#genuinely feels like there’s nothing there in my chest

[the-winter-spider]

I miss you, I'm sorry

Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 10k+

Warnings: Toxic, angst, smut

A/N: I love Gracie, and was like fuck it gonna toss something together based off my fav songs by her

The air feels heavy, even though the room is quiet. You sit cross-legged on your bed, your phone resting beside you, the screen dim and blank. The minutes bleed into each other, but you can’t stop glancing at the clock, as if willing it to rewind to before it all.

It’s been three days. Three days of no texts, no calls, no nothing. That’s how it always goes with Bucky. He’s there, and then he’s not. And every time, you tell yourself it’ll be the last time you wait for him to come back.

It never is.

You hate him for how easy it is to disappear. You hate yourself more for letting him.

The phone rings.

The sharp sound cuts through the haze of your thoughts, and for a moment, your heart skips. You snatch the phone up, seeing his name flash across the screen. The sight of it sends a rush of relief, anger, and something softer, something stupidly hopeful, all at once.

You answer, but don’t say anything.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet, gravelly. Tired.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Hey.”

The silence stretches, brittle and uncomfortable. You can hear him breathing on the other end, steady and soft. It reminds you of the way his breath felt against your skin the last time he stayed over, the last time he let himself get too close before pulling away again.

“I shouldn’t have called,” he mutters finally, his voice tight. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”

You close your eyes. There it is again, the push and pull. The way he says he shouldn’t but always does. The way he drags you back into his orbit every time, knowing you’ll stay.

“What do you want, Bucky?” you ask, keeping your voice steady. It’s a question you’ve asked a hundred times, and you already know the answer.

He exhales sharply, like he’s frustrated—at you, at himself, you’re not sure. “I don’t know.” Another pause. “You were right, okay? About everything. I just…” His voice trails off, and you can picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s trying to find the words. “I hate this.”

“Hate what?” you snap, the simmering frustration bubbling to the surface. “Hate that you always come back? Or hate that you can’t figure out what the hell you want?”

He doesn’t answer. He never does when you call him out like this.

The silence makes your chest ache. You shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “You can’t keep doing this, Bucky. You can’t keep pulling me back just to push me away again. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” he whispers. And he sounds so broken, so genuine, that it cracks something inside you. It always does.

You take a shaky breath. “Then why do you do it?”

“I don’t know,” he says again. His voice is quieter now, softer, like he’s afraid of breaking you more than he already has. “Because you’re the only thing that feels real. And I don’t know how to hold onto it without screwing it up.”

Your throat tightens. You wish you didn’t understand. But you do. He’s always been good at giving you just enough to stay, but never enough to feel whole. “Its not enough Buck”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “But it’s all I’ve got, you're all i truly have."

You sighed running your head through your hair “Do you wanna come over?”

“I’m already on my way”

You don't have to wait long. The sound of his motorcycle pulling up to your place makes your stomach do a little flip, even though you're still mad at him. You hear his heavy boots on the stairs, and then a soft knock at your door.

You take a deep breath before opening it. He's standing there, his hair tousled from the ride, his face tight and tired. He looks at you, and for a moment, it's like all the walls come down. He reaches out, cupping your face with his hand, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice rough. "I'm so fucking sorry."

And just like that, you melt. You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed. His other hand comes up to wrap around your waist, pulling you close. He smells like leather and cigarettes and something uniquely him.

"I missed you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "I hate not seeing you."

"I hate it too," you whisper back. "But you can't keep doing this, Bucky. You can't keep hurting me."

He makes a soft, broken sound. "I know. I'm trying, okay? I'm really trying."

The door closes softly behind them, the click of the lock echoing in the charged silence. Bucky's hand is still cupping your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed as you breathe him in. He smells like leather and smoke, like home and danger all rolled into one.

You press yourself against him, feeling the hard planes of his body through his clothes. He's solid and warm and real, and it's been too long since you've felt him like this. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he claims your mouth in a hungry kiss.

You moan into it, your fingers tangling in his hair. He kisses like your fights- fierce and intense, like he's trying to claim every inch of you. You kiss back just as fiercely, your tongue sliding against his as you lose yourself in the feel of him.

He walks you backwards towards the bed, his hands roaming your body as he goes. He breaks the kiss only to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His mouth is back on yours before you can even blink, his hands cupping your breasts through your bra.

You arch into his touch, your nipples hardening under his palms. He groans low in his throat, his hips pressing forward to grind against yours. You can feel his hardness through his jeans, and it makes you ache with need.

He breaks the kiss again, trailing his lips down your neck as his hands work to unclasp your bra. It falls to the floor, joining the growing pile of clothes. He takes a moment to look at you, his eyes dark with desire as they rake over your naked breasts.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he murmurs, his hands cupping the soft mounds. You gasp as his thumbs brush over your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

He leans down, taking one of the hardened peaks into his mouth. You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he sucks and licks and nibbles. Your hips buck against his, seeking friction, and he groans around your nipple, the vibrations making you shiver.

He gives the other breast the same attention, lavishing it with kisses and bites until you're writhing beneath him. Only then does he move lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach as he kneels before you.

His hands hook in the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down along with your panties. You step out of them, kicking them aside as he looks up at you from his knees. The sight of him there, kneeling before you like you're a goddess to be worshipped, makes your knees weak.

"Bucky," you breathe, and it's half plea, half prayer.

He grins up at you, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Patience, baby. I'm going to take my time with you."

And then his mouth is on you, his tongue delving between your folds to taste you. You cry out, your head falling back as pleasure crashes over you. He licks and sucks and teases, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place as he devours you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to you as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. Just when you think you can't take anymore, he pulls back, leaving you gasping and empty.

"Bucky, please," you whimper, and he chuckles darkly.

"Please what, baby? Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you pant, looking down at him with desperation in your eyes. "I want you inside me."

He stands up, pulling you flush against him as he captures your mouth in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you even more aroused. His hands grip your ass, kneading the flesh as he grinds his hardness against your bare core.

"Bed," he growls against your lips, and you nod frantically, tugging him towards the mattress.

You tumble onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and desire. He breaks the kiss to sit up, yanking his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. You take a moment to admire the hard planes of his chest, the scars that crisscross his skin like a roadmap of his past.

He crawls back over you, his hips settling between your thighs as he reaches for his belt. You watch, transfixed, as he unbuckles it and shoves his jeans and boxers down, freeing him.

He settles back over you, his head brushing against your entrance. You shudder at the contact, your hips lifting to try and draw him in.

"Tell me you want this," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," you breathe, wrapping your legs around his waist. "I want all of you."

And with that, he thrusts into you, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders as you adjust to the stretch.

He pauses for a moment, letting you get used to him. Then he starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. You meet him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to take him deeper.

The bed creaks beneath you as he sets a relentless pace, driving into you again and again. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, burying his face in your neck. "So perfect."

You clench around him in response, and he curses, his hips snapping forward harder.

"I'm gonna come," you gasp, your body tensing beneath him. "Bucky, I'm gonna-"

But he cuts off your words with a kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure as you come undone beneath him. Your body spasms around him, milking him as he follows you over the edge with a hoarse shout of your name.

He collapses on top of you, both of you gasping for breath as the aftershocks of your orgasms roll through you. He presses soft kisses to your neck, your jawline, your lips as you bask in the afterglow.

"I love you," he murmurs against your skin, and you hope it's just not the sex talking.

Later that week, you’re sitting at a bar with Natasha. She watches you nurse your drink, her sharp green eyes narrowing as you tell her what happened.

“He called,” you say, staring down at the condensation on your glass. “And like an idiot, I picked up, and he came over, we had sex and he was gone in the morning”

Natasha doesn’t say anything at first. She just leans back, crossing her arms. “What do you want me to say?” she asks finally. “That he’s going to change? That this time will be different?”

You shake your head. “No. I just…” You trail off, struggling to put the feeling into words. “I just wish I didn’t miss him so much. I wish I could stop.”

She sighs, leaning forward. “Listen to me,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “He’s not going to fix this. You know that, right? He’s not going to wake up one day and suddenly figure out how to love you the way you deserve. That’s not who he is, you have to know that babe…"

“I know,” you whisper. But the ache in your chest doesn’t go away.

Natasha exhales deeply, tilting her head as if trying to decide whether to push further. Finally, she sets her drink down and leans across the table, her voice quieter but no less serious. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna keep answering when he calls? Keep letting him come over, screw you and your head, and leave like nothing happened?”

You don’t answer, just trace the edge of your glass with your finger. The truth is, you don’t have a plan. You’re not even sure you want one. “He said he loves me, he's never said that before”

Natasha leans back in her chair, crossing her arms as she studies you. Her sharp green eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no satisfaction in her expression. She doesn’t look impressed, doesn’t look relieved, like you’d hoped she might. Instead, her face softens, just slightly, in that way that means she’s about to say something you don’t want to hear.

“Okay,” she says slowly, her voice calm but pointed. “And what does that change?”

Her question hits like a bucket of cold water, and you blink at her, your fingers freezing mid-trace on the rim of your glass. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, so what?” Natasha continues, leaning forward now, her elbows on the table. “He said the words. Great. But what does that actually mean to you? Did it make you feel better? Did it fix anything?”

You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. The truth sits heavy in your chest.

“It’s not enough just to say it,” Natasha presses, her tone still steady but with an edge of frustration. “Love isn’t just words. It’s showing up. It’s consistency. It’s choosing someone, not just when it’s convenient, but every single day. Did he do that? Or did he just say what you’ve been waiting to hear and then disappear again?”

The ache in your chest tightens, and you look down, your fingers clutching the glass like it might hold the answers you’re searching for. “He—he’s trying,” you say weakly, but even you don’t sound convinced.

Natasha lets out a breath, her voice softening again. “Babe… I know you want to believe him. I know you love him. But this?” She gestures vaguely, as if to encompass all of it—your tears, the late-night calls, the endless cycle. “This isn’t what love is supposed to feel like. Love doesn’t leave you questioning your worth every time the sun comes up.”

The words settle over you like a weight, and you swallow hard, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill. You don’t want her to see you cry. Not here. Not like this.

“Nat…” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. But she shakes her head, her expression soft but unyielding.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” she says gently. “I just… I want you to be happy. And you’re not happy right now. You haven’t been for a long time.”

Before you can respond, the stool next to her screeches, and Sam slides into it, his energy a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere between you and Nat. He plunks his beer on the table and gives you a once-over.

“Well, you look like someone stole your puppy,” he says, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

Natasha shoots him a look. “Not the time, Sam.”

“I’m just saying,” he replies, leaning back and gesturing to you. “She’s been sitting here all night, looking like a sad indie song, and you’re just gonna let her wallow?”

You glare at him, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “Do you have something to say, or are you just here to make jokes?”

“Both,” Sam says, taking a sip of his beer before setting it down. “Look, I love you, but this thing with Bucky? It’s killing you, and everyone can see it. Hell, you can see it, but you’re still pretending like it’s gonna work itself out.”

“Sam,” Natasha warns, but he holds up a hand.

“No, let me finish,” he says, his voice more serious now. “I’ve been where you are, okay? Hanging onto something that’s breaking you because you’re scared to let it go. But you know what happens if you keep holding on?” He pauses, meeting your eyes. “You lose yourself. And I don’t want that for you.”

His words hit harder than you expect, and for a moment, all you can do is sit there, blinking back the tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t know how to let him go,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am without him.”

Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Then it’s time to figure that out. Because you deserve better than waiting around for someone who doesn’t see how amazing you are—not someone who only comes around when it’s convenient for him.”

After Sam and Natasha head home, you find yourself walking through the quiet streets, your hands shoved into your coat pockets. The city hums around you, but you feel untethered, like you’re floating between who you are and who you want to be.

Before you realize it, your feet take you to Bucky’s building. You stop at the corner, staring up at the windows. The lights in his apartment are off, but you know he’s there. He’s always there.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, your heart sinking when you see his name.

Bucky: You up?

The message is simple, familiar, and infuriatingly tempting. Your thumb hovers over the screen.

You: Yes, just leaving the bar.

Bucky: Ill see you in 20.

You see his light flick on.

You: Okay.

You’re sitting in your apartment with Steve. He’d shown up unexpectedly, a bag of bagels in one hand and a concerned look on his face. Now, he’s watching you carefully as you pick at your food, the silence between you growing heavier by the minute.

“I heard about last night,” he says eventually, breaking the stillness.

You glance up, narrowing your eyes. “Natasha?”

“Sam,” he admits with a small smile, but his expression stays serious. “He’s worried about you. We all are.”

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. “I’m fine, Steve.”

“You’re not fine,” he says gently, setting his coffee down on the table. “And it’s okay to not be fine. But you need to stop punishing yourself for wanting more than what Bucky can give you.”

Your chest tightens, and you look away, your voice barely audible. “He’s not a bad person, Steve. He’s just… broken.”

“I know he is,” Steve says softly, his tone patient but firm. “And I know he cares about you, even if he’s too scared to show it. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep hurting yourself to save him.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you ask the question that’s been clawing at you for days. “Is he seeing anyone else?”

Steve freezes mid-bite, his jaw tightening. “Yes.”

You nod slowly, your hands trembling as you set your plate down on the coffee table. “Are they… are they having sex?”

Steve’s shoulders sag slightly, and he shakes his head. “No.”

The relief you feel is fleeting, quickly replaced by another ache—something deeper, sharper. “He told me he loves me, y’know,” you whisper, your voice cracking.

That makes Steve freeze completely. He sets his bagel down, staring at you with wide, startled eyes. “He said that?”

You nod, the words pouring out of you now, unfiltered and raw. “He’s never said it before. And I didn’t know what to do. Because it felt… real. For a second, it felt like maybe this time was different. But then he was gone the next morning, like always.”

Steve leans back in his chair, his brow furrowed, like he’s trying to process what you’ve just said. “Did he mean it?” he asks finally, his voice cautious.

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes. “I don’t know, Steve. Does it matter? He says one thing, but everything else he does just…” You trail off, shaking your head.

“It matters,” Steve says firmly, leaning forward. “If he loves you, that’s something. But love isn’t enough if he can’t show it, if he can’t make you feel it.” Steve is quiet for a long moment, his expression pained. “You deserve more than that,” he says finally. “You deserve someone who’s not afraid to fight for you. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re asking for too much just by being yourself.”

-----------

The music is loud, pulsing through the crowded bar in a steady rhythm that matches the pounding in your chest. You're friends are off dancing their cares away, while you sit at a small table near the corner, nursing your drink, half-hidden in the dim lighting. The condensation from the glass drips onto your hand, but you barely notice.

Your eyes keep drifting to him.

Bucky is across the room, his arm slung casually around another woman’s shoulders. She’s laughing, tilting her head toward him like he’s just told her the funniest joke in the world. He looks… relaxed. At ease in a way you haven’t seen in a long time, and it’s like someone’s taken a knife to your chest, twisting it deeper with every passing second.

You force yourself to look away, staring into the amber liquid in your glass like it holds answers to questions you’re too scared to ask. But it doesn’t work. Your gaze flickers back to him, almost involuntarily.

They’re dancing now, swaying to a song you don’t recognize. His hand rests lightly on her hip, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her dress in a way that feels too intimate, too familiar.

And then he kisses her.

Not on the lips, but on her head, his lips lingering against her hair as she leans into him. It’s tender, effortless, the kind of gesture that feels natural, like it belongs to someone who knows how to love without hesitation.

Your chest tightens, and you swallow the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to take another sip of your drink. The bitterness burns your tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through you.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That this doesn’t matter. That he’s made his choice, and it isn’t you.

But the truth is, it matters too much.

You drain the rest of your drink, the cold liquid going down in one sharp swallow. You set the glass down harder than you mean to, the dull thud lost in the noise of the bar.

You glance over at him one last time, just to confirm what you already know. He’s still there, his attention focused on her.

But then his eyes shift.

He sees you.

For a split second, your gazes lock across the room, and the weight of his stare pins you in place. His hand pauses on her back, and something flickers in his expression—guilt, maybe, or regret.

You can’t tell, and you’re not sure you want to.

The heat of his gaze follows you as you stand, slipping your bag over your shoulder and making your way toward the door. The noise of the bar fades into the background as you weave through the crowd, your footsteps quick and purposeful.

You don’t look back, but you can feel him watching you, his eyes lingering like a phantom touch that burns even after you’re gone.

The cold night air hits your face as you step outside, and you inhale deeply, trying to push the ache in your chest away.

But it stays. It always stays.

That night, you’re curled up on your couch, a blanket wrapped around you as the city lights flicker through the window. Your phone sits on the coffee table, dark and silent.

Until it’s not.

The screen lights up, and Bucky’s name appears. The voicemail notification lingers like a ghost, and your hand trembles as you reach for it.

You press play, his voice cracking through the silence.

“I know I’ve screwed this up. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But I miss you, and I don’t know how to do this without you. Please… just call me, I’m sorry”

-------

You find him outside on the balcony, leaning heavily against the railing, his shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on him. The cold night air bites at your skin, and the faint glow of the streetlights below casts shadows that dance across his face. He doesn’t turn when you step out. He never does. That’s the thing about Bucky—he always knows you’re there, but he’s mastered the art of pretending not to.

The sound of the sliding door closing behind you feels final, like you’ve just stepped into a space you won’t come back from. Your arms wrap around yourself, a weak defense against the cold—or maybe against him—and you take a hesitant step forward.

“I thought you left,” you say, breaking the fragile quiet. Your voice wavers, as unsure as the ground you’re standing on.

He finally looks over his shoulder, his eyes heavy and rimmed with shadows. He looks wrecked. Tired in a way that no amount of sleep could fix. “Almost did,” he says softly, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the city.

You step closer, your chest tightening at his words, at the way he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift to let you in. “Why didn’t you?”

He shrugs, turning back to the skyline, his fingers gripping the railing. “I haven’t heard from you all week.”

The ache in your chest sharpens at his tone, a flicker of hope you hate sneaking in despite yourself. It’s always like this: just enough vulnerability to keep you tethered. You stop a few feet away, the space between you feeling like a canyon, impossible to bridge.

“This isn’t working,” you say, finally voicing the thought that’s been clawing at you for weeks. “Whatever this is. It’s not working, Bucky.”

He doesn’t react at first, just keeps staring out at the city, like it holds an answer he’s too afraid to look for. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough. “I know.”

The simplicity of his admission steals your breath. It’s not that you didn’t expect it. You did. You’ve been here before, standing on the edge of this same cliff, waiting for the inevitable fall.

“So why are we still here?” you ask, your voice trembling, tinged with a desperation you wish you could hide.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. The motion is frustrated, exhausted, like he’s tired of his own indecision. “Because I don’t know how to stop,” he admits, his words cutting through the night air with brutal honesty.

You take another step closer, close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles turn white as he grips the railing. “Bucky,” you say, your voice soft but breaking. “I need more than this. I need to know if you’re ever going to stop running every time things get hard. Because I can’t keep waiting for you to figure it out.”

He turns to face you then, his blue eyes locking onto yours. There’s something in them—something raw and fragile and so heartbreakingly familiar. For a fleeting second, you think this is it. The moment he’ll finally tell you what you’ve been waiting to hear.

But then he looks away, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know if I can.”

The nausea hits you like a punch, twisting your stomach into knots. You take a shaky step back, wrapping your arms around yourself like it might keep you from falling apart. “Do you even want to try?”

His silence is deafening, an answer in itself.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “I’m standing here, practically begging you to tell me you care, and you can’t even do that.”

“I care,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know I care.”

“Do I?” Your voice rises, anger bubbling to the surface, breaking through the pain. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. You say you care, but you act like I’m something you can pick up and put down whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“Stop,” he says, his voice suddenly firm, his eyes snapping back to yours. There’s something desperate in his tone, something pleading that makes your breath hitch. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this.”

“No, Bucky.” You shake your head, your voice trembling with fury and heartbreak. “You just don’t want to. And there’s a difference.”

The words hang between you, heavy and suffocating. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, but then he stops. His eyes dart back to the city skyline, and you see it—the war he’s waging with himself, the battle between what he wants and what he’s too scared to reach for.

“Say something,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of the moment. “Say anything.”

“I’m seeing someone,” he says suddenly, his hands gripping the railing so tightly you half expect it to snap. The words hit like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs.

The world around you tilts. Your hands tremble as you take a step back. “Of course you are,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The bitter laugh that follows feels like it belongs to someone else. “I’m done.”

You turn toward the sliding door, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shatter. Your hand trembles as you reach for the handle, pausing for just a second, hoping—praying—he’ll stop you. That he’ll fight.

But the silence stretches on, heavier and colder than the night air.

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s still standing there, staring down at the city like he’s already let you go.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to slide the door open and step back inside. The warmth of the apartment hits you like a slap, but it does nothing to ease the chill in your chest.

The door slides shut with a quiet thud.

And Bucky doesn’t follow.

You’d just moved into a new apartment, one that wasn't tainted with all the places he'd touched, places he'd been. It made things easier it wasn't the reason for your move but it helped. Natasha had decided you were both done unpacking for the night so naturally she had dragged you to a party. Steve’s place, of course. The apartment was alive with the energy of too many people crammed into too little space. Natasha had disappeared into a circle of friends near the kitchen, leaving you to nurse your drink in a corner. That’s when you noticed him.

Bucky.

He was leaning against the wall, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Dark hair falling into his eyes, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder despite the heat of the crowded room. He didn’t see you at first, but when he did, his gaze lingered just long enough to make your pulse race.

You told yourself you wouldn’t approach him, but an hour later, you were pressed against the wall in Steve’s hallway, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t get close enough. It was messy, impulsive, and thrilling.

“We probably shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, your breath catching as his mouth moved against your collarbone.

He’d laughed softly, his voice low and rough. “Yeah. Probably not.”

Neither of you stopped.

There were moments after that—moments that felt like everything you’d ever wanted. Late nights in his apartment, the room dimly lit by the glow of the city outside. He’d lie next to you, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your arm as you talked about everything and nothing.

He’d tell you about his childhood, the things he rarely told anyone. The weight of his past. And you’d listen, feeling like you were peeling back layers of him that no one else had ever seen.

“You don’t have to fix me,” he’d murmured once, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I like being around you.”

You’d smiled, brushing his hair back from his face. “I’m not trying to fix you, Bucky.”

And in those moments, you weren’t lying.

But then there were the other moments. The ones where he pulled away so fast it left you reeling.

You remember the first time he didn’t text you back. It wasn’t just hours—it was days. Days of overanalyzing every word you’d said to him the last time you saw him. Days of your stomach twisting every time your phone buzzed, only for it to not be him.

When he finally did text, it was so casual it made you want to scream.

“Hey. You good?”

No apology. No explanation. Just like that, he was back. And you let him back in because you didn’t know how not to.

And then there was the jealousy. The way you’d catch him talking to someone else at a party, his body language so open and inviting in a way it rarely was with you. You hated how it made you feel, the bitterness that bubbled up, the way you wanted to pull him aside and demand to know if he cared about you at all.

But you didn’t. You never did.

“Do you even want to move on?” Wanda asks, her tone soft but pointed. “Or is this just who you are now?”

You blink at her, her words cutting through the haze of your thoughts. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

She sighs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “You deserve better, you know that, right?”

The door swings open, and Natasha walks in, dropping her bag on the counter. She gives you a look, one that’s equal parts sympathetic and exasperated.

“Let me guess,” she says, crossing her arms. “You’re thinking about him again.”

You don’t answer, but the way your jaw tightens is enough for her to roll her eyes. “You know he’s not good for you. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I don’t know,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. “Maybe because it’s not that simple.”

“Actually, it is,” Natasha retorts, her voice sharp. “You stop calling him. You stop answering when he calls. You stop letting him treat you like an afterthought.”

“Nat—” Wanda starts, her tone soothing, but Natasha holds up a hand.

“No, she needs to hear this.” She looks at you again, her expression softening just slightly. “I know you care about him. But caring about him isn’t enough if he doesn’t care about you the same way. At some point, you have to start putting yourself first.”

You glance away, her words hitting too close to home.

“I don’t get you,” you’d once said your voice trembling with frustration. “One minute you’re here, and it feels like—like maybe this could be something. And the next, you’re gone.”

He’d run a hand through his hair, pacing the room. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is, Bucky,” you’d said, your voice rising. “You either want me, or you don’t. So which is it?”

He’d stopped then, turning to look at you. And the look on his face—it wasn’t anger or indifference. It was fear.

“I don’t know,” he’d said finally, his voice breaking.

And that was the worst part.

“You’re spiraling,” Sam said. He wasn’t harsh about it, but he didn’t sugarcoat it either. “This isn’t love. It’s self-destruction.”

Even as you think it, your phone buzzes on the coffee table. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, pulling everyone’s attention. You glance at the screen, and your heart skips when you see his name. Just his name—no message preview, no context, just him.

Wanda notices, her brow furrowing as she leans forward. “Don’t,” she says softly, but there’s a weight behind the word, a plea. “You’ll just end up back where you started.”

You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the notification. The silence in the room grows heavier, charged with unspoken tension. Your chest tightens as your mind races. It would be so easy. Just one tap, and he’d be there again. One tap, and you’d hear his voice, feel the pull that always brings you back.

“I just…” Your voice falters, your eyes flickering to Wanda and then to Sam, who watches you with a mix of concern and frustration. “What if this time it’s different?”

Sam lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand over his face. “You think this time is different? Come on. What’s he going to say that he hasn’t already said a hundred times before?”

“It’s not about what he says,” Wanda interjects, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s about what he does. And what has he done, really, except hurt you?”

You look back at the screen. The notification is still there, a glaring reminder of the mess you can’t seem to escape. Your thumb presses down slightly, not enough to open it but enough to feel the weight of the choice.

“But I love him,” you whisper. The words tumble out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered.

Sam exhales sharply, standing up from the chair and pacing across the room. “Yeah, we know. Everyone knows. But does he love you? Because if he does, he’s got a real shitty way of showing it.”

You flinch at his tone, the harshness cutting through your defenses. “He does love me,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him.

“Then where is he?” Sam snaps, turning to face you. “Why isn’t he here, fighting for you instead of blowing up your phone every time he feels lonely? Why is it always you doing the heavy lifting?”

Wanda places a hand on Sam’s arm, pulling him back gently. “Sam…”

“No, I need to say it,” he says, his voice softer now but still firm. “Love isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s not supposed to feel like you’re drowning every damn day just to keep him afloat.”

The bar is too loud, too crowded, and too filled with memories of Bucky for you to feel at ease. But you’re here because it’s Steve’s birthday, and Natasha had insisted. And of course you came it was Steve.

You’re leaning against the bar, talking to a man you barely know. His smile is easy, his laugh smooth, and even though you’re trying to focus on him, you can feel Bucky’s eyes on you. From across the room, his gaze burns into your back, searing through your dress like a brand.

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for a split second. The tension in his jaw, the way his drink sits untouched in his hand—it’s the most emotion he’s shown all night. But it’s not enough to stop you.

If he wants to act like he doesn’t care, you’ll give him something to not care about.

The man beside you leans in, his hand brushing against your arm as he says something you don’t quite catch over the noise. You laugh, even though you barely hear the joke. You laugh because you know Bucky is watching.

It doesn’t take long for him to snap.

Before you realize what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist. Firm but not rough, his grip sends a jolt through you. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice low and clipped.

“Excuse me?” You pull back, glaring at him, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

“We’re leaving,” he says, not looking at you, not giving the man beside you so much as a glance.

“Bucky—” you start, but he’s already pulling you through the crowd, weaving between bodies with single-minded determination.

By the time you reach his apartment, you’re seething. He slams the door shut behind you, the sound echoing through the dimly lit space.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, crossing your arms.

“My problem?” he fires back, pacing across the room like a caged animal. “My problem is you acting like that guy meant anything to you!”

“Oh, and you would know what means something to me, right?” You take a step closer, your voice rising. “Because you’re so good at showing me how much I mean to you.”

He stops, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t turn this on me.”

“Why not? It’s always about you, isn’t it, Bucky? What you want, what you feel. You drag me into your mess every time, and I let you, because I—”

You stop yourself, your breath catching.

“Because you what?” he demands, his voice sharp.

“Because I care about you!” you yell, your chest heaving. “And all you ever do is hurt me for it.”

His face twists, like your words hit him somewhere deep. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, that he’s going to explain or apologize or do something, but instead, he grabs a plate from the counter and hurls it against the wall. The sharp crash reverberates through the room, the pieces scattering across the floor like jagged confessions neither of you are ready to face.

You flinch at the sound, but the fire in your chest burns brighter, fueled by the chaos. “Oh, real mature, Bucky. Breaking dishes? That’s your solution? Just break things until you don’t have to feel anything anymore?”

He grabs another plate, his hand trembling as he grips it, his knuckles white. His voice breaks as he yells, “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t know I’m screwing this up? That I don’t hate myself for it?”

“Then stop!” you shout back, your voice raw and cracking under the weight of it all. “Stop hurting me, stop dragging me back, stop—just stop!”

The plate shakes in his hand, and for a second, you think he’s going to throw it again. Instead, he slams it down on the counter with a hollow thud. His shoulders slump as he leans over it, his head bowed like he’s trying to hold himself together. His breathing is ragged, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly you think it might break under the strain.

“I don’t know how,” he whispers finally, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

The vulnerability in his voice slices through you, but it’s not enough. Not this time. The ache in your chest is unbearable, your heart breaking as you look at the man you love and realize he’ll never love you the way you need him to.

“Then let me go, Bucky,” you say, your voice trembling but resolute. “If you can’t give me what I need, let me go.”

He finally turns to face you, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking like the plates he just shattered. “I don’t want to let you go.”

Your chest tightens, the pain twisting deeper with every word. “Aren’t you seeing someone?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

He shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “She’s not you,” he says, his voice trembling. “They’re never you.”

The admission stuns you into silence for a moment. The tears you’ve been holding back spill over, hot and heavy. “Then why can’t you give me that, Bucky?” you whisper, your voice shaking with anger and grief. “Why can you give it to them but not to me? Why is it always me who’s left bleeding for you? It’s not fair—I give you everything! And you just take, take, take! What’s left of me after this?”

Your words hang between you, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t even try to apologize. He just stares at you, his eyes wide and desperate, like he’s drowning in the mess he’s made.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. His touch is rough, almost frantic, his fingers trembling against your skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

And before you can say anything, before you can even catch your breath, his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is desperate and messy, his tears mixing with yours as he pulls you closer like he’s afraid to let go. His hands shake as they cup your face, his lips pressing against yours with a fierceness that makes your knees weak.

You hate how easily you give in, how quickly your hands find their way to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. The anger and pain and longing all bleed together in that kiss, every unspoken word, every broken promise, every piece of you he’s taken without giving anything back.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. “But I can’t lose you. Please… don’t leave me.” He whispers his voice trembling

Your heart shatters all over again. “Okay”

Bucky’s hands tighten on your arms, his breath warm and uneven against your face. His lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching yours for something—permission, maybe, or forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. You don’t give it to him, but you don’t pull away either.

Instead, your hands move on their own, sliding up his chest and curling into the fabric of his shirt. The tension between you snaps like a live wire as he closes the distance again, his mouth crashing against yours with a desperation that leaves no room for hesitation.

The kiss deepens, his lips parting yours, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His hands roam down your sides, fingers gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. You press closer, your body molding to his as the frustration and anger between you melt into something darker, hotter, and infinitely more consuming.

Bucky backs you up until your hips hit the edge of the counter, the cool surface biting into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. His hands slide up your thighs, his touch firm and deliberate as he lifts you onto the counter. You gasp against his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours in all the right ways.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and breathless. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your chest heaving as you meet his gaze. His blue eyes are dark, filled with a mix of longing and uncertainty that tugs at something deep inside you. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need.

That’s all it takes. He grips the hem of your dress and pulls it up, his hands sliding over your thighs, rough and calloused against your skin. His lips trail down your neck, his stubble scraping lightly against you as he kisses the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your head tilts back, a soft moan escaping your lips as his hands and mouth make you forget every argument, every broken moment that led you here.

His fingers find the edge of your underwear, his touch teasing as he looks up at you, waiting. You nod, your breath hitching as he slides them aside, his fingers exploring with a skill that leaves you trembling. He watches you intently, his gaze locked on your face as he learns every reaction, every sound you make.

When his name slips from your lips, low and needy, it’s like something inside him snaps. He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to the couch with a strength that leaves you dizzy. The world blurs around you, your focus narrowing to the feel of his body against yours, the weight of his hands, the intensity of his gaze.

“You’re all I think about,” he says, his voice raw as he settles over you. “Every damn day.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The only response you can give is the way you arch into him, the way you pull him closer, needing him as much as he needs you. And when he finally joins you, it’s slow and deliberate, every movement designed to pull you deeper into the storm of him.

The morning light seeps through the curtains as you stand by his window, fully dressed, the quiet hum of the city below serving as your only company. Bucky is still asleep in the bed, his arm draped across the pillow where you had been just hours ago. You glance at him one last time, your heart clenching in your chest. For a fleeting moment, you consider crawling back into bed, letting yourself believe in the softness of this moment.

But you can’t.

You quietly grab your things and slip out the door, the sound of it clicking shut behind you feeling heavier than it should.

By mid-morning, you’ve buried yourself in mundane errands—anything to keep your mind from circling back to him. You’re at the farmer’s market now, weaving through the stalls of fresh produce and flowers, the air filled with the faint scent of lavender and bread. You clutch a tote bag tightly in your hand, trying to focus on the vibrant colors of the fruit in front of you.

You pick up an apple, turning it over in your hand absently. It’s almost enough to distract you from the ache still lodged in your chest. Almost.

Until you see him.

You freeze, the apple slipping from your grasp and thudding softly onto the wooden table in front of you. Your breath catches, and the world seems to narrow until it’s just him, standing only a few stalls away.

His dark hair catches the sunlight, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed, like the night before never ended. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and filled with a mix of emotions you can’t quite place—shock, guilt, something softer that makes your chest tighten painfully.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, suspended in time. Everyone else around you fades into nothing, their chatter and laughter muffled like the background of a dream.

But then your gaze shifts.

To her.

The woman standing beside him.

Her hand is clasped firmly in his, their fingers intertwined in a way that feels too familiar, too intimate. She’s beautiful, her expression warm and open as she looks up at him, clearly unaware of the storm brewing between his gaze and yours.

Your stomach twists violently, and the apple you’d forgotten about rolls off the edge of the table and hits the ground.

Bucky’s face changes when he sees you notice her, his eyes softening with guilt, his mouth parting as if he wants to say something, anything. But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, holding her hand, while your chest caves in.

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you force yourself to look away, your vision blurring with unshed tears. You clutch your tote bag tighter and turn, walking away without another word.

You barely make it out of the market before the tears spill over. You wipe them away furiously, your hands trembling as you duck into a side street, out of view from the crowds.

The weight of his gaze lingers on your back, like a hand reaching out but never quite touching you. You can feel him watching you, but you don’t dare turn around. You can’t.

You stop for a moment, your chest heaving as you lean against the wall of a brick building. The morning sun feels too bright, the world too loud despite the hollow silence pounding in your ears.

He didn’t follow.

You told yourself you didn’t want him to, but the ache in your chest says otherwise.

When you glance back toward the market, just for a second, you see him standing at the edge of the stalls, his hand no longer in hers, his face etched with something that looks like regret.

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

With a deep breath, you wipe your face one last time, adjust the strap of your tote bag, and walk away. The weight in your chest feels unbearable, but your feet keep moving anyway.

The apartment is quiet that night, the silence pressing down on you as you sit by the window, staring out at the city lights. You tell yourself you’re not waiting for him, but your phone sits beside you on the windowsill, the screen dark but heavy with possibilities.

It’s almost midnight when the buzz breaks the silence. You glance at the screen, your heart stopping when you see his name.

The message is simple. “Please, can we talk? I miss you…I’m sorry”

[xoxo-sarah]

Visiting Home for the Holidays

↝a/n: for my people who don't celebrate Thanksgiving, you can interpret this as Steve meeting your parents for the first time. 🩷

↝pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

↝warning: Thanksgiving? Not proof read, rushed

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Steve Harrington, or any character from Stranger Things. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

↝⎙ 11.27.24

Steve Harrington masterlist | main masterlist

Steve stood at the edge of the driveway, his heart pounding in his chest. He adjusted his brown sweater for what felt like the hundredth time. You had told him it looked good on him.

He glanced nervously at the front door. The memory of his disastrous first meeting with Nancy's parents played on a loop in his mind. He could still hear the awkward silences, feel the judgmental stares, and remember the feeling of not being good enough. He remembered passing by the house and feeling ashamed when he caught the eye of Mr. Wheeler as he mowed the lawn. Truthfully, Mr. Wheeler hadn't thought of Steve since that night. That didn't change the fact that it haunted Steve. The thought of repeating that experience made his palms sweat and his stomach churn.

"Steve, it's going to be okay," you said, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "They're going to love you."

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "I just... I don't want to mess this up." Last time, it was a disaster. He didn't dare say the last sentence. This is different. It's a different time with different people. He's changed. He's not King Steve. You're not her.

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "You're amazing, and they're going to see that."

Steve nodded, taking comfort in your words. "Okay, let's do this." With one last deep breath, he followed you up the walkway, feeling a little more confident with each step.

Peering eyes watched through the window, in-between the curtains. Excited eyes softened and protective eyes glared, slightly wavering as you slightly smiled. You were happy.

As you knocked on the door, he glanced at you, and you gave him a reassuring smile. The door opened, and your parents greeted you both warmly. Steve felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease as he saw the welcoming expressions on their faces.

Dinner was a cozy affair, filled with laughter and stories. Steve found himself relaxing more and more as the evening went on. Your parents were kind and engaging, nothing like the cold reception he had feared. Every now and then, he'd catch your eye, and your encouraging smile would give him the boost he needed to keep going.

"Steve," your dad started, a hint of question as he said the name, not sure if that was right. He gave time for correction, but it never came so he continued, "Y/n tells us you work at a video store. How's that treating you?"

Steve started to feel that familiar anxiety creeping back. Then he felt your hand gently touch his under the table, grounding him.

He took a deep breath and began to talk, feeling more confident with each word. "It's fun; decent pay." He started, before going on about working with friends and his boss.

Your parents listened intently, nodding and smiling, genuinely interested in what he had to say.

By the end of the night, Steve was laughing and chatting comfortably with your parents, the initial nerves long forgotten. He realized that with you by his side, he could face anything.

As you said your goodbyes, your mother stopped you, bringing you into a hug. "He's a keeper," she whispered and grinned, pinching your cheek and your became embarrassed.

Your dad brought you closer to him, after shaking Steve's hand firmly. "Be careful on the roads. Holiday traffic is the worst."

Steve grabbed your hand and began walking back to the car, Steve turned to you, gratitude and affection shining in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I couldn't have done this without you."

You smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I knew you could do it. And now you know it too."

Steve smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the chill of the night air. He knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, with you by his side, he could handle them all.

After Steve opened your door, helping you get in without hitting your head, you turned back to the house as Steve rounded the car. Your parents stood on the edge of the porch, expressions soft. They waved, smiled gracing their face. Their little girl was with someone who seemed nice. He was respectful; he helped clean up and respected you and them. He listened when you talked, eyes scanning your face. A few times, they caught him smiling as he admired you. He even fixed a piece of hair that had fallen in your face.

They were willing to welcome him back anytime, as long as he made you happy.

•2021-2024 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I don't give permission!]

[earthchica]

Can't Hide Love

terry richmond x black, fem! reader

summary: you're afraid of getting hurt and denying the love you feel for Terry, so you reject him when he confesses his feelings for you, but later, you might regret that decision.

warnings: light angst, jealousy, playing mind games, use of the n-word, explicit smut (18+), dom/sub, thighjob, daddy kink, choking kink, unprotected sex, creampie, size kink, friends to lovers, nicknames (shorty, lil mama, baby, baby girl), words: 2k

note:

sequel to I Want You

-

You and Terry sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, the morning sunlight streaming through the window and casting a warm glow on your plates.

As you both chewed your breakfast, an unspoken tension filled the air, making the clinking of cutlery sound almost deafening. You couldn’t help but notice how Terry's eyes held yours, their intensity unyielding.

After an eternity, you decided to break the silence, leaning forward slightly as you finally said, "Last night was real fun but it can't happen again."

Terry clenched his jaw and looked at you, confused. "Wait, what, why?" He asked, his voice earnest and searching, his eyes trying to uncover the truth.

"I mean… if you think I only want sex, then you're mistaken. I like you a lot, shorty. I've felt this way for a while now and would love to take you on a date.” He added.

His expression shifted as he processed your confession. “I like you too, Terry, but…” Your voice trailed off, thick with hesitation and unspoken feelings.

You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. “I just don’t think I can handle anything more than what we have; let's stay friends,” you finished, hoping to keep things uncomplicated.

Terry's disappointment was noticeable, and he tried to conceal the hurt rising in his chest. He nodded as if he understood, even though every part of him wanted to question your rejection.

“Okay!” he said with a shrug, quickly finishing his orange juice to mask his feelings. He moved to the sink to clean his plate, the sound of clinking dishes filling the silence between you.

You were taken aback by his reaction. “Okay, that’s it?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you crossed your arms, a mix of disbelief and concern surfacing within you.

Terry turned his head slightly, a blank look on his face. “What do you want to say?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in genuine curiosity. You took a breath and shook your head. "Nothing."

The two of you left at that, and a few days went by after you rejected him. You were busy preparing for your art gallery opening, feeling excited and nervous.

When the event finally kicked off, you scanned the crowd hoping Terry was coming to at least to support you. Your heart skipped a beat when he walked in with a bouquet of roses.

“Yo, look who made it!” Terry called out with a broad smile, and you felt a rush of warmth. Terry approached you and hugged you quickly before pulling away and handing you the bouquet.

“These are for you. I’m proud of you, shorty, for real. These pieces are dope.” Terry said, honestly looking around at your artwork and your heart fluttered.

“Oh, thank you, Terry. It means a lot to have you here, I thought you weren't coming after, you know,” you replied, trying to keep it cool despite the knot of mixed feelings in your chest.

"Hey...despite that, we're good!" Terry said, reassuring you and placing his hand on your shoulder. You smiled brightly, moving your eyes away.

You waved your assistant over, who wasn't too far away to take the bouquet to you before going back to Terry. “Come on, I want to show you my favorites,” you said, leading him through the gallery.

As you walked, you pointed out different pieces. “This one is inspired by the culture of New Orleans. I wanted to capture that moment of the people.”

Terry nodded, genuinely impressed. “I see you, shorty! That’s hot!” You smiled and continued to show him your work, each piece sparking a conversation-filled detailed explanation.

Finally, you stopped before a special painting that you had kept hidden. “And this one,” you said nervously, “is for you.” As Terry looked at the painting, his eyes widened.

It was a portrait of him, perfectly capturing his eyes and bright smile. “Wow, you painted me? I don't remember you asking for permission to use my likeness,” he joked, grinning widely.

“But I'll let it slide because this is really dope, girl. You really outdid yourself. You’ve got me looking good!” Terry remarked, studying the details closely.

Your heart fluttered as you replied, “Thank you. I'm glad you love it; it means a lot to me.” Terry nodded and stepped back, admiring the piece fully with a playful smirk.

“You once said you only paint intimate pieces like this when you’re in love. So, what does this mean?” he asked, looking into your eyes, searching for an answer.

You rolled your eyes, turning away from him. “Terry, this isn't the time or place.”

He stepped a little closer, a teasing grin still on his face. “Come on now, don’t act like I ain't onto something here. You gotta admit, this painting is special—just like us.”

You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “For real, Terry, drop it.”

“Why you gotta be like that? You know deep down you love me,” he said, his voice earnest but still playful. “I mean, who else you gonna paint like that? You had that canvas waiting just for me.”

You laughed softly, but it was a nervous laugh. “It’s just art, Terry. Ain’t gotta mean all that. You know I paint a lot of folks.”

Terry stepped even closer, leaning in a bit. “Nah, shorty, don’t play me. I see how you look at me when you think I ain't watching. You can't hide the love.”

You glanced over your shoulder, noting your other friends arriving. “Look, Lana and Kayla are here.” You took a step back, creating some space between you. “We can talk later, alright?”

He let out a sigh. “That's cool, and I know you’ll miss me when I move on.” As you walked away, you could feel him watching, his lingering gaze heavy on your back.

You greeted your other friends with a smile, hoping the moment with Terry would fade into the background. As the night went on, you went to look around for Terry.

Your eyes land on him as he chats with a stunning dark-skinned woman who is clearly attracted to Terry. She leans close, laughing at his joke while touching his arm.

You felt a pang of jealousy twist in your stomach. You decided to talk to him, hoping to get his attention. “Terry, can we talk for a second, please?”

Terry barely glanced your way, his attention still locked on the woman. “Yeah, just a sec!” he called, waving you off. You tilled your head, looking at him sideways.

You feel frustrated and a little petty, so you turn your gaze back to the crowd. Feeling bold, you spotted an attractive white guy across the room who seemed interested.

You walked over, flashing a charming smile, and began chatting and playfully flirting with the pretty man named Charles. You could feel Terry’s gaze, but you didn't look back.

You showed Charles some of your artwork, and you noticed Terry following you too closely, as did the woman he was walking to. You had where you just wanted.

“Hey, you wanna grab a drink after this?” Charles asked, leaning closer. You considered it, tempted to make Terry feel what you were feeling.

As you were about to answer with him, Terry finally broke away from the girl and stormed over. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his tone sharper than you expected.

“Just having fun, Terry, and meeting new people like Charles here,” you replied, crossing your arms as you shot him defiantly. “I thought you were busy talking to some girl .”

“Stop playing with me. You’re just trying to make me jealous, aren’t you?” he said, frustration evident in his voice. “I’m gonna go,” Charles replied.

You and Terry ignored him and he just walked away. “Yeah, only because you started it and completely ignored me talking to that trick?” you shot back.

Your words are laced with a bitter edge. A tense silence fell between you as the atmosphere crackled with unresolved emotions. Terry pulled you into the quiet space.

The tension between you was real, and confusion danced in his eyes. “Why you all pressed about me talkin’ to some girl?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “You turned me down, remember twice?”

You took a deep breath, feeling the heat of his body close to yours. “I know…T I messed up, okay? I’m just scared!” You said, the words tumbling before you could think.

“I didn’t want to get hurt. You know my last few relationships were rough. I thought shutting you out would help me, but it worsened everything.”

His expression softened, but he still looked conflicted. “So, you rejected me twice and then got mad when I started lookin’ elsewhere, then tried to make me jealous. Shit is childish, shorty.”

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I know, and I'm sorry, but I realize I want to give this a chance; I want you, Terry, and I want to go on a date if the offer is still open.”

Terry stepped closer, his fingertips grazing your dark brown skin, sending shivers down your spine. “It's cool, and hurting you is the last thing I want to do, baby If I’m feelin’ you, I’m all in, no games.”

Your heart raced at his words, the warmth of his body drawing you in. “I want to be all in, too. Show me that taking this jump is okay," You said, you could feel the pull between you.

With that, he closed the gap, capturing your lips with his. All the pent-up tension exploded as you kissed him fiercely. The kiss deepened, and you could feel the world around you fade away.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. “I'll show you, baby, but first, let’s get out of here,” Terry suggested, and without a second thought, you followed him out of the event.

-

The familiar surroundings felt comforting and charged as you returned to the apartment. Both of you didn’t make it to either of the bedrooms.

Terry leaned in and kissed you hungrily in a sudden burst of lust, his lips warm against yours, his scuffed beard tickling you slightly. He gently pressed your back against the wall.

His hands were all over your body, removing your panties as his lips didn't even separate from yours. You pulled away, helped him out of his shirt, and then pushed his pants with his boxers down.

Terry kicks them off before unzipping your dress and taking it off. He cursed, biting his lip at the sight of your exposed breasts. "Terry" You let out a moan.

You grabbed the back of his head, feeling his braids. He twirled his tongue on your nipple like it was a sucker before sucking it into his mouth.

Terry looked up at you with those pretty light eyes of his with so much desire before popping your nipple off his mouth. He kisses you, dancing his tongue against yours.

He crouches with his legs wide out and gripping your hips. He begins thrusting his throbbing dick through the gap of your thighs. "You feel that, baby? You feel how hard you make me," Terry asked.

"Yes, fuck Terry. I feel so good; keep going, please," You moaned in pleasure, feeling him thrust faster through the soaking wetness of your pussy lips.

You throw your head back, loving the feel of his large hands gripping the plump rounds of your ass. "Mmm fuck" You bite your lip, rolling your hips and trying to match his rhythm slightly.

"Fuck, I need to be inside of that pretty pussy, baby." Terry moans, grabbing your hair roughly and pulling you into a kiss. He lifts your leg to hold you on his hip, and you look at him.

You licked your fingers and rubbed your clit before letting him line himself toward your pussy. He thrusts in slowly while looking deeply into your eyes.

You kissed him and gripped his shoulder as he began fucking you against the wall. "Ahhh, fuck me fuck me, Terry, this dick is good," you moaned in pleasure.

"You like getting fucked against the wall, huh, lil mama?" Terry asked, his voice low, watching your eyes roll back in your head, leading it against the wall.

He lifts you fully, grabs both of your legs under his arms, and begins pounding harder. "Oh my goodness, yes....and....you love this pussy don't you, huh?" You asked.

Your eyes seductively, staring into his soul. "Yeah, I fucking love this pussy, lil mama. This pussy is my mine, you hear me, nobody else? You got that?"

"Yes, yes, Terry, I got it, yes." You nodded at him with a light smirk, grabbing his neck as he continued pounding like a damn beast.

"Let me hear you, baby," Terry said, leaning your back against the wall and kissing your neck. You closed your eyes with your mouth in O, trying to get the words out.

"It's yours, all yours, Terry. Oh my goodness, I'm gonna cum." You moaned, feeling tears of joy coming down your face; the pleasure was so freaking good it brought you to tears.

"Cum, baby, cum on your dick because it's all yours," Terry moaned in your ear, and that is all you needed for you to let out the cry of his name, feeling yourself almost coming on down.

Terry puts you down slightly, has a hold on you to keep you steady, pulls out, and flicks his dick against your clit; you gasp, feeling a gushing of wetness coming out of your pussy.

"Ahhhh fucking shit, muthfucka," You cried, seeing the stars and feeling your body begin to tremble. You could feel yourself slowly falling from the wall.

Terry picks you up bridal style, takes you to your bedroom, and lays you down on your stomach on your bed. He lets you catch your breath as you come down from your high.

"Look at you, got you all breathless and shit; just know i'm not done with you, lil mama," Terry said, giving your ass smack, and you whimpered, feeling him hover over you.

Terry wraps his hand around your neck, gently but firmly tilting your head back, forcing you to look up at him. His intense gaze holds yours.

He kisses you passionately and thrusts inside of you harshly, slightly muffling your moans as he pulls away and grabs your lower back to get a different edge to go deeper.

"So fucking big and so fucking deep, fuck me," You moaned, gripping the sheets of the bed so tight you thought you were going to rip with your bare hands.

Terry lifts himself up and smacks your ass while gripping it in his large hand, watching it jiggle with his every thrust. "Shit, lil mama, after this you're gonna be my girl now.

"And I'm giving you what you deserve; you know I ain't like these other niggas. I'mma take you out and treat you right, okay! I know you love me. You tried to pretend, but I see through it," Terry added.

"Yes, I'm your girl; I wanted it and can't hide love anymore. I want it, Daddy, I love you," you cried out, more tears of joy coming down your face, which made him smirk.

His hands wrap around your neck as you let out loud moans as he thrusts faster and harder with force like no other than before, and he pauses his thrusts for a second, making you whine loudly.

"Say it again, say you love me again," Terry says, pulling out and slamming back into you hard, hitting your sweet spot, still holding your neck.

"Ahhh, I love you, Terry, ahhh fuck I loved you ever since we met," you screamed, feeling yourself coming hard. Terry continued to thrust until he had reached his own mind-blowing orgasm.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, I love you too, baby," Terry said, pulling you into a kiss, feeling his cum spurt into your pussy. He pulls out, watching it drop out of you.

Terry falls against you on the bed a second before flips to lay on his back, and both of you lay there catching your breath. Eventually, you both took a shower.

Terry went to get some night clothes and returned dressed in sweatpants as if you were doing your night routine. You walk out of the bathroom into your bedroom.

You chuckled to see Terry get comfortable under your covers. You walked over to the bed, got in, and snuggled into his chest. You both held each other in a sweet, soft silence.

“You really mean what you said?” you asked, just needing reassurance from him. Terry looked deep into your eyes, his expression soft and beaming.

“I did. You deserve the world, baby girl, and I wanna give you that if you just let me,” he said, being honest. You smiled and said, “I’ma let you, Terry.”

“Good! Um... you meant it when you said you really love me, right? " he asked, and you smiled back and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I really do, Terry. I meant it.”

His eyes lit up with happiness, and he leaned closer, gently kissing your lips. As the moment's warmth enveloped you, you both fell asleep in each other's arms, hoping for the best in the future.

[milktiicup]

Hi! I’ve never requested anything before so i’m not even sure if this is where I send it to you, but fingers crossed :D I have two requests, not that you should do both, but because I couldn’t make up my mind on which I wanted to send. (Also i’m requesting these as a female reader but you can decide if you want it to be strictly female or not.)🤍🤍

First one, (Homicipher, Mr. Crawling) (And if you write for plus-sized readers) Where the reader has gotten their clothes dirty and gets offered the wedding dress, but knew she wouldn’t be able to fit in it? And Mr Crawling comes and finds them upset and tries to help or make them feel better.

Second request for Homicipher Mr. Crawling, where the reader has gone to their world with their friend, but the friend dies/gets killed, and the reader is inconsolable and can’t stop crying, and Mr. Crawling tries to soothe them (Maybe trying to get other monsters to help him).

the gift of belonging!

You force a small smile, weak and unconvincing, and give a slight shake of your head. “It’s… really beautiful. Thank you. But I don’t think it’s going to work for me.”

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🌊 ⋅ ˚✮ i did the first one if that was okay!? sorry this is a bit cringe or not what you wanted >w<

warnings. plus sized!afab!reader, insecurity, cringe writing, the bride is a cutie patootie

The Bride holds the pretty white dress in her gloved hands. The soft fabric gleams under the dim light, pristine and delicate. You can only imagine she’d be donning a cute, girlish smile if she had a head, her childlike excitement radiating through her aura as she presents her gift to you. Your lips tug into a frown, the corners heavy with the weight of reality.

The dress is truly gorgeous.  The lace is intricate, the bodice peppered with delicate embroidery, and the fabric flows like water in her hands. You can feel the unspoken invitation in her silence as she holds it out, but you can’t find it in yourself to reach for it.

Your mind trips over the obvious truth. There’s no way. You know, just by looking at the dress, that it won’t fit. The cinched waist, the narrow bust- it was never made for someone like you. It wasn’t designed with your body in mind, and the thought stings more than you’d like to admit.

You force a small smile, weak and unconvincing, and give a slight shake of your head. “It’s… really beautiful. Thank you. But I don’t think it’s going to work for me.”

The words sound hollow in your ears. She doesn’t push, instead slowly lowering the dress to the floor. Is she hoping you’d change your mind? You can tell she doesn’t fully understand why you refused, but she doesn’t question it either. She drifts away quietly, her footsteps barely making a sound as she retreats, leaving you alone with the heaviness that’s settled in your chest.

You slump against the wall, lowering yourself until you're touching cold concrete. You lip quivers. Your body feels sticky with blood and grime. You sniffle, blinking back the tears threading on your eyelashes, and take a deep breath. There was no use getting upset- you had to find something else to wear.

“You okay?” You almost jump out of your skin, and right now, you really wanted to. “Hurt? Pain? …Troubled?”

“Mr. Crawling.” You offer a dim smile.

He settles next to you, mirroring you with his knees to his chest. He still towers over you. Mr. Crawling doesn’t let out his usual sharp giggle. A frown tugs at his face. He places a hand on your head, patting your hair in a futile attempt to make you feel better. 

“Why troubled?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing, really… “ The words catch in your throat as if you were suffocating. You scowl, nails digging into the flesh of your knees. 

“You troubled,” he insists. “Talk, me. Me help.”

The genuine concern in his voice is like an attack on the defense you put up- shooting right through it. You sigh, eyes focusing on the depressing concrete of the floor.

“It’s just… the dress. It’s really nice, but it’s not for me.” You gesture vaguely at yourself, your cheeks heating with frustration. “I’d never be able to fit into something like that. And I ruined my clothes earlier, so it’s just- ugh, I don’t know.” You cover your face with your hands, the vulnerability bubbling up faster than you can stop it.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then you feel a soft, tentative touch on your arm.

“Clothes bad,” Mr. Crawling declares firmly, as if the dress itself is the villain in this story. You peek through your fingers to see him glaring at the discarded garment like it personally offended him. “No fit? Not for you. Not right.”

You let out a weak laugh, lowering your hands. “It’s not the dress’s fault. It’s just… I don’t think I belong in stuff like that.”

“Wrong.” His response is immediate, almost sharp, and his long arms reach out to wrap you up in his arms. His expression softens as he looks at you. “You belong. Pretty things, soft things. Belong you.”

You blink at him, your breath hitching as his words sink in. He shifts closer, his hands trailing down your arms gently, his cool touch comforting.

“Not need dress. You…?” He pauses, his brow furrowing as he searches for the right phrase. Then his lips curl into a small, sly grin. “Pretty. Lot of pretty. Much pretty!”

Your smile grows, butterflies dancing free in your stomach- but you pause. 

Footsteps echo from the long hallway, and you can see the white glow from the Bride. She seems shy almost, kicking a heeled foot and holding something behind her. She reveals another dress- simpler in design, but still beautiful in its own right. The shape is more forgiving, the waistline relaxed, and the bust much more accommodating. 

“Me give clothes,” she explains, voice soft. “Pretty clothes. For you. You want clothes?”

The Bride stands there, patient. Her gesture is humble and almost tentative now, the tension between you and her unspoken but present. The dress in her hands feels like a bridge, a silent offer, and it takes a moment for you to realize the magnitude of what she’s done.

You blink, unsure if you should reach for it, as if afraid to hope that maybe- just maybe- it’s a sign that something’s finally clicking into place. Mr. Crawling’s arms tighten around you, the cold of his touch a stark contrast to the warmth that spreads through you from the sight of the new dress.

You rise to your feet and take the dress with shaking hands. 

“Thank you,” you say, a bright smile on your face. “It’s pretty. It’s perfect.”

“You like? Me glad!” The Bride clasps her hands together. “Goodbye!”

And she disappears, just like that.

You stare down at the fabric in your hands, the fabric melting between your fingers. The dress isn’t just something to wear- it’s something that fits you in a way you didn’t expect, both physically and emotionally. You can feel the weight of her kindness, the unspoken understanding of your struggle, wrapped up in the way she offered it to you.

“You like clothes?” Mr. Crawling asks.

“This is perfect!” you beam. 

You can feel the warmth of his gaze on you as you hold the dress up, considering it for a moment longer. It’s no longer just a symbol of what you thought you couldn’t have- it’s a symbol of what you deserve. You deserve to feel good. You deserve to feel comfortable in your own skin. For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to apologize for who you are, for what you look like, or for the size of the body you carry.

It feels amazing to be out of your soiled clothes, and in something so elegant, so pretty. You twirl for Mr. Crawling. He claps his hands, his giggle bouncing down the hallway like an audience just for you. You can feel the blush rising on your cheeks. 

“Your clothes pretty!” Mr. Crawling grins widely. “Me glad. Me happy. You happy.”

“Hehe, thanks.”

“Pretty. Much pretty. You always pretty. Me like,” he says, as if it was the most simple thing in the world.

Your face burns. You reach down to his head, ruffling his long hair in something you can barely call a pat. He presses his face into your palm, giggling. 

 “You always say the nicest things, Mr. Crawling.” 

He tilts his head as you pull your hand away. “Me good?”

“You’re good. Very good.”

[loweffortopinions]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Play Time: 70 hours and going because I like to hurt myself?

Platform: EA Pro Play 

Rating: 4/10

(Moved this Review from my other account because I can't mix art and text)

Environments 

I had a few oh, that’s pretty moments, but overall I found it hard to feel immersed. The cities are nice I guess and detailed, but they lack distinct, memorable qualities. 

A city like Minrathous has the potential to be an exciting showcase of magic woven into everyday life. Mages using spells to transport goods or to perform mundane tasks. I was also looking forward to see a clear divide between magic users and non-magic users, as previous games have implied that Minrathous is Ferelden in reverse. Instead, NPCs feel static, and there is nothing new or interesting done with the magic. For a place built up as legendary in previous games... Minrathous just doesn't deliver. Further, you only get to explore one district, so there is no contrast between richer and poorer areas. And Treviso? It's pretty... but I mostly remember pointy roofs and ziplines.

Character Design

Faces and hair are a big step up from previous games, and armors are varied and nice to look at. But it comes at the cost that it feels overdone, leaning into flashy, cartoony territory. I ran around in my starting armor for half the game because nothing really fit my character.

The companions suffer from this too to some extent. Darin’s open-chested armor seems impractical for a warrior, Neve, supposedly from Docktown, looks more like an aristocrat from Orlais than her background suggests. Bellara’s design is fine, but aside from her vallaslin, she doesn’t seem particularly Dalish. Emmerich and Harding look fine, especially in their camp outfits, which I prefer for most characters.

Combat and Gameplay 

I’ll be honest—I eventually turned the difficulty down to story mode just to get through the game. The combat didn’t do it for me: repetitive enemy hordes that seem randomly placed, limited abilities, and dodging and rolling mechanics that don’t feel very engaging.

Aside from a few setpieces and two boss fights, no encounter stood out. It’s not a particularly hard game, it just got tedious after a few hours.

Another complaint is that every class now feels overly magical. Since the lore around magic is such a key part of the series, this really rubbed me the wrong way. 

Story and World-Building 

Starting with the biggest issue: Veilguard’s main story is a weak.

In Inquisition, even if Corypheus wasn’t the most compelling villain, there was still a sense of growth as you built up your organization and connected with companions. In Veilguard, it feels like they stripped away what worked in previous games and just kept Corypheus. And the worst part? I miss Corypheus. At least he had a booming voice and some interesting lines. Veilguard has none of that.

The villains in this… honestly, where to start? Rather than feeling meaningful, they’re just names repeated so often it feels like the game worries I’ll forget them. Villains aside events unfold without much connection, leaving me questioning why things happen the way they do.

Why are we choosing these allies?

Why am I stuck doing busy work for them while the world is supposedly ending?

But who cares! It's not like your allies really matter. Rook is a one-man army after all. If we’d had them instead of the Hero of Ferelden, the Blight would’ve ended in Ostagar—and every named NPC would’ve survived, including whoever slay the Archdemon. 

Character and Companion Dynamics 

While presented as experts, they rarely get the chance to demonstrate their skills. Harding sometimes provides useful contacts, and Emmerich occasionally shows his abilities, but beyond that, companions often feel like tropes with minimal growth or depth.

For instance, one character is the “unwilling father,” but we never see him grapple with it genuinely—he just says it. Others are similarly shallow: the socially awkward “nerd,” the “noir detective” with a heavy burden, and the “tortured assassin” who doesn’t seem all that tortured. Insights rarely go deeper than quirks, like loving coffee or fish, which get mentioned repeatedly without further development. 

Previous games built strong, opinionated characters who added depth to the world, but here, companions are lacking. Banter is shallow, with little conflict or chemistry. I’ve never played a Dragon Age game where I wanted to skip side quests or companion quests, yet here, I actually did.

I honestly prefer Andromedas cast over this on. Never thought I'd say that but here we are.

Main Character and Roleplaying

Rook’s voice actor; I love em'... which only makes the limited dialogue options more frustrating. I tried to play Rook as a practical, no-nonsense character, but the writing kept steering me back to a softer, more agreeable tone.

If you’re aiming for a tougher or more forceful personality, you're out of luck. If you plan to play be prepared for Rook to come across as a diplomat. Further, you are forced to agree with everyone, and never get to question them or their motives.

So... maybe don't get this if you're into Baldurs Gate 3 and player agency?

Ending Words 

If you’re like me, and the highlights of previous games have been the banter, character depth, and exploring the world and lore, you’ll likely be disappointed. Honestly, I’d even recommend skipping it. Then again, I've seen people say the opposite. So what do I know?

No matter what you do, I’d suggest waiting for a sale. It’s not worth the full price. 

Extra shit

Combat and Gameplay 

There’s the matter of the quest marker, which gives you tunnel vision which distract you from the enviorments.

The loot feels out of place due to its flashy animation. I started skipping loot in certain areas because it felt inappropriate and slowed down the pacing.

You'll fast travel a lot. And I don't mean in a big open area. It's more of a design flaw: Fast Travel to the Lighthouse to talk to a companion. Fast travel to a location to start that companion's quest, walk to said spot to start the quest. Repeat 5 times.

Story and World-Building 

The ending to its credit, was nicely paced and visually strong. If the rest of the game had been more like that, it would’ve been a decent experience. 

The Shadow Dragons, the Crows, the Wardens—all these factions make sense to be here but do nothing meaningful for the story or the worldbuilding.

Even dramatic scenes lack memorable moments. For example, there is a prison escape that's visually pretty but otherwise lacks substance. The person you rescue has supposedly been there a year, but nothing about their appearance or behavior reflects this. There’s no memorable dialogue, nothing deeper—it’s all surface-level.

I personally think Bioware are cowards for only letting you side with an anti-slave organisation. Come on: This isn't the Teviner you've built towards for 3 games! *shakes fist*

[flowerchild28]

Mornings

Louis Tomlinson imagine

Warnings: none, fluff

0.9k

The morning sun streamed gently through the curtains, wrapping the room in a warm glow. Y/N slowly awakened, nestled in soft sheets. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke and Louis' cologne lingered in the air. Turning her head, she saw Louis, her best friend and the one who had captured her heart, sleeping peacefully beside her. His face was relaxed, a hint of a smile on his lips, and Y/N couldn't help but admire him.

With a soft smile, she felt a rush of affection. As she moved slightly, Louis instinctively tightened his grip around her, pulling her closer. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy, as he opened his eyes to find her gaze on him.

“Morning,” she replied, her heart racing. In that moment, nothing else mattered. She leaned in, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss. He kissed her back, the warmth of their connection igniting sparks between them.

“Isn’t it lovely to wake up like this?” Y/N asked, resting her forehead against his.

“It really is,” Louis replied, a playful glint in his eyes. “I could get used to waking up next to you every day.”

Y/N chuckled, a flutter of excitement in her chest. “Well, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

After a few blissful moments, Louis reluctantly stood up. “I’m just going to grab a smoke,” he said, running a hand through his tousled hair.

“Okay, I’ll be right behind you,” Y/N said, watching him as he left the room. She wrapped herself in a cozy blanket, feeling the chill of the morning air, and followed him to the balcony.

“Hey, mind if I join you?” she asked, stepping outside.

“Not at all,” he replied, a smile spreading across his face as she settled onto his lap. The blanket covered them both, and Louis held her tightly, feeling her warmth against him. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up into the clear sky.

“Isn’t this nice?” he said, exhaling slowly.

“Perfect,” she replied, burying her face in his neck. The city below them was waking up, the distant sounds of traffic and chatter blending into a soft hum.

“What do you want to do today?” Louis asked, looking down at her, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“I want to explore! There’s this little bookstore I’ve been dying to check out,” she said, excitement bubbling in her voice. “And I heard there’s an amazing café nearby.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A bookstore and a café? You really know how to make a day sound appealing. Ice cream after?”

“Absolutely! Ice cream makes everything better!” Y/N giggled, her heart soaring at the thought of spending the day together.

“Then it’s a date,” he said, grinning as he finished his cigarette. He set it down in the ashtray beside him and turned his full attention to her.

“Do you remember our first ice cream date?” Y/N asked, her eyes sparkling with nostalgia.

“How could I forget?” Louis laughed, a twinkle in his eyes. “You got chocolate all over your face. I had to take a million pictures.”

Y/N playfully punched his shoulder. “I was nervous! You were famous, and I just wanted to enjoy my ice cream!”

“Yeah, and you made it even more memorable,” he said, his voice softening. “I love that you’re always so genuine with me.”

“Being with you makes it easy to be myself,” she replied, her heart swelling with warmth.

Louis looked into her eyes, his expression turning serious. “I really appreciate that, Y/N. It means a lot to me.”

“Of course, Louis. I want you to always feel comfortable being you,” she said softly. “No matter what.”

“Promise me we’ll always have mornings like this?” he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

“Promise,” Y/N whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss on his lips. As they broke apart, Louis smiled, his eyes gleaming with happiness.

With the sun climbing higher in the sky, they sat together, wrapped in warmth and laughter, ready to embrace the day ahead. The promise of new adventures lingered in the air, but for now, they were content just being together, savoring the moment and each other’s company.

As the light danced around them, Louis tightened his arms around her. “You know, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” he admitted, his voice low. “You’ve changed everything for me.”

Y/N looked up, surprised but pleased. “Really? I thought it was just me who felt that way.”

“No, it’s definitely both of us,” he replied earnestly. “I love how we can just be ourselves, no pretense. It’s refreshing.”

“Honestly, I was so nervous when we first met. I never imagined we’d become this close,” Y/N confessed, a shy smile creeping onto her face.

“Same here,” Louis chuckled. “I thought you were going to run away when I tried to talk to you!”

“Why would I do that? I was just trying not to embarrass myself,” she said, laughing at the memory.

He brushed his fingers against her cheek. “I’m glad you didn’t. I would have missed out on all of this,” he said, gesturing around them.

“Me too,” Y/N replied softly. “It feels like we were meant to find each other.”

Louis nodded, a serious expression crossing his face. “I think so too. You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

Y/N felt a rush of emotion at his words. “I feel the same way, Louis. You’ve been my rock through everything.”

He leaned in closer, their foreheads touching. “Let’s promise to always support each other, no matter what happens.”

“Always,” she whispered, and they shared another kiss, sealing their unbreakable bond.

As they sat together, wrapped in the blanket, with the world waking up around them, they knew that whatever the day held, they would face it side by side.

[kimmie-nimmie]

Hhhhhh I think irl physical affection would be good for me right jow

[eyluvu]

One fun fact about me is I constantly feel like I'm teetering on the edge of a panic attack

[imthatwannabeauthor]

.

[gwensy]

the food scarcity is in fact going to my brain

[holographicbutch]

Why have I felt on the verge of crying all day literally nothing has happened

[butterfirefly]

You miss an annual event ONE (1) time and suddenly it's so much better than all the ones you've attended.

[orcelito]

I'm tired of dreaming about my dad. I know it's part of processing, but I am just so tired.

[derpinette]

as soon as i want to relax i start thinking about how vulnerable my vitals are

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Beginning to really wonder how much of my financial concern is manufactured and handed to me as opposed to something I'm genuinely concerned by

[thatgothicfairy]

I need to do more frequent social media breaks tbh I've been doomer spiraling for like 24h and it's not sustainable to be doing this shit