voice makes everything

You thought you’d never fall in love even though you wanted to.
It just wasn’t in the cards, there was no one right for you.
Your mind was too complex, your personality severe.
No one could relate and soulmates weren’t real.
That’s why it took so long to let that boy inside your head.
And why you felt so vulnerable after everything you said.
But when you told him that you loved him, he said he loved you more.
And for the first time in your life, you had no regrets at all.
You still can’t comprehend how that boy loves you relentlessly every single day.
But you finally understand how hearing someone’s voice can make everything okay.
He taught you what it means to have a person feel like home.
And that being with someone else means you don’t have to be alone.
He knows when to hold you close and he knows not to let go.
He says you mean the world to him but you already know.
He always wipes your tears but he hates it when you cry.
He forgives you when you hurt him because he knows you didn’t try.
You don’t know how you got him and you really don’t know why.
But when he tucks you into bed, you see your future in his eyes.

come to think of it, how did Jabba expect our heroes to experience the entire millennia-long digestive process of the sarlacc anyway?

requested by @kal-arkkent

image credit: (x)

original post: (x)

The Five Things You Know, and the One You Don’t

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2567

A/N:  back for round twoooo…..I feel like we all need some Bucky fluff right now


You lost your second out of four lives in this Nerf war, thanks to someone—someone most likely named Steve.  He’s a sneaky one. It’s pouring outside and nobody was in the mood to do anything productive, naturally the first suggestion had been a Nerf war.

“Y/N, you will be avenged!”

Pietro vaults over the couch, very action movie-esque, which would have been impressive if he hadn’t been shot right after.

“Oh. Sorry, I’m out,” he sighs.  

“It’s okay, I appreciate the backup,” you say, sending your teammate a smile. By your count, it was only Bucky and you left on your team, versus Steve, Sam and Wanda on the other.  You weren’t sure how many lives each of them had, but you all promised to be honest.

“Y/N,” Bucky hisses. He waves his Nerf gun in a complicated circle.



If there was a way to see your face, it would read ‘???’.  A floorboard creaks behind you, and Bucky grabs your wrist and covers you until you’re safely behind the bar. A spark runs down your forearm but you attribute it to your socks shuffling on the carpet. 

He turns to you. “Didn’t I tell you the code?”

“No, it looked like random flailing—“ You raise your gun over the bar and shoot Wanda.  

She slouches. “How’d you know?”

You point behind Bucky. “The floating red stuff around the bullet about to hit him gave you away. How many more lives?”

“None.” She lowers her voice. “Sam’s got one more, but Steve’s got all four. Hurry, this game’s gone on long enough.”

Bucky mumbles ‘Steve’ under his breath and rises to go hunt for his best friend. It’s a good match, Bucky has all his lives too. Sam is yours. You tiptoe around the floor searching for any place that might house Sam.

“Oh, Bird Man,” you coo, knowing the nickname riles him up, “come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Just as you suspected: a poof from a gun misses your elbow. Bending down to pick up the foam bullet, you smile. Based on the trajectory, Sam was hiding behind the bookshelf.  Quietly, you sneak up on him and bombard him with foam before he can retaliate. Good ol’ physics, who knew it actually comes in handy?

You feel the spark again the next morning while getting your coffee, but this time you’re nowhere near a carpet.

“There’s my partner in crime!” Bucky announces when he sees you, “Have I told you about her?”

“Multiple times,” Sam says, clearly miffed, he’s swirling his tea bag more than usual.

“I’ll tell you again.  She kicked ass.”

“Is this coffee bitter, Sam?” You took a sip. “No. It must be you.”

Bucky throws an arm around your shoulders. His touch burns where your tank top can’t cover, and you have to concentrate on breathing properly. It’s like you had just come back from a run, your breath is completely knocked out of your lungs. Bucky’s holding onto you so his legs don’t give out from under him from the speechless look on Sam’s face; he’s laughing and declaring that you made his day.

First; he touches you and you light on fire. Your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin.  The burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs.  It’s so hard to breathe. You’re suffocating daily.

“What’s up with you?” Nat asks, “I was talking to you and you zoned out.”

“She’s drooling over Barnes,” Wanda replies, nudging you lightheartedly. You confessed to your crush on Bucky at the weekly girls lunch. Wanda wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, Bucky is over there, and yes, I happen to be staring in that direction, but I wouldn’t call it drooling.”

“You’re so smitten! Y/N, I can see it even without my powers.”

“He doesn’t know, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

Bucky’s on the patio, settling in a chair to play cards with Steve and Pietro.  You were staring at him, more specifically at his chest, since he had just emerged from the pool. Each droplet of water was having the time of its life trying to find its way through the maze of muscle definition, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away.  You’re starting to get hot and bothered imagining your fingers as the droplets.  

“Hey,” Nat murmurs.  

She jerks her chin at the guys. Bucky is waving at you to come over and greets you warmly when the three of you pull up seats at the table and Pietro deals you into a game of blackjack. You’re sitting two seats away from Bucky; here he’s barely a head tilt from being in your immediate vision, and you have a full view of the six—no, eight pack. Yikes.

You don’t want to get caught staring, but you can’t not stare.  Cruelly, the universe dips the sun lower in the sky, and its rays spill on Bucky like a goddamn spotlight.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you swear under your breath.

“Bad cards, Y/N?” Nat asks, and you jump on her excuse, nodding. You notice her subtly pointing down to her abdomen, then up at her face.  It’s a silent way of saying, ‘his eyes are up there.’

Bucky stretches to grab his towel, and you can feel yourself blushing when his muscles twist and contract. At the same time, Pietro makes a joke and Bucky’s smiling in that cute way where his nose scrunches. It’s too much too much–

You put on your sunglasses.

Second; it hurts to watch him. He shines. He’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes.  It’s hard to look at him.  It’s even harder to look away from him.  You’re going blind.

Two days later, you’re sitting on a bar stool tugging at the hem of your dress.  Nat swears it makes your legs look a mile long when you walk, but you’re tired of standing and are in dire need of a drink. Preferably something strong.  

“Tony, is your floor strong enough to handle this many people? I’m genuinely concerned,” you ask when Tony whizzes by, his arm around Happy Hogan, who is looking a little too happy.  You have to duck when he tries to hug you, claiming you’re too pretty to be sitting on the sidelines.

“Yeah, I designed it, it’ll even withstand Banner if someone pokes him. Stark guarantee.”

“Come dance with me!”

“I’m okay here, Hogan, but next party, alright?”

Tony chuckles and guides his tipsy friend over to a couch. Once he’s sure Hogan has a water bottle to sober up with, Tony hops on stage. “Introducing our entertainment for this evening!”

“Here’s your vodka cranberry.” The bartender hands you a glass as a gorgeous woman walks up to the microphone.

You thank him and take a few sips listening to the woman singing a slow ballad. You scan the crowd, looking to see if Hogan likes the music, but then you see him. It’s common knowledge that if you are looking at someone you can hear their voice better, though with you it’s like your ears are always plugged in to the Bucky Barnes Radio Show.

“Stevie, when do these things end?”

“Late, Buck. Around two.”

“In the morning?!”

You want to unplug the microphone so you can hear Bucky better, his baritone voice is heaven to your ears.  As the singer hits an impossibly high note, you wonder why people are clapping, impressed. Why is anyone listening to this, this noise when he’s speaking?

Struck with a sudden idea, you down the last of your drink and weave your way around the mesmerized guests. You squeeze past two middle-aged men—who, if you’re not mistaken, invented Google; they’re probably smart as hell, but they seem to like the sound of nails on a chalkboard, so you can’t give them too much credit—and find yourself behind the two supersoldiers. You poke the brunet’s bicep.

His bored face lights up at the sight of you.


“Hey, Bucky? Want to go play Monopoly?”

His reply was instantaneous. “Yes, absolutely. I’d love to play Monopoly with you. Bye Steve.”

“Bucky no—“

Bucky takes your hand and you’re around the corner before Steve can finish.  

“You’re the best, Y/N,” he says, and the butterflies in your stomach flap their wings to the rhythm of his words. “I was dying in there.”

“I know the feeling.”

An hour later, you’re losing. Badly. Despite being from the 40s, Bucky is annoyingly good at real estate.  You count forward three spots and land on Boardwalk, one of his properties. Slowly, hoping he’s not paying attention, you move your piece four spots, bypassing the danger of triple hotels.

“No, no, that’s four, not three!”

“Did I roll a three?”

“You did.”

You cover the die nonchalantly.  “No, I didn’t.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and suddenly it’s a war, he’s trying to pull your hand up, and you’re trying to keep it down.  To nobody’s surprise, he wins, and the number three is revealed.

“Mwahaha,” he grabs at the last of your pitiful money pile, throwing the coloured bills up in the air. “You’re bankrupt!”

The floor-to-ceiling windows around you show the stars, twinkling magnificently bright in the clear night sky. But Bucky’s singing We Are The Champions and he’s messing up the lyrics and he’s completely off-key and you’re positive it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Third; your ears are tuned to his voice. You could pick him out in a sea of thousands. His voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. His voice makes everything else ugly.

Bucky’s eyes should be a crayon colour, you decide.  

He has a habit. Whenever anyone says something ridiculous, Bucky looks to you like you’re the camera in The Office. And when they say a ridiculous paragraph, he widens his eyes in disbelief, pursing his lips to avoid cracking a smile. This happens a lot when Steve’s feeling particularly adventurous. It’s in these moments where time seems to slow, and you wish it would stop completely so you can study his eyes longer. Bucky has a myriad of blue that swirls to create a whirlpool of taunting winks and irritated smirks.  The wrinkled smile lines and long, dark eyelashes accentuate it perfectly.

After all, if you email Crayola, you better have a description.

Your favourite shade is when he scrunches them up from laughing.  They’re so blue they literally glow, as if they repel light instead of absorbing it.  You’re rooted to your spot when this happens.  Like you’re on a ship, and those eyes, blue like an ocean sea, are begging you to set sail with them, to cast your doubts away and leave the mainland behind.  

You’re writing this fantasy into your journal when you realize how deep you are: you’re not on the ship anymore.  

Fourth; the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in.  He is turning you into a cliched love-wrecked being. You’re drowning, always sinking. Down, down, down.

Screaming wakes you from sleep.  Throwing off your covers, you don’t have to follow the heartbreaking sounds to know they are coming from Bucky’s room.  When you knock, you find that the door opens at your touch.


Bucky is thrashing in his bed, the covers pushed down at his feet, the sheets underneath him dark.  Your eyes rake over his anguished face; he’s sweating, and fighting some sort of invisible monster. Recently you’ve been helping him with his nightmares and you can tell, it’s a bad one tonight.  

You climb onto the mattress and nudge him gently. “Bucky, wake up.”  Nothing happens, so you shake him harder then duck as his metal fist flies at your head. It hits the wall with a sickening crunch, and this is what wakes Bucky up.  He sits up, gasping.

“Y/N? Oh my god.” He reaches out like he wants to lift you up from your flattened position, but before he does, he sees the dent in the wall and recoils.  The anguish turns to horror, and you can’t tell which one is worse.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

You take his hands from behind his back and intertwine your fingers. You push his chin up so he meets your eyes.

“I’m okay, don’t worry.”

“I nearly hurt you.”

“The key word here is nearly,” you soothe, “Let’s get you into new clothes.”

You slip over to his wardrobe and open his drawers to find another shirt.  When you turn around, Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands.

He’s in pain, and you feel it too.  You are also angry, angry at the world, because they victimized him; angry at Hydra, because they caused Bucky to feel this way. You want to track down each and every person who hurt him and rip them apart in increasingly creative ways, but you settle for collecting Bucky in your arms and wiping away his tears.  

During your nights with him he’s confided in you the process of getting over his guilt and the fears that still haunt him.  It didn’t happen right away, oh no, it took time to show him you would stay no matter what.  Knowing Bucky, truly, bad and good, past and present, it could never push you away. Nothing could. You’re here for the long haul.

You’re lying on your back when he calms enough to fall asleep.  Bucky’s torso is on top of yours, hugging you, and his face is angled so you can feel his breaths on your skin; you’re satisfied when you confirm they’re even. Playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, you glare at the ceiling like it’s going to come attack Bucky too.

“No more. Don’t try anything.  Or else you have me to deal with,” you growl to the world.

You’ll fiercely protect this man with everything you have, with every word, every muscle, every breath. Adjusting your hold on his back, you match your exhales to Bucky’s and drift off, mentally making a note to take him to the zoo soon.  He loves feeding the penguins.

Fifth; you know him. You love him. Through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you’d find him. You’d never leave. You love him. Till death do you part.

Bucky wakes to a rhythmic beating sound.  

Opening his eyes, he sees he’s lying on you, over your heart, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards. Bucky recalls last night. Not the nightmare, no, because you chased it away—he remembers you.  You being here for him, you saying the words of affirmation he so badly needed to hear to calm down, they further solidified the place he had carved for you to be forever in his life. He was so nervous and scared that you’d leave once you saw what he was capable of, but you stayed, and here you are.

On an impulse, he kisses your temple and you smile in your sleep. You’re so beautiful, he thinks.

Bucky watches your eyes move under their lids, and he wonders of what you’re dreaming. Hopefully it’s something good. You deserve it; you deserve the world, in his mind.

The sun is not yet up, so he relaxes again. He’s so comfortable and you’re so lovely, Bucky never wants to move. Your heart, with every beat, pumps into him more peace, and more clarity.

Bucky’s sure of one thing. It’s the one thing you don’t know.

Sixth; he loves you, too.


still new, still small, still really love you all

@fxckmebuck @buckyywiththegoodhair @avengerofyourheart @bovaria@wndas-romanoff@thejamesoldier @caplanbuckybarnes @papi-chulo-bucky @buckybarnesismypreciousplum@redgillan  @seeyainanotherlifebrotha @langinator @secondstartotheright-imagines

pale-silver-comb  asked:

♥ "Don't go", Sterek.

For you, my dear, I had planned to write some bottom Derek smut, but all my ideas for this had feelings all over them. So I wrote them all instead of picking one. I hope you enjoy it!

Four times Stiles and Derek say “Don’t go,” and two times they are exactly where they want to be (for @pale-silver-comb)

Derek’s voice is sleep roughened but edged with a practiced concerned awareness, gained from too many late night emergency phone calls, “Stiles? What’s wro-”

“Derek!” Sites interrupts with his usual exuberance, tinged with the softened slur of unaccustomed drunkenness, and Derek relaxes marginally as Stiles continues. “How are you man? I haven’ seen you in like- wha’ time izzit?” Stiles whips his phone away from his ear to check the time, but he’s too intoxicated to fight his own momentum and ends up twirling after the arc of his arm, stumbling. He barely manages to catch himself before he falls to the ground, but Derek is on his feet and getting dressed as soon as he hears the muttered “Oh, shit.”

Before he can yell for the human, he hears an honest to god giggle through the tiny speaker, and he relaxes ever so slightly. He can hear the indistinct baseline of something irritating and popular distantly playing in the background, the sound of the wind a low whistle through the phone line, and Stiles, laughing.

“Stiles, where are you?” Derek is grabbing his keys and toeing on shoes as he prepares to collect the human before he can get into trouble. Beacon Hills is relatively safe, if you don’t count the supernatural threats, but a good looking and clearly intoxicated seventeen year old shouldn’t be out wanting the streets at one thirty in the morning.

“I wuzzat a party with Scott. But he left with this girl, an’ he said I shouldn’ stay long, but he was ‘sposed to be my ride, and Der’k, I’m drunk,” he finishes seriously. “I’m drunk, an’ I can’t call my dad, and you’re like, my bes’ friend, an’ your car is awesome, an’ i-“

Derek is caught off guard by the sincerity in Stiles’ voice, but he focuses on the rising panic and cuts him off with a gentle, “Hey, just tell me where you are, I’ll be right there.”

Stiles slurs through his location, and Derek is relieved to hear it’s only a few minutes away. He keeps Stiles talking as he speeds to close the distance faster, and the wave of pure relief that washes over him at the sight of Stiles slumped against a lamppost is like an electric shock.

Stiles pours himself into the passenger seat with more grace than he usually possesses and flashes Derek a grateful smile. He’s more tired and regretful drunk than boisterous drunk now, and he lets his head rest heavily against the seat as Derek drives at a much slower speed toward the Stilinski house.

“Thank you for coming to get me, Der,” Stiles’ voice is clearer, but small sounding, his words not quite their usual crispness. “I’m glad it’s you, because I don’t have to worry about not saying how burning hot Derek is, or how I want him to push me up against a wall and kiss me, because you’re not him, and, oh fuck! You’re you!” he says accusingly, as if Derek had forgotten who he was talking to, and not the other way around.

Derek can feel the hot blush color his ears and flash down his neck at the image Stiles paints with his accidental confession.

“Stiles,” he begins, gently, but Stiles doesn’t let him finish.

“Derek, can we please blame the alcohol and forget that pretty much this whole night happened?”

Derek considers it. Stiles is clearly embarrassed, his scent gone sour and his heartbeat unsteady. It would be easy to ignore it, he’s had plenty of practice ignoring his feelings. But if Stiles wants him, and he doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t want him back- why should he? “What if I don’t want to?”

Stiles gasps, and it sends a shiver down Derek’s spine. “You- what?”

“We’ll talk when you’re-recovered. Alright?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles doesn’t sound convinced

After a brief internal argument, Derek reaches over and takes hold of Stiles’ hand and gives a reassuring squeeze. He’s immeasurably gratified when Stiles sighs happily and the tension melts out of him, his scent spiking sharply with contentment, fingers wriggling slightly to settle between Derek’s. Derek can hardly suppress the echoing sigh from his own chest.

Stiles careens back to drunken rambling quick enough to make Derek’s head spin, but since Stiles is now using their clasped hands to gesture as he speaks, he lets a fond smile curl his lips as a steady stream of mostly nonsense tumbles from Stiles’ lips.

As they reach the Stilinski house, Stiles speech has slowed and gone heavy with sleep, Derek tries and fails to not find it endearing, especially in combination with the lazy drag of Stiles’ thumb along the back of his hand. Derek opens the passenger door to assist Stiles in exiting the car, both of them making small surprised sounds when Stiles stumbles and crashes into Derek’s chest. Derek steps back reluctantly, draping Stiles’ arm over his shoulders and holding his waist. Stiles leans heavily against him, murmurs things like “You’re so strong,” and “All that scruff and you’re so soft under the grrr,” as he draws a finger along Derek’s jaw and stares through barely opened eyes gone hazy with sleep and liquor.

Derek manages to get Stiles upstairs and into his bedroom, settles him on the bed and kneels to remove his shoes. Stiles groans above him and something that sounds an awful lot like “Not fair you’re on your knees and I’m too wasted…” and Derek can feel the rush of blood through his entire body as he catches the meaning. By the time Derek is done with Stiles’ shoes, Stiles is flailing above him, half trapped in the sleeves of his shirt. Derek is torn between watching him struggle and helping him, but the strained, frustrated sound Stiles makes pushes him to help. He very pointedly does not look when the overshirt catches his t-shirt, lifting it to reveal a tantalizing strip of creamy pale skin and a hint of hair leading into the waistband of Stiles’ jeans.

As Stiles falls back into the bed, Derek helps to guide him onto the pillow, wrestles the covers from under him and tucks them gently around the sprawling form of Stiles’ body. He can’t help but smooth Stiles’ hair away from his forehead, the gesture hopelessly fond, and Derek is fairly certain he’s never done it so easily before.

Derek turns to leave the room, return to his own bed to try to sleep, knowing the clock will mock him and that all he’ll be able to do is hear Stiles’ drunken declarations on repeat in his head. As he makes to step away from the bed, his feet gone heavy and uncooperative with reluctance, he feels the brush of clumsy fingers at his wrist, wrapping around it in a loose grasp and sending a pleasant tingle through Derek’s arm, settling warmly in his belly.

Stiles’ voice is sleep soft, but steady, the words cutting through Derek painfully, “Don’t go. Please? I don’t want to be alone, I’m always- please. Don’t go.”

In the face of Stiles’ plea, Derek finds himself not only powerless, but having absolutely zero desire to turn back toward the door. The relieved whimper that Stiles releases as Derek drops gently onto the edge of the bed and turns his hand so their palms meet, threading their fingers back together, is like a punch and an embrace all at once.

They wake in the morning wrapped around each other, and it’s shockingly easy to smile at each other as they untangle their twined limbs.


When Derek is visiting Cora, his phone rings, and he smiles at the ridiculous picture Stiles set as his profile. “Hey, you,” he answers fondly, voice going soft and light like it always did now that he and Stiles were DerekandStiles. It quickly bleeds into panic tinged concern at the hitch in Stiles’ breath; the realization that Stiles has been fighting tears, has a reason to be, is a painful weight in Derek’s chest. “What’s wrong, Stiles. What is it?” His urgency is a palpable thing, an uncomfortable sizzle under his skin.

Stiles releases a shuddering breath, “God, I will never not appreciate how the sound of your voice makes everything feel better.” Derek’s worry is ameliorated slightly by the knowledge that he’s a comfort for the hyperactive human he calls his mate.

“I’m glad to hear that, babe, but what’s going on?”

“You’re going to hate it,” Stiles is hesitant, his voice is tinged with uncertainty, and Derek wishes he were there to wrap his arms around Stiles, to hold him and reassure. He makes an affirmative, encouraging sound, “Try me,” he says with more enthusiasm than he feels.

“So, there’s this… thing. Some kind of monster. We haven’t figured it out yet…” Stiles goes on, details a truly horrible plan, one that relies heavily on Scott’s frankly laughable leadership and Stiles as some kind of glorified bait. It’s a shit plan, and Derek does in fact hate it. Hates it so much he’s growling, actually, and it takes Stiles’ pleading “Der, please,” to break him out of it, to wash the red tinge from his vision.

All Derek can do is choke out a pained “Don’t go!” He knows it’s desperate and can’t bring himself to care, “Stiles, please. Please don’t go. This plan is fucking terrible. You know it is. I will get on a plane, I will be there tomorrow morning, just wait. Don’t go, any of you, but you can’t. Please?” He’s begging, and will continue to beg until Stiles agrees, “I can’t lose you. Don’t go. Remember, the night we started this? You asked me the same thing, please, Stiles.”

“Ok, Der, ok, ok. I won’t go. Please, don’t cry. I won’t go.”

Derek takes a deep breath, it catches in his chest, but he pushes past it, “Thank you. Thank you thank you, thank god.”

Derek is on a plane two hours later. Twelve hours after that, Stiles is in his arms; unruly hair sweet smelling and tickling his nose, wide, smiling lips pressed into his own.


When Derek needs to leave Beacon Hills, Stiles understands, he really, truly does. But it also feels like he’s being slowly pulled apart.

They stand quietly in Derek’s loft, silently embracing, Stiles still in his dressy graduation clothes, intermittent tears running down both their faces, until Stiles grips the front of Derek’s shirt tightly, hauls him impossibly close to devour his mouth in a desperate kiss. Their teeth clack, and their tongues swirl together in practiced rhythm, lips dragging slick and wet together. A great, sob of a moan tears out of Stiles’ throat and he buries his face in Derek’s neck.

“I can’t ask you, I know I can’t, but I want to, Der. I want to ask you to stay with me. I want to beg you. To scream ‘Don’t go!’ But I won’t. You deserve to go, to be ha- to find happiness, even if-”

Derek feels his heart breaking; hurting Stiles is killing him. He can’t bear the ache in Stiles’ voice, the sorrow laced through his scent. “Come with me,” rushes past his lips with force and sincerity, and he can’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

Stiles looks at him, hopeful but unsure, so he kisses the confusion off his face, cradles his jaw with careful hands. “I mean it, Stiles. It’s summer, you don’t start school for months. Come with me. Please?”

The smile that breaks over Stiles’ face is bright and honest, it’s everything Derek loves about the boy.

“Yeah. Ok, yeah, let’s go,” Stiles replies eagerly, peppering Derek’s face with kisses, hands restlessly petting as thigh assuring himself Derek is still there.

Derek laughs lightly, “I thought maybe we’d have a last go in a real bed, before it’s all motel rooms and truck stops for a while. And you know, pack, first.”

Stiles makes a considering sound, “Both good things. I’m especially interested in the first part,” he grins as he grabs Derek’s hands, walking backwards toward the bed.


Two and a half incredible months later, they’re laying naked in a motel bed, tangled together and still catching their breath, trailing gentle fingertips over one another’s faces, cataloging details. Preparing for time apart.

Stiles’ half packed suitcase sits on a luggage stand across the room, taunting them with the short time they have left measured out in clean and dirty socks.

Derek traces the curve of Stiles’ mouth, their eyes searching, but unwilling to leave the others gaze for more than a second or two. “You know-” the words are stuck in his throat, heavy on his tongue, he clears them away with a hard swallow, “I want to ask you. I guess it’s my turn to know better, huh?” He laughs without a traces of humor, and Stiles kisses his furrowed brow, smooths it with a long finger.

“You’re not ready to not be moving, and Berkley is pretty stationary, babe,” Stiles answers easily, his voice tinged with regret. “I understand,”he says, quieter than the rest, but without a stutter in his heartbeat, and Derek would know it’s true even without the added senses. Because Stiles understands Derek probably better than Derek does, and the loss of his constant presence is already aching dully in his chest.

“I’m going to have to say it. Just once. It’s practically tradition, now,” Derek attempts to joke, but the truth is it feels like the words are tearing at his throat.

Stiles kisses him, long and slow, as if to cool the burn of the things he can’t say. It almost works. They part reluctantly, hands and lips both clinging together, and it breaks out of him with a sob, “Don’t go.”

Stiles gathers him close, let’s Derek bury his face in his chest, strokes his back in soothing circles and holds his neck. “I have to,” he says simply, pressing kisses to Derek’s head. “But I promise I’ll always come back to you, wherever you are, until you’re ready.”

When they wake some time later, Stiles has to leave. Derek drives him to the bus station, because Stiles wouldn’t let him set a foot in California until he was ready to. Derek isn’t sure he will be, but he wishes he was now so he could steal those last miles with him.


They wake to cool morning light filtered through the curtains, and the muted sound of a cell phone ringing in the other room.

It’s been six months since they last got to wake up together, and it feels indulgent and surreal all at once. Video chats and constant phone calls and texts are an ok way to bridge the distance, but there is nothing so wonderful as waking up like this. Sleep warm skin and muscled limbs tangled together, warm breath on the back of his neck. Stiles is afraid it’s a dream.

Derek wakes, runs his nose along Stiles neck and places a long, hot kiss there. “Morning,” he says sleepily, arms tightening briefly before he shifts in the bed. Stiles panics, grabs Derek’s forearms in suddenly shaking hands, “Don-.”

Before he can finish, Derek is wrapping himself around him again, “Not going anywhere, babe. You’re not either.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, calms his heartbeat. “Sounds perfect, because I have plans for us that don’t involve leaving this bed unless it’s to hydrate or pee.”

Derek laughs into Stiles’ shoulder, the sound rich and deep, the rumble in his chest echoes through Stiles’ chest pleasantly. “I like the sound of that.”


A small cry pierces the predawn quiet, and Stiles and Derek startle awake at the same time. They blink tiredly at one another for a moment, taking time to acclimate and assess.

Stiles smiles at Derek, notices the slight greying of his still artful stubble, the lines starting to show around his eyes that he knows are from laughter instead of worry.

Derek smiles back, taking in the defined jawline, and the more beard than stubble that his husband has favored these last few years.

They say in unison “I’ll go,” and then laugh, kiss. Let it linger just a moment until the baby reminds them why they’re awake so early. Stiles places a quick kiss on Derek’s cheek, runs his thumb over his jaw briefly.

“You got her down last time, it’s my turn. Go back t’ sleep.” Derek makes a sound that Stiles takes as agreement, and he heads to the nursery across the hall, scooping up the small, unhappy bundle from the crib and settling her against his chest.

When Derek stumbles in moments later, Stiles is in the rocking chair, cradling their daughter and dozing slightly. Derek crosses the distance with a few long strides and moves to take the baby from her current Daddy shaped pillow and back to her own bed, intending to do the same with Stiles after, when he feels familiar fingertips against his wrist.

He looks down to where Stiles is holding him, turns his palm so their fingers thread together with the ease of years of practice. They smile at one another for long moments, until the sun starts to rise and add a warm glow to the soft lilac walls.

Jared Leto Daughter Imagine: Mr. J

Request: @isab-ella Hello 💋 I know you wrote a headcanon about this, but may I request a full imagine of Jared’s daughter watching him film a scene from ‘Suicide Squad’? (ya know…if he had one) I cannot decide between the club scene or electroshock therapy scene so you can pick either. If not it is totally fine - thank you!


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Stressed Out

Characters: Chanyeol x Reader

Genre: Fluff/Mild Angst

Word Count: 4095 words

Plot: You and stress do not go well together. Things happen and you pass out.

You step into your apartment and let the door slam shut. If this happened a week ago, you’d have flinched at the sound of the door. But today isn’t how it was like last Thursday. Today is another day of stress.

You step out of your shoes and leave them on the rack. Walking into your room, you drop your bag onto the floor with a huff. Your stomach rumbles and you are suddenly hit with the realization of just how hungry you truly are. When was the last time you ate? Yesterday night? And what was the last meal you had? Instant noodles?

You sigh.

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many happy returns

i know robert’s birthday was months ago but it is my wife @inloveamateursatbest‘s birthday today so we’re all gonna pretend :)))

happy birthday my love, i hope you’ve had a good day and this makes you smile <3

Robert’s having a so-so birthday. 

He has to work, because apparently Nicola doesn’t count “wanting to spend the day with my sexy husband” as a reason not to turn up. Though, if Robert were married to Jimmy, he wouldn’t either. He pouts and whines and moans, but it’s not like he’d trust her or Jimmy with the meetings on the books, especially the Stevenson account - the guy is gross with women and Robert might be a dick sometimes, but he’s not that guy. 

Spending the day schmoozing clients when he could be still in bed with Aaron wrapped around him is bad enough, but it gets worse when he hits traffic on the M65 and ends up gridlocked. Wonderful.

Picking his phone up from the dash, Robert thumbs through to Aaron’s number. 

“You home yet?” 

“I wish,” Robert says, letting his frustration bleed through. There’s something about hearing Aaron’s voice that makes everything calmer. He wants to be home desperately, wants to be able to curl up with Aaron on their sofa, listen to Liv whining about her homework, and watching shit television until it’s time to go to bed. 

(He hopes, vaguely, there are presents in there somewhere, but they’re not a necessity to the happiness of his evening.)

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F I R S T. he touches you and you light on fire. your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin. the burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs. it’s so hard to breathe. you’re suffocating daily. S E C O N D. it hurts to watch him. he shines. he’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes. it’s hard to look at him. it’s even harder to look away from him. you’re going blind. T H I R D. your ears are tuned to his voice. you could pick him out in a sea of thousands. his voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. his voice makes everything else sound ugly. F O U R T H. the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in. he is turning you into a clichéd love-wrecked being. you’re drowning, always sinking. down, down, down. F I F T H. you know him. you love him. through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you’d find him, you’d never leave him. you love him, till death do you part. 
( S I X T H. he loves you, too. )

five things you know and one thing you don’t. (insp)


C R O W  C L U B

Crows after dark: emerald-studded eyes, talons out. Bring your own leather. (listen / spotify)

A gritty, leatherclad playlist for a heist in modern times.

Somewhat a part of my SoC modern heist series.


F I R S T. he touches you and you light on fire. your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin. the burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs. it’s so hard to breathe. you’re suffocating daily. S E C O N D. it hurts to watch him. he shines. he’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes. it’s hard to look at him. it’s even harder to look away from him. you’re going blind. T H I R D. your ears are tuned to his voice. you could pick him out in a sea of thousands. his voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. his voice makes everything else sound ugly. F O U R T H. the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in. he is turning you into a clichéd love-wrecked being. you’re drowning, always sinking. down, down, down. F I F T H. you know him. you love him. through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you’d find him, you’d never leave him. you love him, till death do you part. ( S I X T H. he loves you, too. )

— five things you know and one thing you don’t. (insp)  |  (Harry’s version)

theclogmaster  asked:

Hello~ ^_^ could I request the RFA+V&Saeran reacting to an MC with social anxiety? Thank you and I love your work by the way! 🖤

Thank you so much!! <3 (I think I have mild social anxiety…? Like I’ve said before though, I don’t want to self diagnose, so I don’t know. I’m sorry if it’s inaccurate.)

-He can be shy, but that goes away when you’re too scared to speak for yourself.
-Somehow all of his problems go out the window when you’re upset. You’re the main priority, and he would do anything for you, even if he is scared too.
-If you start panicking, he removes you to someplace emptier to calm you down.
-He’s very good with breathing exercises, which helps you calm down easily.
-He makes sure to ask before touching you because he’s heard that touching someone who’s panicking suddenly could make them panic more.
-The first time it happens, he freaks out, but calms himself down because _____ needs him.
-He asks permission to hold your hand or stroke your hair because those are things that he feels will help.
-If anyone bugs you about it, he is ready to fight.
-Nothing makes him angrier than somebody giving you a hard time.

-Very patient and understanding.
-He’s a very attention loving, out-going person, though. He’s very different from you in that aspect.
-If you get anxious while you’re out in public, he takes you somewhere quiet immediately, no matter what he was in the middle of.
-He also does whatever he can to keep you out of the spotlight and the public eye because he knows you’d be uncomfortable. He never makes you go on stage or in front a camera or audience.
-Crowds are a no, so he stays with you or leaves you with someone else you trust whenever you come to the theater with him, or you come to watch one of his shows.
-He tones down the PDA just for you.
-Also has no problem speaking for you if you’re too scared to talk to somebody.
-It’s a huge relief. He never complains when you become uncomfortable, scared, or anxious. He understands.
-He’s a natural at calming you down. He talks very softly and gives you encouraging words and gentle touches until you’re okay again.

-She is one of the most calm out of everyone when you begin having a panic attack.
-Admittedly, she’s scared on the inside, but she’s very good at giving off a calm exterior from experience.
-She’s heard that panicking when someone is having a panic attack only makes things worse, so she is not going to freak out in front of you.
-She’ll take you somewhere quiet and sit you down. She sits on her knees in front of you and helps you breathe, usually by counting. (Breathe in for five seconds, hold for five seconds, breathe out for five seconds kind of thing)
-If you’d let her, she’ll stroke your arm slowly to help calm you down.
-She talks in the gentlest, softest voice and it makes everything okay again.
-She has no problem talking to people, so she will gladly be your voice if you are scared.
-She never belittles you for being too scared to talk to someone. She doesn’t see it as a big deal to speak up for you.
-In all honesty, she likes that you rely on her.

-I’ve said before that Jumin has a sixth sense that tells him when something is wrong with you and I’m sticking by that until I die.
-If people ever swarm around the both of you, he loses his shit.
-He gets so pissed off and immediately gets you away from them.
-In a second, all of his anger is seemingly nonexistent as he calmly tells you that everything is okay and asking for you to try and breathe with him.
-Anytime you’re out together, he’ll hold your hand.
-Absolutely no problem talking for you.
-He’ll answer for you, order food for you, ask questions for you; really he takes care of all the talking all the time.
-Nobody harasses you on his watch.
-Nobody will pick on you for being too scared to talk to people without hearing from a lawyer.
-He’s surprisingly very understanding about your social anxiety, overall, and never judges you in any way because you’re perfect.

-He has anxiety too, not specifically social anxiety.
-When you first join the chat and find yourself in Rika’s apartment, he can tell by how you looked and how you texted that you were uneasy.
-He freaks when he actually sees you panicking on the CCTV.
-He calls you, but he hesitates, because phone calls probably make you even more anxious.
-To his surprise, you pick up. He talks you down from your attack and you quickly bond with him afterwards. He the only one in the RFA you can openly talk to for the longest time.
-Now that you’re in a relationship, he can tell exactly when you are starting to panic and takes care of it then and there.
-Because of his own experience with anxiety, he is a professional when it comes to this stuff.
-He knows so many breathing exercises and exactly what to say to help you calm down.
-You never have to worry. You’re panic attacks typically don’t last more than about five minutes because of him.
-He might get a bit nervous from time to time, but he never hesitates to speak up for you when you can’t.

-He’s a very calm person most of the time, so being around him puts you at ease.
-But, nevertheless, you still have episodes of panic attacks from your social anxiety on occasion.
-He handles them like a pro though.
-He’ll take you away from everyone and calmly shush you, while also helping you through breathing exercises and telling you you’re doing a great job.
-Gentle kisses on top of your head don’t hurt either.
-He’s fairly good at telling when you’re becoming uncomfortable with a situation. You often times grip onto his shirt when you become scared, so it’s a good way to communicate when you’re becoming anxious, since he can’t see much.
-Being the approachable guy he is, he has no issue speaking for you if needed.
-V is a judgment-free soul. There is absolutely no harsh feelings about your social anxiety. It’s just another detail about you, and you’re perfect.

-He has a variety of anxieties as well.
-So, he might not be the best when it comes to speaking for you when you’re scared, but he tries his best.
-You give each other confidence when needed.
-Knowing that the other knows exactly what you’re going through is reassuring at least.
-Because you both dislike crowds, you both make extra effort to avoid them.
-You also find ways of talking to as little people possible when going out.
-And when you do have to talk, you always hold each other’s hand or make some sort of physical contact with each other to keep each other somewhat calm.
-You encourage each other too, like you tell him he did a great job when he manages to talk to someone and vice versa.
-He’s bad at communicating sometimes so he often resorts to hugging you or stroking your hair to calm you down while helping you through breathing exercises, unless physical contact doesn’t help.
-In that case, he tries his hardest to find the right words to help you through your panic attacks. He just says the kind of stuff he knows he likes to hear when he’s panicking too.

so i have been re-watching interviews that niall has done for slow hands and the one with ryan seacrest, he mentions that niall’s voice/the way he sings reminds him of ray lamontagne and i rmr him saying that but didnt pay much attention to it at the time but i went and really listened to some of his songs and i cant TOTALLY hear it. and i love that “comparison” tbh….its very fitting. 

Some people want a Killing Stalking anime but I don’t because Sangwoo is already disturbing enough on still comic pages. I think seeing him in motion and hearing what his voice sounded like would make everything twice more horrifying than it already is.

Remedy (15) THE END

Bucky x reader

Bucky’s POV.

Notes: trigger warnings! Implications of sexual abuse, mentions of torture, swearing, injuries, angst, fluffy, smut, a very protective Bucky who knows exactly how to be sweet and careful.

A/N: This is it. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did writing it. Thank you guys for all the comments on this! And if you’re sad that this is over; we still have Reprogramming, which will be revisited sometime! x

Originally posted by closer-to-the-edge-of-glory

She still submits to me on occasion; willingly or maybe out of habit, her nature, I suppose. Not what she always was, but the way they made her. Lately I’ve been feeling particularly cross with Hydra. And by cross, I mean I want to fucking rip their collective heads off and shove them up their collective asses, and do the same with the two heads that’ll take the place of the first I rip off. This, because the better she’s doing, the more the horrifying things they’ve done to her show. She’s getting more spontaneous, witty, brave as well. She goes up against me if she feels like it, if only to play around but also when she means to push her own way instead of leaning with mine. I love her for it, I love hearing her say what she wants, I love the way her eyes shine with defiance and her jaw sets decisively. It also never fails to turn me on.

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