#tim wright x reader

Timothy Wright

Real “actions are louder than words” type guy.

Not that he won’t apologize— he’s absolutely self aware enough to know when and what to apologize for. But you’re only getting it out of him once per mistake. It’s sincere, that’s what really matters.

There have been wedding vows uttered with less sincerity than his apologies.

He acknowledges the issues, the mistakes, and voices them to let them go. Tim, to me, is a profoundly guilty person. There’s something to be said on the topic that he’s not letting the argument go to rest over just an “i’m sorry” especially not when it’s with or over something he cares deeply about. He’s lost enough already he isn’t taking chances with another good thing walking out on him.

Real house husband material after an argument. Dinner? Cooked. House? Clean. Chores? Done. Appliances? Checked and working. Work? What do you mean “work”, this is his job as far as he’s concerned.

He’s already at your beck and call regularly, but there’s something endearingly frantic about him trying to predict what you could possibly need and have it ready.

You weren’t quite sure how to feel when you came home to a quiet house.

Usually, you’d be here by yourself— so the creeping unease at what used to be so common throws you. Some part of you is disappointed. That Tim could possibly be avoiding you.

You didn’t peg him for the type, and the thought almost reignites the flash of hot anger from this morning before you’d left the house.

Almost.

The thought is tamped out by the perception that the house feels an awful lot different than when you left. The front door didn’t shudder or screech when you opened it. That damn curtain rod in the living room was re-hung. Even the wood seemed to be relieved of the caked in stains of bloodied mud.

You prod carefully into the house. Your own house. Like some kind of intruder. You’re beginning to feel like one.

The carpets smell of freshener. The buzzing lightbulb was replaced.The grout in between the kitchen tile was clean.

Tim’s phone was left unattended on the counter.

So he was home. Just a matter of where.

You finally notice it then— the yellow paper folded semi-neatly beneath the device. So innocently taunting you to just pick it up. Well, if the context weren’t enough, your name written across the lines would also probably be a good indicator you should read it.

Sug,

I know it’d probably be better if it were in person, but if there’s anything you’re good at, it's making me nervous.

I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to get so hung up on being right.

I know I hurt you, and I know it was my fault too. So I understand if you still don’t wanna talk when you get back.

Just don’t leave me waiting too long. I miss ya already

Yours, truly,

Tim

Brian Thomas

Big “don’t go to bed angry” proponent. Doesn’t matter how late he’ll have to spend resolving the issue, you can bet he’ll be there on his knees. Take that in whatever context you please.

It could be 3 in the morning when he comes in late —again— getting blood all over the floors —again— and trying to sneak into bed —again— after you told him not to, and he will still just quietly plead for forgiveness.

Getting sent to the couch is genuinely exile for him. Banishment from his own kingdom to wither away in the depths of the night cold and unloved.

Brian’s not really one to argue, so forgiveness is mostly in how much mercy you have. “Wife is always right” is his motto, even if you’re not his wife. He’s really just content to let sleeping dogs lie so long as you’re content. Lord knows he grazes with death often enough that grudges aren’t a “luxury” he’s willing to entertain— especially not with you waiting on him to get home.

You’d be pissed if he died, and it’s like- eternal couch. He can’t have that.

The only light in the forest was Brian’s phone as he stared at your texts. Real great if he were trying to see, but real bad when you’re actively trying to not be spotted.

The whole point of shooting long distances was to avoid being seen.

To Brian, however, this was less-than secondary priority. The bottom of his mental to-do list. Least of his concerns.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t wake me”

“Crash on the couch or something, idc”

He was in hell.

Sure, he was in the wrong. He could admit that. You were never in the wrong, were you? But was he wrong enough for the couch? Wrong enough to be deprived of love and left on his lonesome? Was your judgement truly so cruel?

His hands ran on autopilot the second he snapped out of it. His mind ran on one track. The track of redeeming himself.

He hardly looked through the scope and waited for the opening. He needed to be fast if he wanted to save his skin, afterall. He took the first shot available and didn’t stay long enough to even deal with the body.

The speed limit was a minimum suggestion. For as beaten as his old pickup was, it’d still put in the work for the important stuff. Like getting him home before he misses his one chance at redemption.

His hands shake with buzzy euphoria seeing the kitchen light still on, letting him get a good look at the fact you’re awake. Awake and entirely unaware of him outside.

On any other night he would’ve taken the time to sit and admire. To just watch you exist. To bask in it.

Unfortunately, he can’t indulge in that tonight.

He doesn’t bother with equipment. He doesn’t even care to plan what it is he’s going to say to you once he’s actually met with you.

None of these things matter more than avoiding the dreaded couch.

You junk slightly as he opens the door and immediately be-lines for you.

“Darlin’ please” He mumbles, kneeling and hugging at your knees to keep you from walking away.

“B- Brian what?” You sputter, reasonably trying to understand why he’s home so early. Let alone why he’s knees to the kitchen floor.

“Yer not that cruel. There’s mercy in your heart, cmon” The words slip out between kisses to your knees and lower thighs, “My dolly ain’t gonna let me rot on the couch”

“I’m still angry at you, Brian” The stiffness melts halfway through— it’s hard to be mad at a man when he’s nuzzling against your thighs and whining that he’s sorry.

“I know, I know, M’ so sorry” He huffs in a deep breath before letting out a long sigh “Go t’ bed angry if y’ need to, jus’ let me hold ya”

It’s hard not to roll your eyes.

“Fine. Get up.”

Helen Otis

Ok so i’m going to have to backtrack to what he’s like when he’s angry in order for this to make sense.

This isn’t exactly my idea entirely, ive read it across a few different fics, but Helen is a great fan of the silent treatment.

He’s not a real big speaker to begin with: at least, not with most people. But there’s a clear and obvious difference between his usual keen perception for meaning versus his cold, bitter anger.

But this is supposed to be a fluff one shot! So once he’s gotten over whatever (not so) grave offence you'd made, he’s more chatty.

He’d invite you to talk everywhere. In bed after you’d just woken, at breakfast, while he mixes his paints, around the house, while he paints you, all the way up until you fall asleep.

He’s also an incredibly devoted listener. If he’s inviting you to chat, it’s more so he can hear your voice and less so he can speak. You could be speaking total and utter gibberish and he wouldn’t really mind. Not if it were you.

He’s been making a lot of exceptions for you, hasn’t he?

You’re a little confused in all honesty. Days of avoiding eye contact. Not a word uttered between you. And suddenly a note. Requesting your presence to model at the studio.

So now you’re here, even if you feel a little rocky. Out of love or desperation, you’re not entirely sure.

It comes easy to settle into your thoughts. To avoid the fact that after so long, Helen’s looking at you again. No, not looking.

Studying.

Keen and horribly perceptive. Seeing through your very bein-

“Mon Amour” He sets down his brush, standing and bypassing the easel to see you. As a person, not just the model you’d been called here to be.

“You’re stiff.” He points out, running a hand along your shoulder. Tracing it down your back once he sees it only makes you draw up more.

“Tell me,” He begins, trailing his fingertips all the way back up to your neck, drawing your face towards him.

He’s not so intimidating like this. Still calculating, still taking you in like the air he needs to breathe, but with less of a conviction. There’s a gentleness there you’re not sure you’d renown him for if you weren’t any closer to him.

“You were telling me the other day, about that new girl someone’s dragged up here” Ah. You’d thought he hadn’t been listening. Above the senseless gossip over people he couldn’t care less about. “Do, remind me what she did?” His thumb unconsciously traces the line of your lips.

“You’re just trying to get me to relax” You laugh with the words, having them come out airy. It’s not the first time you’ve been an anxious model.

“Maybe,” He shrugs, carding the hand unoccupied with your lips through your hair. “But maybe I just like to hear you speak” He forfeits, leaning down to kiss your forehead before returning to his canvas.

“You can’t fault me for that, can you? Wanting to hear my songbird sing?” He chuckles seeing you roll your eyes, laughing right along with you.

“Seriously though, I am curious” He picked up his brush again, ready to hopefully capture you in the state he’d been stuck in for months. That joy where you’re too enthralled to notice him staring. When you’re too caught up in life to be stiff and nervous.

Jane Richardson (…is that her last name?)

Communication queen over here.

For one, arguments are already few and far between when it comes to Jane. She has a talent for compromise and an even larger talent for picking her battles.

That said, the arguments you do have tend to lie more on larger issues. Contentions you can’t clear up with a “Sorry honey” and some cuddles.

She’s never belligerent. In fact, quite the opposite! Irritatingly calm no matter what arises.

But because the conflict lasts so much longer than “normal” (you live with a serial killer. Nothing is normal.) she tries her hardest to clear things up as best she can when she can. Small things won’t add on top of the big things on her watch.

At the end of it, her goal is to keep you around. Safe. By your own will.

So you best bet that she’s doing absolutely everything she can to work through the issues you two have as a couple— together.

Things haven’t been great for a week.

Sure, your nights are still shared by side and mornings are sleepy cups of coffee together, but the tension from your original argument still simmers in the back.

A pot of boiling water just waiting to simmer over.

It haunts you. Both of you. You can see it. For as much as you spend reading into every word and action, you can tell that Jane’s wearing herself thin.

That every day seems to run her more raw than the last. And you can’t help but feel as if you weren’t fairing any better.

Your only solace was sleep.

To sink into the background, to truly turn your brain off for a few hours. To pretend in your dreams that no argument occurred. That things were as they were.

So, rightfully, you’re horribly pissed to be shaken awake.

“Cmon, please- please” Jane’s awake. The kind of awareness that only comes with adrenaline.

“Wh-“ You groan, trying to push her off half-heartedly “Go t’ sleep”

“No- No you can’t” She whispers to you urgently, pulling you into her lap. Laid across her thighs like this, her hunched over you, lets you get a good look at the horror in her tear brimmed eyes.

“Baby, cmon, please” Your eyes can only manage to be half lidded, lips pursed. “I’m sorry I know you’re just trying to sleep” Her voice shakes in a way deeply uncharacteristic of her. A chip in her otherwise unbothered persona. Not that you weren’t already privy to far, far more than her persona.

One of her arms is wrapped around the far side of your head, while her other hand cups your closer cheek. “I know it’s been—“ Her voice breaks “…odd lately” Her eyes frantically roam over your face.

“I know and I’m sorry, but you know I love you, right?” Her head tilts, begging for your answer “You know I’d be there? Even if I were mad? I’d always be there”

You manage a nod. “Jane, what’s this about?” You try to sit up, only for her to reach down and wrap her arms around you proper.

“I just needed you to know that I love you” She mumbles. “No matter what. No matter anything.”

She only seemed to settle when your arms wrapped around her in turn. A heavy sigh leaves her, the tension sinking with it.

“I know.” You speak to the darkness.

A kiss against the crook of your neck.

Master list tba too!!

Creepypasta and Marble Hornets

Death Note

Resident Evil

The boys loved you more than anything, this was no secret. They adored everything about you, you were the light of their life. They’d kill for you. They’d die for you. Every aspect of you was perfect to them. Well, every aspect but one.

You and your loud ass alarm that blared at five in the morning, just as they had managed to finally pass out after a rough mission. They adored you, but the moment that foghorn of an alarm went off, they all at least once want to pour ice cold water on you to wake you up instead. Each of them had a story about your ridiculously loud alarm that they’d never let you forget, all had a personal vendetta against the little cute clock that decided to announce Satan’s arrival to earth every morning at five and disrupt their already poor sleep as is.

Tim nearly got shot on one mission, and was dragging so badly once he got home, he couldn’t even get to the bedroom, instead passing out on the cabin’s couch downstairs. He may have drifted off for five minutes when he heard what could only be described as the mating call for hellhounds screeching upstairs. He remembered laying there for a solid five minutes in absolute agony before you rolled over and finally shut the sound off, only to find out you only snoozed it by waking up to the same hellish sound only ten minutes later.

Toby had been woken up by a terrible nightmare and went to wash his face off and calm back down to sleep. When he reentered the bedroom and went to lay down, the damn thing went off right by his ear, causing him to jump, fall off the bed, and knock the obnoxiously loud alarm directly on top of him, hitting himself in the head with it as he tried to scramble back up onto his feet in the dark. He finally got the alarm to shut up, and he slammed it back onto the nightstand, finally off of the floor, standing like he had just fought with a bear. If he was capable of sweating, he would’ve probably been pouring sweat with the amount of struggle he had with that damn clock.

Brian, in his opinion, had the worst experience with that stupid clock. You had stayed up waiting for him to come home from a mission, and once he got in, you basically pounced on him. A little talking and a lot of stripping later, he had his hands on either side of your head, watching your emotions in admiration, listening to your breathy whines and whimpers every time he moved, when it struck. The alarm blaring caught him so off guard, he about fell on top of you, and it completely ruined the mood he had built up. He found his gaze drifting over to the clock after you called it a night and went to bed, heavily contemplating shooting the thing.

The three were miserable with your evil ass alarm clock, and they decided to talk to you about either turning the bastard down or changing the sound. Preferably, they would much rather you change the sound. Even in a quieter setting, that sound still made them all flinch. Arguably, the worst part of the whole thing was that you, somehow, managed to sleep through the fucking thing most of the time, which they had collectively decided to use as an excuse to try and get you to change the sound. Worse case scenario, Tim and Brian agreed to send Toby in to just beg you until you caved and changed the sound.

When you came home, you felt like you walked in on an AA meeting. You put your keys on the hook by your front door, and raise an eyebrow, setting down the groceries that you had carried in. Why were your partners sitting around the table like they were about to tell you that they were secretly apart of the CIA and you needed to come with them? You pull a chair out and plop down, looking between the three, waiting for someone to elaborate what the hell they were all doing just sitting in the kitchen like they were scheming or some bullshit like that.

“So, uh… What’s with the intervention meeting here? Ah, you guys found the coke, huh?”

Tim shakes his head, clearly not fully registering your words off the bat.

“No hun, we were just- excuse me?”

Tim looked at you like you just declared yourself the Martian Queen. You couldn’t help but laugh at his response, shaking your head. You knew Tim didn’t believe for a second that you’d ever do drugs, but his reaction still cracked you up. You wipe the tears from your eyes as you look back at Tim and the other two just staring at you like you had admitted to eating puppies in your free time.

“I’m joking! Now seriously, what’s with the meeting in the kitchen?”

Tim decided to take the initiative to elaborate on the other two’s behalf.

“Now sweetheart, you know we love you, but your alarm clock is driving us batshit crazy.”

Brian and Toby nod along, and you glance at the three in confusion and slight concern. They couldn’t just casually toss this at you? They had to have a whole group meeting about your alarm clock like it was your side hoe? You couldn’t help but start to laugh again, feeling like this was just a lot to simply ask you to change alarms or turn it down a bit. They could’ve literally shot you a text about this, but you supposed mentally deranged partners would take mentally deranged ways to bring something up to your attention.

“You guys know you could’ve just like, texted me to change the alarm? You guys didn’t need to hold a meeting like you just found out I’m a pimp in my free time. But yes, I will change my alarm if it’s causing intervention levels of stress for you guys.”

You chuckle and kiss the top of Tim’s head before walking upstairs to turn the alarm down and switch the sound for the crybabies downstairs. The three looked at each other, and realized that, yeah, this was a little dramatic. Tim just decided to put up the groceries to ignore his embarrassment while Toby and Brian started dying laughing as they really registered how ridiculous this all had been.

You returned downstairs and kissed Tim’s cheek for putting the groceries up for you. You walked behind Toby, slinging your arms over his shoulders to rest loosely around his neck, resting your head on top of his to speak to them.

“Alarms been changed, you all can take a deep breath since I so bravely came to your rescue.”

Brian rolled his eyes and got up, walking over to you and tilting your head to look at him before pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Our brave girl, whatever would we do without you, sugar?”

You giggle and kiss him again, amused that he was also playing into the dramatics.