#writing challange

[elixirfromthestars]

I always encourage late submissions!! 🫶🏼✨ Knowing that my writing challenges can inspire anyone at anytime makes me so happy and excited to see what people come up with!! ☺️🩷 If you do end up writing something, please tag me, I’d love to read it!! 🩷🩷

WELCOME TO MY CINEMA! ˙✧˖°🎥 ༘ ⋆｡🎞️˚

As you all know, last August I opened a cafe (a.k.a. my cafe themed writing challenge). The response to that was so wonderful and I adored hosting it and reading every single one of your entries, and I'm thinking it's time I host a new one! ♡

This time I decided to rent out a private theater for all of us to sit and have a movie marathon! This writing challenge starts today and closes on March 30th! I will be traveling the last week of March and it would be the perfect time for me to catch up on reading all the entries (since I read & reblog every fic submitted). The masterlist of all entries will be posted sometime in the following days of me returning from my travels! (Just like my last writing challenge, if you see this anytime later or can’t make the deadline do not fret, if anything below inspires you, you are welcome to write and tag me so I can read it and add your submission to the masterlist♡)

Below are the rules, prompts, and guidelines ♡

who you can write for: all marvel characters are welcome / any fictional sebastian stan or chris evans characters are welcome too (any characters they’ve portrayed based on real life people will not be accepted though!!) I will be expanding this from my last challenge and accepting submissions for characters from Top Gun Maverick & Twisters 2024. (please keep it to x reader fics only!!)

some general guidelines: Below I’ve provided a number of different scenes, quotes, and songs for inspiration ♡ Anyone can use as many as they'd like and even mix and match however you’d like!! If you use any please let me know somewhere in the post! If nothing below inspires you, you can always submit something with inspiration from a scene/dialogue exchange from another movie or tv show, just please let us know where the inspiration came from!! :) here's the catch though -> the scene/dialogue exchange has to come from another movie or tv show that is not from the one the character is originally from. For example, if you write for Bucky Barnes, the scene/dialogue exchange has to come from another movie or tv show that is not from Marvel. 18+ fics are welcome, just please add warnings! Entries are not limited, you are welcome to submit as many entries as you'd like! Any length of fics are welcome, but if it’s over 500 words please add the “keep reading” option. If you write something as part of a bigger series, please write your submission as a standalone ♡

what is not accepted: no dark fics, anything involving minors, incest, rape, noncon/dubcon... (You can always message/inbox me to ask questions.)

how to enter: please tag me and use #elixirscinema when you post ♡ i’ll leave a like (from my main blog @saturnsflowers) to let you know I saw it and reblog it to this blog once I read it :) I love reading and leaving comments on all submissions, so please be patient with me if I don't get to yours right away! also, let me know if I haven’t interacted with your post after a few days in case I missed it! You can send me a reminder through my inbox or dm, thank you! ♡♡♡

Happy writing! My inbox is always open for any questions or comments!! ♡ 

These trailers are all so exciting! Did any of them pique your interest?

˙✧˖°🎥 ༘ ⋆｡🎞️˚ For scenes, you can use any of the ones below or use one or more from any movie/tv show you'd like! You can use the dialogue, the themes, the moments, the dynamic, etc of the scene to inspire your writing. It doesn't necessarily have to be word for word or match the scene exactly nor entirely, it just has to inspire you in some way! Below I have different scenes linked for inspiration, but again you are free to use any scene(s) from anywhere else to inspire you!! ♡

📖 ...✩ Why didn't you write me? — The Notebook

🦊 ...✩ "I love you." / "It'll pass." — Fleabag S2

⛲️ ...✩ I loathe you... — The Princess Diaries 2

🩺 ...✩ Are you telling me you love me? — The Artful Dodger

🐎 ...✩ You're the bane of my existence... — Bridgerton S2

🗡 ...✩ That's not how you hold a dagger. — My Lady Jane

🗞 ...✩ You can’t lose something you never had. — How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days

🪶 ...✩ I burn for you... - Bridgerton S1

🖊 ...✩ You are my exception. — He’s Just Not That Into You

👒 ...✩ Don't marry him. — Little Women

🏹 ...✩ I do... I need you. — The Hunger Games: Catching Fire

🌊 ...✩ I thought that we loved each other... — The Summer I Turned Pretty S2

🪵 ...✩ There is no one like you... — To All The Boys I've Loved Before

🚢 ...✩ You jump I jump, remember? — Titanic

🪩 ...✩ Doesn't what I said mean anything to you? — When Harry Met Sally

🎸 ...✩ You were paid to take me out? — 10 Things I Hate About You

🫧 ...✩ You're looking way too hot right now... — Love, Rosie

🐚 ...✩ Are you engaged to that beautiful woman? — Mamma Mia Here We Go Again

💌 ...✩ Break my heart into a thousand pieces... — To All The Boys: P.S. I Still Love You

🏛...✩ I am never going to be over you. — Scandal

🥂...✩ Oh, now I remember why I had such a crush on you�� — Something Borrowed

🚑 ...✩ I'll tell you what you are to me... Criminal Minds S4

💋 ...✩ Do you really hate me? — The Hating Game

🌀 ...✩ It's okay, I've got you now... — Maxton Hall

I’m going to get some snacks before the marathon starts. Do you want anything? Here’s the menu:

🍫 ✩｡⋆⸜ "They warned me about you, I should have listened."

🥨 ✩｡⋆⸜ "No. No, stop. Stop talking like that. You're going to be fine."

🍪 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Of course I came for you. It would take far much more than that to stop me."

🍟 ✩｡⋆⸜ Realizing they're in love.

🍭 ✩｡⋆⸜ "It was just a kiss. It changed nothing between us."

🧋✩｡⋆⸜ "We're not just friends and you fucking know it."

🥤✩｡⋆⸜ "I have loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you."

🍬 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Are you flirting with me?" — "You finally noticed?"

🍿 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Just stay. We can figure everything else out later. Right now, just stay."

🍦✩｡⋆⸜ "If there's really nothing going on between the two of you, you don't mind if I ask ___ out on a date, do you?"

🍕✩｡⋆⸜ "I cannot stand you, and yet, I also cannot stand to be away from you."

🍗 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

🥪 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?"

🍩 ✩｡⋆⸜ "If you don't love me, prove it then. Prove to me you've never felt something towards me. Look at me."

🌭 ✩｡⋆⸜ "You kissed me last night." — "And you didn't stop me."

🍔 ✩｡⋆⸜ "What if I told you I've been in love with you since we were kids?"

🥗 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Is this what you wanted, huh? Making me fall in love with you just—just to fucking leave? Do you really expect me to be okay with that?"

🌯 ✩｡⋆⸜ "I love you." — "You shouldn't."

🧁✩｡⋆⸜ "If you leave now, you lose everything. You lose me."

🧃✩｡⋆⸜ "I think we need to talk."

🍧 ✩｡⋆⸜ “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

🍰 ✩｡⋆⸜ “Kiss me.”

🍨 ✩｡⋆⸜ “It's storming, why are you here?"

Let's check out the songs on these soundtracks. Do you like any of them?

˙✧˖°🎥 ༘ ⋆｡🎞️˚ Feel free to use the lyrics below, the entire feel of the song, or any other lyrics in the song! The playlist is below in case you want to go through and listen to the songs while you write ♡

Black and White "Now, we're sittin' here in your livin' room. Tellin' stories while we share a drink or two, and there's a vision I've been holdin' in my mind. We're 65 and you ask when did I first know? I always knew." — Niall Horan

Cinema "Do you think I'm cool too? Or am I too into you? Tell me what you want and you got it, love. I want all of you, gimme all you got." — Harry Styles

Death Wish Love "And I'll ask the stars at night, how I can slow the time. God, I'm so terrified that I'm gonna lose you. And I'll die if I do." — Benson Boone

Exile "I think I've seen this film before, and I didn't like the ending. You're not my homeland anymore, so what am I defending now? You were my town. Now I'm in exile, seein' you out." — Taylor Swift

Happier Than Ever "And I don't talk shit about you on the internet. Never told anyone anything bad. 'Cause that shit's embarrassing, you were my everything, and all that you did was make me fucking sad. So don't waste the time I don't have, and don't try to make me feel bad." — Billie Eilish

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

I Like Me Better "I like me better when I'm with you. I don't know what it is, but I got that feeling. Wakin' up in this bed next to you. Swear the room, yeah, got no ceiling. If we lay, let the day just pass us by. I might get to too much talking. I might have to tell you somethin'" — Lauv

Iris "And I'd give up forever to touch you, 'cause I know that you feel me somehow. You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be, and I don't wanna go home right now." — The Goo Goo Dolls

John Hughes Movie "Maybe if I'd reined it in, you wouldn't wanna kiss somebody else. And you don't owe me anything, so I'm just gonna walk home by myself. And it's not like I've been crying, no. There's just smoke in my eyes." — Maisie Peters

Love Again "Show me that heaven's right here, baby. Touch me so I know I'm not crazy. Never have I ever met somebody like you. Used to be afraid of love and what it might do, but goddamn, you got me in love again." — Dua Lipa

Love The Hell Out Of You "I'm gonna love the hell out of you. Take all the pain that you're going through. I'll bring you heaven if that's what you need. 'Cause you've always loved the hell out of me." — Lewis Capaldi

McKay & Cassie "Console me, don't let me go, baby. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you, so feed me with those pretty lies. 'Cause there ain't no escaping those ocean eyes. Oh, baby, I'll kill anybody that hurt you." — Labrinth

Movies "In my head, we're dancing in the dark. In my head, we kiss under the stars, but we know that's not what we're doing. 'Cause, baby, this ain't like the movies... I want a love like the movies." — Conan Gray

My Tears Ricochet "I didn't have it in myself to go with grace. And you're the hero flying around, saving face. And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake? Cursing my name, wishing I stayed. Look at how my tears ricochet." — Taylor Swift

Slow Motion "Dreaming 'bout you sinkin' into my bed. Dizzy, I see stars all around my head. Liftin' me up to the moon and back again. You're my lucky penny, yeah, you just make sense. I like to keep my cool, but you're divine. Mother Nature must've taken her time. Come on, take me away, I'll let you drive." — Alessia Cara

So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings "And I'm out at a party, they're playin' our song. I cry on the dance floor, it's so embarrassing. Don't send me photos, you're makin' it worse. 'Cause you're so hot, it's hurtin' my feelings. I get a little lonely. Get a little more close to me. You're the only one who knows me, babe." — Caroline Polachek

The Way I Loved You "I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain. It's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name. I'm so in love that I acted insane and that's the way I loved you. Breaking down and coming undone, it's a roller coaster kind of rush. And I never knew I could feel that much and that's the way I loved you." — Taylor Swift

Unsaid Emily "If I could take us back, if I could just do that. And write in every empty space the words "I love you" in replace. Then maybe time would not erase me. If you could only know, I never let you go. And the words I most regret are the ones I never meant to leave unsaid..." — Julie and the Phantoms

You Could Start A Cult "Lately, what I know of reality. I let go of it happily when I look in your eyes. Mm, swear it's true. No mountain that I wouldn't move or sea I wouldn't part in two. To wake up by your side is all I wanna do." — Niall Horan & Lizzy McAlpine

1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back "It's one step forward and three steps back. I'm the love of your life until I make you mad. It's always one step forward and three steps back. Do you love me, want me, hate me? Boy, I don't understand." — Olivia Rodrigo

playlist for the songs above can be found here: 🎞️✮⋆˙

to my lovely mutuals, please don’t feel pressured to participate or share, just thought I’d share this with you all ♡  

@elvenrin @marvelstoriesepic @humanwip @flowersforbucky @whatever-lmaoo @nickfowlerrr @buck-star @navybrat817 @mercurial-chuckles @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @neverthatsirius-jo @perdidosbucky-yyo @nicoline1998enilocin @mostly-marvel-musings @vintagebuckybarnes @barnesafterglow @nekoannie-chan @stellar-solar-flare @fvckingavengers @thevillainswhore @drabblesandsnippets @amathslutsguidetofandom @multiversefanfics @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @malum-forev @nameless-ken @writing-for-marvel

I am new to the Top Gun Maverick & Twisters fanfic communities, (I've only just recently started writing for some characters), so I will be tagging some writers whose work I have in my to be read 🥺♡♡ To those who I've tagged, please feel free to ignore and don't feel pressured at all to share!! I just thought I'd reach out to a few writers in those communities, since I mainly have only marvel mutuals/followers ♡♡

@rootedinrevisions @arcane-vagabond @sunlightmurdock @ohtobeleah @roosterforme @sehnsuchts-trunken @sunnysidevans @fireinmoonshot @rosie-read-that @seresinhangmanjake @mickandmusings @bloatedandalone04

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

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

Word Count: 13.6k

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

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

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

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

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

Then comes the keys.

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

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

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

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

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

And then, his bedroom door.

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

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

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

But then comes the moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that finally makes the tears flow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are alone in your grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what is the point?

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

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

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

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

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

And then, him standing there and watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you are certain, he won’t.

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

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

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

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you keep walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look back.

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

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

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

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

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

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

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

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

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

“To Nat’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

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

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

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

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

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

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

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t move.

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

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

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

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

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

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

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

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

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

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

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

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

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

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

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

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

“No, you-”

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

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

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

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

You could run.

You should.

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

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

“Okay,” you say weakly.

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

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

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

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

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

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

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

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

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

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

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

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

So you stay.

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

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

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

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

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

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

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

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

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

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

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

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

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

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

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

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

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

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

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

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

“I-”

You try. You really try.

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

Because this time it’s her walking out.

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

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

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

But it’s not yours either.

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

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

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

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

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

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

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

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

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

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

Your stomach lurches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

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

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

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

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

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

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

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

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

And Bucky watches all of that.

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

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

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

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

“See, that’s bullshit.”

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

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

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

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

But he won’t.

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

And you break.

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

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

You feel so pathetic.

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

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

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

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

You let him.

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

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

Like your pain is his own.

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

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

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

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

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

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

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

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

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

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

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

It’s too hard. too cruel.

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

But it does.

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

So you cry harder.

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

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

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

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

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

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

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

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

You won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Because none of this makes it any easier.

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

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

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

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

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

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

He looks wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

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

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

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

But Bucky just shrugs.

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

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

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

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

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

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

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

There is something uncertain in there.

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

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

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

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

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

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

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

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

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

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

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

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

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

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

His eyes are pleading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your reaction must be answer enough.

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

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

The exact moment he realizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky panics.

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

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

Not at you.

At himself.

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

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

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

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

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

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

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

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

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

“Like it’s over.”

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

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

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

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

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

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

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

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

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

This thing between you.

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

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

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

It consumes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky is crying.

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t.

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

But you don’t know how to.

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

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

You don’t and he steps closer again.

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

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

But what could you say?

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

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

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

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

It hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

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

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

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

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

He tried to fuck it away.

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

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

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

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

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

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

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

Even if you know it might not be fair.

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

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had no claim on him.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, body sways.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky-”

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Beau Taplin

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Reblog if you love AO3 and appreciate their volunteers who are working harder than God, fighting battle after battle, making sure the place that is a safe space for every fandom is staying up and running for all of us

[hollowmem]

Soulmates

GN!Reader x John Price

I decided to take on a 2 week challange that may or may not extent to a month, we will see. I will be posting everyday, a new story with a prompt I will get for that day

Day 1: Soulmate AU with price

The transfer papers felt heavier in Y/n’s hands than they should have. Another team. Another shot at something new. Or maybe just another disappointment. They had lost count of how many units they’d been a part of, how many times they packed up their things, hoping—just hoping—that maybe this time, they’d find them.

Their soulmate.

It was supposed to be simple, wasn’t it? Everyone had a mark on their wrist, a unique birthmark shared with exactly one other person in the world. Some found theirs as kids, some during training, some on the battlefield. It was a quiet promise that somewhere, someone was meant to stand by your side. To have your back. To be yours.

Y/n had watched teammates uncover their marks, compare them with wide eyes and relieved laughter, or even just a resigned nod—acceptance, in whatever form it came. They had seen teammates transferred out, reassigned to be with their soulmates in more stable roles, as if the universe itself made accommodations for them. And Y/n had watched their own hands, fingers tracing over the fabric that always covered their wrist. Because they had tried. Again and again. And every time they pulled back their sleeve to reveal their mark, it was met with shaking heads, uncomfortable glances.

No match here.

They learned to keep it hidden. To stop hoping. To keep their head down and just do their damn job. Because if they weren’t going to find their soulmate, then at least they could be something. Someone useful. Someone worth keeping around.

But hope was a stubborn thing.

As they stepped into the new base, duffle slung over one shoulder, they forced themselves to keep their expression neutral. A new team meant new rules, new dynamics to navigate. This one, though… this one was different. Task Force 141 wasn’t just another unit—they were legends. And their captain? Even more so.

John Price had a reputation. Strict, tactical, one of the best leaders in the field. But more than that, he didn’t give a damn about soulmates.

That was why Y/n was here.

No one else had taken them in. The moment command saw them bouncing between teams, the questions started. The concerns. They weren’t unreliable—far from it—but no one wanted to deal with the wildcard that couldn’t find their place. Except Price. He had barely glanced at their file before stamping the approval.

“We need soldiers, not fairytales,” was all he’d said.

So here they were, standing in front of the man himself as he gave them a once-over, sharp blue eyes unreadable. “You’ve been with a lot of teams,” Price noted, flipping through their papers before looking back up. “Hoping to settle down here?”

Y/n swallowed, fingers tightening around the strap of their bag. “Yes, sir.”

Price hummed, as if considering them, before he nodded. “Good. Get settled. Briefing’s at 0600.”

And that was it. No questions, no hesitation. Like their past didn’t matter. Like they weren’t some broken puzzle piece that couldn’t fit anywhere else.

For the first time in a long time, they let themselves breathe. But they still didn’t roll up their sleeve.

The barracks were quiet when Y/n stepped inside, the dim glow of overhead lights casting long shadows across the room. A few bunks were already occupied—Ghost’s unmistakable silhouette leaned against the wall, reading something on his tablet, while Soap sat cross-legged on his bed, meticulously cleaning a pistol.

“New recruit,” Soap greeted, his Scottish accent warm but assessing. “Heard Price finally took in the stray.”

Y/n hesitated for only a second before setting their bag down. “Guess that makes me lucky.”

Soap grinned. “That depends. You know how to hold your own?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Ghost snorted softly but didn’t look up. Soap just chuckled, approving. “Good answer.”

Y/n busied themselves unpacking, careful to keep their left sleeve tugged down. The weight of their hidden mark was familiar now, a quiet reminder pressed against their skin. No match here. No match anywhere. And yet, despite themselves, they wondered. Hoped.

Price had taken them in without a second thought, had given them a chance when no one else would. But that didn’t mean he’d accept what was under their sleeve. What if he saw it and regretted bringing them in? What if the mark meant nothing to him?

What if… he had the same one?

The next morning came quickly. 0600 sharp, Y/n stood in the briefing room alongside the rest of the team. Price stood at the head of the table, arms crossed as a mission map flickered to life on the screen behind him.

“Welcome to the real work,” Price started, voice steady and sure. “You were brought in because we need soldiers who don’t hesitate. Who don’t break under pressure.”

Y/n kept their posture rigid, hands clasped behind their back, but their mind kept drifting—to the heat of their wrist, the way their mark had felt warmer since stepping into this base. It was in their head, surely. Just nerves.

The briefing continued—high-value target, extraction details, tactical formations. They focused, absorbing every word. This was their chance. No distractions. No wishful thinking.

Except as the team started to disperse, Price walked past them, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. And in that split second, their mark burned.

Y/n inhaled sharply, fingers twitching toward their sleeve before they caught themselves. No. No, no, no. Not here. Not now.

They risked a glance at Price, but the captain was already moving, rolling out his shoulders as he addressed Ghost and Soap. If he had felt anything, he didn’t show it. His face was locked in that familiar, unreadable mask, as though nothing was amiss.

But Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling. Their wrist still burned, an insistent, unsettling heat that wouldn’t let up. They forced themselves to breathe, to focus, but the pull was undeniable. There was something wrong with this—something they couldn’t quite put their finger on.

It wasn’t until the room started to empty that Price turned his head slightly, catching their eye. For a brief moment, it was like the world stopped—his gaze was sharp, measuring. The kind of look a leader gives when he senses something’s off, even if he doesn’t know what.

Y/n stiffened, heart racing. Did he know? Was there something in their face that gave it away? Were they acting too nervous?

Price took a step toward them, but instead of speaking, he simply looked down at their wrist—his eyes lingering there for the briefest of seconds before shifting back up to meet their gaze.

“You alright?” His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it now. It was the kind of question soldiers ask each other when they can sense something’s wrong, but they’re not sure how to call it.

For a moment, Y/n froze, the weight of his gaze anchoring them in place. They could barely remember how to speak.

“I’m fine, sir,” they managed to say, voice coming out sharper than intended.

Price’s expression didn’t shift. “Just checking.” He nodded curtly, then turned and walked away.

Y/n watched him go, the burning in their wrist still there, hot and unmistakable.

Their heart thudded painfully in their chest. This was going to be a problem.

The mission was supposed to be straightforward. Secure the target, get in, get out. But of course, it never worked out that easily. They’d been on the ground for hours, in the thick of it, and the intensity of the situation had only made the heat in Y/n’s wrist worse. Every time Price got too close, the burning sensation surged, like it was pulling them in deeper, threatening to consume them if they didn’t do something about it.

It had been growing all day, relentless, but Y/n had no time to deal with it—not now. They’d seen Price moving with calculated precision, shouting orders, coordinating the team like a well-oiled machine. The mark on their wrist flared each time the captain came near, but they couldn’t stop focusing on the mission.

That is, until the ambush happened.

One moment, everything was under control. The next, gunfire rang out from every direction. Chaos exploded, and the team fell into position, trying to regroup. Y/n’s heart hammered in their chest as they moved to take cover behind a nearby crate. Their breath was shallow, pulse racing—not just from the firefight, but from the burning on their wrist.

There was no time to process what was happening. Just instinct. They scanned the battlefield, searching for their teammates, when their eyes locked with Price’s across the chaos.

In that instant, the mark flared.

It wasn’t just a flash of heat anymore. It was a wave of warmth that surged up their arm, up into their chest, making their heart beat faster. Their breath caught in their throat, and for a second, they forgot to breathe.

Price had felt it too. He froze, his sharp gaze snapping toward them. There was a moment of quiet between the chaos, something unspoken passing between them. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Y/n to see it.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

His hand went to his wrist instinctively. The same burn, the same heat, the same undeniable sensation was coursing through him, too.

It was the mark.

Their mark.

A shift passed between them—an unspoken understanding. And for the first time since joining the team, Y/n didn’t feel like they were alone. They weren’t the only one who had been living with that burning, nagging sensation. Price had it too. He’d been feeling it all along, just like they had.

But the battlefield wasn’t the place for this. Not now. Price had to keep moving. He called out, his voice cutting through the noise. “Get to cover! Now!”

Without a second thought, Y/n sprang into action, adrenaline coursing through their veins. But the mark was still there, still hot, still alive. The connection between them was undeniable, and now it was impossible to ignore.

Later, when the firefight had died down and the adrenaline began to fade, Price found them, alone, just outside the temporary base they’d set up for the night. They were sitting by themselves, hands clenched tightly together, trying to steady their breathing.

Price didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, watching them, taking a moment to let the weight of the situation settle in. The air between them was thick with tension, neither knowing exactly how to navigate this new truth.

Y/n lifted their head, finally meeting his gaze, but they couldn’t bring themselves to speak. What could they say? How could they explain that the mark—this connection—had been there all along, but neither of them had ever acknowledged it? That all this time, when they felt that burning sensation, it had been coming from him?

Price broke the silence first. His voice was rough, hoarse from the mission and something else—something heavier. “That was you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

Y/n nodded, swallowing hard.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Price’s tone wasn’t angry, but there was a trace of something raw in his voice. Something like frustration. Or maybe confusion.

“I… I didn’t know how,” they confessed. “I thought… I thought it was just me. That it didn’t mean anything.”

“Same here,” Price admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But today, I—” He stopped himself, as if trying to find the right words. His eyes flicked to their wrist, then back to their face. “It’s the mark, isn’t it?”

Y/n nodded again, their chest tight. “Yeah. It’s been burning every time you’re close, but I never thought it would be you.”

“And now?” Price asked, his gaze never leaving them.

“Now I know it’s you,” they said, their voice barely above a whisper.

Price took a step closer, his presence a steady weight beside them. He didn’t touch them—not yet—but there was something in the way he stood, something that told Y/n he understood. That he wasn’t going to walk away from this. That the connection between them—this bond—wasn’t something they could ignore.

“I don’t know what this means,” Price said quietly, his voice low and intense. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither were they.

Y/n looked down at their wrist, feeling the heat slowly beginning to subside, but the connection was still there. It was still undeniable. And somehow, the weight of everything that had happened, everything that was now shifting between them, felt both terrifying and comforting at the same time.

This wasn’t just a coincidence anymore. It wasn’t just a mark on their skin.

It was them. Together.

And they were ready to face whatever came next.

[aloeboba]

random things you should know about your characters ! 🍥🖊🍡

35 small, random things

Top 3 favorite movies

Top 3 favorite drinks

Favorite colors

Do they have any aunts or uncles?

Statements in their wardrobe

Top 3 emojis they'd use

How's their handwriting?

Can they spell very well?

If they're a student, what's their GPA?

Favorite book

What's the relationship with their parents like?

Whats something special from their childhood?

Whats something they like to do during the summer?

Favorite musical artists/songs

Do they like art?

Do they prefer ballpoint pens or gel pens?

What do they smell like?

What's their shampoo/body wash scented?

Can they spell Mississippi?

Favorite animal

Are they a night owl or a morning person?

How coherent is their spotify?

Do they have a nickname?

Do they run hot or cold?

Do they hog the blanket at night?

What's their favorite dessert/sweet treat?

Do they have any food/plant/seasonal allergies?

Whats their favorite season?

Would they consider themselves intelligent?

Have they worked any odd jobs before?

Favorite birds

Would they like to live somewhere else?

What's their coffee order?

Do they coffee or tea or neither?

Who's their hallway crush?

[jocollins]

Sterek prompt: Derek still climbs Stiles’ window to get to his room, even though he has a key.

[popcorn-plots]

IronStrange Week 2025 Day 1 - Chronic pain | time loop

title: hundred thousand changes, everything's the same

song: The Living Daylights by a-ha

~

On his wedding day, the Fates trapped Stephen in a time loop.

~

1,321 w. | under the cut for length

Stephen wanted to scream at the universe sometimes. He was the protector of reality, but as powerful as he was, he was helpless in the face of it. And sometimes, the Fates liked to play mean tricks on the inhabitants of Earth. Like trapping the Sorcerer Supreme in a Groundhog Day situation, making him repeat his wedding day – July 17th – over and over again.

As he collapsed into his bed with Tony after their reception, suits still on and slightly wrinkled, frosting smeared on Tony’s cheek, Stephen had to admit it was partially his own fault. He was the one who had held Tony their first night as husbands and wished that he could stay like this forever, reliving the happiest day of his life with his now husband just before he had fallen asleep. Maybe Stephen’s magic was strong enough to do something of this caliber, but he would have known if it was his own. Therefore, it had to be the Fates. How long it would last, Stephen had no idea. The best course of action was to wait it out, despite how much it hurt.

Tony turned his head and looked at Stephen. “Hello, husband,” he said, grinning. Despite the endless loops and the hundreds of times that Tony said it just like that , it still made Stephen’s heart flutter.

Stephen smiled back. “Husband,” he said, capturing one of Tony’s hands in his own shaking one and bringing it up for a kiss. Tony laughed softly.

“That was certainly something today, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Stephen agreed, setting their hands down. “We’re married.” He tried to smile, despite how hollow the words felt in his chest. They were married, but only for another hour until the clock struck midnight and they’d do it all over again.

Tony yawned and Stephen laughed when Tony pretended to stretch like a cat and lost his balance, slithering off the side of the bed like a snake instead. “Come on, don’t laugh….” Tony whined. Stephen laughed harder until Tony stood up and stopped him with a kiss to his lips.

“Come on,” Tony said, leaving Stephen’s lips to press kisses all over Stephen’s face, his warm hands holding Stephen still. “Shower with me? Clean off the stress of today and sleep?”

Stephen swatted Tony’s face away. “I’m not really up for sex right now, Tony.”

Tony chucked. “Wedding night traditions are a scam, Stephen. I’m so tired that I actually want to go to sleep. You don’t have to shower with me if you don’t want to, but I guarantee there will be no shower sex. Not today, at least.”

“So if I want to get you to sleep, I just have to marry you?” Stephen gaped.

“It’s a one-time deal,” Tony informed Stephen. “There’s also the incentive to sleep next to my husband, on our wedding night. That’s a pretty sweet opportunity.”

Stephen hummed. “That is a nice thought.” He brought his hands up around Tony’s thighs, leaning forward so his head could rest on Tony's hip. “Go shower, love. I’ll join you in a little bit.”

“Okay,” Tony said, strong fingers carding through Stephen’s hair. “I promise I won’t use all the hot water while I wait.”

Stephen couldn’t help but shake his head and his husband’s antics. While it was relatively the same every loop, it never got old. Tony Stark-Strange was still Tony Stark-Strange, and he was the man that Stephen Stark-Strange had fallen in love with and had chosen to spend the rest of his life with. He just didn’t want the rest of his life to be spent in a loop, watching as his husband lived each day like his first while Stephen lived each day like his last.

Hands stopped moving in his hair. “What’s gotten into you, wizard, you went quiet all of a sudden.”

“Hmm?” Stephen looked up to find Tony looking down, his brown eyes filled with concern. “Just thinking. About how lucky I am to have married you.”

Soft hands resumed, and softer eyes met Stephen’s gaze. “If anything, I’m the lucky one. A no good alcoholic with enough baggage to fill the Grand Canyon and daddy issues a mile high, marrying you, someone so talented and beautiful and kind ? I’m the one who’s lucky because I found you, and you saved me, and now I have a family. A husband who loves me, kids who call me their father, and years worth of AA chips in my drawer because I trust you enough to keep me straight, and I know that it’d break your heart to see me relapsed. I’m lucky because you gave me life, Stephen Strange, you gave me a second chance to prove myself. You’re the reason that I get out of bed in the morning, and the reason that I’ll always, always come back. No matter what.”

It took Stephen a few moments to figure out that he was crying. He brought a hand up to wipe his face, sniffing as he tried to control it. “I thought we already said our vows,” he finally choked out.

Tony tenderly caressed Stephen’s cheek, wiping his tears away. “Yeah, and I already want to renew mine, just to show the world how much I love you. And that one’s just for you and me. Plus, I don’t think Mr. Perfect America would appreciate the reference to my alcoholism.”

Stephen let out a watery laugh. That was a complete lie and they both knew it. Steve Rodgers probably out drunk everyone at the reception, including Natasha, who claimed that he was cheating because he couldn’t actually get drunk on a normal scale. Steve had also taken Tony to his first AA meeting when he first noticed the signs of Tony spiraling after New York. He noticed faster than even Rhodey, and offered as much support as he could. Steve had never been an alcoholic, but he had grown up in the 30s and 40s and knew how difficult it could be to come back from that. Stephen understood, though. Tony’s alcohol issues and the vulnerability of talking about them had always been tough subjects for him, and it meant a lot to Stephen that Tony trusted him enough to share.

“I love you,” Stephen whispered.

“I love you, too,” Tony whispered back.

Stephen didn’t realize until he was pressed up against the soft cotton of Tony’s night shirt that their conversation about being lucky was new. It was nice, Stephen thought, to have some variety, and to know without a doubt just how much Tony loved him. If he ever got out of this loop, Stephen would make sure that Tony knew just how much he meant to Stephen.

~~

Stephen woke up to the press of a warm body against his. He opened his eyes to see Tony watching him, propped up on one arm and smiling softly. Stephen smiled back, in awe at the look of pure joy radiating from Tony.

“Good morning, my love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of Stephen’s forehead when he noticed that he was awake. “My love, mi amor, my husband ,”

Stephen froze. “Husband…” Did they…? Did that mean–

‘Yes,” Tony purred. “Husband. Not having regrets now, are you?”

“No, I–” Stephen paused. “I just... Did you mean it? What you said last night?”

Tony frowned. Stephen felt a flash of panic– did he start another loop, or was this another fresh day to live over and over again – then Tony’s face softened.

“Every word,” Tony whispered, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Stephen’s lips. “Every last one.”

Stephen surged up, wrapping his arms around Tony, around his husband , as he cried, elation surging through his limbs. He was back , and Tony was right there at his side. “I love you,” he sobbed, “I love you so much.”

“I know,” Tony said, almost as choked up as Stephen. “I know.”

@ironstrangehaven | Ao3

next | previous | first | masterlist

[babeydollx]

🎀🎄 Kinkmas 2023 🎄🎀

So, I was going to do Kinkcember but, since I already know I won't be able to do all 31 days this month because of my schedule, I decided I would do Kinkmas instead. So, I will not be starting Kinkmas until December 14th. This way the 12th day will end on December 25th.

I will list below what I will be doing for all 12 days. (Dec. 14th-25th)

!THIS IS NOT THE MASTERLIST! JUST A HEADS UP/NOTICE!

01. BREEDING ♡ Billy Hargrove (dec 14th)

02. TIT FUCKING ♡ Damon Salvatore (dec. 15th)

03. THIGH RIDING ♡ William Afton (dec. 16th)

04. VIRGINITY ♡ Steve Harrington (dec. 17th)

05. NIPPLE PIERCINGS ♡ JJ Maybank (dec. 18th)

06. PRAISE KINK ♡ Mike Schmidt (dec. 19th)

07. SQUIRTING ♡ Maddy Perez (dec. 20th)

08. CHOKING + SPITTING + HAIR PULLING ♡ Eddie Munson (dec. 21st)

09. DEGRADING KINK ♡ Dean Winchester (dec. 22nd)

10. HICKEYS ♡ Sarah Cameron (dec. 23rd)

11. ROUGH SEX ♡ Kai Parker (dec. 24th)

12. ROLEPLAY ♡ Rafe Cameron (dec. 25th)

I will be posting other Christmas fics before December 25th and while I am doing Kinkmas so stay tuned for that too, xoxo 💗

[reshramlove1ob]

SELENA DEVON AND MYNTÉ MENTIONED 🤪🥰

[huewrite]

Writing challange

Tomorrow I try a writing challange. I don't expect to make it but it sounded fun to try. A friend of mine can do 50K words in a week. I'm going to try the same.

The rules are 7 days, 2 you must take off from proper writing. So tomorrow is day one. I'll write for 3 days. then do thanksgiving stuff (I'm hosting this year) then write for two more.

I'll probably do sprints to keep me on track, trying to get about 800 words every 25 minutes. And I have two stories I can switch between. So I won't get bored.

Wish me luck!

[tvcore-productions]

Box full of shards(WIP title)

Premise: Gengar takes care of a clefairy egg, that's all

This isnt the full fic but if this interest you, I'm probably gonna update more consistently on wattpad,ao3, and storyforge

The Weight of a Soul

Coldness shuttered the forest, a love for the dead ancestors but not the Pokemon that evolved by them.

The moon's glow silhouetted the rocky top of the mountain. A widened path down the mountain for a large Pokemon, that can smoothen the road and plant seeds that sprout along the way up to their den.

 The Aggron, not noticing the moon's reflection of the sun like a mirror cast down its cold light in front of their cave. The moon had begun peering inside the sleepy Aggron, with a shadow walking by the moon’s peering light in the darkness.

An eerie glow that shapes up into threads of seafoam, a house picture of a cabin of integrity. If it was a simple picture, it was surreal to remember. The Aggron was aloof in memories, a sight of staring at wood after following a rocky trail. 

Threads of their dream became a snack, for one ghost, and one more uncaring for others to sleep around the area. Gengar was out of the shadows. Stretching for their morning after midnight, with the moon peering away after Gengar took a slow, and patient time with eating Aggrons dream.

When the dreams were absorbed, the unnoticeable flutter of the Aggrons lidded their gaze up. They were unable to notice the shooting star approaching at comet speed. It was just their uninvited guest, 'whose weight on the world is the one wanting the dead as their companion to have more company,' Mother said.

“...Did you give me nightmares so you could eat more.”

The Gengar looked back, tilting their head with their smile, and gave a casual shrug.

The moon shines down on their translucent fur, outlining their curvy, rounded bodies. Gengars weren't known for their gender difference. But the off-putting contrast of soft, sharp eyes looking comfortable after a well-fed meal had tied Aggron's stomach.

The Gengar's flaming fur of their shadow silhouette, phasing out of the mountain. They gleamed through the forest before the sun rose for others' dreams. Grinning a haunting face of gleam for eating their 'Morning breakfast dew'.

Renergized to leave a soul-sleeping sound. But even the ghost-type would chuckle over their dismay as they left their den. The Gengars’s eyes contorted back to how it was to an uncaring and prankster gleam like their smile.

The trail, dirt smoothed, and footsteps from a dragon made of steel smooth down the path and hold the forest neatly. A bigger Aggron repetitively watches the dance of the pond market, sitting by the cliff.

A Clefairy egg by the mountain's south side, no Clefables live on this particular mountain. Well if you were someone who hiked and didn't take any visual clues. It is not like there be any for the Gengar to notice, for there is only a pink and brown contrast by the gray spikes.

Was there a Ditto sleeping, no dreams sensed, so whose soul isn't sleeping so small? It was but an egg, in the dusted smell of rain. What poured down on this side of the mountain? Is there a cave that had its overflowing flood like a volcano, of silent death of the dead? 

There was a lot of water here. The Gengar couldn't care after the thought of climate politics came. Their nice nice-tasting nightmares other Pokemon would guess.

Through its shell, a flame sparks inside. It falters from being small. Around it was much rubble. 

But Gengar’s hand grazes over the head of the egg. An egg can't cry, an egg is only a cradle for the baby inside. 

Gengar’s fades away, trying to take a closer look into the soul realm.

The soul felt themselves under a palm of shadows.

The Gengar feels trivialized, with the soul not flickering like a Worrid Litwick.

In the Gengar’s palm, the flame balanced a little more. The sun was damping the sky in tangerine, the color of oranges that June would harvest. With the sun, staining the sky with red herbal tea, the Gengar was left… lost in thought, smiling in their eyes.

And then the afternoon sang, in the leaves whistles and underground rivers hit the sides of rocks.

The stronghold taiga trees of rough bark and pinecones, the orange sky seemed to drain its color on the leaves, shadows dance, and bush flicker. Tree scratches and Pokemon-marked dens and shrubs. It was down by the side of the southern side of the ghost mountain, less Pokemon, more empty.

Quagsire had 3 injuries dusted across her body; One crossed the side of her eye like a miss, a bruised arm bandaged around her right shoulder, and a bruise around her outer right leg.

"Hey! You'd already had your breakfast." 

She shouted, being annoyed and a bit brash to the sonder pansage. Something cold burdened the wind heavily, on the edge of the mountain and tree’s small meadow.

“It's Ariados from the webbed embroideries bushes! Have some respect for your market neighbors or whatever you call the market beside you.”

The little Pansage stared at her. Looking around for any Ariados she spoke of. No apprentice or hungry seller in sight. Feeling ready for another bite of redberry delight, that’d taste better stolen.

Till a sudden glance at red eyes locking eyes at the bush, glazing passed the pansage.

The pansage froze and dropped the raspberry. Hitting for a sprint behind the Quagsire.

“Hey!”

The Qougsire yelped, picking up the shaking Pansage to lecture. Abruptly sighing and leaves hand in hand.

Gengar picked up the fresh leaves inside the stem, the nice trees surrounded the bushes, healthily meshing with the other bushes that caress something fruitful.

Far from the trail of an old dry well, there are willow trees with disorganized missiles punctured and falling beneath the tree’s roots. The willow trees are in a circle around the taiga, the only reason the place would be called Willow Peak, at least until you see the willow trees growing at the side of the mountain.

Maractus, rolled their shoulders taking a breath of the earthy air, winding up and down their shoulders like the wind hitting the rocks. They look over their left shoulder, blazed and dry with scorch marks of black outlining a fiery detail from the brown wound.. 

“Oh hey Gengar” 

Gengar plucks the pins that got embedded in the trees. Gengar carried quite a handful.

“Bye Gengar.”

Gengar looked back with a welcomed smile, seeing Maractus back, and waved back with a small bye.

Fraxure rolled down the willow trees' bigger roots clawing out of the ground. taking the leaves from the Fraxure pokemon head.

“Oh, thanks shadow mon.”

Gengar smiles, seeping into the shadow of the willow tree branches.

Back to their home in a splintered in their gaze, the egg resting on the ‘good’ pillow side. No risks to see if resting the egg on top of the puffy pillow will off-balance the egg with a splash.

Nesting on the rock wasn't soft enough. Cleaning off or taking the leaves that seemed crunchy and dry from autumn sleeves, sliding the leaves off the edge of the hidey hole. Gengar was glad that the willow tree’s enrichment might only dry in winter.

With specks of sand, it itches to rock to bed in. At least it was pocket sand rather than a sandstorm. Lines cross the cave walls that specks of sand coated on the floor and leaves.

They let their shoulders rest, eyes anticipating something they wouldn't hold.

Gengar held the Clefairy egg up to them. Stargazing at the egg.

The sun finally grazed its light where it could see the market stalls, hanging embroidery and stained glass coloring the floors, and the rock of the second biggest dragon-type living there.

Near the front of the cobblestone paths, market stalls smell raspberry and citrus-dried oranges hanging in some windows and stalls.

Aggron whimpered, down in the forest. 

"Aggron could I have the splinter on your-"

"As long as you don't eat my dreams anymore." 

Their rose gold charm bracelet sparkled with a spinal and tera, pink and all-seeing shaked. Or made noise like any other bracelet would.

"What did you ask," Another Aggron appeared from the quiet rustling of their dexterity to the area.

"A Simple Request"

“Ok ok, but curiosity didn't kill an Aggron with one life.” They’d asked again, leaning themselves down to the Gengar’s height. 

“What is it that you want a splinter,” 

A Yamask peered out of the tall grass and beside the two Aggrons bored.

“I say Gengar’s been nesting with the omen of surprise.” Yamask chuckled, much to the dismay of the Aggron Avilara.

“...” The Gengar was waiting patiently with a following gaze, “I apologize for the assumption of this errand, I am Avilara, let’s not have this be a bad impression.”

Avilara has yet to get acquainted with the full-moon troublemaker, quietly keeping to themselves. 

The Gengar still smiled, “It’s good luck to have the blood of a big Pokemon for a nest, energy from the blood can make an egg strong. And this is just the right typing from a dragon type.”

The message hauntingly goes by the wind, un-phasing the mother, but terrifyingly confusing their son. The Yamask laughed, wiping a small tear, “Sure, a dragon-type that hoards rock.”

With a wooden splinter with Aggron blood, the eggs' health has never made the Gengar any more hopeful than they confidently were for a strong egg.

Gengar placed the thorn by the egg, their nesting complete and back home at their dens hidden ‘attic’.

The Gengar nestled back into their cave's shadow, along with a flare of soul from their newfound kin. Maybe they heard giggling in their ears, with their ears flicking up staring amiss the egg. With stars-struck eyes.

The far up of the cave had a hole the Gengar floated right up to. Sitting up the crevasses. A drop like that would break any egg, but out of claw reach if they don’t know where to look

The Gengar eyes splintered, the pittering flame of the egg.

Gengar rested on their eggs. Their claw runs a circle on the top of the pink and brown eggshell cradling the little soul.

 'It Boy' by Bbnomula plays on a small recorder, by the empty candle with a sweet smell of dead rose on the light pink wax.

{1700}

Knitting Railways{wip title} and Technically Chapter 2 after I mashed both one-shots turned filler chapter, into one fic. Deleted the part in the middle with aggron and the swanne in migration, but hey kept all the tropes

Also CHAPTER 2 @@@@ Button

[pirate-of-the-southern-isles]

June's writing challenge - Day 7

333 words today, but there is a bigger news. I checked and, well, I missed an important moment a few days ago. So, here it goes:

I am happy to report, that my current WIP, The Pirate of the Southern Isles, on June 4th, has officially become the longest text I've written in my entire life.

It has surpassed my previous longest fanfiction, The Imperial Basterds (Star Wars), which has 161 982 words (not finished). And I was writing it from 2019 to 2021.

The Pirate of the Southern Isles was started in September.

I think I need a champagne.

...also, The Imperial Basterds was, like, 2/3 done, in this baby they are still completing the first quest out of three.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

There is a special place in hell for all the people behind these bot attacks that harm AO3 and the communities we built.

A reminder that Archive of Our Own is not Instagram or TikTok. It isn’t run by a big company with money and power. The site is a non-profit site run by volunteers (fans), for fans. And its main purpose is to bring people within the same fandom together and connect artists with audiences who would love and appreciate these artists’ works. It’s the only platform without any ads, without any censorship, without any of these capitalism bullshit. It doesn’t make users pay for any features and the only source of money they get, to keep the site up and running, is through donations. It’s literally a safe place for every fandom.

To think that it’s a target just because it’s easier to attack than those huge companies is just so sad.

Not to mention that there are so many genuine guest users out there (people who aren’t logged in / don’t have an AO3 account), and these people are directly affected by this whole thing, because they are no longer able to comment and connect with their favorite creators — and this still affects creators directly because I know for a fact that getting comments and being able to connect with their audience mean the world to them. I don’t blame AO3 for disabling guest comments altogether.

I do blame and curse the fuckers behind these bot attacks though.

If you try to sabotage AO3, out of all the other platforms out there, you are pathetic. You’re not just attacking a small, independent company, you’re trying to tear apart people’s communities and safe place. Disrespectfully, fuck you. Burn in hell.

Mad respect to all the brave soldiers that are AO3 volunteers who work harder than god fighting these scums.

I know these brave soldiers will win in the end (they always did, this isn’t their first battle, mind you), but in the meantime I’m sending them all my love and respect. They truly are the heroes.

[hollowmem]

Word Fussion - 1# Echoes of the past

A challange I decided to create. Called it word fussion because I asked people to give me character, tone and 5 words, from which i need to create a story. 1# Character: James Bucky Barnes Tone: Hurt/Comfort Words: Nurse, Timeless, Capture, Rekindle, Childhood

Brooklyn, 1941

The city buzzed that summer — music from radios pouring out of apartment windows, kids yelling down on the sidewalks, sirens and streetcars and soldiers in uniform. War was in full swing, but in Brooklyn, it hadn’t hit yet. Not really.

Bucky Barnes was eighteen, and the army had just accepted him.

He was glowing with it — that restless, bouncing energy that came with being young and sure you were about to do something that mattered.

“Can you believe it?” he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m shipping out next month. Europe, probably. France maybe. Hell, I don’t even care. I just wanna go.”

She watched him from where she sat on the stoop, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Aren’t you scared?”

He grinned down at her, all charm and bravado.

“Of what? I get a cool uniform, a rifle, and a ticket out of Brooklyn. That’s the dream.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. She was twelve — still all elbows and knobby knees and ribboned braids — and already smarter than half the boys he ran with.

“Yeah, well, you’ll miss me when you’re eating powdered eggs in the mud somewhere.”

“Damn right I will,” he said, nudging her shoulder gently as he dropped down beside her. “Who else is gonna call me out when I act like an idiot?”

She giggled, but her face turned a little more serious.

“I’m going too, you know.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I applied to be a nurse’s aid. Red Cross is taking girls as young as twelve.” She pulled a folded letter from her pocket and held it out proudly. “They want me.”

He took the paper, eyes scanning the type like it might vanish if he blinked. After a moment, he looked up at her, expression softer now.

“You really want this?”

“If you get to go help people, why can’t I?”

There was no hesitation in her voice, only a kind of quiet certainty that made something in his chest twist a little.

“You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head with a smile.

“Promise me you’ll come back?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just sat there with her, watching the sky over Brooklyn go gold and pink with the sunset.

Then:

“I’ll find you,” he said, quiet but certain. “Wherever they send you — I’ll find you.”

----

HYDRA Facility, 1983

The room was freezing. The kind of cold that clung to your skin even under layers of tactical gear. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale, sickly glow across the concrete floor. The Winter Soldier had just returned from a mission — another name crossed off some hidden list — and they were already waiting for him.

He was silent as they approached, blood smeared across his knuckles and the edge of his jaw. His breathing was steady, but there was a tension in the way his shoulders coiled and his gaze tracked every movement around him. He didn’t flinch when they tried to remove his gear. He didn’t allow it either.

The first handler reached for him. A second later, he was on the floor, unconscious, his head turned at an unnatural angle. The others hesitated.

They’d seen it before. Post-mission volatility, they called it. The part of him that didn’t quite reset after the memory wipe — some scrap of instinct, anger, or fear that clung to him, even when the rest of his identity had been stripped clean.

He wouldn’t go back into cryo. Not like this. Not with strangers’ hands on him.

Behind the glass, the scientists were already arguing.

"He's not stable. We wipe him again and we risk cognitive decay."

"He needs to be calmed before containment. We don’t sedate him unless we want another lab destroyed."

"Get the nurse. Now."

They didn’t speak her name, and she didn’t need to ask questions when the guards came for her.

When she stepped into the room, it was like the temperature shifted. Not warmer exactly, but quieter. The Soldier’s head turned almost immediately, eyes narrowing slightly as he registered her presence.

She didn’t wear a lab coat. Just a simple gray uniform and a scarf tucked carefully around her neck. There were no needles in her hands, no weapons, no commands. She didn’t try to speak.

Her approach was slow, steady — more of a drift than a walk. She stopped a few feet in front of him, giving him space to decide.

He looked at her like he was trying to remember something. Like some part of him, buried deep under all the conditioning and pain, recognized the shape of her face, the way she moved. She didn’t reach out — not yet. But she didn’t retreat when he took a step closer, either.

Only when he lowered his arm — the metal one, still streaked with blood — did she move. She slipped the blanket from her arm and rested it gently across his shoulders, her touch feather-light, careful not to startle.

He didn’t pull away.

And when she nodded toward the chamber, he followed.

----

Present Day, 2017

The coffee was cold by the time Bucky remembered to drink it.

He’d been staring at the file for nearly twenty minutes, thumb running absent-mindedly along the edge of the page, eyes skimming but not really reading. There wasn’t much in it anyway. Just a photo — grainy, scanned from what looked like an old personnel file — and a short note in Sam’s handwriting.

"SHIELD tracked her down. She's alive. Apparently helped deprogram a few ex-HYDRA assets. Thought you should know."

Bucky hadn’t seen her in decades.

Or maybe it had only been a few years, if he counted the frozen spaces between missions, the empty, stolen time.

He remembered her hands, though. The way she never flinched when his metal arm twitched. The way she never looked at him with fear. He didn’t remember her name — not clearly — but her presence haunted the quiet parts of his mind. Like the memory of warmth. Or a safe place he’d once known, long before he learned what it meant to be a weapon.

Now she was with SHIELD, they were still finding people who’d slipped through Hydra’s fingers. People like her.

People like him.

----

Later That Afternoon — SHIELD Safehouse, Virginia

The house didn’t feel like a facility. That was the point, probably. No steel doors, no observation windows, no flickering lights or cold floors. Just quiet wooden walls, a kitchen that smelled faintly of tea, and a window that opened to trees instead of concrete.

She was already waiting when Bucky stepped inside.

Y/N.

She looked exactly as he remembered her — same soft features, same posture that made her seem like she belonged somewhere gentle, even when surrounded by monsters. Time hadn’t touched her. Not like it had touched the world.

For a long second, neither of them said anything. She stood by the far wall, arms loosely crossed, gaze locked on him like she was trying to decide if he was real. He stayed in the doorway, eyes traveling over her face, trying to connect the scattered flashes of memory to the person in front of him.

“You haven’t changed,” he said finally, voice rough from disuse or disbelief — maybe both.

Her lips parted like she might say something clever, something light to deflect the weight in the room. But she didn’t. She just gave the smallest smile, tight and unsure.

“Cryo’ll do that,” she murmured. “Turns out time skips you if you’re frozen long enough.”

He huffed a dry sound that might’ve been a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding faintly. “I know the feeling.”

He stepped further in. She didn’t back away.

There were a hundred questions pressed behind his ribs, fighting to be the first one out — Do you remember me? Were you awake when I wasn’t? Did they hurt you? Did I hurt you? — but he stayed quiet. Let the silence hold space for both of them.

“I thought you were gone,” he said after a beat. “After that last mission, they… they didn’t bring you back out.”

She looked down for a second. Her hands twisted together before she forced them still.

“I think they were saving me,” she said, voice soft. “In case you ever slipped too far.”

His chest tightened. That sounded like Hydra. Cold, efficient. Cruel. She’d been nothing more than another piece of control.

“They used you,” he said, not quite an apology — more like an admission.

“They used both of us,” she replied, looking back up at him. “But I stayed… because if I wasn’t there, they would’ve replaced me with someone who didn’t care what they did to you.”

That broke something in him. Not loud or sudden — just a quiet fracture down the middle of everything he’d managed to rebuild.

“You were the only good thing,” he said, his voice low. “Back then. I completely forgot your name, or who you were, but I remembered feeling like… like there was something human left in me when you were around.”

Her eyes were glassy now, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

“You weren’t alone, Bucky,” she said. “Even when they made you forget everything… I didn’t.”

[sceletaflores]

thinking about college!patrick bending you over in the bathroom at a house party. 18+

you really should have known better than to let patrick take your hand and drag you away from drunkenly dirty dancing with tashi in the middle of the room.

maybe it was the two vodka redbull’s you slammed—or the joint you and tashi stole from some underclassmen trying to get into your pants—clouding your judgement.

whatever it was allowed you to let the strong grip of patrick’s hand guide you through the dance floor. weaving through crowded bodies gyrating to nelly furtado and up the stairs of whoever’s house this was until patrick pushed open the door to a blessedly empty bathroom, and yanks you inside.

you can’t even start to ask him what the hell you're doing in here before he’s got you pinned up against the door and fucking your mouth with his tongue. your surprised moan is muffled by patrick's mouth as he messily kisses you. he tastes like cheep beer and cigarettes.

"do you have any idea how fucking hot you look?" he grates out against your spit slick lips, grabbing the meat of your hips a little too harshly. "i've been hard for the last thirty minutes because you," he says, tone accusatory like you deliberately caused the hard line of his erection currently pressing into your stomach, "you did this, now you have to deal with it."

well that's how it started. now patricks got you bent over the sink of some randoms bathroom, panties pooled at your ankles and skirt hiked up around your hips as he sinks his unfairly huge cock into your already drenched pussy. "you got this worked up just from my tongue in your mouth? jesus, you're such an easy slut."

he barely gives you any time to get used to the thick stretch of his dick before he's moving, thrusting hard enough to sting your ass with the force of his hips smacking against you. "fuck! patrick— shit!" you moan loudly, grabbing the edge of the sinks counter to brace yourself. patrick's quick to shush you harshly, plastering himself to your back and shoving his thick fingers into your mouth to muffle the too loud keens and squeals he's fucking out of you.

"there's probably a line out there," he rasps wetly into your hair, leaning down to lick the shell of your ear, "you gotta be quiet baby, you don't want everyone out there hearing how much of a slut you are for my cock, do you?"

your cheeks burn fiercely as patrick's hot breath ghosts over your ear, spewing filth as he rams his thick cock into your tight, clenching hole over and over, the rough material of his jeans scratching against your skin since he couldn’t be bothered to do more than unzip and whip his cock out, too eager to get in you. the squelch that his cock makes on each mean stroke into your wet pussy has your ears tingling and your thighs shaking.

there's banging coming from the other side of the door, an angry voice shouting as the knob is jostled harshly, "bro hurry the fuck up!"

patricks pace doesn't even falter. if anything the snap of his hips speeds up. "fuck off!" his rough voice shouts back, hand moving from off your hip and up to your shoulder, letting him force you back to meet his thrusts. you moan around his fingers, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you feel the familiar warmth start to grow in the pit of your stomach.

“fuck yeah, i can feel you fucking clenching up on me. you gonna come baby?” he grips your hair is his fist, yanking your head to the side to seal his lips on your neck. “yeah, me too. fucking shit, i’m gonna bust all in your fucking pussy baby. you better come with me. you better fucking come with me.”

that’s all it takes before you’re coming on patrick’s dick. you think you may scream, biting down way too hard on the fingers still in your mouth. patrick’s not far behind, cock giving one final jerk before he’s spraying your insides with his warm come. he sinks his teeth into the meat of your shoulder in an attempt to stifle his groans as he comes. he doesn’t stop thrusting, letting each of you ride out your orgasms. only just as it gets to be a little too much does he stop.

patrick stays with his sweaty forehead pressed to your shoulder for a few beats, breathing heavily as he comes down from draining his balls so deep in your guts. slowly, he raises his head to meet your eyes in the reflection of the mirror. his face is flushed, curly black hair stuck to his forehead. he looks completely fucked, you both do. your hair is a mess and there’s two angry red hickeys already darkening on your neck.

patrick smirks at the state of both of you reflecting back at him in the mirror, hooking his chin over your shoulder with a stupid smug look on his face. no doubt relishing in the fact that the two of you have to go back down looking like this. he drops your hair from his fist and pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wiping the drool that leaked out around them as he does.

“i hate you,” you mutter quietly, still trying to catch your breath. patrick snorts out a laugh, wincing when he pulls his sensitive cock out of you. “yeah sure,” he replies, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping up. he drops to his knees behind you, at first you think he’s going for round two but as you open your mouth to protest he starts pulling your panties up your legs and over your ass.

“you need to wear this dress more often.” he says, planting a sweet kiss on your left ass cheek, well as sweet a kiss he can while still nipping at your soft skin. you don’t respond with words, only an annoyed huff as you drop you skirt back down around your hips.

you just have to hope that it’s long enough to cover the stream of patrick’s come trickling down your thighs.

—————

taglist!

@callsign-artemis @ebodebo @yuenity

[jocollins]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Additional Tags: Climbing through window, idiots falling in love, Idiots in Love, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Nightmares, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Nogitsune Arc (Teen Wolf), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Comfort, Friendship/Love, Happy Ending Summary:

It started as a means to survival, developed into a need of comfort, but they wouldn’t change it. Derek climbing though Stiles’ window was just their thing.