#Everything just feels so confusing and frustrating | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elixirfromthestars · 4 hours ago

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This is going to hurt me 💔 I already know it 🥲

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do. Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take. And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

^ The reader is so much stronger than me because I would've moved out already 💔💔💔💔 We’ve only just started and the waterworks are already happening 🤧💔💔

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

^ THIRD NIGHT IN A ROW?!?! 😦💔 Third night in a row is diabolical 💀

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything……..He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move. And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

^ This whole section right here grabbed my heart in a vice, twisted it, and then yanked it out of my chest 💔💔💔💔💔 I kind of hate him right now, I’m not gonna lie 💔💔💔💔💔

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut. “Y/n?” You close your eyes. “Y/n!” Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

^ the way he dropped everything for her 😭😭😭

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

^ I’m ILL and SICK to my stomach right now. At this point my heart is being STOMPED on. 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

^ Don’t hit me with the pet names right now, James Buchanan Barnes. I’m still mad at you 😒

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument. Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind. “Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

^ I’d run for funsies, like I’m not making this easy on him ᯓ🏃🏻‍♀️‍➡️

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

^ Stop being sweet and worrying about me, I’m trying to stay mad at you (¬⤙¬ )

You try. You really try. But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine. Because this time it’s her walking out.

^ And she just had to ruin the moment 🙄

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it. “Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you. Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid. “Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-” “God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

^ AHA! SHE IS GONE!! ✨✨✨ (But also I feel bad for her cause it’s not her fault that Bucky is being a jerk and also clueless and also a really big idiot 💔)

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

^ STOP. BEING. SO. SWEET. AND. CARING. You’re making it hard to stay mad at you 😭😭😭

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

^ baby is diabolical 💔

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure. His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless. “Is that what this is about?

^ 👀👀👀 things are clicking now, huh, Barnes? 👀👀👀

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying. You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

^ Hold up— ✋ how long has she put up with this??? 💔💔 Because if it was years then my man better start GROVELING like yesterday 😤

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration. Not at you. At himself. “Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

^ In this moment he knew…he fucked up 🤧💔💔 and in my head this is what he looks like in this moment:

“Bucky-” you croak out. “No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.” “Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin. His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears. “Like it’s over.”

^ OOF 💔

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

^ For starters…you can start with begging and groveling for forgiveness 🙂‍↕️ (for at least a month, but we can negotiate this 😌)

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours. Bucky is crying. It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go. You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process. But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

^ And look at that, now we’re all crying and hurt 😭💔 He just had to go and be a fuckboy 😭💔

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get. “I love you.” Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

^ A LOVE CONFESSION IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS— my heart wouldn’t be able to take the whiplash 🤧

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

^ I agree girl 🤧 please enlighten us, Barnes <( ⸝⸝•̀ - •́⸝⸝)>

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

^ You see…I get it…I get you….but I’m still stuck on the three nights in a row, like I’m not over that 💀

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?” Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

^ And you know what, you tell him girl!! Call him out!! ��️🗣️🗣️

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close? But he still touched them. Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night. While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this. And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too. But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear. He tried to fuck it away.

^ My heart and mind keep fighting each other like do I stay mad?? Do I cry?? What am I supposed to do?? 😭😭 AHHHHH

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.” Your breath stalls. Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

^ Oh Bucky that is so bad and so wrong 😭

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open. The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine. The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings. But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him. Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered? You had no claim on him. But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

^ Exactly 😭 like it’s so conflicting because you can understand both sides, and both held their feelings in for their own reasons so it’s just a lot of unfortunate choices that were made that led up to this ☹️💔💔 and they obviously love each other, and fit just right, but that doesn’t take away the hurt that happened prior to this ☹️💔💔

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

^ You didn’t think that when you had the three nights in a row 😒 —okay I’ll stop with that now…maybe… 🤐😂

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?” You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming. “I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

^ I think not rushing it would be perfect for them 🥺 Just to let everything naturally flow and happen between them as it needs be 🥺 There’s definitely lots of healing and trust that needs to be done and built between them which will take time and patience ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 But love will persevere in the end!! 🩷🩷

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him. And for a split second, Bucky freezes. Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you. But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs. One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

^ This right here feels like the first step in the right direction into healing and coming back together 😭❤️‍🩹 Like there’s so much left unsaid of course, but sometimes a kiss just does so much better in communicating how you feel in moments like this 🤧❤️‍🩹 like maybe forgiveness isn’t fully there yet on her part, but it’s a good start to show that it’ll get there 🥺❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Omg, my lovely, this was like a movie scene playing right before my eyes. 😭🩷 The angst was ANGSTY, and every word took me through every second of what was going down between them in a way that had me holding my breath and feeling the tension deep in my soul 🤧❤️‍🩹 It felt as though I wasn’t in bed reading this, no 🙂‍↔️, I was right there with them on the street witnessing all of it!! 🫢✨ And on top of that, the fact that my little fic helped inspire you??? Stoooop, what an honor 😭🩷 Once again, apologies for taking so long to getting around to this entry 🥺 And thank you so much for participating in my writing challenge with so many wonderful entries!! 🥹🩷🩷 It makes me so happy to know you were inspired over and over again, as that is the entire goal and reason on why I keep hosting these challenges!! 🩷🩷 I just love seeing what everyone comes up with!! 🩷🩷

[Uh…I ran out of images so instead envision me here wiping my tears away with the last of my tissues because this fic made me use them all up 🤧❤️‍🩹]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

#elixirscinema #marvelstoriesepic ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚#lovely mutuals ♡🎀♡#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction

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ptvlia · 19 hours ago

Text

- - 𖥻 [ STRATEGY ! ]

— ABOUT ? : strategy, one thing you’re good at. Atleast—you think you are. So when you make a plan to reel your co-worker in, you think you’ve got it until he manages to prove you wrong in the break room. He knows.

— pairings ? : intern!clark x fem intern!reader

‘ got ya on my radar ! ’ ★ 18+. smut. cunnilingus squirting. fingering. & semi-public. | not proofread - sorry for any mistakes !

STRATEGY ♡ TWICE !

you had a plan, a real plan or— well, a strategy. like a full on, color coded, multi-step master plan. The kind that would make everyone roll their eyes because it was so ridiculous but did you care? Definitely not.

only because the subject of your strategy is none other than Clark kent. — tall, ridiculously tall, makes-coffee-for-everyone Clark kent. Your fellow intern, he had that wholesome small-town charm. The kind of presence that made everyone feel seen.

holds the elevator door for total strangers, offer his umbrella to those who needed, just overall a good man and yet you wondered why you had such a big crush on his man like you were still in highschool so yes, you had a strategy.

step one?: eye contact. “Hold it for five seconds.” you quietly murmur to yourself as you stood by the water cooler. Looking up from his desk, his eyes met yours.

you gave a shy smile, his eyebrow raising a bit in clear confusion but he wasn’t one to not smile back. He flashed you a sweet but awkward smile but you panicked and looked away.

“too long.” You grumbled, nearly spilling your own water.

step two!: coffee gambit, you made him coffee. Three sugars, a dash of milk. Just the way he likes it! you definitely weren’t eavesdropping on him and another co-worker speaking about it. “Wow thanks.” He smiled, accepting the cup which made your stomach flip. “You didn’t have to.” He finished.

“I wanted to.” You replied quickly, making him give you a small glance. He took a sip and made that sweet little hum he often did. Adorable, but then—

“Mm. Good coffee, maybe you should be a barista if this office job doesn’t work out for you.” …seriously? you knew he had no bad intention with that but— it hurt.

step 2? Basically failed, sort of. He didn’t seem to get it.

step three ! : ‘accidental’ proximity. “Oh Clark! You here again?” you chirped, stepping into the break room like you just hadn’t been peeking around the corner for him to finally enter

he turned from the coffee machine with a soft smile, “you too, huh? Looks like we’re just..here at the same time.” He chuckled awkwardly. You quickly chuckled after him, brushing off imaginary dust on the counter next to him.

“almost like..the universe is trying to tell us something?” you spoke quickly before clearing your throat. God— this was so ridiculous. He looked at you like you were a bit crazy, quiet for a while. Then he just laughed like you’d just told a joke and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right— right, yeah. I guess it might be.” He murmured awkwardly.

you left the break room glowing.

step 4: compliments. Causal but with impact! “You always have the best button ups!” You said one morning, pretending to be busy as he took off his coat. “Oh yeah?— uh, thanks.” He smiled. This frustrated you, terribly.

step 5: very odd..flirt maneuver. you lingered by his desk, bending to tie your shoe even though— you were wearing flats and giggled way too hard when he told you the story about him tripping over his own feet. In hindsight, wasn’t a great move.

He thought you were laughing at him.

Two weeks, two weeks of smiling, compliments, and just overall your whole plan— two weeks of laying it on thick just enough to not seem desperate and still..nothing.

You seemed to try everything but nothing. No number exchange. No “want to grab lunch?”— no spark. You wondered if your strategy even worked, didn’t seem like it did. All you had was a sticky note and a dream.

the break room was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the clink of your mug. You stared into your tea like it could offer you advice.

“hey.” a word that just suddenly appeared, wasn’t expect. You turned and of course— clark. A nervous aura surrounding him that you’ve seen before but not very often. He cleared his throat— “I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

you raised an eyebrow, “were you ever gonna actually ask me out?” He chuckled, his hand scratching the back of his neck— you froze. Huh? “Wait. What?” You murmured, a laugh erupting from him.

“you really think I didn’t notice? The coffee? The..accidental run-ins? It wasn’t..subtle.” He grinned, your mouth opened before closing again. “I—wha? you..— you knew?” You stared at him dumbfounded.

“I’ve been letting you have your fun,” he spoke, his eyes sparkling behind those glasses. “Well— you looked like you were having fun.” He murmured, stepping closer— a bit too close “You absolute— Clark! Why didn’t you say anything?” You scowled, he slightly chuckled.

“I mean.. like I said, it looked like you were having fun and I wasn’t sure if you were joking with me or not.” He shrugged.

“I wasn’t messing with you.” You murmured, before he stepped right in your bubble. “I know.” The mug in your hands suddenly warmer than before.

“so..can I kiss you or is that— tomorrows strategy?” He chuckled, you didn’t answer. Just reached up and kissed him, he quickly replicated it. His hands sliding down to your waist, eventually trailing to your ass.

“not my usual place to do this.” He softly laughed against your lips. He picked you up, his big hands still on your ass before placing you to sit on the one of the counters. You both quickly glanced over at the door— “I guess we better hurry this up, huh?” He chuckled.

“I—yeah. I guess so.” You murmured breathlessly, his hands reaching up your skirt to your thighs. His calloused fingers gently touching the laced edges of your panties, the feeling was ticklish but made shivers run throughout your body.

“can I take those off?” He softly asked, your head immediately moved to nod before you could even think about it. He was too polite and with one slide, they were off— the breeze hitting your pussy.

goosebumps rise on your skin and that’s it for you, watching him gently lower down. His beautiful eyes looking right up at up at you as if he wasn’t just about to devour you. As if someone couldn’t walk in at any minute.

he gently pushes your skirt up your thighs, giving him better access to your pussy. His big hands fall on your thighs— he leans in and places small kisses within your inner thighs. “Can’t believe you made a whole plan.” He chuckles against your skin— you shivered when his hot breath hit you.

he gently places a kiss on your clit, just from that— you whimper. “already making noise and I haven’t even started yet.” He crooned before running the tip of his tongue along the outside of your folds.

Your hand immediately went to his hair, your grip not tight yet. His tongue gently runs within your folds, making you moan. It was miracle no one had walked in.

his tongue and mouth worked on you intensely. The sensation of the warmth of his tongue and it moving in and out of hole was too much— too good.

you arch, pushing your pussy into his face. he groans against it, sending more vibrations throughout your body. Your grip on his hair? Tighter than ever. he’s gone through worse pain— trust him. His tongue continued and as if that wasn’t enough…

you felt two fingers press against your sweet hole. You softly whimpered when they finally entered as he gently sucked on your clit.— you moaned a bit louder though you covered your mouth.

your whines as his mouth worked on your clit and his fingers pumped in and out of you. “Clark!— Clark..I’m cumming.” You huff. He quickly nods. “I know baby, I know you are. Come on.”

and so you do— your juices spreading everywhere. All over his face and the counter. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to do it in the break room. You pant as he pulls his fingers out, lifting them to your lips. You quickly suck, tasting yourself.

his free hand rubbing your shaking thigh and after that? it was time for a real date.— which he took you on. You didn’t have to plan for this to happen.

your strategy didn’t work as well as you wanted it to but you got the guy, you definitely didn’t enjoy cleaning after yourselves but—

worth it.

#⠀͙ࣳ ptvlia 𓂃 #⠀✣ ⠀۪⠀ ´ lia writes ⠘ ✫#superman #superman 2025 #superman fanfiction #superman fandom #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent smut

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revelboo · 2 days ago

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As an asexual who sometimes swings by the blog to binge read (because even without the horny I still wanna hold hands with the robits 🥺❤️) I look at these transformers and wonder how different it would be if one of their humans were ace or sex repulsed

So at this point the Nemesis story and his reaction to it all is literally for me 😔 I can only hope that eventually us n Nemmi can sit back and gossip about all the spicy canoodling on-board. We can eat stolen snacks and help fix deeply hidden maintenance issues no bots know about. If any bot catches on we've got ALL the blackmail to bargain with. Maybe we air drop care packages from seemingly nowhere to other ship humans. Chaotic good house mouse adventures.

hey, fluff is good, too. The Vehicons storyline is pretty much just fluff and Geomotus was going to be if anyone wanted him continued

Protector Pt 2

Nemesis x Reader

• Stretched out on your belly, you roll as the biolights around your little nest flare brighter, pulsing like a slow heart beat. “Five more minutes,” you groan and the glow dims. Snuggling into your pillows, you stretch out an arm so your fingers can brush the warm floor and feel the faint thrum of the ship. You’re nearly asleep when the biolights running through the walls brighten again to make you groan. “But I’m warm.”

• Amused as you pull a pillow over your head, he turns his attention outward to give you more time to rest. Monitoring everything else instead. Taking care of so many that sometimes he feels like he’s drowning in their demands. You’re so much easier. One voice to focus on. Reaching out thoughts and doing system checks, he refines his focus to areas with humans in them. Finds a brown paper bag of hot food a Seeker just set down and as the mech turns away, the counter under the food shifts, dropping it down inside the walls as the counter heals itself. It’s getting easier to be precise. Targeted. Slowly ferrying the bag through himself, shifting panels in serpentine twists, he’s aware of the Seeker’s frustrated confusion, but the Decepticon can go out and get more for his own human. Isn’t trapped like he is.

• Hear the faint shuffling about the same time you smell food and your head comes up, hair in disarray. Did he find you something hot to eat? Watching the greasy paper bag wiggling as he awkwardly shifts it closer, you stand and move to intercept it, snorting when the ship starts to back it out of reach. “Good morning,” you say, sitting on the floor and tearing open the bag. “No coffee?” You tease as the biolights pulse lazily like the ship is laughing at you.

• Watching as you eat, his attention swings out again. Making sure the Seeker isn’t trying too hard to figure out where his missing food went. It’s not like anyone would suspect him, though. He’s almost sure most of them forget he’s alive and sentient. Aware of everything they’re doing inside him. And he listens to you excitedly chirping about hash browns as he runs diagnostics. Finding little areas that need repair, but nothing major.

• “Are we going exploring today?” You ask and the lights seem pensive. But then, you’re probably just attributing your own narrative to the ship because there’s no one else to talk to. Eating your food, as soon as you’re done, the lights pulse. Showing you the way to the little wash rack he’s diverted for you. “Are you trying to say I smell?” You tease and the lights hesitate again as you ball up your trash and startle when he whisks it off who knows where before the lights become more insistent. Is it weird that the ship knows your routine so well? Shooing you along the inner walls, taking care of your needs before you can even ask.

• Rumbling faintly as you follow into the cobbled together wash area and start sleepily undressing, he turns his attention outward to give you privacy and to check on the rest of himself. And you’re chattering away at him as you shower with the soap he’s stolen you, embarrassing him as he tries to ignore you. Which is hard when you start singing to either him or yourself, and exasperated, he starts searching rooms for things you might like. Things he can encourage you toward and reward you with for listening to him. Teaching you to follow his prompts. To trust him, because if something goes wrong and there’s an emergency, he needs to know you won’t hesitate.

#transformers x reader #tf nemesis x reader #tf nemesis

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munsonify · 2 days ago

Text

finally happened 𓂃 continuation

pairing. joaquin torres x fem!reader

summary. when you realize that you definitely have romantic feelings towards joaquin, it’s hard to keep them stuffed down and hidden

content warnings. fluff, mentions of r going to a bar and getting drunk, r in a small dress+heels, flirty!joaquin & touchy!joaquin, kissing, swearing. not proofread

word count. 3300

confused and frustrated 𓂃 part one

a/n. man yall really wanted a part two!!! here you guys go!!! and also i don’t care if this progressed fast, i can do what i want cause it’s my writing lol

———

maybe sam was a little right.

nothing about how you feel is truly just friendly. the way your stomach flutters when he compliments you isn’t friendly, the way you yearn for his touch isn’t friendly. it certainly wasn’t friendly the way you look at him, either, the way you admire him and gaze at him hungrily. you were a little naive to think this was anything but romantic, needy. this realization washed over you in a slow wave the week after you’d spoke with sam. it wasn’t quite love, though. it was an admiration, a liking, a stomach full of butterflies type of feeling you had towards him. you were sure that the more time you spent with joaquin, however, that liking would turn into a love. especially if you kept dwelling on the crush.

with how inseparable you two had become, it was going to be difficult not to dwell on these feelings. you lived together for christ sake, you saw him nearly every day. everything from your internship and the way you always run into him and shadow him, to eating dinner together and seeing his belongings scattered in the living room reminded you of him and your now unwavering feelings towards the man. it was like a sickness you couldn’t quite shake no matter how hard you tried. and, as much as you liked thinking about joaquin and being around him, you wanted nothing more than to just forget about it, even for a moment.

that moment, you thought, came two mondays later, barely a week after your realization. you’d gotten a call from a friend of yours practically begging you to come out to a bar with everyone. you were quick to agree. not only did this give you the chance to take a few steps away from the situation, you were just handed an excuse to dress up. you’d been switching between casual, comfortable clothes for class and ironed out, perfectly placed professional wear you wore at your internship for the longest time. you were beyond grateful for this opportunity.

you picked out a small, tight black dress to wear. it fit you perfectly, hugging all the right places, showing off everything you had to offer. you did your makeup, too. for a brief second thought you were overdressed, standing in front of your mirror as you took one last look at yourself. you remembered quickly that your friends liked to dress up like you did, so those worries washed away quickly. it made you feel nice looking like this anyways, especially now that you didn’t get to do it as often.

rifling through your purse, you walked your way towards your heels, grabbing ahold of them the moment you confirmed your id and some cash was tucked away inside. you began your way out of your room without a second thought, bee-lining towards the kitchen table. you began tugging on your heels, securing the straps around your ankles, totally oblivious to your surroundings. it wasn’t until you’d stood up in search of your phone that joaquin’s presence was made known.

he’d stopped in his tracks the moment he’d seen you, forgetting right then and there what he’d come out for. his round, owlish as he stares at you for a few moments, watching as you turn around to face him. his lips quirked up into a smile at the sight of your face, arms crossing as he composes himself quickly. you braced yourself for teasing, knowing full well what he was like sometimes. you weren’t sure he’d ever seen you dolled up like this, so you expected a string of lighthearted jabs.

“what’re you so dressed up for?“ joaquin asked curiously. you shrugged at him, shoulders tensing a little at his intense gaze. you began feeling a little exposed, realizing just how small this dress truly was on you.

“just going to a bar with some friends, the ones from class,” you told him, offering him a small smile as you spoke. your hand fumbled with your purse nervously, trying your best not to seem too awkward.

“well you look beautiful,” joaquin told you, voice dripping with sincerity. his gaze stayed put on your face out of respect, eyes soft as he looks into yours. his words knocked all the air out of your lungs, capturing your voice in your throat briefly. this was the last thing you’d expected him to say, let alone so genuinely. he’d never complimented you like this before.

“thanks, joaquin,” you mumbled out, trying hard not to fold under his stare. you must look pitiful, doe eyed and flustered at just one simple compliment. it meant a lot coming from him, especially now that you’d established your feelings for him.

“of course,” he told you, finally finding it in himself to walk the rest of the way into the kitchen. “if you need a way home you call me, okay?”

“yeah, yeah okay,” you nodded, words stumbling out of your mouth quickly. right then, as if sensing the tension in the room, your phone began to ring. it was your friend calling to alert you that they were there to pick you up. you bid joaquin a swift goodbye, waving your fingers at him, before pushing yourself out the front door. you were going to need to work overtime tonight to take your mind off what had just happened.

sam wasn’t helping you in the slightest. you’d been able to avoid confronting the situation with anybody so far. your friends were in the dark, and so was joaquin. you wanted to keep it that way for now, dodging every bullet hurdling towards you - which, by the way, was difficult to do when your very drunk friends were asking a very drunk you about your romantic life. despite that, it seemed to be even more glaringly obvious than before. it was just two days after joaquin’s compliment, an early wednesday morning. his words were rattling inside of your brain since.

the moment sam found you two, he dragged you guys into a room full of computers, desperate for some sort of help. with whatever information he had to give you, debriefing you on a mission he was preparing for, the three of you began typing away. it was an incredible opportunity to be able to work this closely with sam.

when the conversation fell silent - something that came on naturally, everyone’s focus falling onto the computers in front of them -, an argument could be heard a few rooms down. for a military base, you would think the walls would be a little thicker, more protective. much to your pleasure, they were not, granting you the opportunity to hear the tail end of a rather heated discussion.

“i have never met someone more frustrating than you!” was the last thing said before loud stomps echoed down the halls, diminishing into faint steps far away. while you were able to bite back smiles at first, it was hard to contain them when joaquin decided to pile onto it in a small, quiet whisper.

“do you guys think he’s frustrated?”

a spout of small, quiet giggles fell from your lips at his words, ones that were almost a little too giddy. you’d been tense and a little on edge all week, afraid that you were being obvious with your feelings. in turn, just by simply overthinking it, you were doing exactly what you feared. more than you would’ve if you just stayed out of your own head. thankfully, sam was laughing too.

joaquin had a proud sort of look on his face when you two laughed, head lifting up to look at you guys. his eyes lingered on you longer than they did on sam, something you hadn’t caught. you were too preoccupied with trying to contain your laughter to notice. this is another thing you admired about him. he never failed to make you smile, to raise the mood in any given room. even if the comment was silly, it always brought a smile to peoples faces.

a rather loud knock on the door stopped the laughter for good, the sound dying down as it opens up. it was someone who, again, needed joaquin’s help. he liked being of assistance, especially when he got to show off what he knows. that’s why he so eagerly got up and dismissed himself, occupying himself with whatever needed his attention. your eyes followed him out of the room, a small smile playing on your lips still as he walked away.

“no feelings, huh?” sam asked, breaking the silence as he stares you down. you blink a few quick times as you process what he’s said, head turning to look at him. you were going to protest again, to deny the feelings you now knew were there. though, as if he could sense it, he interjected before you could. “i’m just saying, you don’t look at anyone else the way you look at him. you wouldn’t have laughed like that if i made that corny ass joke.”

you still thought about denying it. you thought that if you tried to say no, to claim those feelings weren’t there, that they’d disappear. the way sam was looking at you, like he could see right through you, had you telling on yourself. “maybe there are feelings. just a little.”

sam smiled at your admission, small and proud, as he leans back in his chair. the two of you were facing each other now, the only thing separating you two was joaquin’s empty chair. you watched as he crossed his arms, seemingly deep in thought as he carefully treads forward with his words. this may not be his secret to tell, but he tells it anyway. he couldn’t quite help himself.

“he cares about you a lot,” sam starts in a quiet tone, as if handing you details to a top-secret mission no one else can know about. “he talks about you constantly, about how proud of you he is and how cool he thinks you are.”

“really?” you perk up slightly, eyes lighting up at sam’s words. you try not to hold onto them, to cling to something that may mean nothing. you try not to show your hopefulness, either, though you were never one to be good at hiding how you feel. “he says that?”

“yeah, all the time,” he affirms, heading nodding quickly. sam smiles again as he thinks some more, forehead creasing. “he wouldn’t shut up about how beautiful you looked monday night. i don’t think he realizes how much he likes you though, he’s almost as idiotic as you are.”

despite how casually sam says it, and despite the lighthearted insult he’d tossed your way, your heartbeat quickens at his words, heat rushing up to your face. joaquin wasn’t one to shy away from speaking up, from telling you what’s on his mind. so, sure, he’d complimented you on your way out of the apartment. and sure, you were still clinging to it. that didn’t change the fact that he doubled down on that praise to someone else, letting it be known what he thought of you. that’s when he’d decided to grace you two with his presence again, sam gave you that same knowing look he gave you friday, before turning back to his computer.

as he sat down, joaquin gave you a large grin, swiveling around to face you much like the man beside him had been moments before. he nudged his knee against your gently, eyes shimmering over at you. did he always look at you that way? or were sam’s words getting to you?

“movie night tonight? your choice,” he asked expectantly, waiting eagerly awaiting your response. you gawked at him the moment the last two words left his mouth, eyes widening at him.

“no way you’re letting me choose,” you say. “you always fight me on it!”

“i don’t always fight you on it,” joaquin defended quickly, jaw going slack for a brief moment in a fake sort of offense. “besides, i chose the last two times. it’s only right you get a turn.”

“what a gentleman,” you deadpanned, finally turning back to the computer in front of you to continue your research alongside sam. joaquin followed suit, rolling his eyes at your comment. still, there were small smiles on your faces, content yet desperately trying to hide.

“damn straight.”

joaquin stayed true to his words. he did, in fact, let you pick the movie. it’s not like he was able to backtrack, not when you looked so excited as you put it on. you had the biggest grin on your face as you cozied up on the couch beside him. only you would be so excited to watch a horror movie.

the two of you stayed on your respective sides of the couch for the first quarter of the movie, the same side you’d always sat on. there was practically a permanent imprint of the two of you against the couch, molded perfectly to your bodies. it was very rare you would deviate from these seats. one of those rare occasions just so happened to be tonight.

your frigid body didn’t go unseen by joaquin. he noticed the way you tensed up, a little nervous as you curled up further into the couch. his eyes caught the way you tried to shy away from the screen, even if you knew it wasn’t real. as much as you loved horror movies, they still got to you sometimes. his teasing manner came back to him for just a moment when he noticed.

“don’t tell me you’re scared,” he whispered, head turning to look at you fully. the glare you’d thrown his way was unmissable, eyebrows furrowed together, lips downwards in a very slight frown. you tried shaking your head no, denying your rather obvious scared expression, though it was no use.

as if it was the most natural thing in the world, joaquin opened his arms up, hands waving you towards him. he didn’t continue his teasing, he simply ushered you towards him. with hesitation, you obliged, slowly making your way towards him. the way you settled next to him, body tucking into his side with an arm slung around you, felt natural. your head found its way to his shoulder carefully, feeling him adjust a little more comfortably, before settling down fully next to you. you were quick to follow, finding yourself comfortable in his embrace much like you had last week.

joaquin was just as warm and smelled just as nice as you remembered. his body was steady and broad against yours. this certainly took your mind off of how scary the movie had become. at first, you were engulfed in your thoughts again. he was so close to you, breathing steadily and focusing intently on the movie. his kindness was overwhelming sometimes, endearing and all-consuming. everything he said and everything he did, even if unintentional, had you practically swooning for him.

even when you weren’t thinking about him, finally bringing your focus back to the movie, you didn’t feel nearly as scared as before. joaquin comforted you in a way you didn’t know was possible, even through your frustrating feelings. that’s why you’d found it so difficult to pull away from him by the end of the movie. you didn’t want to leave his hold - something that was new and welcoming -, a warmth you wanted to cling to for forever. it was a blessing he didn’t pull away quick. he simply exited the movies credits, arm still slung around you.

“was the movie at least worth it?” joaquin asked in a low whisper, teasing you again slightly. you turned your head to look up at him, chin moving to rest on his shoulder now. he turned his head, too, faces suddenly inches apart. you expected him to move away, to pull back now and realize how close the two of you were. you were once again proven wrong by him.

“yeah, it was worth it,” you whispered back, eyes locking with his as you spoke. while the movie was good, that’s not quite what you meant when you said it was worth it. if you hadn’t been such a wimp, there wasn’t a chance on earth you’d be in this situation right now, cozied up next to him. joaquin smiled small and happy, hand releasing the remote to reach up to your face. he tucked hair away from your eyes, smoothing it back away from your line of sight in the most gentle way. what happened next was simply instinct.

one of your hands found its way to the side of joaquin’s neck, cradling carefully as your eyes flickered down to his lips. and just like that, they’d fluttered closed, closing the distance between the two of you. your lips found his in a light, quick peck, realizing quickly what you’d just done. you weren’t sure where you’d gotten the nerve or the confidence from, and you wish you hadn’t found it.

“i’m so sorry,” you told him, words flying out of your mouth as you began pulling away. your feelings had bubbled up to something unbearable inside of you. you were rather horrible at keeping those things a secret, and it certainly didn’t help that joaquin was so kind. all of his compliments he’d been giving you, all of the sweet things he’d said to sam about you, had you all up in your head. you wanted to say more, to continue to apologize profusely, however, you were stopped just as quickly as you began. joaquin’s hand smoothed its way to the back of your head, cradling it as he pulls you closer again. your lips met once more, this time for a much longer kiss. it left you breathless, successfully shutting you up when he finally pulls away.

when your eyes flutter back open, you’re met with joaquin’s, barely open and looking at you patiently. giggles ripple through both of your chests upon eye contact, your body leaning back into his. his hand continued to cradle the back of your head, thumb rubbing against your hair soothingly.

“i should’ve done that on monday,” joaquin told you, leaning to rest his forehead against yours. “you looked so beautiful, it’s all i could think about.”

“you poor thing,” you whispered, fingers trailing down to mess with the chain for his dog tags. it was your turn to tease, something you were glad to finally get back at him for. “it’s all i’ve been able to think about for like a week and a half.”

joaquin thought back, eventually landing on that saturday you’d been a little off. it all started to click for him. you weren’t just tired from that week, and you weren’t just being standoffish for no reason. he cracked another smile at the memory, everything beginning to fall into place. all of the times you seemed flustered or nervous around him all made sense now. you weren’t simply hiding something you couldn’t quite communicate.

“how did you survive that long?” joaquin asked dramatically, eyes still gazing into yours. “i can’t even imagine. that must’ve been torture not kissing me.”

you let go of his dog tags just to flick his chest, eyes rolling as you pull away from him. he didn’t let you go far, arms wrapping around you and pulling you back close to his body. you let him, shaking your head at his absurdity. “don’t flatter yourself.”

all of your second guesses seemed a little dumb now. the banter you two had didn’t change in the slightest. your admiration and friendship didn’t suddenly disappear. and, while your relationship shifted romantically, it was still you and joaquin. nothing was going to change that.

———

tagging people who were wanting a pt 2 :). @still-scribblin @saintbusan @clonesdserveb3tter @fayxv

#munsonify #joaquin torres #joaquin torres x r #joaquin torres x y/n #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres x fem!reader #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres imagines #joaquin torres imagine #joaquin torres fic #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres blurbs #joaquin torres blurb #x reader

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incloudcity · 3 days ago

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can u do a jack hughes x reader where he’s jealous but it ends cute? thx!!

you already know this is my cup of tea lol

requests are open | navigation

You’d always known Jack to be the chill, laid-back type—easygoing, always cracking jokes, and totally down for whatever. That was one of the things you loved about him, how effortless he was in every situation. But tonight? Tonight, Jack was not being his usual self.

You were at a small get-together at a mutual friend’s place, nothing fancy, just a bunch of people hanging out, playing games, and catching up. But you were having a great time, chatting with everyone, laughing, and catching up with some old friends from college. And, like always, you had that way of making people feel comfortable around you. The conversations flowed easily, and before you knew it, you were in the middle of a group, surrounded by people, talking and laughing like you had all the time in the world.

Jack had been quiet since he walked in, sitting on the edge of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. You had noticed it at first but didn’t think much of it. He was probably just tired after a long week of games. But as the evening wore on, you began to sense a subtle shift in his mood. He wasn’t actively participating in conversations, and he definitely wasn’t laughing like usual.

It wasn’t until you found yourself standing next to one of your friends, a guy named Evan, who was animatedly talking about a recent trip he’d taken, that things took a turn. You were laughing at something Evan had said, your hand on your hip, completely unaware of Jack’s gaze on you from across the room. He hadn’t been subtle about his glances, but you hadn’t caught on. It wasn’t until Evan brushed his hand against yours as he reached for his drink that Jack’s expression darkened.

You turned back toward Jack, a little confused, when you saw his eyes narrowing slightly. He was leaning against the back of the couch now, his jaw tight. You’d never seen him like this—at least not over something so small.

“Everything okay?” you asked, walking over to him, a small frown tugging at your lips.

Jack looked up at you, his expression softening slightly as if he hadn’t realized how obvious his mood had been. “Yeah, of course,” he said, forcing a smile. But there was something about his voice that made you pause. It wasn’t like him to be so... distant.

You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ve been kind of quiet tonight.”

Jack shrugged, but the unease in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. “Just tired, I guess.” He didn’t meet your gaze, instead taking a slow sip from his drink, avoiding the way your eyes searched his face.

Before you could say anything, Evan’s voice carried over to you again. “Hey, you guys want to come over here for the next round of drinks?”

You turned back toward Evan, but when you looked at Jack, his expression had changed again. The tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders were slightly tensed—it was as if he were holding something back. You swallowed, wondering if something was off.

“I’ll be right there,” you said to Evan with a quick smile, before turning back to Jack. “Jack... you sure everything’s okay? You’re acting kind of distant tonight.”

He glanced up at you, clearly trying to play it off. “I’m fine. Just... you know, it’s nothing.”

But you knew Jack well enough by now to recognize when he was trying to avoid talking about something. “Are you sure it’s nothing? Because I’m getting the feeling you’re not happy about something.”

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair, before finally meeting your eyes. “Okay, fine,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but still with a hint of frustration. “It’s just... you’re... getting a lot of attention tonight. From him,” he said, nodding toward Evan, who was still chatting animatedly with some other people.

You blinked, not sure if you’d heard him correctly. “What? You’re jealous?”

Jack’s lips curled into a half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous... I just don’t like seeing you laugh like that with someone else.”

You stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or to actually process what he was saying. “Jack, it’s Evan. We’re friends, that’s it.”

“I know,” he replied quickly, his eyes flicking toward the floor. “But still. It’s just... I don’t know. I’m not used to seeing you so... comfortable with other guys.”

You bit back a smile at his confession. This was Jack Hughes—one of the most laid-back guys you knew—and here he was, sounding almost insecure. It was cute in the most unexpected way.

“Well, I’m comfortable with you too, Jack,” you said, your voice softening as you took a step closer to him. “And there’s no one else I want to be here with.”

He glanced up at you, eyes softening. “Yeah?”

You nodded, offering him a small, teasing smile. “Yeah. But if it makes you feel better, maybe you should come steal me away from all the other guys.”

Jack’s lips curled into that signature grin of his, and for the first time tonight, he looked like his usual self. “I might just do that.”

And then, in true Jack fashion, he reached out, pulling you into a quick hug, his arms wrapping around you just a little tighter than usual. “I’m not good at this,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your hair. “But I just... don’t like seeing other guys try to take my place.”

You smiled against his chest, your hands sliding up to rest on his back. “You’ll never have to worry about that.”

Jack pulled back slightly, his eyes soft and full of affection now. “You sure?”

You nodded, your fingers brushing against his arm. “Positive.”

He smiled, that signature playful smirk now fully in place. “Well, good. Because if anyone else tries, I might just have to challenge them to a fight.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension that had been hanging in the air between you both melting away. “You wouldn’t.”

“I totally would,” he replied, the playful glint back in his eyes.

You smiled up at him, realizing just how much his feelings for you meant. Maybe his jealousy was unexpected, but in a way, it made you feel wanted—like you mattered to him more than you’d ever known.

And with that, you leaned up on your tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, a quiet promise that, even with the playful jealousy, you were his.

#jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fic #jack hughes oneshot #jack hughes blurb #nhl x reader #nhl blurb #nhl oneshot #new jersey devils #new jersey devils x reader #emblurbs #em gets jealous

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wolfstarsjegulus · 1 day ago

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book - world count 709 || asexual james!!

@into-the-jeggyverse

prompt: book

Regulus knew something was wrong. For weeks, James has been antsy, dazed out for minutes at a time, and more fidgety than ever before. After dating for almost a full year, Regulus had come to learn (and love ) James’ little quirks, but this time- it was different.

This time it seemed to be him James was nervous around and not in a cute way.

A few days before Christmas, whilst lounging around the Potter’s fireplace, Regulus decided to bring it up.

Effie and Monty had gone up to bed, and Sirius had -reluctantly- left them alone to go upstairs with Remus who was also staying with them over break.

Closing his book, that he wasn’t really paying all that much attention to, Regulus approached the topic, “James?”

“Huh?” James looked up startled. “Oh, yes, love?”

“Is everything alright?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t it be?” James asked as he scratched the back of his neck, a telltale sign to Regulus that he was lying.

“Hey, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but don’t lie to me,” Regulus said as he moved closer to him, placing his book aside.

James looked down at his hands, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Regulus said, placing his arm on James’s. “It’s just that I know you, and I know that something isn’t okay, but if you’re not ready to talk, I won’t push you. Just know that I’m here, okay?”

James looked at him. Really looked at him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before James spoke, “I love you.”

Regulus looked at him confused, “I love you too.”

“I love you so much, but I- don’t feel the things I need to,” James said, tearing up.

Regulus was beginning to panic. Was James breaking up with him? “Okay, what does that mean?”

“I mean I-“ he sighs clearly frustrated with himself, “I want to be around you. Like all the time I want to hold your hand and kiss you, but- anything further I- I don’t think I can.”

‘Oh,’ Regulus thought slightly relieved. Was that all? Though judging by James’ clear nervousness, he didn’t voice this.

“Okay, that’s okay, James. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I don’t get those…feelings. I never have with anyone, and I thought maybe that’d change with you because I love you, but…it didn’t.”

James was still avoiding Regulus’s eye as if preparing himself for something.

“Hey, look at me,” Regulus said using his hand to guide James chin towards him, “That’s okay. If that’s not something you want, then we won’t do it.”

“Yeah, but what kind of person doesn’t want to have sex with the boyfriend he’s in love with?” James choked, scoffing at himself.

“The kind that trusts his boyfriend enough to tell him that.” Regulus ran his fingers through James’ hair - a gesture he knows always relaxes him. “I love you. For you. Not your body. Okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.��

James collapsed into Regulus’ chest, “Thank you.”

Regulus held him as he let out his cries of what he hoped was relief. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I thought it might have been a deal breaker,” James sniffled, “I mean, I can’t give you what someone else could.”

“No one could give me what you do. Nobody.” Regulus held him a little tighter, “Besides, you chew with your mouth open. If that wasn’t a deal breaker, nothing will be.”

James chucked, and they sat in silence for a few more minutes. Regulus was about to pick up his book again with his free hand when James spoke, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“That’s alright, I’m proud of you for doing it now.”

James snuggled into Regulus’ chest as he began reading again. “What’s your book about?”

Ah that old trick. James didn’t actually care what the book was about; he just liked hearing Regulus’ voice, so this time, Regulus indulged him.

He began explaining the various plot points and character arcs as James fell asleep, knowing that his voice was helping reassure him that regulus was still here and not leaving anytime soon.

#jegulus #jegulus fic #jegulus fanfiction #jegulus microfic #james potter #regulus black #marauders #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #asexual james potter #asexual #asexuality

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tobeafangirl · 1 day ago

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unhinged

Words: 3,847 Rating: M | angst (language, harry is so pissed he takes a door off), fluff (happy ending!) Type: Harry Styles x Reader Taglist: @infinityxlovers @emlovesniallhoran @puzio19 ❀ Masterlist ❀ Requests ❀ Taglist ❀

Harry frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. He watched Y/N move around the apartment, her movements stiff, her back rigidly turned towards him. An invisible wall seemed to have sprung up between them overnight, and he had no idea why. He'd woken up to a palpable chill in the air, a silent accusation hanging between them, thick and unyielding. What had he done? He racked his brain, replaying every moment of the previous day, searching for a misstep, a forgotten word, a careless action that could explain this sudden, icy distance. But his mind remained blank. He just didn't understand.

He'd tried to initiate conversation that morning, a lighthearted comment about their shared dream the night before, but Y/N had simply grunted in response, her shoulders stiff. It wasn't like her. Usually, she was an open book, her emotions easily readable, her affection readily given. This calculated distance was new, and it unnerved him. He felt like he was walking on eggshells, a silent alarm blaring in his head, warning him of an imminent explosion he couldn't preempt.

He watched as she picked out her clothes for the day, each movement precise and devoid of her usual fluidity. The air between them was thick with a tension he couldn't grasp, an anger he couldn't name. It was the kind of silence that screamed, louder than any argument, and it left him feeling helpless, adrift in a sea of unspoken grievances. He longed for her to just tell him, to unleash whatever fury was brewing, so he could at least understand it.

"Is everything okay?" he'd finally ventured, his voice carefully neutral, hoping to break the suffocating quiet. Y/N paused, her back still to him, and for a terrifying moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then, a low, controlled voice, devoid of warmth: "Fine." The single word, delivered with a chilling finality, felt like a slammed door, sealing off any possibility of immediate resolution.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the frustration beginning to bubble. "Y/N, I know something's wrong. You've been acting weird all morning. Just tell me what it is." He tried to keep his tone gentle, but a hint of impatience crept in. He hated this game, this dance around the unspoken truth. Just tell him. Let them fight it out and get it over with.

"Harry, I don't even know where to begin. I was so incredibly hurt that you didn't come to my party. I put so much thought and effort into every single detail, from the invitations to the playlist, the food, the decorations – everything. I wanted it to be perfect, not just for me, but for all our friends, and especially for you.

I remember spending weeks, truly weeks, meticulously planning everything. I agonized over the guest list, wanting to make sure everyone felt included and had a good time. I researched recipes, trying to find dishes that would cater to everyone's tastes. I spent hours decorating, trying to create an atmosphere that was both celebratory and comfortable. Every decision I made, every task I completed, I did with the hope that you would be there, enjoying yourself, making new memories with us.

And then, you just… didn't show up. No call, no text, no explanation. It felt like a punch to the gut. All that anticipation, all that hard work, all those hopes – it all just evaporated in an instant. It wasn't just about missing your presence, Harry, though that was certainly a huge part of it. It was about feeling like my efforts, my time, my feelings, meant absolutely nothing to you. It felt like you didn't care enough to even send a quick message to say you couldn't make it. That's what really stung. It made me question everything."

My chest felt tight, a familiar knot of frustration coiling in my stomach. "How was I supposed to know?" I muttered, the words barely a whisper, yet laced with a desperation I couldn't hide. It wasn't fair. Every argument felt like a replay, a loop of accusations and misunderstandings. I loved Y/N more than anything, but sometimes it felt like we were speaking two entirely different languages, constantly missing each other's signals.

Then came the familiar sting: "Because I told you." That phrase, delivered with a flat finality, always felt like a punch to the gut. Had she? Had I truly forgotten? Or was it buried under the weight of a million other unspoken things, a quiet assumption I was supposed to just get? The silence that followed was deafening, amplified by the unspoken accusation hanging in the air.

"Bullshit," I shot back, the anger bubbling to the surface. It was a raw, unfiltered response, born from a deep-seated exhaustion. I hated fighting like this, hated the way it chipped away at the foundation we'd built. But the helplessness was overwhelming. How could I fix something if I didn't even know what I'd done wrong?

"Don't bullshit me, you don't listen to me." That was it. The core of it all. The accusation that always cuts the deepest. It wasn't that I didn't listen; it was that I didn't always understand. The nuances, the unspoken expectations, the subtle shifts in tone – they often eluded me. And the fear of failing Y/N, of consistently falling short of her expectations, was a constant, nagging ache in my heart.

"I listen just fine, you just don't communicate." The words were out before I could stop them, a desperate defense. It was a vicious cycle, this back-and-forth about who was at fault for the miscommunication. All I knew was that every time we ended up here, in this painful stalemate, my heart ached for a resolution, a way to bridge the growing chasm between us.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded, the words sharp, cutting through the heavy air. "What am I supposed to do, huh? Read your fucking mind?" My voice cracked on the last word, betraying the fear and hurt beneath the anger. "You're supposed to be my fiancé."

"Yeah, well, maybe we need to revisit that conversation," Y/N shot back, her voice cold, distant. It felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

My blood ran cold. "Revisit that conversation?" I echoed, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Are you serious? After everything we've been through? It was just a party, Y/N. A party! Is that what our entire future hinges on now?" The injustice of it burned, a hot, angry coal in my chest. It felt like she was weaponizing our commitment, using it as leverage in a petty argument.

"It wasn't just a party!" Y/N's voice cracked, a raw edge of pain I hadn't expected. "It meant a lot to me! You know how much I was looking forward to it, how much effort I put into planning it. And you just... dismissed it. Like it was nothing. There won't just be 'others,' not when you keep acting like this!" The force of her words hit me like a physical blow. Before I could even process it, the loud slam of a door reverberated through the apartment.

The sudden silence left in Y/N’s wake was more deafening than any shout could have been. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room, the echo of the slammed door rattling not just the apartment, but my very core. Was this really happening? Was this the end of us, all because of a party? My mind raced, trying to reconstruct the last few minutes, searching for the exact moment everything had gone so horribly wrong. But it was all a blur of accusations and pain, a tangled mess of miscommunication and hurt feelings.

A cold dread began to creep in, chilling me to the bone. This wasn't just a fight; this felt different, final. The weight of Y/N's words, "maybe we need to revisit that conversation," pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. The thought of losing her, of our future dissolving into nothing, was unbearable. My chest tightened again, this time with a frantic, desperate need to fix it, to undo the damage that had been done.

I walked numbly to the bedroom door, the one Y/N had just slammed. My hand hovered over the doorknob, hesitating. What would I say? How could I even begin to bridge this chasm? The door itself felt like a barrier, a physical representation of the distance between us. And then, a new kind of anger, hot and sharp, began to simmer beneath the surface. How dare she walk away like that? How dare she threaten our engagement over something I truly didn't understand?

The anger morphed into something more destructive, a desperate need to assert control, to break through this suffocating silence. This door, this symbol of her departure, suddenly became the enemy. It was blocking me, preventing me from reaching her, from fixing this. A wild, illogical thought sparked in my mind, fueled by adrenaline and despair. If the door was the problem, if it was literally standing between us, then it had to go.

My hands clenched into fists, and without a moment's hesitation, I grabbed the doorknob, yanking it hard. It resisted for a moment, and then with a grunt, I pulled again, twisting and pushing, determined to remove the barrier.

The screws holding the door to its frame were stubbornly in place. I let go of the doorknob, my gaze falling to the floor, then quickly moving towards the toolbox in the corner of the living room. A screwdriver. That's what I needed. I strode over, rummaging through the various tools until my fingers closed around the familiar handle of a Phillips head. This would solve it.

I returned to the bedroom door, screwdriver in hand. "Y/N," I shouted, my voice tense but firm. "Unlock the door."

A moment of silence, then a hesitant click. The door remained closed, but the lock was now disengaged. I pushed on the door, holding it open just enough to wedge my body in. Y/N was standing on the other side, eyes wide, a mix of confusion and fresh anger clouding her features.

"What are you doing?" Y/N demanded, her voice rising. "Are you serious right now?"

Ignoring her protests, I positioned myself at the top hinge, the screwdriver ready. "I'm taking the door off," I stated, my own voice edged with a desperate resolve.

"You're what?" Y/N shrieked, moving forward as if to stop me. "No! Stop it! What is wrong with you?"

I pressed the screwdriver into the screw head, twisting with all my might. The first screw groaned, then slowly began to turn. "This door," I grunted, focused on the task, "is the problem."

"The door isn't the problem, you're the problem!" Y/N yelled, her hands flailing. "You're insane! What are you trying to prove?"

The first screw was out. I moved to the middle hinge, then the bottom, Y/N's increasingly frantic protests ringing in my ears. She tried to grab my arm, to push me away, but I held firm, my determination unyielding. Finally, with a final twist and a grunt, the last screw came free. I carefully leaned the heavy door away from the frame, lowering it to the floor with a thud.

"Are you absolutely out of your mind?!" Y/N shrieked, her voice raw with disbelief and fury as the door hit the floor. "What in God’s name did you just do?! You ripped our bedroom door off its hinges because we had a fight?! This is beyond insane, Harry! I can’t even look at you right now!" Her chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears that were quickly overshadowed by burning indignation. The entire apartment felt like it was vibrating with her outrage.

She gestured wildly at the now-empty doorframe, a stark, gaping maw in the wall. "This isn’t fixing anything, Harry! This is… this is destroying things! What kind of person does this? What is wrong with you? I was upset, yes, I was angry, but you just took it to a whole new level of crazy! How am I supposed to feel safe with you when you act like this? This isn’t a misunderstanding; this is an aggressive, destructive outburst!"

Y/N stumbled backward, putting more space between them, her gaze flicking from the dismantled door to Harry’s face, a look of profound disappointment and fear settling in. "I thought we were having an argument, a terrible one, but an argument. I didn’t think you were going to… this! I need a minute. I need to be alone, and clearly, that’s not going to happen with no door! Just… get out. Get out of my sight right now, before I say something I really regret."

Harry watched Y/N retreat further into the bedroom, her words echoing in the sudden, hollow silence of the room. The initial surge of adrenaline that had fueled his destructive act drained away, leaving behind a cold, sickening realization. He looked at the door lying on the floor, then at the empty frame, and finally back at the closed bedroom door, which now, ironically, felt even more impenetrable without its hinges.

The anger he’d felt, hot and righteous moments ago, curdled into a bitter shame. He had been so convinced he was breaking a barrier, but he’d only erected a larger, more frightening one. Y/N's words about safety, about aggression, clawed at him. He hadn't meant to scare her. He hadn't meant to destroy anything. He’d just wanted her to listen. But in his desperation, he’d done the exact opposite of what he intended. He’d pushed her further away.

"Y/N?" he called out, his voice hoarse, a stark contrast to the earlier defiance. He took a hesitant step towards the open doorway. "Please... just let me explain. I didn't... I wasn't trying to scare you. I just wanted you to see that I am listening, that I was frustrated because I feel like we're not connecting."

A muffled sob came from within the room, followed by a sharp, "Just leave me alone, Harry! I don't want to talk about it right now! Just get out!"

He stopped, his heart sinking. "But Y/N, please. I know I messed up. I know this was... I know it was crazy. But I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel unsafe. I just... I was so lost, and I thought if I could just get rid of the door, you'd have to talk to me." He winced at how desperate and pathetic it sounded, even to his own ears. "I'm not insane. I just... I don't know what to do when you shut down like this. I can't stand it."

Another moment of silence, heavier than before, then Y/N’s voice, colder and more resolute. "I said, get out. I need space. I need to process this. And I can't do that with you hovering and... and looking like you just committed a felony. Just go."

Harry finally capitulated, the last vestiges of his desperate energy draining away. He turned from the open doorway, the gaping maw of the frame a silent testament to his colossal error. He walked back to the living room, the discarded door a sprawling accusation on the floor, and sank onto the couch, the cushions offering no comfort. Guilt, cold and sharp, began to gnaw at him, consuming every thought. He’d wanted to break through, to force a connection, and instead, he’d shattered something vital. Y/N’s fear, her outright declaration of feeling unsafe, replayed in his mind, each word a fresh stab.

***

The next few days were a blur of agonizing silence. Harry tried. He sent texts, brief and apologetic, but they went unanswered. He left small, handwritten notes on the kitchen counter, expressing his remorse and his desperate need to talk, but they remained untouched. He made her favorite coffee in the mornings, the aroma filling the apartment, only for Y/N to avoid the kitchen until he'd left for work. Even her presence in the same apartment felt like a crushing weight, the unspoken distance more painful than any shouted argument. Y/N moved through their shared space like a ghost, her eyes avoiding his, her movements precise and deliberate, as if even the slightest acknowledgement of his existence was an intolerable burden. The apartment, once filled with her laughter and easy conversations, was now a monument to their fractured connection, echoing with the sound of Harry’s solitary movements and the deafening silence from the bedroom.

He decided he couldn't stand the silence anymore. This wasn't how they worked. This wasn't them. A new plan began to form in his mind, something tangible, something that spoke louder than words he couldn't seem to get right. He would cook for Y/N. Not just anything, but everything she loved. He would make the apartment feel like home again, filled with warmth and the inviting smells of their shared history.

He spent the entire day meticulously planning, making lists, and then heading to the grocery store with a desperate focus he hadn't felt in days. He bought the ingredients for Y/N's favorite pasta dish – the creamy mushroom and spinach linguine she always ordered from that little Italian place. He picked up fresh berries for a shortcake, knowing how much Y/N adored them, and a bottle of the obscure sparkling cider they only drank on special occasions. He even remembered to get the specific dark chocolate bar she always kept hidden in the pantry. He wanted to fill the space with every comfort, every reminder of the happiness they once shared.

As dusk settled, Harry began to cook. The rhythmic chop of vegetables, the sizzle of garlic in olive oil, the comforting scent of simmering sauce slowly filled the quiet apartment. He moved with a quiet intensity, each action a silent plea, a desperate offering. He set the dining table with their best plates, lit a few candles, and even found the small vase for the single rose he'd bought, placing it carefully in the center. Everything was perfect, a carefully curated scene of apology and hope. He just needed Y/N to come out of the bedroom.

He walked to the bedroom door, or rather, the empty frame where the door used to be, and gently knocked on the wall. "Y/N?" he called out, his voice soft, almost fragile. "Dinner's ready. I made your favorite pasta." He waited, his breath held, listening for any sign of movement, any indication that she might emerge from her self-imposed solitude. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, until he heard a faint rustle, and then, slowly, the creak of the bed.

A moment later, Y/N appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, still a little puffy, flickered from Harry to the set table, then back to him. There was a weariness about her, a quiet exhaustion that twisted his gut. She didn't say anything, just stood there, her presence a fragile truce in the war of her silence. "Please," Harry whispered, gesturing towards the table. "Just... come eat."

After another long moment, Y/N slowly walked towards the dining table, her steps hesitant. She sat down opposite him, her gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight rather than on him. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the delicious aroma of the pasta doing little to dispel the heavy atmosphere. Harry served them both, his hands trembling slightly as he placed the plate in front of Y/N.

"It smells good," Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper, the first words she'd spoken directly to him in days. It wasn't an apology, or forgiveness, but it was a start. Harry felt a small, fragile spark of hope ignite within him. "Thank you," he managed, his own voice hoarse with emotion. He watched as Y/N picked up her fork, twirling a small amount of pasta, but not yet eating.

"I... I really am sorry," Harry said, breaking the strained silence. "For everything. For the door. For making you feel unsafe. I just... I panicked. I didn't know what else to do. I hate it when we're like this." He looked at her, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I know it was wrong. It was insane. But I was so desperate to get through to you."

Y/N finally met his gaze, and for the first time in days, he saw something other than anger or fear. It was still hurt, but also a flicker of something akin to reluctant understanding. "It was," Y/N agreed, her voice still quiet, but firm. "It was terrifying, Harry. And it wasn't fair. But... I hear you. About feeling shut out." She took a small bite of pasta, and the simple act felt like a monumental shift.

"I don't mean to shut you out," Y/N continued, her voice gaining a little strength. "It's just... sometimes, when we fight like that, I get overwhelmed. And I don't know how to articulate what I'm feeling without making it worse. So I retreat. It's a bad habit, I know. But it doesn't mean I don't care, or that I'm trying to punish you." She pushed the pasta around on her plate, avoiding his gaze once more. "I just... I needed to calm down. And after the door... it just made everything so much harder."

Harry reached across the table, his hand hovering uncertainly before gently covering hers. "I understand," he said, his voice raw with relief. "I know I reacted badly. I just... I saw you pull away, and I thought I was losing you. Everything we have, everything we've built, it felt like it was slipping away because I couldn't understand. And I didn't want to lose you, Y/N. Ever." His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a silent promise.

Y/N squeezed his hand, her gaze finally softening as she looked at him. "We're not losing us, Harry," she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips. "We just... we need to learn how to fight better. How to listen to each other, even when it's hard. And maybe," she added, a playful glint in her eyes, "we can start by putting that door back on its hinges." Harry laughed, a genuine, relieved sound that filled the apartment, finally dispelling the heavy silence that had lingered for so long.

"Deal," Harry agreed, his voice thick with emotion, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face. He leaned forward, closing the small distance between them, and Y/N met him halfway. Their lips met in a tender, desperate kiss, a silent promise of mended hearts and a future they would navigate together, one difficult conversation, one act of understanding, and one repaired door at a time. It was a kiss that sealed their reconciliation, a quiet explosion of relief and love.

#unh #one direction #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #fanfic #harry 1d #harry styles fic #1direction #harry styles x reader #harry styles story #harry styles one shot #harry edward styles #harry pov #harry styles angst #one direction fanfiction #onedirection

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thranduel · 5 hours ago

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no hate to the creator of this video at all, people have every right to share their own thoughts just like us (seriously, respectful discussions are totally fine, but please don't go being rude to people), but as i was watching out of curiosity to see the teaser breakdown, i just couldn't help but feel frustrated and confused at around the 9:20 mark 😭

while speaking about mike and el, he says "they've been a foundational relationship of this show since the end of episode 1" and basically says it has to always be them, especially because they're on the poster together too. how specifically has them being in a romantic relationship done anything for the actual overall plot? how are they a foundational relationship? the only impact they've had as a couple is negatively affecting each other mentally, as well as will. even their other friends were upset in season 3 whenever they ignored everyone.

this is not a ground-breaking, emotional, powerful couple that has made history. i don't mean that to sound harsh or to invalidate anyone who enjoys their relationship, but really, this is just another straight ship that was only forced together after they knew each other for less than a week, JUST because they're a boy and girl. they just had to have the "nerdy boy who has never had a girl attracted to him" get the girl with superpowers to make it seem impactful, when it really isn't. at least, it isn't after the mess that was season 4 anyways. they had the OPPORTUNITY to make it really cute and impactful (and i think it would've been way more if it stayed PLATONIC), but failed miserably the moment they dragged will into it and made him in love with mike, as well as all the relationship issues and repetitive break-ups between mike and el and the fact they don't even feel like equals in the relationship.

and when you ask people how their relationship has impacted the main plot and why they're so important as a couple, they might say "mike saved her at the end of season 4 with the monologue" which makes absolutely no sense. the monologue may have saved el, but it basically ended the world. and what about max and eddie? what about all the other victims? what about the town being destroyed and the main villain surviving it? you're telling me THAT is supposed to be the "power of love" from the "main couple" of the show? she didn't even talk to him afterwards, and when she walked down the hill alone, he chose to stay back and stand next to will.

and HOLD ON... don't even get me started on WHY mike even said the monologue to begin with! will is the one that pushed him into it. will confessed his OWN romantic feelings for mike and gave him the painting but pretended it was all from el. that's the only thing that gave mike strength. he was basically pushed into it because of a LIE.

and you know what started the show? will going missing. will byers, who has been mike wheeler's best friend since kindergarten and has known him the longest. and you know who never gave up on him? mike. mike wheeler is the one who never gave up on will. he's the one who refused to listen to the cops, who refused to sit back and wait, who refused to stop searching for him. HE made the plan to go out that night to search for will in the woods. that is the ONLY reason he stumbled on el.

and everything he did for el that people say are "romantic gestures" and "signs he's in love" are funnily enough things he did for will first. it may have been done with platonic intentions for will, but it's a very weird decision from the writers to recycle important things from mike and will's relationship just to use for mike and el. like it feels very very very weird to me, but anyways.

fast forward to season 4 and we once again have mike and el having relationship issues. and like i said, mike wouldn't have said "i love you" to el if it weren't for will lying.

so basically, mike and el wouldn't have MET if it weren't for will going missing, and they wouldn't still be a couple if it weren't for will sacrificing his feelings for mike.

how much more does will have to sacrifice? how can people actually think it's okay and fair that mike and el stay together while will has unrequited love for mike after all of this?!

i truly believe that the core relationship of the show is mike and will's. regardless of whether people ship it or not, or whether it ends up platonic or romantic, it is THEIR RELATIONSHIP that has had the most emotional impact, both on each other as characters and the overall main storyline. it's only invalidated and disrespected because people cannot handle a semi-canon ship between two boys where one has been confirmed to be in love with the other.

#byler #byler analysis #mike wheeler #will byers #stranger things #st5 #stranger things 5

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try-again-bissh · 2 days ago

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"Imagine Being Loved by Me" Pt 11

Smoke X Annie X OC Sinners Fic

Modern AU

I had a dream about this part, I fucking worked it over and over again trying to get the formatting right and in a way I liked lord. Anyway, there will be one more part and that's it I will save all the blubbering and emotions for the author's note of part 12.

Word count: 3704

Warning: Violence

Enjoy!

Day 14 of 16

Club Juke’s second anniversary celebration was well underway. The line outside wrapped around the block and then some.

They had set up an outdoor event as well as festivities inside and there still wasn't room for everyone.

Performances, plates for sale, music coming out the windows. The mood was joyful, and so beautiful. Cassidy was standing on the corner outside. She wasn't drunk yet but needed a moment to herself. It was her last few days in Clarksdale and things with Smoke and Annie had been hard. They fought again last night, she called this morning asking if he still wanted her to come to the celebration. He said yes, he wanted her there with him and Annie.

They kept talking about the future, a future that they wanted her to be a part of. The number of times visiting New York has been brought up this week was ridiculous. She deflected as much as she could much to Smoke's ever growing frustration.

It was his big night tonight, and Cassidy attempted to fade into the background and take everything in, but they wouldn't let her. Smoke had walked around the room an arm around Annie's waist and his fingers laced into Cassidy's introducing their to folks he knew.

Like this was fine! Like having a wife and a… whatever the hell Cassidy was, was fine !

She took a deep breath, and rolled her head towards the night sky. The stars even in central Clarksdale were abundant and gorgeous. She just needed a moment, she didn't like feeling emotional all the time. Like she could cry at the drop of a hat.

About 15 feet away from her stood an older black man. Probably around her mother's age, stocky build, broad chest and shoulder. He was poking at a flip phone trying to make a call.

“Alvin!” Shouted a voice. And he spun around. Approaching him were two white people, a woman and a man both looking worse for wear.

The man was wearing a white beater that was probably at one time white but now was a more brown grey color, much like his pants. It showed off his sunburnt chest and shoulder, the bright red skin looking like there was smoke coming off it. His greasy brown hair was plastered to the top of his head.

He was with a woman, she was wearing a navy T-shirt that clearly wasn't hers, no bra and Capri pants. Her hair also unwashed, pulled into a messy bun. They both moved anxiously. Tweakers.

The two men dapped each other up, and the woman waved to the black man - Alvin. She seemed like she couldn't stand still, shuffling her feet and giggling at nothing.

Cassidy felt her lip curl involuntarily. And looked away from them.

“So this is it huh. Woo wee that's some party.” the white man said.

“Yeah, this my sons’ place. They opened a year ago today.”

Cassidy's neck snapped and she stared back at the group.

Sons?! This was Elijah and Elias' dad?! Coming up in here on some bullshit WITH crackheads?!

Hell nah.

The group turned and began making their way towards the entrance. They didn't make it more than 10 steps before Cassidy slid in front of them.

They stumbled to a halt. “Evening folks, can I help y'all with something?” Every remaining ounce of politeness she had left in her body she sprinkled on her tone.

The white dude recovered first. “Ah we heard tale of a party, this here-” he clapped Alvin on the shoulder. “Is my good buddy and his sons own this place”

Her eyes looked back to Alivin. He nodded his head jerkingly.

He was probably a handsome man at some point, Cassidy could see some of the twins in his features, but alcohol abuse and being in and out of jail took most of that away from him.

She cocked her head in faux confusion. “Father? I'm sorry gentlemen, the owner's father died years ago. I think you all have the wrong place.”

“Died? Nah, my son Elijah own this place.”

No mention of Elias, disgusting.

Cassidy shook her head, she had one arm out at her side to keep the white crackhead from darting past her. She lifted her left hand. She had a gold band on her finger that she's used for shit like this before.

She waggled her finger and all three of them looked like fish with bait. “I'm married to the owner and my husband's father passed years ago. Again I'm sorry you have the wrong place.”

Alvin looked stunned. But the white dude wasn't shaken so easily. Like he could smell money and black people's joy coming out the windows, he wouldn't leave till he got in and sucked everything good out of the place.

Cassidy subtlety widened her stance. There was absolutely NO fucking way she was letting these crackheads within 10 feet of the entrance let alone near Elijah and Elias.

“Well, we gon head in and check. Ain't no harm. We got money and we wanna spend it with y'all.”

She frowned and shook her head again. “Oh, I'm sorry Club Juke has a very strict dress code policy and you folks aren't dressed appropriately for it. Maybe some other night. As you can see the line is quite long already”

“Excuse me, you work here or something?” The lady finally picked up, being still too much for her.

“Yeah! I said we got money and you tryna turn us away.”

“Yes I do” Cassidy lied again. “I'm Floor manager, you folks caught me on my smoke break. Now I understand, but we have policy for a reason. And unfortunately y'all gone have to go somewhere else tonight”

Behind her she could hear folks on the line attention being drawn, both white had been raising their voices. Corey was bound to look over soon. She needed to get rid of them.

“Remy let-” Alvin began.

Remy - the white man- cut him off. He gestured a dirty long fingernailed hand at Alvin. He began shouting properly now. “This man is family! And he's trying to reunite with his sons and you saying he can't.”

Cassidy felt her blood start to boil. Her body realized what was about to happen before her mind did.

Remy reached out a hand and shoved her in the shoulder moving to get past her. She stumbled back and braced her right leg. She stuck her left hand out and grabbed his shoulder, halting him. Her right first balled up and she let it fly. Catching his right in the face.

He spun like a ballerina and went down face first into the street. The lady crackhead screamed like acid had been thrown on her and both her and Alvin ran to check on him.

It's on now.

Cassidy rolled her shoulder back and waited for the next one to pop up. It was the woman. She came at her screaming swinging and open palm Cassidy stepped back smoothly and slapped her arm out of her way. She went stumbling and popped back up swinging the other. She was met with a firm back hand, one of Cassidy's big rings busting her lip.

The commotion had caused everyone to abandon the line and run over to watch. Distantly she could hear Corey yelling for someone to get the twins.

The woman stumbled back still screaming like she was dying and Alvin came at Cassidy.

This wouldn't be so easy. This man had spent his life beating on his kids and definitely not making friends while popping in and out of jail.

Cassidy raised both fists to protect her face and tucked her elbows in tight. He could probably take her but she was gonna make him try and try real hard.

He swung his huge fist and she shuffled back. Out of his reach, he came right again and she had to eat that one to her ribs. He left his face open and she clocked him and darted back out of his reach.

He stumbled. Old, big and slow. When he came at her again, she caught him with a left and he ate that. His head jerked back, he recovered quickly. He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She grunted. Dickhead.

She stomped her right foot directly on the inside of his knee, it buckled underneath him and he released her as he dropped. She shook her hair out her face and when she looked up past her crowd she could see Elijah, Annie, Pearline Elias, Sammie and Corey flying out the entrance of the juke. Alvin tried to grab for her still down on one knee, she two pieced him.

Left

Right

And he went down hard. Stayed there.

Her fist came right back up and she looked around herself. Rage boiled up outta her. Remy was coming to on the ground and she before she could move towards him, strong arms flew around her waist and pulled her back she couldn't see who but Pearline was at her side face worried pushing her locs back.

As she was pulled from the fight she could feel all the emotions she was bottling explode and she started screaming abuse and the interlopers.

“Fuck you think this is huh!

You choose the wrong place and the wrong bitch!

Fuck outta here!

Get up and get the fuck outta here with that shit!

Don't fucking touch me! Who the fuck you think I am?

Putting your dirty ass hands on me! Fuck you, bitch!”

Over Pearline and Sammie's shoulder she could see Elijah and Annie standing near Alvin keeping him back. He was the only one off the floor yet. He shoved Elijah's shoulder trying to get around him and Cassidy lost it.

She began to struggle in earnest, her boots kicking up gravel. Her screams animal-like and guttural.

“Elias lemme go!

Get off me!

Don't you fucking touch him!

Don't touch him, get ya fucking hand offa him!

Annie don't let him touch him, don't let him!

Let go of me!”

Alvin had gained his bearings, realized there was a crowd watching and his son hadn't come to help him he began shouting back.

“How the fuck you gone let that bitch attack me, I'm your father!”

“NO YOU FUCKING AINT”

“You ain't never been a fucking father and you never will be bitch. Don't you fucking dare.

You was never Nothing! Nothing but a fucking bad dream. Fuck you!

Don't you- don't fucking come around on no bullshit!

You ain't nobody's father! Pulling up here like you got a fucking right. What have you ever done for dem?!

Get yo boy off the sidewalk and that raggedy ass bitch and get the fuck out! Don't you never come back here on no bullshit, you hear me?!

You think I'm done with you, they gon pick up da pieces of you in bag bitch try me!

Get the fuck outta here! They are everything, they did it and you could never and you will never bitch!”

Cassidy didn't realize when she had started crying her screams were hoarse, rough pulled from somewhere deep inside of her. She felt like they weren't even her words like she was speaking from somewhere else.

Elijah’s voice was cold and stern for the first time “Get gon before, I call the police.”

At the mention of the feds the women popped up off the ground and grabbed Remy's arm, toting him up as she stumbled.

“Leave now.” Elijah said. “All of y'all”

Alvin sucked his teeth and shoved past him.

Causing Cassidy to lunge again in Elias arms. “Don't fucking touch him bitch, don't put ya hands on him”

They watched the three of them shuffle off and away. Corey and Slim kept the crowd back, getting folks back onto the line and out of the street.

Cassidy breathing was erratic and when Annie and Elijah turned to her she broke into heaving sobs, covering her face with both hands.

They both rushed to her side. “You alright? Cmere lemme look at ya”

She shook her head, not removing her hands from her face. She was sobbing uncontrollably. Her chest hitching, tears pouring out of her eyes. Elijah gently pried her hand away from her face and she looked up at him.

“You okay? He didn't hurt you right?” She sobbed, looking him over.

He shook his head and her breath hitched as she cried. His hand fluttering all over her, “I'm fine, lemme look at ya.”

“I didn't want him to ruin everything. It's not fair.”

Elias’ head was pressed against the back of her shoulder, he wasn't holding her back anymore just hugging on to her.

Annie reached up and wiped away some of her tears, they kept pouring out.

“I can't believe he showed up here.” Cassidy sobbed again. “Man, fuck him oh my God”

She was sobbing hard again, and she covered her face with her hands. Before she knew it four pairs of arms were wrapped around her. She broke apart and was caught safely.

“I'm drunk, I'm sorry.” She sobbed out her voice muffled by Elijah's chest. Pearline giggled and stroked her hair, hushing her.

They shuffled Cassidy up into the office, most of the patrons aware that there was a fight cause drug addicts were trying to crash the party. The night went on and everyone was unphased.

Cassidy was still hiccupping and sniffling as Elias patched up her hand in his and Elijah's office. He hadn't spoken.

“Lias, you okay?” She croaked out. Her voice tore up from screaming earlier and sobbing for nearly 30 mins straight.

Elias sighed sheepishly, “I've said it many times my brother is a lucky man”

“Shut up” she muttered, sniffling.

“I'm good.” He tried to smile but it didn't sit right. Looking up into Cassidy’s tear filled brown eyes, he didn't feel like hiding.

He paused. “He been calling me for about two weeks now. I ain't answer after the first time. He got my number from Uncle Jed. That's Sammie's daddy. He a preacher, so he's all about forgiveness and shit.”

She scoffed tearfully.“ Elijah said, your auntie always helped yall when your dad was on one? Where the fuck was Uncle Jed at?”

Elias froze. His hand reaching into the first aid kit. He looked up at her.

“Ion know, by the time he would try me and Elijah was already selling dope and shit. He ain't want all that around his kids”

“Coward. All of em. Bunch a bitch ass niggas.”

He giggled. "Okay Rocky, dont go looking for Uncle Jed now"

Cassie scoffed wetly, "I'm way more of a Creed girl."

If there was one thing that endeared Elias Moore it was people being angry on his behalf. He wasn't like his brother, his anger was fleeting and barely had feet. He got scared more than he got angry and that could make him fight.

Her knuckles had split and her hands were clean and bandaged now. He stood from where he was kneeling.

“My brother had always protected me. Now you protected him.”

“And you,” she said. “I'll protect you.”

His smile was so soft and so sweet it pierced right into her. Her eyes filled with tears again. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a tight hug.

“Please ignore all of these emotions, I'm still kinda drunk.”

He laughed into her shoulder “It's not that -” he pulled back to look at her

“It's cause you love me” He smirked.

She scoffed and shoved him outta her arms. He turned towards the door then over his shoulder,

“And my brother too.”

“Get Out Now, goodbye Elias.”

“And Annie, cause duh” He shrugged, like being in love with Annie was obvious and didnt need to be said.

“Elias, leave Now. Leave.” She shooed him forcefully.

He opened the door and Elijah and Annie were on the other side. Elias and his twin made eye contact then pulled each other into a tight hug. “I’ll catch you later okay?” Elias nodded.

They stepped in and revealed that Corey and Therese were not far behind them.

“Elias, you alright? Cmere” Therese beckoned him into the hallway. And Corey took him by the arm and pulled him into the circle of their arms.

Cassidy's eyebrows raised and she smiled tearfully.

Elijah shut the door and made his way to her. She was seated on the big mahogany desk in the room. Annie took her hand that Elias had wrapped up and held it in her palms.

They were all quiet. Cassidy was still sniffling.

“Ion know why I'm still crying. I'm sorry”

“What you sorry fo?

“This is such a huge night and it's ruined” tears flooded out of her eyes. “I got into a fucking brawl outside. I'm so embarrassed.”

“Don't be sorry and don't be embarrassed.” Annie held her face in her palms and thumbed her tears away.

“Ain't nothing ruined. And even if it was, it wouldn't be your fault. What you think this the first fight Club Juke has seen?” Elijah's expression was so warm and his eyes full of an expression she didn't want to give name to.

“We’ll tell you about our opening night one day, that shit was crazy. This ain't a thing”

Cassidy wiped her eye roughly with the back of her palms. She took a deep breath trying to compose herself.

Annie wrapped her arms around her waist and rested her head on her shoulder and Elijah stepped between her legs. He cupped her cheek and they stared at one another.

When Derek had stumbled into VIP shouting for Elijah, saying something was going on outside with Cassidy. Elijah felt his heart jump into his throat. He took off for the front entrance, and could hear that everyone was right behind him. When he got outside there was a huge crowd circling a fight.

Pushing his way through he never in a million years expected to find Cassidy standing in the middle of three absolutely Laid Out people one of which being his father.

“Elias get ha!” As he saw her dart towards the cracka that was laid out in the road. Elias caught Cassie around the waist and he didn't let go.

Him holding Cassie back would also keep him away from their father.

Elijah hadn't seen his father in years. He looked exactly how he expected him to. Like shit. Face big from alcohol abuse, hair not cut, beard ragged. The man stumbled to his feet and Elijah placed himself directly between him and everyone he cared about.

When Alvin put his hand out to shove him, Cassidy lost her mind. Her voice raw, words cracking and splitting, as she screeched abuse at Alvin. It felt like she was a megaphone for his mind, speaking from deep inside of him where he couldn't always look.

She screamed and she fought to get out of Elias arms and to him. When he shoved Alvin back away from them, she screamed begging Annie to protect him where she couldn't. He was fine.

Elijah was actually doing great. Seeing his father wasn't nice but he was having a moment of absolute clarity.

Cassie was in love with him.

The louder her voice got. The more abuse she screeched, in between her words all he could think was

Iloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveheriloveher

Over and over again.

When she screamed that he wasn't their father, that he had never been. She tore those words right from his lips. For a moment he was 10 again. Standing shielded and protected. He felt as tall as the sky and as small as a drop of rain.

She screamed and screamed and his father was cowed. Not so big, never bad. Just a man, weak and aged. Never progressing, never growing or changing.

As Cassie read him for filth there was a feeling like pity. And Elijah sent Alvin Moore on his way for the last time.

He didn't even watch him walk away. He turned to the loves of his life. Annie at his side breathing heavily, and rubbing up and down his arms, he nodded to her and they both turned to look at Cassie.

She met their gaze and burst into heavily violent sobs. They ran to her.

Now he looked into her swollen beautiful brown eyes, still watery. Annie was wrapped around her and in the two of them he saw his whole future. And boy, did it look fucking bright.

When Annie was 15 she asked her granny to help some boys from her class. The twins were notorious in school and greater Clarksdale. They Daddy was as mean as he was big and those boys weren't to be messed with.

Smoke; she was told, took his pistol everywhere with him and Elias sold dope on the steps of his uncle's church. Bad news.

To Annie, Smoke was the tall real real quiet one who did math in his head no matter how large the equation. And Elias smiled almost as often as he spoke, which was saying something and knew much more French than he let on, he liked old French poetry.

Her Granny told her ain't no roots strong enough to break the bind Alvin had on them boys. She said Elijah and Elias would have to break it themselves. Annie lost some of her faith in hoodoo. Granny said he could pray and the ancestors would watch over them and protect them.

So she did. And she patched them up at school and when Elijah showed up with his brother in tow she patched them up in her granny’s kitchen.

It was there she fell in love. Elijah still didn't talk much, but he asked her lots of questions about herself. And he stared when she answered. Like he was committing every word to his memory.

Standing here looking at him now. 20 years of love and pain and life between them. She watched as he fell in love again. She knew what he would say before he parted his lips.

With his hand still cupping her cheek, he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Cassie… I love you” he said simply.

SO! I had so many feelings about Smoke being the only person we see enacting violence for most of the film. He is a protector figure, of his twin, of their reputation, of his community, of literally everyone. We know Annie protects him with all that she has but she been through enough too! I thought what if the threat was gone before both Annie and Smoke got there. What if they didn't have to deal with that shit at all. I also just wanted to live vicariously through fucking Knocking Remmick's bitch ass the fuck out oh my god wow. This one is also for the those of us who cry when really really really really really angry, I see you. To everyone with a shitty dads out there, this is for you. Fuck his ass and everything fucking thing he stands for. I am metaphorically knocking him out in public for you too! <3 <3 <3

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