alias: cece/venus
age: 23
SUGGESTIVE THEMES, NO MINORS ALLOWED
This blog mainly writes for male and gender neutral readers. If you submit a request and it uses female terminology, I will immediately switch the request to be more male/gender centered as Tumblr is already dominated by female readers.
I accept requests but will deny if the ideas/fandoms are unknown to me or I'm uncomfortable with the subject. My first language is not English, so some works might be filled with grammar mistakes, please be aware.
REQUEST GUIDELINES!
immediate no's: rape, underage smut, non-con situations, requests for celebrities
Unless your request includes any of the above, you're in the clear. If you have any questions or are unsure if your request fits the guidelines, leave me a question and I'll get to it as soon as I can. No exceptions. For example: if you suggest a fic with a gender neutral reader who gets saved by the love interest from certain non-con actions, that's allowed.
MASTERLIST!
the avengers
the twilight saga
interview with the vampire
hannibal (tv show)
deppverse
the vampire diaries
dc universe
slashers
percy jackson and the olympians and heroes of olympus
the hunger games
miscellaneous
miss peregrines home for peculiar children
hannibal extended universe
Hey, I hope you're doing well. If you're doing requests could you do anything with will graham who has a veterinarian s/o or boyfriend? I think it would be interesting considering the amount of dogs he brings home lol. Ty!
SOMETIMES I THINK YOU'RE ONLY DATING ME FOR MY DOGS
will graham x male reader
authors note: LITERAL VISION I HAD WHILE READING THIS. WILL ARRIVING UNNANOUNCED TO YOUR HOUSE AND BEFORE YOU COULD EVEN SAY HI OR KISS HIM, HE SPRINTS TO YOUR NEWEST RESCUE/FOSTER AND FAWNS OVER THEM. TURN TO YOU STANDING WITH THE DEADEST AND MOST HURT EXPRESSION. I also made this be kinda angsty cause this is Will we're talking about and he somehow still doesn't know how to interact with people (even if you are his whole ass boyfriend.)
The doorbell rang at 7:32 PM, precisely when you knew it would. Will was nothing if not predictable, especially when it came to his weekly "unscheduled" visits that somehow always coincided with dinner time.
"Coming!" you called out, wiping your hands on a dish towel as you navigated through the temporary obstacle course of puppy gates in your hallway. Three rescue dogs—a beagle mix named Watson, a one-eyed terrier called Pirate, and your newest foster, a nervous chihuahua you'd dubbed Tiny—scrambled to accompany you to the door.
You swung it open with your usual bright smile, leaning in for the hello kiss that had become part of your Tuesday evening ritual. Only this time, Will sidestepped and dropped to his knees as the dogs swarmed him.
"Hello, Watson," he murmured, scratching behind the beagle's ears. "And Pirate, you're looking less murderous today. Who's this little guy?"
"His name is Tiny," you sighed, leaning against the doorframe with a pout already forming. "And hello to you too, boyfriend who apparently only loves me for my dogs."
Will looked up from where Tiny was attempting to climb his chest. "What? Oh, sorry." He stood up and gave you a quick peck on the cheek before immediately returning his attention to the chihuahua. "He's underweight. Has he been dewormed?"
"Yes, Dr. Graham, he has," you said with an exaggerated eye roll. "Dinner's almost ready if you can tear yourself away from your actual love interests."
Will followed you into the kitchen where three more dogs, your permanent residents, greeted him with wagging tails. You turned to finish the pasta, finding it hard to ignore Will's aww's and murmurs of sweet nothings to DOGS.
"You know," you began casually, "sometimes I wonder if you're only dating me for the dogs and vet discounts."
"Yes."
Your mouth hung open in disbelief. Of all the responses you'd expected—a flustered denial, a playful deflection, even an admission of partial guilt—this absolute, straightforward confirmation was not one of them.
Will continued, oblivious to your shock. "But you're also hot and really interesting, so everything else is just a bonus."
"Did…did you just admit to using me for veterinary services?"
"Well, 'using' sounds so transactional. I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial relationship. You get me—I'm charming, occasionally funny, and help socialize your fosters. I get unlimited dog access and significantly reduced veterinary expenses."
You crossed your arms, pout intensifying. "I can't believe you just said that."
"I'm honest," Will said with a shrug. "You always say you appreciate honesty."
"Not when it's confirming that you see your boyfriend as nothing more than a walking, talking veterinary clinic with a side of eye candy!" you retorted, turning back to the stove with a huff.
Will moved closer, his voice softening. "Hey. That's not all I see."
You refused to turn around, focusing intently on stirring a sauce that didn't need stirring. "Could've fooled me."
"I'm not good with people," he admitted quietly. "With dogs, everything is straightforward. They don't play games or have hidden motives. With you…sometimes I look at you and I can't figure out what you're thinking at all."
You finally turned around, arms still crossed. "Maybe if you spent more time looking at me and less time at my patients, you might have a better idea."
Will sighed, running a hand through his curls. "I'm trying. I really am."
You remained silent, deliberately ignoring his attempt at reconciliation as you finished plating the food.
"Look, how about we take Tiny to the park this weekend? I've been working on some new training techniques that might help with his anxiety issues."
You raised an eyebrow. "So you want to use my foster for your training experiments AND get free vet advice? What a deal for me."
Will had the nerve to look hurt. "That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?" you asked, setting the plates on the table with a clatter. "Sit down. The dogs have been waiting patiently for their human treat dispenser to eat."
Dinner was a tense affair, with Will attempting conversation while you responded in monosyllables. Will, to his credit, seemed to be making an actual effort to focus on you rather than your furry residents.
"I was thinking we could go to that new restaurant downtown this weekend," he offered. "The one that doesn't allow dogs inside."
"And why would we go there?"
"Because it's a restaurant people go to on dates? And where there are no dogs to distract me?"
"Are you sure you can handle that?" you asked sweetly.
"I think I'll manage."
You couldn't help but soften at that, though you maintained your pout for a few more seconds before relenting. "Fine, but you're paying."
"Deal and I'll even try to kiss you first when I come over next time instead of diving for the dogs."
"Try?"
"Okay, I'll definitely kiss you first. Unless one of them is actively bleeding or on fire."
You laughed despite yourself. "Somehow I doubt that'll happen."
"With my luck? I wouldn't be so sure."
As you finished dinner, with six dogs now napping around your chairs like furry throw pillows, you couldn't stay mad at him. Will might be a dog obsessed veterinarian's nightmare, but he was your dog-obsessed nightmare. And really, you thought as he helped you clear the table, occasionally stopping to scratch a sleeping dog behind the ears, what did it say about you that you found his complete honesty about using you for veterinary services weirdly endearing?
Bruce Banner x Male reader with explosive power. More specifically,Reader's blood is mixed with an extremely powerful,and very,very and I mean VERY unstable explosive,and he can release it trought his skin and his skin's heat will make it blow up. So reader can barely control his powers because of how powerful and unstable the explosive is,and he tends to explode in small ways at any strong emotion. Bad news? Goodbye couch,you have been burnt. Got too excited? Oooops,guess we need a new kitchen...and so on. So reader has to act mostly emotionless,but one thing is clear: he hates himself,his powers and how dangerous he is,and so he can PERFECTLY understand how Bruce feels about the Hulk,because he fells the same about his powers,and so they really get eachoter because of it. Also,Bruce is the obly one reader can't accidentally hurt thanks to the big green guy,and thanks to his powers,the big green guy can't really kill reader before Bruce can regaib control,so they don't have to be scared of accidentally hurting eachoter all the time!!!!!
WHY WOULD I BE SCARED OF YOU?
bruce banner x male reader
authors note: I like Bruce (even if it's not easily seen from my blog.) To me he's just a huge sweetheart whose self hatred is at an all high, so he keeps his distance from others but cares from afar. Do I explain myself? So, while writing this, I made it kinda indulgent to what I would like to hear if I was in the readers shoes. Hope you enjoy!
The first time you met Bruce, it was because you’d nearly taken out the east wall of the communal kitchen.
It wasn't your fault. Not really. A surprise announcement from Tony about a week-long, all expenses paid vacation had sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated excitement through you. Feeling the air shimmer with heat around you, you'd thrown your hands up, a useless gesture to stop what occurred next.
At least it wasn't a big explosion, not by your standards. Just enough to scorch the countertop and send the refrigerator skidding three feet to the left, its door hanging open like a silent scream.
You stood there in the smoldering quiet, the acrid smell of burnt plastic and ozone filling your lungs. Your skin tingled, flushed with a residual heat that would take an hour to fade. You hated this. You hated the volatile chemical cocktail that had replaced your blood, the curse that lived under your skin, waiting for any crack in your emotional armor to escape and destroy everything you touched.
That’s when Bruce walked in. He saw the scorch marks, the open refrigerator, and then he looked at you. “Rough morning?”
You just nodded, unable to speak past the lump of shame in your throat.
Bruce walked over, carefully picked up a cup that had miraculously survived the blast, and poured you water from the tap. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours. You flinched, expecting the contact to trigger another reaction, but nothing happened.
“Tony’s announcements can be a lot,” he said, leaning against the scorched island. “I once broke a lab bench because he told me he’d managed to replicate super soldier serum in a toaster.” A huff of laughter escaped you, a rusty, unused sound.
That was the beginning.
You’d sit in his lab while he worked, a comfortable silence falling over you. And that's why you liked hanging out with Bruce. You didn't have to pretend with him. You didn't have to force the emptiness in your expression, because he understood; saw the monster you were so afraid of and didn't flinch.
“You know,” Bruce said one day, not looking up from a microscope, “the other guy, he’s not just anger. He’s fear. He’s everything I’m not strong enough to feel on my own.”
You knew exactly what he meant. Your explosive power wasn't just about anger. It was joy, it was sorrow, it was fear, it was love. It was every emotion, amplified to a destructive degree.
“I get it,” you said quietly. “One time, I watched a movie. A really sad one. Cried so hard I blew a hole through my bedroom floor. My landlord was not thrilled.”
He finally looked up, a small, sad smile on his face. “I turned a whole city block into rubble because I got spooked by a helicopter.”
It was a strange, twisted form of bonding. You were two sides of the same coin, cursed with power you never asked for, terrified of the person you became when you lost control.
The true test came during a mission. Heavy fire kept you and Bruce trapped behind a crumbling wall of concrete. You could feel the panic rising, a cold dread that made your skin prickle with dangerous heat. This was it. You were going to lose it, and you were going to take Bruce with you.
“Hey, look at me,” Bruce grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to meet his eyes. “It’s okay. Let it go.”
“What?” you gasped, your vision blurring. “I’ll kill you!”
“No, you won’t,” You could see it now, the flicker of green in his eyes and the strain in his jaw. “He won’t let you. And you…you can’t hurt him. So just let go. Give ‘em hell.”
His trust was a lifeline. You stopped fighting and surrendered to your emotions. Yet, you didn't explode in a chaotic, uncontrollable burst of destruction. This time you aimed. A torrent of explosive energy erupted from you, obliterating the enemy's position.
When the dust settled, you were on your knees, your clothes smoking as the Hulk stood in front of you, completely unharmed. He looked down at you, then at the smoldering crater where the bad guys used to be. He let out a low grunt, then gently, so gently, patted you on the back with a hand the size of a car door.
It was enough to knock the wind out of you, but it didn’t trigger a thing. His skin was too dense, his biology too alien to be affected by the heat of your body.
Later, when Bruce was back, bruised but himself, he found you sitting on the roof, staring at the city lights. “You didn’t lose control completely.
“You told me I could,” your voice was hoarse. “You weren’t scared.”
“Why would I be?” he bumped his shoulder against yours. “You’re the only person on this planet I don’t have to be afraid of accidentally hurting. And I’m the only person you don’t have to be afraid of, either.”
hello! could i request a hannibal x male reader whose love language is physical touch, but he's too anxious to initiate anything with hannibal because he's been called clingy in previous relationships? thank you and keep up the great work <3
PLEASE, IF I DETESTED YOUR TOUCH, YOU WOULD'VE BEEN SERVED AS DINNER ALREADY
Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader
authors note: I changed the reader to be gender neutral as nothing in the fic really implies a specific gender. Also, I had many ideas of how this could be angsty and heart wrenching but ultimately decided on just fluff and Hannibal comforting us because we need sweetness in our life.
The silence in Hannibal’s study was a comfortable thing, usually. Currently, you were curled in one of the plush leather armchairs, a book open but unread in your lap. Your gaze kept drifting to Hannibal, sat at his desk, meticulously sketching what looked like a human heart.
Your hands ached to touch him. Physical contact was your native tongue, but with Hannibal, you were mute.
The ghost of your ex’s voice echoed in your mind. “God, you’re so clingy. Can’t you just be normal for five minutes?” And after that, you learned your lesson. You’d learned to keep your hands to yourself, to starve the need for contact until it became a dull, manageable ache. You thought you had it under control, but then you met Hannibal. A man whose touch, when he deigned to offer it, was a deliberate, searing brand that left you aching days later.
You shifted in your chair, the leather creaking softly. Hannibal’s pen stilled yet he didn’t look up. “Restless, my dear?”
“No,” you lied, “Just stretching.”
A noncommittal hum was his only reply. He resumed his sketching. You watched the elegant sweep of his wrist, the way his fingers held the pen. You imagined what it would feel like to go to him, to rest your hands on his shoulders, to press a kiss to the side of his neck. The fantasy was so vivid it was painful.
Don’t be needy. Don’t be that guy. He’ll see right through it. He’ll find you pathetic.
You forced your attention back to your book, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. You hugged your arms around yourself, a poor substitute for the real thing.
A few minutes later, the scratching of his pen stopped again. This time, you heard the soft click of it being placed on the desk. You risked a glance up. Hannibal was turned in his chair, watching you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, dark and perceptive, seemed to see straight through your flimsy defenses.
“You’ve been quiet this evening.”
“Just tired.” you mumbled, looking down at your book again.
“Is that all?”
He knew. Of course, he knew. It was both terrifying and strangely comforting.
You took a shaky breath and decided on a sliver of truth. “I’m just in my head a bit.”
He rose from his chair and moved to the liquor cart, pouring two glasses of what you knew was a very expensive brandy. He walked back, not to his desk, but to your chair. He held one out to you.
Your fingers brushed as you took the glass. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to your heart. You snatched your hand back as if burned, cradling the glass with both hands to still their trembling.
Hannibal noticed, but didn't say anything, settling on the ottoman in front of your chair.
“Your entire demeanor is a plea for something you are actively refusing to ask for,” his voice soft but firm. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a diagnosis. “It’s a fascinating paradox. You broadcast a need for proximity with your stillness, your posture, the way your eyes follow me, yet you recoil from the slightest touch.”
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t—”
“You do. Tell me, what do you fear will happen if you were to act on these impulses?”
You couldn’t answer. To admit it out loud would be to admit a weakness. A flaw.
Hannibal set his own glass aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Someone, in your past, taught you that your affection was a burden. That your desire for contact was excessive. ‘Clingy,’ is the word you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
You could only manage a weak, jerky nod.
“A foolish, crude word used by those who are incapable of appreciating the depth of what is being offered. To be ‘clingy’ is to seek connection. To desire reassurance. To express a bond that transcends language. It is not a flaw. It is a language.”
He reached out, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. His fingers gently traced the line of your jaw.
“Your love language is physical touch,” Hannibal continued, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It is as valid and as beautiful as any symphony, any work of art. To deny it is to deny a fundamental part of yourself. And I,” he paused, his gaze holding yours, “have no interest in a diluted version of you. I want the whole, unedited composition.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it escaped in a ragged sob.
“Shh," his other hand came up to cup the back of your neck. “There is no need for that. There is only a need for honesty. With me and with yourself.”
The dam broke. All the months of suppressed need, of carefully constructed distance, came crashing down. You surged forward, your hands flying to his chest, fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t graceful or seductive. It was desperate, clumsy, and real.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. You felt his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him in a secure embrace. One hand moved in slow, soothing circles on your back, the other held the back of your head. After a long moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Hannibal's eyes were soft, filled with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like adoration.
synopsis: You have been neglecting your pharaoh for quite some nights in favor of spending them with Octavius. Not liking being neglected, your lover has come to adopt petty behaviors to garner your attention.
The first sign of trouble appeared on Tuesday, right after the sun set and the magic of the tablet brought everyone to life. You, stationed near the Mayan exhibit, had just finished a particularly engaging lesson on advanced siege tactics from Octavius and his men. When you spotted Ahkmenrah striding down the hall, you excused yourself.
"My love!" you called out, jogging to catch up to him. "You won't believe what Octavius just showed me. They have this thing called a 'testudo'—"
"I am conversing with Rexy." he said, not even glancing at you as he continued walking toward the T-Rex skeleton. Rexy couldn't converse. She mostly just roared and tried to eat small exhibits. You looked at Jedediah, who was sitting on his saddle nearby.
"Well, ain't that a kick in the teeth. The pharaoh's talkin' to the T-Rex 'stead of his own fella."
Wednesday was worse. Ahkmenrah had his Anubis guards form a human wall in front of the entrance to his temple. You approached cautiously. "My love? I brought you that golden scarab beetle you like."
One of the jackal-headed guards, the one you'd nicknamed 'Fluffy' in your head, shook his head. "His Greatness is not receiving visitors from the Roman sector."
"I'm not from the Roman sector! I'm from, well, technically I'm from a display case near the Romans, but still!"
"His Greatness has decreed you are 'Roman-adjacent' until further notice."
The absolute peak of his pettiness arrived on Thursday, in front of everyone. The nightly gathering in the main lobby was in full swing. Sacagawea was politely trying to explain the concept of personal space to Attila the Hun, and the Easter Island Head was complaining about his dust bunnies again.
You approached your pharaoh, who was holding court with Teddy. "My love, can we please talk?"
He turned to Teddy, completely ignoring you. "Theodore, my good friend, I was just admiring your mustache. Such a magnificent display of masculinity. So much more substantial than what one typically sees."
Teddy stroked his mustache, puffing out his chest. "Why thank you! It does take considerable grooming!"
You felt your eye twitch. He was complimenting Teddy's mustache. This was a new low.
"Are you serious?" you muttered under your breath.
Ahkmenrah's head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowed. "Did you say something, legionary? Or were you simply admiring the superior grooming habits of our esteemed Teddy?"
Jedediah cackled from his post. "Oh, he got you with the 'legionary'! That's cold, Pharaoh! Real cold!"
That was it. You'd had enough. You grabbed Ahkmenrah by his arm and hauled him to the Hall of African Mammals, under the glassy eyed gaze of a stuffed elephant.
"What have I done to deserve your scorn? Why did you instruct your guards to prevent me from visiting your exhibit yesterday? Why are you complementing another's appearance in front of me?"
Ahkmenrah yanked his arm free, straightening the golden armband you had just disturbed. He took a deliberate step back, putting distance between you as if you were a commoner with poor hygiene.
"You wish to know what you have done?" he asked, his voice dripping with theatrical disbelief. "You stand there, playing innocent, while I have been left to languish in my temple, alone and forgotten!"
You stared at him, completely baffled. "Languishing? My love, I see you every night! What are you talking about?"
He let out an indignant huff, gesturing dramatically toward the direction of the Roman exhibit. "Every night this week, where have you been? Huddled with Octavius and his miniature legion! Discussing battle formations! Practicing sword thrusts! Laughing at his jests about the 'glory of Rome'!"
"You're upset because I spent time with Octavius? He's my friend! And he was teaching me about the Testudo formation—"
"I DO NOT CARE ABOUT THE TURTLE FORMATION! I care that my beloved, the one person in this entire museum who should be worshiping at my feet, has been fawning over a man who stands no taller than my sandal!"
Ahkmenrah began pacing, his golden bracelets jingling with each agitated step. "You have neglected me for almost the entirety of this week! You have abandoned me for discussions of siege engines and military tactics! You haven't engaged with me in a simple conversation nor have you noticed nor complimented my new kohl eyeliner!"
You felt a headache coming on. "You're upset because I didn't comment on your eyeliner?"
He stopped pacing and turned to face you fully, his expression wounded. "And the headdress! And the ceremonial apron! I spent hours perfecting my appearance, only to be ignored while you played with tiny soldiers!"
Ahkmenrah's lower lip began to tremble slightly, though he tried to maintain his royal composure.
"Strip away the titles and I am just a man who is angry that his beloved doesn't fall to his knees and worship him as he rightfully should."
Despite your frustration, you couldn't help but feel a pang of affection for your ridiculously petty pharaoh. You stepped forward and gently took his hands.
"I'm sorry," you said sincerely. "I didn't realize you felt neglected. I should have been more attentive."
"You should have," he agreed, though without his anger. "I am, after all, a pharaoh. We require regular adoration to maintain our divine glow."
You couldn't help but smile. "Is that why you complimented Teddy's mustache? To maintain your divine glow through passive aggression?"
Ahkmenrah had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. "The mustache comment was perhaps excessive, but it is rather impressive, is it not?"
"Next time you're feeling neglected, just tell me," you pulled him closer. "No need to involve your guards or Teddy's facial hair."
Ahkmenrah allowed himself to smile, resting his forehead against yours. "Very well, but you will make it up to me by accompanying me to the Egyptian wing tonight. And you will compliment my headdress. And my eyeliner. And perhaps bring me one of those chocolate coins from the gift shop display."
would loooove a jason todd x male!vigilante!reader with adhd one-shot
maybe they’re in a briefing together about a villain or something similar with either the batfam or the justice league and reader is practically vibrating out of his skin. like straight up cannot sit still so jason tries to subtly help with his hyperactivity?
hopefully that makes sense lol would love to see ur take on this but idm if you choose not to write it. have a good day!
THANKS FOR THE STRESS BALL
jason todd x male reader
authors note: apologies in advance for this being way too short, but I couldn't come up with more :( I also didn't specify wether you and Jason were in a relationship or this was just a bro coming in clutch, but either way, it's cute. Hope you enjoy!
The Batcave was cold as always, but that wasn't what was making you shiver. You sat at the long conference table, legs bouncing rapidly beneath it, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against your thigh. Bruce's voice droned on about some new meta-human threat, but the words were blurring together in your mind.
"…possesses telekinetic abilities…last seen near the docks…unknown motive…"
Across from you, Jason watched with narrowed eyes. He'd noticed your restlessness the moment you'd arrived. How you'd practically circled the room three times before settling into a chair, how you'd picked up and put down the same coffee mug five times.
You shot him an apologetic look, trying to still your movements, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. Within thirty seconds, your foot was tapping again.
Jason sighed quietly. Then he extended his leg under the table, pressing his boot firmly against your bouncing knee. He wasn't even looking at you anymore, attention seemingly focused on Bruce's presentation, but his boot remained pressed against your knee.
"…Dick will take the rooftops. Tim, you're on surveillance…"
You found yourself unconsciously matching the pressure of Jason's boot, pressing back slightly. The counter pressure was strangely calming. Your fingers stopped drumming, your clicking pen lay forgotten on the table.
"…Jason and Y/N, you'll approach from the north…"
Jason's eyes met yours at that, and you saw the tiniest smirk play on his lips.
"Any questions?" Bruce asked, his eyes sweeping across the table. Jason's boot remained pressed against your knee for another moment before he slowly withdrew it. As the meeting broke up and everyone scattered to prepare, Jason lingered.
"You got something to fidget with?"
"No, left my stress ball at home."
Jason reached into his jacket and tossed you a small ball. "Keep it, just try not to lose it before we get back."
You smiled, genuinely this time. "Thanks, Jay."
"Don't mention it," he replied, already turning to leave. "But if you start fidgeting during the mission, I'm leaving you behind."
hello! I'm sorry if this is out of line in anyway, but didn't you have a solangelo x reader fanfic somewhere? is it deleted? because I can't find it in your masterlist. thanks!
You're fine. I looked at my page cause I believe I republished it but nothing. Perhaps I did delete it, so my apologies. Will probably write one for them in the future.
Hiii could you possibly do a Bucky Barnes X Male reader where reader and Bucky have been married for years and are highschool sweethearts but reader leaves for a few years and returns wanting a divorce
(Basically the plot of Sweet home Alabama But with Bucky Barnes 😛) 
JUST SIGN THE DAMN PAPERS!
bucky barnes x male reader
authors note: so, I've never watched Sweet Home Alabama, but skimming through the synopsis on IMDb, I think I've got the idea. But because I don't want to make the reader fall in love with someone else, and I kinda took your idea to be an AU, I made bucky be content to stay in the family restaurant business. So in this fic, I made the Barnes family have a small dinner which Bucky is all about and wants to continue working in (with Steve being like a brother who also tends tables or helps in the kitchen) while the reader wants to be a doctor or something. I'll flesh it out further in the fic, but I hope you guys like it!
The acceptance letter arrived on a Tuesday, thin and official looking among the junk mail. Your hands trembled as you tore it open, eyes scanning the formal language until they landed on the words that would change everything:
"We are pleased to offer you a position in our medical program…"
A scream of pure joy escaped your lips as you spun around the small apartment, waving the letter like a victory flag. "Bucky! I got in! I actually got in!"
Bucky appeared in the doorway, flour dusting his dark hair and apron. He'd been experimenting with new recipes for the family restaurant again. His blue eyes sparkled with pride as he swept you into his arms, lifting you off the floor.
"Of course you got in," he said, setting you down but keeping his hands firmly on your waist. "My brilliant husband. The future Dr. Barnes."
You leaned in, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss. "We'll make it work, right? Long distance for a bit, but love is enough."
"Love is everything," Bucky replied softly, forehead pressed against yours. "I'll visit every weekend. You'll come home for breaks. We've got this."
That night, you made love with a desperate intensity, trying to memorize every inch of each other's bodies before the distance came between you. Bucky traced the letters of your name on your back as you fell asleep, whispering promises of forever against your skin.
The first year was exactly as you'd planned. Bucky drove up every other weekend, sometimes surprising you with homemade meals from the family restaurant. You spent holidays back home with him, Steve, and the Barnes who had welcomed you like their own son.
During one visit, Bucky's mother pulled you aside, her eyes soft with affection. "He talks about you constantly, you know. Counts down the days until your next visit. My boy's been in love with you since you were both what, fifteen?"
"Sixteen," you corrected with a smile. "When I accidentally spilled that entire tray of drinks on him at the restaurant."
She laughed, patting your cheek. "And he never stood a chance after that. You two were meant to be."
But medical school demanded more than you'd anticipated.
The late nights studying, the exams, the clinical rotations. Time became your most precious commodity. Bucky's calls became less frequent as the restaurant expanded, requiring more of his attention. Then his mother fell ill and his visits stopped altogether.
"I'm so sorry," he said during one of your increasingly rare phone calls. "Mom's health is not good. The restaurant needs me too. Steve's trying, but he's not cut out for the business side of things."
"I understand," you replied, though the words felt hollow in the quiet of your dorm room. "Really, Bucky. I do."
But understanding didn't fill the empty space in your bed or the loneliness that crept in during those long nights at the hospital.
"I haven't seen him properly in over a year," you confessed to your roommate during your final year of residency. "I still love him, I think, but it's different now. Like we're acquaintances who happen to share a last name."
The realization came during your last weeks of residency. You were reviewing your calendar, trying to schedule a visit home, when you noticed with a jolt that you hadn't seen Bucky properly in over a year. Sure, you'd talked on the phone a handful of times, exchanged occasional texts, but the thought of seeing him filled you with a strange sense of obligation rather than excitement.
And the most damning realization of all? You didn't miss him that much. You missed the idea of him, the memory of what you'd once had, but the man he was now—so distant, so removed from your daily life—felt more like an acquaintance than a husband.
That night, you contacted a lawyer. The divorce papers arrived a week later, and you signed them with a hand that trembled only slightly. As you dropped them in the mailbox, you told yourself you were doing the right thing, freeing both of you to move on.
Bucky's response came quickly, not through signed papers but a phone call that left you shaken. "Divorce? After everything? No. I'm not signing these. We're not done."
You tried explaining, but he refused to listen, hanging up with a promise that you'd work this out when you came home. You didn't manage to return until a week before your residency was completed.
The small town looked exactly the same and completely different as you drove through. The family restaurant still stood on Main Street, but now it bore an elegant sign: Barnes & Son.
Your heart pounded as you pushed open the door, the familiar bell chiming your arrival. And there he was, standing behind the counter, looking older, more handsome, with new lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before.
He looked up, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning. His blue eyes widened, then narrowed. "You came back."
"I wanted to talk. In person."
He nodded toward the back office. "After closing."
The hours passed agonizingly slowly. You helped clear tables, catching up with Steve who was now managing the restaurant while Bucky handled the business aspects.
"Never thought I'd see you back here," Steve said, wiping down a table. "Bucky's been a mess since you left, you know. Threw himself into expanding the restaurant, taking care of his mom. Anything to keep busy."
Mrs. Barnes, thankfully recovered, hugged you tightly, tears in her eyes. "Whatever happened between you two, you fix it. That boy loves you more than life itself."
Finally, the last customer left, and you found yourself alone with Bucky in the office. It was small and cramped, but that wasn't what stunned you. It was the photos of you two lining up the walls—prom, graduation, your wedding day.
"I'm finishing residency next week," you spoke first. "I thought…I thought we should talk about this."
"Talk about how you're leaving me? Because that's what those divorce papers mean, right?"
"I'm not leaving you, Bucky. I think…I think we left each other a long time ago."
His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. "I never stopped loving you, you know. Even when you were gone, even when we barely talked…"
"I know. I never stopped loving you either. But love wasn't enough, was it?"
"Maybe not," he admitted. "But maybe we could try again? Now that you're done with school…"
"Bucky, I'm staying in Manhattan. I have a job offer at Lenox Hill."
"Right, so this is really it then."
You watched him struggle with the realization and your heart ached. "I'm sorry."
"Me too. For letting us drift apart." A few seconds passed before Bucky spoke again. "Can I ask you something? Are you happy? Being a doctor?"
You considered it, thinking of the long nights, the difficult cases, the satisfaction of saving a life. "Most days. Yeah, I think I am."
"Good, that's what I always wanted for you."
You stayed for dinner, of course. The family treated you like you'd never left, and for a moment, you wondered if you'd made a terrible mistake. Once the plates had been cleared, you excused yourself for some air and climbed out to the fire escape. That is where Bucky found you.
"I always loved watching the stars from here." you said as he sat beside you.
"Some things don't change. Remember when we were seventeen and we mapped out our whole lives on this fire escape?"
You smiled at the memory. "I was going to be a doctor, you were going to take over the restaurant, and we were going to live happily ever after."
"Sounds pretty perfect," he admitted before his face dropped. "What happened?"
"Maybe," he admitted before taking your hand. "Or maybe we just forgot how to try."
Bucky's thumb traced circles on the back of your palm, a familiar gesture that made your heart ache. "I've missed you. The way you laugh when you're tired, how you always burn the toast, that face you make when you're concentrating…"
"I've missed you too," you confessed. "More than I wanted to admit."
"Then don't go back to Manhattan," he turned to face you fully. "Stay here. We can try again, properly this time. No long distance, no 'making it work.' Just us."
"Bucky…"
"No, hear me out. I know you have your job offer, but there are hospitals in Brooklyn. Good ones. We could get a place together, a real place, not that tiny apartment. We could have dinner with my family every Sunday like we used to. We could…we could be us again."
Tears blurred your vision. "It's not that simple."
"Love is simple," he insisted. "We made it complicated before, but it doesn't have to be now. We're older, we're wiser, and we know what we're losing if we don't try."
You looked at him. At the man you'd loved since you were sixteen, the man you'd married at eighteen, the man you were still married to, technically. The man whose eyes still held the same warmth they had when you were both kids with big dreams.
"Okay," you whispered, the word barely audible. "Okay."
His smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you laughed through your tears. "But I'm not quitting medicine and you're not quitting the restaurant."
"Deal," he grinned, leaning in to kiss you. "We'll make it work this time."
"Love's enough?" you asked against his lips.
"Love's everything."
TIME SKIP
"Dr. Barnes, your husband is here to pick you up."
You smiled, shaking your head as you finished your notes. Bucky had made it his mission to pick you up from your shifts at least twice a week, often bringing dinner from the restaurant.
"Tell him I'll be right out." you said, closing your notebook before grabbing your coat.
As you stepped outside, there he was, leaning against his car like he had no other place in the world to be. "Hey, doc," he grinned. "Saved any lives today?"
"Only yours," you replied, kissing him soundly. "Again."
He laughed, opening your door. "Ma wanted us to come over for Sunday dinner. She's making your favorite."
"Tell her we'll be there," you said, settling into the passenger seat. "But I'm on call Monday morning, so no keeping me up late with stories about the good old days."
Hiii!!! I love your fics!!! I just read the akward Jasonxreader and I was wondering if you could do something like that for Dick, but instead the reader is nervous and awkward. Like Richard has *actually* been in a bunch of relationships, and we’re freaking out a bit because we haven’t, and don’t really know what we’re doing or if we’ll even compare, that sorta thing??
BABY, PLEASE TAKE IT SLOW
dick grayson x male reader
authors note: oh, I like the way you think. When I first read this, I immediately thought of dick wanting to take their relationship further, but every time it gets steamy, the reader pulls away (with dick seeing it as teasing.) However, the reader has to sit him down and say, point blank, 'I'm a virgin, legit you're my first everything, so please be gentle.' And while this might make dick more aroused, (cause he will be the first and last dammit) he's a nervous wreck. Like his skills show, which makes the reader freak out (cause this is new), but he's pulling himself back so much it makes him also freak out cause you're just that hot. Don't know if I'm making sense, but yeah! (I also made this be male reader because I just sat to write this and making it male centered was easier.)
WARNING: 18+ SMUT AHEAD
Things were getting heated. You kissed Dick, arms on your lap like a good little boy because you LEGIT DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO OTHER THAN MOVE YOUR LIPS AGAINST HIS. Meanwhile, Dick was having the time of his life. Your shyness about this sort of thing only made you more desirable in his eyes, your behavior almost that of a tease.
Your breath hitched as his fingers toyed with the button of your jeans and suddenly you were pulling back. "Wait."
Dick's eyes were dark with desire, his hair slightly mussed from your earlier exploration. "What's wrong? Did I go too fast?"
You shook your head, hands trembling as you tried to form coherent thoughts. "No, it's not…I just…"
Dick's expression softened slightly, though the hunger in his eyes remained. "You've been doing this every time things get intense. Are you teasing me or…?"
The question made you panic. "No! I'm not teasing you, I swear."
"Then what is it?" His voice was gentle now, concerned.
You took a deep breath, deciding there was no way around this. "Dick, I need to tell you something."
"Anything."
"I'm a virgin," you said bluntly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Like, legit, you're my first everything. First boyfriend, first kiss, first everything. So before we go any further, I want you to please be gentle."
Dick froze, his eyes widening slightly. A mix of emotions crossed his face. Surprise, then something primal and possessive, and finally, what looked like nervousness. "Oh," was all he managed at first before clearing his throat. "Wow. Okay. That…that actually explains a lot."
"That's the problem though," you admitted quietly, looking down at your hands. "You've been with so many people. You know what you're doing, I, on the other hand, am going to disappoint you. I won't be any good."
Dick's expression softened completely. He gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Hey. That's not going to happen. Do you know why?"
You shook your head.
"Because this isn't about performance or comparing you to anyone else. This is about us. About you and me. And honestly? The thought of being your first, of getting to show you everything, to see you experience all of this for the first time…that's more exciting to me than any experienced partner could ever be."
"But what if I'm terrible?"
Dick chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You can't be terrible at something you've never done. And I'll be right here to guide you through everything. Besides," he added with a smirk, "teaching you is going to be incredibly fun for me too."
His lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was softer, more innocent. When his fingers returned to your jeans, he paused, eyes seeking permission. You nodded, breath catching as he slowly unbuttoned them.
"Tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable," he whispered against your mouth. "We can stop anytime. I mean that."
His hands began mapping your body with reverence. You tensed when his fingers brushed against your erection, but Dick soothed you with soft kisses along your jaw. As he eased your jeans down, you couldn't stop the tremor that ran through you.
"Beautiful," he breathed, eyes dark with something deeper than just desire now. "So fucking beautiful."
He positioned himself between your legs, pausing to grab lube from the nightstand. "This will feel cold at first but I'll warm it up."
True to his word, he coated his fingers with the slick substance, rubbing them together before touching you. You jolted at the first contact, but Dick's free hand found yours, intertwining your fingers.
"Breathe. Just breathe with me."
As his first finger pressed inside, you instinctively tried to pull away. Dick stilled immediately, concern flooding his features. "Too much?"
You shook your head, embarrassed. "No, just new."
"We'll take it slow," he promised, leaning down to kiss you deeply as he began a gentle rhythm. "Tell me when you're ready for more."
It took several minutes before you felt ready for a second finger, and Dick was endlessly patient, whispering praises against your skin. By the time he added a third, you were arching into his touch, pleasure overriding your initial nervousness.
"Ready?" he asked, voice thick with restraint.
You nodded, unable to form words as he positioned himself. The initial stretch burned slightly, but Dick watched your face intently, pausing whenever you tensed.
"Almost there," he murmured, pressing kisses to your forehead. "You're doing so well."
When he was fully inside, you both stilled, breathing heavily. The fullness was overwhelming but not painful, and Dick's weight was comforting rather than suffocating. "Okay?" he asked, searching your eyes.
You managed a nod.
He began to move slowly, and the discomfort gradually melted into pleasure. Your inexperience showed in your awkward responses, but Dick seemed to find it endearing, adjusting his angle until you gasped.
"Like it?" he asked with a knowing smile.
You could only nod as he hit that spot again, pleasure coiling in your stomach. His pace remained measured, never overwhelming, always watching your reactions.
"Touch yourself," he encouraged, noticing your restless hands. "I want to see you come undone."
Following his guidance, you wrapped a hand around your dick and jerked off, matching his rhythm. The dual stimulation made you almost cum faster than you expected. "Dick." you gasped, back arching.
"I've got you," he promised, increasing his pace slightly. "Let go for me."
Your orgasm crashed over you with surprising intensity, leaving you trembling beneath him. Dick followed moments later with a low groan, burying his face in your neck. Afterward, he cleaned you both up with gentle hands before pulling you into his arms.
"How was that?" he asked softly, fingers combing through your hair.
"Intense," you admitted. "But good. Really good."
Dick pressed a kiss to your temple. "We have all the time in the world to explore more. Next time, maybe you'll want to be in charge?"
The suggestion made you blush but you nodded against his chest. "Maybe."
authors note: okay, so my likes have been dominated by Will lately. Like gif and screen caps of people just wondering how Hannibal didn't jump his bones during their 'conversations' with the way Will manspreads on the chair. Not to mention, the allure of teacher Will and how he's just oozing daddy energy. So, I thought why not have the reader try to attract Will, mainly after his lectures. (Just to be clear, Will teaches adults not teens, so please don't see this as me glorifying those unbalanced relationships.) Anyways, hope you enjoy!
synopsis: The main reason you took advanced forensics was to stare at the epitope of handsomeness—Mr. Graham. Wanting to make him yours, you devised a plan to make him jealous and finally cross that boundary between student and professor.
WARNING: 18+ SMUT AHEAD
The main reason you took advanced forensics wasn't just because you needed the credits, that would be quite sane and normal. No, the main reason you took impeccable notes, sat at the front of the class, and was the last student to leave was because of your teacher. He was an eye sore in all the right places.
Mr. Graham.
You'd first noticed him during orientation week, when he'd given a guest lecture on criminal profiling. While other professors droned on about syllabi and academic policies, Mr. Graham had stood there, slightly rumpled, with an intensity that made the entire room lean forward. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, seemed to see right through everyone.
You were hooked before he'd even finished his first sentence.
Now, months into the semester, you had perfected the art of lingering after class. While other students packed up their things and rushed out, you'd approach his desk with some carefully crafted question about the day's lecture.
"The Chesapeake Ripper," you began, watching as he organized his papers. "You mentioned the surgical precision, but I think there's something more deliberate about the placement of the victims' organs. It's not just about removing them, it's about creating a new composition."
Mr. Graham looked up, his brow furrowed slightly. "Most students focus on the brutality."
"Because that's what they're supposed to see," you countered. "But if you look past the shock value, there's an aesthetic quality. The Ripper isn't just killing, he's curating, like an artist with their canvas."
A tiny smile threatens to appear on Mr. Graham's face. "I've never had a student use the word 'curating' to describe a serial killer's work."
"Is that wrong?" you asked, suddenly self conscious.
"No, it's…refreshingly honest."
That was how your after class conversations began. Each week, you'd find yourselves discussing the artistic elements of crime scenes, the psychological portraits behind the violence, the dark beauty that others missed. Mr. Graham seemed genuinely impressed by your insights, often leaning in as you spoke, his eyes alight with intellectual curiosity.
So, when you didn't show up to class two weeks later, Will found himself glancing at your empty seat throughout the lecture. He told himself it was concern for a promising student, nothing more. But as the days passed with no word from you, he felt an unusual unease settle in his chest. He caught himself checking his email more frequently, almost hoping for a message explaining your absence.
The next day, he asked the registrar's office for your contact information, citing academic concerns as his reason. As he typed out a simple message:
Just checking in. Hope everything is okay.
He couldn't shake the feeling that his interest had somehow crossed a line from professional to personal, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly when that had happened.
Across campus, you grinned, holding your phone as Mr. Graham's message glowed on your screen. Things were going to plan. Now for the next step, you needed to find yourself a willing victim. Changing into clothing that highlighted all of your good angles—a tight black shirt that clung to your chest and jeans that left little to the imagination—you visited a club and began to dance with a faceless man.
He was cute, with hands that roamed your body as you moved against him on the crowded dance floor. It wasn't about attraction, it was about procurement.
You let him buy you a drink, let him whisper promises in your ear, let him lead you to the dimly lit restroom in the back. You pushed him against the cold tile wall, your hands gripping his hips as you fucked him.
"Mark me." you commanded, and he obliged, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin on your neck until you were sure a dark bruise would bloom there. A trophy for your intended audience.
The next day, with the mark purpling and visible if you turned your head at just the right angle, you stayed after class. The other students filed out, their chatter fading down the hall, until it was just you and Mr. Graham in the lecture hall.
"I was worried," Will said, his voice tight with restrained emotion as he packed his briefcase. "You didn't respond to my message."
"I'm sorry," you said, approaching his desk. "Family issues. Everything's fine now." You turned your head slightly, pretending to look at something on the wall.
Will's eyes locked onto the mark and his entire demeanor changed. His posture stiffened, his jaw clenched, and a dark fire ignited in his gaze. He was angry. Angry that you had ignored him, and irrationally, possessively jealous of the mark on your neck.
"Is that so?" He slammed his briefcase shut "Don't lie to me," he snarled, closing the distance between you in three long strides. "Who did this to you?!"
You didn't answer, just looked up at him through your lashes. "Does it matter?"
Something in him snapped. He grabbed your arm, pulling you toward his office, before locking the door behind him. The blinds were already drawn, offering complete privacy.
"Nobody will touch you like that again." he growled, backing you against his desk.
"Make me."
And he did. Will's mouth was on yours, hungry and demanding. His hands were everywhere, tearing at your clothes as he lifted you onto his desk. Papers and books scattered to the floor as he positioned himself between your legs.
"You're mine," he grunted against your throat as he fucked you, his movements rough and possessive. "Say it."
"Yours." you moaned, arching against him as he claimed you completely. His fingers dug into your hips, leaving bruises of their own to match the one on your neck.
Afterward, as you both lay tangled on his desk, panting and spent, Will traced the mark on your neck with his thumb. "I meant what I said. Nobody else."
You smiled, knowing you had achieved exactly what you wanted. "I know."
authors note: I heard you loud and clear people. While many of you guys were iffy about the male reader cheating on Dick, at the end of the day, this is fiction and I make the rules (lower your pitchforks, I still love you guys.) So, this will have the reader be with both Jason and Dick, and no, there won't be sex occurring between Jay and Dick. I find it kinda weird since Bruce adopted them both (and in my head that makes them related/family.) Anyways, Jason and Dick are not backing off and eventually come to an agreement that sharing is best since you are confused and it's better than you leaving both of them. Expect fighting between both Robins and just them getting their claws out to fight for their man. I love being messy!!!!!!
Jason woke up with a dull ache in his back and hips, which was not unusual, given how he slept on the couch half the time. Then yesterday hit him like a flood.
The fight. The confession. The way you’d said I think I love you too with your forehead pressed to his as you fucked him on the sofa. The way you’d held him afterwards like he was important and worth being careful with.
Jason didn’t open his eyes, because logically, you were gone. That was how this was meant to go, right? You’d slipped away before dawn, got back to the manor, back to being Dick's perfect boyfriend, and Jason was left with nothing but the smell of you and the task of cutting you out of his chest.
He was contemplating whether to stay on the couch and drink his feelings into submission when something soft brushed his lips.
A kiss.
Jason jerked, eyes flying open in panic, and found you leaning over the back of the couch, your hand braced beside his head. You were already dressed, in his shirt and a pair of worn pajama bottoms he’d shoved into the back of his closet months ago.
Domestic. Comfortable. Like you belonged here.
“Hey,” you said, a little sheepish, like you’d woken him from a nap instead of a path down self-loathing. “I felt kinda gross when I woke up. Hope you don’t mind me stealing some clothes.”
Jason hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until it left him in a rush. “You’re still here.”
You raised a brow. “Where else would I be?”
“Home,” he said bluntly, then winced at his own choice of word. “I mean the manor. With Dick.”
Something flickered in your eyes. Guilt, maybe, or the weight of the day ahead. You sighed and swung your leg over the back of the couch, effectively dropping yourself over Jason. With you looking down at him, Jason managed to glimpse at your collarbone, which was marked from where his mouth had been yesterday.
“If I wanted to run back like nothing happened, I wouldn’t have stayed the night.”
He swallowed. “People stay the night and still don’t mean it.”
“Yeah, but I’m not ‘people,’ Jay.”
You leaned in and kissed him again, your hand resting at his jaw. Jason melted before he could stop himself, one hand coming up to rest on your waist, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt clinging to you.
You pulled back with a small smile. “I made coffee.”
He blinked, then snorted. “You made coffee?”
“Okay, put on the coffee machine. Also, I found eggs. That pan is a war crime, by the way, but I’m handling it.”
Jason pushed himself upright slowly, still blinking like his brain was trying to reboot. “You cooked?”
“Trying to,” you re-iterated, standing to stretch. The hem of his shirt lifted a little and he looked away quickly, ears burning. “Come before the apartment burns down.”
He followed you to the kitchen on autopilot. The place didn’t look all that different, but somehow it felt different. There were two mugs on the counter. Bread in the toaster. You at the stove, stirring scrambled eggs with a focus that made his chest twist.
You moved around his too small kitchen like you’d done it a hundred times. When he passed behind you to grab plates, you leaned back without thinking, your shoulder brushing his chest. His arm automatically circled your waist, pulling you closer for a second.
“Careful, hot pan.” you mumbled, but you relaxed fully into him, your free hand squeezing his forearm.
His chin found your shoulder without him deciding it. “You’re unreal.” he muttered.
“How so?”
“You’re in my kitchen. Wearing my clothes. Making my tiny piece of shit apartment feel like…” He trailed off, chest tight. “I don’t know. Like it’s more than a hell hole.”
You went quiet for a moment, then turned the stove off and shifted in his arms to face him. “Maybe it is more than a hell hole,” you said softly. “At least to me.”
The urge to kiss you again was overwhelming. So he did.
You smiled against his mouth, kissing him back like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like this—you and him, morning light and mismatched mugs and eggs that were probably overcooked—wasn’t borrowed, doomed happiness.
You both ate on the couch, legs pressed together, the TV off, the quiet oddly cozy. Jason watched you more than he ate. The way you held the mug with both hands. The way you wrinkled your nose at the taste but kept drinking anyway. The way, every so often, your fingers would find his knee or his arm or his hand like you couldn’t not touch him.
It was everything he’d wanted. It was everything he was terrified to lose.
And then your phone rang. Dick's name flashing across the screen.
Jason watched you turn your phone face down, a small, defiant gesture that made his heart ache with a dangerous mix of hope and terror. He wanted to believe you. God, he wanted to believe you so badly it felt like his ribs were cracking open from the force of it. But the voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like his father and the Joker and every single person who had ever left him, was screaming.
This is a dream. A beautiful, cruel dream. Wake up, Todd!
The silence after the phone stopped ringing was heavy. You were still looking at him, your expression earnest, but Jason couldn't see it anymore. All he could see was the inevitable future: you walking out that door, the scent of you fading from his pillows, the phantom warmth of your body on his couch turning cold.
"Sure," Jason said, his voice suddenly flat, all the softness from moments before evaporating. "Whatever you say."
You frowned, sensing the shift immediately. "Jason, what's wrong?"
He forced a laugh, a harsh, ugly sound that grated on his own ears. "What's wrong? You're sitting here talking about 'moments' and 'what we have' while your boyfriend is blowing up your phone. You're acting like this is some…some choice you get to make. Like you're not just slumming it before you go back to your golden boy."
"Slumming it?" you repeated, hurt flashing across your face. "Is that what you think this is?"
"What else am I supposed to think?" he shot back, pushing himself off the couch and putting distance between them. He needed to move, to pace, to do something with the frantic energy buzzing under his skin.
"You're not going to leave him. We both know that. So what is this? A pity fuck? A way to soothe your conscience before you go back and tell him it was all a big mistake?"
"It wasn't a mistake!" you insisted, standing up too. "I told you I love you."
"And I told you I love you too!" He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his eyes wild.
"I've been in love with you since I was fifteen! Since you were the only person at the manor who looked at me like I wasn't a broken, angry replacement! And now you're here, in my apartment, wearing my clothes, telling me everything I've ever wanted to hear, and it's perfect. It's so fucking perfect it has to be a lie, because people like me don't get perfect!"
He'd said too much. He'd shown you the raw, ugly desperation he kept locked away.
"So you need to leave," he said, his voice dropping to a low, weary monotone. He couldn't look at you. If he looked at you, he'd break. "Just go. Go back to Dick. Don't even bother with the big confession. Just tell him you stayed at a friend's. Let's just…let's just pretend this never happen."
"Jason, but I—"
"Please," he whispered, the single word a raw plea. "Just go. Don't make me watch you choose him. Don't make me be the second choice again. Just let me…let me have this. The memory of you here. Let me have that before you ruin it."
The front door opened then closed with a soft click that echoed the sound of his heart breaking. Jason sank onto the couch, the spot where you'd just been sitting still warm. He buried his face in his hands and let the self loathing wash over him. He'd pushed you away. He'd always known he would.
TIME SKIP
The walk back to Dick's apartment was a blur. You felt numb, Jason's words echoing in your head. People like me don't get perfect. You had broken him. You had taken his fragile hope and crushed it with your own cowardice.
Dick’s apartment felt wrong before you even knocked.
You’d been here hundreds of times. After patrol, for movies, to crash in his bed and pretend the world didn’t exist. Usually, just standing outside the door made something in you loosen. Today, everything in you was tight.
The door opened before you could knock.
Dick stood there in sweats and a t-shirt, hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it all morning. His eyes flicked over you once, and whatever greeting he’d been formulating died on his tongue.
“You smell like smoke,” he said flatly. “and cheap soap.”
You swallowed. “Can I come in?”
He stepped aside mechanically. “I think you’d better.”
You walked in. The living room felt colder, the sunlight through the windows too harsh. Dick closed the door with quiet finality. “Where were you last night?” he asked, skipping every pretense of small talk.
"With Jason." No point in lying.
His jaw flexed. “Were you drinking?”
“No.”
“Drugged?”
You stared at him. “No.”
His eyes were dark when they met yours. “Did he touch you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you want him to?”
You held his gaze. “Yes.”
Dick laughed. A sharp, humorless sound. “Okay,” he said, nodding too fast. "Okay. So he what, cried? Play the victim? Tell you how sad and lonely he is? How no one understands him? He's always been good at that. Making people feel sorry for him—"
“Stop.” Your voice cut across his neatly. “This isn’t his fault.”
“He’s had a crush on you since he was a teenager.”
“And I knew that when I walked into his apartment,” you shot back. “Jason didn’t manipulate me. He didn’t drug me. He didn’t trick me. I went to him. I kissed him. I chose what happened.”
Dick stared at you like you’d slapped him. “You’re saying you cheated on me. Freely.”
“Yes.”
He flinched at the word, the honesty slicing deeper than even the betrayal. “Why?”
You inhaled, steadying yourself. “Because I haven’t been happy, Dick.”
His expression twisted. “That’s bullshit. We’ve been fine. You—you laugh with me, you sleep in my bed, you come over after patrol—”
“That’s routine. Not happiness.”
His hands curled into fists. “So he makes you happy?”
You shut your eyes for a moment then opened them. “Yes.”
Something wild flashed across his face. “He’s using you to get to me, Y/N. Can't you see that?”
Your patience snapped. “Dick, for once, this isn’t about you. This is about me and about what I feel.”
“And what is it that you feel for him? Do you seriously want to throw everything we've built over one night of pity sex with the perpetual fuck up that is my brother?"
“It wasn’t pity sex,” you hissed. “And don’t call him that.”
Dick’s temper finally slipped off its leash. “He’s always wanted what I have! The mantle, the name, my boyfriend. You think it’s a coincidence you ran to him after we fought? He’s been waiting for this—”
“He told you he wouldn’t cross that line,” you cut in. “He did the right thing for years. You’re the one who never believed him.”
“That’s because he wanted you!”
“And you didn’t?” you snapped. “Is your desire for me somehow purer that his? Less dangerous? Let's remember how we even got together, Dick. You remember that night? After the Joker? After everything fell apart? You cornered me in the training room. You told me if I didn't give you a chance, you'd lose it. That you needed something to hold onto because you feared you'll lose yourself among the madness."
Dick's face went white, the anger draining away to be replaced by something far more chilling. A cold, calculated stillness. "That was different."
"How?" you challenged, your own anger fueling you. "Because you were the 'golden boy'? Because your pain was more valid?"
"Because I love you! Not like him. Whatever he feels, it's twisted. It's obsession. He wants to own you to spite me. What we have is real. It's built on something good."
"Is it? Or is it built on you being terrified of being alone? Of not being the center of someone's world?"
The accusation hit its mark. Dick's composure shattered completely. He crossed the space between you in two strides, his hands gripping your upper arms so tightly you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow.
"You think you know me?" he hissed, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "You think you know anything about what I feel? I have watched you for years. I know how you take your coffee, I know which side of the bed you prefer, I know the exact way your eyes crinkle when you're trying not to laugh. I know you better than you know yourself."
"Dick," you struggled, but his grip was like iron.
"I have given you everything!" he continued, his voice rising with a frantic edge. "A home, safety, my heart! And you throw it away for him? For the broken, bitter shadow of a boy who has nothing left to give but his misery?"
"He loves me."
"And I don't?!" he shook you slightly. "I would die for you! I would kill for you! What has he ever done but bleed all over everyone who gets close to him?"
He finally let go, shoving you back slightly. He began to pace the room, running his hands through his hair, his movements agitated, almost manic.
"This is fixable," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "I can forgive you. I will forgive you. Because I love you more than he ever could."
He stopped and turned to you. His smile was gentle, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to forget him. You're going to block his number. You're going to tell Bruce you need a transfer to a different city for a while, just to get some 'space'." He air-quoted the word, his expression dripping with condescension.
"You'll come live with me. We'll burn that shirt you're wearing. We'll pretend this never happened, and in a few months, you'll barely remember he even existed."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't. Because you know, deep down, that I'm right. I'm the one who can give you the world. I'm the one who loves you enough to not let you ruin your life over a mistake."
He wrapped his hands around your neck, his thumbs pressing gently against your pulse points. "You're shaking. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you. I'm the one who protects you. Who takes care of you."
He leaned in, his face so close to yours that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "Jason can't protect you. He can barely protect himself. He's damaged goods and you know it. You'd be throwing yourself away on broken pieces."
His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin of your neck. "But me? I'm whole. And I want to give you everything. The apartment, the life, the future we planned. All you have to do is say yes."
Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn't the desperate, angry kiss you expected. It was patient, almost reverent. His lips moved against yours with ease, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you parted for him with a gasp.
The kiss deepened, and despite everything—despite the betrayal, the manipulation, the terrifying possessiveness—you found yourself responding. Dick had always been a good kisser, and he knew exactly how to unravel you.
"See?" he murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. "We fit together. We always have."
His hands slid from your neck to your waist, pulling you flush against him. "This doesn't have to be the end. It can be the beginning. A stronger beginning, because now we know what we're fighting for."
His mouth found yours again, more insistent this time. One hand moved up to tangle in your hair, holding you in place as he kissed you with an intensity that bordered on violent. When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your lips swollen and tingling.
Dick's eyes were dark with satisfaction.
"I forgive you," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. "I've already forgiven you. All you have to do is accept it." His thumb stroked your cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. "Please say you'll stay with me. Say you'll choose me."
You opened your mouth, but no words came out. The choice felt impossible, like being asked to choose between drowning and burning.
authors note: Okay, so this idea is so silly and stupid, but I like it okay?! So, yes, I decided to write a secret Tumblr user Bucky fangirling over their teammate. And because I wanted to add some comedic elements, I made Bucky not even create an alter ego, his love for his teammate might as well be plastered across a billboard if his account ever reached popularity (I envision his blog having less than 200 followers.) Anyways, I hope you guys like this turned out!
synopsis: Bucky being aloof was nothing new. It was his thing, okay? But would you believe it if he was secretly the account owner of a blog dedicated to you? Fanart, fan fiction, thirst posts, you name it. Discovering the page while scrolling through Tumblr, you couldn't help but be amused by the whole thing.
The mission had been a nightmare. Three days of tracking, two of fighting, and now you were finally back at the Avengers compound, nursing a bruised rib and slight limp. Bucky had been your assigned partner for the mission, as per Steve's strategic pairing.
You'd always thought Bucky was a bit aloof around you. Not rude, just reserved. He'd nod in acknowledgment, offer tactical advice when needed, but rarely engaged in the casual banter you shared with other team members. Steve had assured you it was just Bucky's way, that he'd warm up eventually.
"I'm heading to the debrief room," you told Bucky as you passed him in the hallway. "Steve wants us to go over the mission report."
He gave that slight nod you'd become accustomed to. "I'll be there in five."
As you walked away, you didn't notice the way Bucky's shoulders relaxed, nor did you hear the soft sigh of relief he exhaled once you were out of sight. He pulled out his phone, opened Tumblr, and began typing furiously.
For the past eighteen months, Bucky had maintained a secret identity online. WinterShield, a fan account dedicated entirely to you. His blog was a collage of mission photos (some official, some surreptitiously taken), analyses of your fighting techniques, and, most embarrassingly, fan fiction he'd written about you.
Thinking that the account would never see the light of day, Bucky didn't see the point of keeping his identity a secret. After all, who in their right mind would think that the official Bucky Barnes would be on Tumblr and not some role player? Opening the draft section, Bucky's latest post was already taking shape.
THEY DID THE THING AGAIN. That move where they disarm three guys in like 2.5 seconds? I'M SCREAMING. And then they looked at me, AT ME, and asked if I was okay. ME. The former assassin who definitely was not having heart palpitations because their teammate looked at them with concerned eyes. NOPE. Totally cool over here. Just casually internally combusting.
Afterward, in the quinjet, they kept adjusting their tactical gear, specifically the left shoulder strap where it was rubbing against their bruised ribs. I wanted to offer medical assistance but instead I just sat there like a malfunctioning robot, probably looking constipated. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?
Bucky hit post. This was his release valve, his way of processing emotions that still felt too big and too complicated for his post Hydra brain. The anonymity (or lack thereof) of the internet allowed him to express what he couldn't in person. That he was completely, utterly smitten with his teammate.
A week later, you were browsing Tumblr during some downtime, scrolling through fan theories about recent Avengers missions and liking fanart. However, one particular post caught your eye. As you began reading, a strange feeling washed over you.
The details were uncannily specific. The way you'd hidden your injury during the last mission, the exact sequence of moves you'd used against the final opponent. But that was public knowledge, right? Anyone could have pieced that together from mission reports.
You decided to keep reading.
Afterward, in the quinjet, they kept adjusting their tactical gear, specifically the left shoulder strap where it was rubbing against their bruised ribs. I wanted to offer medical assistance but instead I just sat there like a malfunctioning robot, probably looking constipated. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?
Your hand flew to your mouth. That specific detail, about your left shoulder strap, was something only someone on the quinjet would have known. Something you hadn't even gone to the medic bay to get fixed.
Frantically, you scrolled through WinterShield's blog. Post after post, detail after detail that was too precise to be coincidence. Photos taken from angles only a teammate could achieve. Descriptions of your habits, your expressions, your mannerisms.
And then you found it, a post from six months ago titled "Coffee and Kindness":
TODAY THEY BROUGHT ME COFFEE AND I'M PRETTY SURE I STOPPED BREATHING FOR A SOLID MINUTE. They remembered how I take it. Extra sugar, black otherwise. HOW? Is their superpower mind reading? Do they have a secret file on everyone's beverage preferences? I'm not even mad, I'm impressed. And also maybe a little aroused. OKAY A LOT AROUSED. SEND HELP.
You couldn't help but laugh at the all caps enthusiasm. This wasn't just a fan. This was a full on stan, and based on the details, there was really only one person it could be.
"Steve?" you called out, your voice shaky with laughter as you found him in the common area. "You need to see this."
As Steve read through the blog, his expression shifted from confusion to shock to concern. "This is detailed and very enthusiastic."
"You don't think…" you couldn't finish the thought, giggling now.
Steve's eyes met yours, full of dawning realization. "The all caps posts about tactical gear, the detailed analysis of your fighting style...there's only one person who could have written this."
You decided not to confront Bucky immediately. This was too entertaining to end so quickly. Instead, you decided to conduct a little experiment. The next morning at breakfast, you made sure to sit across from Bucky.
"Morning, Barnes," you said with your brightest smile. "Sleep well?"
He nearly choked on a piece of pancake. "Fine. You?"
"Couldn't sleep," you replied, leaning forward slightly. "Too busy thinking about that mission debrief we have today. I'm really looking forward to working closely with you again."
Bucky's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "We…we have a debrief?"
"Yep," you said, popping the 'p'. "All day. Just the two of us. In a small room. With lots of paperwork."
Later that day, you checked WinterShield's blog. Sure enough, a new post was up:
THEY SIT ACROSS FROM ME AT BREAKFAST AND ASK IF I SLEPT WELL. I DON'T SLEEP. I HAVEN'T SLEPT PROPERLY SINCE 1945. BUT TODAY I ESPECIALLY DIDN'T SLEEP BECAUSE THEY LEANED FORWARD AND SAID "LOOKING FORWARD TO WORKING CLOSELY WITH YOU." I think I short circuited. Sam had to check if I was still breathing. I wasn't. I'm writing this from the afterlife where I will spend eternity replaying that moment in my head.
You were practically crying with laughter. This was your new favorite hobby.
The next day, you upped the ante. During training, you "accidentally" brushed against Bucky more times than strictly necessary.
"Oops, sorry," you'd say with a wink each time. "Guess I'm just clumsy around you."
By the end of the session, Bucky was a flustered mess, barely able to complete his training routines. That night's blog post was a masterpiece of keyboard smashing:
ajskdhfaskdjhfg THEY KEEP TOUCHING ME. "ACCIDENTALLY." THEIR HAND BRUSHED MINE SEVEN TIMES. SEVEN. I COUNTED. I'M NOT EVEN SURE MY NAME IS JAMES ANYMORE. IT MIGHT BE "THE PERSON WHOSE TEAMMATE KEEPS 'ACCIDENTALLY' TOUCHING THEM." I WOULD ACCEPT THIS NEW IDENTITY. GLADLY.
You decided it was time to put Bucky out of his misery. During movie night, you strategically positioned yourself next to him on the couch, "accidentally" falling asleep and resting your head on his shoulder. You weren't actually asleep, of course. You were listening to his increasingly panicked breathing.
When the movie ended, you "woke up" with a stretch.
"Oh, sorry about that," you said, pretending to be embarrassed. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."
"No problem." Bucky said, but his voice was an octave higher than usual.
"You know," you said casually, pulling out your phone, "I was reading this really interesting fan blog earlier. WinterShield? Have you heard of it?"
Bucky went rigid. "I don't really follow fan content."
"Really? You should," you said, turning your phone to show him the blog. "They have some interesting perspectives. Like this post about how I 'accidentally' touched them during training. But the strangest thing is that instead of the reader being faceless, it has you being the recipient. Every single post."
Bucky's eyes widened in horror as he stared at the screen, then at you, then back at the screen. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. The blush that had been creeping up his neck suddenly exploded across his face, turning him a shade of red you'd previously only seen on the team's warning alerts.
"That's…that's just a coincidence," he finally managed to squeak out, his voice cracking. "Lots of people look like me."
"Bucky," you said, your tone softening slightly despite your amusement. "The post includes detailed descriptions of your tactical gear. Unless there's another one of those running around, I'm pretty sure it's you."
He slumped against the couch cushions, looking utterly defeated. "How long have you known?"
"About a week," you admitted, unable to keep the grin off your face. "I have to say, your all caps posts about my 'combat hair' and 'mission face' are my personal favorites. Very passionate analysis."
Bucky buried his face in his hands. "I'm never using the internet again."
"Oh, don't say that," you replied, nudging his shoulder playfully. "Where else would I get such detailed compliments about my 'strategic genius' and 'battle ready physique'?"
He stared at you, completely dumbfounded. "You…you read them all?"
"Every word," you confirmed. "Including the one where you described my 'eyes like molten chocolate' and 'smile that could stop traffic.' Though I think you might have been exaggerating a bit there."
Bucky's blush returned with a vengeance. "I…I was…it's called creative license."
"Well, Mr. Creative License," you said, reaching out to trace a line down his metal arm. "I was wondering if you'd like to get some coffee sometime? No audience, no blog posts. Just you and me."
He looked like he might actually faint. "You…you want to get coffee...with me?"
"I do," you said firmly. "Unless you'd rather write about me from afar?"
"No!" he said quickly, then cleared his throat. "I mean…yes. To the coffee. Not to the writing from afar."
"Good because I'd much rather have the real thing than read about it."
Bucky's eyes widened at your implication, but he managed a nod. "Friday? Seven o'clock?"
"It's a date." you confirmed, giving him one last wink before walking away. That night's WinterShield post was short but sweet:
I HAVE A DATE WITH THEM. AN ACTUAL DATE. I'M PRETTY SURE THIS IS A DREAM AND I'M GOING TO WAKE UP ANY SECOND. IF THIS IS REAL, I MIGHT ACTUALLY EXPLODE FROM HAPPINESS. SOMEONE PUNCH ME, BUT NOT TOO HARD BECAUSE I NEED TO LOOK GOOD FOR FRIDAY.
How would Dick and Jason react to their best friend (m!reader) show up at their door wearing wedding attires (flower boutquet and wedding ring) as a prank?
You can make the ending platonic or romantic if you'd like!
SO, WHEN ARE WE GETTING MARRIED?
platonic! dick grayson/jason todd﹠male reader
authors note: oh, that made me put my thinking hat on :) It's such a bizarre thing to be on the receiving end, but I think I nailed down their reactions. Also, with me kinda being sick of writing lovey smutty fics, I made them be platonically with the reader.
DICK GRAYSON
The door swings open and Dick's face goes through about seventeen emotions in three seconds. "Oh," he says. Then, brighter: "Oh! Oh."
He doesn't step back. He steps forward, invading your personal space to smooth the lapels of your thrifted suit. His eyes are doing that thing where they crinkle at the corners.
"Is this—are you—" He's laughing like he's been waiting his whole life for someone to show up at his door in a cheap suit with a plastic ring. "Did you get married without me?"
"Technically I'm trying to marry you."
You raise the bouquet as some sort of proof and he takes them, burying his nose in them even though they're half wilted daisies from the clearance bin.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." Dick smiles, the full Nightwing special on display, the one that makes villains pause and civilians swoon.
"But if we're doing this, we're doing it right. I'm calling Alfred. He's going to want to record it, and you're wearing one of my good suits. Not this....whatever polyester nightmare you've got on."
He doesn't ask if it's a joke, he simply hooks his arm through yours and starts pulling you inside towards his closet. He's already planning caterers in his head, already deciding which of his siblings to invite, and who's going to be his best man. Because that's Dick. Everything's real to him until proven otherwise. Every stupid joke is just practice for the real thing.
JASON TODD
The gun is out before the door is even fully open.
"Back up," Jason says flatly, "Slowly. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying, and if you're here to tell me you're in love with me or some shit, I'm gonna need you to rethink your life choices."
He keeps the gun trained on you for a solid five seconds, probably checking if you've been mind controlled or replaced by a shapeshifter or if this is some weird villain trap. When you don't explode or try to stab him, he lowers the weapon and runs a hand over his face.
"What the hell is this? Did you lose a bet? Are you being punished? Is this a cult thing? Please tell me this isn't a cult thing because I really don't have the energy to deprogram you today."
"None of the above," you say with a smile, "I've come to make an honest man of you."
He looks at the ring box. Looks at your face. Looks back at the ring box. "Is that from a vending machine?"
"Quarter machine," you correct. "Outside the laundromat. I had to fight a child for it."
"Uh huh and the suit?"
"Thrift store. Eight bucks. The pants have a mustard stain that predates my birth."
Jason nods then he steps back and starts to close the door.
"Wait!" You shove your foot in the gap. "You're not even going to hear my proposal?"
"Nope."
"I wrote vows!"
"Don't care."
"I promised Alfred I'd get you to wear something without bullet holes!"
The door stops. Jason's eye appears in the crack, narrowed and suspicious yet interested. "...Alfred knows about this?"
"He's making a cake." you lie.
Jason exhales through his nose, a long suffering sound that translates roughly to I have killed men for less and yet here I am, tolerating this. He opens the door fully, crossing his arms over his chest, making himself look bigger and meaner than he is.
"So is this a yes?"
"This is a get inside before the neighbors think I'm running some kind of shotgun wedding operation out of my apartment." He turns and walks into the apartment, leaving you to follow.
"And you're paying for the annulment. And the therapy I'm going to need. And dinner. I'm thinking steak. Expensive steak. The kind that comes with a wine list."
Omg I will be so excited wen part 3 of the only common sense character in Twilight comes out I need more please never stop
OH, COME ON! I'M JUST STATING THE OBVIOUS PT. 3
platonic! the cullens﹠gender neutral reader
LINK TO PART ONE AND PART TWO
authors note: I did it. I FINALLY MANAGED TO MAKE A PART THREE FOR THIS SERIES! As you can see, it's quite long and I apologize beforehand if the fic isn't formatted right. This has taken so much time and with snippets being added at later times, consider it some sort of fucked up collage. Anyways, I had fun writing this and hopefully the next part, which will cover Eclipse, will come out soon! Enjoy!
The first thing you did after leaving Forks was pull out your phone and then casually throw it into the ocean. The silence that followed was beautiful. Then you jumped after it.
Not because you were suicidal. You were a vampire. The fall was more of an inconvenience than anything. No, you jumped because for the first time in months, your mind was free to focus on the truly important questions.
Questions that had plagued you for decades. Questions science refused to answer. For example:
If drinking human blood was essentially the vampire equivalent of a carnivore diet and drinking animal blood made you guys the supernatural equivalent of vegetarians...Then what would a vampire be called if they solely drank the blood of sea creatures?
Pescatarian? Could a vampire even survive exclusively on sea creatures? And if so, would that transformed you into some sort of fucked up mermaid?
These were important questions and you intended to find answers.
Months later, you still hadn't. You did, however, discover several other things. Firstly, Dolphins were evil. You didn't know why humans thought they were cute, but after spending three days around them, you were convinced they were the psychopaths of the ocean. Whales, however, were significantly nicer.
Sharks were surprisingly straightforward. Squid were judgmental and sea turtles had somehow mastered the art of looking disappointed.
It was, honestly, one of the best vacations you'd ever had.
Eventually, however, even paradise got boring. Which was why nearly five months later you found yourself returning to Forks. Not because you missed anyone. That would just be embarrassing. You simply wanted to check on things.
Maybe visit Charlie. Maybe see if Bella had finally used the therapy sessions. Maybe punch Edward if he was around.
Normal things.
However, the moment you stood outside the Swan house, something felt off. You couldn't explain it, but the vibe was just depressing. "...Jesus Christ."
Then you walked inside and immediately wished you hadn't. Because Bella was curled into a ball on the couch. Not reading, not sleeping, not watching television. Just existing. "...What the fuck."
You checked for a pulse. And, hurray, she was still alive. "Bella?" Nothing. "You good?" Nothing. "Blink twice if you've been possessed." Nothing.
Jesus Christ. This some scary shit.
You were about two seconds away from quietly backing out and pretending you never came when a damn bird flew through the open window. It flew overhead for a second before it attempted to take a shit on your shoulder.
"YOU FILTHY LITTLE—"
Bella's head snapped toward you. You froze. The bird wisely fled the scene.
Then Bella stood up. Her eyes looked unhinged, like somebody had removed all the lights and forgotten to put them back. You took a cautious step backward. "Nope." Another stop. "Absolutely not."
And then she launched herself at you.
"What the fu—"
You barely had enough time to brace yourself before she slammed into your chest. Her arms wrapped around you. Tightly, way too tightly. "You're back." Not liking the physical contact, you tried to push her off, but discovered something horrifying. Bella was stronger than she looked. Pushing, shoving, and even an elbow to the ribs didn't grant you sweet release.
You stared at the ceiling.
This was somehow worse than the comatose phase.
After several minutes, in what felt like a hostage negotiation, you finally managed to pry her off. Taking a seat on the couch, Bella immediately filled the spot beside you. Far too close for comfort, mind you. And, more concerningly, she never stopped staring. Not once. You'd seen bears look at food with less intensity.
"....So, where's Charlie?"
"At work."
"Good."
Pause.
"Where is the rest of your family?"
There it was.
You sighed. "Vacation."
"Vacation?"
"Yep."
"Where?"
"No clue."
"When are they coming back?"
"No clue."
"Do they miss me?"
You stared at Bella as the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels "Girl," you pointed at her. "What have you been doing for the last five months?"
Bella shrugged. The gesture irritated you immediately. "Nothing really. I've just been...here."
You looked toward the ceiling, searching for strength, yet found none. "Okay but like..." You gestured wildly. "Anything else?"
Silence.
Your eye twitched. "A hobby?" Nothing. "A friend?" Nothing. "A new crush?" Nothing. You slowly sat up straighter. "...Therapy?"
Bella immediately looked away.
You felt something inside you snap. "ISABELA MARIE SWAN." She visibly flinched. "Oh my God." You stood up. "OH MY GOD."
"It wasn't—"
"I PREPAID AN ENTIRE YEAR."
Bella shrank into the couch. "I know."
"Do you know how expensive that was?"
"I know."
"Do you know how hard it is to find a therapist who won't immediately kick you out the door after hearing vampire-related nonsense? And you didn't go?"
"I was busy."
"Busy doing what?! Auditioning to become furniture?"
Bella looked offended. "I was depressed."
"THAT'S WHAT THE THERAPY WAS FOR!" You began pacing because if you sat down again, you might actually lose your mind. "I left resources. I left support. I left professional help. I LEFT A NOTEBOOK."
Bella quietly mumbled, "I used the notebook."
You stopped pacing, hope flickered in your eyes. "...Really?"
She nodded.
Your shoulders relaxed slightly. "Okay." Maybe there was progress. Maybe things weren't as bad as they looked. "That's good."
Bella hesitated then added, "Most of it was about Edward."
The hope died instantly. You dragged both hands down your face. "Unbelievable."
And somehow, against all reason, you already knew you weren't leaving anytime soon. Because somebody clearly needed adult supervision, and unfortunately, you were the closest thing available.
"Okay," You pointed a finger at her. "First thing tomorrow, we're getting you a hobby."
Bella blinked. "A hobby?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
You thought about it then shrugged. "At this point, I don't care. Knitting. Karate. Tax fraud. Something."
You had honestly expected her to choose something boring like journaling. You had not, however, expected the universe to hand her Jacob Black. Which, in hindsight, was exactly the sort of thing the universe would do. And honestly? You liked him immediately.
Not in a “oh, I endorse this relationship” way. More in a “compared to Edward, this kid feels like a green flag” way.
Jacob was blunt. He was loud. He had the general energy of a golden retriever that had learned how to be sarcastic. He called Bella on her nonsense, talked to her like a person instead of a fragile glass ornament, and, most importantly, did not spend his nights lurking outside someone's window like a supernatural creeper with abandonment issues.
Which was deeply refreshing.
On your end, you made her eat. You made her shower. You made her change clothes that no longer qualified as clothes and more as crime scene evidence. You made her go outside, even if it was just to stand on the porch and glare at the sky like it had personally offended her. And somehow, through all of it, Jacob had wormed his way into the routine too, offering her rides, bad jokes, and a level of emotional maturity your brother Edward could only hope to have.
And then, because the universe apparently hates peace and you winning in life, Alice came back to ruin everything. You were sitting on Charlie's couch when the front door opened, and there stood your sister with an expression of utter disbelief.
"Alice!"
The amount of happiness that flooded Bella's face was honestly alarming. Before you could blink, Bella had launched herself across the room and wrapped Alice in a hug.
For a moment, you actually pitied your sister. Because damn, that human was strong. Months of hauling motorcycle parts around with Jacob had apparently paid off as Alice staggered backward slightly from the force of impact.
"You're here."
Alice hugged her back automatically, though her expression remained completely bewildered. After a moment, she pulled away just enough to stare at Bella's face.
“Would you like to explain to me how you’re still alive?! I saw a vision of you, jumping off a cliff. I knew I’d be too late but—” Her expression sharpened into pure outrage. “Why the hell would you try to kill yourself?!”
Bella eyes widened. “I didn’t. I was cliff jumping.”
“Why?”
Bella hesitated, then gave the most unconvincing shrug of all time. “Um…fun?”
Alice’s expression twisted in disbelief so complete it was almost impressive. “That was fun for you?”
“Until I hit the water.”
“I have never met anyone more prone to life-threatening idiocy in my life.” Then she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “And what is that hideous wet dog smell?”
“Oh, probably Jacob. He’s a werewolf.”
"Great, you manage to—" Alice abruptly stops, eyes going hazy, which is a clear indicator that she's currently receiving a vision. You straightened on the sofa, but didn't dare approach her, as last time you did, she backhanded you so hard you crashed through Carlisle's antique bookshelf.
She still owed you an apology by the way.
The longer Alice remained still, the more you grew concerned. Concerned in the sense that if this turned into another family crisis, you were going to return to the ocean and stay there indefinitely.
Alice inhaled sharply. Her eyes snapped back into focus, and for the first time since arriving, she looked afraid. "Bella, Edward thinks you're dead."
The next minutes were spent with Alice informing Bella about what her vision entailed, and honestly, you stopped listening at the mention of the Volturi.
No. Just no.
You knew about the Volturi.
Ancient vampires. Ridiculous power. Enough influence to make kings kneel. And one of them, if old stories were to be believed, had the personality of a medieval tax collector.
No thank you.
You valued your life or at least your continued existence. You had no desire to meet the vampire equivalent of Vlad the Impaler and his equally terrifying coworkers.
At some point you must have started dissociating because the next thing you knew the house was eerily quiet. You looked around and realized that your sister and Bella were gone, along with the car previously out front.
“…Huh.”
They left without you. Good. Excellent. Wonderful. You made yourself more comfortable on the couch. Problem solved. Then, the front door slammed open and you barely had time to react before tiny vampire hands grabbed your arm.
“Get up.”
“No.”
Alice pulled. You didn’t move. She pulled harder. You remained firmly planted on the couch. The couch, however, groaned in protest.
“Get up.”
“No way in hell am I going all the way to Italy just because Edward decided he wanted to become a damn drama queen. I already fixed Bella to the best of my abilities. I ain’t no genie.”
Alice stared at you with the same expression she always got when she was seconds away from either winning or committing a crime. “You are coming.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m really, sincerely, deeply not.”
Alice’s jaw tightened. “Y/N.”
You folded your arms and sank deeper into the couch like a stubborn cat with a grudge. “Alice, listen to me very carefully. I have spent months dragging Bella out of a depressive swamp because your brother thought being emotionally devastating was a personality trait. I have done my civic duty. I have fulfilled my obligation to the vampire community. I have contributed. I am done. This is the end of my shift.”
Alice made a noise in the back of her throat that meant she was losing patience, which was honestly rude considering you were the one being inconvenienced.
“Edward thinks she’s dead.” she said, a little more sharply now, as if that was supposed to change your mind.
You deadpanned. “And? That is a he problem.”
“He’s going to Volterra.”
“Sounds like a him-and-the-Italian-police problem.”
Alice’s eyes flashed. “He’s serious.”
You shrugged. “Natural consequences.”
"He's going to kill himself!"
“And whose fault is that? The man has existed for over a century and apparently never learned how to use a damn telephone.”
“He’s grieving!”
“He’s stupid!”
“He’s emotional!”
“He’s Edward!” You threw your hands into the air. "I'm not stopping you or Bella from saving him, although he kinda deserves it, but I'm also not joining."
And you stayed true to your word.
You didn’t go to Italy.
You didn’t stand around in ancient marble hallways while vampires with inferiority complexes made speeches about blood and fate and whatever other miserable nonsense old immortals used to fill the centuries. You didn’t watch Edward and Bella have whatever emotional disaster of a reunion that was bound to happen.
You went back to your rented apartment, kicked your shoes off by the door, and for the first time in what felt like forever, let silence sit with you without demanding anything in return.
It was glorious.
You made tea you didn’t need. Sat on your couch like a king who had survived a coup. Opened a book, read the same sentence four times, and still counted that as a win. There was no Bella crisis. No Edward crisis. No family meeting. No one collapsing emotionally in front of you and expecting you to catch them.
For maybe five whole day, your life was peaceful until there was a knock on your door. Frowning because you rarely had visitors that were not family, you stood up and opened the door.
“…Jasper?”
Your brother smiled in greeting, and before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around him. “Dude, I missed you. Like—I don’t say this often, but I did.”
Jasper laughed softly, returning the hug. “I missed you too.”
And there it was.
The reason Alice’s emotional blackmail worked every single time. Because if she was your sister, Jasper was your platonic soulmate. Your brother from another mother. The person who understood silence as fluently as conversation.
“Get in here.”
Jasper entered your apartment and stopped. His golden eyes traveled over the space. The ocean maps. The marine biology books. The suspiciously large amount of waterproof equipment, and the whiteboard.
Written across it in large letters was:
DO VAMPIRES BECOME MERMAIDS IF THEY DRINK FISH BLOOD??
Jasper turned to you confused. “…What?”
You immediately lit up. “Oh, I’m so glad you asked.”
Three hours later, Jasper was sat on your couch listening patiently while you explained your adventures beneath the sea. You told him about wrestling sharks. Losing to octopi and discovering that dolphins were evil.
“They’re organized,” you said gravely. “Too organized.”
Jasper nodded solemnly. “I believe you.”
“THANK YOU.”
“Nobody else does?”
“They called me paranoid.”
Jasper frowned. “You are, but dolphins are unsettling.”
You pointed at him dramatically. “Exactly! This is why you’re my favorite.” A pause. “…Don’t tell the others except Edward. He doesn't even make it on the list.”
“I won’t.”
You relaxed then narrowed your eyes. “Wait.” Jasper froze before you pointed accusingly. “You didn’t come all this way just to visit me.”
He looked away.
Bingo.
You gasped dramatically. “YOU HAVE AN AGENDA.”
Jasper looked almost guilty. Which on Jasper meant he looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Carlisle asked me to find you.”
You slumped. “Of course he did.” You buried your face into a pillow. “I’m not coming back.”
Jasper sighed. “I figured you’d say that.”
“Good. Then mission accomplished.”
“It’s important.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“No.”
“Bella’s holding a vote.”
You stopped and slowly lowered the pillow. “…What kind of vote?”
Jasper hesitated. “The family’s voting on whether she should become a vampire.”
Silence.
Then sat up straight. “Oh.”
Well, that changed things. Not because you particularly cared about vampire politics. No, but because Edward hated the idea of turning Bella into one of your kind. A grin spread across your face.
Jasper immediately looked concerned. “Why are you smiling like that?”
You stood. Grabbed your jacket and smiled wider. “Jasper.”
“Yes?”
“Take me home.”
SMALL TIME SKIP
The drive back to Forks felt like walking into a storm you’d already survived once, but this time you had your own reasons for being there. Not Edward. Never Edward. If anything, Edward was just a bonus source of irritation.
By the time you reached the house, everyone was present.
Esme, looking worried and gentle. Carlisle, composed but tired. Rosalie, looking like she’d rather bite someone than participate in sentiment. Emmett, looking entertained by the drama of it all. Alice, vibrating with anticipation. Edward, pale and tight-jawed and already looking like he wanted to object to the concept of free will.
And Bella, at the center of it all, looked nervous but determined.
You took your place without ceremony, shoving your hands into your pockets and surveying the room. “Wow, you people really know how to create a joyful atmosphere.”
Alice smiled at you. “You came.”
“Against my better judgment.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were done with all this.”
“I was,” you said. “but then I got invited to watch your misery in current time."
Rosalie snorted.
Bella glanced at you, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “You really came back.”
You shrugged. “Jasper guilt tripped me.”
Jasper lifted one shoulder, guilty and unapologetic all at once.
Carlisle began speaking, explaining the vote again, though everyone already knew what it was about. Bella would become one of them, if they agreed, if they trusted her choice, if the family decided this was the right step.
You didn’t say much while the others talked. You mostly watched Edward, because it was hard not to. He looked furious at the idea, even as he kept trying to frame it as concern. He was miserable in that way only Edward could be. Like a man being asked to suffer by the universe and somehow blaming everyone else for the weather.
Bella took a breath.
Then she looked at everyone and, with the kind of steadiness that had become a little more impressive now that she was standing on the edge of becoming immortal, she said what she wanted.
And when eyes turned to you, you already knew what you were going to say.
You didn’t hesitate. “I vote yes.”
Edward stared at you like you’d betrayed some sacred blood oath. “Why?”
You smiled, all teeth. “Because you hate it.”
Emmett barked out a laugh. Alice was grinning. Bella stared at you, a little startled, a little touched. Edward looked deeply, personally wronged.
You folded your arms and kept going, because honestly, this had been building for months.
“She wants it,” you said, glancing at Bella. “And after everything she’s been through because of you, I’m not going to stand here and tell her she has to stay human just because you can’t handle the idea of consequences.”
Edward’s jaw tightened.
“Oh, don’t make that face. You spent months treating Bella like the center of your universe and then acted surprised when that universe exploded. If she wants to stop being fragile, let her. Maybe then she can survive your nonsense.”
You pointed at him.
“And before you start, no, I do not care that this isn’t what you wanted. You got your way every time this family caved for months. My turn.”
Edward muttered something under his breath that definitely was not polite.
You grinned.
Yeah, Bella becoming a vampire was probably a terrible idea in the grand cosmic scheme of things, but it would make Edward miserable. And after everything he’d put this family through, it's what he deserves.
authors note: this one goes out to that reader who was hella sad I deleted my one and only Vision fic. I hope you like this one better cause I honestly do.
synopsis: Vision was born out advanced AI, which means that he doesn't really have the experiences or emotions that humans do. However, that doesn't stop you from trying to corrupt him and make him more human.
The first time you brought Vision a cup of tea, he accepted it with perfect politeness and then proceeded to explain the chemical composition of said beverage, the optimal steeping temperature for Camellia sinensis leaves, and the historical origins of tea cultivation in ancient China.
"Vision, that's not the point."
He tilted his head, the gem in his forehead catching the afternoon light. "I apologize. What is the point?"
You smiled, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic of your own cup. "The point is to feel it. The warmth spreading through your fingers. The steam on your face."
"I see." He paused. "Though I should clarify, I do not actually see with my eyes alone. The Mind Stone allows me to perceive—"
"Vision."
"Yes?"
"Just drink the tea."
That became the rhythm of your days. You became his guide to humanity, not through textbooks or databases, but experience. You took him to art museums not to identify the paintings, but to stand in front of them until something moved inside him (whatever passed for a heart in his synthetic form.)
You dragged him to street fairs where he wrinkled his nose at the smell of fried dough and stared in confusion when you won him a stuffed animal at a rigged carnival game.
"You did not need to spend seven dollars to obtain this object. Its material value is approximately—"
"Do you like it?"
Vision looked at the small yellow creature and then at you. "I believe I do."
You taught him about music, not frequencies or decibels, but the way a song could hollow out your chest and fill it with something nameless. You lay on the floor of the compound's common room with him, sharing earbuds, playing him everything from Chopin to Pitbull.
However, when Purple Rain came on and you were singing along, Vision wouldn't stop staring at you. "What?"
"I've heard this song before, and theoretically, the sound waves emitting from both earbuds are identical. Yet I find myself liking it better alongside you."
You felt your throat tighten. "That's called sharing, Vision. It's...it's one of the best parts of being human."
You saved emotions for last, partly because they felt enormous, and partly because you were afraid. How do you teach someone to feel? How do you guide them through joy and sorrow and anger and hope without becoming lost yourself?
You were sitting on the roof—your spot now ,though you'd never said the words—when you finally broached it.
"So," you swung your legs over the edge. "Emotions. The big ones. Happiness, sadness, anger, fear, love."
Vision went very still beside you.
"You've probably got definitions for all of them. Happiness is a chemical reaction in the brain. Sadness is—"
"Are you sad?" he asked quietly.
You looked up, surprised. "I'm not—"
"Your heart rate has increased. Your breathing is shallow. You are avoiding eye contact." He turned fully toward you. "Have I failed? In learning what it means to be human?"
"No." You reached out, then hesitated, your hand hovering near his. "God, no, Vision. You've been...you've been incredible. It's just...I don't know how to explain emotions to you, especially love. I don't know how to make you feel it and I want you to feel it so badly."
He was quiet for so long you thought you'd broken something inside him. However, after a few more seconds, he slowly took your hand and pressed it flat against his chest. Through the fabric of his sweater, you felt nothing. No heartbeat, no rise and fall of breath.
"I do not have a heart. Not as humans define it. No blood pumps through me. No electricity fires in biological synapses." He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, the Mind Stone glowing soft and steady. "But I feel."
"Vision—"
"I feel the warmth of the sun and know it is good because you are beside me. I feel the weight of existence and know it is bearable because you listen. I feel the pull of curiosity and know it is worthwhile because you answer." His voice dropped to something like a whisper.
"I do not need you to teach me love. I have been learning it every day, in every moment, simply by being near you."
"You feel love for...for me?"
"I feel everything that is correlated with the word," he said, and his thumb traced a careful path across your knuckles. "The desire for proximity. The fear of loss. The elevation of your wellbeing above my own. The...the rightness of your presence, as if all my calculations finally balance when you are here. Is that not love?"
"It is," you breathed. "Vision, that's exactly what it is."
"Then I have known it for some time. Perhaps since the cup of tea shared between us. Perhaps before even then. I could not name it, but I felt it. I feel it now. Constant. Unwavering. Like gravity. Like light."
You were crying. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, human tears. He kissed you then or you kissed him. You would never remember who moved first, only that his lips were warm and his hands were steady.
Hello, I’m not sure if you still take requests so please ignore if they aren’t open. But if so, could I please request a Will Graham x ftm reader with angst / hurt & comfort? They work together and Will Graham has the massive hots for reader and is basically a dog on a leash but the reader has massive resentment and an inferiority complex towards Will. Will is smart, witty, good looking and the source of reader’s gender envy and that causes a massive grudge nothing romantic just pure spite so it’s all very one sided but Will is super stubborn. I’ll leave the rest up to you :)
Look, I just like to see Will hot and bothered and desperate ok….
Thank u for listening!!
I HATE HOW YOU MAKE ME FEEL
will graham x ftm reader
The office is quiet at 2 AM, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of stale coffee. You’re hunched over case files, trying to will your eyes to focus on the crime scene photos, but you can feel him before you hear him.
Will hovers at the edge of your desk. “You’re still here.”
You don’t look up. “So are you.”
A pause.
You can picture him. Disheveled in that unfair way that makes him look like some tortured academic in a magazine spread, all sharp jawline and wild hair and eyes that see too much. The kind of effortless masculinity you’d have to fight for, bleed for, bind and cut and carve yourself into. And he just wears it, easy as breathing.
It makes you want to put your fist through drywall.
“I brought food,” he says, and there’s that tone again. Low, careful, eager; a dog with a leash in its mouth, waiting for you to take the other end. “Thai. From that place you like. The one with the—”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“No.” A rustle of paper bags. “You didn’t.”
You finally look up. He’s standing there in his rumpled flannel, holding two bags of takeout like an offering, and his eyes are fixed on you with this naked, hungry devotion that makes your stomach twist.
Not with want. With fury.
Brilliant profiler, sharp-tongued when he wants to be, rugged in a way that makes witnesses trust him and suspects fear him. He moves through the world with the kind of male privilege you’re still negotiating for, still proving, still earning every single day in this testosterone soaked building. And he’s standing there looking at you like you hung the moon, like he’d crawl if you asked, and you hate him for it.
You hate that he makes you feel so small.
“Will.” Your voice comes out flat. “I’m not going to fuck you. I’m not going to date you. I’m not going to have some revelation where I realize you’re the one who sees the real me. Stop.”
He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches, the stubborn bastard. Just sets the food down on the edge of your desk and leans in, close enough that you can smell the wool of his sweater, the cedar and dog and him of him. “I’m not doing this because I want something from you.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m doing it because you’re here at two in the morning drowning in this case, and you forget to eat, and someone should—” He stops and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way you have to force yourself not to stare at.
“You don’t have to want me back. That’s not—I’m not asking for that. I’m just asking you to let me exist near you. That’s all.”
It’s pathetic. It’s desperate. And some cruel, hungry part of you wants to push further, wants to see how far down he’ll go, how much of his dignity he’ll surrender just to stay in your orbit.
You shove your chair back to stand up. You’re shorter than him, and you have to tilt your head up to meet his eyes, which only fuels the resentment burning in your chest.
“You know what I think about when I look at you? I think about how easy it is for you. How you just are. How you walk into a room and everyone knows what you are without you saying a word. And you have the audacity to stand there looking at me like I’m the one who’s got something you want.”
Will’s breathing has gone shallow. There’s color high on his cheeks, and his hands are shaking enough that he has to curl his fingers into fists to hide it. He’s wrecked. Beautiful, wrecked and yours for the taking, if you wanted him.
But you don’t. You want to be him.
“I would give it to you,” he says, rough. “If I could. If there was a way to hand it over, my—my skin, my self, if it would make you look at me without wanting to hurt me, I’d do it. I’d do it in a second.”
The honesty of it stops you. It’s too much, too naked, too real.
You look at the takeout bags. At the dark circles under his eyes that match yours. At the way he’s holding himself so still, like he’s afraid any movement will break this moment where you’re actually seeing him.
“I don’t want your skin,” you say and your voice cracks. “I want my own.”
Will reaches out, but stops, letting his hand fall back to his side. Yet he doesn't leave, of course he doesn't, he's stubborn as a scar.
“Then let me stay while you figure out how to fill it.”
You should send him away. You should be cruel, be sharp, be the weapon you’ve had to become to survive in this body, in this job, in this life. Instead, you sit back down. Pull one of the takeout containers toward you and open it.
hi! not here to request, just wanted to drop in and let you know how much I love your writing <3 they bring me immense comfort and I absolutely appreciate the male reader fics. keep up the great work and don't push yourself too hard! 🫶
(p.s. this is a bit of a stupid question but I was also curious on where you got ur username from lol I know its ur name but what abt the numbers?? much love!)
My username is hella old, not even kidding (and it's not even my name.) I came up with it circa 2010 when Shake it Up! was on tv and I just liked the character Cece (do people even know what I'm talking about or remember the show?) and the numbers are a reference to my (at the time) favorite WWE wrestler. Rey Mysterio. His signature move was the 619 and because someone already took it, I just changed the 1 to a 3 and moved the numbers around. Hope that clears things up!
