25 "you've no idea what you do to me," vulnerability dialogue prompts !!
(feel free to use <333 tag me when yall write!! my favs are 5!! 10, 3 )
"God, I need you."
"I've craved this more nights than I can remember." :'')
"Would it assure you if I say.. that I'd be honored to protect your vulnerability with me?"
when you both sleep together after a traumatic event, you holding them
^ they silently whisper, "I'm scared.. That you'll leave me once you see how much I need you. that this love will consume me, make me.. clingy, and you'll see I'm just.. broken"
"Can you hug me?" By a really vulnerable you and they still at the request before one hand moves to your back, holding you against them - perhaps more tightly than necessary.
They make a choked sound, half laugh, half sob, pressing their forehead against yours, "What would I be without you?"
"Would you... would you be okay if I put my arm around your shoulders? Like, hugging you from the side?"
^ "Would u want to?" you ask but they hadn't expected you to ask if they wanted to. your question implies that you care about their feelings too, and it touches something deep within them. "Yes," they admit softly. "I do."
Cuddling but its them on top resting their ear over ur heart and listening to its beatssssss
3 am truth exchanges and both your voices are really quiet, intimate and genuine, eyes shining with lots of emotions that you both honor and hold close.
Hi!! I was thinking about new established relationship between Bucky and reader. She is a doctor and one night Bucky comes home hurt and she tends to his wounds, maybe it's the first time he tells her he loves her too♥️
Thank you!!
The first time Bucky comes home bleeding, you’re halfway through charting notes at the kitchen table.
You don’t hear him unlock the door.
You feel it.
A shift in the air. A disturbance in your chest that has nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with instinct. You’re already on your feet when he steps into the apartment, shoulders tight, jaw set, jacket darkened at the side.
“Buck,” you breathe.
He tries to smile.
It’s terrible.
“It’s not bad,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Just a graze.”
You’re already crossing the room, doctor brain snapping into place even as your heart hammers against your ribs.
“Take the jacket off,” you order softly.
He listens.
That’s still new, too.
You’ve only been officially together for a month. After years of circling each other. After quiet coffee dates and shy touches and him hovering at your hospital’s entrance just to make sure you made it home safe.
Now he’s in your apartment more nights than not. His boots by your door. His shirts in your laundry.
And blood on his side.
When the leather jacket drops to the floor, your stomach twists. It’s not just a graze. It’s a deep cut along his ribs, torn through fabric and skin.
“Jesus, Bucky.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I know,” you whisper, already guiding him toward the couch. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”
He sits heavily. You kneel between his knees, gently peeling back the shredded shirt. His metal hand hovers near you, uncertain, like he doesn’t know whether to touch or stay still.
“You’re safe,” you murmur automatically, pressing gauze to the wound. “You’re home.”
Something in his expression softens at that.
You clean the blood carefully, hands steady despite the way your chest aches. He hisses when antiseptic hits raw skin, and you shoot him a look.
“Don’t you dare tough-guy this. If it hurts, it hurts.”
His lips twitch.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You stitch him up on your living room couch.
You’ve done this in ERs. In ambulances. In supply closets during disasters. But this feels different. Intimate. The quiet between you thick with something unsaid.
He watches you the entire time.
Not the needle.
Not the wound.
You.
Your brows drawn together in concentration. The gentle way you anchor your pinky against his skin for stability. The soft apologies you whisper every time he flinches.
“I hate that you have to do this,” he says quietly.
You don’t look up. “It’s my job.”
“No.” His flesh hand comes up, brushing your cheek. “I mean… I hate that you have to patch me up because of what I am.”
That makes you pause.
You finally meet his eyes.
“What you are,” you repeat slowly, “is someone who puts himself in danger to protect other people. Including me.”
His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have to worry every time I walk out the door.”
“You think I don’t worry about my own shifts?” you counter gently. “About the gunshot victims? The overdoses? The violence?” You tie off a stitch and press clean gauze to his side. “Loving someone means worrying about them, Bucky.”
The word hangs there.
Loving.
You hadn’t meant to say it like that.
You focus on taping the bandage into place, suddenly hyperaware of the way your pulse jumps in your throat.
There’s silence.
Heavy. Charged.
“Say that again,” he murmurs.
Your hands freeze.
“What?”
“What you just said.”
You swallow. Your professional composure deserts you all at once, replaced by something softer. More vulnerable.
“I said…” You force yourself to meet his gaze again. “Loving someone means worrying about them.”
His breath catches.
For a second, he looks like he’s been shot all over again.
You rush to fill the quiet. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, it’s okay if you’re not— We’re still new and I know you’ve had—”
“Hey.”
His metal hand cups the back of your neck gently, careful of its strength. His flesh hand settles on your waist, thumb brushing absent circles.
“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t take it back.”
You stare at him.
Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it.
“I’ve been trying not to say it,” he admits, voice low and raw. “Because I didn’t wanna scare you. Or rush you. Or mess this up.”
A shaky laugh leaves you. “Mess this up? Buck, you showed up to our third date with flowers and a printed-out list of local coffee shops because you ‘wanted options.’”
His cheeks pink.
“That was strategic.”
“That was adorable.”
He exhales a quiet huff of air that almost sounds like a laugh, but his eyes are shining.
“When I thought I might not make it home tonight,” he says slowly, “I didn’t think about missions. Or Hydra. Or any of that.” His thumb presses lightly into your hip, grounding. “I thought about you. About how I didn’t get to tell you.”
Your throat tightens.
“Tell me what?”
His forehead tips forward until it rests against yours.
“That I love you.”
It’s not grand.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s barely above a whisper.
But it hits you like a pulse straight to the heart.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until he brushes a tear away with his thumb, panicked.
“Hey— hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
You kiss him.
Soft. Careful of his ribs. Careful of his healing skin.
But firm.
Intentional.
When you pull back, your hands frame his face.
“I love you too,” you say, voice trembling. “I think I have for a while.”
His breath shudders out of him, like something inside finally unclenched.
He pulls you into his chest, mindful of his stitches, burying his face in your hair.
“You’re home,” you murmur again, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.
He holds you tighter.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”
And for the first time since he stepped through that door, bleeding and exhausted and afraid of what he might lose—
The first time Sylus had Rafayel over, he was kind of anxious.
It was silly because he was proud of how his place looked but... he had been at the artist's studio-house before and their tastes were completely opposite.
Rafayel's house had floor to ceiling windows that gave a nice view of Whitesand Bay, and they were barely covered by the white, flimsy curtains that let sunlight shine freely all around the open-space.
The Onychinus base also had big and wide windows but the thick, dark curtains didn't allow even the little artificial light of the N109 Zone's streets inside.
One house was intended like a canvas to paint with vibrant colours, chaotically harmonious. While the other owned the dramatic rigor of a cathedral, sharp edges richly decorated with hints of deep red and gold.
The difference was striking, and his partner's opinion mattered to Sylus more than he was willing to admit.
There was something irrational -an animalistic urge- churning at his guts that kept him unusually on edge. And as he waited for Rafayel's arrival, Sylus couldn't refrain himself from doing another complete tour of the base just to check that everything was in place.
Luckily for his dignity, he was alone. Mephisto and the twins were out for a mission, so they couldn't witness their fearsome boss's embarrassing behaviour.
When the security registered a guest waiting at the doorstep, Sylus dropped the silk cushion on the couch -as if he hadn't just fluffed it four times in a row- and he headed to the entrance.
His broad shoulders were stiff as he opened the door and as soon as Rafayel came into the view, it all got worse.
Sylus didn't question why his partner was wearing a pair of dark glasses, his mind supplied explanations on its own -like the need to keep a low profile in one of the most dangerous zones in town.
Still, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration because Rafayel wasn't just hiding his indigo eyes -he was also uncharacteristically quiet.
And this made Sylus hold his breath as he stood next to the closed door and watched his partner venturing down the hall with lazy steps -dainty fingertips grazing the walls with a featherlight touch.
They ended up in the living room and with little grace, Rafayel plopped down on the leather couch. Finally, he took off his sunglasses, his arms falling open against the soft cushions. His indigo eyes blinked slowly and glanced towards the electronic fireplace.
“It's edgy here...” he hummed playfully, as if the comment didn't make Sylus's jaw tick.
His crimson eyes squinted at Rafayel, desperately trying to figure out what was going on in that messy mind of his. Sylus found himself intolerant of his subtle sarcasm, when doubts about whether his place was good enough for his partner made him restless.
Rafayel let out a quiet sigh, his features softening as he relaxed fully on his seat.
“...I like it. My eyes hurt and this-” he admitted and pointed at the dim, warm lights of the room. “-this feels cozy.”
Hearing the approval, Sylus felt something deep inside him preening in contentment at the idea that his house could offer comfort to his partner.
“Do you want something to drink?” He asked, and leaned closer when Rafayel reached out to tug at the hem of his sweater.
“No. I just want you...”
Sylus didn't hesitate, the tension leaving him as he indulged Rafayel's request to join him on the couch and grabbed the sunglasses from his hand to put them aside on the coffee table.
“Did you pull another all night...?”
His voice was low, carrying a fond exasperation, as he watched Rafayel lay down and rest his head on his lap.
As he listened to his partner rambling about a specific shade of colour he wanted to obtain for a new painting, Sylus let him take his hand.
The gentle weight of his palm over Rafayel’s eyes drew a quiet, reluctant smile from him. And something in him finally settled, quiet and satisfied, like a beast that had finally made its den worth staying in.
Sharing a bed should be simple—but between stolen blankets, overheating, and Zayne’s infuriating composure, you quickly realize: you were not prepared for this battle.
Ao3 link
My Masterlist ✨
Notes
Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader
College AU, fluff, banter, silly, new relationship.
The first time you stay over in Zayne’s dorm, you assume it’ll be fine. You’ve known him forever, and you’ve even crashed in his room before—on his couch, of course. But now that you’re dating, staying in his bed should be a totally normal next step. Right?
Wrong.
The first challenge presents itself immediately—and it’s a battle for survival. Or, well… a battle for the blanket. You claim the blanket as soon as you climb into bed, cocooning yourself in it like a triumphant burrito. Zayne watches from his side of the bed, unimpressed, as you tuck the edges under yourself, ensuring maximum warmth and zero blanket-sharing.
“You do realize I need that too,” he remarks, voice as dry as ever.
“You run cold,” you counter, wiggling deeper into your warmth. “You don’t even feel temperature changes like I do.”
Zayne doesn’t argue, but the weight of his stare says, This is ridiculous. He sighs, then shifts, as if trying to pull at least a corner of the blanket back.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn, tightening your grip.
Another pause. Then, calmly. “You’re going to overheat.”
You scoff. “Please, I know how to regulate my own body temperature.”
Five minutes later, you’re dying.
The warmth you so desperately sought is now your worst enemy. You’re sweating, overheating under layers of fabric, but admitting that out loud would mean surrendering, and surrender is not an option. Zayne doesn’t even have to say anything, you can feel his judgment.
When he does speak, his voice is carefully neutral. "You know, sharing is an option."
You roll over, glaring at him from within your self-imposed hell. “No.”
He lifts a brow. “You’re keeping it just to prove a point?”
“Obviously.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. Then, before you can react, he shifts closer and—wraps his arms around you. Through the cocoon barrier.
“Hey—what—stop that!” You wiggle in protest, but the blanket is too tight around you, effectively trapping you in his hold. Zayne doesn’t even try to squeeze past the layers; he just rests against you like this is completely normal.
“It’s not like you’re using this properly,” he points out. His voice is calm, but you know he’s enjoying this.
“I am using it properly,” you grumble. “And no cuddling.”
Zayne shifts again, just enough to make his presence known. “I’m not cuddling,” he says, entirely deadpan.
"You're literally wrapped around me."
“Through a blanket.”
You groan in frustration, trying to wiggle free, but your earlier masterpiece of tucking yourself in works against you. You’re stuck, and Zayne doesn’t make any effort to move.
“Why are you like this?” you mutter.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
You let out a long, suffering sigh. “Fine. Maybe I was a little wrong about the blanket.”
A pause. Then, softly. “Oh?”
You immediately regret your words. “Forget I said anything.”
Zayne hums, but you know he won’t. He shifts, finally loosening his grip, giving you the chance to breathe—and maybe escape. But of course that would mean defeat, so you just shift and try to fall asleep.
The first thing you register upon waking is warmth. Not the kind you expected—the soft, cozy kind of a well-earned morning—but an uncomfortable, suffocating kind. Your body is roasting under layers of fabric, your limbs sticky with sweat, your shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin, and your mouth dry from breathing in hot air all night.
Regret kicks in immediately.
Still half-asleep, you fight your way out of the cocoon you so valiantly claimed last night. Cool air rushes over your skin, bringing a small, blessed relief. With great effort, you force your eyes open, blinking blearily at your surroundings.
Then, you notice him.
Zayne is sitting up beside you, already awake, his back resting against the headboard. His dark hair is slightly tousled, and he’s casually sipping from a water bottle, looking far too refreshed for someone who also suffered through a night of misery.
He glances at you, “Good morning. Or should I say, welcome back to the world of reasonable body temperature.” and then he takes another sip.
Zayne—who usually needed at least one coffee before his neurons started firing properly—looks irritatingly alert. Normally, there was at least a lag. You’d seen it in class plenty of times—how he always looked composed, but sometimes, when the professor called on him too soon, there was a split second of delayed processing before his brain caught up. He made up for it with sheer willpower—and a ridiculous caffeine intake.
You narrow your eyes. “How are you… functional?”
He hums, lowering the bottle from his lips. “I got up earlier. Unlike someone, I don’t wrap myself in layers of heat and expect to sleep comfortably.”
You groan, pushing yourself up into a slouch. The blanket slides off your shoulders, and cool air finally reaches your overheated skin. “Okay, I admit. Maybe I went a little overboard.”
“A little?” His brow lifts, unimpressed. “You were like a dragon hoarding its treasure. I couldn’t even steal a corner.”
“You tried again?” You squint at him, imagining him attempting to steal back the blanket while you were dead asleep.
“Briefly. Then I figured I'd let you suffer the consequences of your own stubbornness.”
You narrow your eyes further, suspicious. “That sounds like a very convenient excuse.”
Zayne doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with that unreadable expression he always wears when he’s trying not to amuse himself at your expense.
You huff, yanking the blanket off completely. A wave of blessed relief washes over you, and you let out an exaggerated sigh of relief before grabbing Zayne’s abandoned pillow and smacking him with it. He catches it with ease, unbothered, and sets it back down beside him.
“Did you even sleep?” you ask, rubbing the back of your neck.
"A little." His gaze flickers over you before he reaches toward the nightstand. You don’t register what’s happening until you feel something press against your lips—his water bottle. “Here.”
His hand is steady, but there’s something effortlessly familiar about the gesture—like he’s done this a hundred times before.
It’s such a simple, casual gesture, yet it leaves you momentarily blank. You blink up at him, and he tilts the bottle slightly, wordlessly encouraging you. Resigned—and thirsty as hell—you take a sip, the cool water soothing your dry throat.
When you lower the bottle, you sigh again. “Well… We failed.”
“At sleeping together? Yes.”
“We should just… never do this again.”
Zayne makes a thoughtful sound, then—without warning—tugs you forward. You yelp as he pulls you against him, his arm loosely draped around your waist. He’s still cool to the touch, a welcome contrast to the heat lingering on your skin.
“Or,” he says calmly, as if this is a perfectly logical solution, “you could just accept that I’m not as warm as you, and stop making things difficult.”
You scowl, shifting against him. “Excuse you, I am the victim here.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
Zayne exhales, unimpressed. “Then I’ll consider this an act of mercy.”
You’re about to fire back something equally dramatic when you realize… this is nice. The coolness of his body, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way his fingers trace light, absentminded circles against your back. After last night’s sweaty misery, this feels almost too comfortable.
Maybe he has a point.
You let out a soft, defeated sigh and nuzzle against his shoulder.
His hold on you doesn’t change, keeping you tucked against him, a silent declaration of victory.
For now, though, you let it go. After all, there’s always next time. And next time? You are winning the blanket war. Even if it kills you.
Phillip Grave with a reader that is just so messy and he loves it.
It was the first time you guys were having sex when he realized it. Skin hitting skin, areas with friction turning a raw red, blush blooming down your chest and neck like the most gorgeous rose bush.
You kept pushing down the swelling in your gut, even if it was unbearable. It wasn’t that it didn’t feel good—it felt great. That was the problem. Grainy voice—“you’re so good to me little lady”—padded fingers pushing and prodding and brushing against the plump flesh of your clit—“c’mon, it feels so good doesn’t it?”—him being so deep inside you it was just… unbelievable, so good—“what do you need, sweetpea? You need deeper?”
He angled his hips for what seemed like the upteenth time, pulling your hips impossibly close to him and pulling your thighs apart slightly more, grazing against the top of your walls.
Muscles froze up, back arching and muscles quivering impossibly hard against the weight of trying to keep it all in—like sweeping up water on the floor.
That’s practically what it was going to turn into it.
“Phillip!” you squeal, pushing on his chest to try to get him to pull back. “Stopstopstopstop—“ a sharp noise pushed out of you, eyes rolling into your skull, stars dotting the inside of it, your orgasm wringing you by the neck.
Phillip’s thrusts stutter to a stop, mouth gaping open at the sheer amount of liquid that streamed out. He had been with women before—obviously, look at him—but… oh lord. It was so hot. A shine coated the bottom of his abs and thighs, his cock sliding more easily in and out, a dark spot pooling on the sheets beneath you.
He was stuck staring like a horny teen, body buzzing alive even more, turning painfully stiff inside you.
Meanwhile, you were dying of embarrassment, on the verge of tears, covering your face with your hands—
“You think you can do that again, squirt?” God, this man and his nicknames. You didn’t even move until his lips latched around your nipple, sucking harshly and fingers jabbing at your clit once again, this with a charming clumsiness that came with something new.
He made sure to drain all it out of you that night.
bf timothee gets pissed and jealous bc yn is interacting w another guy before realizing that either he has a s/o, hes gay, or wtv you want
Jealous
"Who was that?" Timothée growled as he returned with your drinks, jutting his sharp chin toward the guy you were just speaking with while he stepped away. You and he had just started a few months prior, so this was his first company holiday party as your plus one.
You turned to see who he was glaring at. "Oh, that's Mark. We've worked together for a long time. He is one of our contract attorneys." As if he heard you speak his name, Mark turned and caught you looking. He smiled and sheepishly waved. You blushed with embarrassment and ducked your head before turning back to Timothée.
"He knows how to make you laugh," he said in a flat, gravelly tone.
"Oh, he's effectively the office clown. Mark does great work, but he doesn't pass up the opportunity to make people laugh. He has the worst dad jokes that you can't help but laugh and shake your head at. I enjoy it when he gets assigned to my contracts. He keeps things light."
Timothée shifted uncomfortably in his chair, arms crossed and glowering across the room. He almost looked like he was pouting. Is he jealous? you thought to yourself. You had never seen him behave like this before.
Suddenly, Timothée jumped to his feet and held out his hand. "Want to dance?"
You hesitated briefly as your brain caught up to his sudden change in demeanor. "Of course," you replied, taking his hand to let him lead you to the dance floor. Light jazz music filled the air from the stage band at the front of the room. Perfect for slow dancing.
You and he swayed beneath the twinkling lights on the dimly let floor. He rested his forehead against yours, humming softly to the tune, eyes focused on you and you alone, until you glided past Mark. A fire lit his eyes as his soft gaze shifted to a cold hard stare at the other man. Timothée lowered his hand to the small of your back and pulled you even closer.
On one hand, you were not a piece of meat to be fought over in a one-sided competition, as you were not Mark's type, nor was he yours; however, you were surprised to find the possessiveness mildly titillating on a primordial level. You lifted your hand from Timothée's shoulder to his cheek to gently pull his focus back to you.
His gaze softened once again. "Hey," he said softly.
"Hey," you returned. "Where did you go?"
"Oh, uh," Timothée stammered. "I just got a little distracted."
"Uh-huh," you replied with a smirk.
"Look up!" Your head swiveled to the side when you heard one of your nearby coworkers whisper yell, pointing to the ceiling. You and Timothée followed her gaze up to the mistletoe near the stage that he had managed to dance you under. He lowered his eyes to you and grinned so hard that you couldn't help but return. Given that you were in a room full of coworkers now staring at the two of you, you expected a cute, chaste kiss.
In an instant, you were staring at the ceiling again because Timothée had dipped you down and planted a forceful kiss on your lips. In shock you parted them, which only encouraged him to deepen the kiss further. You felt the blood rush to your face - in part due to gravity, but mainly from the embarrassment of hearing your workmates whooping and cheering all around you.
When Timothée pulled you back to your feet, your head whirled. You focused on him just in time to see him flash a smug look over at Mark. Mortified, you angrily growled through your teeth and stomped off through the side door by the stage. Timothée hung back for a moment in surprise, arms out around the void where you once stood until he regained his wits and chased after you.
"[Y/N], I-"
You spun on the balls of your feet to face him. He shrank back at the evident anger on your face, something he had not yet been subjected to in your time together.
"What was that?!" you yelled. "Don't you think that was a little EXTRA for a work party?"
"I just, I-"
You wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise. "You are just jealous. Timothée, Mark is GAY. And happily married at that. You have nothing to worry about. But maybe I do, if you feel like you can't trust me and feel the need to strut about like...like a damn peacock to defend your territory."
"I- he-?"
"Yes, Timothée. He is gay. I am definitely not his type, nor is he mine."
"Oh." His shoulders fell as he stared at the ground, realizing that he was out of line.
"Timothée, YOU are my type. I love YOU and only you. Ok?"
He lifted his head rapidly, mouth agape. "You love me?"
"Yes. I know I haven't said it out loud until just now, as this is all still so new. Maybe if I had, it would have prevented this little...," you paused, unable to find the right word as you gestured between Timothée and the event venue. "Display."
"I love you, too," he all but whispered. You stepped closer to him and placed your hand on his chest. His heart beat wildly beneath your fingertips.
"Yes, but you don't own me, Timothée." He nodded and placed his hand over yours. "I need you to trust that I am not going to let myself get swept away by some cute guy at work."
"Cute?!" He bristled and then cleared his throat to keep the green-eyed monster at bay. "I suppose he is objectively good looking," he muttered.
You stifled a laugh. "But not as cute as you, my love."
Timothée half-smiled. "Love. I don't think I'll ever get used to hearing that word."
You patted his chest. "Now that it's out in the open, you'll be hearing it a lot. Now come on, let's get back inside out of the cold."
