midnight rain

a little bit in love with broken men. masterlist. requests open.

[constellationsreid]

all my works can be found below using the navigation links

MARVEL - ft. bucky barnes, frank castle and matt murdock.

requests currently OPEN

FORMULA ONE - ft. daniel ricciardo, charles leclerc and pierre gasly

requests currently CLOSED

CRIMINAL MINDS - ft. spencer reid and luke alvez

requests currently CLOSED

STRANGER THINGS - ft. steve harrington, billy hargrove and eddie munson

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S.W.A.T. - ft. jim street

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[constellationsreid]

MARVEL MASTERLIST

requests are open!

>>> return to main masterlist

Iinks taken from my secondary account

bucky barnes

midnight musings

bucky doesn’t shut up at night, much to your annoyance.

an act of kindness

you help bucky clean up after a bad misson.

i know you

the intimate feeling of being known and being seen.

finally free

bucky’s finally free from the demons haunting him.

first look

bucky doesn’t really believe in love at first sight… right?

sinking feeling [part one] [part two]

what if you blipped away, instead of bucky?

come back, be here

you miss bucky and he misses you.

you can hear it in the silence

sometimes, you don’t need words. the silence speaks loud enough.

helicopter

bucky is a helicopter lover, always worried about you.

matt murdock:

heartbeat

matt can hear when you’re in the room, it comforts him.

a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

you worry about matt’s mortality and general carelessness.

you drew stars around my scars

matt is very touch starved and you learn this quickly, realising the importance of physical touch.

the sound of rain (headcanons)

some of my favourite personal hc’s about matt.

frank castle:

bruised knuckles, bleeding heart

through several late nights of patching frank up, you realise you’re in love with him (and he’s in love with you)

loki:

soulmates

soulmates au, loki can’t quite believe he’s finally found her.

[kindnessistherealpunkrock]

can't stop thinking about clark realizing you're pregnant before you even had a clue..... (1.8k words)

It's damn near midnight. You'd spent most of the day in bed, barely able to keep anything down. Maybe the flu can still be going around...in March? That's what you told yourself anyway. You'd promised Clark you'd go to the doctor in the morning if you weren't feeling any better.

The day had been uneventful. Your time was spent by nursing cups of broth and watching reruns of your favorite show - it was all you had the energy for yet you were still exhausted by the time Clark came home from work. He had tried to make you eat real food, but even the smell of butter burning slightly in the pan made your stomach flip and allowed the sickness to take over.

Clark had helped you into the bath after and opted to sit on the cold bathroom tile next to you. He missed you dearly, but more than anything wanted to make sure you were okay. He told you what you missed at work today. "Whole lotta nothin," he quipped, his hands moved to push the hair out of your eyes. He told you about the new article he'd gotten approved to write, that he saved a cat from a tree on the way home, that he saw a photo on Jimmy's phone that he really wished he hadn't. Clark sensed that his rambling soothed you, the energy surrounding you turned mellow and your heart rate slowed as he gently massaged your scalp with his fingers. You really were worn down, he thought. He wished more than anything that he knew how to make you feel better, but this would have to do.

That led you to now. In bed, on your side, eyelids growing heavy with one arm and leg draped over Clark's toned chest and legs. He was bare, save for a pair of tight fitting boxers. Any other day, you'd be all over him; begging for him to be all over you until you're a pile of mush in the sheets. But not tonight. Tonight, you just wanted him to hold you. Clark is a good boy, so he was doing just that with his large hand splayed across your back. His fingers occasionally running up and down your spine almost sank you into blissful sleep. That is, until...

Clark stiffened beneath you. It's like his entire body turned to concrete while his eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. He heard something.

"What is it?" You ask, exhaustion and a hint of annoyance laced in your voice.

"Hear someone," Clark murmured.

He slid out from under you with ease and pulled some sweatpants over his legs. The spot he just left was still warm, but his absence made the bed suddently feel cold and sterile.

"You sure it wasn't just a bird, baby? They've been crashing into the windows like crazy for weeks now."

You're slightly perturbed, but you try not to be. He is Superman after all. His job is to keep the city safe, so you can't blame him for being attuned to hearing anything and everything that could possibly pose a threat. Plus, you knew he cared about your well being more than anything else in this world, so you chose not to push it any further.

Clark doesn't say anything else, only turning back to you with a finger over his lips, asking for silence as he investigates. He glides through the room tactfully and undetected, as if he were a lion hunting its prey. You watch as he pads down the hallway from your shared bedroom and disappears into the darkness that is the rest of your apartment.

He's gone for only a minute or two. When he comes back, you notice his hair is a bit windswept. He must have checked the outside of the building. You can't even imagine if someone had saw him. A half naked man with rock hard abs seemingly levitating outside the 17th floor of a Metropolis apartment building in the middle of the night. Although, it probably wouldn't have been the weirdest thing anyone has ever seen.

"Sorry," he apologizes, "Guess it was nothing."

Clark quickly discarded his sweats back onto the floor and nestled back into bed next to you, resuming the same position you were both in just minutes before. He runs his veiny hand over his face and rubs his eyes, an adorable yawn escaping his lips. Clark was tired too.

"It was probably just something happening on the street. They're still doing night construction across the street," you thought aloud.

"No, honey," he was quick to interject with a click of tongue, "It wasn't something; it was someone. I heard their..."

Clark froze again, ears perking up as he turned to fully face you. He suddenly felt hot and cold at the same time. He looked like he wasn't breathing.

You were growing concerned with his sudden skittishness. "Everything oka-?"

"Heartbeat," he finally mustered up the strength to say out loud.

You're not making sense of what is unfolding in front of you. Clark is staring at you; his eyes felt like they were burning a hole into your soul. His gaze drifts about your body, as if he were checking you for injuries or trying to see if anything was different about you. You notice his eyes are lingering at your lower half, where your arm laid haphazardly across your stomach as you rested on your side. Your engagment ring glimmered in the low light of the lamp in the corner of the room, but that's not what Clark was really staring at.

"So, it was a person or no? I'm lost, bubby," you stated, begging him to make sense of this.

"I only heard the heartbeat when we were in bed earlier. 'S not outside or in any other part of the house. I think...." Clark's voice is shaky now. "I think you're pregnant?" It came out as more of a question than a statement.

It was your turn to be speechless. Your eyebrows furled as you sat up straight. Either Clark was losing his mind or this was some kind of joke.

"Clark, what in the hell are you talking about?"

He's quiet again, only this time he shimmies down the plush mattress until his head is hovering right above your belly and facing away from you. It felt like the whole world stopped in that moment. What if it was true? Is this why you've felt so sick over the last few days? Gears are turning in your head trying to solve this puzzle. When Clark turns his head back towards you, the final piece locks into place.

"I hear it. It's quiet, but it's there. A heartbeat." Clark was smiling.

You reach a hand out to hold the side of his face that isn't pressed against your stomach. You don't know whether to cry, celebrate, or puke for the seventh time today. You run your thumb anxiously along his jawline.

"Holy shit," is all you can muster. "Is that even possible?" You really didn't know. Neither of you did. Sure, you've both pondered (and loved) the idea of mini Clarks and mini yous running around the farm in Kansas one day. However, you had never seriously considered whether or not a human could give birth to a half-Kryptonian.

"Guess so," Clark replies. "We can make some calls in the morning and try to find out."

He's moved back to the top of the bed now and his arms are enveloping you in an all-consuming embrace. His chin is tucked into your collarbone, his breath tickling your neck just slightly with each exhale.

"Are you happy?" He asks, begs, quietly. Your lack of enthusiasm has him growing weary.

You pull back to look at him fully. The dark, curly hair on top of his head, the prickly stubble on his cheeks that appears after a long day, the warmth radiating off his perfect body. You melt under his touch, along with any doubts you had in your mind. In front of you is a man who would literally go to the ends of the Earth (and beyond) to protect you. A man that lends a hand to anybody and anything that could possibly need his help. A man that loves you so deeply that he would know how to find you in any universe or lifetime.

"I think," tears prick at your eyes, "That I'm a little scared. And a little shocked."

Clark nods his head, listening. His jaw twitches slightly.

"That's okay," he tries to reassure you.

"I know." You swallowed hard. The tears were coming now. "But also still a little happy."

It's like a switch flipped, the two of you begin chuckling contagiously in disbelief. Clark thumbed the tears away from your cheeks and you kissed him deeply. He was warm and his tongue was soft, slipping through your mouth and running along your bottom lip.

"I love you so much," Clark says as he pulls back. There isn't a doubt in your mind of how much he means it.

"I love you too, Clark," you beamed, "But I can't believe you thought our baby was an alien intruder that came here to destroy humanity at midnight on a random Tuesday." A fake pout adorned your features.

Clark playfully flicked at your nose, unable to fight the laugh in his belly. "I thought you were sick?" He jested, "Now you have time to crack jokes?"

"Heyyy!" you protested, "Be nice to me. You have to now."

"'M always nice to you," Clark snided, feigning offense and planting a forgiving kiss to the top of your nose.

Neither of you remember when you both fell asleep. You talked until the sun almost began to rise. About what color hair you thought they'd have, what theme the nursery would be, what color their eyes would be. You wanted them to have Clark's, and of course, Clark wanted them to have your eyes. Agree to disagree Clark proclaimed, though he'd be happy even if the baby's eyes were purple. The baby, your baby, was a piece of the two of you and the love you shared so deeply with one another. And that was all that mattered to him.

You woke up turned away from Clark, morning light quickly taking over the bedroom. Your body was engulfed by his broad shoulders as he spooned you. His arm, as strong as it may be, was draped oh so carefully across your abdomen. Clark was already protecting the little one growing inside of you. And he always would.

[prettycalla]

|| Owner of a Lonely Flaming Heart (Fan Club Card) ||

Pairing: Johnny Storm/Reader

Summary: Johnny finds out that you're a member of his fan club, and no, you're not going to hear the end of it anytime soon.

Word count: 2.3k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, Johnny's a nuisance (affectionate), established relationship, no use of Y/N.

(Once again, thank you so much to @getaapologist for the brilliant idea! And you should definitely check out @glassbxttless for her amazing version of this!)

Johnny Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

There's not a lot that Johnny doesn't know about you.

For starters, it never seemed fair for you to keep secrets from him. Almost every detail of his life is plastered all over tabloid articles and gossip magazines. He's even got his own billboard downtown, which he's very proud of, by the way. Needless to say, you knew more about him before you'd even had the chance to introduce yourself, and so you thought it was only fair that he knew just as much about you - even if most of it wasn't remotely as interesting. (Johnny begs to differ, but then he always does have to be different.)

Not only that, but you couldn't keep a secret from him even if you tried. Once he sets his mind on something, he just can't leave it alone. He reminds you of a hunting dog sometimes - as soon as he catches the scent of something interesting, he's on it in seconds. You made the mistake of telling him as much once, and he made such a embarrassing show of barking and howling at you in response that you've never done it again. Ever the exhibitionist.

But there's one thing he doesn't know about you, and you'd rather like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

You're a member of the Flaming Hearts Fan Club.

Johnny's fan club.

Look, you know how it sounds. A diehard fan who managed to keep the obsession under control long enough to get the job as his assistant, and as luck would have it, actually catch the eye of the Human Torch himself? It's ridiculous, it's entirely unbelievable, and yet here you are.

But the thing is, you're not obsessed with him. Never have been. You just thought he was cute. A friend had pointed out the advertisement for his fan club in a magazine. Why not? you'd thought to yourself. It was just a bit of fun.

And when you were invited for the job interview, you'd known that if you were successful, you'd be working in the same building as literal superheroes, which, while obviously an incredible thing to brag about, wasn't exactly your main reason for applying.

The field you were trained in was pretty specific; you knew this even while you were in college, with a class that was barely in the double digits. But you had no idea how difficult it was going to be to get hired after you graduated, save for setting yourself up independently, which seemed a little (okay, a lot) out of your current financial budget.

So when you'd seen the job listing, you'd jumped at the chance, the thought of where you'd be working not really occurring to you at all.

Until you'd gotten the job, and walked in to find Johnny Storm himself waiting for you.

That was two years ago now. And well...things have definitely changed since then. The biggest one being that the two of you are now dating.

If you're honest with yourself, you're still not entirely sure how it happened, but you wouldn't change how things are for the world.

Well, except for one little thing.

One little, rectangular, laminated thing, that is now lying on the floor, right at Johnny's feet.

You'd been trying to pay Johnny back for getting you coffee (not that he would take it, but you're nothing if not persistent), and it had slipped right out of your purse. You'd forgotten it was even in there.

"Is that...?" he begins to ask, before trailing off.

He crouches down to pick it up, and all hope that he hadn't noticed it goes right out the window.

"Oh my God, it is," he says, with a breathless laugh.

"Johnny..." you start, wringing your hands together nervously.

"I can't believe this," he says, with a shake of his head. "You're a member of my fan club. You."

You let out a sigh. Hell truly is other people.

He flips the card over, and his face lights up like it's his birthday.

"Oh, you signed it," he says, his smile only growing wider. "That is so cute."

He looks up at you then. He's clearly having the time of his life. At least one of you is.

"When were you gonna tell me about this, huh?" he asks, turning the card over and over between his fingers.

"Um, probably never?" you manage to reply, your face burning.

Johnny tilts his head at that.

"You know, I thought the vetting process for this job was pretty strict, and now I find out you've been a Johnny nut this whole time?"

He's kidding, you know he is. It still doesn't stop you from wanting to slap the smug smile off his face.

"Cut it out," you reply, trying to snatch the card from his hand, but he's too quick for you.

He moves out of your reach, turning on his heel and walking away.

"Man, I can't believe this is the photo they went with," he says. "I look like Captain Kirk here. Though he's a handsome guy, so I guess I can't complain."

He turns around again, holding the card up to his face and striking the same pose.

"You see it too, right?" he asks, as he pushes his hair to one side in an attempt to style it the same way. "Captain Storm. I like the sound of that."

He's having so much fun, he's completely ignoring the fact that you've been glaring daggers at him the entire time.

"Are you done making fun of me?" you ask, holding your hand out.

Johnny frowns at you in confusion.

"Oh, that's what I was supposed to be doing," he says, as if in sudden realisation. "Thanks for the reminder, doll."

This is it. This is the day you murder him. It's finally arrived.

Johnny's expression softens slightly.

"Hey," he says gently, crossing the short distance between you. "You know I'm kidding, right?"

You let out a little sigh, before nodding.

"I know, it's just...Well, it's embarrassing," you admit quietly.

He reaches for your hand, giving it a little squeeze.

"Nah, it's hardly embarrassing. I've seen worse. God, I've done worse," he replies, without his usual bravado.

You can't help but roll your eyes at that. Oh, you're well aware of Johnny's antics.

"I just...I don't want you to get the wrong idea," you tell him. "I didn't apply for this job because I'm some delusional fan."

Johnny gently tugs you close to him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

"Hey, come on," he murmurs. "I know that. You're nothing like my fans, and I love that about you. You don't treat me like I'm some sort of God. Which, if I'm honest, is fun up to a point. You treat me like me, and I appreciate it. Really."

You look up at him. You're one of the few people lucky enough to see him like this - without his usual cocky stance and snarky one-liners. Full of sincerity.

Human.

It reminds you why you fell for him in the first place.

"So, how did you end up becoming a member, anyway?" he asks.

So much for that, you think to yourself, albeit fondly.

"A friend of mine had seen the application form in a magazine, and we thought it'd be fun," you tell him. "I did always think you were kinda cute."

Johnny blinks at you in disbelief.

"Sorry, kinda?" he asks, tone exasperated.

"Okay, very cute," you reply, relenting. "Unbelievably cute. The cutest."

Johnny looks down with a little breath of a laugh. Rarely do you see him shy - you're not sure he even knows the meaning of the word.

"And, um, there was another reason I joined," you say softly.

At that, Johnny's focus is immediately on you again.

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, trying and failing to sound casual. "What's that?"

You lean in close to him, making sure you have his full attention.

"Reed's fan club wasn't taking any more applications," you whisper in his ear, and while he's spluttering to find a response, you manage to yank the card out of his hand.

You step out from under his arm, safely putting the card back in your bag and zipping it up. Johnny's face has turned very red, and you can't help but laugh. It's nice to have the upper hand for a change.

"C'mon, we really should get back to this," you say, nodding your head in the direction of the blueprint that's been all but abandoned.

Johnny just shakes his head in disbelief, and you bite back a smile, trying to refocus yourself on your work.

"This isn't over, by the way," he mutters, reaching for a pen to write something down. "Reed's fan club. Unbelievable."

Despite his little "threat", Johnny doesn't mention the card again. You find yourself a little on edge, waiting for him to bring it up, but eventually, you start to settle, pushing it to the back of your mind.

Not a great idea. You should really know better than to believe that Johnny has the capacity to let anything go.

You're in the middle of laying out the notes the two of you have been working on one afternoon, enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet with Johnny still out on lunch, when the door opens behind you.

Speak of the devil.

"That eager to get started that you couldn't even wait for me, huh?" he asks, his tone light as his footsteps grow closer.

You shake your head, your attention still focused on the task in front of you.

"Just setting up," you reply.

You can sense him standing next to you, but he doesn't say anything more. Something's not right when Johnny's quiet, and you turn to look at him.

His hands are behind his back.

"I've got something for you," he says, with a coy little smile.

Knowing Johnny, this could either be very good, or very bad.

"What is it?" you ask, trying not to sound concerned.

Judging by how Johnny chuckles, you've clearly failed. He theatrically moves his hands so they're now in front of him.

He's holding a little card. You pull a face.

"Were you going through my bag?" you ask, tone exasperated.

Johnny shakes his head, his smile only widening as he holds the card out to you.

"Maybe you should take a closer look," is all he says.

You tentatively take the card from him, and immediately burst out laughing.

"Is this- Johnny, this is ridiculous," you try to chide, but there's no denying the smile still on your face.

It's a fan club card. For you.

You know it's supposed to be a joke, but he's clearly put a lot of thought and effort into it. He even chose a photo of you that doesn't make you want to kick him in the shins, which, for Johnny, is a surprise.

"Turn it over," he says.

On the back is his signature. He signed it. Even drew a little heart.

"And if you'll look at what it says underneath..." he says, trailing off as he points to the small, bold print under his name.

Fan Club President.

It's so silly, and yet you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed. Johnny's a hard one for you to understand sometimes; the polar opposite of you in so many ways. You don't know how many times you've thought that your relationship shouldn't work, and yet somehow, despite everything, it does.

He knows when you need dragged out of yourself for your own sake, and he knows when he needs to rein himself in. There's the Johnny who poses for the fans and paparazzi, and then there's your Johnny, who goes out of his way to get dinner for you from that cute little pizza place you love that doesn't deliver, and makes himself the president of the fan club that he made up just for you.

He might drive you crazy at the best of times, but no one has ever made you feel as special as Johnny does.

"Y'know, the one downside of being the first member of your fan club is that I have to get all the other stuff for myself," he says cryptically.

You stop for a second.

"Wait, what other stuff? What do you mean?" you ask.

Johnny won't meet your eye. Like a dog that's been caught doing something it shouldn't have.

"Well...It's just..."

He taps the card with his finger.

"I know my fan club membership comes with posters and stuff," he says, still too vague for your liking. "I mean, you would know."

"And...?" you press.

"Well, all I'm saying is...When am I gonna get a poster of you?" he asks, finally meeting your gaze.

With his signature shit-eating grin on his face, of course.

Your eyes widen. So does his smile.

"You're not serious! You're- Johnny, you're in your uniform in that poster. It leaves nothing to the imagination!" you hiss in embarrassment.

"And...? What's your point?" he asks, leaning on the table with his arms folded.

His tone is innocent, but his eyes are half-lidded, and he's giving you that look, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.

"Can we...Can we please get back to work now?" you ask, almost desperate for this conversation to end.

Before you do something completely out of character.

Johnny rolls his eyes, but he relents. Much to your relief.

"Sure thing, doll," he replies, leaning in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek.

He turns back to the notes spread out across the desk, and the pair of you fall into a comfortable silence for a while. Until-

"Okay, so maybe not a full poster spread, but how about some polaroids?" he asks, with a sly glance in your direction.

If the pen in your hand just happens to slip out of your grasp and hit him on the forehead, well...

Accidents do happen.

Taglist: @iitsmandii @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @samslvrgirl @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @peachyproserpina @robinbuckleywife @keaganz

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)

[constellationsreid]

given, not earned ; clark kent x reader

pairing: clark kent x gn!reader

summary: clark carries a heavy burden and sometimes it all gets too much.

warnings: angsty, canon typical violence

authors note: hey so i've not posted my own writing in 3 years but the superhero movies recently have brought me back to tumblr kicking and screaming. pls be kind (and send thunderbolts*/superman/fantastic four fic requests)

masterlist.

You heard, or rather felt him, before you saw him. The slight ruffle of the curtains, the breeze that sent goosebumps down your arms, and the heavy presence behind you. Turning, you find yourself face-to-face with Superman. Or rather, Clark Kent. There was a subtle difference between the two, one you've grown to recognise.

There's a look in his eye that you don't recognise, however. His brows are furrowed and he looks uncomfortable, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Clark? Everything okay?" You ask, moving to close the gap between the two of you. You barely move an inch, your hand outstretched to touch his face, and he's already across the room, pacing back and forth.

"Clark?" You try again.

"Have you seen the news?" He asks, not meeting your gaze.

You knew there was a threat downtown today; you heard it on the radio at work. Something extra-terrestrial, that was all you knew. Clark had sent you a quick text telling you not to worry (which of course, you still worried), but that was hours ago.

"No, why?" You ask, debating whether to cross the room and try to close the gap between you two again. You decide against it as you see his shoulders tense under his suit.

"There were two life-threatening injuries, I couldn't get to them fast enough-they might not make it," he stops pacing and finally looks at you. And it breaks you.

His eyes are bloodshot, tears threatening to overspill. He looks unrecognisable from the man you know and love. There's a reservation in his movements, like he's about to fly from your apartment any moment and not return.

"I shouldn't have come, I'm not in the right state of mind," he mumbles, confirming your fear.

You don't wait this time, crossing the room in an instant. You gently cup his face, and he winces, not from pain, you know he's already healed, but from the touch itself. "I don't deserve this, not tonight."

His confession takes you by surprise. "Deserve what?"

"This. Your softness, kindness. Two people could die, and it would be my fault."

You can't hide the surprise on your face even if you tried. Clark has never been this vulnerable in front of you, but him thinking he doesn't deserve kindness floors you.

"Clark, my love, kindness isn't something that's earned. It's a given, it always is. You did your absolute best, like you do every time you fly into danger," you whisper, afraid that if you speak too loudly it'll scare him away.

Shaking his head, he pulls away from your touch and collapses onto the couch, his head in his hands. You follow him, kneeling between his legs and gently removing his hands from his face. "You're human. Underneath the cape, the powers, you're still human."

His lip quivers slightly, and that's all it takes for him to come undone. Sliding off the couch, you feel him throw his weight into you, burying his face in your shoulder. "I should have saved them sooner," he repeats over and over, voice breaking.

You sit there for what feels like forever, holding this broken version of a superhero, trying to heal him with your love. Eventually, he pulls away, exhaustion on his face.

"C'mon, let's go to bed," you help him off the floor and into your bedroom.

In the warm glow of your room, you gently pull his suit off, throwing the cape into the corner to deal with in the morning. You grab him a fresh pair of boxers, wordlessly helping him into them. He doesn't fight back, barely moves, allowing you to take care of him.

Once you're under the blankets, legs tangled together, he finally lets out a sigh. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me, it's-,"

"Given, not earned," he cuts you off, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Always, for you," you smile, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. You know that he'll beat himself up about this for a while, even if the survivors make a full recovery. And you'll be there for him, reminding him that your love is a given, every time.

[endofthelinegang]

… C-can I request heavy make out session with John Walker (established relationship), please and thank you 🥹👉👈

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker x fem! reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ something is in the wind tonight, so a little steam, a little much

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ oh fuck me i thought i would be able to make this short, but apparently the same way this has been the bird blog this will now be the robert and john blog (1.6k words)

You weren’t trying to make anything happen. Really for once you weren’t you were just curled up on the couch in little shorts and long sleeves, sleeves that were his. Of course he had picked the movie, some off brand Mission-Impossible shit that was insufferable at times when he would try and tell you about anything you crinkle your eyebrows at. That’s the part that always gets you later—how normal it was at first. Movie on. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. His thigh warm hand on your calf, the TV flickering across his face in sharp bursts of light and shadow. But my god you did not wanna sit here anymore, not like this anyway. In between moments of real action you kept looking at his hand and then looking back up at him.

He wasn’t even looking at the screen anymore. He didn’t need to and not just because he had seen it so many times but because you were right there and you were paying attention to something he cared about. And you were wearing his clothes and holy shit was that something. 

You felt it first—the shift in the air, the pull of his eyes on you. And then, quietly, his voice:

“You doin’ that thing again,” he murmurs, a lazy drawl like smoke and heat. “That thing where you look at me like you want something, but you won’t say it.” 

You blink at him, lips parting—about to deny it, deflect, maybe tease him back. But nothing came out, not even a little puff of air, just silence. The smell of the aftershave he swore up and down he didn’t use was the only thing you could smell as you tucked your head against the hood just a little bit not to face him.

But then he tilts his head, smirks slowly and crooked, and adds, “It’s alright. I’ll say it for you.”

And just like that, it’s over.

He leans in. One hand slides around the back of your neck, palm broad and warm and certain—like he’s not asking, he’s claiming. His mouth brushes yours once, a breath away from soft, but then he closes the distance and kisses you like he’s already been thinking about it for days. It's practiced and hungry—too precise to be sloppy, too messy to be innocent. His fingers curl a little tighter at your neck as he deepens it, and his other hand finds your waist, pulling you in like he’s got something to prove.

You make a soft noise—half sigh, half gasp—and he chuckles against your lips, low and satisfied. 

“There it is,” he mutters. “Knew I could get you to melt for me.”

You want to say something smart back—really, you do—but his tongue brushes yours and your brain short-circuits. All you can do is cling to the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric like you might fall apart if you let go. 

He keeps going—pressing kisses into the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. Not gentle. Not rough. Just intentional. Every inch of you, touched like it matters. Really it was shocking, he was not as selfish as he seemed to others, but this giving? Rare. He was loving you just enough for you to know that is what was going on. Anyone else would just think he is trying to get into your pants. But if you ask John Walker he would say he was doing both. 

“You ever think about how easy it’d be,” he murmurs into your skin, “to just keep you here? Right in my lap, right where you belong.”

You shiver. You don’t even try to hide it. If you did it would only be worse on you because he would stop. Not only would he stop but he would stop and make you talk to him and think about. Walker would tease and pick at you until you were either so mad you could kill him or so down bad that you would have nothing else to say. 

“John…”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. You had your boyfriend hair going, red cheeks, heaving chest that could barely be seen underneath the thick fabric making this an even hotter situation, and slightly parted lips taking in little quick breaths that felt like breathing through a straw. 

His eyes hooded, jaw tight, chest rising like he’s fighting to keep his pulse under control. His cheeks were also red but his pupils were fucking huge. 

“You don’t even know,” he mutters. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You reach for him again, and he lets you. He kisses you this time slower, but deeper—like the sharp edge’s gone blunt, replaced by something molten, heavy with promise. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone like he’s grounding you both, even though his body’s practically vibrating with restraint. His hand slides to your thigh. Squeezes. Possessive. Familiar. And when you grind down against him—just a little—he exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to snap.

“I should stop,” he says. But he doesn’t move. It’s very simple as to why. Should n't mean you have to and nothing was going to make him stop now. 

You lean in close, tucking lose hair behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of his ear. Your dominant hand now placed on his face.

“But you won’t.”

He grabs your jaw—gently, but firm enough that your breath catches—and pulls your mouth back to his. Your both a fucking mess of deep shallow breaths, the bombs going off on the TV making the living room shake did not matter at all. His hands could not hold still they were tugging on the hoodie, then back down your legs, this back up around your neck, to your jaw. And that’s where you stay: pressed to him, half in his lap, lost in the quiet violence of being wanted this deeply. Of being kissed like you’re something holy and dangerous all at once.

Because John Walker doesn’t just kiss to feel. He kisses to remember.To mark.To keep.

And you? You’ve never wanted anything more than to be his to keep.

And he knows it.

It’s in the way your fingers tangle in his hair now, gentle at first, then tightening when he tilts your head just so and sinks into the kiss like he’s starving for it. It’s not frantic, not anymore. He’s savoring now. Sinking into it. Mapping your mouth with slow, possessive certainty like he’s memorizing it—not because he’s afraid to forget, but because he doesn’t want to risk missing a single part.

You whisper his name again between kisses—softer this time. Less like a warning, more like a promise. Like yes, I’m here. Yes, this is happening. Yes, this is yours. That fucking kills him, right there, shot dead. His name, your mouth, being spoken like that. If he was standing he would’ve fallen on his knees right then

John pulls back just barely, forehead to yours. His eyes are still closed. Like it hurts to stop, even for a second. He plants you completely over his lap now shifting you to be sat perfectly over top of him. Everything in him wanted to plant at least one hand on your ass but he couldn’t just do that, no, he had to say something first.

And then, voice hoarse, he breathes, “If you don’t want this…”

You cut him off without words—just a soft noise, an insistent pull on his shirt, the brush of your nose against his. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.  You already said it with your body. With your kiss. With the way your knees tucked in tighter to the side of his thighs and your face softened and your pulse stayed loud enough for both of you.

“I want you,” you finally whisper. And it’s not sexy. It’s not coy or teasing. It’s raw. Honest. Like you’ve been sitting on it for too long and now it’s spilling out, trembling at the edges. His breath stutters like you hit something inside him he didn’t expect you to touch. He doesn’t smile—doesn’t smirk. He just looks at you.

That look.

The one that says, You could ask me for anything and I’d give it to you without thinking.

Not because he’s weak. Not because he’s easy. But because it’s you.And in his world—broken and blood-soaked and lined in gray—you’re the only thing that feels like solid ground.

“You should sit in my lap more,” he says gruffly, hands now flat against your hips. “I think better like this.”

You laugh, the kind of soft half-laugh that only comes out when you’re too gone to hide how gone you are.

“I think you just like me close.”

“I do,” he admits. No shame. Just truth. Which shocks you down the sole of your foot because he never said shit like that. Never. 

Then he kisses you again, and this time it’s slow and deep and reverent, and there’s something soft in it. Something safe.Like the calm before the storm, or maybe the eye of it.

Because make no mistake—John Walker is a storm. The kind that doesn’t ask permission before it breaks your world open.

But for you?

He quiets.

He calms.

He stays.

And as you curl up tighter into him chests touching hands roaming further—your lips bruised, your breath warm against his throat, his arms circling around you like the only home he’s ever trusted—you feel it:

That promise.

That gravity.

That quiet, terrifying, beautiful truth.

You’re not just something he wants.

You’re something he’s already chosen. Something he’ll protect. Something he’ll keep.

Even if the world burns around you.

[bruisedboys]

john walker x thunderbolt!reader

john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect. post thunderbolts, no spoilers. 1k words

note: umm hi this is me forcing u to hear me out on him xx

“You’re not doing a very good job of that, Captain.”

John sighs loudly, his shoulders tense with irritation. “Shut up. And stop moving around.”

You grin to yourself. He’s fun to mess with.

“M’sorry, but your hands are really cold, John,” you tell him.

It’s true, they are, and he’s not being very gentle either. John wouldn’t have been your first pick for someone to patch you up after a fight, but you’d been unfortunate enough to be paired with him for this particular mission, and none of the rest of your team are back yet. You’re alone with him in one of the many bathrooms of Avengers tower. If you bleed out and die, you’re blaming it on his poor first aid skills.

“You wanna stitch this up yourself, then?” John asks you shortly. He’s got his big hand locked around your hip, holding you still while he stitches up the nasty gash spanning from just above your hip, up to the dip in your waist. His thumb presses into your hipbone. He’s not being rough but he’s certainly not being gentle — and while you’re not made of porcelain, you’d appreciate a bit of softness.

You shake your head. “No, thanks,” you sing-song.

John grumbles something under his breath that you can’t quite hear, but you catch words like useless and good for nothing. You don’t take it to heart. You’ve deemed him chronically grumpy, which he loathes, but you’ve decided it explains why he’s so mean all the time.

You let yourself fall back on your hands and watch him work. He’s standing in between your legs while you sit perched on the counter, your shirt pushed up over your ribs. He wasted a good amount of time letting you know how stupid it was of you to get hurt like this. After he was done grilling you, he grudgingly began to clean your wound, quite messily you might add. He’s halfway done stitching you up now, head bent over your ribs.

You think, secretly, that he looks quite handsome, concentrated like this. With his head bent over you, his hair all messy where he’s run his hands through it. You try not to think about how this position makes you feel. Sure, John’s a jerk, but you’re not blind. He’s handsome.

You realise suddenly that the silence is making you delusional, and you open your mouth to break it.

“Where do you think the others—“ you cut yourself off with a gasp when he pricks you hard with the needle. “Ow.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” John says quickly. He rubs his thumb over your hipbone twice, then lifts his gaze to yours.

“Sorry,” he says gently, wincing. “Accident.”

You blink at him. You don’t think you’ve ever heard the word sorry come out of his mouth since you met him. Not to mention the look on his face. Apologetic, gentle. Not something you’ve ever seen on him before. It suits him, but it’s still weird.

“It’s okay,” you say slowly. You shake your head, a little nonplussed. “It’s fine.”

John just stares at you. You stare back. Then he swallows. He must remember himself, then, because he goes back to frowning.

“Your fault,” he mumbles. He ducks his head again and gets back to work.

You want to ask how on earth that was your fault, but you’re too perplexed. If you’re not mistaken, you’re pretty sure John Walker was just soft on you. The absolute bare minimum, you know, but for John that’s like gifting you a bouquet of flowers and a kiss on the forehead.

You sit there, John’s hands all over you, and try to forget how he’d rubbed your hip, how he’d said sorry so quickly and so gently, how he’d looked at you like you weren’t just a thorn in his side, for once. You can’t forget it. How could you? It’s John. He’s not… soft. Like, ever.

You’re still thinking about it when the perpetrator in question finishes stitching you up. He snips the thread and straightens up. Your chest feels funny, like something’s tugging at your heart.

John lifts his head.

“You’re all done,” he says gruffly. He puts his tools down and tugs your shirt back over your stomach. “Try not to get so sliced up next time, alright?”

He’s back to sounding perpetually irritated again. Still, you find it difficult to ignore his hand on your waist as he smooths down your shirt.

“Why, ‘cos you care about me?” You joke weakly.

John rolls his eyes. He removes his hand from your waist to press it to the counter palm down, using it to hold his weight as he leans forward a bit. He’s not in your personal space, but he’s close enough, and the fact he’s standing between your legs doesn’t help.

“No,” he says in a low voice. “Cos you’re a nuisance to look after.”

You don’t know if he’s challenging you, threatening you, or if this is something else entirely, but you push yourself up with your palms pressed to the counter, leaning into his space. Whatever this is, you’re too stubborn to back down.

You tilt your head and plaster on a lopsided grin.

“Am I really?” You ask in a sweet, lilting voice.

John just looks at you. He’s closer now, so close you could kiss him, if you wanted. You’re not sure what you want, actually. But you can feel his body heat, and his broad shoulders block your vision of anything else, and he looks a bit like he wants to eat you. Or maybe kill you.

His hand creeps back towards your hip. He leans closer. Your heart hammers but you ignore it. John lowers his gaze. You’re pretty certain he’s looking at your mouth.

“You’re a brat, you know that?” He murmurs.

“Is that so?” You ask, feigning confidence. Really, your veins feel rampant with electricity. Your heart thud thud thuds in your chest.

“Mm,” John hums back. His thumb skips over the outside of your thigh. He’s breathing heavier than usual. You think you are too.

You don’t know why, but you reach up and touch his face. You drag two fingers over the rough stubble growing at his jaw. John shows no reaction on his face, though you notice his chest heaving so close to yours.

“Thanks for patching me up,” you whisper, so close now that your lips ghost over his when you speak. “You know, with how careful you were with the stitches, I’d say you actually care about m—“

John kisses you to shut you up. At least, that’s what he tells you afterwards.

-

thank u for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed x

[endofthelinegang]

i've got sunshine

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  thunderbolts x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  a sunshiney reader brings warmth and healing to the hearts of the Thunderbolts—John Walker, Yelena Belova, Bob Reynolds, Ava Starr, and Bucky Barnes—each responding to their light in different, deeply personal ways. through detailed bullet points and intimate mini fics, the post explores how these broken, complex characters slowly learn to love and be loved.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

John Walker has no damn idea what to do with you because you are going to kill him one day…

You call him “sweetheart” first—and he almost short circuits. He mutters “don’t call me that” the first few times, but never really means it. Eventually, he gets real quiet every time you do, like it hurts and heals at the same time. He literally would worry if you stopped saying it. In fact one day you don’t say it and he is like “what happened to sweetheart.” And you are all in. 

He gets protective to a fault. You smile at a barista and he’s already squinting like, who the hell is this guy and why is he breathing near you? It’s not jealousy—it’s fear. Fear that someone like you will get hurt because of someone like him. He literally has to go everywhere with you even if it interferes with his life because if anyone hurts you he needs to be right there. 

He doesn't know how to accept gentleness. The first time you brush your fingers through his hair after a nightmare, he flinches. The second time, he leans into your palm like it’s the only time he has ever felt someone love on him. He loves the way you take your time touching him in any circumstance so slowly and with ease. 

You talk during breakfast; he listens. He never interrupts, just sips his coffee with his elbows on the counter, looking at you like your voice is sunlight filtered through dust motes. He never thought mornings could feel safe again. You love to tell him about your weird dreams and at first he is like “what the fuck.” But eventually he just laughs along and asks little questions. 

He gets weird about his scars. You kiss the one just under his ribs and he jerks away like he’s been burned. Later that night, he kisses your shoulder and whispers, “You make me feel so damn weird.” 

He doesn’t do pet names until he does. It slips out one day—“baby”—when he’s scared you’re going to leave. It’s hoarse, desperate, like the word’s been sitting on his tongue for months. He barely breathes after saying it. And immediately the world melts around you and even though you maybe don’t forgive him you can’t help but just hug him. 

He tries to “warn” you off. Tells you he’s too far gone, too angry, too violent. You just look at him with that soft, infuriating smile and say, “Then it’s a good thing I’m not scared of the dark.”

He loves your laugh like it’s sacred. Every time he hears it, something inside him unclenches. It’s like proof that the world can still be good, that he didn’t ruin everything. He will go out of his way to make you laugh when he really can’t listen to the world anymore. 

He doesn’t believe he deserves you. Not deep down. Every time you tell him you love him, he swallows it like a blade. But he clings to it like armor—your love becomes the thing that keeps him from spiraling.

He’d burn the world down to keep you safe. And the terrifying part is—he could. But he doesn’t. Because you remind him that staying is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

🥀 good morning soldier 

Your bare feet pad across the cold kitchen floor, humming some half-remembered melody from a playlist he’d never admit he listens to. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet—just enough light to spill gold across the countertop. John’s already there, mug in hand, back leaning against the sink like he’s been up for hours.

You grin, rubbing your eyes. “Hey, sweetheart.”

He looks at you like the word physically hits him. His jaw tics and his eyes target you, “You shouldn’t call me that.” He sets his drink down and just like every other morning he spins around to face the sink and turn on the water. 

Walking all the way over to him you stand as close as you can to him and pour yourself some coffee. “Then stop blushing when I do.” 

“I don’t blush.” He jumps back a bit from the water steaming the sink that he just had his hands under not paying attention to what he had done. 

You laugh, and it’s unfair how easily it cuts through his defenses. He looks away. The silence sits thick for a beat. But then you notice the half lidded eyes, the still in pajamas outfit, and the fact that your coffee was cold, “You have another nightmare?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on the window, watching the empty sky. You slide into his space, standing between him and the sink putting your hands on his chest, “You know you don’t have to stand alone every time something hurts, right?”

He swallows hard.

“You shouldn’t say that either,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re starting to make me dumb. I forget who I was when you act like this.” He doesn’t move he just stares at you with what little opening his eyes are giving him. 

You move your hands up his chest a little more—right over that old, angry heartbeat that still hasn’t learned how to trust. “You’re not who you were.”

His breath stutters, and you can feel his heart kick up a bit. “You don’t know that.”

You step up onto your tipt toes, brushing your lips just barely across his. “I do.”

He kisses you just as gently as you chose to approach him. And when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, “I don’t deserve you.”

You smile, soft and maddening. “Good thing I’m not asking you to.”

Yelena Belove thinks you might be an Alien or worse real…

She pretends not to like you at first. All sarcastic quips and fake eye-rolls like, “Why are you smiling? Did I miss something?” But she notices everything—your laugh, your warmth, the way you care. The way you hear she likes music and makes her playlists, the way you give her different eyeliner colors to try, and the way you make sure she eats, drinks, and sleeps. 

You bring her little things. A weird trinket from a thrift store. A hot sauce bottle shaped like a cat. A donut with a smiley face. A pot that you sat and decorated because you had nothing else to do. She acts unimpressed—until you catch her hoarding them in a drawer like treasure, you kindly offer to take your trash and throw it away, and she simply says “Are you crazy? No.” 

She calls you annoying instead of saying “I love you.” “Ugh, you are so annoying,” she mutters when you kiss her forehead or help her fix her hair. But her hand doesn’t leave yours and she is always smiling at you when you aren’t looking at her. 

She becomes very defensive of you. The moment anyone makes a snide comment or flirts with you too aggressively, Yelena’s voice gets dangerously calm. “Say that again. Slowly. So I can break the right fingers.” And she makes you stand behind her and hold her hand, not because you can’t fight for yourself but you shouldn’t have to. You also do not match so she needs to make sure everyone knows who you are with. 

You sneak softness into her life. She goes from “I do not need flowers” to “I kill anyone who touches this pressed daisy in my journal” real fast. Especially if you gave it to her. She also loves when you make her things special, like inside she gets all giddy.

She gets flustered when you compliment her. “You’re so pretty it makes my chest hurt,” you sigh. She immediately chokes on her drink and shoves a pillow in your face like “NO.” 

You make her laugh when she doesn't want to. After missions. After nightmares. After she punches a wall. You’re just there with a dumb joke or an armful of snacks and a movie queued up. And she hates how much it helps.

She learns what safety feels like—with you. She never used to sleep through the night. Now, with your hand resting on her stomach and your breath in her hair, she sometimes forgets the world exists.

She lets you fix her up. Cuts, bruises, bullet wounds—she lets you clean them, grumbling like a wounded animal but never pulling away. Sometimes she kisses you when you're concentrated, just to feel your love in real time.

She falls in love before she realizes it. One day, she looks over at you singing to your plants in a hoodie that’s way too big, and it just hits her. “Oh no,” she whispers. “I would actually kill for her.”

🥀 you talk too much and i like it 

“You talk too much,” Yelena mutters, leaning back on your couch while you animatedly explain the plot of Criminal Minds. Though she is finding it amusingly disturbing she can’t help but comment. 

You pause mid-rant. “Excuse me?” You plop down on the couch practically sitting on her lap as you do so. 

She raises an eyebrow. “You do. You talk too much. About everything. Movies. Animals. Crime. It is like listening to a podcast that smiles at you. Yelena puts her hand on your leg absentmindedly as she scrolls on her phone. 

You cross your arms, pretending to pout. “Fine. I’ll shut up.” You are now staring right at the TV not saying a word anymore. You completely ignore her hand and you don’t say anything about her makeup. 

Silence falls for a beat. Then her voice softens. “Don’t.” You look over. She’s not watching the TV or her phone  anymore—she’s watching you. Like the world’s already on fire and you’re the only thing not burning.

“I like your voice,” she says. Barely above a whisper. She clicked the TV down a few volume ticks and throws her phone onto the floor. 

You blink.

“I like the way you talk when you think no one’s really listening. I like the way you ramble. I like…” She swallows, jaw tight. “I like you.” You throw your arms down and then move her hand throwing it back at her as you climb onto her lap. 

You put your thighs outside of hers and put your hands around the back of her neck. “Even when I sing to myself?”

She groans, tossing her head backwards. “Ugh, especially then. You are so weird.” Her hands find their way around your waist pulling you close.  But she looks up and you look down slowly you bring your face closer to hers until you are barely kissing. Because sunshine like you? It’s the first real warmth she’s ever known.

Bob Reynolds feels like it is rain hitting gold…

He doesn’t understand you at first. You bring him coffee with a little heart drawn in the foam. You bring a second mug just in case he doesn’t like the first one. You say things like “Have you eaten today?” with that sunny curiosity that makes it feel like a love letter, not a chore. He stares at you for a solid thirty seconds before answering—because no one’s asked that in years. Everything you ask him about himself is so strange to him because you really care about his day, how he feels, if he feels like he can take care of himself, if he has taken care of himself, and what he wants to do. All of that matters to you. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. He watches you dance in the kitchen to the radio as you help him clean up, barefoot and glowing in the golden light of afternoon, and all he can think is don’t touch it, you’ll ruin it. He stands in doorways and doesn’t step forward. He watches more than he speaks. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he doesn’t believe the light will let him stay. 

 You catch him crying over small things. You offer him your scarf when he forgets his coat. You make a point to fold his sweaters so they don’t lose their shape. You hum when you brush your teeth. It’s these things. The tiny soft normalities that gut him open. That whisper, you’re allowed to do those things with her. 

He touches you like you’re a miracle. At first it’s hesitant—just a hand grazing yours, his shoulder leaning into your side on the couch. But when you kiss him, really kiss him, his hands shake. He cups the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He pulls you into his lap like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. You get so excited and you are so happy to touch him and feel how warm he is. 

 He watches you sleep to remind himself this is real. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all. He just lies beside you with his hand gently curled over your hip, counting your breaths like prayers. You drool a little. Snore softly. And he still thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

You make him laugh like a boy again - You tell the worst jokes imaginable and wait for his reaction with this eager little smile that kills him. The first time he laughs, you don’t even register how monumental it is. But he does. He excuses himself to the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror for ten minutes, hand over his mouth like holy shit.

He tells you about the Void in fragments. It starts with a bad night. He says, “There’s something inside me.” Then: “It’s not always under control.” Then: “It wants to hurt everything I love.” When you hold his hand through it, he cries like a man unworthy of forgiveness. But you don’t let go.

You learn how to pull him out of the dark. It’s not with screaming or logic. It’s with little things. You name five things in the room. You tell him where you are. You sit with your knees touching and say, “You’re here, Bob. Right now. With me. Not there.” And it works, sometimes. Not always—but enough. When it doesn’t work that way you go on runs with him, you take him on drives, and you stay up all night with him. 

He tries to leave you. He writes a letter. He packs a bag. He almost disappears. But you find him—always. Sitting in a motel off some highway, pacing in a parking lot, crouched in an alley like he’s back in a war he can’t name. You find him, and you don’t say why did you run. You say, “Are you ready to come home now?”

He’s terrified of being loved fully. Because love means vulnerability. Means closeness. Means you see him. And if you see him, then you’ll see the rot. But when he panics, when he spirals, when he screams that he’s not safe to be around—you cup his face, brush back his hair, and whisper, “I don’t need perfect. I just need you.”

 You teach him softness. You show him that being held isn’t the same as being restrained. That being needed isn’t a burden. That crying in front of someone doesn’t mean weakness—it means trust. And one day, without even realizing it, he smiles first.

🥀 sanctuary

The walls are shaking. Not physically—but inside his skull, he can feel the vibrations and it hurts. Inside the Void, where the air is thick and wrong, where the voices hiss about destruction and obliteration and how dare you let this happen—

He is sitting in the freezing cold outside on the concrete stairs on the library, he is not tired, he is not even feeling human at this point. He can no longer hear the buzzing of the streetlights or the sound of the cars fighting for one side of the road where the road work is not. But then there’s a light. Your voice. Soft and steady.

“Bob.”

He can’t answer. His throat is locked. His hands twitch. You kneel in front of him, legs folded beneath you, your hands reaching for his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is freezing, his hands do not even feel like they have skin they are so solid. “Come back. Come here. Come home.”

“I can’t,” he chokes on his own spit, he forgot to swallow, he can barely hear you.  “I—I’m not—I’m not safe. I could hurt you. I could—”

“You won’t,” you say. No fear. No flinching. Just absolute conviction. You feel so bad, he usually does not suffer like this, in fact he had been good for months. But like he was addicted to drugs his brain is addicted to this and he has no control. “Not with me.”

He lets out a sob and tries to pull away—but you follow. You always follow. Your forehead touches his, and your thumbs swipe the tears from his cheeks letting his shaky hands sit wherever he lets them lay as you whisper:

“You’re not the monster in the dark, baby. You’re the boy who came back to the light.”

And that breaks him. He curls into your shoulder hugging you, even his clothes feel like ice. He clings like a man drowning. Bob starts to realize that he can barely feel his own body, but he can think and he is truly so happy you are there with him. He keeps his face in your  should as you rub his back and push your head against his, whispering, “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

And for the first time in years, the Void goes quiet.

Ava Starr believes you have changed her whole orbit…

At first, she doesn't trust the sunshine. You smile too easily. You're gentle in a way that makes her skin itch with confusion. People like you—happy people, softpeople—usually get swallowed by the world she lives in. So she assumes it's fake. It has to be. But it’s not. You just... are.

She keeps waiting for the mask to drop. Ava tracks you, like a threat. Watches your body language for signs of manipulation. Keeps mental notes on every kindness you show her. But weeks pass, and it’s always the same: soft eyes, warm hands, a voice like safety. She realizes one day that you never were wearing a mask. You’re just light. Real light. And that’s somehow scarier.

She tries to push you away with sharp edges. “Don’t get close to me,” she says. “I’m not safe.” You grin. “Neither is the sun, but here we are.” It’s the first time she blushes in years.

She doesn’t know what to do when you fuss over her. You put lotion in her bag because you noticed her hands crack in the cold. You bring her tea and sit with her in silence after missions. You brush her hair away from her eyes during bad days. She stares at you like you’re speaking a foreign language. Like no one has ever cared for her without needing something in return. And you don’t. You just do it. Because you love her.

 You’re the only one who can touch her without flinching. Ava’s afraid of what her phasing will do—afraid of hurting you. But you cup her face gently, pressing your forehead to hers, whispering: "I trust you. I trust your control." And she doesn’t cry—but she does shake. A quiet surrender.

You give her a place to land. When the pain gets too loud, when the ghost-scream of her molecules starts shredding her calm, she finds you. She doesn’t even need to speak—you just open your arms, and she’s home. She can phase through walls but never through you. You ground her like gravity.

She protects you with a terrifying ferocity. Someone raises their voice at you once—and Ava is instantly on them. No words. No warning. Just a look that promises blood and consequences. It’s not a bluff, either. You're the one who has to tug her back and say softly, “It’s okay, baby. I’m okay.” (But you secretly like it.)

 She learns how to soften for you. She’s not good with affection at first—her hands hesitate, her voice comes out clipped. But she learns. Learns to hold your waist when you’re cooking, to rub your back when you’re anxious, to whisper “I missed you” into your collarbone like it costs her something to admit it. But she does. She admits it. Because you’re worth the burn.

You’re the first person she lets see her scars. She shows you the damage. The places her body never fully healed. The marks from machines, from labs, from the life she never asked for. You press kisses to each one. “This one means you survived,” you say. “This one too. All of them.” And for the first time, they feel beautiful.

She plans a future with you—but can’t say it out loud. She thinks about what it would mean to build a life, not just survive one. She pictures a little apartment with books you leave open on the couch, toothbrushes side-by-side, you dancing in her hoodie to awful music while coffee brews. She can’t say it yet—but she wants it. God, she wants it.

You tell her she's not broken—and she almost believes you. You say it like a promise: “You are not your pain, Ava. You are not a weapon. You are a woman who lived through hell and still chose to love.” She closes her eyes and leans into your shoulder. “I don’t know if I believe that yet.” “That’s okay,” you whisper. “I believe it enough for both of us.”

🥀 phase 

You wake to the hum of the quantum static. Ava’s back is arched, breath ragged, hands clenching the edge of the mattress like she’s barely holding herself together. Light pulses under her skin—white-hot and wrong—as she phases in and out of reality.

You don’t scream. Don’t flinch. You sit up slowly, crawl to her side, and whisper: “You’re okay. I’m here.”

She tries to pull away. “No—get out—get away from me—I can’t control—” You wrap your arms around her waist and press your face to her spine.

“I trust you,” you say. She lets out a sob like a wounded animal. Her body shakes. Her phasing slows. The light dims. Your warmth seeps into her chest, and she slumps back against you like it’s all she’s been waiting for.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she mumbles brokenly.

“I don’t care,” you whisper. “You’re not alone.”

She clutches your hand, fingers trembling, and for the first time in weeks, her body stays whole.

Bucky Barnes thinks you have the smile he will always chase…

He does not understand why you care about him. Not really. Not yet. Bucky Barnes is used to people fearing him or needing him. Used to being either a weapon or a tragedy. When you show up with that light in your eyes and a handmade lunch in your bag for him, smiling like he’s something good, he can’t compute it. “You always bring me stuff,” he mutters, picking at the corner of your container. “Even when I’m an asshole.” “And you always eat it,” you tease. “Even when you’re trying not to smile.” The corner of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t smile, not really. Not yet. But his hands stop shaking.

He never grew up learning how to deal with gentleness. Bucky knows how to take a punch. Knows how to survive brainwashing, torture, decades of guilt. But he doesn’t know what to do when you crawl into his lap, pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw, and whisper, “Hi, handsome.” He freezes. Every time. You can feel the tension running through him like a high-tension wire. Not fear. Just disbelief. Like he thinks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. “Relax, Buck,” you say, pressing your hand to his chest. “I’m here.” He’ll press his forehead against yours like it’s a prayer. And breathe, slow and shaky.

He’s gentle in ways he doesn’t even realize. He stands on the street side when you walk. Sleeps closest to the door in hotels. Keeps his vibranium hand curled behind your back in public, silently shielding you. It’s in the way he opens your car door and then pretends he didn’t. In how he silently memorizes your coffee order after you say it once. In private? He touches you like you're porcelain and he’s still learning how to use his hands again. You make him slow down. Let him feel. Let him choose.

 He’s scared to sleep next to you at first. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s had too many nights waking up in cold sweats, fists clenched, not knowing where—or who—he is. The idea of hurting you, even by accident, keeps him curled on the couch for weeks. But one night, you find him mid-nightmare. He’s on his knees, breathing ragged, eyes wild with Winter Soldier panic. You kneel in front of him, press your hand to his cheek. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re Bucky. And I love you.” He crumbles. Arms around your waist, face buried in your chest like he’s five seconds from shattering. After that, he sleeps in your bed every night.

 He’s constantly looking at you like you’re not real. In the morning light, when you’re brushing your teeth in his t-shirt. When you fall asleep in his lap while watching reruns. When you kiss his shoulder absentmindedly while reading a book. There’s a look he gets—faraway, reverent. Like he’s staring at something too good for him. Like he’s waiting for the day you realize you deserve better. You catch him one day. “You okay?” He shakes his head slowly, voice a rasp: “I’ve never been this okay.”

 He’s terrified of how much he needs you. You’re light. Ease. A sunrise he never thought he’d live to see again. And that terrifies him. Because he’s lived in shadow so long, it feels like the sun might burn him. When he pulls away sometimes, disappears into his own head, you don’t chase. You wait. You sit close. You remind him: “You’re allowed to need things.” Eventually, he whispers back, “I need you.”

He starts learning softness from you. Slowly. Clumsily. You teach him that he’s allowed to laugh. That he can tease, flirt, tickle. You start to see a version of Bucky who’s silly.Who hides your snacks just to watch you pout. Who writes terrible sticky notes and leaves them on your mirror. Who starts humming in the kitchen when he thinks you’re asleep. He’s awkward with it. But so proud when he makes you laugh. “That wasn’t even that funny,” you giggle one day. Bucky shrugs, smug. “Made you snort, sunshine.”

He lets you touch his vibranium arm—and it undoes him. No one ever touches it. Not like that. Not with tenderness. But you’ll grab his hand with zero hesitation, press your cheek to the cool metal, trace the Wakandan etchings like they’re something beautiful. “Even this part of you deserves love,” you whisper once. He doesn’t respond. Just pulls you into his arms and holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

 He learns to want a future with you. It’s small things at first. Sharing a toothbrush holder. Bringing home flowers. Letting you paint that little spare room whatever ridiculous color you picked. Then it’s bigger. A key to his place. Matching mugs. You in his dog tags. He doesn’t say it out loud. But the way he looks at you when you fall asleep beside him? That is his vow.

You’re the reason he stays. There are still hard nights. Still days when he wonders if he’s worth saving. But you don’t flinch. You never leave. You just pull him close, press your lips to his temple, and remind him again: “You’re not broken. You’re becoming.” And he holds on to you like a lifeline.Because you are.

🥀 the quiet place 

Bucky wakes before the sun finishes rising. The room is bathed in the soft gray haze of morning, curtains drawn halfway, just enough to let the light pool across the floor in long, golden ribbons. The world outside hasn’t woken yet—no cars, no birds, no sound. Just the gentle, rhythmic hum of your breathing beside him.

His body’s still tense when he stirs, like it always is when sleep lets go of him. For one awful second, his brain jolts into the habit of survival. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who’s next to him. The phantom buzz of a trigger word rattles behind his eyes. Then you murmur something, half-asleep. A soft, incoherent noise. And you burrow closer.

Your arm, draped over his stomach, flexes just slightly as you pull yourself tighter to him. Your leg’s hooked over his hip like you’ve claimed him. There’s a faint line of drool at the corner of your mouth, and your cheek is pressed to his bare chest. Your hair is a mess. He can feel the heat of your breath fan over the curve of his ribs. It anchors him.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the panic ebbing. His heartbeat evens out. He lets his eyes flick open, just enough to look at you. Really look at you. You’re here. You’re still here. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t try to. Not right now.

Instead, Bucky stays still. Motionless. Reverent.

The weight of you on him is everything. A reminder. A heartbeat. Proof. He watches you sleep for minutes that feel like hours. His eyes trace your features—your lashes fluttering, the softness of your mouth, the curve of your jaw. Your hand twitches against his stomach like you’re dreaming something good.

You never look at him like you’re afraid. Even when he flinches in the dark. Even when his nightmares crack him open at 3am and he curls into himself like a wounded dog, shaking from the echo of memories he never asked for. Even when he forgets how to speak without guilt heavy in his throat.

You look at him like he’s home. He swallows around the ache building in his chest. Carefully—so carefully—he raises his vibranium hand, fingers shaking just a little, and brushes a strand of hair out of your face. The tips of his fingers linger at your temple. You don’t wake. But you sigh. Soft, pleased, safe. Bucky’s eyes sting suddenly. He blinks up at the ceiling.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he whispers.

It’s a prayer. It’s a confession. It’s all he can say. But you stir then, just barely, and mumble sleepily without opening your eyes: “You lived.”

He doesn’t cry. Not really. But something inside him cracks, slow and aching and full of light. He closes his eyes again. Not because he’s tired. Not because he’s slipping into a nightmare. But because, for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky Barnes is allowed to rest. And this time, he does. Wrapped in you. Wrapped in peace.

[sunskisser]

bucky barnes who doesn’t trust unless it comes to you. whose eyes soften at the sight of you, because his heart knows that it’s okay to let his guard down. he believed the world always had its claws out to get him, until he fell straight into your gentle arms. he tells you the word love meant nothing to him until you came along.

bucky barnes who would live for you. the winter soldier would kill for anyone, the white wolf would die for anyone, but bucky would live for you. he’s never believed in fate, but if it wasn't destiny that brought you to him, he doesn’t know what it was. he thinks maybe it was all worth it, the trauma and the scars and the pain, if it all lead up to the moment when you told him i love you.

bucky barnes who searches for you even in nightmares, screams your name till his lungs burn with self-hatred. you’re his safe space, his home. he’s drawn back to wakefulness as soon as he feels your touch, the gentleness of your breath on his skin like an aching balm to his wounds. he’ll never stop apologising for the burden that comes with his affection, yet he won’t ever stop loving you.

bucky barnes who thinks of hurting you as no less than a sin. who believes even pulling out a single strand of your hair is a hundred times worse than every murder committed as the winter soldier. because what’s a few dozen people in comparison to his whole universe?

bucky barnes who wakes up a little earlier in the morning; not to see the sun rise, but to watch the soft rays dapple your face. he thinks you look angelic, the golden hue painting you in so much beauty that he feels blessed; wonders if he ought to start praying to gods he never once believed in.

bucky barnes who tells you he loves you more times than he can count. whose voice is hardened from years of tortured, ragged cries; but the word doll tumbles out of his lips like soft petals when he looks at you. he knows seven different tongues, and is fluent in every single one. he claims that none of them have the words to describe how you make him feel.

bucky barnes who kisses like a hungry dog, like there’s an ache in his soul that can only be filled by the feeling of your lips on his, skin to skin. he believes the sole purpose of his metal arm is to pin you to the wall. roughness is the only form of love he’s ever known.

bucky barnes who buys you everything you talk about in passing, who takes you out wherever your heart yearns to go, who kisses your knuckles with the softest touch of his lips. he inhales when you exhale at night to make space for the rise of your chest. he only ever holds your hand with his non-metal one so as to not hurt you. he traces your features while you sleep. he loves you with the full force of the word, because you’re his girl.

bucky barnes who could never unlove you, would never want to. even if the strings of his soul were tied to another, he would cut them off and run straight to you.

[sematarygirls]

sonny takes being called "bro" very seriously

                   ౨ৎ

you have a bad habit of calling people "dude" and "bro." unfortunately, this habit extends to your boyfriend who is less than thrilled by your word choice and loves to make that fact known.

"bro, how many times have i-" you paused mid sentence as you turned and were greeted by the look on your boyfriend's face. his look was somewhere between you just ran over his mother, and you just suggested you both have olive garden for dinner— deeply hurt and utterly offended.

"how many times have i told you that i'm not your bro," he said pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest. "i'm your boyfriend."

"are we really going to have this conversation again?" you rolled your eyes, your frustration about him not unloading the dishwasher replaced by slight annoyance at his persistence.

"yes, we are," he replied with an eyeroll of his own.

"it is not that serious," you insisted, shutting the dishwasher door with a sigh, deciding to worry about it after your boyfriend's little temper tantrum. "i call everyone 'bro'."

"oh, so, now i'm just anyone?" he scoffed, clearly taking offense to that.

"you are actually the most dramatic person i have ever met," you threw your arms up in exasperation, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"it's the italian in me," he defended, a small smile of his own playing on his lips as his annoyance faded into amusement.

"you blame all your faults on being italian," you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter.

"that's not true," he shook his head, advancing toward you. "i also blame my impeccable cooking skills on being italian, and that's hardly a fault," he grinned, placing his hands on either side of the counter, caging you in.

"you always have to be right, huh?" you shook your head, laughing softly.

"precisely," he smiled down at you. "now, stop calling me 'bro'," he said, his tone stern.

"but, you're so sexy when you're annoyed," you teased him, tilting your head back to look at him due to the close proximity. a smile settled on your face as you enjoyed the playful banter.

"oh, i'll show you sexy," he said lowly, his head dipping down to capture your lips in a kiss.

[otissbluebearshirt]

hii can i request “I’m not scared.” “Your face says otherwise.” from the autumn prompt list with mike dodds?🥺 yk like it's halloween season and the precinct gets a lead to some house but when they get there it's decorated like a haunted house (with jumpscares and stuff) so reader is jumpy and mike laughs at her at the time but afterwards he's worried and hugs her and they have a moment and there's fluff etc

Haunted House - [ Mike Dodds ]

Prompt: “I’m not scared.” “Your face says otherwise.”

Word Count: 4654

Warnings: female!reader, use of y/n, mentions of jump scares, brief mentions of dismembered limbs

A/N: this is my first Mike work so please be nice lol

Masterlist | Mike Masterlist

Ever since it fell abandoned back in the late 1800’s, the old Sunnydale Asylum had easily grown legend to many a spooky tale.

From sightings of disoriented patients still clad in their dirty, white gowns, and left to wander halls forever as ghostly apparitions seeking peace. To the spine tingling story of the doctor who once ran the hospital still eager to lobotomise anyone he deemed fit, the asylum had grown to be quite the destination for those with a thrill for scares.

In fact, it became so popular for tourists and city dwellers alike that on every Halloween since before you were born the owners would set up the most intense haunted house inside, leading those who were brave enough to enter on a terrifying, bloodcurdling journey throughout history.

“God, there is nothing sunny about this place,” You muttered, feeling easily unsettled as your eyes landed on the moulding, degrading sign of the asylum.  The very sight of the smiling sun above the name, sent a fierce shiver rippling down your spine and you ran your hands up and down your arms, following Mike reluctantly, yet quickly, down the path before he ended up too far away for comfort. 

You never would have come here willingly. You hated anything even remotely scary and a haunted asylum, filled with actors waiting to pop out on you, was the very last place you ever could have wished to spend your Halloween. You’d wanted to spend it at home, watching something light and fun, but unfortunately for you duty had called in the shape of a case and for some reason…For some, the universe hates me, what did I do to deserve this? Reason, it had led you straight to the very asylum that you never wanted to see with your own two eyes. 

“I hate this already,” You complained, tailing Mike towards the ticket booth that had a line way too long for your liking as who would ever put themselves in such a situation as this if not under threat of immediate death? “Why is this place even allowed to be open? I thought some guy died in it last year.” 

“He fell down the stairs,” Mike replied casually, glancing briefly towards you. “He wasn’t murdered by a ghost.” 

You scoffed, “Yeah, that you know of. But who’s to say a ghost didn’t push him?” 

Mike couldn’t help but chuckle at your dramatic nature as the two of you weaved your way through the crowds of people waiting for their turn inside, many of whom were actually dressed as asylum patients and had the hairs on the back of your neck sticking up already. 

Why, oh why, hadn’t you just gone to the landfill site with Carisi? 

“Excuse me,” Mike said as you approached the ticket counter, gaining the attention of the rather young looking man, dressed as an orderly, who sat behind it. “I’m Sergeant Dodds, this is Detective Y/L/N of the NYPD. We’re looking for a James Santos, we were told he works here.” 

With his mouth hanging open, the ticket guy said nothing for a split second before his reddened eyes widened in realisation and he nodded, “Oh, you mean Jimmy.” 

Okay, so he was high. Great. 

“Yeah, he works here,” The guy continued, yet he didn’t bother to elaborate further until Mike snapped him back into reality with a click of his fingers, startling the kid terribly and causing him to shuffle in his seat. “But, uh, he’s inside. He's one of the actors down in the South Wing… Look for the guy in the straight jacket and the muzzle.” 

“Muzzle?” Mike repeated, curious.

“Yeah, you know… Like Hannibal Lecter,” The guy said, watching as Mike narrowed his eyes a little before shaking his head and the whole thing off entirely. 

It was too late, too cold, and he was far too eager to close this case to bother dumbing himself down anymore by talking to a stoned twenty-something year old. 

“Is there any way you can get Jimmy out here?” Mike asked, yet to you it seemed more like an order than a question. Something you were extremely thankful for as you did not want to go inside there and have to look for a guy impersonating a cannibal.

“Sorry, dude, I wish I could help. But once they’re inside and in costume they’re off the grid as cellphones kinda ruin the vibe.” 

“Well, is there any other way for us to get inside?” You asked hopefully, as you were already twitching minutely at the faint screams you could hear from inside the asylum, therefore you didn’t even want to imagine what you might look like should you be forced to walk through them. “Maybe an unlocked fire exit somewhere?” 

“No, we keep all the fire exits locked from the outside to stop kids from sneaking in,” The ticket guy replied plainly, only tightening the thick rope building in your stomach as if kids weren’t allowed inside…then what the hell kind of horrors lay beyond those doors?

“What about a back door?” You questioned toughly, finding yourself in sudden interrogation mode from the fear you had over venturing inside. “This is an old asylum, there’s bound to be other entrances.” 

“Look, lady…”

“It’s detective,” Mike corrected harshly, his teeth gritted together so hard you were surprised he had any left. 

“Detective,” The ticket guy corrected nervously, his attitude easily shifting as he became all but sober under the weight of Mike’s heavy glare. Even you were taken aback by his sudden harshness, and if it hadn’t been for the gentle, yet brave, pat on the arm you gave him to help him relax, you were afraid he might have launched himself over the counter and supplied the haunted attraction with an extra body to display. “The only other door is all the way around back.” 

“Great,” You said happily, tapping the desk with your knuckles before stepping back. “We’ll go that way then, you mind showing us?”

“It’s a fifteen minute walk through the forest,” The guy added, his eyebrow raised questionably. “Are you sure you want to? I mean… I don’t know if you know this but there’s stories of those woods being haunted…” 

“We’re not walking through the woods,” Mike stated, causing the guy to snap his mouth shut instantly and look away. You did the opposite though, in that you twisted your neck so quickly to look up at him you could have starred as a special performance of Regan from The Exorcist. He saw you easily from the corner of his eye, your mouth gaped like a fish and your eyes hard. “What?” 

“I’m not going in there.” 

“Why?” Mike asked, puzzlement sitting deep in his features until they slowly began to loosen. You, yourself, stiffened, as a smile etched its way onto his face at the sudden realisation of exactly why you would rather walk around through woods than use the front door. “Wait a minute… Are you scared to go inside?” 

“What?” You chuckled delusionally, your tone an octave higher than usual as Mike studied you, nothing but an annoying doubt plastering his otherwise handsome face as he saw right through your facade. You drew your tongue awkwardly over your back teeth as you added, unconfidently, “I’m not scared.” 

“Really? Because your face says otherwise,” Mike replied bluntly, humorously, causing your aforementioned fear riddled face to shift instantly into a frown that he couldn’t help but find ridiculously adorable. He always loved seeing you get all riled up like this. 

“Fine, you wanna go in?” You asked, a newfound wave of bravery coursing through your veins at his obvious smugness. He nodded, his hands on his hips as you stared up at him, your arms folded and your stance firm. “Then let’s go in, sergeant.” 

“Happy to,” Mike said wittily, knowing damn well you did not want to go in and that you weren’t happy with him knowing it either…otherwise, you wouldn’t have called him sergeant. He stepped aside, dropping his hands and motioning for you to go first as a smug smirk rose to his lips, “After you, detective.” 

A disgruntled huff left your nose as you strolled past him, keeping your shoulders high as you put on a brave face in hopes that he couldn’t tell how truly scared you were to go inside. Which wasn’t much, you know, your bones just practically shook beneath your skin as you ascended the steps. Each flickering light that caught your eye or ear piercing scream that met your ears caused your stomach to lurch inside you and if you weren’t careful, it was likely going to force its way up and land in front of you, but other than that you were just peachy. 

“Well, good luck,” The ticket guy called cheerfully after you, causing you to almost spin back around and arrest him. 

However, luckily for him and tragically for you, Mike’s large frame following behind you easily stopped you from turning around, meaning you had no choice but to carry on towards the building. You already felt uneasy. From the mere sight alone of the large double doors that were peeling away and rusty, you knew that what lay beyond was going to be ten times worse than what was outside.

Nevertheless you carried on, reaching the top of the steps far quicker than you’d have liked. You lifted your shaking hand reluctantly, curling it around the handle and sucking in a sickly breath as you mustered up all the courage you had in you to push it open. You could feel Mike lingering behind you, the heat of his body so close to your own yet it didn’t allow you to feel nearly as much comfort as it might have done, not with the horror that stood beyond the door you still hadn’t opened. 

“Oh, you are so scared,” Mike laughed, nudging you playfully with his elbow and finding even more amusement when you shoved him away to the other side of the step. “Do you want me to open it?” 

“No,” You replied, your word a little choked that it caused you to clear your throat roughly. “No. I can do it.” 

You heard Mike hum sceptically as he retreated back to you, yet he did nothing. He just lingered beside you patiently, watching as your focus grew distant and you forced the fear to momentarily leave your mind just long enough to allow you to power through. You took a deep breath, pushing open the heavy door as the air left your lungs in a shudder. 

God, you were already regretting this. From the eerily wailing sound of the hinges creaking open, and the pitch black darkness that engulfed you from the second you stepped across the threshold, you knew this was a bad idea that you wouldn’t be able to handle. But at the same time, you were also stubborn. You didn’t want Mike to win…whatever game it was that you two were playing and even if you hadn’t you still wouldn’t have been able to turn around, not when Mike had already closed the door behind him and was now hidden…somewhere amongst the shadows around you.

You couldn’t sense him. You couldn’t hear him, not with how hard your heart was pounding inside your chest and all the way up to your ears. You couldn’t even feel his usual presence around you either and that worried you. It terrified you, rather, as if there was one thing worse than being in a haunted asylum…it was being in one alone after Mike decided to be a dick and stay outside. 

“Dodds?” You whispered, swallowing thickly at the echo of creepy laughter that swept through the room around you. 

Against your better judgement you then stepped further into the foyer, hoping that at least hearing Mike’s footsteps follow you in would give you a general sense as to his position. But when you heard nothing, not a single peep besides distant screams of those further inside, you began to sweat…Both from your body, and from your eyes.

“Mike, I’m serious,” You said…seriously, and both of you could tell you were as you’d never once had you called him by his first name. “Where are you? This isn’t funny.” 

At the moment a hand clasped onto your shoulder and made you jump so hard you might have cried had Mike not appeared from within the darkness, a knowing, amused, smile tugging at his lips, “Come on, it’s a little funny.” 

“God, you’re such a dick sometimes,” You muttered bluntly, a very real anger towards him building inside you as you shrugged out from under his hand. 

Only, when you went to walk away from him to emphasise that you were huffing with him and would rather go alone, a skeleton swung down from the ceiling right in front of you. You screamed, your heart leaping in your chest as you stumbled back, feeling the firmness of Mike’s chest behind you as he caught you, his hands holding your outer arms gently before you ended up tripping over your own eagerness to run.  

“So, you’re not scared, huh?” He whispered tauntingly into your ear, causing an entirely different sensation to tingle down your spine. You shrugged out from within his grasp again and stepped away, hearing a pleased chuckle leaving his lips as he followed suit and placed his hand back on your shoulder. Only this time, as a way of comfort. “Come on, I promise I’ll keep you safe.” 

With a reluctant, heavy sigh you nodded and allowed him to lead the way as you mumbled, “Great, just a fun trip into an asylum to get killed.” 

Mike laughed, “We’re not gonna get killed.” 

“Maimed.” 

“Y/N/N.”

“Stabbed.” 

“Y/N.” 

“Beaten.” 

“Y/N.” 

“Burned.” 

“Y/N.” 

“What?” You said innocently, watching as Mike struggled to hide his smile at your incessant rambles of the danger that would likely never succumb to you in here. He kept quiet though, as no matter what he said to you about you being perfectly safe with him, he knew it wouldn’t sink into your stubborn mind until you were back in the true safety of the precinct. 

Instead, he simply continued to lead you further into the asylum, constantly checking to make sure you hadn’t passed out behind him each time an actor jumped out to try and startle you both. He was fine with it, a small twitch of his shoulders every now and then but you… You hated every single minute of it. 

It didn’t matter that Mike was at the front and was the primary target of the scare, you still seemed to take the full brunt of it and each time a disturbing, how did he even manage to make himself look like that? actor would pop out from within a locker or lunge out from behind a door, you would scream like a little kid and lurch forward to cling to Mike’s arm. Not that he minded, though. He kind of liked having you this close to him, and each time he’d feel your face press against his bicep as you hid it from view, his heart would literally skip a beat. 

However, as the two of you delved further into the asylum and had yet to come across another jumpscare actor in the last five minutes, you grew uneasy and on edge, and because of that, you did something Mike wasn’t the least bit prepared for… Nor did he even know how to react when you did. 

“Y/N,” Mike said quietly, almost nervously. He heard you hum from next to him, your pitch a lot higher than it should be as he came to a slow stop. You glanced up at him questionably, your eyebrow raised where his was dipped and the way he kept dropping his gaze between your bodies only heightened your sense of intrigue, and so with a partial widened of your eyes you urged him to speak his words. Something you’d regret the second they slipped past his lips. “You’re uh… You’re holding my hand.” 

With your face dropping, you instantly snatched your hand back and looked away from him, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as your stomach began to flutter furiously. Oh God, you hadn’t meant to do that. You hadn’t meant to… Shit. You’d only meant to take a subtle hold of the cuff of his jacket with your fingers just to make sure you didn’t get separated, but you were literally so scared of something popping out in front of you that you held his hand.  

“Sorry,” You mumbled, tugging your sleeves down over your hands as you sucked in a shaky breath and tried to force yourself to look back at him. 

You didn’t want to, not by a long shot. You didn’t want to see the cringed look in his eyes over having you hold his hand but you knew you had to. Not only did you want to keep what remaining dignity you had left but you had a job to do and you literally couldn’t stomach where your eyes were facing now… as there was a concerningly realistic decapitated head sitting in a pool of blood next to you and it was making you want to reach out and take Mike’s damn hand again.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike replied as casually as he could, watching as you turned around and smiled at him…a proper, genuine smile that could strike a man smitten had he not been so already. He could have kissed you. Hell, he was going to, had he not spotted the opportunity of a lifetime sitting just off to his right. “I get that these things can be scary and if you really want a hand to hold, I’d be more than happy to provide you with my own.” 

With your heart literally skipping beats inside your chest, you were about to happily take him up on the offer before he slowly raised a severed hand, wiping your smile away far quicker than it had formed. 

“Or if you’d rather… I can offer you this one instead,” Mike said, rolling his lips as he struggled to not laugh at his own cheesy joke. 

You simply deadpanned him, folding your arms across your chest and refusing to even acknowledge the hand he held out towards you.

“Oh come on, lighten up…” Mike chuckled, wiggling the hand a little to gain your attention — which failed. “It’s funny.” 

“You and I have very different definitions of the word funny,” You muttered, spinning on your heels and deciding to venture further into the asylum by yourself. 

You made it a few steps before you heard a soft thud from behind you, no doubt from Mike tossing the hand aside as it was quickly followed by his hurried footsteps as he caught up to you. He fell in line with you easily, continuously peering at you out of the corner of his eye and when you kept glancing around you anxiously with one hand placed firmly on your churning stomach and the other hanging loosely by your side, he reached out his own and slipped it back into yours without so much as saying a word. 

The two of you stayed like that, with your hands clasped firmly together and your chests fluttering furiously beneath your skin, until you finally reached the room you needed to be in — the operating room. It was basic. As stereotypical as any hospital room in any horror movie could be but there was something about the lonely hand trolley that stood in the middle of the room, with a single man dressed like Hannibal Lecter strapped to it, that very deeply unsettled you.

“This is not a good use of this room,” You whispered, hearing a brief, almost amused…maybe, breath leave Mike’s nose as he slipped his hand out from yours and approached the Hannibal wannabe. 

You stayed behind, not wanting to go anywhere near him just yet until it had been established that they were not there for the scares, and were in fact cops who were investigating a brutal double homicide…Otherwise you simply wouldn’t have been there in the first place. 

“What’s wrong?” You asked, as Mike came strolling back over to you with a deep look of guilt sitting heavy on his face. 

“That’s not him,” Mike said, swallowing thickly as he had no idea how you’d react to the news. You squinted questionably, prompting him to elaborate even further. “That uh, that’s not James.” 

“What do you mean? He’s the only guy in this whole place dressed like that!” You exclaimed, gesturing angrily towards the guy who had better turn into James before you got a hold of him. 

“They swapped shifts,” Mike explained, placing his hands on your shoulders to gain your attention and feeling as they rose rapidly beneath them. “James was never here.” 

With a frustrated groan, you shoved Mike’s hands away from you and made for the exit. He followed after you swiftly, jumping more at the way the door banged against the wall as you threw it open than he did at the countless horror actors who’d just spent the last twenty minutes popping out at him.  

“You’re telling me that I just went through all that…” You pointed furiously towards the asylum as your turned in the dirt with so much pressure put on your heels, that it made little dents in the dirt. “And the guy wasn’t even fucking in there!” 

“Wow, hey…” Mike exhaled, taken aback by your sudden swearing as he approached you carefully, your hands on your hips and your chest heaving with every breath you took. 

At first, he thought it was from nothing more than anger at the entire situation. Having your Halloween ruined by work… Having to drive here so late at night… Having to venture through a ridiculously cheesy haunted house set up in an otherwise creepy asylum, but the closer he got to you… the moment he saw the first glisten of the moonlight in the fresh tears that brewed in your eyes, the more he came to realise that you weren’t angry. 

No… You were scared. You were really, truly terrified that whole time and he had no idea. He thought… He thought you were just messing around. He thought it was all a game, but he literally couldn’t have been farther from the truth and honestly, it made him feel like such a dick for all but making fun of you for it. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N” Mike said softly, his lips pressing together regretfully as he closed the gap between you, his brow pinched together with worry. “I had no idea, I thought… I thought you were just messing around. I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” You sniffled, feeling like such a pathetic child for almost crying over a stupid haunted house. “You didn’t know. You… It’s fine. Really, Mike, I’m okay now.” 

“Are you though?” Mike questioned doubtfully, watching as you nodded your head with uncertainty a few times… before shifting and immediately shaking it as you were not okay. Not by a long shot. He then raised his hands and cupped your face instantly, his heart warming at how easily you seemed to relax under such a small gesture. 

At that immense softness that shrouded your features as you smiled tearfully up at him, Mike couldn’t stop himself from dropping his hands and pulling you into the safety his arms, allowing you to feel as they wrapped around you so tightly…so comfortingly that the last twenty minutes became nothing but a distant thought in your mind. Your own slipped under the warmth of his jacket and around his waist, holding him equally as tight and as close to you as you could as you all but melted against him.

You weren’t aware of just how long he held you like that. Time seemed to tick idly by without you having so much as a care in the world, not when you were here in his arms where he allowed every ounce of fear and worry to leave you entirely. It was strange… Unrealistic almost, how one simple touch from one specific person could make you feel so much better than ever thought possible. But he did. Mike made you feel better. He made you feel safe…like nothing would ever happen to you again and it was because of that…because of that sudden realisation that kicked in in your mind that you did what you did next. 

When he inevitably pulled back from you, just enough for him to glance down at you, you slipped your hands out from around him and curled your fingers tightly around the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer to your face so that you could do the one thing you’d been dying to do for weeks, and might never have found the courage to had he not hugged you. 

You kissed him. 

You pressed your lips so tenderly, so sweetly against his own that his knees almost gave out from under him even despite how quick the moment had come and gone. But it was slow enough to get Mike going and he steadied himself easily, his arm slipping securely around your waist as he brought you closer to him. You could already feel your heart racing as he placed one hand on the side of your neck and brought you towards him, his lips crashing against yours in a way that had you seeing stars, and not those that you could see in the sky just above him. 

You tightened your hold on the front of his jacket to keep him close to you, feeling the way his hand slid slowly round to the back of your head where his fingers began to weave their way through your hair as he cradled it. His tongue traced eagerly over your bottom lip as he did so, pushing them apart as it delved deep into your mouth, causing such sweet sounding hums to leave the back of your throat as he easily deepened the long, overdue kiss that the two of you never wanted to end.

“God,” Mike breathed out, when the two of you inevitably had to pull apart due to a stupid thing called oxygen, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” 

“There was nothing stopping you, sergeant,” You said flirtatiously, dragging your bottom lip through your teeth as there was nothing causing you to be shy anymore. Not when he’d just stuck his tongue down your throat and answered all the lingering questions you could ever have about whether or not he’d have ever liked you back. “You could have kissed me like that any time you liked.” 

Mike chuckled, drawing his thumb down the softness of your kiss swollen lips, “I don’t think the guys would have liked seeing me kiss you like that in the middle of the squad room.” 

“Maybe not,” You murmured humorously, leaning up to press another gentle kiss to his lips. “But then again, we’ve all seen worse.” 

“True,” Mike replied, pecking another kiss to your mouth as it curled against him. “But I’d rather not have the whole team watching us as we did.” 

“You’d rather have an asylum full of freaks instead?” You questioned, your eyebrow raised playfully as Mike glanced towards the building and shrugged. 

“If that’s what it takes,” He said, drawing his eyes back to you and trailing his knuckles down the side of your face. “As after all…had it not been for that asylum full of freaks then I might have had to wait a whole other year for sometime to scare you badly enough to make you kiss me.”

Like Mike? Apply to his tag list here so you don’t miss out on his works!

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[roanofarcc]

YOU, BRIGHT BLUE

pairing. tyler owens x reader

summary. between the moments of chaos of storm chasing, tyler finds the break in the storm when with you. 

warnings. shy/introverted reader, fluff!

word count. 1k || masterlist

To cap off the end of tornado season, it was a tradition for someone from the wranglers to throw a little celebration. It was Tyler’s turn and he had, lovingly, suckered you into helping him with the promise of picking up your favorite dessert for after the dinner. 

It was the first party with the newest additions of Kate and Javi to Tyler’s team, and they were warmly welcomed with light teasing that Boone insisted was mandatory hazing. Everyone ate until their stomachs were beyond stuffed, but no one wanted the night to end after that. 

You had suggested a bonfire. Tyler had been excited about the new fire pit he had built in his backyard, and the only people who had enjoyed it so far were the two of you. You often rounded off your date nights back at his place, making s’mores and talking until you couldn’t keep your eyes open. 

Even with the addition of Tyler’s team, you two still found yourself in your usual spot around the fire, seated on a blanket in the grass. You sat with your legs outstretched and Tyler rested his head in your lap. As the team laughed and reminisced on their favorite stories from the season, you absentmindedly ran your fingers through Tyler’s hair. He chimed in now and then, but when he wasn’t talking, his attention was on you. 

His bright eyes studied you in the firelight like always, but no matter how many times he looked at you, he found something else he loved. Every shy smile you gave Kate when she complimented your cooking or light laugh you gave to Boone’s terrible jokes. Despite your quietness, he could tell how much you enjoyed the company of his friends, which he was relieved to see. Tyler had gotten good at reading the little tells in your face since you weren’t much of a talker.

Just by the crinkle of your eye or twitch of your lip, he knew almost exactly what you were feeling. And at the fire with his team, you looked happy, which was exactly what he was hoping for. You hadn’t been around for more than a couple dinners and hang-outs with the team, and he knew they could be a tad overwhelming from time to time just because of their ever-bounding excitement. But knowing that you enjoyed their company as much as he did felt like a weight off of his chest. 

Dating you was a different experience for Tyler. He used to think he needed someone who matched his energy or exceeded it; someone boisterous who didn’t know how to slow down. But he had learned rather quickly that was like burning the candle at both ends. Meeting you showed him the beauty in slowing down. He spent his days chasing after roaring storms, wrapped in the heat of adrenaline and pounding hearts. And don’t get him wrong, that was what he loved about storm chasing, but he needed something different when it came to relationships. 

You didn’t come barreling into his life at top speeds, crashing into him. You floated in like a gentle spring breeze, soft and calm. In his breaks between storm-chasing, you were his breath of fresh air. It was your slow pace of life that made him fall, hard. But instead of running blindly into relationships, as he had a habit of doing, he played the long game until you became so integral to his life that he knew he had to make a move. And lucky for him, you had fallen just as hard. 

It was early into the wee hours of the morning before the team finally departed, giving each other tired goodbyes before they’d spend some time apart, going on much-deserved vacations and returning to their ‘normal’ jobs until it was time to chase again. 

While Tyler walked his friends out, you started to clean up a little, yawning as you did so. You were so tired, half-heartedly washing the dishes, when he came back inside and appeared behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close before resting his chin on your shoulder. Soft kisses peppered the side of your face and neck, causing you to smile. 

“Come on, these can wait ‘till morning,” Tyler whispered, sleepily. 

“Let me just finish these,” you said, but he didn’t let go. His chest was flushed against your back, warming you up more than the fire outside had. He was quiet as you washed the last plate; you placed it on the drying wrack just before he tugged you backward, away from the sink to stop you from cleaning up anymore. 

He loosened his grip just enough for you to turn around to face him, resting your arms lazily around his neck. “Thanks for helping me with tonight,” Tyler said, his voice barely above a whisper like he didn’t want to disturb the quietness of his home in the late hours. 

“Of course,” you replied, peering at him with the very expression that made him fall in love with you. 

There was a beauty to tornados, one that was difficult to appreciate unless you understood them the way he did. The black and green skies, the rotating clouds that dropped down, and the deep grooves they left behind in the ground all held a certain beauty, but it was very different than how he’d describe you. You were bright blue skies and sunsets that resembled paintings. To him, you were the calm before the storm; the stillness that blocked out any rational sense that something dark was looming in the distance. 

He brushed a thumb across your cheek and kept his hand holding the side of your face. You yawned again before you kissed him quickly, too quickly if you ask him. “Ready for bed?” you asked, your eyes nearly drooping with your words. Tyler answered with a nod, leading you back into his bedroom where you had claimed your side of the bed. His pillows smelled like your shampoo, and he never slept well without having you in arm's reach. But that night he didn’t have to worry about it because he fell asleep with your head on his chest. Instead of staying awake in search of answers in the dark skies, he dreamt beside you of bright blue scenery.

[seasidetom]

Formula One Drivers masterlist

organised by date: oldest ↠ newest

[word count]

full masterlist

only writing for charles, pierre, daniel, george and eventually esteban at the moment. do not request about lando, max, lewis.

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ CHARLES LECLERC ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄ 

one shots

let it be - charles leclerc [2.9k words]

You wake up to sunlight, smells of crepes and piano notes escaping from the living room. A whole aesthetics vibes. Not much plot, just pure fluff.

somebody i don’t know - charles leclerc [4.5k words]

Charles is so mad at his mistake during the race that you end up alone, trying to come up to terms with that side of him that you never really encountered. Angst on track.

she’s not my girlfriend - charles leclerc [5,6k words] (prompted)

Spa 2021 is a real circus and as you’re strolling the drowning paddock, making sure to grab content for your team, Ferrari, one of the drivers is trying really, really hard not to show that he has the fattest crush on his coworker. Unfortunately for him, he’s already been caught by pretty much.. everyone.

the way - charles leclerc [2.3k words] (f1blr secret santa)

You had no idea what you fell into when you fell for Charles but truth is, you might be in way over your head.

she might be my girlfriend - charles leclerc [9,9k words] (part 2 to she’s not my girlfriend)

Ever since Spa, you’ve jumped head first into a new relationship with Charles. Except with everyone breathing behind your necks about your alleged crushes on each other, you kinda don’t want to tell anyone and decide to keep it a secret from everyone else.

series

sunkissed face - charles leclerc [7.2k words] + part 2 + part 3 + part 4 + part 5 + part 6 + part 7 + part 8 (prompted)

playlist + Halloween blurb + Valentine’s Day blurb + charles meeting the dad + charles’ pov of the first meeting

You’ve been in love with your best friend Harrison for quite a while now but when Tom, Harrison and Tuwaine go on a trip to Monaco for the F1 Grand Prix, you’re quick to tag along, even though it means spending time with Harrison’s girlfriend.

drabbles

trying not to draw attention after a win (she’s not my girlfriend drabble)

drunk charles

tink comforting charles (she’s not my girlfriend follow up)

adopting a pet with charles

teammate charles

longterm friends with benefits with charles

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ PIERRE GASLY ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

series

pull me back to you - pierre gasly [6.9k words] + part 2 + part 3 +  part 4 (prompted)

playlist + lipstick stains

Not going to lie, when Pierre came back home and suggested a night out with your group of friends, you hadn’t expected your creetin of an ex-boyfriend to show up in the bar you were at. Faking a relationship with your best friend seems to be the easiest way to insure that you’re left alone. Right?

drabbles

teammate pierre

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ DANIEL RICCIARDO ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

one shots

take my hand tonight - daniel ricciardo [8.1k words]

You really don’t want to go to that event that your work is throwing on but your bestie Dan is coming and he really wishes you could spend a night together.

raspberry - daniel ricciardo [4k words] (prompted)

Daniel is back for the summer break and you get your cuddle buddy back, which is amazing, of course. Until it’s 35°C in your bedroom in the middle of the night and you’d rather melt that have to stay trapped in the blanket that Daniel can’t sleep without.

cheers - daniel ricciardo [2.4k words]  (prompted)

After months of doubting himself and wandering new grounds alone, Daniel gets a shiny trophy and his girl back in his arms.

jealousy - daniel ricciardo [3.3k words]  (prompted)

You haven’t really put words onto what you’ve been sharing with Daniel for the past six months, after you’ve met him in a club, but he’s finally back to you and you really want to clear some things out.. That is if he stops sukling about whatever he’s decided to sulk about.

lie to me - daniel ricciardo [4.3k words] (prompted)

You and Daniel are going through a rough patch after he got caught in a delicate situation. In hindsight, maybe ranting through a cover on a very popular radio show wasn’t the best idea you ever had..

plum - daniel ricciardo [3k words] (prompted)

Your big plans got derailed and you’re not sure how to deal with it. And it’s making Daniel pretty anxious too, if we’re being honest.

red currant - daniel ricciardo [5.2k words] (prompted) (follow up to plum)

Daniel got everything he wished for: his girl became his wife and she gave him the coolest kid he could have ever hoped for, who has the majority of the grid wrapped around her tiny finger.

i’m unwell, babe - daniel ricciardo [3.5k words] (prompted)

Daniel has had a very rought night and you’ve had to play nurse. Not in the fun way, though.

drabbles

anxiety attack with daniel

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ GEORGE RUSSELL ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

one shots

fever dream - george russell [9k words]

You’ve worked your ass off for years to become a motorsports journalist, so when you get sent to cover your first ever GP as the prime reporter, you’re ecstatic to finally realise your dream.. But a certain blue-eyed driver totally takes your breath away and you’re not quite sure how to deal with it.

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ CARLOS SAINZ ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

drabbles

wake up call

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ F1 AESTHETICS ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

F1 drivers playing Among Us

F1 drivers reading fanfics

F1 drivers’ cats if they had one

F1 drivers’ cozy nights

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ COZY NIGHTS ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

cozy nights

[constellationsreid]

blue ; john stones

pairing: john stones x f!reader

summary: after the celebrations of winning the premier league, john comes home with a slightly different hair colour

authors note: this is 100% inspired by the events of this weekend lmao what can i say i’m a sucker for city <3

masterlist.

There was no guarantee that they would win the trophy this year, hell at certain points during the season it seemed impossible. But as they always do, City rallied and came back stronger than ever. Which resulted in celebrations that would end in drunken nights and forgetful mornings.

Tonight, however, was different. They had one more match against Chelsea before the real celebrations could begin, meaning John came home to you earlier than you were expecting. You heard the familiar sound of his keys in the door, just as you were switching the TV off.

“Right, now I don’t want you to laugh,” is the first thing he says to you, still standing in the doorway, hidden from your view.

Out of curiosity, you turn around on the couch and try to catch a glimpse of him, but he’s got his hoodie pulled up, despite it being an unseasonably warm day.

“What do you mean, why would I laugh?” You ask, beyond confused by his antics.

“The boys wanted to celebrate, and since we have a game tomorrow, we couldn’t do anything crazy. So someone, I think it was Ed, bought spray on hair dye…” he trails off as he pulls his hood down, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “I said don’t laugh!”

You’re up off the sofa, in front of John in seconds, cradling his face in your hands and struggling to wipe the grin off your face. His famous curls are highlighted with blue, but someone had done a very bad job of the dying it equally, resulting in the most patchy blue and brown pattern.

“I’m not laughing at you,” you promise him, your lower lip between your teeth as you try and come up with some more reassurance, “I just think you could’ve done a better job on the hair dye.”

“It wasn’t me!” He protests, laughing and breaking away from your hands. “Kyle said it wasn’t that bad!” He groans, walking to the mirror in the hallway and letting out another dramatic sigh.

“It’s not that bad,” you say, but even you don’t believe yourself. “We can try and wash it out?” You suggest.

He shakes his head, “already tried that back at the club, it’s stuck like this for at least a week.”

Something about the helpless look on his face, combined with the awful dye job, set you off laughing again. “C’mere,” you manage to get out, reaching for him. He walks over to you and pulls you in for a hug, resting his head on yours in defeat. “It’s okay, no one will even notice. They’ll be too busy talking about you as champions,” you tell him.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you tell him, heart swelling with pride. “Champions again, I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t start with the sappy shit now! I still gotta get through tomorrows game!” He says, earning another laugh from you.

Later that night, when you’re both half asleep with John’s head on your chest, you find yourself running your fingers through the blue streaks of hair. “My champion,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the head of curls, not minding the blue streaks so much anymore.

[constellationsreid]

blue ; john stones

pairing: john stones x f!reader

summary: after the celebrations of winning the premier league, john comes home with a slightly different hair colour

authors note: this is 100% inspired by the events of this weekend lmao what can i say i’m a sucker for city <3

masterlist.

There was no guarantee that they would win the trophy this year, hell at certain points during the season it seemed impossible. But as they always do, City rallied and came back stronger than ever. Which resulted in celebrations that would end in drunken nights and forgetful mornings.

Tonight, however, was different. They had one more match against Chelsea before the real celebrations could begin, meaning John came home to you earlier than you were expecting. You heard the familiar sound of his keys in the door, just as you were switching the TV off.

“Right, now I don’t want you to laugh,” is the first thing he says to you, still standing in the doorway, hidden from your view.

Out of curiosity, you turn around on the couch and try to catch a glimpse of him, but he’s got his hoodie pulled up, despite it being an unseasonably warm day.

“What do you mean, why would I laugh?” You ask, beyond confused by his antics.

“The boys wanted to celebrate, and since we have a game tomorrow, we couldn’t do anything crazy. So someone, I think it was Ed, bought spray on hair dye...” he trails off as he pulls his hood down, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “I said don’t laugh!”

You’re up off the sofa, in front of John in seconds, cradling his face in your hands and struggling to wipe the grin off your face. His famous curls are highlighted with blue, but someone had done a very bad job of the dying it equally, resulting in the most patchy blue and brown pattern.

“I’m not laughing at you,” you promise him, your lower lip between your teeth as you try and come up with some more reassurance, “I just think you could’ve done a better job on the hair dye.”

“It wasn’t me!” He protests, laughing and breaking away from your hands. “Kyle said it wasn’t that bad!” He groans, walking to the mirror in the hallway and letting out another dramatic sigh.

“It’s not that bad,” you say, but even you don’t believe yourself. “We can try and wash it out?” You suggest.

He shakes his head, “already tried that back at the club, it’s stuck like this for at least a week.”

Something about the helpless look on his face, combined with the awful dye job, set you off laughing again. “C’mere,” you manage to get out, reaching for him. He walks over to you and pulls you in for a hug, resting his head on yours in defeat. “It’s okay, no one will even notice. They’ll be too busy talking about you as champions,” you tell him.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you tell him, heart swelling with pride. “Champions again, I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t start with the sappy shit now! I still gotta get through tomorrows game!” He says, earning another laugh from you.

Later that night, when you’re both half asleep with John’s head on your chest, you find yourself running your fingers through the blue streaks of hair. “My champion,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the head of curls, not minding the blue streaks so much anymore.

[bluemoonstonesy]

constantly updated | pieces with * are my favourites

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

- Fluff Imagines

From the Sidelines*

john dedicates his goal to a certain staff member of the england national team

Boyfriend of the Year*

you take john to one of your favourite shops, but he isn’t too keep at first

“Oh my god! You’re in love with her!”

john attempts to hide his feelings towards you, but his teammates still pick up on it

New Addition to the Family* (writing challenge)

you surprise john with his very own furry friend

Not My Boyfriend*

john isn’t too happy about having to pick you up in the early hours of the morning, but your drunken antics keep him entertained

Forgotten Keys

john forgets something before he leaves, but you don’t complain when he gets it wrong

New Arrival

you come back to find john painting the room for your soon-due baby

Teach Me

you attempt to teach john guitar, but it’s easier said than done

Substitutions

a friendly game of fifa leaves john in nothing short of a mood

I Still Hate You*

your new years kiss ends up being with the least likely person in the room

Morning’s

you and john have a moment in bed on the first father’s day as new parents

Seeing Red

you try your hardest to comfort john after a difficult game

“See, now, was that so bad?”

you congratulate john in the tunnel after a well earned derby goal

Final

you welcome an ecstatic john home after city make to your the champions league final

Drunk Karaoke

you and john make the most of your greek holiday - even if it means embarrassing yourselves slightly

Why don’t we change that?

a small conversation on the city physio bed gives john the confidence to make the first move

The Death of Me*

john is certain that the love is unrequited, but he still wants to keep you safe

Table 26 | Part One | Part Two

serving a table full of footballers leads to john making the first move on the waitress who caught his eye

- Angst Imagines

Too Much To Ask*

breakdown of a relationship

Like Old Times*

a school reunion brings you and john back together after a turbulent past

Aren’t you going to say something?

The aftermath of a Champions League knockout leads to tensions between you and John

The Apartment

letting john come into your flat to collect his things after the breakup takes an unexpected turn

Man’s Best Friend | Part One | Part Two*

when you split two months ago, neither you or john were willing to give up your fur baby full time. but maybe the very same dog that you bought together will teach you both to love again.

The New Normal*

you and john are drifting apart, but you don’t want to let the man you love go

Twelve Songs

john finds comfort in your new music, even if it’s aimed at him in the worst way possible

Not the One*

john can’t bear to see you marry someone else, especially when he knows something that you don’t

Left Alone

john comes home after a bad game and you’re left sleeping alone that night

1 step forward, 3 step back

an argument over the phone whilst john is away on international duty ends with you questioning the entire relationship

hope ur ok

you try your best to comfort john after the euro 2020 final

Torn Between

the champions league final leaves you in a difficult dilemma between supporting your little brother and your boyfriend at the same time

Figuring it out

you know that your love for your best friend is one sided, and it only becomes reality after a simple statement from john

- Smut Imagines

Unspoken Proposition* (ft. Rúben Dias)

there’s nothing unusual about a post match celebration. but after the newcastle game, the rewards are extended to welcome a familiar face to you and john’s hotel room.

Don’t Flatter Yourself*

you’re determined to not let john have his way the night before a match, but you find it hard to resist keeping up your stubborn act

The Thrill of It All*

you and john have an arrangement that is becoming more and more risky, but the exposure to others finding out is just part of the fun

Wear My Name

after he’s dismissed from the pitch, you and john make your shared feelings well known in the city changing rooms

It’s me, isn’t it?

the tension is always thick between you and john with remarks being dropped without thinking. but it all changes one night.

All Mine

after a night out with nothing but glances, john can’t keep his hands off of you when you’re both alone

Unspoken

you and john have to keep your relationship on the down low, but he likes use a certain fact to his advantage in the bedroom

“I can’t believe you talked me into this”

you and john have an arrangement that leaves you tangled up in each other’s arms more often than not

Prove It*

after an argument in the nightclub, john comes to apologise to you in his own way

Rule Breaker

you and john are interrupted at SGP by an unwanted face

[constellationsreid]

keychain ; mason mount

pairing: mason mount x f!reader

summary: key moments where mason wanted to say i love you, but didn’t. until he finally did.

authors note: i’m deep in the england footie fics now and can’t find a way out help.

masterlist.

The sun was setting and you had no plans on moving anytime soon. Mason was sat between your legs, sprawled out on the grass, sunglasses long forgotten on the porch behind you. He had invited you over for an afternoon in the sun and you could never say no to Mason.

You’d known him for just over a year, after a chance encounter saw your lives inexplicable intertwined. While you started as friends, you couldn’t deny the feelings that were starting to grow for the Chelsea player.

Unbeknownst to you, Mason was feeling the exact same way.

He was half asleep in the setting England sun, body pressed comfortably against yours. He thinks to himself, that he hasn’t felt this comfortable in forever. He isn’t worried about anything, or anyone. He’s completely at peace.

He realises in this moment that you’re one of the only people who makes him feel like this. Whenever you’re in the same room as him, his heart rate slows and his breathing evens out. Not because he’s not excited to see you, but rather the exact opposite. You keep him calm.

“What’re you thinking about?” You ask him, breaking him from his thoughts.

I love you, he thinks. Or rather, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. Instead he mumbles something inaudible and pretends to fall back asleep, savouring the moment between the two of you.

-

He’s supposed to be meeting Ben but he can’t find the shirt he wanted to wear. He’s tearing apart the house, looking in every drawer, every wardrobe, but he can’t find it. He’s not really that bothered, he has plenty of other shirts to wear, but it’s bothering him that he can’t remember where he left it.

Giving up with his search, he sighs and pulls a random one from the half open drawer, making a mental note to look for it later.

It’s not until hours later that he finds the shirt. Or rather, it finds him.

You send him a selfie of you waiting for the train in the rain, and he spots a familiar shirt under your jacket. It’s the shirt he was looking for earlier.

He can’t remember when he gave it to you, but he decides that you look better in it anyway, and doesn’t say anything about it being his. Instead, he lets himself pretend that you wore it on purpose, because it reminds you of him.

Once again, he has to stop himself from replying to your text with an “I love you.”

-

The house was quiet. You were spending the night at Mason’s, he had invited you over after a particularly bad loss and he didn’t want to be alone. So of course you showed up, snacks in hand, ready to forget about what happened on the pitch.

It had been hours since you arrived, and your snacks were gone and the darkness had drawn in. It was cold outside and you couldn’t remember if you rolled up your car window from earlier.

“I’m gonna go make sure my windows rolled up, I’ll be back,” you tell him, gently untangling yourself from the pile of blankets and limbs you were in.

He nods his head, wordlessly reaching for the blanket again to wrap himself up while he waited for you to return.

After confirming that your car window was in fact rolled up, you walk back into the house, spinning your car keys on your finger.

The noise draws Mason’s attention, and he looks over at you. He notices the keychain hanging off your keys. It was the number 19 in blue, the only keychain on your keys.

“Where’d you get that keychain from?” He asks, sitting up from his slouched position.

You look down at your keys, almost forgetting about the keychain. “Declan got it for me months ago, he made some joke about making sure I don’t forget your number,” you shrug at the innocent question, before setting your keys down next to Mason’s on the table by the door.

For some reason, that’s it for Mason. He can’t keep his thoughts to himself anymore.

The thought of you and his childhood best friend hanging out, just for the sake of hanging out, and you walking around with his number in your pocket, has him almost rendered speechless. Almost.

“I love you.”

The words cut through the air, and are met with silence on your behalf. And Mason shits himself, thinking he’s fucked up one of the best relationships in his life, and desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

You look at Mason with a look he can’t read. Your eyes soften as you take in his current state. His soft hair from his recent shower, the exhaustion in his eyes and slight tremble to his voice.

It only takes you 30 seconds to cross the room and grab Mason’s face, but those 30 seconds are the longest of his entire life.

Even after you pull away from kissing him softly, the taste of your lip balm still on his lips, Mason is looking at you confused.

“I love you, too,” you finally tell him, speaking the words he’s been dreaming of hearing for months.