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Summary: Borys has something to tell her. [wc 1k] [ao3]
Warnings: mafia au, fluff
A/N: written for my belvoed @0ccvltism because i'd promised her this au so fucking long ago. So take this as my comeback to writing on tumblr ig?
Borys had rehearsed the speech a hundred times. In the shower. On empty drives home. During sleepless nights while she lay peacefully beside him, completely unaware that the man warming her feet under the blankets had ordered deaths before breakfast.
None of the rehearsals survived the moment he actually stood in their living room.
She was curled up on the sofa in one of his sweaters, reading a book. The television hummed quietly in the background, forgotten. She looked up the moment he walked in.
“You’ve got that face.”
“My face?”
“The one that says you’ve either broken something expensive…” She smiled. “…or you’re about to tell me something I won’t like.”
Borys laughed once. It sounded hollow. “I need to tell you the truth.”
The smile disappeared. She quietly closed her book. “You’ve got me worried.”
He remained standing. That was mistake number one. He looked like a defendant awaiting sentencing. “I’ve lied to you.”
“…About what?”
“My business. My work.”
“You mean the import company?”
“It exists.”
“…Okay.”
“It just isn’t what I do.”
Silence stretched between them.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He swallowed. “I’ve told you I’m an investor.”
“You have.”
“I’m not.”
She waited.
“I’m…” The words caught in his throat. Ridiculous. He was a fucking mafia lord for fucks sane. He’d stared down armed men without blinking. He’d ordered hits on families. He’d worn the blood of his enemies with absolute pride. Yet the thought of disappointing the woman he loved terrified him.
Finally—
“I’m the head of the Volchek organization.”
She blinked. “…Organization?”
He nodded once. “The mafia.”
Silence. Long. Painfully long.
She stared at him as if she’d misheard. “…The what?”
“The Russian mafia.”
Another silence. Then— She laughed. A genuine laugh. “Oh, that’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t making a joke.”
Her laughter faded immediately at the expression on his face. “…You’re serious.”
“I am.”
She searched his face. Every inch of it. Waiting for the smile. Waiting for the punchline. It never came.
“…You’re actually serious.”
“Yes.”
“You kill people?”
The question hit harder than any bullet. His jaw tightened. “I’ve ordered deaths.”
She looked away. Her breathing became uneven. “So…” She rubbed her temples. “The late-night meetings.”
He nodded. “The security.”
“Yes.”
“The men outside the house.”
“Mine.”
“The guns.”
“…Mine.”
“The money.”
“…Mine.”
“The vacations?”
He almost smiled. “Those were real.”
She glared. “This isn’t the time, Borys.”
“No.”
“No, it isn’t.”
The room fell quiet again. Borys didn’t move. He’d made peace with what came next.
She’d ask for a divorce. She’d scream. She’d leave. She should.
Instead… “…How long?”
“My entire adult life.”
“You knew when we met.”
“Yes.”
“And you still married me.”
“…Yes.”
Her eyes watered. “You let me build a life with you without telling me.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
His voice cracked. “Because for the first time in my life…” He looked at her. “…I wanted someone to love me before they knew what I was.”
The words shattered something inside her. She’d never heard him sound so… Small.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know sorry doesn’t fix this.”
“I know you probably hate me.”
“I know—”
“Stop.”
He fell silent. She stood slowly. Walked toward him. Each step made his stomach tighten. When she finally reached him, she looked up into his eyes.
“So…” She said quietly. “My husband is a mafia boss.”
“…Yes.”
“I married a criminal.”
“…Yes.”
“The man I thought negotiated shipping contracts negotiates…” She gestured vaguely.
“…Murders.”
“…Sometimes.”
She sighed. “God.”
He nodded. “I know.”
She paced away. Ran both hands through her hair. Turned back. “I’m angry.”
“You have every right.”
“I’m terrified.”
“I know.”
“I want to scream at you.”
“I deserve it.”
“And I don’t know whether to slap you or kiss you.”
He blinked. “…What?”
She walked back over. Stopped inches from him. “You lied to me.”
“I did.”
“I’m furious.”
“I know.”
“But…” Her hand reached up. She touched his cheek. “…You’re still my husband.”
His breath caught. “You don’t understand.”
“No.” She smiled sadly. “I probably don’t. But I do understand one thing.” She cupped his face. “The man who brings me coffee every morning. The man who rubs my shoulders when I work too late. The man who cries at dog movies.”
“I don’t cry.”
“You absolutely do.”
“…Occasionally.”
She laughed through tears. “My point is…” She rested her forehead against his. “That man is real.”
“It is.”
“And I love him.”
His eyes closed. “You shouldn’t.”
“Maybe.”
“You deserve someone better.”
“I wanted you.”
“You deserve normal.”
“I never wanted normal.” She kissed his forehead. “I wanted you.”
His composure finally cracked. His shoulders trembled. “I thought…” His voice broke. “…I thought this would be the moment I lost you.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “You almost did.”
He held her carefully, like she might disappear. “I won’t lie to you again.”
“You’d better not.”
“I’ll tell you everything.”
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Everything?”
“…Everything.”
“Even the ugly parts?”
“Especially those.”
She nodded once. “Okay.”
He frowned. “…Okay?”
“I’m staying.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“I’m staying.”
“You’ve barely processed this.”
“I know.”
“You should think.”
“I will.”
“You may decide to leave.”
“I might.”
He looked crushed.
“But…” She took both of his hands.“I’m not making that decision tonight. Tonight..” She squeezed his fingers.“…my husband finally trusted me enough to tell me the truth.”
A tear escaped his eye. “I love you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right.”
She smiled faintly. “You probably will.”
He laughed weakly.
“And one more thing.”
“What?”
“If anyone from your organization calls while we’re eating dinner…” She raised an eyebrow. “…they can wait.”
Despite everything, Borys laughed. A real laugh this time. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leaned up and kissed him. Long. Slow. Forgiving without forgetting.
When they finally separated, she poked him in the chest. “Tomorrow…”
“Yes?”
“You’re explaining how on earth I accidentally married one of the most dangerous men in the country.”
He smiled for the first time all evening. “I’ll make coffee.”
“You’d better make pancakes too.”
“I can do that.”
“And Borys?”
“Yes?”
“No more secrets.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “No more secrets."
Summary: you're on your period and Wade takes cares of you. [wc 874 ] [ao3]
Warnings: period mentions, fluff
Request: @samanddeansannoyingsis Deadpool with reader on her period?? Stomach cramps and a headache. While Deadpool is knawing on himself to try and not be a desperate creep.
The first warning sign is the silence. Which, in your apartment, is never normal. Not with Wade involved. Usually there’s music. Or chiming weapons. Or him narrating something deeply unnecessary like it’s a documentary about his own poor life choices. But today? Just… quiet. Too quiet.
You’re curled on the couch in a blanket fortress of your own making, one hand pressed firmly to your stomach like you can personally negotiate with your cramps.
Your head is pounding. Your patience is nonexistent. And your boyfriend—technically speaking, legally questionable but emotionally established—has been hovering in your kitchen like a man experiencing character development against his will.
“Okay,” Wade says carefully, from the doorway. “I’m just gonna say it.”
You groan into the couch cushion. “If you say anything about crystals or herbal tea, I’m throwing something at you.”
“I was gonna say I brought snacks,” he replies.
You lift your head slightly. “…what kind of snacks?”
There’s a pause. A suspicious pause.
“…the emotionally supportive kind.”
You squint at him. He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid. Which, for Wade, is basically Olympic-level restraint.
He’s holding a bag. And not shaking it. That alone is concerning. “I also,” he adds quickly, too quickly, “did not get you ice cream even though I wanted to. Because you said dairy was a war crime earlier. So I respected that. Growth. I’m growing.”
“You’re rambling,” you say flatly.
“I know,” he says immediately. “It’s because I’m being normal at you.”
“That’s worse.”
“I know.” He steps closer. Stops. Steps back. Then stops again.
You watch this with increasing suspicion. “…are you okay?” you ask.
Wade points at you. “You are in pain.”
“Yes.”
“And I am… a man… in proximity… to a woman in pain.”
“That’s usually how periods work, yes.”
“I am trying VERY HARD not to be weird about it.”
That earns a tired blink.
“…you are currently being weird about it.”
“Correct.” He drags a hand down his mask like he’s physically restraining himself from saying something dumb. “I just—okay—look,” he says. “You’re suffering, and I can fix things. I fix things. That’s my whole brand.”
“You can’t fix this.”
“Wanna bet?”
“No.”
“Smart.” He finally sits on the edge of the coffee table, very carefully not sitting too close. Which is… new. Wade Wilson: personal space enthusiast, apparently.
You narrow your eyes. “Why are you acting like I’m made of glass?”
“I’m not,” he says immediately. Pause. “I’m acting like you’re made of… mildly explosive emotional glass that also hurts a lot and I would like to not be murdered.”
“That’s fair.” You shift slightly, wincing as another cramp rolls through.
Wade notices instantly. Of course he does. He goes still. Too still. Like a dog trying not to jump on furniture it was explicitly told not to jump on.
“I can get you heat pads,” he says quickly.
“I already have one.”
“I can get you another one.”
“I don’t need two.”
“I can get you—uh—painkillers?”
“I already took some.”
“I can get you—”
“Wade.” He stops. Immediately. You sigh, softer now. “I’m okay. Just hurts.”
That does it. Something in him shifts. The energy drops. Not gone. Just… gentler. “…okay,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat: “I hate that I can’t punch it.”
A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Yeah. Me too.”
He hesitates again. Then slowly sits down on the floor in front of the couch like he’s negotiating with gravity. “…can I do something stupidly useless but emotionally supportive?” he asks.
You raise a brow. “Define useless.”
“I can insult your cramps.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I can threaten them.”
“I don’t think they care.”
“I can absolutely fight them.”
You stare at him. “…you’d lose.”
“I would go down swinging.”
That actually makes you smile a little more. Wade sees it. Freezes. Points at you.
“THERE. That. That’s the goal.”
“What is?”
“Not pain. That. The face thing you just did.”
“You mean smiling?”
“I mean your soul stopped screaming for like three seconds.”
You lean your head back. “…you’re weirdly good at this.”
Wade goes very still. Then, “Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me feel feelings and I don’t like that I have those.”
You snort.
He takes a breath. Then, quieter, like it’s physically painful: “…you want me to stay?”
There’s no joke in it now. No performance. Just him. Trying very hard not to be annoying about caring.
You look at him for a second. Then nod. “Yeah.”
Wade exhales like he’s been defusing a bomb. “Cool,” he says quickly. “Great. Awesome. I will be here. Not emotionally competent. But here.” Pause. “I brought snacks.”
You sigh. “…bring them here, idiot.”
He perks up instantly. “YES. Okay. I knew I was useful.”
“You’re not useful.”
“I am emotionally adjacent to useful.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
And when he finally settles beside you—carefully, like he’s afraid of accidentally making things worse—you let him. Because he’s still rambling quietly about “cramp enemies” and “pain villains” and it’s stupid and loud and completely unhelpful, but somehow it’s exactly what makes the ache feel a little less alone.
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Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Zemo x reader where they’re cuddling in a nest of blankets and pillows
Summary: cuddling in bed with him was always the best part of your day. [wc 55] [ao3]
Warnings: fluff <33
The blankets didn’t start as a plan. It was supposed to be one or even two, you know, just enough to take the edge off the chill in the room. But then you added another, and then he adjusted one with that meticulous, careful way he had, and suddenly there was a structure forming. A nest. Soft, layered, impossibly warm.
Now you’re buried in it. And so is he.
Helmut lies half-reclined against the headboard, one arm draped loosely around you, the other idly smoothing over the fabric piled across your legs. He doesn’t fidget—he never really fidgets—but there’s a quiet restlessness in the way his fingers trace absent patterns, like he’s grounding himself in the moment.
You’re tucked against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. For once, he’s… still.
“Is this your doing,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused, “or have I been… domesticated?”
You huff a quiet laugh into his shirt. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is unfamiliar,” he corrects gently. His hand shifts, fingers brushing up your arm, then settling at your shoulder—firm, anchoring, but careful. Always careful with you.
There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.
“You’re not trying to escape,” you tease softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. “That’s new.”
His gaze drops to meet yours, something softer than usual lurking there—less guarded, less sharp. “I find,” he says slowly, “that I have very little interest in leaving… when you insist on building fortresses like this.”
“Fortresses?” you echo, smiling.
“Mhm.” His thumb brushes lightly over your sleeve. “Strategically impenetrable. Excessively comfortable. Quite dangerous, you know.”
“Dangerous?”
His lips curve into a gentle smile. “You make it very easy to forget the rest of the world exists.”
That lands quieter than you expect.
You shift slightly, pressing closer without thinking, your hand curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt. He notices, because of course he does—and his arm tightens around you in response, pulling you in like it’s instinct. Like it’s necessary.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The room feels small in the best way—dim light, soft fabric, shared warmth. Safe, in a way that doesn’t come easily for either of you.
His chin dips, resting lightly against the top of your head. “You are warm,” he murmurs.
You grin. “Wow. High praise.”
“Do not let it go to your head,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.
Your fingers trace a slow, absent line along his side. “You’re not exactly complaining.”
“I am evaluating,” he replies.
“Oh yeah? And your conclusion?”
He exhales softly—almost a sigh, almost something heavier. “…that I may allow this again.”
You laugh quietly, settling more comfortably against him. “How generous of you.”
His hand stills for a second—then resumes its slow, grounding movement. “You misunderstand,” he says, voice lower now, closer. “I am not being generous.”
You glance up again, curious.
His gaze is already on you. “I am being selfish.” There’s no smirk this time. No deflection. Just truth, sitting quietly between you. And the way his arm tightens just slightly—like he’s making sure you don’t slip away—says more than anything else he could have.
you'll make a new post and those little icons should pop up. type whatever you'd little (like i have in the picture below) then you'll need to click the green one that looks like paperclips.
highlight teh words you want the link to direct like i have above. thatbar should pop up. you want the paperclips. click it. a bar should pop up where you can paste teh link.
Summary: He's watching you. For several nights. He finally tells you why. [WC 647] [AO3]
Pairing: Ex-Hydra Agent Reader x TWS!Bucky
Warnings: being stalked, angst,stalker bucky
Prompt: 20. “Always feeling like someone is watching through the window…” Bucky Barnes ✌️ definitely has horror movie potential 👻 @goblin-king-of-anarchy67
3K Writing Challenge (send in a prompt!)
You notice it the third night in a row. That feeling. The slow crawl up your spine. You’re brushing your teeth when you feel it — that prickle at the back of your neck, like static electricity. Like someone’s eyes pressing into your skin. You freeze.
The bathroom window is small. Frosted. But there’s a sliver at the edge where the curtain doesn’t quite cover.
And you swear -with all of your being- something moved.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. You live in the city. Fire escapes creak. Shadows shift. Your mind fills in gaps.
Still.
You start double-checking the locks.
By the fifth night, you stop standing near windows entirely. You keep the curtains drawn. You avoid the living room after sunset.
But the feeling doesn’t stop.
It’s worse when you’re alone in bed. The blinds barely parted, letting in thin silver streetlight from outside of your house. You roll onto your side, facing the wall, because if you don’t look at the window, maybe it can’t look at you.
You almost convince yourself you’re imagining it. Until there’s the faintest sound. Metal against brick. A shift of weight on the fire escape. Your breath catches. Silence. Then gone.
He isn’t there to scare you. Not really. He’s there because HYDRA gave him your face. A target file. Surveillance photos. Routine patterns.
He learned the times you leave for work. The exact minute you turn off your bedside lamp. The way you hum absentmindedly when you’re cooking.
The Winter Soldier does not feel.
But something in him hesitates when he watches you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. When you laugh at a show alone on your couch. When you pause at the window, looking out — almost like you feel him there.
He stays in the shadows of the fire escape, metal fingers silent against rusted railing. He tells himself it’s reconnaissance. He tells himself it’s timing. He tells himself it’s preparation. But he’s been “preparing” for five nights.
On the seventh night, you don’t close the curtain. You’re tired. Tired of feeling hunted in your own home. You stand in front of the window deliberately. Your hands are shaking, but you push the curtain fully aside.
“Whoever you are,” you whisper, voice barely steady, “just stop.”
Silence.
The city hums below. And for a second — just a second — you see him. A shape across the alley. On the opposite rooftop. Half-hidden in darkness.
Broad shoulders. Long hair. A glint of something silver where a hand should be.
Your stomach drops. Your eyes lock. And something strange happens. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t aim. Doesn’t advance. He just… stares. Not like a predator about to strike. More like someone trying to remember something.
The next night you wake up absolutely freezing, the window is open when you sit up. Just slightly. Cold air drifting in. You know you locked it.
You know you did. Your heart pounds as you sit up.
He’s inside. Not close. Standing in the far corner of your bedroom like a shadow pulled into human shape. You can barely make him out except for the arm — matte metal catching moonlight. Your breath shatters in your lungs. He doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t speak. He just watches you.
And when he finally moves, it isn’t toward you. He steps closer to the window. Guards it. Like something out there is more dangerous than he is.
His voice, when it comes, is low. Rough. Rusted from disuse. “…They’re coming.”
Not threatening. Warning. You realize with a cold, dizzying clarity — You were never afraid of the wrong thing. He wasn’t watching to stalk. He was watching to make sure no one else got to you first. He knew exactly who you were -- an ex-hydra agent, trying to live a normal life. He wasn’t there to kill you. He was there to make sure you stayed safe.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I started following you because of the Ditzy!Reader fic with Eddie Munson. Which is odd because that reader is actually the antithesis of me as a person? But it was so cute 🤣
Then I saw that you’re not doing Eddie anymore but I stayed on because something about your Supernatural content made me feel at home on tumblr. Like if I’m not following a Supernatural blog, am I really on tumblr? 🤔 I used to have a blog a long time ago and just recently got back on here and it just felt right LOL.
THEN I saw your prompt list and just how dedicated you are to the craft of writing, which inspires me as someone who is just starting their writing journey. So now I’m here to stay 🥰
Ditzy Dozy Dollhouse [Eddie Munson x Fem Reader]
that's so sweet of you thank you <3 i always wonder what fic was the reason people chose to follow me lol.
Yeahhhh.. after that fuckass finale of Stranger Things, my love for the characters & fandom faded really quick. Which is surprising because SPN's finale was on some fuck shit too... but thna again... SPN has 15 years years of content, so, more to lvoe ab that, i guess?
Prompt Lists yeahhh i need to reorganize it still lol it's such a hot fucking mess.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
few people have messaged me asking about being added to my tag lists while i was on hiatus and while im still not 100% back, i'd like to go ahead and announce that my tag list is completely open and you can add yourself here.
