me. When I tried to talk to him it was like I was in a- sort of a one-way mirror? And it’s not like he was just walking around telling the air I’m Bucky-“

“Bucky?” Raynor looks downright distressed. “His name was-“

“It’s Bucky.” 

He still is. He’s not a was, Bucky is.

That’s part of the problem.

“And how-“ Raynor swallows. “How did you learn this?”

“He told me.”

——

This is new. You’re not on a street or in a half-empty apartment—the two places you’ve grown most accustomed to seeing in your sleep—but in a field. A very big field with huts and brush and goats.

There are a truly staggering amount of goats.

And there he is. His hair isn’t greasy and unkempt anymore, but looks almost soft, pulled back in a half-up half-down situation that makes him look clean. His metal arm is gone, but he doesn’t seem that bothered by it. He’s standing taller than before, like the weight you’ve grown used to seeing finally has begun to lift.

His outfit is new too. It looks like something traditional and well-made, rather than the off-brand baseball hats—you too are a big fan of the American baseball team, the ‘Doggers’—and shitty polyester t-shirts.

You’re taking him and scenery in, trying to place where your brain could’ve possibly taken you this time, when he does something you’d never expected.

He turns and looks at you.

Not through you. Not around you. Not in your general direction.

At you.

He can fucking see you.

“Hello?”

You’ve heard him speak before, a few times. His voice has always been low and gruff and heavy.

It’s smooth and richer now. You don’t know if that’s because it’s directed at you—setting off small sparks over your ribs—or in relation to that vanished weight, but you like it. It suits him better.

“Hi.” You whisper, your body frozen in place as he moves forward.

He’s right in front of you. Staring at you. 

He’s always gotten prettier every time you’ve seen him. This is different.

This is knocking the air out of your lungs with just the sight of him, because there’s a light in his eyes you’ve never seen before, and it makes something deep inside of you glow.

“I’m, uh, I’m Bucky.” 

He holds out his hand, and you tilt your head at him.

“That’s a weird name.”

He blinks at you, his hand still frozen in the air. “I guess, yeah. Never thought about it. It’s just a nickname.”

“Oh.” That makes more sense. “Sorry. That’s- I just never thought you as- never mind.” 

Bucky frowns at you, opening his mouth—likely ask you what you mean by that—but you say your name and shake his hand because he gets the chance.

He has a nice hand. It warm, and calloused, and fits really well in yours. 

“Why can you see me?” You blurt, and there goes any pretense of containing the truth. 

Bucky frowns at you. “Should I… Not be able to see you?”

“You’ve never seen me before.”

“Before? What do you mean-“

“It’s- It’s weird. And complicated.”

He just stares at you, waiting for you to continue. 

You’re holding his gaze. You’ve never held anyone’s gaze before. 

It’s kind of electrifying.

“I’ve dreamt about you before.” You mumble. “And you’ve never seen me.”

“About me?”

He doesn’t sound like he believes you. You get that. It’s not really a reasonable or believable statement.

“Yeah. But you had two arms. And there weren’t goats.”

Bucky nods slowly, and seems to reach a conclusion in his brain that you don’t get to be privy to. 

It’s enough for him though. Because he gives you a small, almost nervous and apologetic smile. 

“Do you wanna, uh, do you wanna meet the goats?”

You blink at him. You’d expected more questions, or some doubt. But he’s just looking at you, something in his pretty blue eyes almost hopeful.

“Are they...” You trail off, glancing at the goats over his shoulder. “Your goats?”

“They’re community goats.” He shrugs. “But Shuri says connection with life will help my recovery, and I don’t really want to connect with people.” His voice lowers, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “They don’t really like connecting with me.”

You don’t know who the fuck Shuri is, but you nod anyway. “So goats?”

He gives you another odd look, like he’d expected you to say something else. 

“Yeah. Goats.” 

“Did you name them?”

He frowns. “They’re goats. They don’t need names.”

You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Wrong. Everything needs a name. I named my car, and my phone.”

“You named your phone?”

“Yep.” You grin at him, and it’s a wide, teasing grin you haven’t given anyone in years. “Bertha.”

“That’s…” Bucky’s still staring at you–he seems to do that a lot—but there’s something like amusement in his eyes. “Bertha is not a good name.”

“Better than Bucky.”

He chuckles at that, and it’s a beautiful sound. Deep and heavy, like a bass drum in your chest.

It’s the sort of thing that could be addicting, if you’re not careful. Worse, it’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t mind being addicted to.

“You’re kinda mean, doll.”

“Yep.” You shrug, ignoring how ‘doll’ makes you feel fuzzy in your gut. “And I’ll be meaner if you don’t let me name your goats.”

He hums, scanning you over with an intensity in his eyes that reminds you of that storm you’d see all those years ago in the bathroom. This time, you’d like to do a little more than chase it.

You think it could be really easy to get wrecked by it. 

“Will you come back if I let you name them?”

He keeps saying things you don’t expect. Of course you’ll come back. You don’t have a choice.

But you nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Only if you promise to actually use the names.”

He nods, giving you another smile. “Deal.”

———

“Did you ever learn his last name?”

You shake your head. “I never asked. He mentioned his real name was James at one point, but then I asked why he was called ‘Bucky’ and we got off topic.”

“One… point?” Raynor’s words are slow, and you’ve really never seen her looked lost like this before. You’d be proud of yourself if it wasn’t a bad sign. “Exactly how frequently did these dreams occur?”

———

“You’re back!”

Bucky looks genuinely happy to see you. He does every night. The same surprised joy in his voice, shock always written over his face like it’s truly odd and lovely to see you here.

Like you’re not here every night, for three to four hours, standing in his little hut and wandering the fields.

You’ve worked out that you’ve put him in Africa. Wakanda specifically, likely because you’d seen it all over the news and it seemed pretty interesting. Shuri was the princess, and the guy T’challa Bucky had mentioned a few times was the King. You’d almost certainly heard their names during all those UN conferences—the ones you put on in the background just to hear some noise that wasn’t ringing in your ears—and your brain had just decided to run with it.

At least, you think it’s just your brain. You’ve always assumed this was all in your brain, because this feels like the exact kind of fucked up shit your brain would pull. And Bucky never aged. He’d never really changed, for six years. He’d had just been another way to cope for the longest time, but now—as you actually get to know him—he seems dangerously like a real person.

He looks like he broods less than when you see him hunched over a toilet or glowering at his reflection in a window. His appearance has started to shift in a way it never really had.

The metal arm has permanently departed. He seems fond of keeping his hair out of eyes, and his wardrobe finally has diversity. He talks to you, and he has a personality. An adorable, grumpy, endearing personality that would play into your idea of ‘made up in your brain’ if he couldn’t be so annoying.

He stares. He grunts a lot. He doesn’t get any of your references. If you made up an imaginary dream man to feel more loved, he would like all the things you like and hate all the things you hate.

But he doesn’t.

And it always draws you in further, because he truly does seem like just a perfectly insufferable asshole. 

That’s cruel. He’d been right. You could be mean. 

He never seemed to mind.

And he’s more like a dog anyway. One that escaped the pound and follows you around, not even bothering to beg for scraps because you offer them with a grin.

You like his company. You like his voice. You like that he’s annoying and you like more that it’s your exact type of annoying.

You like that he’s really fucking hot, and get hotter every time you visit. 

You mostly just like him.

“Of course I’m back.” You shrug, kicking a rock with the tip of your foot, watching it bounce through the dirt. “I’m always back.”

“Yeah. So far.” You see Bucky shrug in your periphery, and when you look up, he’s staring again. “Could change.”

“Won’t change.” You counter, giving him a pointed look. “Sorry, Buck. You’re stuck here until I die.”

That’s the first time you’ve called him Buck. He tenses for a moment, seems to shake something physically off his body, and nods slowly.

“Should I be worried about you dying?”

“Not right now, no.” You hum. Another rock gets kicked. “Death doesn’t agree with me.”

He chuckles. “Don’t think it agrees with anyone, doll-“

“Shut up.” Third rock. This one hits a goat, and you cringe slightly. “Shit. Sorry, Bubble McBubbleface-“

“Bubs will be.” Bucky rolls his eyes, moving to your side. He’s standing really close. You can almost feel a phantom heat from his body. “And I still can’t believe you talked me into that name. I had to tell the king of the damn country that his goat was named Bubble McBubbleface.”

You giggle, and Bucky shoots you a glare.

“You think that’s funny? I had to like pretend it was my idea,” he grumbles your name, and you always like how he says it. Like it’s some sort of answer. “I had to look the council of elders in the eyes and tell them that Bubble McBubbleface got Lady Gaga pregnant-“

Your eyes widen. “You let the goats get pregnant?”

“Course I let them get pregnant, doll.”

“But-“

He gives you a dry, amused look. “Would you rather I interfere? You want me to cockblock Bubs?”

You blink at him. “You know what cockblock means?”

Your brain had given him the personality of an eighty-year-old man. You don’t know why, but you stopped asking questions like “why” and “what” a long time ago. You just know that he shouldn’t know what cockblock means, for consistency.  

“Of course I know what it means. You taught it to me.” He winks at you, and you’re pretty sure you’re flushing.

This is meant to be a dream. You shouldn’t be able to flush, or feel a little flutter and hum in your heart, or something molten in your gut when he leans a little further forward to grin down at you.

This seems less like a dream every night.

You’d be worried about that if you had the energy, or foresight, or care.

“Are goats births gross?” You ask, and he chuckles again. The sound has started to inflict a sort of high on your brain, and every color in this dreamworld seems brighter. 

“They’re fucking disgusting.” He leans a little further down. You have to stare at his nose to pretend the proximity isn’t going to make your fall over. “But if you let me show you one in here, I’ll let you name the babies out there.”

You nod kind of stupidly, the whole world shifts into a barn—goat births are disgusting, but Bucky gets a look of intense focus you’d like to see re-aimed in your direction—and four months later Bucky tells you little Oz The Great and Powerful, Donald Duck, and Pants McPantsface have been welcomed into the world.

———

“So you’d see him in… Wakanda.” Raynor takes another long breath. If you didn’t think it would make everything worse, you’d tell her to try some deep breathing exercises. “Did the location ever change? Did you witness any more of those murders from before?”

You feel something spark in your chest like an electric wire, and you sit a little taller. You haven’t seen Bucky kill anyone since you’d been trapped in his brain. He’s a good man. And, as far as Raynor knows, a figment of your imagination. She has no right to fucking imply-

“It’s important that I know,” she says slowly, and you think your oddly blinding and righteous anger had been painted all over your face. “So I better understand what’s been happening to you. Please,” she says your name, leaning somehow further forward in her seat. “Answer my questions.”

You nod, letting out a slow exhale. “No murders. But he did start coming into my brain.”

Raynor frowns at you. “Was he not always-“

“Not like this.”

———

“This is new.”

You whip around, taking a stumbling step back that would’ve landed you on the floor, had Bucky not looped his one arm around your waist.

“Hey, doll. Pleasure seeing you-“ He frowns, glancing around your apartment. “Where the hell am I?”

You don’t answer, only reaching up to touch his face. His beard is soft. His hair is softer. When you trace the line of his nose it does feel like a nose, and when you poke his cheek it seems pretty cheek-like- 

“What, uh,” Bucky say your name, scanning over your face with concern. “What’s happening here.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You whisper, poking his cheek again. Just to be sure. “You’ve never been here before.”

“Yeah, figured that one out myself-“

“No.” You shake your head, placing one hand on his chest. It fits well there, slotting right over muscle and warm skin. Every part of him seems to fit perfectly against you, and you’ve never been this close before, but you don’t have any urge to move away. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You’ve never been here. It’s been ten years, and you’ve never been here.”

“I know, doll. Doesn’t seem like there’s much to-“ He pauses, giving you an odd look. “Ten years?”

“Yeah.” You mumble. There’s not much else to say.

He just stares at you, and shakes his head slightly. “Huh. You gonna tell me where I am?”

“My apartment.”

“Your-“ He starts slightly, but you never shake in his arms. “You live in this place?”

You nod, and he pulls you to your feet, scanning over your home. 

The silence wraps around your heart and lungs, and the room is spinning slightly. You’re asleep. You’re pretty fucking sure you’re asleep. You locked the door, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed, so you’re asleep. Bucky’s never been here before, but he’s not really here because this is a dream and he’s not real.

You think. 

You wouldn’t bet on that anymore, though.

And nothing has ever been as important as Bucky liking your room, because the longer he just scans over the space around you the more your skin heats, the more your eyes blur, the more your throat constricts and your heart aches and pounds-

“It’s very… you.” He finally says, and every bit of nerve vanishes into the air.

He’s right. You’ve been very deliberate in making sure your home is yours.

And you’re not sure why you bothered worrying at all. He fits here, just as well as he fits in every other part of you.

“Can I get the grand tour?” He raises his brows, and you nod, leading him through your space, making jokes and feeling your heart do a little flip and spin whenever he chuckles.

And things always do change. Frequently out in the real world, and carefully and easily in here.

And at least with Bucky, the change seems adaptive. You grow, he grows with you, until you’re twined and rooted into each other, and every color in this dreamscape is so vivid it’s the only thing that still tells you:

None of this is real.

———

“It was split after that.” You say. ”Half the dreams in Wakanda, half in New York.” 

You’re watching Raynor carefully. Still on the edge of her seat, legs braced like she’s ready for a fight, a tight expression on her face that Bucky calls the moose in headlights expression.

———

“You got that moose expression again, doll.”

You frown at him. “Stop calling it that, it’s just my face-“

“No. Your normal face has a dimple here, and your brows rest like that.”

He’s touching you as he explains, moving your features to match his words. You’d smack his hand away if his touch wasn’t soothing and flaring all at once. If you didn’t really love the idea of him looking at you long enough to know exactly how to adjust your face, and how to be right about it.

“But it’s not like that now.” He finishes, giving you a pointed look. “You got moose-face.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Moose-face is worse, Bucky. And it’s still not a real thing-“

“Yeah it is. Most people got a moose face.” He shrugs. He’s staring again. It’s taking a lot of effort not to melt forward into him. “Tight expression. Like a deer in headlights, but they think they’re too good to be in the headlights. They’re gonna go down fighting.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. “Can I see your moose face?”

“I don’t have a moose face-“

“Liar.” You poke his ribs, narrowing your eyes. “You said everyone has one-“

“I said ‘most people.’” Bucky shrugs. “Moose face means you’re gonna get hit, you just don’t believe it yet. I know how to not get hit.”

“Sounds like something someone with a moose-face would say.”

He chuckles. You’re sitting down, and you’re going to fall over. “No luck, doll. I got other faces, but no moose face.” He frowns at the air. “Never could afford to have one.”

There’s suddenly something heavier in his eyes, and it makes your whole body feel wired and heavy. It’s suffocating and crushing and rotten, and it’s just an expression but everything feels worse when you see it—when his shoulders hunch and his face becomes set like stone, just like all those years ago in the bathroom—so it needs to stop right now. 

“What about a wolf face?”

Bucky blinks at you. “What.”

“You said no moose face.” You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “Do you have a wolf face?”

“I don’t know what that is-“

“So suddenly you’re the only one who’s allowed to make up expressions?”

You hold is gaze for a long second—you’ve gotten really good at doing that, but only when you’re dreaming of Bucky—until his lips twitch slightly.

And everything feels alright again.

———

“How much of New York appeared in your… dreams? Was is like Wakanda, where you wandered?”

You frown at the air. Raynor’s indulging in this, but not like you’d hoped. Not shutting you down or telling you that you’re crazy. You’d really hoped to hear some validation that you were just plain crazy.

“Not really. I mean, there was one night where we were at my job, a few at the coffee shop I usually go to, and maybe like, five at the park, but we were mostly my apartment when I was showing him stuff.”

“And what did you-“ Raynor’s whole body tenses, and the last part of her question is pushed through her teeth. “What did you show Bucky?”

You flush, your gaze dropping down to your hands. “Stuff. In my apartment.”

———

You don’t know exactly what gives. What straw completely desolates every single bone in your body, and ends with you here.

Maybe it was that you’d finally mentioned all the murders, and you’d never seem him look horrified before, but the sight has dislodged something along your ribs that hadn’t mended until he let you move his head to your lap. Stroking his hair as he stared at you, telling him about your day.

Maybe it’s that you always tell him about your day. That this—whatever this is—has shifted from trading teasing comments and trying to learn about each other, into pure and comfortable understanding, and now that’s how most nights are spent.

Bucky’s reports are short. The goats are being goats—that’s all they know how to do—he doesn’t like a song someone tried to make him listen to because it’s too loud, and Shuri brought him some food that made his face feel like it was going to fall off, but in a good way. You pretty sure he only gives them because you insist upon it, but he always puffs out his chest a little at the end, when you smile at him and start to tell him everything you can remember about your own day.

Maybe it’s how he always hangs onto your every word. Like it’s gospel or scripture, and to do anything but listen and watch would be a higher sin than any blood you’ve imagined on his hands.

And maybe that’s it. 

Maybe it’s how you really don’t believe it anymore, when you remind yourself that he’s not real. That he’s just a figment of your mind, manifested to evolve as you do and always be exactly what you need. 

You still tell yourself the lie, night after night.

But you’re certain it’s a lie. That Bucky is just like that. Meant to be here, with you, the exact same way you’re supposed to be wherever he is.

And now you’re here.

You’d started it. You’d slammed your mouth to his, and he hadn’t moved. There had been a brief moment where you’d been worried you’d made a mistake, but the second you’d tried to push back on his chest and apologize, he’d kicked into gear. 

And wet dreams are supposed to be hazy. Cast in a misting light and more of a halo that brings your body high than an actual, nameable feeling.

But you can really feel this. 

And it’s heaven.

You’d expected Bucky to kiss slowly. Deliberately. It’s how you’d always seen him move and speak, and you hadn’t been against the idea of being kissed in a methodical and careful way.

You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Bucky kisses you like you’re air and water and every good thing in the world. All passion and spit and burning desire, where you can feel every bit of want in his movements. His mouth is demanding as he traces his tongue over your teeth and groans your name down your throat, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady against his chest. When his knee presses between your thighs you have to wrap your arms around his neck for balance, and it’s all you can do to return ever bit of want he throws at you as he walks to backwards to your mattress.

It takes effort to pry your mouth from Bucky’s. He doesn’t want you to go, even a few inches, and when you start to palm him through his pants—smiling against his lips and squeezing his bulge in a silent request—he hisses against your lips.

“You-“ He groans, nipping at your lower lip as you smile, repeating the movement. “You don’t- Shit, doll, you don’t know what you’re doing to me-“

You hum, bumping your nose with his and swaying in his hold. “Maybe. I’d like to do more.”

Bucky chuckles, and the sound rolls right into your core. “Think you could take more, sweetheart? Cause I’ve been a gentleman, but if more is on the table-“

It’s easy to cut him off with a heavy, deep kiss that has him half growling down your throat and his hips jerking against your movements.

“Want more.” You whisper, combing your free hand through his hair and trying to pull yourself impossibly closer. “Want you.”

Bucky tenses against you, and when you lean back to meet his eyes he’s staring again. Looking at you like you’re glowing, kneading your skin under his hand like he’s checking that you’re not going to vanish. 

“You want me.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed face. “You sure about-“

“Yes.” You nod, giving him a small, soft smile. “Only if you do, obviou-“

Bucky cuts you off with another bruising kiss, and before you know what’s happening he’s lowering you onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs, and shoving your thighs apart with a wolf-like grin.

You don’t know when you ended up naked. You can’t really care though, because Bucky shoves his face right into your pussy, and your mind empties of all thoughts that aren’t his name. 

It’s another point in favor of this being a dream. Bucky’s mouth against your cunt feels so amazingly real—licking and biting and eating you out like he’s been starved for a hundred years—but this has to be a dream, because no real man has ever made you feel this good. He knows every single way the plunge his tongue in and out of your pussy until you’re squeezing your thighs around his head and tugging at his hair, and his beard scrapes and tickles at your thighs in a way that’s driving you out of your mind, and fuck, he keeps moving his attention to nip at your clit, sucking it between his lips and letting his teeth graze against you, and-

“Bucky-“ You moan, grinding shameless into his face, trying hopelessly to remain upright with one hand, your fingers fisted into the sheets below you. “Please- I’m gonna- Fuck, I’m so close-“

He growls against you, flatting his tongue against your clit and squeezing his hand on your thigh, and that does it. You cum with a scream of his name, warmth washing over your body as your knees clamp around him and your eyes roll back in your head.

He’s ruined you. All Bucky did was eat you out in a dream, and you’re panting and flushed and drunk on him. You don’t know how you’ll manage to move on from this in real life.

You don’t really care. Not as Bucky runs his hand over your dripping, fluttering cunt with a look of open awe on his face, presses a kiss right over your clit that makes your hips jerk, and moves to his feet.

He’s naked now too. 

And he’s perfect. 

His cock is big and thick, standing at proud attention and jerking slightly as you run a hand up his thighs, your fingers trailing over his balls and a little drool falling out of your lips as you lean to take him in your mouth-

Bucky’s hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back to meet his eyes.

He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Chest heaving and eyes blown with lust. You’re going to lose your mind.

“Bucky-“

“Not now.” He mutters, pulling you a little further back. “Need to be inside of you, doll. Please.”

You’d have to be insane to say no.

You crawl back on the mattress, spreading your legs in silence invitation, and something hot and powerful flashes in his eyes as he takes you in. 

“You-“

“I’m sure.” You squirm in the sheets, running your hand between your legs and starting to rub your clit in slow, strong circles. “God, I’m so fucking sure, please-“

He’s shockingly fast for such a large man. It might be the whole dream thing, but you barely register him moving to kneel over you, swatting your hand away with a darkened gaze a set jaw.

“I do that,” he grunts, running two fingers up and down your cunt, smirking at you high whine. “Legs open, doll, want to see how wet I’m making you.”

You nod, falling flat on your back, and pour all your focus into his order. “Fuck, Bucky-“ He shoves the fingers into your pussy, and your back arches off the bed. “Shit- I- Please-“

“You want my cock?” He drawls your name, and you can only nod dumbly at the ceiling. “Come on, tell me you want it-“

“Want it,” you gasp, hugging your body as he starts to pump his finger, crooking them at the exact right spot deep inside of you. “Fuck, Bucky, you said- You said you’d fuck me-“

He clicks his tongue. “I said I’d be inside of you-“

“But- But I want you to fuck me.” You start to roll your hips as his pace picks up. “Please, Bucky-“

You whine as his fingers vanish, leaving you clenching around only the air, but it’s a short-lived pain.

Bucky slams into you with one thrust, and you’d been wrong again.

He hadn’t ruined you. He’s destroyed you.

You’ve never been so full in your life. You’ve never been fucked like this in your life. With a fervor that should be painful, but just makes you feel wanted. Cared for. Bucky’s every thrust is brutal and rough, and his mouth on yours is that same feral kiss from before, but he’s pressed his body over yours like he’s trying to shield you from the world, and he’s groaning your name down your throat like it’s a hymn.

You’d say his name too, if you could remember how to speak. But Bucky’s hitting every right spot deep in your pussy, and you’re so high the world is just color and light and Bucky, and when he starts to suck and kiss a line down your throat, along your collarbone, and over your tits, you’re sure you’re going to fly out of your skin.

Then he takes your nipple into his mouth, and the sound you make is almost inhuman. Your release crashes over you like a wave, Bucky groans against your breast as you squeeze around his cock, and a burning warmth coats your thighs and cunt as he cums with a roar.

You make a small noise of content as Bucky pulls out, kissing a soft line back up your jaw before dropping his brow to yours and letting out a long, slow breath.

“That was…” He trails off, moving his hand to hold your hips, drawing firm patterns with his thumb that might drive you out of your mind.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “It was.”

He nods, and neither of you move for a really long time. Usually you’ve woken up by now, but no part of you is eager to go, eager to leave where there’s still a little buzz in your heart from the pleasure, where you can feel a perfect ache between your legs and you’re so happily trapped under the warmth of Bucky’s body-

Happy. 

You’re happy. 

This isn’t real, but under Bucky’s body you’re safe and warm and happy. And you don’t want to go. 

Almost as if he can read your mind, Bucky clears his throat.

“Thank you.” He mutters, his breath hot and soft over your ear. “Needed this.” There a long pause, and his hand squeezes on your hips. “Needed you. And I know it’s dumb to thank you, because-“

“It’s not.” You cut him off with a kiss to his neck, rubbing your hand up and down his back. “And I needed you too.”

He lets out a dry laugh that you don’t understand, but doesn’t push on it. Just kisses your brow and rolls onto his back, taking you with him and clinging to you like you’re a tether to something a little more important than just a dream.

And you really don’t know why he’d laughed. 

You do need him. You’re growing more and more certain every night that you need Bucky more than you need anything in real life. That he’s more than anyone else, and that he maybe, possibly, could be real.

He feels real, beneath you with a calloused hand squeezing at your skin and your finger tracing over the scars near his arm. 

He sounds real, when you finally ask why he only has one arm, and he takes a very long breath but mutters that he fell off a train. When he tells you that bad people found him, and he wasn’t really the best guy either, for a really long time. 

He tastes real when you kiss him for comfort, and smells real when you bury your face in his neck as he continues. 

You know he’s not telling you everything, but you also know he’s not lying. 

And you really do know that, in some strange and impossible way, this might be real.

———

“I see.” Raynor swallows, and she won’t stop staring at you. “Did those, ah, occurrences happen again?”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Pretty much every time after.” A smile tugs at your lips. “One time we used the barn.”

“I-“ Raynor sighs. “Understood. How long, exactly, did this continue?”

“They never stopped, not until-“ Your nails dig into your skin, and a heavy stone lodges itself in your throat. “The, uh, the blip.”

———

These have been the worst five years of your life. And they haven’t been amazing for anyone, but no one else has to feel this like you do.

And that’s selfish. A little narcissistic. Incredibly crude.

But it doesn’t make it any less true.

Because everyone lost people. Everyone watched loved ones vanish right in front of them, witnessed the world fall and crumble around them as half of humanity vanished, and got left in the rubble to pick up the pieces. 

But no one else seems to feel this. Nobody else seems to be falling apart at the seams from nothing at all like you are. Because Bucky was probably never real. But he’s gone. 

And you don’t know how to move on.

It’s odd to grieve a dream. It makes living impossible. You go to all the support groups and listen to everyone share their own pain, and it makes your heart ache for them but nothing in you ever seems to heal. It’s as if a piece of you had been ripped out and ground to ash, and mending over it would be blasphemous. You don’t want to fix it. You need to, because this is no way to exist, but it feels wrong every time you try. As if even your body can’t just admit he’s gone, and you need to keep going. But everything feels artificial. Every breath is mechanical, and every beat of your heart feels shallow and deliberate, like it’s only doing just enough to keep you alive.

What’s worse is that you can’t tell anyone why you’ve become a sunken, hollow shell. You’d sound insane. You’re already not winning any points in the sound of mind department, and you do have a record, so if you went to one of the countless therapists who have been making their living off of everyone’s loss and said ‘see, doctor, the person I loved only existed in my dreams, but he vanished with the snap and now it feels like I’ve been cleaved in half’, you’d be locked up in an asylum.

You hate that you’re only realizing it now. That the overwhelming sense of warmth and peace you felt in your dreams with Bucky was love. That you’d fallen in love with a piece of your own mind. You’d basically fallen in love with your reflection. Your annoying, handsome, grumpy reflection that you’d rip your spine out of your body to reshape it back into his form, to bring him back to your side.

And the dreams still happen. He’s just not there, and it’s the worst thing in the fucking universe. You keep coming back to a forest, and there’s a little ash that’s always drifting around in the air, that feels really important.

It all always feels like more than just Bucky being gone. It feels like you’ve missed a train, or taken a wrong turn, and lost a key that double as a compass, and now you’re stranded at the bottom of the ocean. 

Alone. 

You’ve spent your whole life with only yourself to rely on, but you’ve never felt more alone.

———

“And after the blip?”

“He came back.” You’re going to cry. You really hate crying in front of Raynor—she always tells you it’s going to be okay, and you fucking know that—but you can’t stop it. Because Bucky really did come back, and it’s still the best thing that ever happened to you.

———

During the past five years, your sleep has gotten fucked. You get about four hours a night, because that’s just long enough to keep you functional but too short to allow you to appear in the forest.

So it took a while to pass out. You’d curled up in your bed, drank tea, done yoga, followed every ‘how to fall asleep fast’ internet guide until your eyes drooped, and you were gone.

When the dream takes shape around you, you’re not in the forest, but in a sleek, hospital-like room that you don’t recognize. 

And he’s there. 

Bucky’s right fucking there.

You make a small, choked sound, and his eyes shoot to yours in an instant. 

He’s moving in a second. Half launching across the room to grab you before your knees give out, holding you to his chest as you cling to his shirt and press your face into his neck. 

“Hey,” he mutters your name, and you can hear the low horror in it. He’s putting together why you’re crying. Why you’re scratching at his neck and trying to half climb up his body. “You’re alright. It’s all good, doll, everything’s good now-“

You cut him off with a long, heavy kiss, and his hand moves to cup your head. 

He has two hands again. You don’t really care why.

Because Bucky’s rubbing circles on the skin of your waist, and letting you cry without making a big fucking deal about it, and nothing mended. Nothing’s ever mended. You’ve been a little fucking broken for a long time, with or without Bucky. But it had been a kind of broken that had folded and shaped with him, and when he’d been gone it was like half your organs had been frozen and crumbled in your body.

But he’s back. And you feel real again.

———

There’s a long silence in the air, and you know what’s coming. The question. You’ve known she’s going to ask it the whole time—you’d honestly expected it a lot sooner—and you’ve been prepared. You have a very long speech about how Bucky had changed again—short hair, kept the new arm, appearing in his own, mostly empty apartment and trading the Wakandan clothing for jeans and jackets—and that he’d told you how much he hated some guy named John. 

He’d said he despised the asshole. That he was everything Steve had hated—you’d had a pretty good idea who Steve was, based on context and a theory but you hadn’t be quite ready to it yet—and nothing sounded better than punching his lights out. 

And you’re ready to explain that you’d had the news on in the background, a few words had broken from static background noise, and your whole world had shifted. John Walker had been announced as the new Captain America, they’d run a stupid little fluff piece on the life of Steve Rogers, and there was Bucky. Captain America’s best friend and ally, the assumed cause of that whole the Avengers are breaking up thing, and the former Winter Solider. 

You’d mostly stared at the screen for a really long time as everything feel into place—you’d looked him up after, and it was a little embarrassing it had taken you this long given that he has a Wikipedia page—before calling Raynor, and preparing for the question.

But when she asks it, your mind goes blank, and all you can’t think to say is the truth.

“May I ask,” Raynor says carefully. ”Why are you only discussing this now?”

“Because he’s real.”

———

Bucky has dreams. Not nightmares.

Dreams.

He dreams about Her. She’s the only constant in his life, the only solace and purely good thing he knows, and She’s not even damn real.

Bucky’s pretty sure She’s not real. It wouldn’t make any sense for Her to be real. He’d spent most of the years assuming that She was simply a result of him being able to dream again, a trick of his mind that was both a comfort and a torture, because he needed those dreams—needed Her, in a strange way that lived in his chest and was soft on his skin—more than he’d ever needed anything, but they also reminded him of what he’d never have.

A life in a simple apartment, filled with his own presence in a way that was easy. He always loved that about Her apartment. How everywhere he looked, She was there. The colors and furniture and posters and trinkets on the shelves all screamed Her, and no one could ever replicate that if they tried. 

He didn’t know how to do that anywhere. How to just be him in a way that didn’t feel like something was strangling him. His apartment was barren. Every time he spoke it felt like he should be apologize immediately after, because barely anyone seemed to like him, let alone want to hear him.

Bucky understood that. He wasn’t exactly his own biggest fan, and the only time there was no part of him trying to escape his own body was when he was asleep, and She was at his side. 

He liked being himself with Her. It was simple, and natural, and never a labor. She never flinched away from him—She seemed to like being close to him—and Bucky never really wanted to wake up. Part of him always hoped that this time, when he fell asleep and She appeared once more, he’d wake up in Her apartment, and it would all be real.

A very small part of him needed this—needed Her—to be real. It would be really amazing if She was real. It wasn’t something he deserved to ask for, to plead with the universe about, but he did. He kept trying to come up with reasons She could be real.

She felt real, in his dreams. She spoke and acted like a person, and not a doll or shell his brain may have created to get him through his de-programming. She was always saying things and making references he didn’t get until she explained them, things he was certain he hadn’t heard in passing. She was way prettier than anyone Bucky had ever seen, which would contribute to Her being only a dream if he wasn’t so certain that he simply wasn’t that creative.

He could imagine a pretty girl.

He couldn’t imagine Her.

Smart and funny and gorgeous, fitting against him like She’d been molded to, teasing him in ways he’d never thought of and kind to him ways he couldn’t be kind to himself. 

She was never disgusted by the arm, and Bucky was sure that—if She was only a part of his mind given shape—she would know about the whole Winter Soldier thing. But he’d had to explain all he could to Her, and when he’d left certain, darker parts out She hadn’t said but that’s not the truth, is it, James.

She seemed to like Bucky. That was the most concrete proof he had that She had to somehow be real. Nobody liked him. Not in to raw, unrelenting way She did.

So She had to be real.

Bucky really hoped, against all odds, that she was real. 

It would fix a lot of problems if She was real. Sam kept trying to get him to date, and he didn’t want to. He always felt like he was betraying Her. It wasn’t sustainable or logical, but logic didn’t really matter here, because Bucky’s gut would wither and his hands would curl into fists every time he had to try and flirt with another woman. They didn’t fit against him as well as She did. Their teasing would either bite too hard or not bite at all, and the night would end with Bucky falling back into Her arms. 

He asked Shuri—very vaguely, he didn’t want his brain to be poked and prodded again—what reoccurring dreams could mean.

“Reoccurring?” She’d frowned at him over the video call. “You’ll have to clarify, reoccurring can mean many things.”

“Uh,” Bucky had swallowed, glancing at his mattress across the room. “A dream you have every night. And it could change, but it’s always the same person in it?”

Shuri had given him an odd look. “Have you been having a dream like that?”

“No.” His answer had been too fast. He needed to keep it together if he was going to sell this. “Sam has. He mentioned that he kept seeing some lady in his dreams, and she felt real but he’d never met her before. Thought I’d do him a favor and ask about it.”

It wasn’t the best lie he’d ever told, if Shuri look of doubt had been any indication. But she bit, and kept moving.

“Well, it looks as if Sam,” she’d given him a pointed look, and Bucky had forced his face to remain completely neutral. “Has found his soulmate.”

Bucky had stared at her for a really long time. His vision had blurred, there had been a ringing in his ears, and time had seemed to still as Shuri’s words sank in.

Soulmate.

“I thought, uh,” Bucky had cleared his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “Soulmates aren’t real-“

“Of course they’re real.” Shuri had shrugged. “Soulmate is an archaic term for two brains that emit the exact same neuroelectricity, their nerve paths aligning completely. Often they will have differing personalities and lives, but the tie of the biology will link them in sleep, and they will experience incredibly vivid lucid dreams. Like this video conference, but if our minds and bodies were built to fall in love with each other. It is rare, but not impossible.”

Bucky had frowned. “But I- uh, Sam said he’s only had these dreams about four years-“

“Sam’s brain underwent severe rewiring and torment.” Shuri’s voice had been dry, her expression flat. “He would do well to remember that his connection may have been slightly mauled, and only after a certain genius princess fixed him would he have been able to reciprocate the bond fully.”

Oh.

The first time Bucky had appeared in Her apartment, She had said ten years. When She’d appeared to him for the very first time, She’d said she’d dreamt of him before.

Bucky had assumed that had been another way his brain was comforting him. Telling him he could be the type of person a pretty girl like Her dreamed about.

But when he thought about it—clenched his jaw and drew up the heavier, blood-stained memories of the Soldier—there had sometimes been someone in his body with him. Not the Soldier, but the third presence that wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t really foreign. Just was. 

“Could the-“ Bucky had swallowed, watching Shuri carefully as he spoke. “Sam said he could sometimes feel the gal while he was awake. Is that a thing that could happen?”

“If Sam was not himself, and the soulmate was not of full maturity, yes.”

Bucky had felt himself pale. “What do you mean, full maturity-“

“You are a hundred years old, Mr. Barnes.” Shuri had raised her brows, and all pretense of Sam had dropped. “There would have naturally been a point where your soulmate was a child, as that is how most people begin their lives. It is likely that you were still under the control of Hydra in your soulmate’s youth, and she would have only been a growing presence in your mind until she was a full person, and you were no longer only the shell of a man I met after my father’s death.”

“So she- Would she have seen what I did? As the Solider?”

He knew She had. She’d told him She had.

Bucky still didn’t want it to be true.

Shuri had given him a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, yes. She would have. But if she is what you say, she is a perfect match to you in every way. She will not care what you were before, under the control of Hydra.”

“But-“

“It is not something worth protesting, Bucky.” Shuri had sighed, leaning a little closer to the camera. “This is not something that can be severed or changed, so please do not bother to ask. And remember that she is real. Her own person, with her own pain. I would recommend you attempt to find her, but that is something you will have to decide for yourself.”

And now he was here. Staring at the dark screen where Shuri’s face had been moments before, his head still spinning around the word. 

Soulmate.

She’d made is sound scientific. Possible. Bucky could have a soulmate. 

He didn’t deserve a soulmate. Not one he’d likely trapped in his mind, forced to witness the brutal atrocities he’d committed as the Winter Solider.

And he wanted to find Her. Bucky wanted to touch Her and kiss her and keep her longer than just the night. To wake up and see Her next to him, tangible and all his. 

He’d liked the idea of something being his in a way that wasn’t a curse. In a way he could throw his all right back to Her, and she’d catch it. 

But there was still the sour, molding feeling over his heart that—since She was real, and probably had Her own issues to deal with—She wouldn’t want him in her life. Not Her real life, where everything was more complicate than just them in a literal dream.

He shouldn’t find Her. She’d be better off without him. Bucky would do nothing but make Her life more complicated, and he could get through this know that She was real and safe, far away from him but still haunting his dreams in the best way possible.

He was so lost in his head he misses the first phone call. And the second one.

It was the third one that got his attention—buzzing and ringing on the table next to his computer, Dr. Raynor flashing across the screen—and the fourth one he actually managed to pick up.

Bucky didn’t bother to hide the tension in his voice when he spoke. He really didn’t have the time or energy for this, not right now. “Doc, I’m not due back for another four days-“

“I’m aware, James, I keep a calendar.” Raynor sighed through the speaker, and Bucky had never heard her sound so tense. It was a little concerning. “However, I am going to have to request you come in today. It’s an emergency.”

He scowled. “What emergency, I haven’t done anything emergency worthy-“

“It’s not only about you.” Raynor snapped. “And I’m changing it from a request to an order. Office in twenty minutes.” There was a long pause, and then a whispered, “Please.”

That wasn’t good.

“Did I get in trouble?” Bucky asked, his grip on the phone tightening. “Cause I’ve been following all the stupid rules, and if Sam says I did something he’s just being a dramatic dick-“

Raynor sighed, and Bucky could picture the thin look of exhaustion on her face. “You are not in trouble, James. It’s not- I can’t explain over the phone. It may be better for you to see.”

“See what?”

“Just come to the fucking office.”

Bucky blinked, and the line went dead.

Raynor couldn’t make him go. But he also had never heard her swear like that. Or order him to come in before an appointment.

He was a little curious. And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do today but drown in the knowledge of what Shuri had told him, trying to work out how he’d face Her tonight.

So he went to the office. Chances are it was nothing. Bucky couldn’t imagine it would be something. He spent the whole ride trying to think of an idea, came up blank, and decided that Sam had mentioned something to Raynor about how Bucky had been brooding more than usual, and he was just going to have to explain the whole I’m not brooding, I’m just sick of Sam’s blind date bullshit and also maybe have a soulmate thing. Then he’s kick Sam’s ass, and everything would be fine.

Bucky entered to office with a whole speech ready. His chin raised high and his arms crossed, because he was already having a very weird and complex day, and he didn’t need this. 

All the words were knocked out of him the moment he opened the door, glanced around the room, and saw who was on the couch.

Her.

In person. 

Very, very real, and in Raynor’s office, and here.

Raynor said Her name. The name Bucky knew Her by, and her last name. 

It was a nice last name. Barnes would suit Her better, but the idea that she was real enough to have a last name was already bringing Bucky to his knees, so he’d have to save that thought for later.

“Meet James Barnes.” Raynor was probably looking between them. Bucky couldn’t be sure though, because he couldn’t stop staring at Her.

She was moving to Her feet, and seeing Her in person was somehow even better. She was sharper around the edges, and more colorful in small, bright ways, and nothing about Her felt like it could ever slip between Bucky’s fingers.

She wasn’t mist. She wasn’t an illusion, or a coping mechanism.

She was real.

Walking towards him with wide eyes and an open mouth, reaching a hand up to poke at his face. Tracing his nose and running fingers over his cheekbones, Her eyes never leaving his.

Bucky caught Her hand right as it brushed over his lips, and She made the prettiest gasp he’d ever heard.

“You’re real.” He said, because it was all he could think of. Nothing about this was a dream. Bucky would not have a dream where Raynor was watching him restrain himself from kissing Her until she collapsed in his arms.

“I’m real.” She whispered, and Her voice was better in real life too. “You’re here.”

He nodded. “I’m here.” He paused, scanning over Her open features. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere, doll.”

Her face split into a wide smile, all teeth and light and joy. For Bucky. 

There was adoration on Her face, and it was all for Bucky.

“Good.” Her smile grew, Her fingers tangling with his metal ones. “Because I’m not either.”

End Note: Save me Bucky Barnes raising goats. Bucky Barnes raising goats, save me.

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[sincerelybubbles]

"I love you" warnings: none, fluff, written forever ago and reread and edited to shreds ||||

The first time Spencer says, "I love you," it’s an accident.

It happens in your kitchen again, but this time it's quiet. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, and the soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound between you. You're leaning against the counter, trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes, while he stands a few feet away, watching you with that careful gaze of his, the one that makes you feel like he's analyzing you but not in a clinical way. No, Spencer looks at you like he’s memorizing every tiny detail, tucking it away in some secret place in his mind where he keeps things that matter most.

You’re mid-yawn when he says it, so casual you almost miss it.

"I love you," he murmurs as he passes you a cup of coffee, like it's just something that slips out when he isn’t thinking.

Your fingers nearly fumble around the handle, and your whole body goes still. Your stomach twists in on itself, because you've thought about this moment a thousand times. How it would feel to hear it, how it would sound in his voice. You just didn't expect it like this—so offhanded, so natural, so completely without fanfare.

Spencer doesn't realize what he’s done at first. He takes a sip of his own coffee, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and in an instant, you see it—the delayed reaction, the widening of his eyes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows too hard.

"Oh," he says, like he's just processed his own words, and the air in the room shifts. "I—" He swallows again. "That wasn't—I mean, it was, but—"

You bite your lip, unsure if you should help him out of his flustered state or let him dig his own grave for another second.

"You mean it?" you ask, voice small. You hate how insecure you sound, but it’s there, that creeping uncertainty that whispers: maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.

Spencer's hands tighten around his mug. "Yes," he says, barely above a whisper. "I mean it. But I didn’t want to say it like that. I wanted it to be special."

Warmth unfurls in your chest, battling the self-doubt that always seems to lurk just beneath the surface. You set your mug down before you drop it and step closer, reaching up to touch his cheek. His skin is warm under your fingers, and you feel him exhale, long and slow, like he’s been holding his breath.

"It is special," you tell him. "Because it's you."

Spencer lets out a soft laugh, a little self-deprecating, shaking his head. "You deserve something more than an absentminded confession over coffee."

"Stop that," you scold gently. "You always act like you have to prove something to me. You don’t. Just being with you is enough. You are enough."

His eyes flicker with something deep—something you almost can’t bear to look at because it’s so raw. He nods, absorbing your words like he’s trying to believe them, and then, after a beat, he tilts his head.

"Do you…?" He trails off, hesitant, the Spencer who still second-guesses when it comes to emotional things.

You take a breath, feeling your pulse in your throat. The truth is, you've known for a while. Maybe since the moment he showed up at your work with lunch, or when he called just to make sure he hadn’t done something to mess things up. Maybe it was the first time he kissed you, or maybe it was even before that, in the little moments where he let himself be fully himself with you.

"I love you," you say, because it’s true, and because he deserves to hear it.

Spencer blinks at you like he can’t quite believe it, and then, before you can say anything else, he kisses you. It's not hurried or desperate. It’s slow and reverent, like he’s savoring the words on your lips. His hands come up to frame your face, gentle but firm, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "I’ve never had this before," he admits, so quiet you almost don’t hear it. "I don’t always know what I’m doing."

You smile, brushing your thumb over his cheek. "Neither do I. We’ll figure it out together."

He nods, closing his eyes for a moment, just breathing you in. And then he exhales a soft, "Okay."

It’s not a grand declaration, not fireworks or an earth-shattering moment. But it’s real. It’s steady. It’s love, spoken in small moments, in morning coffee, in nervous laughter, in the spaces between words. || you can consider this a continuation of "it's a date" if you squint.

[heliosunny]

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Jiaoqiu x Reader

There was something different about the air that morning. The usual silence that wrapped around your home like a comforting shroud had been replaced with the gentle clatter of chopsticks and the rich, mouthwatering aroma of slow-simmered broth.

You stirred, your mind still heavy with sleep, the warmth of your blankets cocooning you. But then the realization struck—you lived alone.

The scent was unmistakable- hotpot. The fragrance of simmering spices, tender meats, and fresh vegetables wafted through the air. But that was impossible. Your kitchen had been empty when you went to sleep.

You forced yourself to sit up, your pulse quickening. Your gaze flickered to the small wooden table near the window—

The egg was gone.

Where once had sat a smooth, shimmering egg, now only empty cloth remained—split, torn, as if something had cracked through from the inside.

The egg had hatched.

You barely had time to process that thought before the sound of a bubbling broth pulled your attention to the next impossible sight.

There, in your kitchen, stood a stranger.

His salmon-colored hair fell past his shoulders, shifting slightly as he moved. Tall fox ears twitched faintly at the sound of your stirring, but he didn’t turn right away. Instead, he continued his work, placing thin slices of meat into the steaming broth with an air of quiet familiarity, as though this were his home, as though he had always belonged here.

Then, at last, he glanced over his shoulder.

Golden eyes met yours.

"Ah" he murmured, as though he had been waiting for this moment. "You're finally awake."

Your fingers curled against the sheets as your mind struggled to piece together the impossible sight before you. The broken egg. The stranger in your kitchen. The way he looked at you as if he already knew you.

You swallowed hard. "Who… who are you?"

His smile deepened just slightly, like someone amused by a question they had already anticipated.

"Jiaoqiu" he answered smoothly, before adding, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world "Or rather, yours now."

You didn’t move right away.

Jiaoqiu showed no signs of unease under your lingering stare. Instead, he simply turned his attention back to the pot, the rich broth bubbling as he plucked a perfectly cooked piece of meat and dipped it lightly into a sauce.

Then, with practiced ease, he held it out toward you.

Your stomach twisted, not out of hunger, but from the sheer absurdity of the situation. A stranger had hatched from an egg in your home and was now feeding you breakfast like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Jiaoqiu tilted his head, golden eyes unwavering.

"Eat" he urged gently, as though guiding a skittish animal to trust him.

It was strange, his voice held no force, no demand. And yet, it was hard to refuse. Warily, you accepted the bite.

The flavor melted over your tongue—rich, balanced, perfectly seasoned. A warmth spread through you, comforting despite the lingering confusion in your chest.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the obvious.

"...Hotpot for breakfast?" you finally asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jiaoqiu blinked, then let out a soft chuckle.

"Hotpot is everything" he replied as though it were an undeniable truth. "A meal for every occasion—joy, sorrow, celebration... even waking up in a new world."

Your fingers tensed against your lap at that last part. New world?

You studied him carefully, but he remained utterly at ease, leisurely stirring the pot with his chopsticks.

"...And what exactly is this occasion?" you muttered, watching him closely.

Jiaoqiu smiled. "A meeting of fate."

The two of you fell into an odd rhythm—sharing bites, exchanging words. Despite everything, Jiaoqiu carried the conversation with effortless grace, guiding it like a steady stream.

He never spoke about himself directly, yet somehow, every moment felt like a carefully placed step, drawing you further into his pace.

"You’re good at deflecting questions." you pointed out dryly.

Jiaoqiu laughed, resting his chin against his hand. "And you're good at asking the right ones. An excellent match, wouldn't you say?"

Then, just as naturally as everything else, he shifted the conversation.

"You should stay home today." he mused, pouring more broth into the pot. "I'll handle things outside."

You frowned. "Outside?"

Jiaoqiu nodded, golden eyes gleaming softly. "Every home needs a good foundation. If I am to stay, I should ensure it is... secure."

"You're acting like you already live here." you said, voice careful.

Jiaoqiu simply smiled, rising to his feet. His tail flicked once, deliberate and slow.

"Am I not welcome?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he picked up his feather fan and gave you a small, almost playful wave.

"Be good and rest." he murmured, as if you'd already agreed. "I'll be back soon."

Then, just like that—he was gone.

The rest of the morning passed in uneasy quiet.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed before you finally shook off the odd feeling and settled onto the couch, phone in hand.

A few messages from your friends had already piled up.

[Albedo0w0]: Hey, you okay? You didn’t answer earlier. [QtieCeline]: You alive? What’s with the radio silence? [Vikky]: Did you finally oversleep and get eaten by a dream ghost?

You huffed, thumbs tapping a response.

You: I'm fine, just woke up late. Albedo: Wow, the world really is ending.

A small smile pulled at your lips as you scrolled through their banter.

You spent hours later just to be on your phone.

The softest brush of silk against your skin made you jolt slightly. Before you could turn, a warm weight pressed against your shoulder.

"Mm, you're still here" Jiaoqiu mused, voice light with amusement. "Good."

Your breath caught. You hadn’t even heard the door open.

"Did you just—"

"Welcome me home?" He exhaled a small, satisfied sigh. "How thoughtful of you."

Your gaze flickered toward him. Jiaoqiu had tucked himself comfortably against your side, his hair spilling over your arm like silk. He peered at your phone screen, his golden irises gleaming with quiet interest.

You shifted slightly, but he didn’t budge.

"Nosy" you muttered.

Jiaoqiu only smiled. "It’s only natural to be curious about what holds your attention."

Still, he made no move to take your phone, only resting there. But somehow, you found yourself not pushing him away.

Instead, you asked "So… what did you do while you were out?"

Jiaoqiu hummed, as if pleased by the question. "Oh, just some adjustments."

"The path outside was uneven, so I had it paved. The old vendor down the street was running low on his best herbs, so I made sure he was stocked. And that strange draft in your bedroom? Gone."

"You did all that in just a few hours?"

Jiaoqiu leaned back slightly, his fan tapping lightly against his chin. "Efficiency is key, don't you think?"

"...You fixed the draft?" you murmured.

Jiaoqiu’s tail swayed lazily. "A home should be comfortable, don’t you think?"

The next morning, you woke earlier than expected. As sunlight poured through the curtains, you just simply lay on your bed, your thoughts drifting in the comfortable quiet.

And then, you remembered.

Jiaoqiu.

Your head turned instinctively, only to find the space beside you empty.

Of course he wouldn’t be here. You weren’t even sure if he had a place to sleep at all. He seemed more like the type to simply exist wherever he pleased. Still, the thought left a strange hollowness in your chest. Shaking it off, you got up and moved through your morning routine.

This time, you made a silent decision: You were going out for breakfast. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy the hotpot, but you needed to reclaim your routine. Jiaoqiu had already settled too naturally into your space, and if you weren’t careful, you’d fall into his pace. Grabbing your things, you slipped out the door, the cool morning air greeting you.

And yet, as you walked down the freshly paved street, a street that hadn’t been this smooth yesterday, you couldn’t help but feel like you were still walking on a path Jiaoqiu had prepared for you.

Your day passed in a blur of routine.

Work had been uneventful, though a lingering weight sat at the back of your mind, the thought of Jiaoqiu, his presence, his casual way of slipping into your life.

When you stepped out of the building at the end of the day, he was already there, waiting. Jiaoqiu stood casually near the entrance, leaning slightly against the railing. His golden irises gleamed the moment they landed on you, and a slow, knowing smile curled at his lips.

"As expected" he murmured.

You stopped short. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you, of course."

Before you could answer, a voice beside you broke the moment.

"You know him?"

Your coworker, someone you had walked out with countless times before—glanced between the two of you, brows furrowed. They had only ever known you to be alone after work.

Jiaoqiu’s gaze shifted towards them.

A split second later, your coworker took a step forward.

And Jiaoqiu moved.

The shift was near imperceptible, one moment, he was standing still, the next, he was blocking their path, his fan lightly tapping against their shoulder.

"You’re in the way" Jiaoqiu said.

Your coworker frowned. "Excuse me?"

Jiaoqiu’s tail flicked once behind him.

And then, just as suddenly, your coworker shoved past him.

It happened too fast.

One second, the tension was only words. The next- a fight broke out.

You didn’t think. You stepped in.

"Jiaoqiu, stop—!"

But before you could reach him, you tripped and fell.

Your knee hit the pavement—your breath caught.

And then, warm hands caught you before you could fall further.

Jiaoqiu’s grip was steady, despite the storm in his eyes.

The fight had stopped. Your coworker had taken a few steps back.

"Come" Jiaoqiu whispered.

By the time you registered what had happened, you were already seated at home, your knee carefully wrapped in fresh bandages.

Jiaoqiu knelt beside you, and you watched him in silence.

Finally, you muttered, "You didn’t have to fight them."

Jiaoqiu hummed, but didn’t look up. "Didn’t I?"

You frowned. "They weren’t doing anything wrong."

That finally made him pause.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze—and for the first time, his usual smile was absent.

"They were in my way" he said, as if that was reason enough.

You were about to argue, but Jiaoqiu’s fingers brushed over the fresh bandages, deliberately light.

"...Does it hurt?" he asked instead.

"...No. It’s fine."

"Alright." he murmured, lingering just a second longer before finally pulling away. "But you shouldn’t be so careless next time."

Sleep did not come easily that night.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts tangled in the events of the day. Jiaoqiu’s gentle hands, his calm smile, the way he had brushed past your injury like it was nothing, except for when he was tending to it.

And now, this.

Your doors and windows. They're all locked.

You didn’t remember doing it. You knew you hadn’t.

But you could guess who had.

The handle wouldn’t turn. Frowning, you applied more force, only to realize it had been tampered with. Not broken, not damaged, but secured in a way that wasn’t natural. You turned, checking the front door. Same thing. The locks weren’t just locked. They had been replaced.

When did he do this?

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The screen lit up with a single message.

Jiaoqiu: Sleep early. I'll see you tomorrow.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, a hundred different messages forming in your mind: What did you do? Why are my locks different? How long have you been planning this?

But instead, your hands were still.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

Tomorrow, you thought, gripping your phone just a little tighter.

Tomorrow, you would talk to him.

Morning light filtered through your window, a soft warmth brushing against your skin. It felt like any other day—except it wasn’t.

You hadn’t slept much.

Not after what you discovered last night.

You moved through the motions: brushing your teeth, getting dressed, preparing to leave, but every movement felt tense.

You weren’t just preparing for work.

You were preparing for him.

The moment you stepped outside, there he was. His presence blended seamlessly into the morning, as if he had always belonged there.

“Good morning” Jiaoqiu greeted.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t locked you in your own home.

You stopped just a few steps away. “Jiaoqiu.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. “You look tired. Did you not sleep well?”

There was no use dancing around it.

“My locks” you said, voice even. “They’re different.”

Jiaoqiu blinked, tilting his head slightly.

“Oh? You only noticed now?”

He wasn’t denying it.

“Why?”

Jiaoqiu exhaled softly, lifting his fan to lazily tap against his chin, as if amused by the question. “Why?” he echoed. “Because it was necessary.”

Your brows furrowed. “Necessary for what?”

He chuckled. “You live alone” he said. “And you don’t take any safety measures. Anyone could’ve walked in. Anyone could’ve hurt you.”

“So I fixed it.”

“Jiaoqiu....that’s not your decision to make.”

Instead of arguing, he sighed. “Mmm. I see.”

He lowered his fan, his expression shifting to something softer, gentler, apologetic. “I overstepped, didn’t I?”

For a brief second, relief washed over you.

Maybe he understood. Maybe this was just a misunderstanding.

But then, he stepped closer.

“I only wanted to keep you safe” Jiaoqiu murmured, voice low. “Would you have preferred it if someone else broke in? If something happened while I wasn’t there?”

“That’s not the point.”

Jiaoqiu’s gaze softened further.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

His ears twitched, tail curling slightly behind him.

“But you have to understand... I won’t apologize for caring.”

It wasn’t an apology. Because despite the words, despite the smile, despite the gentle way he spoke, he had no intention of undoing what he’d done.

Jiaoqiu tilted his head. “Are you still upset?”

You wanted to say something. But what could you say?

That he was wrong? That you wanted him to undo it?

Would he even listen?

Or would he just smile and find another way around you?

Then, his hand moved again. A small pouch, barely noticeable, slipped from his sleeve. The faintest scent of herbs and wild essence drifted in the air.

“Here.” He pressed a small sachet into your hands before you could react. “To help you rest better tonight.”

Your fingers instinctively curled around it. The scent was calming, soothing, familiar. You recognized some of the herbs—valerian, jujube, magnolia bark,.... ingredients meant to ease tension.

It was… thoughtful.

Jiaoqiu smiled as if he had read your hesitation. “I wouldn’t give you anything harmful.”

You wanted to push it back into his hands, tell him you don't need this but before you could, you felt tired. And he had counted on that too.

Then, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Don’t worry” he murmured. “You’ll get used to it.”

[tangerineastronaut]

Can we get some fluff jongho takes care of reader on her period plsssss

soft 🐻 c.jongho

Let him take care of you. He insists.💕

Pairing: Jongho x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff, Drabble, Texts + Written imagine Requested: Yes w.c. 780 Warnings: period cramps, reader is on her period, medicine (OTC pain meds) A/N: a jongho request? c'mere anon i'm gonna kiss you. I'm sorry this is short and sweet. I'd love more Jongho requests, I don't see enough content for our bear and I'd like to add to what we've got 😩 Anywho this hits home for me bc idk about y'all but my periods are HELL. I could definitely use a jongho 😭 This is my first time adding texts to a story, so I hope it's alright! Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs

Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

You open one eye as someone knocks on your door, though quickly close it again as a swell of pain steals the air from your lungs. Your insides feel like mush, and everything below your belly button aches. 

You feel something soft on your face, and when you open your eyes again, you’re embarrassed and incredibly relieved at the same time to find Jongho running his knuckles down your cheek.

“Jongho?” you ask weakly. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I was on my way, didn’t you see my last text?” he asks. You realize he’s crouched in front of the couch, where you collapsed an hour ago and haven’t moved since. You shake your head. 

“N-No, ‘m sorry.”

“It’s okay. What do you need?”

“A hysterectomy.”

“Funny. What else do you need? Have you taken anything?”

Jongho clicks his tongue as you shake your head. He leaves for a few moments, so you close your eyes again. But then you’re being urged to sit up, and your face crumples in pain. 

“Here,” he says, sliding onto the sofa beside you. You take the glass of water he’s holding, sipping it down as he drops something in the palm of your hand. Two tylenol; you take them, finishing off the water. 

“Why didn’t you take anything earlier?” he asks, lifting a hand to your cheek. His palm is warm and you lean into it. Your head hurts. Your face hurts. Your back, legs, stomach. All of you hurts. 

“I just kind of curled up to die,” you admit, looking up at him. “Didn’t wanna move.”

Jongho sighs and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his firm chest. Your arms go around his neck as you bury yourself against him.

He’s soft and warm and smells so good; his cologne isn’t overwhelming, just a note of something that could only be described as “manly.” It's amazing how a person could make you feel safe with just a hug, but that was Jongho.

“What can I do for you, baby?” he asks, brushing hair away from your face. He presses a kiss to your temple, letting his lips rest there. You nuzzle your nose into his shoulder and inhale, making him chuckle.

“Nothing,” you mumble. “Just be here.”

You open your eyes, blinking and rubbing at them. You're a little groggy and confused, but feel something firm and warm behind you. You tilt your head back, and Jongho kisses you below your ear.

"Hi," he hums softly. You groan, feeling a little more human but mostly still mush.

His fingers twitch and your face flushes—his large hand covers the softness of your lower belly, thumb gently brushing your skin. You were holding his wrist, very obviously not wanting him to move even in your sleep.

“What time is it?” you ask. You finally release him and move your hand to your stomach, resting it over his—still hurts, though not nearly as bad as before. Could’ve been the medicine, but you suspected it had to do with a certain someone as well. 

You roll over so that you're facing him, squished together on your small couch. He doesn't seem to mind and wraps his arms securely around you, pulling you snug against his form.

“It’s close to 1 a.m., you haven’t been sleeping very long,” Jongho says, rubbing your arm. “How are you feeling? Need more medicine?”

You shake your head. 

“It’s better now,” you say with a shy smile. Jongho smiles back, so cutely that you have to lean forward and kiss him. You move your hands to either side of his face.

He sighs against your mouth and hugs you tight, pulling back just enough that your noses are still touching. 

“Wanna go to bed?” he asks, stealing another chaste kiss. He moves his hands down to your lower back, fingers firm yet gentle as he massages either side of your spine. You nearly melt with relief, moaning as you tuck yourself against him. 

“No. Don’t wanna move. Feels good,” you mumble. Jongho hums a laugh. You rest for a few seconds until he begins to sit up. You grab his hoodie for purchase until he stands, smoothly lifting you up bridal style and adjusting you in his arms. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and cling to him, pouting at the sudden disruption.

When you open your mouth to protest, he kisses you, using soft lips to steal whatever complaints you may have wanted to file.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your cheek as he speaks. “Let's go to bed."

"Can you hold me?" you ask quietly. Jongho nods.

"Of course, baby. That's why I'm here."

[blastiebabe]

make me feel good, please

Bakugo Katsuki x Reader | Smut

It's Sunday night, you and your boyfriend Katsuki had an amazing weekend together. You two are currently watching a movie, sitting on the couch, your legs are placed above his lap while his left hand is holding your thigh. 

For some reason, you feet the need to be touched. Something down there tingles with need for attention. You look at your boyfriend focused on watching the movie, you remove your legs from his lap and brings yourself closer to him resting on his chest as he wraps his arm around you.

Even with the change of position something between your legs still can't behave. It wants to be touched so bad, you wiggle your legs a bit, trying not send signals to Katsuki that you are uncomfortable.

But he noticed anyway. "Is everything okay?" He asks looking at you.

You just nod and proceeds on trying to focus on the movie. After minutes of heat still pooling inside you, you  sit straight. "Love, can I go to bed first? I'm feeling a little sleepy already."

Katsuki paused the movie. "Alright, let's go sleep."

"No, no, it's okay. You can finish the film, then just come when you're done." You tell him, pushing him slightly back to the couch as he tried to stand up.

"Love, are you sure? I can continue the film some other time I—" You cut him off.

"It's okay Kats, I insist. I'll see you later." You say as you stand up and starts to head to the bedroom. 

Katsuki grabs your wrist that made you sit on his lap. "Princess, are you sure you're okay?" Katsuki asks, his face close to yours you feel the heat of his body on your own.

Even with the sudden desire surging on your body, you fight it as you cup his cheeks and kisses his forehead to ease his worry. "Love, I'm okay, you don't have to worry. I'll see you in a bit." You say as you leave a peck of kiss on his lips and stand up. Katsuki just nods and guided you to stand while holding the small of your back.

You head straight to your shared bedroom and lay down on your side of the bed. You indeed want to be touched by your boyfriend so bad but you have no idea how to ask him to do so. You feel bad being starved like this when last night he was giving you everything you could never even imagine. 

Remembering how hard and how many times he made you reach your high last night sends shivers down your spine. You place your right hand and used your palm to put pressure between your legs and turned to the side. God, how badly do you need Katsuki right now?

Focused on trying to ignore the heat pooling inside you, you didn't notice Katsuki coming inside the bedroom. Not until you feel weight shifting on his side of the bed, you look up and notice him looking at you with eyes full of worry.

"Princess, tell me what's happening..." Katsuki says as he observe your posture. He brings you closer to him, his arms grabbing your waist. "What's wrong?"

And just like that, you can't help but be under his warmth. You push your head on the crook of his neck, sniffing his natural scent. You wrap your hands all over his waist as you pull him closer to your body. "L-love... please..."

Katsuki kisses your temple, caressing the length your hair, patiently waiting for you to use words. "Hmm?"

"C-can you please h-help me..." Stuttering with your words, but atleast you were able to tell him. 

"Ofcourse I will. Can you tell me what you need help with, Princess?" Katsuki asks while creating a space between the two of you enough for him to be able to look at your eyes. 

Unable to use your words, you look where your other hand is putting pressure between your legs, then you look back at him. Your eyes pleading for pleasure that only he can provide.

Katsuki's eyes widdened as he realize what you were asking him to do. "A-are you sure?" He says as his eyes softened looking at you full of affection.

You do a slight nod. "P-please..."

Katsuki smiles as he stares at you. "Was this the reason you were bothered earlier?"

Again, you nod. Katsuki cups your face, his thumb gently brushing on your cheeks. "My love, you could've asked me. I am more than willing to help you." And with that, he closed the space between the two of you and made sure his lips met yours.

And in a blink of an eye, Katsuki is on top of you. His hands roaming around your body as your arms cling into the back of his head. 

"Can you tell me what you want, Princess?" Katsuki asks as he stopped the kiss leaving you wanting for more. 

"M-make me feel good, p-please..." You pleaded as he starts leaving kisses on your neck. You feel a smirk in between the kisses. 

"I am all yours." You feel his hands caressing every part of your body, until it goes under your shirt, slowly reaching your back and finding the clasp of your bra. You arch your back as to give him space and in one swift move, it's gone.

His kisses trails down to your chest as the two of your removes your shirt and bra and throw it somewhere you don't care. You can feel a bulge forming in his pants.

Katsuki proceeds on sucking on your nipples while his hand plays with the other. You grab his hair, pushing your hips against his as your lower body is asking for attention. "Love..."

You feel a smirk in between his kisses. His other hand started trailing below your short, feeling the band of your underwear. You move your hips upward, getting impatient and wanting his touch to reach down there as soon as possible.

Katsuki's lips travels from your chest down your belly button. He slowly grabs the band of your underwear and shorts and in one swift motion, he removes it. Leaving you naked and vulnerable under his touch.

"I'm gonna make you feel so good, Princess." He whispers at your folds as you feel his breath in the softness of your skin.

You grab the sheets at your sides with both your hands as he starts licking. "Fuck." You feel his tongue playing with your pussy. You grab his hair, feeling so much pleasure. You move your hips to match with his rythmn.

You stop kissing him, staring directly at his eyes as his fingers start going in to your folds. "You are taking it so well, Princess." 

"K-katsuki, c-come here..." You say, grabbing him close to you for a kiss. While he entertain your lips, he made sure to not leave your folds untouched. His hands finds its way, teasing it like how his tongue did.

As soon as he notice this, the movement of his fingers become more sincere, more pleasurable for you, with a mission to make you reach the high you have never reached before.

With all the pleasure you are receiving, you stare directly into his eyes. Using your right hand to cup his face, and your thumb softly rubbing his cheek. You feel tears forming in your eyeballs. You might just cry, not from pain, but from realizing how much you love this man before you.

When he feel your body shivering, Katsuki tries to go back down your folds again so that you'll cum using his tongue, but you stop him. "No... please. I want to see your face, my love."

"I-I'm coming..." You say in between your breath.

Katsuki's heart flutter by your words. As much as the bulge between his thighs is getting bigger, he can't help but to focus on you and only you. Tonight, it's just you and everything you ever want. He had his fair share of people in bed before you, but never once he though he can be this generous in bed and it's only because it's you.

Katsuki can feel it, he feels how close you are as your walls tighten in his fingers.

"I know, Princess. I got you. Look at me." You try your best to look at him and not close your eyes. "Do not even think about it, I got you." Katsuki says, his pace unchanging. You start shivering as he whispers sweet compliments into your ears. 

"L-love... Fuck..." 

"It's okay my love, let it all out." Katsuki just stares at you with the greatest affection you have never seen someone give you. You feel the heat rising inside you, and in just a few thrusts, you are there.

"Katsuki!" You exclaim. Katsuki's fingers still going in and out inside you as you shiver and fall in to him.

He slowly changed his pace and let your cum spill into his fingers. "Atta girl." Katsuki left a peck at your lips. "You did so great, Princess. I am so proud of you."

He gently caresses your shoulders as you slowly drift from your high. When you got back to your senses, you face him, staring at his eyes. "How was it, my love?" Katsuki asks.

"It... it was perfect. Thank you." You say.

"No need to thank me. You should never forget that I will always be more than willing to give your everything you need." Katsuki says before kissing you. Once he let go, you burry your face in the crook of his neck has he wrap his arms around you. His hand playing with your hair.

You feel yourself slowly drifting in to sleep. "Sleep well, my Princess." Katsuki moves you closer to him, his eyes also wanting rest.

"Maybe we should come up with a signal for next time this happens, you little minx." Katsuki says smiling before drifting off to sleep.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ thank u for reading! :>> . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

more of katsuki, here! ♡

[mamawasatesttube]

6 or 17 for TimKon? :)

6. "Don't move, you're still hurt." 17. "Can you hear me?"

Consciousness slams into Tim like a breaking wave. It knocks the breath from his lungs and leaves him spluttering, gasping for breath—an instant mistake, because painpainpain explodes in his chest so hard he nearly passes out again.

"Whoa, Rob, chill out! Don't you dare move. You're still hurt!"

Kon, Tim thinks woozily, trying his hardest to blink the stars from his vision. He can't breathe from the agony. But he... he needs to protect Kon. A vague sense of impending doom floats through his mind, something green, something...

A tower. Why is he thinking of a tower? And blood. So much blood.

He has to protect Kon—

He can't move. He tries to sit up again and he can't move. A gentle but immovable pressure surrounds his whole body, keeping him in place, and he can't move. Panic floods him. He needs to protect Kon and he can't move and—

"Dammit, Rob, I said keep still! Can you hear me?"

...Oh. For the first time, Tim realizes that there's a reason that "blinking the stars out of his vision" didn't work. He never actually opened his eyes.

With effort, he forces his eyelids up, squinting against the dust in the air. He coughs. Pain lances through his chest.

Kon swears under his breath. He's—he's here? He's not hurt? He's... crouching in the rubble, bodily shielding Tim, and... and he's okay. He isn't bleeding, his body is whole and not twisted and broken and bloodied, and... and...

Emotion wells up in Tim's chest, underneath all the pain. He clears his throat and rasps, "Kon?"

"Hey, hot stuff." Kon flashes him a quick smile. "Hold still. You've got four broken ribs. Maybe a concussion too. Hard to say this soon, but..."

Oh. That would explain why breathing hurts. Tim squints up at Kon, then around him, trying to figure out where everyone else went. Weren't they fighting some... guy? Guys? Some Intergang guys... Right, and they were armed with Apokoliptian, um... thingies. And...

Now Tim remembers the reason for "green". Someone had a Kryptonite-tipped rifle round. Musta paid a fortune to Luthor to get that, or else they were doing the bastard a favor. Ugh...

"Your spine isn't damaged, thankfully," Kon continues. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes off into the distance, listening to something Tim can't hear, watching something Tim can't watch, and then looks back down to Tim. "Okay. Coast is clear. I'm gonna get you to the hospital."

Hospital? Eh. Everyone knows broken ribs just need a few weeks of rest. Tim grunts. "Hn. 'M fine."

Kon gives him the flattest look known to mankind. "You need a CT scan to check if you have a concussion. Also, need I remind you, four broken ribs?"

He exhales shortly, raking a hand through his hair; he only does that when he's stressed. He rests his hand on Tim's hip, and suddenly they're both floating into the air. It's odd, because Tim is still laid out flat and can't actually move, but he's used to Kon by now.

Still, though. "S'only flesh wounds." He just needs to sleep it all off. It's fine. They can watch Monty Python while he rests.

Kon, though, doesn't seem to appreciate the humor. The sky is a brilliant blue around him; the wind whips his ponytail around his face. He looks unimpressed. "Tim, your suit might be made of kevlar 'n' stuff, but it's not made to stop rifle rounds! Seriously, what were you thinking?"

Tim frowns. Isn't it obvious what he was thinking? "Had to protect you."

Kon stares at him for a long moment, flying effortlessly towards Metropolis General Hospital without even having to look. Several emotions flicker through his eyes too fast for Tim's dazed mind to follow, until finally he sighs, rakes his free hand through his hair again, and mutters, "What am I gonna do with you?"

That's another question with an obvious answer. Tim grunts again. "Mmph. Cherish and love me forever. Duh."

This time, he wins—Kon smiles despite himself, shaking his head as he starts descending towards the hospital rooftop. "Yeah, okay," he says, and leans down to brush his lips to Tim's dusty cheek. "Guess I'm okay with that."

Tim smiles.

[zepskies]

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

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[silent-stories]

Random thought about forehead kisses bc his forehead looks so kissable

Noah has always been a little weak when it comes to your affection. He’d never admit it outright—not in so many words—but you see it in the way he softens when you’re near, the way he softens under your touch.

And if there’s one thing that gets to him every single time, it’s forehead kisses.

One evening, Noah is sitting on the couch, his long legs stretched out as he strums absentmindedly on his guitar. The low hum of a melody fills the room, something unfinished. His brows furrow in concentration, his lips slightly parted as he searches for the right chords.

You don’t even remember when it started, but it’s become am habit now. When he’s sitting on the couch, lost in thought, you press a soft kiss to his forehead in passing. When he’s lying in bed, half-asleep, you brush his hair back and do it again. It’s effortless, instinctual. And every single time, he melts.

Like every time you’re about to leave. It’s always the same thing—you grab your bag, say goodbye, and head for the door. But before you can step out, something always pulls you back. Without fail, you turn around, walk back to where Noah is sitting, and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

He just smiles, sometimes teasing, sometimes quiet and knowing, but always with that warmth in his brown eyes that makes it clear he never wants you to stop.

You, curled up beside him, watch in quiet admiration. There’s something about moments like these—intimate, peaceful—that make your heart swell. Without thinking, you shift closer and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

Noah stops playing instantly.

His dark eyes flick up to you, warmth spreading across his face. “What was that for?” His voice is softer now, a little dazed.

You shrug, grinning. “Just because.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips, but you can see the way his ears turn red. He tries to shake it off, going back to his guitar, but his fingers fumble over the strings. You giggle at his sudden distraction, and he narrows his eyes playfully.

“Don’t act all innocent when you're literally the distraction here,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to his words.

You lean in again, pressing another kiss to his forehead just because you can.

He groans, dramatically throwing his head back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Later that night, Noah is lying on his back, one arm resting lazily over his chest, the other tucked behind his head. His eyes are half-lidded, sleepy, and the soft glow of the bedside lamp casts warm shadows across his face. He looks peaceful like this.

You shift closer, letting your fingers trace absentminded patterns along his forearm, tracing his tattos before leaning in. Pressing the softest kiss to his forehead, you linger for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of his shampoo, the warmth of his skin beneath your lips.

Noah exhales slowly, his body relaxing even further into the mattress. A quiet, content sound hums from his throat as he tilts his face slightly toward you, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “You always do that when I’m about to fall asleep.”

A small smile tugs at your lips as you brush his hair back, pressing another kiss to the same spot. “Maybe that’s why you've been sleeping so well lately.”

He chuckles, low and tired, before wrapping an arm around you, pulling you closer. “Could be,” he murmurs. “Guess we’ll have to test that theory.”

You laugh softly, letting your head rest against his chest as his breathing evens out. “Sounds like an experiment I wouldn’t mind running forever.”

[marril96]

Mirrors

Chapter 2: Broken

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: While Agatha is resting, Billy engages you in a heart to heart.

Editor: @fruityhahn

Previous chapter.

Agatha looked so peaceful when she slept. There was a calm to her, a peace that wasn't often known to her. Her head lay in your lap as you caressed her hair with utmost tenderness, your eyes glued to her face that was still unnaturally pale. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of her chest, and the gentle beats of her heart that reverberated against your forearm, you would have thought her dead.

Thankfully, she was very much alive.

You swore to do whatever it took to ensure that it stayed that way.

While the rest of the coven had gathered around a fire and engaged in chatter and laughter, you had made a fire of your own, hidden away behind the trees and away from prying eyes. Giving Agatha some privacy as she rested. Giving you some time alone with her for the first time in three long, long years.

You'd draped her coat over her, covering every inch of her, hiding it away from the cold that was eating away at her. Every now and then your hand would slither down to her side and feel the flesh that, mere hours ago, was pierced deep, almost to the bone. Just to make sure that the wound was no longer there. That for some strange reason, hadn't reappeared. That she wasn't in danger of bleeding out again.

You'd come so close to losing her. It was worse than the last time since then at the very least you knew that she was alive. She wasn't in your life but, to the best of your knowledge, she was among the living.

She almost wasn't that lucky.

You're such an idiot, you thought, shaking your head in disapproval. She could have told you that she was injured. She could have asked for help. No matter how awkward things were between you, you would have rushed to her aid, no questions asked.

Which was exactly why she'd kept it to herself.

This was just another problem that she could avoid addressing. Just another problem that she could ignore in hopes that it would go away.

Things like this never did.

Which, in turn, had only made her even more keen on pretending it wasn't there.

Even as the pain got unbearable (it had to have been; that wound was pretty deep) and she was barely able to keep herself on her feet, she'd kept on a brave face and insisted that nothing was wrong.

Had she not collapsed, she would probably still be at it, pale as a ghost but insistent that she was okay.

You fucking bitch.

If only you could hate her. Even when she did things like this, you couldn't muster an ounce of hate towards her. You hated that she did it, hated that she'd put you in a position — once again; this wasn't the first time she'd done this in your centuries together — where you feared for her life. Hated that she couldn't put her pride aside and let you help her before things got this bad.

But her, you could never hate.

You loved her too much for that.

Yet another thing you hated.

A rustle prompted you to twitch, shaking you out of your thoughts. Your hackles rose, firm as needles. Instinctively, you bent over Agatha's sleeping form and pulled her closer against you, shielding her, protecting her. Keeping her safe from whoever and whatever could possibly pose a threat to her wellbeing.

Teen's thin form slowly padded closer, his hands up to signal that he was here in peace.

A breath you'd been holding in left your mouth, almost painfully. Relief flooded your veins, lifted heavy weight off your shoulder. "Sorry, I thought…"

I thought you were Rio.

Out of everyone, she was the last person you wanted around Agatha at a time like this.

"You're good," Teen said, offering a smile that proved he meant it. "I just wanted to see how she's doing."

"She's still asleep." Your hand resumed its place on her hair, fingers twining into chocolate locks. "Unconscious. Whatever."

Teen gave a nod of understanding. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go for it."

You didn't exactly want company, but there was no harm in letting him join you, if only for a few minutes.

The kid cared about Agatha; that much was clear. Be he the Scarlet Witch's son or not, he was a kind soul. He meant no harm.

Agatha was quite fond of him, as well. When he had gotten injured, she was the one who'd urged Jen to act. She was the one who'd sat by his side until he'd woken up.

She could pretend all she wanted — she cared about this kid. She cared too much for her own good.

He reminded her of her own kid.

Not that she would ever admit it out loud.

"You're very protective of her," Teen remarked.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, staining them flush. "Someone has to be."

Especially now that she was powerless. She needed someone in her corner, someone to have her back. Someone to defend her when she couldn't do it herself.

"She doesn't exactly have a stellar reputation," the kid said with a chuckle.

"Nope." Understatement of the century. "Most people aren't her biggest fans."

"I've noticed."

Who wouldn't?

"Everyone either wants her dead or hurt."

"How come you don't?"

"Because I got to know her."

Because she let you get to know her.

Because she let you fall in love with her.

Because, behind closed doors, she wasn't the cold-hearted bitch everyone thought her to be.

"She does grow on you," Teen said.

It was your turn to let out a chuckle. "She sure does."

His face suddenly grew serious. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you know what happened to her son?"

Yes. You did. She'd told you once, two centuries ago, and had spent the rest of that night crying her eyes out while you'd held her and assured her that she wasn't a bad mother, that Nicky had loved her and had known that he was loved in return.

"That's not my story to tell."

Agatha had sworn you to secrecy. She didn't care about what people were saying about her. Didn't care that they'd spread around a tale of her having murdered her son or sacrificed him to the Devil. Didn't care that they'd made her out to be a monster.

As much as it pained you to listen to the rumors, you had to let it go. 

It was her life. Her character. If she didn't mind having it assassinated, who were you to say anything?

"Just… don't believe rumors, okay?" You couldn't tell the truth, but you sure as hell could point in its general direction. "People say awful things. None of it's true."

"Jen said—"

"That's definitely not true," you cut him off, setting the record straight. You'd wanted to strangle the other witch, especially after her gossip had resulted in Agatha getting that awful hallucination, but Agatha had ordered you to back off. "I can't say much. Just… it wasn't her fault."

That was what made that situation so tragic.

Agatha had done right by her son, had loved him and cared for him the best way that she knew how, and that still hadn't been enough. She'd still lost him.

Teen nodded, taking your words in.

"Don't prod her," you told him. "She doesn't like talking about it."

"She closed off when I asked her."

"She has a tendency to do that."

Of course, you had ways of making her talk, regardless.

Most times.

If she was being really stubborn, not even mind control could get the words out of her.

"Any other Agatha tips and tricks?" Teen asked with a hint of amusement in his tone, trying to lighten the mood.

Your response, on the other hand, was as serious as a heart attack. "Give her some grace. She's not bad. She's just… her. She may say or do some unsavory things, but that's not who she is."

Your eyes fell to her face in your lap. She looked so serene. So soft. The picture of the woman you fell in love with, once she'd lowered her walls and let you in. Once she'd allowed you to meet the real her.

Yes, she was selfish, yes she was wicked, but there was good in her. It was there in traces, present in every touch of her hand, every brush of her lips against yours, every comforting embrace and loving word that came out of her mouth in times when you most needed it.

Your Agatha was no angel, but she was a person, with all the good and bad that came with it.

She was your person.

"Don't take it to heart when she pushes you away."

"Is that what you did?" Teen asked, contemplating his words for a few moments, unsure whether to dare to prod.

One look from you was enough to assure him that it was okay.

It was only natural to ask.

After all, he had been there when Agatha had shown up at your house — the house that the two of you had used to share — and started reaming you out for having abandoned her, and you, giving as good as you'd gotten, had screamed how she had been the one to abandon you.

In reality, you'd both abandoned each other.

You'd both suffered, each in your own way.

"Yeah."

It would be a lie to deny it.

You'd been doing so for long enough.

"Can I ask what happened?"

You thought it over for a moment, then decided, what the hell.

Maybe telling someone would help lift this enormous burden off your shoulders.

"Three years ago we got into this massive fight. She left and…" The lump in your throat hurt to swallow. It burned its way down. "She didn't come back."

Fights like that were a yearly occurrence in your relationship. Usually, one of you would leave in a huff, pissed to high heavens, in desperate need of space, of time to cool off and clear her head. A few days would pass, and the angry party would return home. There would be tears and a conversation filled with apologies from both sides, and the truce would be sealed with a kiss.

There was none of that this time around.

Agatha hadn't returned home.

She hadn't responded to text messages or picked up calls.

It was like she had disappeared off the face of the planet.

The words that had left your mouth that day had been foul. You'd never spoken to her like that before. Had never known you'd had it in you to even attempt to.

Agatha, true to her character, had given as good as she had gotten. Her sharp tongue had made sure to make every insult sting like a slap to the face.

It had, by far, been the worst fight the two of you had ever had.

When she hadn't returned and had — it seemed — ignored all of your attempts to contact her, you'd thought that that was it. She'd had enough. She'd decided to cut you off for good and go her own way. She'd decided to find herself a girlfriend who wouldn't yell at her and call her names. She'd decided you just weren't doing it for her anymore.

So you'd let her go.

You'd moved on.

Well, theoretically.

One didn't move on from Agatha Harkness. One didn't just stop loving her. It would be impossible.

But you'd learned to live without her.

For the past couple of weeks you hadn't even cried once.

It was progress, of sorts.

Then she'd shown up at your door and, instead of hurt, there was guilt, and it was there to stay. For good, it seemed.

Just as you deserved.

As much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, the brunt of the blame was on you.

You shouldn't have given up on the woman you loved.

You should have looked for her.

You should have fought for her.

"And you didn't look for her?" Teen said softly, as if afraid of offending you.

The truth itself was far more offensive than any perceived slight.

You gave a small shake of your head. "I thought she'd moved on."

"Did you move on?"

"I thought I did."

Your hand slid to Agatha's side again. All clear. No wound. You allowed yourself a breath of relief, a welcome distraction from the turmoil that was eating you up inside.

"Sounds like you guys just had a misunderstanding."

That was exactly what it was.

A misunderstanding.

A case of mixed signals. Something a simple conversation should be able to fix.

It would have, if not for what had transpired as a result.

Oops didn't even begin to cover it.

"Yeah, well, that misunderstanding cost her three years of her life," you said, angry at yourself, at the dire situation that your inaction had contributed to.

"That wasn't your fault," Teen pointed out.

It was your mother's, you thought bitterly.

Wanda had inflicted unparalleled damage upon Agatha.

And you had let her.

You were none the wiser, pissed at the woman you loved instead of directing your anger where it actually belonged. Too busy resenting her to consider unforeseeable circumstances might be at play.

"You don't understand, Teen." You almost said Billy, but you caught yourself at the least moment. Agatha was way better at this stuff than you. "That spell that she was under… it was torture."

Even short-term exposure to such a spell could leave permanent marks on one's psyche.

Agatha had been under it for three years.

Three years of pain. Three years of anguish. Three years of torment.

Your hand gripped her shoulder. You pulled her closer, relishing in the fact that, despite everything that had transpired, she was safe. She had people to help her when she was in need. She had a coven.

She had you.

"She was suffering for three years and I had no idea."

Teen shifted uncomfortably. His gaze briefly fell upon Agatha's sleeping form before returning to you. "I'm sure she knows it wasn't on purpose."

"It doesn't matter. She was still hurt, and I wasn't there to protect her."

"You couldn't have known."

"Yeah, well, I should have!"

Teen flinched, startled by your outburst. Uttering a small apology, looked down at Agatha's tranquil face. Still pale, still deathly cold. No healthy blush that usually adorned her cheeks.

"I can't even imagine what it must've been like." You brushed your fingers across her cheek, tenderly, softly, as if she were made of porcelain. As if one careless touch would shatter her into a million pieces. "She won't talk to me."

Even if she did, there wasn't much that you could do.

Something like that didn't leave one's mind unscathed. The damage, once inflicted, was done. She would bear that pain for life.

The only thing that you could do was have her back. Assure her that it was okay, that you loved her no matter what.

This was just another scar in her collection. It didn't make her weak. It didn't change how you saw her, how you felt about her.

She was still your Agatha.

The problem was she was stubborn and would die before allowing herself to be vulnerable yet again.

"You can still be there for her," Teen said.

If only it were that easy. "She won't let me."

"Make her," he said with a shrug. As if it were that easy. As if Agatha would admit defeat and surrender without a fight.

You had to laugh. "You think anyone can make Agatha Harkness do anything?"

There was that time she'd caught the flu, and she wouldn't take Tylenol to lower her fever because human medicine was beneath her. You'd ended up crushing it into her soup, which, when she'd realized the white, gritty substance weren't spices, as you'd adamantly claimed, had ended in her dramatically proclaiming that you were trying to poison her.

Granted, that could have been the fever talking; Tylenol hadn't yet kicked in. But still.

"You're here now, aren't you?" Teen said.

"Only because she's unconscious." You stroked Agatha's hair, thick and beautiful. Silk between your fingers. You missed it. "I'm fine with her not wanting me around. I just want her to be okay. That's all. I don't wanna force myself into her life."

"Something tells me that you wouldn't be here if she didn't want you to be," Teen pointed out. "Even if she's putting up a front."

A smile broke out on your mouth. "Maybe."

She did say she didn't hate you.

Maybe there was still hope.

Maybe she could find it in her to forgive you.

"You said it yourself: she's not bad. She's just… her. Give her some grace."

You had to laugh. "Using my own words against me? That's very Agatha of you."

"It's true," Teen said with a chuckle.

Yeah. You supposed it was.

Agatha could do with some grace.

She didn't have people — friends, loved ones — out there to look out for her, to have her back even when she was in the wrong.

For three long, long years she didn't have you, either.

You wanted to make it right.

Agatha deserved that much.

"I should get back," Teen said, motioning to the rest of the coven out back, their chatter and laughter a distant echo.

He glanced down at Agatha; at her face being caressed by your fingers, at the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, concern etched all over his face like a tattoo.

He didn't want for her to be hurt any more than you did.

"She'll be okay," you said softly, offering him the same guarantee that Lilia had given you.

Agatha was strong. Resilient.

She would survive this.

She would recover in record time, as if she'd never even been in this predicament.

"I know," Teen said. "She's the baddest bitch in South America and Europe. Nothing keeps her down for long."

A laugh, loud and hearty, tore from your throat.

He was right; this was just an injury. One of the countless she'd acquired over the centuries, that she'd lived through with relative ease.

Who was to say she wouldn't do so again?

Your Agatha was nothing if not a fighter.

No sooner had his footsteps faded in the distance than Agatha's voice, coarse like beach sand, broke the silence that had settled over you. "Wasn't that disgustingly sappy? Lifetime channel would be proud."

How could you forget?

Your Agatha was nothing if not a sneaky bitch, as well.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @miss-moon-guardian @hermslore @uniquelesbianidiot @natashamaximoff1 @alsoknownasmel @swan-queen-is-magic @tardisesandtitans @ahintofchaos @fruityhahn @midnight-lestrange @lift-heavy-be-gay @katieswain123 @riovidalharkness @revleftshark

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐞...

Pairing: general!hyunjin x afab!reader, established relationship, nonidol!au

Synopsis: hyunjin calls you after a wreath-laying ceremony. he's been holding on for too long and he breaks down in front of you. luckily you're always there to remind him of his strength.

Warning: angst, tiny mention of death, fluff, comfort

A/n: first one for the books! Didn't mean to come off as emotional or whatever I just wanted to try it out. But this won't be happening often so enjoy this pilot episode! (heh)

The dialing tone hummed in his ears as he adjusted the camera on his tablet. The faint glow on the screen illuminated his stark features, under eyes dark and heavy, skin pale from overloading work. His uniform lay at the edge of his bed, tossed along with his cap. After attending the wreath-laying ceremony he barely had anytime to collect himself rushing into his room and locking himself. It hadn’t been easy. The number of colleagues and juniors he had lost over the past months collective with the weight of duty pressing on his shoulders gave him sleepless nights and on days he managed to sleep; nightmares. Sitting by his desk in a vest and trousers he had managed to eat some of the dinner his friend had made for him to “keep his mind off the empty seats at base.” But the remnants lay there beside him getting cold. He only had one goal tonight.

To hear her voice. All he needed was to hear your voice.

Hyunjin always imagined what it would be like if one day you never picked up the phone when he called, or if it wasn’t you that answered. Maybe your new man, claiming you’d finally got tired of waiting around for him. It would be better if you didn’t wait for him at all, start a new life all together. He just wanted you to be happy. To not think about whether he’d die every other day.

A soft chime from his screen signaled the video calls connection which ultimately brought Hyunjin out of his depressing thoughts. There you were, his anchor. Your warm smile thawing his frozen world from miles away. Your hair messy and tousled from laying on the bed. Your figures were wrapped in his hoodie. He chuckled at how oversized it looked but it just made his chest tighten with longing.

“Hey, captain,” you greeted softly, hand raising in a salute. “Rough day?”

“At ease, solider” he replied out of habit. “Baby, I don’t even know where to start.” Hyunjin exhaled, a tired grin playing on his face.

You glanced past him on the screen to see his occasional uniform on the bed. “You had an event today and you didn’t tell me before?” he followed your line of sight and grimaced at the awful reminder the clothes gave him. He turned back to you, playing with fingers. “Yes, but it wasn’t one of the…good ones.” You raised your eye brows in confusion then acknowledgement.

“Oh, baby I'm so sorry.” your hands covered your mouth in a feeling that you said something out of line. “It’s okay, baby. Things like these happen. No one can control it.”

“How many did we lose?” you whispered. Hyunjin’s eyes faced the ceiling like he was trying hard not to cry again. He really couldn't. Seeing a general like him cry was a sign of weakness. He couldn't be weak.

“We lost fourteen, baby.” His voice cracked on the number.

Your heart ached at the rawness in his voice, his normally steady demeanor crumbling in the safe space you'd built between you two. “Hyunjin...” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

His lips pressed into a hard line, eyes still upward fighting to keep his composure. “I— I tried. We all did.” He shook his head, the weight of guilt evident in his voice. “But it wasn’t enough.”

“Hey, no,” you interrupted, your voice firm but gentle. “You’re doing everything you can. You always have. None of this is on you.” Your fingers graze the outline of his cheek on your device in hopes that he could feel your touch.

Hyunjin’s breath shuddered, and for a moment, he stayed silent. His hands, calloused and trembling, fidgeted on the desk. He finally looked back at you, his eyes red and watery from the tears he failed to hold.

“B-baby-”

“Sometimes it feels like I’m just waiting for my turn,” he admitted, the confession hanging heavily in the space between you. A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down. “Don’t say that.”. “You deserve someone who’s here. Not someone who might just— disappear.”

“No,” you said with conviction, shaking your head. “I want you. I love you. Don’t push me away because you're hurting.” Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears. You had to be the strong one now. “Please don't do that.”

Hyunjin looked away, jaw clenched, guilt still etched into every line of his face. “You’re my home,” you continued, voice softer now. “And no matter where you are, I’ll always be here waiting for you, Hyunjin. Always.”

His eyes flickered back to the screen, misty and vulnerable. “God, I don’t deserve you.” “Yes, you do,” you insisted. “You’ve always been enough for me.”. “I wish I could hold you right now,” he whispered brokenly. “Fuck, I don't even remember what your hair feels like.”

“Soft as moonlit sighs, slipping through fingers like secrets in the night.” You replied, watching as Hyunjin’s face contorted in cringe. “That's way too much.”

“Your the one that said it. I remember very correctly.” He smiled at her, the shadow of sadness slowly leaving. Then an idea sparked in your mind.

“H-hey you need to remember me right? Remember the things I do t-that make you happy?”

Hyunjin fixed his composure, wiping his stray tears. “Yeah? What do you have in mind, my love?”

“Well, every time you smell blueberries, think of me. Those are always my favorite.”

He nodded in agreement giving a toothy smile.

“Uh...whenever you check the time, remember how I used to grab your wrist to drag you places. When you touch your utterly attractive buzzcut, remember how obsessed I was when you came back with it that night. Oh! Our photos, look at those. Those are our memories. Whenever you struggle with that button on your uniform remember how I'd swat your hand away to help you fix it. God, there are so many things baby.”

Hyunjin concluded. You were perfect. Too perfect for him. As you rambled on and on of how he could catch a glimpse of you in his everyday life he just wondered how you could stay and love a man like him. Seeing you full of expressions and joy gave him the strength he needed.

“Oh, oh and one more the most important one; everytime someone calls your name, remember how I used to call you with so much love. Remember how I used to call you in every moment.”

His eyes dilated. They were focused on you. On the pure beauty you exuded.

His lover. His only muse.

“I love you.” Hyunjin said softly, his gentle smile calming the tension on his face. Another tear rolled down but he let it. “I adore you, my love.”

“Hyune, c’mon stop being sappy. I'm just trying to make you feel better.” You scratched the back of your neck, your cheeks warming up. He didn't listen.

“Your too perfect for me. Fuck baby I don't care if I have to say it a million times. I. Love. You.”

You smiled back.

“I love you too, baby.”

You rested your face in your hands leaning against the table.

"I love you too, Hyunjin. You're my hero, always. Stay strong for me okay? I need someone to take care of me anyways."

He chuckled. You both stayed on the call for a while longer, silence filling the space with unspoken comfort. He’d better find a way to make you his before anyone else did, because you were his. Only his.

“Hey maybe when you come back we can start switching up things at home.”

“Things? Things like what?”

“A room for the baby.”

“A-A WHAT??!”

hehehe thought I'd leave it here...noice cliffie. Did we cry a bit? No? Well I hope so. Again this is my first so comments would be nice.

Liking and reblogging are allowed. Reposting strictly prohibited.

Taglist:

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather

If you'd like to be added you can drop your blog name in my asks!

~kc. 💗

[m00nkissedlover]

Hi! Can you write a Regulus and fem potter! reader raises four year old harry after his parents are killed?

・｡Little Rabbit 🐰

You've ordered: vanilla ice cream! enjoy!

"I'll be the only dream you seek."

post Hogwarts! Regulus Black x fem! Potter! reader | word count: 925 words

Summary: after your four year old nephew comes to you for comfort after a nightmare, regulus questions whether he's still capable of being a father.🐰

Warnings: not really a warning, but reader is james's sister. in this, regulus doesn't become a death eater. no real warnings, basically just domestic fluff!

Note: hi anon! tysm for this request, it was really fun to write! ☺️ i hope i did your request justice and i hope you like this short little drabble :)

The feeling of tiny hands shaking your shoulder broke you out of your dreamlike trace of sleep at what seemed like...5:00 am. You rubbed your eyes, turning on the lamp on your bedside table, your vision slowly adjusting to the dim light and making out the small figure on your bed.

"Harry? Sweetie, what's wrong?" you murmured, your voice groggy with sleep. Harry, your four year old nephew, sat at the edge of your bed. He was clutching a stuffed rabbit plush you had bought him, his bright green eyes wet with tears, a bit of snot dripping from his nose.

"I-I had a nightmare..." the poor boy sobbed, clutching the rabbit closer to his chest. You felt a pang of sadness through your heart, grabbing a tissue from your bedside table and holding it to him nose. He blew his nose into it, sniffling as you wiped his tears with another one.

"Can I sleep with you two tonight?" You obviously couldn't say no, your heart going out to the four year old. It had been 4 years now since he lost his parents and was put under you and Regulus's care. Speaking of Regulus...just where was he?

Oh, that's right, he was sleeping next to you, groggily blinking his eyes as the sound of Harry's sobbing woke him.

"Hey, what happened?" he asked, his voice a little gruff. He scooted over to sit next to you, watching as you pulled Harry into your lap.

"He had a nightmare again." you muttered, holding the small boy to your chest and gently stroking his hair. "Aw, no. Want me to do the thing, bub?" Regulus asked, playfully poking Harry's cheek.

The little boy giggled softly, sniffling and nodding his head. Regulus got out of bed and padded over to the closet, rummaging through it and pulling out his wand. He closed his eyes for a moment, walking back over to the bed and taking Harry's rabbit plush. He set it down on the bed, raising his wand and muttering a spell he'd used countless times before.

Upon casting the spell, the little rabbit plush seemed to come to life, lifting its head and wiggling its ears. Regulus pointed to Harry, the rabbit facing the little boy before it started to do a silly little dance.

"Look, Harry! He's doing a different one this time." you hummed, Harry's crying subsiding. He clapped his tiny hands, a laugh that could put a smile on anyone's face leaving him. Regulus waved his wand once again and the rabbit plush walked up you Harry, crawling up his body and giving him a hug, its face in the crook of his neck.

"Aw, how sweet." you sighed, glancing from the heartwarming scene to your husband who was making his way back into bed. "Feeling better, Harry?" Regulus asked, Harry nodding his head a squeezing the rabbit.

"Thank you, papa Regulus." Regulus felt a surge of warmth run through him at the sound of Harry calling him "papa." He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the boy's cheek, ruffling his hair.

"You're welcome, bud. Now come on. It's time to get some sleep."

Harry was now curled up between the two of you, rabbit plush clutched to his chest. He looked so peaceful as he slept, like he didn't have a care in the world (which he probably didn't). You gently caressed his cheek, glancing over at Regulus who seemed to still be hung up on Harry calling him "papa."

You reached out and squeezed his hand, his attention now turning to you. "James...He would be beyond proud of you for stepping up and taking care of his son. I swear on Merlin's name that James and Lily are smiling down on you right now."

Regulus let out a sigh, squeezing your hand in return. "I know, I just...I don't want it to look like I'm trying to replace him, you know? He was a really great friend and an amazing person, I-"

You cut Regulus off by leaning over and pressing a kiss to lips, just a small one. The two of you carefully moved and got out of bed as to not disturb Harry as he slept. You walked out into the hallway of your cozy cottage, cupping Regulus's face in your hands. "Reg, no one thinks you're replacing James. Just think about it; if we had a child and something, god forbid, happened to us, do you think James and Lily would do the same for us? Absolutely, in a heartbeat." you said, resting your forehead against his.

"He loved you, Reg. He probably trusted you more than any of the others. I know that if he could, he could tell you take care of Harry." Your words stirred something within Regulus, the dark haired male's eyes getting watery.

You wrapped your arms around him, his own arms immediately returning the hug. "He'd think I'm a good father to his son?" you heard him mumble, his voice cracking a bit.

"He'd think you're a wonderful father to his son." you reassured him, rubbing his back and stroking his hair.

After a while, you two made your way back into the bedroom, getting into bed and laying back. You pressed a soft kiss to Harry's head, Regulus doing the same before giving you a quick kiss.

"Good night." he whispered, intertwining your fingers underneath the duvet.

"Good night." You squeezed his hand back, smiling to yourself as your head hit your pillow and sleep finally took over.🐰

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