#for reminding me that i need to post something this week

[solrburst]

shut me up — joel miller x reader

summary: When Joel keeps insisting you should be with someone your age, you decide to teach him a lesson.

warnings: smut (+18), jealous!jackson!joel, but reader knows how to handle him, lots of dirty talk, age gap, a little bratty behavior, soft aftercare, wall sex, orgasm denial/overstimulation, crying (from pleasure), handjob, light degradation (?), making love but it’s filthy

author’s note: i saw this post and i had to do something so tysm @eightestmonth

word count: 3,3k

You weren’t trying to start a fire. Not exactly.

But Joel had been fanning the damn flames for weeks — every time he pulled away after a kiss that went too deep, every time he muttered “you should be with someone your age” like it was a prayer he hoped you’d believe.

You were tired of it. Tired of the way he touched you like you were breakable. Like he was temporary.

So when the community center filled up with music and laughter, when Jackson’s monthly party kicked off and the moon rose high and easy in the sky — you decided to let loose. Just a little.

You wore something nice. Not revealing, not scandalous. But enough to make Joel’s eyes linger when you walked into the room. Enough to make him tense when you drifted toward the small crowd of guys your age huddled by the drinks table, half-laughing, half-staring.

You weren’t doing anything wrong. Just talking. Smiling. Maybe laughing a little too sweetly when one of them said something stupid.

Joel was across the room, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest. Watching.

You didn’t need to hear the conversation to know what was going through his head. You saw it in the tight clench of his jaw. The flicker in his eyes. The way his beer stayed untouched in his hand.

He’d said it again just last night — that you deserved “something simple.” Something easy. A boy who hadn’t buried his hands in blood. Someone who didn’t wake up gasping.

Well.

If he wanted to push you away so badly, maybe he needed a reminder of just how badly he wanted to keep you.

You threw a glance over your shoulder. Met his gaze. Held it.

Then you smiled — slow, deliberate — and turned back to the boy in front of you just as your fingers brushed his arm in passing.

And Joel moved.

You didn’t see him cross the room.

One second you were mid-laugh, fingertips still lingering on someone else’s arm — and the next, a familiar hand curled gently but firmly around your waist.

“Evenin’,” Joel said, voice low, steady, and cool as winter steel. He nodded to the group around you, though his eyes never left yours. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The guys murmured some awkward greetings, backing off like dogs that smelled a bigger wolf. One by one they drifted away, leaving just you and Joel in the warm glow of the lanterns strung across the community hall.

He didn’t say a word at first.

Just took you directly to his place. Of course, you didn’t say anything too. Let him have his moment, right?

But when Joel stops, looking at you like he’s waiting for an apologize or something like that, you smile.

You turned to him slowly, arms crossed. “Something you need, Miller?”

He raised a brow. His hand still rested at your lower back. “Just wonderin’ if you were enjoyin’ yourself.”

You cocked your head, sweet and innocent. “I was. Really nice guys, actually. Young. Smiled a lot.”

His jaw ticked. Just once. “That right?”

“Mmhmm.” You leaned in, eyes locked on his. “No one telling me I should be with someone else.”

Joel’s hand dropped. He took a step back. “I ain’t tellin’ you that ‘cause I don’t want you, baby.”

Baby. You love when he calls you that.

You took a step toward him.

“And yet you keep acting like you don’t,” you whispered.

Joel’s jaw worked, hands flexing at his sides like he was fighting every instinct that told him to grab you and take.

Joel didn’t say a word. Just stared at you — eyes full of heat, of guilt, of longing. His silence said more than any protest ever could.

And you smiled. Slow. Wicked.

You stepped into his space, your chest nearly brushing his. “Tell me to walk away. Right now.”

Instead of that, he moved.

Joel surged forward and kissed you like it was the only way he could stay standing — like your mouth was the answer to every question he'd tried to ignore. His hands gripped your hips tight, pulling you into him, and you could feel the tension in his body — all that self-control finally snapping.

He growled low into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips. “You don’t listen worth a damn, do you?”

You smiled, breathless. “Not when you say things you don’t mean.”

His mouth crashed into yours again — harder, rougher this time. Teeth. Tongue. His hands moved lower, grabbing your ass with both palms and grinding your hips against the thick, undeniable press of his cock.

“Fuck,” he breathed, dragging his lips down your throat. “You wear that little dress, flirt with boys who couldn’t make you come if their fuckin’ lives depended on it…”

You let out a breathless laugh — low and dangerous — as your fingers threaded into his hair and tugged.

“Someone sounds jealous,” you murmured, tilting your head back as he bit down just above your collarbone. “Don’t worry, Joel. None of them were offering anything you haven’t been too chicken-shit to give me.”

That made him freeze for half a second — just long enough for you to smile, all teeth and taunt.

And then he snapped.

His grip on your ass tightened, lifting you suddenly. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct as he slammed you back against the nearest wall, knocking the breath out of you.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, voice pure grit, “you just made the biggest fuckin’ mistake of your life.”

“Why?” you gasped, grinning even as your thighs trembled around his hips. “You gonna finally do something about it?”

Joel kissed you again — if you could even call it that. It was filthy, open-mouthed and brutal, his tongue claiming your mouth like he wanted to brand it. One hand shoved up your dress, pushing the fabric to your waist. The other yanked your panties to the side with a strength that made you gasp.

“You wanted me jealous?” he snarled against your lips, cock grinding into your soaked slit. “You wanted to rile me up like this?”

“You’re the one who keeps acting like I’m too young to take it,” you shot back, breath hitching as the head of his cock slipped just barely inside.

He stilled. His voice dropped to a threat.

“You don’t get to tease me and act like you know what the fuck you’re in for.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his. “Try me.”

And then he slammed into you.

You choked on a moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he buried himself to the hilt in one deep, brutal stroke.

“Oh my God—”

“That’s right,” he hissed, hips snapping into you again, relentless. “Say my fuckin’ name.”

“Joel,” you moaned, voice shaking as your back slammed into the wall with every thrust. “Fuck—Joel. You feel so fucking good—so deep—I can feel you in my stomach.”

He growled, head dipping to bite at your neck, sucking hard enough to leave proof.

And you loved it.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, lips brushing his ear, voice a throaty purr.

“You like it when I squeeze you like that?” you gasped. “You feel how my pussy’s choking your cock? Like it knowsyou’re mine?”

Joel let out a guttural sound — almost a warning — and slammed into you harder.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “That mouth’s gonna be the end of me.”

“Mmm,” you smirked, kissing along his jaw, still panting. “You think I flirted with them for fun? No, baby. I was thinking about how I’d come home and let you fuck me so hard I forget every single one of their names.”

His pace stuttered for just a second.

“You gonna let me?” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear. “Let me crawl into bed after this with your cum leaking down my thighs, still aching for another round?”

Joel growled again — feral, desperate — and shifted his hold, pulling you away from the wall without slipping out. He carried you toward the bed, cock still buried in your slick heat.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he panted, “and I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you can’t fuckin’ walk.”

You grinned, eyes wild, lips kiss-bruised.

Joel dropped you on the bed like he owned it — like he owned you — and didn’t hesitate. He hooked one strong arm under your knee, shoved your leg up over his shoulder, and slammed back inside you with a force that made the bedframe rattle.

“Fuck!” you cried, arching off the mattress.

“No more talkin’,” he growled, pinning your hips down with his free hand. “You had your fun runnin’ that mouth. Now you’re gonna listen.”

He fucked you hard, unrelenting, the angle so deep you could feel every ridge, every vein, dragging inside you with devastating precision. Your moans turned high and frantic, but Joel didn’t slow down.

“You think this pussy belongs to you?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Nah, baby. This pussy’s mine.”

He thrust harder, making the headboard slam against the wall with every snap of his hips.

“You wanna tease me?” Another brutal thrust. “Flirt with boys who couldn’t handle you?” He leaned in, face inches from yours, sweat dripping onto your skin. “Now you’re gonna learn.”

You were gasping, barely coherent now, and he loved it — loved seeing you unravel under him, helpless under the weight of his body and the force of his cock slamming into your soaked heat.

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, leaning in so close his chest pressed into yours.

“You’re gonna come when I say,” he growled. “Not before. You hear me?”

You nodded frantically, moaning, but he wasn’t satisfied.

“Say it,” he barked.

“Y-yes, Joel,” you gasped. “I’ll wait — I’ll do whatever you say, just—fuck, please.”

His grin was all teeth, all wolf.

“That’s more like it.”

He pounded into you relentlessly, dragging you right to the edge over and over again. Every time your moans pitched higher, every time your thighs trembled, he’d pull back, keep you dangling — until your whole body was shaking.

“Beg,” he said.

“Joel—please, let me come, I need it—I need you, fuck—”

He leaned in, kissed you hard, then finally gave you what you were begging for — his thrusts brutal, perfect, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing rough, fast circles until your back arched off the bed with a scream.

You shattered under him, legs trembling, nails clawing at the sheets. Your pussy clenched around him so tight it made him curse against your mouth.

But Joel didn’t stop.

He didn’t even slow down.

“Uh-uh,” he growled, still grinding into you, his fingers never leaving your clit. “Thought you were gonna forget their names, baby. That was just round one.”

“Joel—” you gasped, squirming beneath him, your voice breaking on a moan. “Too much—fuck—it’s too—”

He grabbed your jaw, made you look at him.

“No it ain’t,” he rasped. “This body’s mine. I’ll fuck you through every scream.”

You tried to turn your head, overwhelmed, overstimulated — but he wouldn’t let you. His hips kept driving into you, deep and fast, and his thumb circled your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs quake.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Takin’ it so good. So fuckin’ perfect wrapped around me.”

Tears welled in your eyes — not from pain, not even from control. Just from the sheer intensity of it. From how much you wanted this, how much you needed to be ruined by him, for him.

And he saw it.

Saw your lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed, lips parted in wrecked moans as the first tear slipped down your cheek.

“Yeah,” he whispered, slowing just a little — but not pulling out. “That’s what I wanted. Cry for me, baby.”

You whimpered, tears spilling freely now as your second orgasm crashed into you like a wave, harder than the first, stealing the air from your lungs.

“Fuck—Joel—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snapped, burying himself to the hilt and holding there, cock twitching inside your tight, spasming cunt. “You’re cryin’ so pretty, baby. And I ain’t done.”

His hand stroked your hair now — gentler, grounding — but his hips were still rolling slow and deep, dragging every last ripple of your orgasm out of you until your whole body trembled.

Your voice was wrecked, raw. “I want—fuck—want more…”

Joel’s eyes were wild, locked on yours, a mix of pride and possession and dark hunger.

“Yeah?” he rasped. “Then give me one more. Let me watch those eyes flood while you come all over my cock again.”

You barely had time to catch your breath. Your thighs were still trembling, slick and soaked, tears shining in your lashes. And Joel looked down at you like he was starving.

He slipped out of you with a groan, your pussy fluttering around nothing, leaking and pulsing and needing. You whined — high, weak — but he was already dragging you down the bed by your hips, spreading your legs wide, his hands rough and sure.

“Shh,” he said, his voice low, dark, too calm. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You blinked at him, dazed, completely pliant. “Joel, I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, dipping between your legs. “Gonna make you come on my tongue this time. You got one more in you, baby. I know you do.”

You gasped as his mouth found you — hot, wet, unrelenting. He licked into you like he owned every part of you, groaning as he tasted the mess he'd made, as if he needed to have it on his tongue, in his throat, claiming you from the inside out.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, hips twitching. “Joel—oh fuck—”

He moaned into your cunt, the sound deep and filthy, like your taste was the only thing keeping him alive. His arms wrapped under your thighs, keeping you wide open, locked in place. And when his tongue flattened over your clit, slow at first, then fast — perfect — your back arched, a sob ripping from your throat.

“You’re already close,” he growled between strokes, voice muffled against your slick. “That little pussy’s fuckin’ beggin’to come for me.”

You nodded wildly, hands in his hair now, tugging, anchoring yourself to anything solid as your body bucked beneath him.

“Say it,” he growled. “Tell me this mouth’s better than any of those boys could ever fuckin’ dream of.”

“Yours,” you cried. “Only you—Joel, I swear—no one’s ever—fuck, please let me come—”

He sucked your clit hard, tongue flicking with purpose, and that was it.

You shattered.

Your whole body tensed, then shook — thighs clamping around his head as you came with a scream, tears slipping free from the sheer force of it. Your hands flew to your face, overwhelmed, sobbing his name like a prayer.

Joel groaned into you, didn’t stop licking, didn’t stop drinking you in until you were shaking, twitching, too sensitive to take another second.

He finally pulled back, jaw slick, eyes wild. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach as he crawled back up your body, covering you with his weight.

You were breathless, wrecked, glowing.

He hovered above you, still hard, cock slick with your arousal and need. His breath was ragged, brow furrowed like he was barely holding on.

“You want more?” he whispered, dragging the tip of his cock along your overstimulated folds, just to watch you twitch. “Want me to fill you up again?”

You shook your head, breathless, your voice just a whisper. “No. Wanna see you. Want you to come for me now.”

Joel’s eyes darkened at that — heat flaring low in his gut.

“Yeah?” he rasped.

You nodded, slipping your hand between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his thick length. He let out a broken groan, hips bucking into your palm.

“Lie back,” you murmured. “Let me watch you fall apart.”

And he did.

Joel leaned back onto his elbows, then let himself fall to the mattress, legs spread, chest heaving, cock flushed and heavy in your hand.

You straddled his thighs, bent over him, and stroked him slow — tight, slick, steady — while your mouth dropped hot, open kisses along his chest, his stomach, right down to the trail of hair that led to where he pulsed in your grip.

“Look at you,” you whispered. “So fucking pretty like this.”

Joel growled — low and wrecked — one hand fisting in the sheets as you pumped him harder, your lips brushing the base of his cock, tongue teasing just enough to make his thighs tense.

“Fuck—baby—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” you breathed, dragging your tongue up the length of him. “Then come for me, Joel. Want you to make a fuckin’ mess.”

He let out a broken cry, hips jerking, and then he came — hard — thick ropes of release striping his stomach, chest, your knuckles. You didn’t stop until he was twitching, groaning, his body slack and spent beneath you.

You kissed your way up his chest, licking a drop from his collarbone, and smiled down at him.

“Messy enough for you?” you teased.

Joel caught your face in his hand and kissed you deep — slow this time. Heavy with want, with gratitude, with everything he’d been too scared to give before tonight.

“More than enough,” he rasped. “But you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Joel was still catching his breath when your head dropped against his chest, your lips brushing the sheen of sweat that clung to his skin. His arm came around you instinctively, pulling you into his side, holding you like something precious — like something he’d almost lost.

You felt his hand slide into your hair, gentle now, stroking slowly as your breathing evened out.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The only sounds were your hearts slowing down, the faint creak of the bed under your tangled limbs, and the rustle of the sheets as Joel shifted to kiss your forehead.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice hoarse and quiet.

You nodded, lips curving into a lazy, blissed-out smile. “More than okay.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound warm, vibrating through his chest. “Didn’t mean to go that hard,” he murmured, brushing his fingers down your back. “You just— Christ, you get me so worked up.”

You tilted your head, looked up at him through tired eyes. “I like when you go a little feral.”

He gave you a look — fond, amused, still a little dazed — and leaned in to kiss you. This time it was soft, lips barely brushing yours, just enough to say I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m not letting go.

“Still think I should be with someone my age?” you whispered, teasing, your voice soft against his mouth.

Joel sighed, hand sliding down to cradle your thigh as he tucked it over his own. “You shut me up pretty damn good, baby.”

You giggled, nestling closer, and he tucked your head under his chin. His other hand found yours between your bodies, fingers lacing together like they’d done it a thousand times before.

“I’m sorry,” he added, quieter now. “For pushin’ you away. For sayin’ that shit. Truth is—I’m scared. You’re… you’re everything. And I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

Your chest ached — not from the sex, but from the way he meant every word.

“You’re not fucking anything up,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “You’re it for me, Joel. Every version of you.”

He squeezed your hand, kissed the top of your head again, and exhaled like a man finally letting himself breathe.

“Then let me take care of you,” he murmured. “In every way.”

And he did.

He cleaned you up carefully, murmuring sweet, sleepy things as he wiped between your thighs, kissing your knees and cheeks and hands. He pulled you under the blankets, wrapped around you like a second skin, and didn’t let go even when sleep pulled you both under.

The boys at the party? Forgotten.

The insecurity? Fading.

What stayed was Joel’s arm around your waist, his breath in your hair, and the quiet, steady promise of this is real. This is yours.

[galaxywannabe]

The Miscommunication Trope™

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: After getting into the first real argument of your relationship, some misspoken words from Bucky leave you thinking that he's done. By the time he realizes just how badly he screwed up, will it be too late to correct his mistake?

Warnings: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Miscommunication; Crying; Arguing between romantic partners; Bucky is mean but he makes up for it; Happy ending; Reader identifies as a woman and uses she/her pronouns, but other than having hair that can be swept behind an ear I don't think there are any other physical descriptors; Please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: Almost 9.3k.....I'm sorry lol

A/N: Ummm....so. I'm fairly certain I promised this fic, like...3 months ago? In fact, I actually just went back to look and I first teased this fic on Febuary 19th, so um...lol? I made it! Listen, idk if it's even any good anymore but if I look at it for another second I'll scream, so please take it off my hands. Any and all comments or reblogs would be SO appreciated because this has truly been a labor of love, I didn't know if I had it in me. Also!! I have not forgotten @buckyinmyuniverse - you asked to be tagged in this wayyyy back when I first posted about it and I have FANTASTIC news for you babe: The wait is finally over!! I know you've no doubt been refreshing your feed for months looking for it (/j) but this whole time I was cooking this thing I remembered you asking for a tag. So, this one goes out to you. Hope you all enjoy! <3

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You and Bucky hadn’t ever been in a fight before, not really. You bicker, sure, usually over something lighthearted, usually resulting in an eyeroll and a “whatever you say, honey,” from Buck, but nothing serious, nothing that can’t be worked out through a civilized conversation. That was, until today.

You weren’t even trying to start an argument, you were just expressing your concern. He works too much, he takes more missions than anyone else, and it’s running him ragged, anybody can see that.

Obviously, you miss him when he’s away, but that’s not even the point - the point is that he’s taking on too much because he thinks he owes the world something, and that’s not sustainable, it’s not good for him. All you said was that maybe he’d ought to ask Fury to take him off the rotation for a while, or even just cut down on his assignment load, to give him some room to breathe. And Bucky got…defensive.

Obviously, you knew that was a possibility. Typical male pride of course prohibits silly ideas like “self care” and “burnout,” but on top of that is Bucky’s specific brand of guilt, the kind that makes him work himself into the ground no matter how badly his brain and body beg him to stop.

The defensiveness you were prepared for, but you were only coming from a place of love, your concern that of a devoted girlfriend, and surely he’d understand that, wouldn’t he? Except he hadn’t. He’d immediately dismissed your suggestion, waving a hand and continuing to type up his latest mission report with a laser-like focus. 

“I don’t need a break, I’m fine,” he’d muttered, eyes trained on the bluish light of his laptop screen.

Again, you weren’t trying to argue. You certainly weren’t going to  force him to take a break, you just wanted him to at least consider it, to remind him that it would be okay for him to rest a little, if he wanted to. The world would go on without his help for a few weeks, and there were other heroes available besides him. 

“Honey, I know you might not need one, but it’s okay if you just want one. No one would judge you if-”

And then he did something he’d never done before: he snapped at you. He didn’t even look up from his screen, his fingers still a steady staccato on the keyboard as he barked out harshly.

“I said I don’t need a fucking break. I’m just doing my goddamn job, and I don’t need you breathing down my neck watching my every move the whole time I do it. I can take care of myself.”

You winced. Obviously, that stung, and if he’d bothered to look up from his computer screen, he might have seen that on your face. But you could tell he wasn’t as unbothered by this conversation as he was acting.

Despite his brusque attitude, your words were striking a chord with him, hitting a little too close to home. His shoulders were stiff as a board, bunched up around his ears in a telltale sign of defensiveness, and you understood, really you did.

For Bucky, doing this job is the one way he can even attempt to atone for all the bad shit he’s done. Of course he felt uncomfortable with the idea of a break, he thinks he has to do these missions as some sort of self-imposed penance for the things he’d been made to do as the Winter Soldier. 

So you didn’t judge him too harshly for lashing out. You understood the reason he worked so hard, and you knew what motivated him to continue going out there even when he was exhausted. You just wanted him to see that taking a break for his own mental health wasn’t a bad thing, that even if he was making amends he still needed to find time to take care of himself, too.

You took a deep breath and spoke in a calm voice, hoping to express your concern in a nonthreatening manner even as he still refused to look at you. 

“Angel. I’m not trying to breathe down your neck or tell you how to do your job. I know it’s important to you, and I love how hard you work! It’s just that, super-soldier or not, if you want to continue to do this job, you’re gonna need to stop and rest at some point, honey. That’s all I’m trying to say. I’m worried about you, love.”

Finally, he looked up at you, and your heart fluttered just seeing those baby blues you love so much. Until you clocked the scowl on his pretty face, and the hope in your gut curdled to dread. He was angry, you knew what that looked like, but in the six months of your relationship so far you’d never once seen that anger directed at you before.

It wasn’t frightening in a physical sense, not like you were scared for your well-being, of course not. But it deeply unsettled you, seeing the man you love looking at you like that. It made you want to apologize, though you weren’t quite sure what for. Before you could do anything at all, he spoke, his voice a cold, steel edge.

“You don’t know anything about what I can handle. I was doing just fine before you came around, and I don’t need you fussing over me at every turn just because I don’t sit around here all day scrolling on my phone or whatever it is you think I should be doing. I don’t need or want your hovering, so just stop, okay?”

There was silence. His shoulders heaved in the wake of his outburst, and you felt almost dazed, like this was some kind of mirage you could will away if you blinked hard enough. He’d never spoken to you like that.

Obviously, you’d hit a nerve, and while logically you understood that, it didn’t lessen the pain in your chest. You were just worried about him, why was he fighting like you were trying to strap him down and force him to quit?

While you tried to regain your bearings, breathing deeply and forcing back the stinging you felt building in your eyes, he slammed his laptop shut, standing and stalking towards your bedroom door. He’d come over to your place to work on his mission reports at your insistence because you’d wanted to keep him company, and now it appeared he was leaving.

“W-where are you going, what are you doing?” you’d squeaked, alarmed, following after him as he made his way to the foyer of your apartment and shoved his feet into his boots.

“I can’t fucking do this, I'm done,” he’d muttered in a gruff, hard voice, lacing his boots efficiently and standing back to his full height as he reached for the doorknob.

You shook your head, panicked, reaching for his arm and trying futilely to drag him back into your apartment. “Baby, please. I’m sorry, don’t go.”

But he just shook off your hold and stalked out the door, leaving you there as your eyes blurred with tears. After standing there in your foyer for several minutes, waiting for him to turn around and come back, you’d simply fallen to your knees and curled up right there on the polished wooden floor, bawling your eyes out.

That’s where you still are a couple hours later when your phone starts to vibrate incessantly in your pocket. You pull it out with trembling fingers and swipe to answer a call from Natasha.

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“H-hello?” you croak into the receiver.

The second Nat hears you pick up the call she’s talking, looking distractedly through her closet as she holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder.

“Hey honey, listen, me and the girls were thinking about running to Target, and we wanted to- wait, what’s wrong?” Natasha’s cheerful voice quickly drops into something soft and concerned as she picks up on the sniffles coming through her tinny cell phone speakers.

For a few seconds all she can hear is you sobbing quietly, the way you struggle to slow your hysterical breathing so you can put together a sentence. “H-he left, Nat. He broke up with me,” you whimper, voice barely audible. 

This stops Natasha in her tracks, her brow furrowed in deep confusion as she freezes with one hand reaching for her favorite sweater. What the fuck? Why in the hell would Barnes break up with you? Especially when she knows for a fact that on the last mission she had with him, he stopped into a jewelry shop in Germany ‘just to look’ at engagement rings? This doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

“Honey,” Nat speaks into the phone again, her voice soft and soothing even through the crackly audio coming from your cell phone. “What happened, what did he say?”

You sniffle again, and clear your throat so she can hear your scratchy voice a bit better. “We…there was a fight, a-and I didn’t mean to, Nat, I swear, I was just worried, but…he said he can’t do this anymore, that h-he's done, and then he left. He didn’t take any of his things with him, but maybe he’s gonna come back for them, I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Nat…” As your sentence tapers off, your voice fades out, and a few renewed sobs float over the phone call into Nat’s ear, the sounds soaked in agony.

Oh, okay. Nat thinks she can see what really happened here just from your description, but that doesn’t make the sounds of your misery in her ear any less painful to hear. Likely, when Bucky had said he couldn’t do “this” anymore, that he was done, he’d meant the argument, the conversation, not your relationship.

But Barnes is your first real boyfriend, and you’ve never had a fight with him before. You were probably so confused and upset in the moment that you weren’t thinking about the context of his statement.

All you knew was that Bucky got upset with you for the very first time, and then he left. To you, that must certainly look like a breakup, and when Nat thinks about it from your perspective, she understands how you’d come to that conclusion.

She’d love to explain to you how you may have misunderstood, but as she listens to your hoarse crying over speakerphone, she knows you’re not in the frame of mind to process rational thought right now. Instead, she decides to focus on soothing you for the moment.

“I’m sorry, honey, I don’t know why he’d ever do anything like that to you. I’m gonna get to the bottom of it, alright? In the meantime, I just need you to do something for me,” she coos, her voice comforting and warm.

You don’t answer, just sniffling occasionally as you sit there in silence. Natasha, interpreting your lack of response as an affirmation, continues on.

“Where are you right now?”

There’s more silence for a few seconds, the sound of you pulling deep breaths into your lungs as you regain awareness of your surroundings. Then:

“Uh. The floor. In my apartment,” you mumble, confused, like you’ve just now realized that fact.

Natasha feels an additional lash of anger at Barnes flood her system when you tell her that, but she works to keep her voice calm even has her knuckles go white around her device.

“Okay, well, I need you to get up off the floor and go to your bedroom, okay? I want you to get dressed in your comfiest pajamas and crawl into bed for me, and wait there while I handle this. Can you do that? Just close your eyes and try to rest while I figure everything out?”

More sniffles, a hoarse cough, and then, after a beat of silence, your voice crackles over the line.

“Yeah….okay. I can do that, Nat,” you croak, the sound of shuffling floating over the line as you stagger to your feet after who knows how long on the floor.

She smiles, relieved to hear your voice coming through a bit more calmly, even as her mind races with the next items on her to-do list. “Okay sweetheart, you do that, then. I love you, I’ll call back soon, okay? Go get some rest.”

After hanging up with you, confident that at least you’re not curled up on your apartment floor anymore, she pockets her cell and immediately stalks down the hall towards the elevator, Target trip long forgotten.

----------------------------------------------------------

Bucky knows he fucked up. As someone who fucks up just about everything, he’s intimately familiar with the process, and he can say, with 100% certainty, that in this instance he absolutely fucked up. He never should have snapped at you - his sweetheart, his girl. You were just worried about him, and of course you were.

Bucky knows damn well he works too hard, especially lately, and he’s been on the verge of physical and mental collapse pretty much every damn day for the past month, running himself into the ground. He’d even been thinking to himself before your argument that he should slow down, take a break before he gets himself killed. So why did he get so defensive when you’d suggested it?

He doesn’t goddamn know. Because he’s messed up. Because it’s one thing when he decides to take some time off, but another when someone else has the idea, like they think he needs it.

He can’t help it; for decades of his life, the slightest sign of weakness meant pain, meant the frigid blast of a firehouse to wake him up or the wandering scalpel of a Hydra doctor looking to find a defect. Not that that makes his outburst okay, by any means, but it’s an explanation, and hey, he’s working on it, really he is. 

Still, he knew the second he walked out of your apartment that he’d fucked up, and so he’s spent the past two hours at his own place a few floors up, licking his wounds and gathering the courage to go apologize.

Because…yes, okay, he’s embarrassed by the way he acted. He’s ashamed of his own behavior, and he’d needed a minute to feel sorry for himself before he inevitably goes back down to your apartment and grovels for your forgiveness. 

He figures you’re pissed beyond belief, and if giving you some time to cool off also gives him a little while to stall the complete destruction of his ego, well, then, he’ll take it.

He finished up his mission report, he took a shower, and now he’s preparing his apology speech, debating the merit of walking down the street to a bodega for some flowers, when his doorbell rings. Shit, maybe he’s already out of time and you decided to come to him. 

When he opens his door, looking thoroughly contrite, it’s not your expected figure that stands in his entryway, but Natasha’s. And even given all his super-soldier reflexes and military training, he still staggers back a step in shock when she slaps him right across the face. 

“Whoa, what the fuck, Nat?” he barks, rubbing at the heat blooming under the skin of this cheek.

Standing there in front of him with her arms crossed, she looks anything but remorseful, her fists clenched as if she has to deny herself the urge to do it again.

“Why the fuck did you break up with her, Barnes? Are you insane?! The one good thing in your life, and you threw it all away, why, because you got a little pissed off? Out of all the stupid, careless decisions you’ve made in your fucked-up life, I really didn’t think you had it in you to top all that, but Jesus…”

As she continues to rant at him, her face pinched with rage, Bucky struggles to make sense of the words she’s already spoken. Broken up with you? Why in God’s name would he ever do that?

What an absolutely absurd thing to accuse him of, given that everybody in this building knows how insanely in love with you he is, especially your own best friend. Why is she here playing some kind of prank on him when he’s supposed to be rehearsing his apology?

“I did no such thing,” he answers bluntly, interrupting her impassioned speech, his expression confused and a little irritated at the accusation.

Nat barely even blinks at this denial. “Oh really? Then why did I just talk to her on the phone, bawling her eyes out on the floor of her apartment, telling me that you did?”

Of course, Nat’s pretty sure that Barnes hadn’t really meant to break up with you by leaving during your argument, but she’s pissed at him either way for not being cognizant enough of your feelings to foresee your interpretation of his behavior.

To Bucky, Natasha’s words might as well have been a bucket of ice water poured over his head, the way they immediately freeze his joints with dread. He feels his stomach churn as if he might be sick, the horrifying mental image of you curled up on your wooden floors driving a stake between his ribs. When he’d left, you’d been standing. Sure, you’d looked upset, but surely not that upset…right? 

He tries to think back to your emotional state when he’d stormed out a couple of hours ago, but truthfully he hadn’t turned back to see your face as he’d walked out your door. Had you been crying? He didn’t think so, but now he isn’t so sure, especially given the look of anger on Nat’s face. Why would you tell her that he’d broken up with you? As a joke, some kind of payback for his outburst?

“I….” he pauses, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. “You talked to her? What did she say?”

Natasha almost feels sympathy for Bucky in this moment, standing before her looking so confused and slightly horrified. But then she thinks about her best friend sobbing on the floor because he’s an idiot, and that emotion vanishes, replaced with her plentiful anger.

“Well, it was kind of hard to hear her, what with all the sobbing and such. But when I finally was able to get her to speak, she said that there was a fight, and that you broke up with her and then left her there. She said you hadn’t taken any of your stuff with you when you left, and she wasn’t sure when you’d be back for it, but that she didn’t know what she was going to do,” Nat recalls in a hard voice, her gaze sharp and accusatory. “After that she started crying again, so I didn’t ask her any more questions.”

Another bruising blow to the tatters of Bucky Barnes’s heart. What did you mean, he hadn’t taken his stuff? Why would he take his things when he’d left them there on purpose so he had them to use when he was at your place?

Why would he take his belongings out of your apartment just because you got into an argument? This doesn’t make any sense, and the longer Natasha talks, the worse his growing sense of unease becomes. 

Why were you crying? Sure, he expected anger, he’d been a huge swinging dick and he deserves some harsh words. But why is Nat saying that you were curled up on your floor sobbing? Why wouldn’t you be on the couch, or in your bed, or even down in the gym punching out your frustrations? 

And why were you on the phone with your best friend moments ago talking like you didn’t expect him to come back? Surely you know he’ll be back, he practically lives in your apartment - his wallet and keys are still sitting in the dish by your front door, his favorite jacket hung on the coat rack. He looks at your closest friend desperately, his face drawn in stark lines of horror and regret.

“Natasha, please, I don’t know why she said all that stuff to you, I didn’t break up with her, I would never break up with her. We had an argument. She was only worried about me, but I got defensive like an asshole and said some shit I didn’t mean, so…I just wanted to get out of there, get some space before I lashed out some more, that’s all. I just needed a minute to cool off, I was always fully planning to go back, to explain myself and apologize. I don’t know why she…” he trails off, looking lost.

Nat sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her best friend is in hysterics, and it’s all because men are the dumbest creatures on this planet.

“What do you think that looked like to her, Barnes? You guys get in your very first fight, and after saying some mean shit to her you stomp out of there and go ‘I can’t do this, I'm done’. What do you think those words might have sounded like to her ears? You’re her first serious boyfriend, jackass! She’s never been in this situation before! She doesn’t know that it’s relatively normal for couples to argue, even if you definitely shouldn’t have snapped at her. She just knows you’ve never fought before, and the first time you do, you walk out the door. She thinks you’re gone for good, James.”

You could hear a pin drop in Bucky’s apartment right now, the sounds of bustling Manhattan outside his windows muffled by the blood roaring in his ears. He wants to be upset with you, to question how you could ever doubt his love enough to think he’d really just walk out after one disagreement. But in truth, given his actions and your lack of relationship experience, he doesn’t see how you could’ve come to any other conclusion. 

Bucky thought he’d been regretful before Nat got here, but after hearing his behavior described in this new light, he’s got a whole list of emotions to add to the pile. Self-loathing, remorse, fear. You’re in your apartment right now, believing yourself to be single. All that time you two spent together, every memory and intimate moment, you think it’s over, just like that, in the blink of an eye. 

Obviously, he needs to explain himself immediately, to tell you that he hadn’t meant to end your relationship in the slightest and that this is all just a giant misunderstanding.

But what if you don’t care? What if, after the way he acted towards you today, you’d rather accept his words as you’d thought he meant them and stay broken up, even knowing that wasn’t his intent? He’s shaking, he realizes distantly, noticing the way Natasha looks at him with concern in her eyes now.

He hadn’t ever really let himself consider that you’d turn him down before, when he was rehearsing his apology speech. You’re in a committed relationship of six months, you’re in love. Surely, even if he was a bit of an asshole, one transgression can be forgiven as long as he apologizes sincerely.

But that was back when he thought his only sin was his harsh words, back when he thought you were angry with him for his outburst.

Now that he knows what you’ve really been feeling, that you’ve apparently spent the past two hours sobbing on your wooden apartment floors waiting for him to come back and take his belongings, he’s not so confident that he can grovel hard enough to make up for this.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you, god damn it, that’s the whole reason he left in the first place, to spare you from his undeserved anger. Now he might be about to lose you because of his own childish temper tantrum, and the terror of that thought feels icy in his veins as it travels straight to his heart, freezing it in place. 

His body is moving towards his apartment door before he even commands his muscles to do so, single-minded on the only thing that matters anymore: fixing what he’s done. His hand is already turning the doorknob by the time a slightly startled Nat is able to catch up with him, her hand on his shoulder stalling him for only the tiniest moment before he’s barrelling ahead again.

“Don’t fuck this up. You love her, now go make it right,” she commands sternly, and Bucky just grunts his acknowledgment before bursting through his door out into the empty hallway, towards the elevator.

He doesn’t stop to voice his fears to Natasha, that it might be too late to make anything right, that he may have fucked it up beyond repair already. He just keeps moving, hoping beyond hope that he still has a chance.

----------------------------------------------------------

When he makes it to your apartment a few floors down from his own, it’s eerily silent as he pushes the door open. He’s never needed a key, FRIDAY has explicit orders to grant him entry, but for the first time ever it feels wrong entering your space unannounced, like maybe he should knock and wait for permission in light of what’s happened. He ignores the impulse. 

You’re not crouched on the floor of your entryway like Nat said you’d been, so he supposes that’s a good sign, but it occurs to him then that he’s not even entirely sure you’re home. Bucky pauses to ask FRIDAY where you are, and is relieved to hear that you’re only in your bedroom.

He almost thinks he picks up a hint of annoyance in the AI’s voice when she responds to his inquiry, though, as if even the damn computer program is pissed at him for the way he treated you. It must be his imagination.

“Angel?” he calls out softly, making his way slowly through the apartment to your bedroom, noting the oppressive stillness of the place as he goes deeper. “Honeybun? Sweet pea?” he uses his softest, most gentle voice, disturbed to find your usually lively dwelling so silent. 

The TV in the living room - usually playing some youtube video or episode of your favorite show - is powered off, and the lights are all off too, as if the sun had set and you simply hadn’t bothered to flick any of them on to combat the encroaching darkness. The place he’s wandering now is like a ghost of your apartment, no scented candles lit, no steaming mug of tea waiting for you at your usual spot at the coffee table. 

It’s unnerving, to have a place usually so full of life be so startlingly empty all of a sudden. His slow steps and his soft voice calling out for you are the only sounds in the entire space, until he finally reaches your bedroom door and pauses to listen. For a moment there’s nothing, and he worries that perhaps you aren’t home after all, until he hears a soft sound coming muffled through the thick wood of your door. 

He presses his ear against it to listen closer, brow scrunched as he waits to hear the sound again, and a moment later his heart shatters as it becomes clear that what he’s hearing is your soft sobbing, interspersed with the occasional sniffle.

Bucky pushes your door open ever-so-carefully, cursing under his breath at the slight squeak of the wood on its hinges. It’s hard to see anything in your room, even with his perfect super-soldier eyesight, as the lights are off in here, too, the curtains closed to limit even the soft moonlight coming through the windows. 

His instinct is to flick on the light so he can see you better, but he doesn’t want to startle you, and besides, you obviously prefer the lights off or you would’ve turned them on yourself when it got dark. Instead he just steps further into the room, squinting his eyes as he can just barely make out the lump under the covers where you lay, curled in a ball in the center of your mattress, crying quietly.

He knows you must have heard his entrance, must realize he’s standing at the side of your bed right now, but you make no move to acknowledge him, continuing to sob softly as he watches on, heartbroken.

“Oh, darlin’...” he sighs, pulling the covers back a bit to expose your head, kneeling with one knee on the mattress so he can get a closer look at you.

You sniffle pitifully as you feel the cool air of the room on your face, extra cold against your cheeks where they’re wet with tears. Your vision is too blurry for you to actually see him, but you know who it is, know the scent of his cologne and the familiar touch of his fingers on your face as he brushes your hair back to see you better. 

Your stupid, traitorous nervous system reacts immediately to his presence, your panicked breaths slowing and your tears subsiding, a warm wash of comfort moving through your chest along with an instinctive sense of safety.

Your body knows nothing of the events of the past few hours, that he isn’t yours anymore, that he isn’t here to comfort you. It just instinctively calms under his attention, unaware that it is fleeting now, sure to be gone in only moments.

As the man you love wipes the tears gently from your face, his touch so sweet and soft it inadvertently causes more of them to fall, you force your hoarse voice to speak, the sound a barely audible croak even in the silence of your room. “Are you here to get your things?”

Bucky’s own eyes sting at your words, at the miserable tone to your voice as you say them, and he shakes his head vehemently, though he’s not sure you’re even really seeing him right now.

“No, baby, of course not. Why would I take my stuff, huh? I left those things here so I could use them when I’m visiting my girl, you know that,” he counters in a painfully soft voice, like he thinks speaking above a murmur will shatter you. Maybe he’s right about that, you do feel awfully close to shattering.

You feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind your eyes, and you close them for a moment, struggling to craft a coherent thought through all the heartbreak clouding your brain. Why is he here speaking nonsense when you’re in the middle of trying to mourn him? Does he not see that it’s cruel for him to be here with his comforting touch and his sweet voice, knowing that those things are lost to you forever now? 

“I’m not your girl anymore…” you mumble brokenly, the very act of having to speak the words into existence pulling another sob from your chest. 

Despite yourself you nuzzle your cheek into his palm as he cradles your face, desperate for his affection. If you’re never going to feel his touch again, you’ll bask in every opportunity while you have it, savoring the familiar warmth even as you question why he’s offering it to you in the first place.

Your face is pinched in concentration, like you’re trying to commit the sensation to memory, and Bucky’s heart might as well be in shards by his feet at this point, the way you seek out his touch like you’re starved for it. Like it hasn’t only been hours since he last gave it to you, like you’ll never have the chance to feel it again.

“Yes you are, baby, you’re always gonna be my girl. You’re mine, honey, just like I’m yours. Forever, haven’t I told you that?” he speaks desperately, like he’s pleading with you to agree with him, and although you’d love to, you have very recent evidence to the contrary.

“B-but, you said…” you trail off in a whisper, unable to repeat the words. You don’t need to anyways, you both know what he’d said. That he can’t do this. Can’t be with you anymore.

Bucky’s quick to interrupt you, needing you to understand that that’s not what he’d said, or, at least, not what he’d meant. “Baby, I didn’t- I’m sorry I said it like that, and I understand why you took those words the way you did. But that’s not what I meant to say, sweetheart, I swear.”

He huffs and slides a frustrated hand through his hair, suddenly unable to bear having this conversation with you while you lie curled up alone in your bed, looking up at him blankly with your shining eyes.

Before you can speak another word he peels back the covers some more, making room for himself as he slides into the bed beside you, pulling you up and onto his chest so he can hold you in his arms. The tears on your cheeks immediately soak through the soft cotton of his T-shirt, but he doesn’t care, cradling you tightly against his chest and rubbing slow, comforting circles onto your back.

You want to say something, to express your confusion at his incongruent behavior, but you can’t, not with his arms around you and his scent in your nose. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out are more shuddering sobs, your body limp in his hold, completely helpless against the comfort he offers.

Even if he shouldn’t be, he’s here. He’s here, and he’s holding you like you’re something precious again, and even if you know that there must be some mistake you can’t stop yourself from completely melting into his embrace, any semblance of your remaining composure crumbling completely.

Bucky just coos softly, murmuring gentle assurances in your ear and holding you, solid and steady as you weather the storm of your heartbreak. Despite having spent the better part of the past two hours bawling your eyes out, the crying starts anew with him here, his comforting presence both a relief and a reminder of what you’ve lost, what you’ll be missing when he walks out that door again.

You two lie like that for a while, though whether it’s for a few minutes or several hours you can’t say, time stretching into infinity as you cry into his chest. As the tears finally subside once again, your body exhausted and your throat sore, your mind belatedly registers his words from before. He’d been saying something, hadn’t he? 

“What…” your voice comes out scratchy, so you clear your throat to be heard better - though Bucky couldn’t have missed a word out of your mouth if he tried, focused on you as he is. “What do you mean, that’s not what you meant? You broke up with me.”

Bucky shakes his head immediately, bringing his mismatched palms up to cradle your face, sweeping your hair back behind your ears so he can see his beautiful girl. God, it’s torture watching you cry, but he seems to have broken through to you somehow, and he’s not going to squander this opportunity to explain himself.

He can’t suppress the urge to lean down and drop a tender kiss to your forehead, though, your tear-stained face so pitiful he could cry right along with you if he didn’t have something more important to be doing at the moment.

“I mean, that’s not what I meant, sweetheart. I never intended to break up with you. How could I? Leave my girl, my princess? Don’t you know you mean more to me than every other person on this planet put together?” He speaks calmly but firmly, his gaze steady on yours as he practically begs you to believe him. You have to believe him.

You frown, confusion pulling your brows together as you take in his desperate expression. His words make your heart flutter with hope, but you don’t understand, can’t make sense of the reality he’s trying to assert when you know you heard otherwise only a couple of hours ago. It’s all a bit much for your heartbroken brain to handle, and you just blink at him blankly, completely lost.

“I don’t understand, Buck. Y-you were so upset, and then you left, and you said ‘I can’t do this, I'm done.’ I thought you meant we were done, that you can’t do us anymore.” you recall in a miserable voice, searching his eyes for answers as you desperately try to understand.

He nods empathetically, his thumbs brushing at the tears on your cheeks even as more continue to fall to take their place. “I know that’s what I said, sweet girl, and I know how it sounded to you, but that’s not at all how I meant it, I swear. I just…” Bucky sighs, his features plastered with remorse, his eyes falling from yours in shame.

“I was being an asshole. I knew, even as I was doing it, that I was being an asshole, that I couldn’t stop being an asshole, so I just…I wanted to get away from you before I lashed out any more, that’s all. I knew if I kept trying to discuss things with you right then I was only going to say more shit I didn’t mean, so I tried to put some space between us, just until I could cool off and be rational again.”

Bucky pauses, sighing deeply and stroking your cheeks. His eyes are swimming with guilt so deep it hurts your chest just to look at it. He looks almost as torn up about this whole ordeal as you do, which, although his pain isn’t something you revel in, does make your heart beat a little faster with hope. Would a man who doesn’t want to be with you anymore still look at you with that much guilt over having caused you pain?

When he speaks again his voice is low and strained with emotion, apologetic. “Darlin’, I…I am so sorry for the things I said to you today. I didn’t mean a single damn one of them. I love that you look after me, I love that I have someone waiting for me when I come home, making sure I’m not pushing myself too hard. I need you there to do that for me, because we both know I’m too proud and stubborn to take a break on my own. I got defensive, and I lashed out because I felt threatened, and that is not okay or fair to you. If you can’t forgive me for those things I said, I understand.” 

He swallows thickly, his eyes closing as hot tears sting the backs of them, fighting to escape. “But you need to know that when I told you I couldn’t ‘do this,’ I sure as hell didn’t mean you, or us. All I meant was that I couldn’t keep having that conversation with you, that I needed to get away before I hurt you worse. That’s all it was. When I left your apartment today, it was to get some space because I knew I was throwing a temper tantrum. In no way, shape, or form was I breaking up with you, or trying to end what we have. I couldn’t do that, it’s not in my DNA to do that. I’m simply not capable of it, and you have to know that. Even if you decide you’re better off without me, I need you to know that. Please.”

You stare down at him in the wake of his speech, watching as he blinks rapidly to keep tears at bay, and you’re so god damn confused in this moment that you wish he would give you a timeout, let you process everything he just said before you have to respond to it.

Could it possibly be true? That he’d never meant to break up with you, that he still loves and wants you? Could this all just be some massive misunderstanding on your part?

The possibility has hope fluttering warm in your chest, but you suppress it. Better to make absolutely sure first, before you let your heart get obliterated for the second time today. Letting yourself have this hope only to quash it moments later might actually break you for good.

“You weren’t…I mean, you didn’t want to break up with me?” you whisper hesitantly, afraid to let yourself believe it even though you’re desperate to.

Bucky’s heart cracks in his chest as you ask that so timidly, like just voicing the question is opening you up to a whole new potential world of hurt. He shakes his head firmly, his metal hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently.

“No, babygirl, never. Not in a million years. Even though we were arguing, it was the last thing on my mind, trust me. I’ve never wanted to break up with you, not for a second. I love you,” he reassures you smoothly, his voice low and calm, exuding certainty.

You have to sniffle hard to hold back a fresh round of tears at those three simple words, ones you never thought you’d get to hear from him again. Jesus Christ, if you never cry again it’ll be too soon. Your gaze is particularly frail and fragile as it meets Bucky’s, some of that hope you’d been suppressing earlier making itself known in your features, tentative but present.

“So…you’re still my boyfriend?” you ask in a tiny murmur, like maybe this is the part where he pulls the rug out from under you and announces he was kidding about the whole misunderstanding thing.

Bucky’s features tighten a little at your question, and dread pools in your stomach rapidly, fearing the worst. But his words aren’t quite the heartbreaking blow you’re expecting, more like a puzzling wrinkle.

“If you want me to be, yeah, baby, I am.”

Your brow furrows, confused. What the hell does that mean? Suddenly, you recall a few other parts of his speech just now, parts that had been immediately overshadowed when he’d said that he still wanted to be with you. Now that you think about it, he’d also said a bunch of stuff along the lines of ‘If you can forgive me,’ and ‘If you decide you’re better off without me,’ hadn’t he?

What the hell was that all about? Why’s he talking about whether you want to be with him? Like you haven’t been literally bawling your eyes out for the past two hours at the prospect of having to live without him? How does that make any sense?

“Of course I want you to be. You think I was curled up on the floor sobbing because I was happy to think that our relationship was over?” you ask incredulously, frowning at him. 

He chuckles a little at that, the sound vibrating through you as you lay on his chest, but it’s strained, his expression vulnerable. Although you attribute this misunderstanding mostly to your own mind jumping to the worst possible conclusion, Bucky is riddled with guilt for both his abrupt exit from your apartment and the things he’d said leading up to it.

In his eyes you went through a lot of pain today, and every inch of it is his fault. If he’d stopped to explain his meaning, or, hell, if he hadn’t gotten so damn defensive in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. His girl wouldn’t have spent hours of her life sobbing on her hardwood floors if he’d just stopped to breathe like his therapist taught him to. His pale irises swim with shame as he gazes up at you.

“No, no, I just…I said some horrible things to you today, darlin’. And just because you were upset to think that I’d broken up with you doesn’t necessarily mean that all is forgiven, I know that. I understand if you’d rather keep us apart after the way I acted,” he murmurs defeatedly, like he’s already prepared himself for a thorough scolding.

Which is absolutely goddamn ridiculous, in your eyes. You snort, brows raised in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? All is forgiven, Buck, all is so past forgiven. I don’t care about the shit you said. You’re here, you’re still mine, that’s all that matters now. Forget the fight, forget all of it. I’ve got you, that’s all I care about.”

You say it so simply, like it could be so easy. Like his indiscretions are just wiped clean in the face of your pure relief. But he knows that they aren’t, they can’t be. It’s not that easy, as much as he’d like it to be. He fucked up, and he deserves what’s coming to him.

He tries to reason with you, his expression pained. “Baby, you can’t just-” 

“I absolutely can, actually,” you interrupt, looking unamused, stern. “I’m the one you said those things to, so I think I have the right to determine how I feel about them, don’t you?” You keep your eyebrows raised, challenging.

You watch as he mulls those words over a bit, licking his lips anxiously. It takes him a moment to decide how to respond, and when he does his words are slow, strained. Like maybe he doesn’t want to say them, but he feels like he has to.

“Yes, you do. It’s ultimately your decision, of course it is. I just…before you decide to blindly forgive me for this, I want you to really consider how you feel, okay? I know your instinct is to forget all about it because you’re just relieved to have me at all right now, but…I messed up. I hurt you, I said hurtful things even if I didn’t mean them. You didn’t deserve that, least of all from me, the man who’s supposed to love and protect you. You’re allowed to be upset about it, and if my actions made you realize that you don’t want to be with me anymore, then…you’re allowed to feel that way, too.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and your heart aches painfully in your chest at the sound. In this moment, you’re realizing with horror that Bucky truly believes he deserves to be broken up with tonight. With the unshed tears clinging to his lashline and the devastated look on his face, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be dumped, that in fact that’s the last thing he wants.

But it’s obviously what he thinks should happen, the punishment he thinks he’s earned for the inadvertent heartbreak he put you through tonight, and that’s just…unacceptable, to be honest. 

The man would forgive you if you literally drove a stake through his chest, for Christ’s sake, yet he’s expecting you to kick him to the curb? What, because he got a little snippy with you? Because you jumped to the wrong conclusion and convinced yourself he left you? You would almost be insulted that he could think such a thing of you if you didn't know where the fear comes from.

You've seen them firsthand: the deep layers of self-loathing that have bogged him down since long before your relationship started, the inherent belief he carries that he is irreparably flawed and unworthy of love. He doesn't feel like he deserves you on his best day, so when he screws up, no matter the size of the infraction, he expects to be cast aside.

You reach out with one hand to cradle his cheek, his stubble gently scraping against your thumb as you caress his skin. Your expression is caring but firm, your eyes holding his as you speak in an even voice.

“I need you to understand that I don't expect you to be perfect, James. I don’t expect that you will always say the right thing, or have a perfectly even temperament in every situation because hell, none of us do. You’re allowed to fuck up sometimes, sweetheart, and you still deserve to be loved even when you do.”

His brow furrows as you speak, his instinct to reflexively deny the forgiveness you’re offering. “But I hurt you,” he interjects, the look on his face so miserable it tugs at your chest.

You nod your agreement, though your expression is still full of compassion and love. “Yes, you did. I won’t even begin to address the break-up fiasco because that was a complete misunderstanding on my part, but yes, the things you said before you left really stung me. Do you know why I’m going to forgive you anyways, though? Why, even if this happens again, I’ll probably forgive you a hundred times over?”

You pause for effect, giving him the opportunity to respond. Honestly, as upset as you’ve been these past few hours, it’s all begun to fade in the face of this man you love trying to convince you he’s not worth it. When he just looks at you helplessly, his eyes tracking your speech with rapt attention, you smile and continue.

“It’s because I know you’d never hurt me on purpose, Bucky. Let me ask you something: when you snapped at me today, did you do it because you were trying to find the absolute meanest thing you could say at that moment? Did you say it because you wanted me to feel bad?”

Looking a bit startled at the suggestion, Bucky shakes his head mutely. He hadn’t really even been conscious of the words at all until after they’d already blurted from his mouth, and even then it didn’t fully sink in until after he’d calmed down. You smile, satisfied by his immediate denial. 

“No, of course you didn’t. You didn’t say that stuff to be mean, to hurt just for hurting’s sake. You were feeling ambushed and defensive, and you lashed out. Is it ideally how you’ll always react when I try to express my concern for your wellbeing? No, of course not. But is it a realistic thing for a person to do who’s not used to being cared for? Absolutely, it is. And it’s just something we’re gonna have to work on, baby. I’ve never done this whole relationship thing before, and you’re trying to do it for the first time in 80 years with a hell of a lot of additional trauma thrown into the mix. 

“We’re learning, and it’s not always gonna be perfect or easy. Maybe before this becomes an issue again, we’ll think up some ways for you to politely tell me ‘I’m feeling overwhelmed by this conversation, please back off and we can come back to it later.’ Or maybe we’ll discuss how I can voice my concerns to you in the future without triggering your defensive response, how I can come off as less accusatory and make the discussion feel more safe for you.

“We’ve only been doing this for six months, and as real as it is, as much as I love you more than anything, we’re gonna face a hell of a lot more than this one hurdle if we want to keep doing this thing in the long term. So, yeah, tonight has sucked, pretty much every minute of it was a disaster, but you know what? It’s over now. You apologized, we’re gonna try and do better next time, and…that’s the end of it. Clean slate. All I want to do with the rest of my night is finally stop fucking crying, and eat a burger the size of my head. Preferably, with my boyfriend next to me the whole time, trying to steal my fries when I’m not looking. Do you think you could help me make that happen, Buck? Please?”

He looks stunned in the wake of your speech, silent for several moments as his brain struggles to grapple with the reality of your easy forgiveness. He blinks at you hard, like he truly can’t believe that you’re not running in the opposite direction right now, burning every trace of your life together and cursing his name the whole way.

But the truth is, you’d already made up your mind to forgive him the second you realized he hadn’t meant to break up with you in the first place, and Bucky must see that, too, because the fight in his eyes is slowly dimming into something more fragile, vulnerable. 

His gaze fixes on yours in the dark, searching for some hidden shard of resentment or anger that you may be holding back for his sake, but he doesn’t find it, there is no such thing for him to find. You just smile weakly up at him, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day but no less sincere, and when he blows out a slow breath through his nose, you know you’ve got him.

He’s definitely not done badgering himself about the mistakes he made today, not by a long shot, but he must see your weariness on your face, your desperate need to move on from this at least for the moment, so he nods slowly, his flesh hand rising to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, sweetheart, we can make that happen. Whatever you want.”

Your smile brightens, the relief so stark in your features that it brings a lump to his throat, and when you press your lips against his he makes a silent promise to never put you in a position like this again, to never let his bullshit drag you down or put your relationship at risk like he did today.

He’ll go to therapy twice a damn week if he has to, you deserve better than his temper tantrums, than cruel words spoken out of a defensiveness he doesn’t need anymore. Not with you. 

Half an hour later finds you perched in his lap, draped in one of his hoodies and talking and laughing at your favorite diner like there never was an argument, like not a single tear was shed today. He hates that the joy on your face is most likely motivated by your sheer relief that he’s still yours, but he can’t complain about the sparkle in your eyes, nor the way you lean back against his chest as you sip your shake.

Obliging your request, he steals some fries off your plate while you gesticulate wildly through a story, a warm flutter going off in his chest when you pretend to squawk in protest. He soaks in every second, every twitch of your lips and brush of your hand against his, reminding himself what he could have lost, what he perhaps deserved to lose after his actions today. 

He’ll make this up to you, he knows he will - he’s sure Natasha will have plenty of suggestions for how he can start. He thinks back to that little velvet box he’s got buried deep in the back of his sock drawer, a sharp pull tugging at his heart as he realizes he almost lost his chance to give it to you at all. He resolves right here and now, basking in the warm light of your infinite patience for him, that he won’t take that box out until he’s earned it.

He hates to wait even a second longer, itches to lock you down with every passing moment, but he won’t ask you to make that kind of commitment to him until he’s sure he’s the man that you need him to be. As he presses a firm kiss to your temple, swiping another morsel from the edge of your plate with a smile, he swears up to his Ma that he will work hard to deserve you, even if you seem to think he already does.

[crxwn-06]

NOSTALGIA

Yandere!Platonic!batfam x f!Hawkeye!reader: your life is all good, in the end. You have a loving father, awesome siblings, excellent grades, a good group of friends and a talent for archery, enough to almost convince your father to let you start being a vigilante. But when your mother tries to get back into said life you start to realise that, maybe, you were just living in a pretty cage.

Chapter 1: another fortnight lost in America

prologue , chapter one, …

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Tw: yandere tendencies, mention of blood, violence

The walk back to the mansion is slow and unhurried, the kind of pace that only comes when you don’t feel the need to fill the silence—though, as always with Dick, silence never really lasts long. He falls into step beside you naturally, like he never left, like he’s always been just a few inches away. The two of you meander along the stone path, the soft crunch of gravel under your boots barely audible beneath the quiet rhythm of your conversation.

You talk—about training, about the latest Robin mishap, about Alfred scolding Duke for leaving his cape on the banister again—and Dick chimes in with the easy rhythm of someone who knows the players, knows the stakes, and, more importantly, knows you. His jokes are perfectly timed, his insights sharp but never overwhelming. He listens like it matters. He laughs like he’s missed this.

There’s something calming about it. This is what you’ve always loved most about him—how he makes even the smallest things feel like shared secrets.

«I need to fix these arrows» you mutter after a while, shifting the worn bundle you’ve been carrying under your arm. «I’ll have to order some new pins. These are getting too old.»

Dick looks over, raising an eyebrow. «Why don’t you just get new ones completely? Wouldn’t that be, y’know… easier?»

You scoff, as if he’s just suggested you throw away a family heirloom. «Pfft. Please. Every archer who’s worth something builds their own arrows. Besides, when I build them myself, I can modify them exactly how I want. Adjust the weight, change the fletching, switch out the heads depending on what kind of job it is. Off-the-rack stuff is for amateurs.»

Dick hums in approval, clearly impressed. «Well, excuse me, Miss Artisan. Didn’t realize you were out here custom-crafting your own arsenal.»

You shrug, but there’s pride in it. «Dad always says: your tools should feel like an extension of your body. If something’s off by even a centimeter, it could cost you.»

Dick’s smile dims just slightly, the corners softening with something closer to reverence. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can see it in his expression: He’s proud. Proud of your skill. Proud of your focus. And maybe just a little shaken by how much you’ve grown into this life.

«How long have you been working on your own arrows?» he asks, and it’s not small talk anymore—it’s genuine interest. The kind of question someone asks when they want to memorize the answer.

You grin, gaze drifting upward toward the fading light pouring through the manor’s tall windows. «Since I was fourteen. I started sneaking into the forge when everyone was asleep. Tim caught me once and bribed me for two weeks to keep it quiet.»

Dick chuckles. «Sounds about right.»

By the time you reach the doors, the sky behind you has begun to blush with dusk, and the manor glows golden from within. He opens the door for you, hand lingering at the frame as he watches you step inside. You don’t notice how his eyes stay on you just a second too long. How his jaw tightens slightly, protectiveness flickering just behind the warmth.

To you, it’s just another conversation. Another easy walk back inside. To him, it’s another reminder that you’re growing sharper. Stronger. Braver.

And further from the version of you he used to carry on his back.

He dislikes it.

You and Dick are still laughing as you step into the manor, the hallway glowing with the last warmth of the afternoon sun streaming in through tall windows. There’s a rare ease between you—a rhythm you fall into whenever he’s around, as if no time has passed at all. He’s halfway through teasing you about your arrow modifications when a clipped voice cuts through the air like a throwing blade.

«TT. Don’t you have your own home, Grayson?»

You stop mid-step, instantly recognizing the tone. Damian, standing halfway down the staircase, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at the two of you like a judge delivering sentence. His glare is directed solely at Dick, sharp and cold, even though you can sense what lies underneath it: irritation. Something fiercely territorial.

Before either of them can escalate, you chuckle and step toward him. «Dami» you sigh fondly, reaching up to ruffle his hair. He glares at your hand, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he steps into your side and wraps his arms around your waist—firm, possessive, unrelenting.

His message is silent, but clear: mine.

As he leans into you, he throws a pointed, smug look toward Dick. It’s the kind of expression that says, she stays here. With me. Not with you. Not out there where it’s dangerous.

«C’mon, Dami» you tease gently, running your fingers through the hair he still pretends not to like being touched. «Be nice.»

«I am nice» he huffs, tilting his head up at you. «You’re just excessively so. It’s inefficient.»

Dick snorts from behind you. «Having manners is inefficient» he mutters.

But there’s something beneath Dick’s voice too—something quieter, sharper. He’s smiling, yes, but his eyes never leave Damian’s arms around your waist. And not in jealousy. In worry. In calculation. The kind that never really turns off in his mind.

Because he knows. He knows how attached Damian is. How he watches you like a hawk when you move through the manor, how he shadows your steps during training, how he always seems to position himself between you and any potential threat—including, sometimes, him. And Dick doesn’t doubt that, if it came to it, Damian would go through anyone who endangered you. Even their own family.

But what Damian doesn’t understand is that Dick sees the other danger—the one no one talks about. Not villains or missions or rooftop ambushes. No, the real danger is you changing. Growing up. Moving past the version of you that needed carrying home from scrapes. Past the time when you’d run into his arms without hesitation. The more capable you become, the more you want to join them in the field, the less control he has—and that terrifies him in a way he doesn’t know how to admit.

So his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he steps a little closer. «I was just keeping her company, Damian. You know, in case one of those wild training arrows found a new target.»

Damian doesn’t blink. «I can protect her.»

«I know» Dick says, and it’s almost gentle. Too gentle.

But what he doesn’t say out loud is I don’t trust anyone else to.

You’re caught between them now—one arm wrapped around your waist, the other standing just close enough to shield you from something invisible. Two different kinds of protectiveness.

Damian’s is sharp, immediate, and openly possessive. A warning growl before a bite.

Dick’s is quieter, colder. Not a growl—but a net. Spread wide. Carefully constructed. A constant calculation of every possible threat, including what happens if he lets go.

They both love you.

They both need you close, for entirely different reasons.

And as you herd them both down the hall toward dinner, sighing in mock exasperation, you can feel it in the way they walk on either side of you—like twin shadows.

Neither of them say it aloud, but they’re both thinking the same thing: She’s safest with me.

Damian Wayne has always known—knows—that the connection between you and him runs deeper than the ones you share with the others. It’s not a matter of jealousy, not really. It’s something else. Something innate. Undeniable.

He prides himself on it, as he does with most things that matter. You and he are not just siblings. You are connected by blood—Father’s blood. The only two children born directly of Bruce Wayne’s lineage, forged by legacy and legacy alone. What bond could be stronger than that?

To him, it’s obvious. Natural. You are his.

His sweet older sister—gentle in your gaze, sharp in your mind, and warm in a way no one else has ever truly been to him. You didn’t speak down to him when he arrived at the manor, bristling with arrogance and centuries of League indoctrination. You didn’t flinch from him when he tried to assert dominance, the way most people did.

No—you laughed.

He remembers that day vividly. The day he first saw you. You moved through the manor like you had nothing to prove and nothing to fear, and he—young, prideful, still drowning in his own armor—made the mistake of testing you. A surprise attack, a strike from the shadows—swift, precise, and perfectly aimed.

You dodged.

Effortlessly. Smoothly. As if you had expected it (had father warned you?). As if you’d been watching him longer than he realized.

And then, some hours later, without so much as glancing over the balcony, you flicked a coin down from three floors above. It struck him square in the forehead.

He’d blinked in shock, hand rising to his head, not entirely believing it had happened. And you—unbothered, still walking—had simply called back, telling him to calm down.

He didn’t. Not right away. But that was the moment it began.

That tiny, humiliating flash of defeat curdled into respect. And that respect—over time—hardened into something much deeper.

Now, years later, he no longer sees you as someone above him in the hierarchy. You are not just an older sister, not just another Wayne under the manor roof. You are his person. The one who understands the weight of expectation. The one who speaks to him without flinching. The one who never tried to fix him—because you never saw him as broken in the first place.

He told himself it was strategic at first. Tactical. You were the strongest ally in the manor. The only one he wouldn’t truly outpace or outwit. But deep down, even then, he knew that wasn’t why he gravitated to your side during training. Why he sought you out at night under the guise of patrolling the manor. Why your praise meant more than Father’s—more than anyone’s.

Because no matter how often Dick smirks at him or Tim acts like he’s a puzzle to solve, or Jason throws barbed jokes that mask something softer—you’ve always been constant. Protective, yes. But never patronizing. Stern when needed, kind when undeserved.

In his world of conditional affection, you were unconditional. And that is something Damian Wayne does not take lightly.

He knows the others love you, in their own flawed, fractured ways. But to him, you are blood. The thread of his lineage. The only person who has ever made him feel like he was more than the weapon he was built to be.

And if he has to glare, growl, and stand too close to remind everyone—especially Grayson—of that fact?

So be it.

Because while the others orbit your world, Damian? He lives in it.

Dinner unfolds with the kind of rare ease that doesn’t come often in the Wayne household—everyone gathered, warm food shared, the sound of forks clinking and laughter echoing softly through the manor’s vast dining room.

Bruce sits at the head of the table, silent but present, his watchful eyes moving from face to face. He doesn’t speak much, but his silence tonight is gentler than usual, his gaze lingering just a few seconds longer on you.

To his right, Dick leans back in his chair, teasing Tim about something he did during training, hands flying with exaggerated gestures. You sit at Bruce’s left, calmly sipping your water, smiling at the chaos as Damian—seated protectively at your side—glares daggers at anyone who interrupts your meal or your space. Across from him, Tim rolls his eyes every time Damian opens his mouth, while Duke, somewhere at the far end, tries to keep things from devolving into a full-blown philosophical debate about whose suit color is the most tactical.

It feels normal. Almost domestic.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend there’s no darkness outside. No masks waiting in the Cave. No weight pressing silently on your father’s shoulders.

When the plates are cleared and the evening winds down, you make your rounds—like you always do. Hugs are exchanged with a grin and a tired “good night,” your arms thrown around Dick with practiced ease, brushing a hand across Duke’s shoulder, dodging Tim’s half-hearted attempt to escape affection, and tugging Damian toward you with a knowing look until he begrudgingly lets himself be hugged—only to hold on half a second longer than he means to.

You turn to Bruce last. He doesn’t stand, but he nods, the barest flicker of something warm crossing his face. «Sleep well» he says quietly.

«You too» you reply, already halfway toward the stairs.

You disappear into your room, the hall closing behind you, and the house exhales.

It’s late when Bruce comes.

The manor is dark, the moonlight stretching long across the hardwood floors. He doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t knock. He doesn’t need to.

He opens your door with the same quiet control he uses on rooftops and crime scenes—calculated, careful. You’re fast asleep, the blanket pulled high, one arm half-draped across your pillow, breathing steady and soft.

For a moment, he simply watches.

There’s something raw in his eyes. A mixture of pride and fear, quiet and ever-burning. The kind that doesn’t show in daylight.

He steps closer. He brushes a hand over your head—just once. His glove is off, fingers gentle. He lingers there, eyes scanning your face as if memorizing it all over again. Your peace. Your stillness. The proof that—for tonight at least—you’re safe.

He doesn’t speak. But his presence says it all.

Stay like this.

Let me keep you like this.

Just a little longer.

Then, without a sound, he pulls away. Leaves the way he came. Silent as the shadows that made him.

Was gonna write more, but then I realized I was yapping SO MUCH. It’s a problem guys it really is…

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE SHOWED ON THE PROLOGUE 💜💜

Taglist: @mazixxss @tenshi444 @cynnie @trashlanternfish360

« previous

[oligbia]

good morning woke up thinking about this and writing it directly in my drafts to get it out of my system in a post-sleep haze.

He didn’t know much, but he knew you.

He knew your favorite flavor of candies, he knew that you took your notes in blue ink but took tests in black ink. He knew your favorite color. He knew the way you like to lace up your shoes and how you only single knot them, not double like he does.

He knew he loved you, loved you so bad it hurt. Loved you so big he’d never be able to express the depths of it but he’d spend every moment until his last breath trying to show just how much he loved you.

And he was almost entirely certain you loved him, otherwise, he wouldn’t be at your house every Friday night while you make dinner, he wouldn’t be the only person you have pinned in your text, his contact sitting next to your parent’s as an emergency contact. He wouldn't have a key to your apartment to come and go as he pleases. You wouldn't let him hold you at night like he does, you would let him intertwine his pinkie with yours in the grocery store or at the shopping center.

But, you never could give him the satisfaction of being his in the way that he was looking for. And is not for a lack of him trying, no, he tried a lot. Multiple times. But you continued to keep him waiting, keep turning him down or never responding- it was a game for you, making him chase you down. And he loved it. He ate it up every single time.

He had asked you to dinners, “why dinner out when we have food at home?” He asked you to his games, “I go to them anyway.” He asked you to accompany him on trips, on little outings, shopping trips just so he could have the pleasure of buying you things. You always went, always let him pay and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek, but never gave him the whole satisfaction of being his.

He was out of options. He needed the label, he needed you to be his for real, the title to fit the narrative you were both already writing. He needed you to be his lover, his future- his girlfriend.

So when he’s back at your apartment on Friday night so you can make him dinner like every he is week, he still finds himself coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist as you cook, his head soft on your shoulder, juts like every week.

“You cook for me like you’re my wife,”

“It’s a reoccurring thank you for being a good friend,”

“We’re more than friends,”

“Maybe”

He groans and burrows his face in the crook of your neck. You smell good, but he’d never say it. You love his presence, but you’d never say it.

But then the weight of his body on yours wasn’t there, but you felt his hands gently on your knees. “What the hell?”

You turn around to see him literally on his knees, his hands clinging to your legs like his lifeline. He looked up at you with big, loving eyes. Like you were a goddess, something to worship. You can't help the way you drop the spoon you were cooking with and let your hands rest gently in his hair.

“I am begging you, please, give me a chance.”

“What are you doing, get up.”

“No, I’m not getting up,” he started, shaking his head.

“I’m not getting up until you agree to let me love you. Please. It would be the greatest honor of my life. It would be the biggest privilege in the world to love you, worship you. You make my world spin, I cherish you. I’d lay my life down for you. I’d spend the rest of my life reminding you how much I love you. I’m begging for you to just let me in and give me that last inch to show you how worth it I’ll make it. Let me love you. Please.”

“Fuckin' hell-” your voice is playful, your smile wide and cheeks pink. You soften so fast for him.

“Is that a yes?” He asked, looking up at you with hopeful eyes.

You nod, “you’re such a lover boy”

He smiles, kissing every inch of you he can while he stands up, taking your hands in his and kissing them too. “Always for you”

˚₊✩‧₊◜ Daichi Sawamura, Ryūnosuke Tanaka, Shōyō Hinata, Tetsurō Kuroo, Tōru Oikawa, Kōtarō Bokuto, Satori Tendō, Yūji Terushima, Atsumu Miya, + anyone else you love ˚₊✩‧₊◜

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A/N: dont talk to me about this being ooc I dont want to hear it

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[rkiveslibrary]

Chapter 1

Summary: You finally achieved your dream of writing and publishing a book and it goes well. It goes so well, your publisher wants you to write a second book. The only problem is the fans want it to be spicier and you have only had one very lackluster sexual partner in your life. Enter Kim Taehyung the cocky fuckboy of your past who is willing to lend a hand to a “friend” in need

Word Count: 4.5K

Paring: Taehyung/Reader (Side Jikook)

Rating: 18+

Tags: teasing, use of nicknames, POV switch, Taehyung's behavour is kinda gross in this one sorry, flirting. (Not much to tag because it's the first chapter)

Authors Note: I started this story in March and the fact that it is finally being posted is making me kind of emotional! LOL. As always thank you for reading!

-----

“Hi, welcome to The Oasis. What can I get…you?”

Your voice trails off as you see the couple standing in the doorway, taking in the small café with its warm brown tones and earthy greens.

Your eyes fall on the man with the dark, fluffy hair, and you recognize him immediately.

Your hands curl into fists at your side, blunt nails digging into the skin as you wish you could evaporate on the spot.

Cocky fuckboy, past captain of the soccer team, Kim Taehyung, and his flavour-of-the-week girlfriend just stepped foot into your workplace, and you had no choice but to serve them because you promised to take over for Morena, who needed to take an important phone call.

This must have been a cruel twist of fate, a punishment for something, because normally, you didn’t work the front counter.

You were much more comfortable in the back, rolling out dough and singing along to songs from the small old-school radio Mi-Suk graciously provided to give you something to listen to while you worked.

Every once in a while, you would choose to listen to music on your phone, opting for songs from your high school and university years that would throw you into a comforting wave of nostalgia.

The man in front of you was a very unwelcome wave of nostalgia, and when his dark eyes finally connected with yours from across the store, they widened in shock for only a brief moment before he was sliding up to the counter with a cocky smile on his face and his girl in tow.

You had not seen him in almost three years, but he still looked the same. Fluffy brown hair that was always a little messy in an endearing way, deep brown eyes, a small freckle on his nose, a wide, boxy smile, and pouty lips that got him out of a lot of trouble.

People tended to bend over backwards for Kim Taehyung, and it infuriated you to no end.

He was just a guy. Sure, he was handsome, but that didn’t give him superpowers or make him important.

But throughout your university years, you watched countless girls fall over themselves just at the mere presence of him walking around.

It was annoying.

“Well, hello. I didn’t know you still worked here.” He said in a smooth baritone voice that reminded you of old jazz music.

“Yeah, I do, though usually I work in the back. So what can I get you?” You ask, trying to get this interaction over as quickly as possible.

Taehyung’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and you know he isn’t going to let that happen.

Lovely.

“Come on, BabyBlue, work with me here. I haven’t seen you in ages, and that’s all you give me.” He croons with a pout on his lips that makes you roll your eyes.

In the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t roll your eyes at customers, but you figured someone as infuriating as Taehyung was the exception.

“Don’t call me that ridiculous name, Taehyung.” You bite out as he grins at the furious look on your face.

You thought he would have grown up in the years since you graduated, but it seemed he still was the same pain in the ass as he was back then.

“Oh, sorry BabyBlue, I didn’t know you hated that name. My bad.” He teased in a sarcastically sweet tone as his eyes flicked down to your chest.

That nickname was all his fault anyway.

Taehyung was drunk at a house party and tried to peel you from your very comfortable spot leaning against the wall to dance with him, only to accidentally wobble on his feet and spill his drink all over your favourite baby blue cropped shirt, which was very thin and very see-through, meaning in a matter of minutes everyone in your vicinity could see your nipples poking through the damp fabric.

Taehyung never once apologized; instead, he said, “Oops,” with a boxy grin, and you had to leave the party early before the stain could set in.

While everyone moved on, Taehyung adopted the nickname BabyBlue for you to commemorate that night.

“You know I hate it, Captain.” You shot back as his eyes widened in surprise, but a grin was still plastered on his lips.

You knew you wouldn’t wound him with that name.

Especially since he was the one to come up with that himself.

“Um, do you two have a history or something?” The girl next to him asks as you finally tear your gaze away from his dark eyes and focus on her.

She is shorter than Taehyung, with long curly hair and full lips, which are frowning as she looks between the two of you.

You look at Taehyung to explain, but he seems to be enjoying the chaos as he leans against the counter and doesn’t bother answering her.

What a great guy.

“Yeah, we went to university together a couple of years back. Took the same program. Had the same classes.” You explain.

Her eyes narrow, and you can practically see the gears in her head turning.

“Nothing happened between us, believe me. We just ran in the same circles, unfortunately.” You continue.

The only reason you were stuck with Taehyung as long as you were was because your best friend Mira had to go and fall in love with Taehyung’s friend Hoseok, which made you all a big happy group.

You couldn’t hate Mira for it though; she found the love of her life, and Hoseok was a great guy. He popped the question last year, and Mira accepted. They were getting married in four months, which felt crazy to you because you still remember Mira as the small girl with braids in her hair who offered you half of her snacks at recess one day.

“You mean, fortunately. I’m a delight to have around.” He boasts as the girl next to him giggles and loops her arm around him, snuggling into his shoulder, pleased you were not an ex-girlfriend.

“I wouldn’t call it that. But sure.” You respond.

“Ouch, you wound me. And here I was thinking we were friends. Besties even.” He croons with an exaggerated wink, and you can’t help it as your eyes roll up to the ceiling once more.

“We aren’t besties; you just pretended we were so you could cheat off me in class.” You reminded him.

“And yet you never once let me cheat. So rude you know. It’s always nice to help a friend in need.” He shoots back, enjoying this.

“We were never friends, Taehyung; we just ran in the same circles.”

He frowns.

“Is this because of the Baby Blue incident? I said I was sorry.”

You scoff.

“No Taehyung, you never did apologize for that one.”

His eyes widen.

“Well, you did look hot in that shirt. So hot, I just wanted to cool you down.” He recovers quickly, shooting you a playful smile.

The girl next to him huffs, and you cross your arms over your chest.

“Kinda gross to be talking to me like that when your girlfriend is right next to you.” You point out as he finally looks down at her and back at you, like he forgot she was even there.

“Oh, she’s not my girlfriend. We just fuck. A lot.”

She playfully smacks his arm and scolds him, as you feel heat rise to your cheeks.

“Anyway, what can I get you?” You say falsely bright, trying to change the subject, as you press the screen in front of you to get it to wake up.

“Can I get a latte macchiato with extra foam?” She says as you smile and punch it into the computer.

“And you?” You ask Taehyung, who is still blatantly staring at you.

“What is good here?” He asks, drumming his long fingers against the counter, seemingly more than okay with wasting your time.

“Everything. Now please, just order.” You almost pleaded.

“You never answered my question.” He quips as you fight the urge to strangle him.

Why can’t he just make your life easy and order something so you can move on and hopefully not see him again?

Or at least not see him until Mira’s wedding.

“You never answered mine either. What. Can. I. Get. You.”

Taehyung finally seems to accept you won’t give him any more information as he straightens up and finally takes a peek at the menu.

About freaking time.

“I’ll take a green tea and whatever dessert you think is best.” He orders with a smile.

“All desserts are the best; I’d know; I make them.” You respond before punching in his order.

His eyebrows shoot up.

“Impressive, BabyBlue,” he teases as his eyes scan the desert case to the right.

You don’t bother to answer him; instead, you turn your back and begin to make the drinks, focusing on deep breaths and not letting him get to you. He won’t ruin today. You won’t let him.

However, it seems the girl next to him isn’t having it, as the second you turn around, she begins to argue with him under her breath.

“What the fuck was that Taehyung?” She hisses as you work on the drinks and try your best to focus on the soft music overhead and not their conversation.

“What do you mean babe?” He asks as you see out of the corner of your eye her slip out of his embrace and cross her arms.

“You were flirting with her. Openly flirting with her in front of me.” She hisses under her breath.

“Baby, I was not. That’s just how she and I talk. We banter,” he explains as you finish making her drink and decide to leave it on the back counter while you work on his. You don’t want to be in the middle of this.

“Calling her some stupid nickname? Calling her hot? Openly eyeing her up and down. You just fucked me half an hour ago, and you already have sights on another girl. What is wrong with you?!” She says, unable to keep her voice down, so you hear everything.

“Baby, all you and I do is fuck. That’s the point of fuck buddies. I wasn’t flirting with her, but I’m also a free man.” He defends putting his hands up.

She promptly loses it, and honestly, you don’t blame her.

“You are disgusting, Kim Taehyung! I thought you would grow up and mature, and want to settle down. And here you are drooling over some minimum wage-making barista.” She shouts as her gaze whips over to you.

“Syd, I already told you when this started, I wasn’t looking for anything serious. We went over this, and you were okay with the arrangement.” He reminds her.

You are caught between them like a deer in the headlights, unable to move as you turn around and watch it all go down right in front of you.

“You are twenty-seven for fuck's sake, and you don’t act a day over seventeen! There clearly is some unresolved chemistry or some shit going on between the two of you, and I deserve better than to be tied up in it. Have a nice life Tae. Don’t bother calling me for pussy when you get bored of her.” She snaps as she turns on her heel and storms out of the café, slamming the door on the way out, making the wall décor shake.

The silence that follows is so loud you almost wonder if Taehyung could hear your heart beating under your shirt and apron.

“Are you going to…go after her?” You ask meekly as he turns away from the door and once again leans up against the counter, putting on his cool-guy persona.

“Nah, I don’t chase after women. I laid it out very clearly for her, and she thought she could change me. Don’t need to be running after that.” He responds as he runs a hand through his fluffy hair.

“I don’t know what to say here. Sorry? I guess?” You stammer as Taehyung shoots you a grin.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. The last week or so she had been getting clingy, and I was going to talk to her about it anyway. She saved me from an awkward conversation, so that’s good.”

“Um, okay. So the drinks. Uh….” You trail off, not knowing what to say.

“You never answered my question from before, you know.” He reminded, and all the tension in the room seemed to evaporate as he put on his charming smile and fluttered his eyelashes at you.

“Which one? You asked so many I lost track.” You asked him as you brought both drinks to the front counter.

“The one about you working here. You were top of our class, the smartest person I know, and yet you work here. Nothing against people who do. I have high respect for retail and food workers. I just… Don’t get it.” He explains as you push his drink towards him and pick out a chocolate chip muffin from the case.

“When I graduated, I knew I wanted to be an author, but those things take time. So I asked the owner, Mi-Suk, if I could work full-time while I write. Well, it’s been years, and I have a book published now, but I like working here. I like baking, so I decided to keep it as my main source of income while I write.” You say to him as you place the muffin in a small brown box and close the lid to keep it fresh.

You weren’t sure why you were telling Taehyung all this. Maybe you felt bad that he had just gotten broken up with. Maybe you knew telling him the truth would finally get him to shut up.

All you knew was this was one of the first times you actually had a conversation with him, a real one without teasing and being at each other’s throats, and it was…well. Nice

“You wrote a book? What’s it called?” He asked, clearly impressed, as you wiped your hands on your apron.

“Why? You want to leave me a bad review. Payback for not helping you in university?” You tease as he grins and runs a hand through his hair once more.

“Nah, I want to know what genre you ended up picking. You were undecided back then.”

You are taken by surprise that he even remembers that. You weren’t necessarily close in university. He spent all his time trying to mooch answers off you, and you spent most of your time trying to pretend he didn’t exist.

“Uh, it’s called The Tangled Web of Love and Friendship… I ended up going with romance.” You say nervously.

Before Taehyung can respond, Morena bursts through the back door and immediately apologizes about how the doctor's call was not supposed to take that long and how they lost her files, so they had to put her on hold for an extra ten minutes to find them.

She is talking so fast and in such a hurry that she doesn’t notice Taehyung standing there.

Until she does.

“Oh. Um. Hi.” She says, her demeanour immediately changing as she smooths a hand down her apron and tucks her long hair behind her ears in a shy kind of way.

“Hi. How much do I owe?” He asks, turning back to you as Morena is staring at him in the way most women stare at Taehyung.

Starstruck.

“I’ll pay for both drinks; don’t worry about it.” He says as you ring him through.

He takes both drinks and his muffin and shoots Morena a small, polite smile before turning to you.

“Good to see you again, BabyBlue. And, uh, sorry about the shirt.” He says with a wink before turning around and exiting the cafe.

You watch him go and aren’t sure how to feel. Sure, he was still incredibly cocky and arrogant, but that small civil talk you had was…nice.

“Okay, tell me everything. That man is so hot, I just about melted to the floor. How do you know him?” Morena squeals as she jogs behind the counter to stand next to you, eyes full of excitement.

“It’s just Taehyung. We went to school together.” You say, moving behind her to let her take her spot at cash.

“Is he single? He’s so hot. Wait, are you interested? I don’t want to overstep if you are.” She chirps excitedly.

“I’m not interested; believe me. He’s all yours.” You say as you start to head back to the kitchen, already putting the interaction with Taehyung behind you.

-----

Taehyung stretched his arms over his head and groaned when he felt a pop in his back.

He knew he should have painted at his easel in his spare room, but the light in here was too perfect to miss out on, so he shoved his blankets off his bed and set down a towel before sitting cross-legged and getting to work on painting the dazzling sunset in front of him.

Painting was a way for him to calm down after a long day or to silence all of the thoughts that were buzzing around his head, and he was forever grateful that his mother introduced him to it at a young age.

While his father was all about working hard and being a rough and tough man, his mother let him explore his softer side through photography and painting.

Taehyung found a healthy balance between them, though his softer side often pulled more ladies.

What lady can resist a soft, kind, artistic soul?

Taehyung fumbled around for his phone and saw he had sixteen unread messages in his group chat with his friends, so he stood up, collected his things, and cleaned his room.

He knew if he opened the chat, he would get lost in it for hours, so he took a quick shower before even touching his phone.

The hot spray felt great against his skin, and he tilted his head back and let the warm water trickle down his scalp as he lathered his shampoo.

Taehyung took his time in the shower, letting his fingers dance along his skin and letting the water relax his tense muscles from being hunched over a canvas for the last two hours.

His cock began to harden, but he didn’t bother jerking off. He already had sex twice today with a girl he would never have sex with again, and he didn’t feel the need to touch his cock and get himself all riled up.

Instead, he tugged it a couple of times, then let the warm water wash away his body wash as he turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower, towel-drying his hair as he went.

He completed his skincare fully naked to let his body air dry, then he pulled on a pair of soft grey sweatpants; he didn’t bother with a shirt because half the time he slept only in boxers or completely naked anyway.

He turned off most of the lights around his home and settled into the warmth of his bed, pulling the covers back on and scooping up his phone to see what he missed in chat.

Jungkook and Jimin were sending pictures and raving about the getaway they just came back from.

They went to a cabin in the woods for five days, and even though they kept sending pictures of the wildlife, Taehyung knew they got away to fuck like rabbits in a secluded cabin where no one could hear them.

Those two were some of the horniest men Taehyung had ever met.

Jimin and Taehyung grew up together and became instant best friends. While everyone thought Taehyung was Jimin’s platonic soulmate, there was no doubt that Jungkook was Jimin’s romantic soulmate.

They met on the first day of university and have been inseparable ever since.

Hoseok rounded out the group chat.

Smiley, Funny, Sunshine in human form. Hoseok, whom Taehyung met through Jimin, got along so well with everyone that he became a permanent fixture in their group.

He was a year older and often seen as the go-to person for advice, as he was always open and ready to listen.

Hoseok met Mira near the end of their first year and started dating her.

Mira had it all. She was tall and smart and honestly made Hoseok so happy.

With all these couples around, you would think Taehyung would want to settle down and find his own forever person, but he liked being single.

He liked the freedom to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. Sydney’s little outburst today reminded him once again why he didn’t date. It was just too much work.

Taehyung was snapped from his thoughts when another message came through, and he figured he should answer instead of staring off into space holding his phone.

Taetae: Looks like fun, guys! Glad you made it back safe!

Kookie: Whoa, he lives!!!

Hoba: We thought we would have to call someone to check on you.

Jiminie: Where have you been Tae?

Taehyung leaned back against his headboard and let his legs sprawl out as he typed.

Taetae: Had a busy day then came back here and painted.

Hoba: Painted?

Jiminie: What happened?

Taetae: Nothing. Why?

Kookie: Nothing? Yeah, except you only paint when something has happened or you need to get out of your head.

Taetae: Australia and I broke up. Not why I painted though. The sunset was just pretty.

A rule of thumb for Taehyung was that he never gave out his hookup’s real name. He knew his friends well enough to know they would go on a cyberstalking spree, so everyone got codenames so they couldn’t be found.

Jiminie: What happened?

Hoba: Oh no.

Taetae: Nothing major. She wanted us to be more. I didn’t and she caused a public scene. She stormed out, and I let her go.

Kookie: You told her you just wanted a hookup, though, right?

Taetae: I always do.

Hoba: A public scene. Where were you? I thought you guys only fucked.

Jiminie: Are you okay, Taetae?

Taetae: I’m okay Jimin. I was going to talk to her anyway because she was getting clingy so it worked out for the best.

Taetae: Yes, we fucked Hoba but we both got hungry so I took her to a café like the gentleman I am.

Taehyung trailed a hand down his bare torso as he thought back to the incident at the café. He didn’t mean to bring his friends with benefits into your café specifically… It was just the one that had the best reviews.

And he could see why. The muffin you gave him was phenomenal.

Jiminie: I'm sorry that happened.

Kookie: And in public? Please tell me it wasn’t busy.

Taetae: She got mad because she thought I was flirting with the barista.

Hoba: Were you flirting with the barista Tae?

Taehyung barked out a laugh. His friends knew him well.

Taetae: For once no. But Hoba you have been withholding information, you know.

Jiminie: Wait, what? What info?

Hoba: Huh?

Taetae: You didn’t tell me BabyBlue still worked at The Oasis. Imagine my surprise when I see her behind the counter.

Kookie: Oh shit.

Hoba: What did you do Taehyung? She is my fiancé's best friend, please, for the love of God, leave her alone. Mira is stressed enough from wedding planning.

Taetae: Nothing! We just talked then Australia flew off the handle

Kookie: So you were flirting then?

Jiminie: I think you can’t help but flirt when you are around her Tae. You’ve been like that for years.

Hoba: Please tell me you didn’t call her that stupid nickname to her face. You know she hates it.

TaeTae: Oops.

Hoba: Oh my God Taehyung.

Taetae: What? She called me Captain right back! And it was not flirting you two! So stop it! We do not flirt.

Jiminie: Yes but you appointed yourself the “Captain Taehyung” title in university because you thought it would get you more women.

Kookie: Did that ever actually work?

Taetae: I’ll have you know I got laid plenty of times because of that name thank you very much!

Hoba: So you flirted with her and your girl stormed out. Classy Tae.

Taetae: We did not flirt. It was playful banter besides, Australia knew she and I were never going to be serious.

Kookie: I agree with Jimin. I think you can’t help but flirt with her. She doesn’t fall for your charms and it makes you mad

Taehyung sat back and bit his lip. He wasn’t flirting with you. He didn’t like you like that. He just liked the flustered look on your face when he teased you. It was…adorable. Plus, you were one of the only girls who didn’t immediately fall at his feet, and something about that always made him want to work harder around you. It kept him on his game because he took pride in the fact that everyone seemed to adore him.

Everyone except you.

Hoba: Please just leave her alone Tae. I’m serious! With the wedding coming up I don’t need you two at each other’s throats.

Taetae: Believe me, I was just as surprised to see her as she was to see me. Did you guys know she is a published author?

Kookie: ...Yeah?

Jiminie: Duh.

Hoba: Yes.

Taehyung frowned.

Taetae: Hoba you don’t count because you are marrying her best friend. Jimin? Kook? How did you know?

Jiminie: Because we ask about our friends we went to school with. We don’t spend our time trying to get under their skin.

Kookie: Jimin and I bought her book. I could loan it to you if you want.

Taetae: I do not spend my time trying to get under her skin. She’s just very easy to rile up.

Hoba: Oh god.

Jiminie: You mean flirt with?

Taetae: Nope. Good try though. And yes Koo I will take a look at her book. Can I come to pick it up after work tomorrow?

Kookie: Sounds good.

Taehyung dropped his phone on his chest and stared up at the ceiling. He felt weirdly proud that you did something with your degree instead of him, who ended up working an office job for his father.

Taehyung quickly pulled up his search engine and searched for your book.

His eyes widened when he saw that it was number fifteen on trending and received a lot of praise. He kept scrolling, reading review after review of people saying it was one of the best love stories they had read in a long time.

Taehyung was pleasantly surprised, as he knew you only dated one guy in university named Simon, who was an absolute pompous dickhead.

When he found out what went down between you and Simon, Jimin had to lock him in the dorm so he didn’t storm down the hall and punch Simon right in his ugly ass mouth.

He was just… protective of one of Mira’s friends, that’s all.

Taehyung set his alarm and turned out the light. He shucked off his sweatpants and pulled the covers over his naked frame.

However, sleep wouldn’t come because all he could think of.

Was you.

[suzirya]

Having a Bad Time

[optimistic-autistic]

does any other autistic person here have a permanent feeling of Disconnect from their surroundings and the people in their life

[thethingything]

okay so the effects of the ibuprofen start wearing off after about 8 hours, at which point our symptoms start getting really bad again, but at least once it kicks in we get relief pretty quickly and it seems to work really well.

we have a rash on our face that's been really red and sore and a few hours after taking the ibuprofen it looked like it'd almost completely vanished, but it started coming back again once the meds wore off, along with our sinuses and eyes getting really painful and our mouth getting so dry we can't swallow food without having water with it.

we've also got blepharitis in our left eye which we've had for a few days because we get it almost every time the rest of these symptoms flare up. holding a warm, damp cloth against our eye for a bit seems to help, but we also have to keep cleaning our eyelids which seems to also relief some of the irritation and pain.

I'm trying to take more breaks in the middle of doing stuff to get up, clean our eyes, drink a bunch of water with electrolyte mix, get a warm damp cloth to help with the eye and sinus pain, moisturise any especially dry skin, etc, and it sucks that managing a symptom flare that's absolutely wrecking our energy levels and ability to function requires using more energy to get up and do stuff that helps (and to remember to do that stuff) but I am proud of myself for how well I'm doing with it

[matteoberrettini]

i'm so so so so so so scared of people who never turn off their phone

[swiftsaltsweet]

Hunt's next chapter.

I'm legally not allowed to write anymore. u_u My doctor said no.

[cookinguptales]

that said, as much as I've been struggling the past 48 hours or so, I have to admit that it has felt a little clarifying.

I've been playing the hell out of stardew valley, like I always do when I'm struggling with my PMDD, because the calming repetitive movements and bite-sized tasks (which induce the illusion of productivity) make it much easier to calm my mind and like...

I keep thinking "wouldn't it be nice to make something that soothes...?"

I felt a little embarrassed last night when I was writing about how I realized that AITNISTS would have meant the world to me when I was a queer, disabled teen feeling very broken and unlovable, and how now it almost feels like I'm writing bedtime stories for a ghost.

but... I think to some degree, that's nice, too... if I'm writing what soothes me, maybe it'll soothe someone else, too. making art that soothes people that feel broken... I think that would be nice. or... kind, at least. maybe.

it's something to aspire to, at least.

like sometimes I do feel this weird need to make something beautiful or complex or important but I guess "important" can mean a lot of different things, and so can "beautiful"...

I'm obviously never going to win any kind of literary prize with monsterfucking hurt/comfort but like. idk. maybe it's enough to write the kind of book that would have made me feel like I was capable of being loved and wanted when I was a kid.

especially if it helps anyone else now...

idk. it's a nice thought, at the very least.

[gentil-minou]

Gosh I need to edit this more before I actually start posting but I'm just so excited so here's a preview of my wangxian OUAT au, featuring wwx as emma, lwj as regina, and ayuan as henry (though are veering far away from both canon in both cases so no need to be familiar with the show to enjoy)

----

The doorbell rings.

He blinks once, then twice. Wei Wuxian isn’t normally one to get visitors, especially at this time of night. He tries to remember if there’s a no-candle policy in his lease his landlord might nag him about when the doorbell rings again.

He scrambles to his feet and stumbles to the door, already preparing an apology for something he probably didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to do and another apology in case he did know. He opens the door and sees….nothing.

Until he hears a quiet cough and looks down to see a little boy.

At first, he thinks maybe he’s a trick-or-treater who got a bit lost, but Wei Wuxian’s building is secured with a key and callbox entry. Plus, although he’s been wandering streets alone since forever, he’s pretty sure a kid this young would have a chaperone with him. He looks behind the kid and doesn’t see anyone else there.

But instead of asking something sensible like where his chaperone may be or even if the kid’s lost, he blurts, “How did you get in?”

The boy tilts his head and replies, “The front door. It wasn’t locked, I just walked in.”

So much for secured entry. But that doesn’t really answer why there is a human child at his door at nearly midnight. There’s definitely a law somewhere that says that’s illegal, probably.

The kid, who can’t be more than ten years old and really should have learned about stranger danger by now, beams up at him, as if technical breaking and entering is something to be proud of. Which, okay, maybe Wei Wuxian is kind of impressed by that.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” the boy asks, his smile so sweet and unassuming that before Wei Wuxian even realizes it, he’s turned to the side and let the boy in.

The kid is wearing a blue puffy coat and carrying a white backpack that has homemade floppy ears made of felt that make it look like a bunny. They bounce up and down as the boy walks inside and slips his shoes off. Wei Wuxian very maturely resists the urge to tug on those floppy bunny ears, though only just.

Shoes off, his socks patterned with fluffy white clouds, the boy turns back around to look up at Wei Wuxian. His entire face beams up at him as if he were a sunflower facing the sun, which wow what an ego-boost. He’s got dimples, little baby dimples that are very cute and look very pinchable but that doesn’t matter because there is a baby in his house! And okay he’s at least ten years old but regardless why is there a whole entire child in his apartment? What is one supposed to do when some random kid shows up at their doorstep and invites themselves in?

“Oh shit uh, wait not shit,” Wei Wuxian stammers. “Shit, sorry. Um. A drink, you want a drink?”

Ask the random child if they want something to drink, apparently. Perfect.

The kid nods, still giving him that doe-eyed look. Wei Wuxian doesn’t have much by way of child-friendly beverage options, but he wasn’t exactly expecting something like this tonight. He settles on milk that looks like it hasn't gone too bad yet. Besides, expired milk builds immunity and character in children, that's how it works, right? He pours a glass for the kid, making sure to give him the cleanest one even though there’s a tiny crack on the surface.

He guides the kid over to the coffee table and hands him the milk. The kid takes the glass and sinks onto the deflated beanbag while Wei Wuxian perches on the edge of the couch. He grabs a can of beer from the six-pack still on the floor beside the table and takes a sip. Wait, is that allowed? Can he drink alcohol in front of children?

The kid doesn’t seem to care. He takes a tentative sip of his milk and makes a very polite face that fails to mask his disgust, before putting the glass down on the table next to the forgotten cupcake. Fair, it’s nice to see him asserting boundaries and all that.

"Okay," Wei Wuxian says, amused despite the situation. "Who are you and why are you in my house at—" he checks his phone for the time"—five minutes to midnight on a Friday night?"

The kid doesn't answer right away. His eyes are still focused on the cupcake, but in a way he probably thinks is sneaky. Wei Wuxian tilts his head to get a better look and sure enough, there’s a furrow between his eyebrows like the kid is trying really hard to ask a difficult question. After a minute, it becomes clear he hasn’t worked out a nice enough way to ask, but it’s a good thing Wei Wuxian knows enough about being a hungry child to recognize one.

He nudges the cupcake over to him and says, "Help yourself." Immediately, the kid grabs the cupcake with all the care in the world, like it’s a priceless artifact and promptly devours it. Wei Wuxian can’t help but smile as he eats. Suddenly the cheap cupcake feels like an excellent choice.

When the kid finishes licking the last bits of frosting and crumbs off his fingers, he sits politely with his hands in his lap and looks longingly toward the kitchen. He’s still too nice to ask forthright, but Wei Wuxian knows better and he isn't a monster.

Wei Wuxian gets up and opens one of the cabinets to look for something that’s probably child-appropriate, pulling out a bag of his least spicy chips. Chips are made of potatoes which are vegetables which means it’s probably not that bad for kids. Either way, the kid takes the bag gratefully and eats the chips with relish, even though they’re definitely way too spicy for someone his age.

“Alright, alright. You’ve been fed. Now tell me, who are you?” he asks again, though he can’t stop the tiniest bit of fondness from creeping into his tone. It’s just that everything this kid does is so cute! He can’t help himself!

The kid stops eating and tries to speak, but what comes out instead are the quietest little coughs Wei Wuxian’s ever heard. He’s been eating these spicy snacks and slowly turning as red as they are, but he’s so polite he hasn’t said a thing about them.

All at once, Wei Wuxian realizes he likes this kid, despite knowing practically nothing about him. It’s strange. He hates the kids the customers at his job will bring sometimes, especially when their parents just let them loose like it's a daycare and not a coffee shop. Wei Wuxian isn’t mean or anything, it’s just that wrangling kids is way above his pay grade. He didn’t even get along with other kids when he was a kid. All the other foster kids stood clear of him pretty much as soon as the social worker told his foster parents he was known for being “emotionally dysregulated” and labeling him a problem child.

But this kid is different from all the others, even though Wei Wuxian can’t quite put his finger on what’s so special about him. He seems like the kind of kid who would politely ask for steamed oat milk and say thank you, then ask his parents to let him give Wei Wuxian the tip. When he finishes, he’d probably throw his trash out without anyone asking and call goodbye to him one last time before he leaves. Even just imagining it makes Wei Wuxian feel wistful for something he’s never really wanted before.

It doesn’t help that this kid’s got what must be the fluffiest hair he's ever seen, and those dimples! It takes all of Wei Wuxian’s self-control to keep himself from pinching those chubby cheeks.

He doesn’t quite succeed and leans forward anyway to ruffle the kid's hair. "Ask for water, you silly,” he says, already standing and heading back to the kitchen.

When he hands him the glass, the kid just looks up at Wei Wuxian with his big, bright brown eyes filled with wonder. He’s looking at Wei Wuxian like he has the answer to everything. Wei Wuxian doesn't, but it's nice to feel like someone thinks he knows what he's doing.

The kid drinks half the glass before clearing his throat and finally answering Wei Wuxian’s question. “I’m Sizhui, but you can call me A-Yuan. Or even Little Radish, if you want! You called me that before.” He says it all in one breath, practically vibrating with energy by the end.

Wei Wuxian pauses in the middle of taking a sip of his beer. He’s not sure why he would ever call anyone a radish, and he’s pretty sure he’s never met this kid before. Does A-Yuan have mistaken him for someone else? Could this kid have some weird memory loss, except one where he gains fake memories instead of losing them? It’s definitely not the strangest thing about this whole situation.

Like all problems Wei Wuxian doesn’t know how to deal with, he decides to ignore that for now and asks, “Okay, A-Yuan then, why are you here?”

“Because,” A-Yuan starts, leaning forward and looking at Wei Wuxian with all the seriousness someone pre-puberty could possibly possess. “I need your help.”

“…Okay…” Wei Wuxian replies. The world must truly be fucked if someone is coming to him for help. He hasn’t had a vegetable in a week, unless pizza actually does count. “What do you need help with?”

He’s expecting the kid to say something normal like “my homework” or “getting to the train station”, you know, normal things a kid would ask a stranger to help him with.

He’s not expecting A-Yuan to respond gravely, “To save the world and everyone we love.”

Wei Wuxian blinks, speechless. A-Yuan doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to speak as he lifts his backpack onto his lap and rummages through its contents. “My family’s in trouble, our family. Everyone we know is, and you’re the only one who can fix it. Look here, see, I’ve got this book, it’s all written here. There’s a curse that’s affecting everyone and we need to break it.”

He plops the book down on the coffee table. It’s not at all what Wei Wuxian expects. It’s hand-bound, with a simple red fabric cover that’s blank except for the title that’s written in Chinese calligraphy. It’s written entirely in Chinese, in fact, completely by hand with the same impeccable calligraphy. Inside are what appear to be a bunch of stories or folktales. There are beautiful gongbi illustrations on every other page, inked in bright colors with an incredible level of detail.

Wei Wuxian can’t help but be impressed. The book is something he would expect to see at a museum or in a period drama, not on his coffee table with its chipped surface and water stains.  

A-Yuan flips to a picture of a man with long hair dressed in black and red robes. He’s playing a flute as shadows dance and twist around his frame. Then tendrils lift high into the sky and block out the sun. He’s standing on a pile of human bones, to really sell the whole villain energy this guy’s got.

A-Yuan points at the guy. “That’s you, you see?”

Wei Wuxian does not see, he’s pretty sure he would have noticed if his body was covered in shadows. Also, he would need way more conditioner for that length of hair.

The kid continues, interpreting Wei Wuxian’s stunned silence as something else entirely. “You’re the only one who can help them, who can save us all.” A-Yuan thrusts the scroll out to Wei Wuxian, who’s too floored to do much more than take it from him. “So, I’m here to bring you back.”

Wei Wuxian has to admit, the guy in the picture does look pretty badass. But it’s still just a drawing, and there’s little to suggest this looks anything like him at all.

He glances up. A-Yuan smile is so bright and excited that Wei Wuxian wishes he could feel his excitement too. The guy in the picture does look super cool, like someone he’d want to dress up as when he was A-Yuan’s age.

But all he feels is concern and confusion. Before, he was actually starting to enjoy spending time with this kid, but something is wrong, though it’s not what A-Yuan thinks. There’s a random kid in his apartment late at night, making up stories. And whether he likes it or not, Wei Wuxian is the adult here. He has to remember that.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and the smile slowly drops from A-Yuan’s face and Wei Wuxian feels like the absolute worst person on the planet for doing that to him. “But I don’t know what this is, or who you are. I want to help, you’ve just gotta give me some actual answers. Where are your parents? Do they know where you are?”

A-Yuan looks down and mumbles, “I was so sure you’d remember if you saw this, if you held it.” He tightens the hands on his knees into fists and looks up at him with a startling conviction. “But that doesn’t matter. I know it, I know who you are. You’re Wei Wuxian. This is you. And you’re the only person who can save us.”

Wei Wuxian rubs his temples and contemplates chugging the remainder of his beer. He holds it in his hand, wishing he’d gotten another pack. “Look, I don’t know how you know my name, maybe you saw it on some mail outside or something, but—"

"You're my dad!” A-Yuan hastily interrupts. “That’s why, that’s how I know!"

Wei Wuxian drops the can. There's a splash of something spilling all over the carpet and he should probably make sure it’s not too bad. He's too busy trying to figure out how he could have a ten-year-old at twenty-five when he was definitely still a virgin at fifteen.

The initial shock slips away, leaving him only more confused. He raises an eyebrow at A-Yuan, willing him to explain.

"Not my real dad," A-Yuan says, rolling his eyes like somehow Wei Wuxian is the one claiming something impossible. "But you're my dad in every way that counts."

Wei Wuxian wishes he hadn't dropped his drink. He'd really like to take a sip of it now. And several more, maybe the rest of the cans, too.

This day needs to end. He should have stayed home and drank his way to oblivion, so he’d have been too far gone to answer the door in the first place.

TBC

[izzy-b-hands]

Just submitted a new patient request to Anchor Health. Cross your fingers for me, so I can get set up w/a doc I can stick with who can handle my T and PCP stuff and maybe even mental health stuff? (their website let me mark all three as things I wanted them to provide care for at least)

and the poor local PP can get back to trying to help others without me taking up any more of their scarce resources and staff

[ifyourereadingthisblinktwice]

i need to stop forgetting things exist the fucking second they leave my field of vision. why is is impossible for two things to occupy my mind at once especially when im tired. like. i feel like a sim. i feel like actions are being canceled and i just. move on. and completely forget what i was doing moments before. i fucking hate it

[edwardseymour]

so the author of jane seymour: an illustrated life reposted my ‘jane seymour x haunting through art’ compilation post on her facebook page …

[willowwispfox]

I’m feeling bold and chatty today, usually I’m pretty quiet on tumblr and my chatter is saved for my artfol. I even posted some artwork which I rarely do outside of my art sites just, out of fear i guess? But I got the good vibes going today so I guess that’s finally been put towards posting on here for once.

I hope y’all out there who see this have a good day too, sending positive vibes your way!!