#sad eyes drabble

[mae-lou-ron]

The "My Playlist Understands Me Better Than My Therapist" Tag Game

So of course I can’t find the post now, but as a writer, particularly a clone-centric star wars fan fiction writer, the concept of the music subgenre the internet calls “hornysad” made me laugh for about 3 business days.

Nobody asked, but in the spirit of having raging ✨seasonal deppresh✨ and a barnacle of creative block on my ass, here are three examples of music I listen to that either speak to my hornysad goblin, or ignite the hornysad goblin within me.

Sleep Token — particularly ‘Rain’ or ‘The Apparition’ or ‘The Summoning’ (I don’t feel like I need to explain this one + there’s also something about mysterious identity that we’ve agreed is hot— why else would “the helmet stays on” be a tag on AO3?)

The Cure — I mean come on…‘High’? ‘Just Like Heaven’? ‘Burn’? I thought of them first for this tbh.

RAYE — her sped up versions of ‘Flip a Switch’ & ‘Escapism’ are simultaneously big sexy and big sad.

-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Opening the floor to all my fellow clone-loving goblins, particularly @jetii @dystopicjumpsuit @cloneflo99 @captn-trex @lonewolflupe @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf @ghostymarni @vodika-vibes @eobe — because I feel like if anyone is going to understand what I’m talking about, it’s you 😂😂

Everyone (18+ obvs) is welcome to join in because I’d love to get to know you feral clone goblins a little better ♥️ I also picked 3 bc this shit apparently makes up like, 87% of my Spotify account 🤷🏼‍♀️

Bonus: the other draft titles for this post because I’m proud of them and they also deserve an honorable mention:

Help, I've Fallen Into My Sad Girl Era Again and Can't Get Up: A Musical Tag Game

Seasonal Depression's Greatest Hits: The Hornysad Tag Collection

[transthatmasc]

My brain keeps providing me with the outline for a trans Viktor pregnancy fic where he decides that the solution to him dying and being able to do nothing about it is to secretly give Jayce a child that can replace him even though it will surely kill him faster than his disease already is.

It would be body horror and angst and whump. There would NOT be a happy ending. Viktor’s discomfort with the constant reminder of his femininity as he grows a baby. The physical toll that it takes on his body as he is physically unable to eat enough to grow it. The feeling of it hollowing out his already brittle bones, sucking him dry for resources as he pours out his limited reserves away from trying to keep himself alive any longer. The isolation of doing it alone and without Jayce’s blessing, knowing full well that Jayce would never have had sex with him if he thought they weren’t on the same page about how dangerous it was for Viktor to have children.

Jayce does not figure out that Viktor is pregnant until he is so far along that there is nothing to do but hope the baby is viable before it kills Viktor. He beats himself up for not realizing sooner— for thinking it was just the illness ramping up. He quickly loses the energy for rage and instead shifts straight to grief, unable to enjoy the little time left he has with Viktor and the impending arrival of the child he has always wanted.

The baby is born very prematurely by emergency c section after Viktor’s lungs aren’t able to get enough oxygen for him or the baby. Viktor survives the birth but is simply unable to recover in any meaningful way from such an invasive surgery and passes away a couple days later. The baby is in the nicu for three weeks, born small and quiet, but eventually gets strong enough to breathe on its own and fuss when it’s hungry.

Jayce doesn’t know how to cope with the fact that he couldn’t convince Viktor that he was worth every second Jayce could possibly have with him. He doesn’t know how to cope with the constant reminder that Viktor loved him enough to give him a something to live for after he left but not enough to let him take care of him while he grew this final gift.

Jayce moves back in with his mom. He names his daughter Laska. She has golden eyes and little wisps of dark brown hair. Jayce thinks about killing himself but can’t waste the gift that Viktor has given him.

[ysaefinn]

lol yeah mommyguru brainrot so real I was too drunk last night and sobbing at every little thing and when I crawled into bed I was thinking about how he would take care of me 💔

Oh my god anon 😭😭 this is such a wine-drunk moment and we can both agree that he is a visceral fucking need for sad intoxicated reader....

HE IS SO GOOD AT TAKING CARE OF A DRUNK YOU HOLLLYYYY MOLLLLLLLYYYYYYYY suguru really just dies for the chance to slide in and wrap u up in blankets, surround you with the plushies he can't stop himself from buying u and suffocating you with his boobs and sweet lingering kisses :3333ccccc you obviously never lack but when you're emotional and not thinking straight it just...hurts his heart...and his womb, brain empty, only baby matters, he really goes on autopilot and immediately picks you up to cradle you :((

[causenessus]

i wish the world was kinder

[madaqueue]

wanted to write today but unfortunately quinn woke up with a headache + tummy ache …. the universe nerfed me 😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — jennifer’s porch swing.

MAY 16, 1989

He’s still not sure this is actually happening.

If he stops to think about it, focuses too hard on the wrong thing, it might turn out to be a dream.

Jennifer is tucked into his side, her head on his shoulder, as he pushes them gently back and forth with his foot. The old porch swing creaks and the chain rattles. It’s the same as always, as familiar as breathing, but tonight, everything’s changed.

And they’re the only ones who know.

Marty kisses the top of her head, smiling.

“So, the future Mrs. Parker-McFly,” he begins, and she giggles.

“Yes, the future Mr. Parker-McFly?” she replies. God, the sound of that!

“…We got our whole life in front of us,” he continues. The album comes out in July and by this time next year they’ll each have degrees; real, actual college degrees. Somewhere further down the line, they’ll have kids and a place of their own and it’ll be so, so good. “How d’you think it’ll go?”

“We’ll graduate, get married,” Jennifer hums, with a dreamy sigh. “And once the album’s out, you’ll be so sick of hearing your songs on the radio all the time. But I won’t be.”

“You think so?” Marty teases. “Even after all the rehearsals?”

“Even then,” she reassures. “I’ll start writing. Maybe someday I’ll get a job as editor-in-chief.”

“There’s no maybe about it, Jen.” He squeezes her shoulder. “You’re gonna be great. You’ll win a Murrow Award and we’ll frame every article you write.”

“But you know something?” Jennifer asks. “Even if none of that happens, I’ll be happy if we just have one thing.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

She pulls away from him then, taking his hands in hers— he’s gonna have to get used to the feeling of the ring around her finger— and searches his face.

“I wanna be sitting on our front porch with you sixty years from now, still holding your hand, and just as in love as we are now.”

Marty leans forward so their foreheads are touching, tracing the back of her hands with his thumbs.

“I want that too,” he agrees, “more than anything.”

[euphoriacafe]

Just had a sad thought… imagine one of the clones met you at 79’s or you always tried to reach out to them- then you secretly started a family with them or had a relationship- then Order 66 comes and you go to them not realizing they’re not the same person you fell in love with. If they didn't recognize or even believe you.

[yuckyfucky]

⋆｡ﾟ(??????? // ?????????) 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑.𝖿𝗍.𝐄𝐋𝐋𝚰𝐄 𝐖𝚰𝐋𝐋𝚰𝐀𝐌𝐒 remix

author’s scribbles: my s!lly as$ was in an incredibly s!lly mood. i wanna laughᵎᵎ i wanna have fun, a bch can hardly sit stillᵎᵎ

summary: ♡ ellie goes out on a date with friend ♡

uhhh w⚠︎rnings(??)..mm 2 b aware of..(???): honestly self insert, alllll oc’s r blk(coded) ☆, a lvl of unserious-ness, these bchs r str8 (no) up CLOWNS, “cuz u gay n’ stuff,” fwb 2 lovers, fluff + suggestive, not proofread @ all (SAWRY), loosely based on a story i have in mind, i have a visionᵎᵎ

l: v (very), wld (would), 2 (to), cld (could), bk (back), @ (at), nvr (never), 4 (for) // my slang is jus foolishness buh i can’t stop! update: im reading this thinking..damn this might give y’all a HEADACHE geezus, lemme make it make sense a bit fr 😭💀

╔═══　　

•..0..*AND

NOW..$..#..%ᵎᵎ

═══╝

✎ “come.on. there’s gotta be fucking something..SOMETHING!” the last time ellie went shopping was almost half a yr ago. she wore her shit til the seams unraveled

✎ cue 2 a night when she tried 2 send an “accidentally on purpose” thirst trap but the second she pulled @ her shirt 2 flash a lil sumthin’, it came undone by the sides she still sent a pic

✎ wearing SCRAPS 4 clothing @ this point. “fffuuuuUUUUCCC—!” just a mess!

✎ n’ her excuse reasoning 4 STILL not going 2 damn store despite actually looking very forward 2 her night-out “it was in the spur of the moment!” (sheee literally had three whole days 2 go buh was all heart eyes n’ wobbly knees simply bcuz she had finally asked. oh, n’ bcuz her date said “yes,” obvi ♡)

✎ her hands shuffled robotically in front of her face before settling them on the back of her neck. terrible, TERRIBLE tics; she knew better than 2 bite @ her fingers

✎ especially after oc had made a comment that if she didn’t stop she’d end up with “frog fingers.” completely brushing over the countless vids of ppl they’ve seen wound up in the hospital bcuz of that that n’ a few other ridiculous warnings were thrown @ ellie if she didn’t want 2 end up accidentally leaving herself disfigured in the later future

✎ lightly being scared—or as she would call it, “bullied” out of her bad nervous habits

< from: my silly rabbit💋💋 > (tots didn’t personally put that in as their contact 030)

nobody:

u:

✎ but it was working. her lips also recovering from the excessive biting and lack of lip balm

LOL&;$:8:8.&IMFKNGONE ↴

✎ disgustingly dragging/typing out their laughter 4 emphasis on how funny they thought sumthin’ was, ranging from pure gibberish or (a personal fave) “AAAAAAAAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHA” 4 obnoxiousness

✎ oc was as silly as they come: nvr failing 2 make an interrobang form above ellie’s head or getting a smile out of her

1) from a fucksesh that lasted nearly 3hrs, the both of them clocked out almost immediately right after. tho ellie’s slumber was cut short when she heard giggling in the middle of night. going thru emotions of confusion 2 anxiousness then annoyance n’ fearfulness. it was that she was being robbed or her place was haunted, n’ who tf had the time 4 either?? she leaned over, ready 2 shake oc awake n’ grab a bat she kept neatly stashed from underneath her bed buh paused when she saw them comfortably asleep with a fkn smile on their face. another giggle escaping their lips before they unconsciously stuffed their hand into their underwear

2) ellie could practically see the gears turning in their head from her peripheral. cocking their head 2 the side while they noisily slurped down a sweet tea they had gotten earlier from a lil donut shop right off of campus. a mischievous twinkle in their eyes. “..ellie,” they started ooh so casually “you know how to dance?” she squinted her eyes before rolling them. failing 2 suppress a smile which only grew bigger when oc surpassed hers with a cheshire-like grin “…no.” “So if I throw ass, how you gonna catch it?”

✎ dina shared that ellie was only working herself up. especially considering that they’d b out n’ around in such (inconsistent) humid + hot weather. with a pat on her shoulder n’ a “you’ll figure it out” 4 extra support, along with a promise to take her shopping next week. n’ ellie did. same way she let out a sigh of relief when she figured out which carnival 2 go 2 instead. this one being 30mins away. ellie didn’t want them to cross any paths with old habits. it was lowkey much 4 her that she still went 2 the same university

✎ oki, now ellie wasn’t exaaactly a player persay. tho she did happen 2 get around..often.. (unintentionally) leaving behind a lil more than a handful of broken hearts affiliated with either jesse or dina having 2 suffer n’ fend off awkward run-ins from “have you seen Ellie”’s. playing confused like they don’t practically live with her not like that’s their business anyway. blowing em’ off wit a neck scratch n’ a tired “she’s in jackson for the next two weeks.” followed up by a ray of annoyed texts sent her way: bro, call them already! x next time im giving them the keys to ur room buh-buh ntm on her! she’s a changed person now!

✎ tho she did met oc @ a time despite claiming she was done with hookups, happily welcomed them into her life with open arms, and open legs and an open mouth. but it was a treat 4 herself! had absolutely no expectations other than a lil summer fling @ best buh overtime she found herself wanting them 2 stay a lil longer (tho it took her awhile 2 admit it)

✎ she crossed her fingers n’ hoped, damn near got on her knees n’ PRAYED that they didn’t know about her promiscuities. like she didn’t spend her first 2yrs n’ sum change walking round campus with “community strap” practically stamped on her forehead—like that wasn’t exactly how n’ y they even met! (womp womp)

✎ ◁◁: oc knew of ellie best from a conversation they shamelessly eavesdropped on during composition. a girl n’ assumingely a fren, were trying 2 ever so quietly (buh failing) 2 talk about her. her n’ another one apparently. called them a “cock carousel,” tho admittedly confessing she’d like 2 get on that ride all dreamily. it made them curious

✎ damn her hypnotic green orbs n’ those scruffy ass shoes!

✎ dina ain’t give a shit fr lol. FINALLY an opportunity 2 give ellie a lil makeover after all those years she turned her down when they were younger, cuz apparently she was jus too cool 4 that shi n’ dina was willing 2 take whatever she cld get. ellie knew it was coming too

✎ “you know—“ “no.” “..?..you don’t even—“ “no.” “why are saying ‘no’, you don’t even—“ “no.” “you didn’t even—” “no!” “fine, be late to your date!”

✎ either ellie wasted more time tryna puzzle piece whatever was left of her wardrobe n’ b late or her clothes would come apart before she even left the damn house, making her even more late

✎ she knew she gave herself the short end of the stick. ellie didn’t even have 2 utter a “yes.” dina was already down the hall happily humming 2 herself, that deep exasperated sigh of defeat from ellie was more than enough. she could hear the clatter of doors opening. it’ll just have 2 do

╔═══　　

(∩｀-´)⊃━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ OC’S POV

“Okay, look up again real quick!” “Oou put this on ‘nstead!” “Lemme add another strip!” Excited squeals circled the living room. I stood tall and balanced on the foot stool. Theatrically posing like a Zara Model (a.k.a unserious). I basked in my friends buzzing energy like a damn mannequin while they beautified me for my little adventure—oh! Sorry, DATE, of the night. Lightly..floating away.. back.. — .t

.

。

o

o

　　 o

　　　　　 o

　 o

　 。

ₒₐa

a late convo in the middle of July.

< from: ew!..♡ >

then the beeeest fucking part

ending the night with elephant ears

or funnel-cake

u know, something like that

“Something like that..” I read her text aloud to myself. Geeked up in bed like she was a high-school crush: a finger pinched between my teeth and feet kicked up into the air. This was serious!

I motioned my hand in slow circles as I watched the three dot speech bubble appear then disappear for the next minute.

Mhmm..Oki!..Oki!

Then two.

..Oki!..Oki!…….Oki? My smile faltered and I stopped my movements.

It’s been five minutes.

I lulled my head to side and scoffed. My dazed smile turned agape.

< to: ew!..♡ >

…..i know this ain’t ur way of asking me out

…

ellie😭

i was working my up to it!

talking bout something like that

b a fkn lady!

damn! i won’t ask then!

ooooomfg, i was jus playing

it was funny.LAUGH!!!

elliiiieeeugh

We started spamming each other. Her pretending to be chicken shit while I demanded for an official proposal. I loved, fuckin’ DESERVED to be courted dammit!

fine! sorry!

..[redacted]

uuuugh

???

do u NOT want 2 take me out or sumthin?!?

bro, STOP

just let me do my thing!

“Just let me do my thing!” I mocked.

“Hmph!,” I let out a squeak as I hugged squeezed the shit out of my pillow. Growing silent while I waited. My heart racing.

can u go out with me?

What the..? I deadpanned and kissed my teeth.

i mean…..ig i CAN

u know, since that’s wha ur asking me

Giggling myself, I imagined her combing a hand through her hair while yelling out “oooooooh my gooooooo—!” I don’t care! This isn’t middle school!

toooots not w8g 2 b swept up off of my feet by prince charming or sumthin..

I dramatically pouted into the phone. Just sitting here! Waiting and waiting aaaanD WAIT—

O’ [redacted], O’ [redacted], wouldst thee liketh to wend out on a date with me to the

fuck it

carnival this saturday at 7??

Oh how dramatic!

WOAH?!

not even a “let down your hair” remix?? u went deep into the wenches wit it. u sure u nvr been 2 a renaissance fair b4🤨 bet they had ur freaky ass greet ppl by the s🚫x dungeons

u got that shi str8 from google anyway!!

Immediately a speech bubble popped up.

LOL

STOP, JUS LEMME HAVE A LAUGH OMGG

EHEM, EHEM!!

i wouldst v’ry much like—th..uhh that

^-^

and u said I got my shit from google

took u 10mins just to look something up and put together that scrambled egg of a sentence

lmaooo

ANYWAYS!!

@ 7

T’is a date!

it’s a date

:)

*　　　　　　　　

　　 . ⊹ ⁺

☾　˚₊‧꒰ა It’s a date! It’s a date! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚　　. 　　

✦⠀　,　

˚ . I threw my phone onto the bed and screamed into the pillow. Excitedly kicking my legs. ⋆ ⠀　　　⠀.　

　　˚　　　　,　“Wait, oh my gosh!”—I grabbed back my phone—“I gotta tell the others. Imma need help with this!” .

.

< to: we r lightskin, n’ we can help you >

guess who’s goin on a date with a certain sum1 2 the carnival this Saturday, @ 7??!

I laid sprawled out. Waiting for my phone to blow up—bzzt! bzzt!.. BZZTBZZTBZZTBZZTBZZT! Oh, never mind.

What will we even do? Oki, I mean..yeah! It’s the literally the fair. Just get up on a damn ride, ‘woohoo’ n’ whatever, but like..it’s been a little minute since I’ve went out-out…especially on a date.

My smile fell and settled into a deep frown.

What if I embarrass myself? What if I don’t even get to do that? . What if she flakes out last minute? Or worse! What if—

“BOOOOORRRIIING!” I yelled. Wiping my face to swipe all of that negativity into the trash.

　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

. “Yeah, enough entertaining that shit..” ,

　 *　　 ⠀.★

　　　　　.　　　　“It’s a date,” I reassured myself. Lightly brushing my fingertips over my lips. That dopey smile making its way back on my face. “It’s a date.” ⠀✦

　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*　　　　　

It’s a

ₒₐa

。

o

O

○

🅳. Ⓘ ᗡ ๏ ˎˊ˗

П. 𝗚

ˏˋ. Ͷ【G】

═══╝

✎ the house stood still. then came the hushed shrieks

✎ oc was suddenly pulled into a whirlpool of 21 questions n’ inspection: “text—no, CALL me when you guys get there! and give me updates every four hours.” “do you have your keys? what about your lipgloss?” “ur location still on?” their friend, brandy, patted n’ smoothed down the crop top she had picked out 4 them 2 wear (along with some shorts). “okay..okay..” reassuringly murmuring more 2 herself than them. making sure the 10 strips of boob tape was wrapped securely (they REFUSED 2 wear a bra again!..unless it was rly cute ofc)

✎ n’ right before they knew it , n’ could answer a damn question, they were shoved out the house with a slam behind them

✎ staring @ the puzzled freckled faced girl (who quickly collected themselves from tripping up the steps from the porch n’ almost crushing the gifts she had bought them)

✎ she was dressed in a plain black wife beater top, dark green lounge shorts n’ those damn converses. she scrunched up her face n’ scoffed @ nearly everything dina originally had picked out. hyping herself up in the bathroom “damn i look good” while dina stared @ her thru the mirror bored n’ rolled her eyes before walking away

✎ does that shit where she uses her spit 2 slick her eyebrows instead of buying eyebrow gel

✎ all of that just 4 her 2 hide in her car 4 almost 10mins outside of oc’s place bcuz she was doubtful n’ regretting her outfit choice

✎ oc ooooobviously thought she looked hot af (regardless/always) ♡

✎ “oh uh, sorry about that. my friends are uh..” oc’s hands flailed around as they tried 2 collect their words. pointing n’ looking back towards the front door, but paused when they didn’t see any light from the other side of the peephole. “the fuck..?” were they..seriously watching them?! looking 2 the window, immediately the curtains shuffled bk. NOSEY PERVERTED AS—

✎“like that isn’t you..” ellie let out a chuckle from behind them. “here.” she handed them an overly stuffed gift basket full of pop up confetti cards, candy n’ sum other things. knowing how much they love 2 b spoiled with all the lil silly things that makes their world go round. beaming like a child on halloween night

✎ ▷▷: engulfed by the shrill screams of kids n’ the aroma of overly sweetened treats in the air battling the occasional MUSK from ppl that refused 2 wear/carry deodorant. the two of them spent the first half an hr pushing thru the crowd 2 find one of those expensive air sprayed shirt displays. bought sets of two: coordinating n’ individuals. oc settled picked a stencil 4 their shirt 2 say heaven sent in bubble font with a hot babe on the side where ellie’s said hell bound in block font with a big headed styled chibi drawing of her

✎ individuals: oc’s got a bunny blowing hubba bubba n’ ellie’s was of the moon of course (she’s never taking it off btw)

✎ oc tots failed 2 b keep their frens posted buh @ least they turned on their location. it counts 4 sumthin!

✎ oc has a major sweettooth: practically inhaled a diabolical sugar rush of strawberry milkshake topped with giant lollipops, cotton candy, sprinkles n’ gummy bears. ellie felt sick jus looking @ it. they were getting caramel popcorn next

✎ all the rides were old n’ rusty as hell. went on the lil spooky merry go-round n’ not even a jump scare or sum flashing lights, jus riding in the dark 💀 wasted 3tickets 4 that shi

✎ they shared a liking 2 fast, spinning rides. jus another n’ a much more fun excuse 2 b up against each other (…in public)

✎ not silly, jus a menace: “put ur foot here” ellie bent down 2 show oc a cool trick, “now lift,” already walking away. pleased n’ laughing 2 herself. “UUUUGH!” leaving behind oc 2 grimace @ the glob of gum stuck beneath their shoe. yeah, cuz that’ll show em’ 4 putting a fkn ZIP TIE who tf just carry’s those??! on ellie’s car handle attached 2 a shopping cart 2 beat her in a (mini n’ SAFE) race back to her place

✎ “it was funny. laugh!” ellie mocked. circling oc as they pretended to b annoyed. “y’all hear sumthin?” literally jus talking 2 themselves, per usual. ellie kissed her teeth “such a baby, here I’ll make it up to you” she stride towards one of the many gaming booths where workers who looked like they had better things 2 do boringly resisted lines along “step right up…” (disappointingly looking nothing like nor holding the same enthusiasm like that one guy from that carnival video game) “which one you want?” oc pointed at a Kai-Lan plushie

✎ ooh, she cheated. it was either that or she was gonna (somehow) steal the plushie. the both of them coming 2 an agreeable justification: all the games were rigged

✎ hanging out 4 a bit, ellie ate two corndogs n’ oc stuffed their face full of fries (that were no different—literally bought from the grocery store, not they cared anyways. their argument being “it’s tastes better!”) while they complained n’ expressed their delight 4 the “architecture” of fairs. rambling on n’ on about how lame most places r now 4 taking down all the weird whacky shi: the giant objects on the walls @ in malls 4 advertisement, the fake homes above the deli/vegetable section in grocery stores, fuckin’ fast food restaurants n’ movies theaters losing wha made them movie theaters in the first place. “whyyy do i have to drive out of the state just to find a movie theater that still uses mothafuckin’ cutouts?!” all the things that made life a little more enjoyable. “look, look!!” holding up their phone 2 ellie’s face “i know what im talking about!!”

✎ completely bypassed the ferris wheel or a causal walk right after eating n’ excitedly got in line 2 the fkn GRAVITRON🧍🏽‍♀️learned absolutely NOTHING from the last time they went 2 the fair n’ ate a shit ton of food before going on a ride. literally has it set as a “rule” in their notes app

✎“shit, i think im gonna—“ ellie held her hand against her stomach as she hunched over the exit railing, covering her mouth. “im walking away from you” oc hurried down the ramp “you better not! stop!!” screaming @ ellie as she chased them around acting as if she was gonna vomit on them

✎ she actually did puke. making a frantic beeline to the bathrooms. oc gave them the french fry bucket they were gonna keep as a souvenir , incase she felt nauseous again buh the toilet wasn’t close by. they’ll jus get another one before they leave

✎ eventually the musky crowd dispersed, children’s screams were replaced by light squeals n’ the pitter patter of shoes against the grass mixed with unintelligible conversations

✎ the two of them made their way towards the back of the fair. headed str8 4 the funhouse that was freakishly empty. the glow from the red lights created a spooky ambiance. just walked right in cuz whoever was supposed 2 stand outside was nowhere 2 b found

✎ “this kinda reminds me of this music video..ca—mm..don’t know a lick of belig..em??..belginguam??” “Are you serious..” “Wait hush, hush, HUSH! uhh..belgium—YEAH, belgium!!”

✎ they started shuffling their body awkwardly, trying 2 replicate the dances in the mv. “lemme stop before something actually happens” it was supposed 2 b like a ritual/possession

✎ “uh uh, back up!” “what i thought you liked me?” ellie corned them tryna get a kiss. “yeah once u brushed n’ rinsed out your mouth! im not kissing no—stop, get off of me, FREAK!” they giggled. pushing her out of the way n’ running back outside

✎ ellie’s ego was satiated from showing off her gaming skills at a mini arcade (since when did they have those??), adding another plushy to the mountain oc was carrying beside her. tho their mood was a bit sour bcuz the photo-booth was out of order , all those pinterest reference photos they were so ready 2 recreate

✎ greedy as$ bought more fries, a burger n’ two extra corndogs. choosing 2 believe the money was being well spent . no real care 4 cost effectiveness , “it made me happy that’s all that matters!!”

✎ n’ ofc, ended the night wit elephant ears AND funnel cake ♡ (n oc’s phone blowing up 4 not giving the dets 2 their nosey frens)

damn that ending was FLAT!! lol 😭😭 tell me if i used hcs properly tho , literally jus told a whole story thru it cuz i couldn’t do it the other way (yet). was fighting 4 my life fr // thanks lot 2: [ @s-4pphics n’ @seattlesellie ] 4 encouraging me 2 write ^-^

[santaverse]

Time flies, huh?

This week, I've started planning the blog's return! As usual, the plan is to open November 1st! See you all around then!!

[aaternum]

It felt like she’d sat there in the bathroom for hours, every vertebrae of her spine curved and slowly sinking into her chest, hunched over her knees. Blood streaks the tiles, the porcelain much too white with all this red against it. She’d just run that bath water, coaxing and warm to soak off the bleeding notches carved into the softness of her skin. Wants the tense of her muscles to come to harmony in a sigh and relax. But she can’t pick herself off the floor, the squeak of her sneakers slipping against the clotting ichor on the ground. She’s afraid of what’s in the water, what’s come up from the depths of the drain. Whatever she’s conjured in her head, it’s not real. She knows it. Blood loss makes her head spin and blur lines between memory and fantasy–  but that pit in her stomach persists.

Reflected within her bleary, heavy gaze she imagines two hands emerging from the water, fingers lovingly cupped over the tub's edge, caressing; waiting and wanting for a hand to hold. They’re attached to arms she can’t see. Stretched too far down; belonging to a body canvasing the length of her tub. She knows it. Feels it like lead in her gut. It might live there. She’d take it’s hand, but she knows it’ll pull her in with it and she doesn’t want to sink so deep. It’s not a monster, but sometimes creatures that burn for touch and love hold too tight, they’d hurt like a monster would. It may pick up the soap and scrub her back of blood, thread through the tangled bits in her hair like mama birds do to their babies. Might even come to caress her cheek – wipe at dried tears.  And when it’s arm circles ‘round her waist, it’ll feel like coming home. Until it forgets she doesn’t live in the water too. When the water is no longer warm, lapping and inviting, but they’ve already buried their hands into her ribs.

When the bottom of the tub swallows her whole, it’ll forget her lungs swell and burst under the weight of the water if she sinks too deep. It’ll forget she’s disastrously human and it’s some unliving thing buried somewhere too deep to reach for. She knows it’s not real, but she waits nonetheless, chin atop her crooked knees, tucked against her chest until it’s safe. Or at least until her aches start to feel worse than whatever is down there. She doesn’t want to see.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[solarstranger]

“excuse me?”

both you and bakugou look up from your conversation, a confused smile tugging at your lips when your eyes land on a woman you’ve never seen before, a sheepish yet somehow determined look etched across her unfamiliar face. “yes?”

at your welcoming albeit slightly bemused response, she deflates a little in what you think is relief, her mouth morphing into a good-natured grin.

“i didn’t mean to disturb your lunch,” she starts, fiddling with the sling of her crossbody bag, “but i just wanted to say. i love your dress.”

oh.

“t-thank you so much,” you exclaim, taken aback by the unexpected compliment. you’re about to say something nice about her hair, but she’s already skittering back to her group of friends, who laugh affectionately at the woman before turning to the other direction, but not without a friendly wave goodbye at the two of you.

you return the gesture with a chuckle, although that immediately contorts into a pout the second they’re out of sight.

“what?” bakugou asks without missing a beat.

you frown at your boyfriend, before looking down at your half-finished plate of pasta. “i wanted to compliment her, too.”

for a second, bakugou doesn’t say anything, opting to study your crestfallen face instead. a moment passes with neither of you uttering a word until you finally notice him staring at you, an impassive expression on his features. you raise an eyebrow quizically. “what?”

“nothing,” he shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his lips.

and when you only toss him a deadpan look, he sighs.

“it’s just—” he begins, clearly searching for the right words to say, “here you are—being complimented for being fucking pretty and your immediate response is to get sad you didn’t get to compliment them back.”

at that, your frown deepens. “how else am i supposed to react, then?”

“i don’t know—” he huffs, leaning back on his chair, “flush? be flattered? say it’s your boyfriend who got you that dress?”

“ah. so you only wanted bragging rights.”

“that’s not the point.”

you bite back a grin. “sure, big guy.”

“you—”

“and they didn’t compliment me, per se,” you continue before he can ramble on, voice quieter. “they complimented my dress.”

“which only works because it’s you who’s wearing it, dumbass.”

despite yourself, you smile at the man. “you really think so?”

bakugou huffs again, although there’s no denying the pink that’s now dusting the high points of his cheeks. “you really ought to give yourself more credit.”

now it’s your turn to study him silently.

“no need,” you eventually quip cheerfully, reaching over the table to take his hand in yours. he doesn’t protest, only letting you intertwine your hands together.

he does, however, toss you a questioning look. one that incredulously says: why?

so you tell him.

“it’s because i like having my boyfriend do it for me.”

a/n. trying out this new format where the author's note comes after the drabble. we'll see if i go back and revert this later anyway lol. anywho, this one's very self ship-coded because i like complimenting strangers. it's my form of exposure therapy for my social anxiety while spreading the kindness i want to share with the world. now all i'm lacking is a boyfriend who hypes me up the same way lol. (0.5k)

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗

[stxriesfromashisms]

Tag Dumps

come at me bro (open starters ; mutuals only) its meme time ; the only cure for sadness (memes ; specify muse) game over (meme replies) i’m calling you out pls love me (starter and plotting calls ; mutuals only) got my eye on you (tracking threads) pictures worth thousands of words (gif and photosets) these words are my diaries screaming out loud (drabbles) the sound of music (playlist) resourceful goodness (references) finders keepers (saved things) arguing with my children (mun and muse interactions) sin to win (nsfw) sinning is winning (nsfw ish) the world in different parts (verses) gimme gimme pls and thanks (plot wishlist) and the chapter closes (ended threads)

[seongwars]

Word Count: 497 Warnings: yandere!Caleb, dad!Caleb, dash of fluff, hints of breeding kink, baby trapping and coercion, 2 swear words, mention of pregnancy, not proofread Summary: Caleb comes home from another expedition

a/n: I had to take a break from writing strangers by nature because i was making myself sad so uhh here's a caleb drabble

“Daddy’s home!”

Your four year old jumped up from his Legos, bolting to the door with your chubby toddler hot on his heels. The front door creaked open just in time for Caleb to brace himself as the boys launched into his arms.

It wasn’t easy, being the wife of the fleet’s colonel. Caleb’s expeditions often kept him away for weeks at a time, leaving you to hold down the fort with your two boys and the endless chaos they brought with them.

But moments like this made it all worth it. Seeing the way the boys lit up as they reunited with their father made all the waiting worth it. Not to mention the nasty, sloppy, back bending, toe curling, eye rolling, reunion sex–hence your five month baby bump.

Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, Caleb still made time for all of you. He was the kind of man who wouldn’t miss a parent teacher conference, who insisted on reading every bedtime story no matter how tired he was. 

On Saturday mornings, he’d stand in the kitchen, attempting to make dinosaur shaped pancakes while the boys watched in awe.

“Daddy, how do you do that?” your four year old learned forward on the counter with his elbows. Beside him, your two-year-old waved his chubby hands in the air, babbling his own version of the question.

“It’s all in the flick of the wrist, buddy,” Caleb grinned, flipping the pancake. 

Sometimes the “dinosaur” ended up looking more like a blob, but to the boys, it was nothing short of magic. They clapped and cheered as Caleb plated his creation, declaring it a Whateversaurus Rex or the dinosaur of the day as conjured by your husband. 

And so, yes, you’d let this man keep you pregnant. How could you not? Every time you thought about saying no, about maybe slowing down and letting your body recover between pregnancies, he’d look at you with those adoring puppy eyes and pull you into his strong arms, leaving you utterly undone.

But you didn’t notice the way his eyes darkened when you said yes again, or the way his touch lingered just a second too long on the curve of your belly. To you, it was devotion, a husband marveling at the miracle of life, his love for you and your growing family. 

But to him, it was victory.

Because Caleb wasn’t just a loving husband. He was a man who refused to let you slip through his fingers. The thought of you walking away, of a life where you weren’t his in every sense of the word, was unthinkable.  

Everytime he had you folded into a mating press murmuring “just one more for me, baby" he was ensuring that you stayed right where you belonged—bound to him in every possible way as he fucked his seed over and over into your cunt.

You belonged to him. And he’d make sure it stayed that way forever.

[kikufufuku]

✶ you just got into a car accident. satoru is always one call away.

gojo x reader comfort drabble. requested by anon

Satoru’s halfway through a dumb meme, smiling as his thumb hovers on your contact—about to send it to you when suddenly, his phone rings.

Unknown number.

He almost ignores it. He was about to decline but something in his chest pulls tight. His eyes narrow behind his blindfold. He had a gut feeling, and his gut feelings are always right.

“…Hello?”

“Hi, I’m calling from the local police station.. Are you familiar with a,” the officer pauses before saying your name.

He’s already standing.

“Yes—yes. What happened?” His voice sharpens, all amusement gone in an instant. The usual relaxed expression in his face disappeared, instead replaced by narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw.

“There was a car collision a few blocks from,” the police officer tells him the place, “She’s conscious, not seriously injured, but shaken. We’re calling the emergency contact listed on file.”

He doesn’t wait for anything else. Doesn’t ask if it’s bad. Doesn’t breathe. The officer is saying something else, but Satoru doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear the rest.

The moment your name left the officer’s mouth, his cursed energy pulsed. The world warped around him, and he teleported to somewhere near you, in an alleyway where people couldn’t see him appear in thin air.

One blink and he’s there.

The sudden rush of wind, the smell of gasoline and scorched rubber. Flashing lights paint the street in reds and blues. There are voices, officers, an ambulance. Civilians murmuring and rubbernecking. He runs out of the alleyway, pushing his sunglasses up, and suddenly all the noise around him is muted.

Because he sees you.

Right there—sitting on the curb, a thin blanket draped over your shoulders, eyes glassy with shock. There’s a medic crouched beside you, gently speaking, but you’re barely listening. You’re trembling, knuckles white where your hands are clenched in your lap. Dried mascara tears streak your cheeks, and he remembers you telling him how you liked your cute makeup today. That you felt pretty, kissing him a goodbye before leaving him earlier in the morning. His breath hitches. Your lip’s bleeding. Not much—but enough for him to feel something in his chest snap.

Your head lifts slowly—like you couldn’t believe it.

“Satoru…?”

He’s already moving.

Gone.

Past barricades, past tape, past any official telling him to stay back. He’s already crossing the street, a force of nature, moving faster than anyone can register. Officers try to stop him, but his cursed energy flares just enough for them to feel him coming, and they step back instinctively.

He appears in front of you in the next breath.

Your breath catches in your throat. You hadn’t even blinked and suddenly he’s there, crouching down, hands trembling as he gently cups your cheeks.

“I’m here,” he whispers, voice too soft for someone usually so loud. “I’m here, angel. You’re okay.”

The medic is saying something, but he doesn’t care. Not when you’re in front of him looking like this.

“Satoru—fuck,” you sob, “It was so fucking scary, I thought- I thought I was gonna,”

He presses his thumb against your lips, hushing you before hugging you in his arms. Satoru knew what you were gonna say. That it was a close call. That you thought you were gonna die, and he didn’t wanna hear it. The simple thought of you, on the ground – head bleeding, made his heart clench in sadness and fury. What was the point of being the strongest if he couldn’t even fucking save you from a car accident?

Satoru tightens his grip around you. He kisses your forehead.

““I’m here,” he says, voice shaking, “God—I’m here.”

You break. You wail into his shoulder, and his fingers bury themselves in your hair.

“I was—Satoru, I was so scared—” you choke out.

“I know,” he breathes, his voice hoarse. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I should’ve been there. I should’ve—fuck.” His jaw clenches against the wave of helplessness threatening to drown him. “But you’re okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

You nod against his shoulder, still shaking.

He holds you so close you can feel the curse energy buzzing under his skin—wild, panicked, desperate. Because nothing hurts Gojo Satoru, except the idea of you not being safe.

“I’m not letting you go for a while,” he mumbles into your hair. “So don’t even try to stop me.”

You don’t.

You just stay there. In his arms, not minding the medic or the goddamn police, nor the civilians that were watching.

“I ruined my makeup,” you mumble into his shoulder, voice wet and shaky.

He lets out the smallest, incredulous laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You still look gorgeous,” he whispers, arms not loosening even for a second. “But next time, you’re not getting in a car unless I’m driving.”

“You’re a terrible driver.”

“Exactly. Which means I’ll keep us both alive out of pure fear.”

You let out a choked laugh, and it’s the best sound he’s heard all night.

He pulls back just enough to look at your face, brushing a thumb beneath your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats. Softer this time. Like a promise.

“I got you. I’m here. I love you.” Satoru whispers, leaning closer. “I’m here for you. Always. I’m sorry.”

You nod, resting your forehead against his. You don’t doubt the words that come out of his mouth.

Because he found you.

Because he came.

Because he always will.

[cybergoth1]

can you do some Jason Todd as a husband headcannon pls !! i just know that when he’s healed , he’s hauling his partner and getting TF out of Gotham , and popping out babies (GIRLDAD) and a nice job in a low-key town and maybe becomes a househusband 😋🤭(for real i’m 100% sure he would) but at the same time he is The Jason Todd . Hot , mysterious , emotional but also not , a big fat nerd in a brick body .

you know your daddy's home.

pairing: jason todd x fem!reader.

warnings/tags: fluffy, pre established relationship. my silly drabble about raising a daughter with jason todd. girl dad jason todd. husband jason todd.

author's note: hey babe i turned it into a drabble! hope you don't mind it!

"look, mommy! i'm batman!”

you suppressed a chuckle as you watched your five-year-old daughter standing tall on the couch, wearing a paper mask poorly shaped like batman’s cowl. the little girl came home from school, talking non-stop about the vigilant and refusing to take off her paper mask, even during lunch time, excitedly repeating what her teacher had said about nowday heroes.

"gotham needs me!"

she was trying to make her voice deeper as she jumped onto the floor. the cats, startled by the noise on the wooden floor, bolted away in a stampede.

"you're too pretty to be batman, baby girl".

your husband jason said as he stepped out of the bathroom. the scent of soap and shaving lotion lingered in the air as he walked down the hallway in just his sweatpants. his scars seemed more visible, glistening under the light as drops of water trailed down his bare back and chest.

“but how do you know what he looks like? he's always wearing a mask!” her childish voice rang out indignantly.

he picked her up effortlessly with one hand, while the other gently tugged the paper mask aside to look into her bright blue eyes — blue like his had been before the lazarus pit. her nose, mouth and ears were just like yours, a glimpse of you both in her youthful face.

"he sounds ugly, like a very old sad man. unlike you, princess".

"i'm not a princess, i'm vengeance!"

you laughed behind the stove.

"well, vengeance," he said, walking toward the apartment’s kitchen with her tiny legs wrapped around his hips "you can save gotham after eating your vegetables," he added with a smirk, putting her on the high chair.

she looked at him with wide eyes, as if he’d just handed her a death sentence.

"broccoli?"

"broccoli".

you placed the plate of food in front of her, the broccoli standing out between the rice and meat like a tiny, green nightmare. she looked up at you with pleading eyes, silently appealing to your good side.

you stroked her hair gently.

"if you don’t eat, i'll have to tell batman that his sidekick isn’t eating properly. you can't patrol without eating broccoli," he said, pulling out the chair to sit beside her. that was more than enough. with a disgusted expression, she began to eat, occasionally poking at the broccoli.

"hi, jay," you said, placing your hands on his broad shoulders and giving him a light massage. he softly kissed your left hand before looking up at you.

"how’s my other girl doing?" he asked with a smile, his lips still lingering against your hand. your daughter was so focused on hating the broccoli that she didn’t even notice the display of affection. normally, she would’ve made a gagging noise, followed by a dramatic, “bleh!”.

"she's missing you a lot" you said kissing the top of his head. a familiar scent makes you pause for a moment.

"you're using my shampoo again, aren't you?"

"maybe?"

©cybergoth1, 2025