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buckymorelikefuckme · 1 year

Text

cry baby

bucky barnes x fem reader

words: 7.3k

warnings: **18+ ONLY** smut, edging, overstimulation, crying during sex, mentions of flushed cheeks, friends to lovers, misunderstandings, lapslock.

a/n: this is arguably one of my absolute fave fics i've ever written. she is near and dear to my heart :') i've provided the link for ao3 if you prefer to read it there! it's originally posted in two parts but i've combined them here. any and all mistakes are mine. feedback is encouraged & appreciated ♡

“the boys are running late,” natasha informs you when you make your way to the table she’s conquered in the busy cafe. “sam texted a couple minutes ago and said he and bucky got stuck in traffic.”

it’s the second tuesday of the month, which means it’s brunch day. it’s a running tradition that’s stood for the four of you since your college days. the time and place has changed over the years, but everyone does their absolute best to attend every time. these tuesdays are your favorite, naturally.

you plop into an empty chair across from her with a heavy sigh. “good, that means i have time to bitch about how fucking horny i am before they get here.”

she snorts, taking a delicate sip of her latte. “what’s new?” she wonders sarcastically.

“you don’t understand,” you begin, leaning into the table, gripping the edge tightly. “it’s been months, and not like, a few, i mean it’s coming up on a year.”

natasha’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “a year? what about that guy you went on a few dates with a while back? didn’t anything happen with him?”

“no,” you grumble, sitting back in your chair and crossing your arms. you huff. “and even if something had happened, i doubt it would have been satisfying. i can probably count on one hand the amount of times sex has been even kinda pleasurable for me.”

“sounds like you’re picking shitty partners.”

you scowl. “i know that, but it’s not my fault. all these stupid men keep promising they’re gonna fuck me ten ways to sunday and not a single one of them can even get me to wednesday.”

natasha laughs. “you poor thing.”

“you’re really not helping me here,” you whine with a pitiful pout on your lips. “you are getting routine dickings, you have sam! i am not so lucky here.” you notice her attention flicks to somewhere behind you, but you’re not finished with your rant. “nat, i’m serious. all of my sex encounters are the equivalent of asking someone to scratch my back and then they scratch literally anywhere but the spot that itches. i want to be fucked so good that i cry, just—completely reduced to tears. is that too much to ask?”

nat is hiding her smile behind her hand, amusement painted across her sharp features. someone clears their throat behind you and you pinch the bridge of your nose. sam and bucky occupy the empty seats, sam next to natasha and bucky next to you. they’re both sporting wide grins, looking far too pleased about stumbling into this conversation.

sam opens his mouth, no doubt to make a smartass comment, but you cut him off before he can get a good inhale in.

“not a fucking word,” you grouse with a finger pointed in his direction.

he presses a hand to his chest, expression offended. “i would never make a joke about your truly tragic excuse of a sex life.”

bucky snickers quietly, but turns into a cough at your glare.

“i’ll murder you,” you promise.

“leave her alone, boys,” natasha says, rolling her eyes, though she’s visibly biting back her own laughter.

you huff, digging your wallet out of your purse. “i hate all of you,” you announce before getting up and going to stand in line to order.

bucky follows a moment later, coming to stand at your side and throwing an arm around your shoulders.

“that bad, huh?” he asks.

you don’t have to look at his face to know he’s probably smirking right now.

“fuck off,” you retort, not bothering to push his arm away since you know he’d only put it right back.

“aw, come on, don’t be like that,” he jests, “you know we just like to poke a little fun.”

you roll your eyes, throwing him an exasperated look. “yeah, but that was something only nat was supposed to hear. i hate talking about sex with you and sam because you two wouldn’t understand.”

“that’s not true,” bucky insists, which makes you roll your eyes again. “it’s not!”

“first of all, sam’s got natasha, so we both know they’re more than satisfied.” bucky tilts his head in acquiescence. “and you don’t have to worry about if you’re gonna have an orgasm when you hook up with somebody. men have it so easy.”

it’s probably not the best thing to talk about in line of a busy cafe (especially since you haven’t decided between a blueberry muffin or the ham and cheese croissant, and there’s only one person ahead of you now and you’d really rather not be discussing your lack of sex in front of an innocent barista) but it sort of feels good to get this off your chest, even if it’s to bucky.

“okay, definitely not true,” he replies with a frown. “i’m not always guaranteed an orgasm.”

you give him a skeptical glance. “i find that hard to believe.”

this time, it’s bucky who rolls his eyes. “whatever, whether or not i come when i have sex with someone isn’t what i was gonna talk about when i came over here.”

the person in front of you finishes their order and then you’re stepping up for your turn.

“hi, what can i get you today?” the young barista asks with a smile.

“a large mocha iced coffee with sweet cream and a blueberry muffin, please.” you pause, contemplating, then add, “and a ham and cheese croissant.”

if you can’t get fucked within an inch of your life then food will become your lover, you reason.

“just a black coffee for me, please,” bucky tells the girl, taking his wallet out of his back pocket and handing over his card to pay before you can stop him.

“i could’ve paid for mine,” you mumble.

“you also could just say thank you,” he replies with a short laugh as he ushers you to the side to wait for your order.

you pinch his hip, pouting. “thank you.”

“why does your gratitude come with violence?” he asks, rubbing the sore spot.

“you know how i am when people do nice things for me.”

“you should be used to it by now,” he points out.

“well, i’m not,” you huff. “anyway, what did you come over here to talk about then?”

bucky reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, uncharacteristically shy all the sudden. “uh, well. i dunno, i just thought… you know, since you’re not—i mean, not that you couldn’t be, just—you haven’t been, so maybe… fuck.”

“spit it out,” you say with a giggle, wondering what in the world’s got him so tongue-tied.

“why don’t you let me?” he blurts, averting his gaze immediately after.

you tilt your head in confusion. “let you what?”

he sighs heavily, working his jaw in frustration. “you know…” he begins, digging his thumbnail into a knick on the countertop in front of you. “let me fuck you until you cry.”

“what?”

just then, your order is called. bucky quickly grabs it and turns to make his way back to the table, but you grab his arm to stop him.

“i don’t think so, you come back here right now and explain yourself,” you demand.

his eyes lift heavenward. “it’s just an idea, okay?”

“bucky, you’re talking about crossing a huge line. you can’t just throw that out all willy nilly!”

“i know,” he replies earnestly. “and it’s not—“ he grimaces at the phrasing, “willy nilly. you’re one of my best friends. i wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything, and i wouldn’t offer this if i thought that it could. this is something that’s obviously affecting you negatively in your life and i’m willing to help. i trust you, and i’m pretty sure you trust me, yeah?”

“of course i trust you,” you say, frowning.

he shrugs. “so, then it’s just… a friend helping another friend.”

“you make it sound so simple,” you muse in wonder.

“think about it?” he implores.

you swallow roughly, biting the inside of your cheek. “fine. i’ll think about it.”

he nods and walks back over to the table where sam and natasha are waiting. you hesitate for only a split second before following.

needless to say, you’re distracted for the rest of brunch.

***

you: what even makes you think you could fuck me until i cry anyway?

it’s been nearly a week, and as much as you hate to admit it, you’re actually considering taking bucky’s offer. it’s all you can think about since he brought it up. you can’t lie, you’ve always thought bucky was attractive, but ever since you were gently but firmly placed in the friend category back in university, you never allowed yourself to think of there ever being more between the two of you. he’s a wonderful friend to have and you’d have been an idiot to pass it up. bucky is kind and generous and just enough of an asshole to keep things interesting without it being a problem.

but this… this has left you reeling. why would he make such an offer after only ever keeping things strictly friendly and platonic in your relationship? and more importantly, where does he get the confidence to think he could follow through?

bucky: experience?

you make a face at your phone, furiously typing your reply.

you: ew. do you realize how douchey that sounds?

bucky: well, it’s not douchey if it’s true.

you: says you

bucky: and a few other people :)

bucky: you’d know it too if you’d let me fuck you

you exhale harshly through your nose, tapping your foot on the floor anxiously, carefully thinking of what you should say next.

you: it’s apparently a tall request, and thus far, nobody’s been able to deliver. you can understand my skepticism…

bucky: if i don’t leave you shivering and twitching with aftershocks of pleasure, in a mess of sweat and come, and tears stained on your cheeks, then i will have failed you.

your thighs squeeze together at the mental image that brings you. jesus christ, if he’s half as good at fucking as he is dirty talking then he just might do as he’s promising.

bucky: so? what do you say? wanna give it a try?

biting your lip, you give yourself a moment to weigh the pros and cons in your mind one last time.

it doesn’t take you very long to make your decision.

you: okay. we’ll try.

***

it’s a slightly overcast sunday when bucky comes over with the direct intention to fuck you. it should be weird, but strangely, all you feel is anticipation. maybe it’s because you know him so well and know that, no matter what, he’d take care of you.

(or, maybe it’s because those repressed college-aged feelings are doing their best to resurface, even though you steadfastly continue to ignore them.)

you’d taken a thorough shower earlier to ease the little bit of nerves you had when you’d woken up. cleaning up the small mess your apartment gathered over the last couple weeks helped, as well, and soon you found yourself standing in front of your lingerie drawer with your lips pursed.

you weren’t sure if you should even bother with it, but it felt you wouldn’t be putting in any effort into this encounter if you didn’t at least pick out nice underwear. so, with a pleased nod, you settle on some simple black lace panties and a matching bralette. not too much, but enough to satisfy yourself, and hopefully bucky. you pick out a simple sundress to put on over it, since you won’t be wearing much of anything once bucky gets here. that thought has you flushing, but you ignore it to put on some makeup, just to freshen up your face.

by the time he knocks on your door, you’ve already finished a glass of wine and are pouring yourself a second.

he smiles when open the door, a bit boyishly, greeting you with a quiet, “hi.”

“hi,” you return, just as soft. you open the door wider. “come in.”

he walks passed you, stopping to toe his shoes off and hang his jacket on one of the hooks.

“do you want a glass of wine?” you ask as you head to the kitchen to retrieve your own from the counter.

bucky follows, stopping in the entryway with his hands in his pockets. “no, thank you.”

you nod, taking a sip from your glass, trying to figure out what to say. the air feels a little awkward and you’re not sure how to fix it.

“nervous?” he wonders curiously.

you shake your head. “not really.”

he quirks a brow. “then what’s wrong?”

“i don’t know,” you murmur. “i guess i’m just worried we’re making a mistake.”

he hums. you take a larger sip of your wine.

with cautious steps, he comes closer to you. “what if i promise that things won’t be weird after?”

“you can’t really promise that, though.”

“sure i can,” he says, smiling. “it’s me and you. we’ve been friends for so long. plenty of people have sex and stay friends after.”

you’re not just ‘people’ to me, you think.

you sigh, frustrated with yourself. you can’t deny how badly you want this. it’s all you’ve been able to think about since that day in the cafe. but the thought of losing bucky is heartbreaking, and you don’t want your stupid horniness to be the reason that you ruin a friendship, even if he was the one to offer sex.

“why don’t we go make out on the couch for a little while first?” he suggests after a moment’s pause.

you snort, in spite of your thoughts. “like a couple of teenagers?”

his eyes crinkle on the sides when he grins. “yeah. we’ll just see how we feel about that, and if it leads to more, then…” he trails off, shrugging.

“that’s not a bad idea,” you concede.

“great! finish your wine.”

you laugh and do as you’re told, downing the little remaining wine in one go, sitting the glass down on the counter resolutely as you swallow.

“let’s do this,” you say, determined.

bucky huffs a laugh, grabbing your wrist and tugging you behind him as he makes his way to the couch. he settles slightly facing you as you tuck your legs under you beside him.

“do you wanna talk, or do you want to jump straight into it?”

“if we talk anymore i’m gonna change my mind. just kiss me already, bucky.”

“yes ma’am,” he sasses before doing exactly that.

he cups your cheek with one hand as the other is placed on your knee. he guides your face to his and kisses you chastely. you’re not sure where to put your hands at first, but you tell yourself to quit being a goober about it and place them on either side of his neck, your thumbs brushing under his jaw.

it’s an okay kiss, you have to admit, but it’s not really doing anything for you yet. he has soft lips, softer than you thought they’d be. you’re beginning to wonder if maybe this confirms you shouldn’t go any further when he tilts his head, and… hm.

he parts his lips, taking your bottom one between his, kissing it, then nipping it. you wouldn’t say the sound you make is a gasp, necessarily, but it’s close. his tongue lightly caresses the seam of your mouth and you don’t even think before you open up for him, letting his tongue sweep in, flicking against yours. you hum, scooting a tiny bit closer to him, chasing the feeling. his kisses turn insistent then, teeth biting at your bottom lip and tugging, soothing the ache with his tongue. he kisses you like a man quenching his thirst, like you’re the best goddamn thing he’s ever tasted, and it’s leaving you dizzy. you sway more into his space and he pulls away from your mouth.

“c’mere,” he whispers, gripping behind one of your knees to drag it over his hips so you’re straddling him. “much better.”

you don’t have a chance to process anything about the moment, his mouth back on yours in a blink. your fingers wind themselves into his hair, getting a good grip on it as you lick into his mouth. he lets out a soft noise at that and you try your damnedest to pry it out of him again, pressing your chest to his so there’s not even a sliver of space left between you.

his hands travel, down the sides of your torso to your thighs, back up to your hips where he holds on tight. it doesn’t take long after that before you find yourself grinding into him. you both moan at the same time, breaking the kiss to pant for breath.

you swallow roughly. “okay,” you murmur, “i think it’s safe to say this could work.”

bucky laughs quietly. “yeah? wanna move to your bed then?”

your squeeze your thighs around him, shifting minutely on his lap and feeling the beginnings of his erection beneath you. “yes,” you breathe.

quickly, you rise from your position and step back, allowing bucky to stand, then grab his hand and lead him to your bedroom. once you’re standing beside your bed, you turn to face him. he meets your halfway, pulling you into another, filthier kiss. you reach for his belt buckle, unfastening it and sliding it through the loops, tossing it to your floor. next are the button and zip of his jeans, shoved down his legs until he steps out of them and kicks them and his socks aside. he obediently lifts his arms when you slide your hands under his shirt and begin pushing it up, breaking the kiss to nearly yank it off, making bucky huff in amusement. once it’s tossed with the rest of his clothes, bucky grabs fistfuls of your dress and pulls you into him.

“my turn,” he says against your lips.

carefully, bucky helps you out of your dress, eyes raking over every bit of new skin shown to him. he bites his lip when he sees your lacy underthings.

“you got all dolled up for me?” he asks.

shifting under his stare, you nod. “wanted to look nice,” you admit.

he hums. “beautiful.”

he kisses you again, a little softer than before, but no less passionate. the urgency returns as he backs you up until your thighs hit the mattress. gently, he guides you onto your back, never breaking the kiss as he follows you down and settles over you.

you soon find yourself in need of air and pull away with a gasp. bucky is undeterred and instead presses his kisses down your jaw, to your neck where he decides to bite and suck until he’s left a mark you’ll have to reprimand him for later. he licks his way up to your ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth, drawing a whine out of you.

“bucky,” you whisper, hands gripping his sides as you squirm below him.

“hm?”

you close your eyes tightly when he makes his way back down to your collarbones.

“please,” you whimper.

“please what, sweetheart?” he asks, pushing himself up to look you in the eye.

“t-touch me,” you beg, cheeks flushing.

his lips quirk into a smile. “i am touching you.”

“bucky,” you whine.

“where do you want me to touch you, hm?” he wonders. one of his hands trails across your shoulder and down the center of your chest. “here? or… here?”

when his fingers glide, barely there, over your pebbled nipples, you push into the touch eagerly.

“or…” he continues, his feather light touch making a path down your stomach. your breath quickens in anticipation. “here?” he murmurs as his fingertips stop on your pantyline.

“yes, there, anywhere,” you agree hastily, “just —please. please, bucky, don’t tease me.”

he kisses you again, deep, full of promise. “you beg so prettily for me.”

he rearranges your positions until he’s between your spread thighs, sweeping his hands across the inside of them. he nods to your panties.

“may i?”

“yes, please,” you reply, lifting your hips to help him take them off.

he doesn’t give you a chance to close your legs in shyness, firmly grasping your knees in each of his hands and spreading them once again. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel unbelievably desirable, has excitement crawling up your spine.

“don’t forget,” you remind him, making his eyes flick up to yours in question, “you better make me cry.”

a slow, dangerous smile graces his lips. your stomach swoops eagerly.

a whine, high pitched and drawn out, escapes your lips. after you unwittingly challenged him, bucky took it upon himself to torture you—with sex. so far, he’s only used his fingers on you, in you, thrusting them steadily but never enough to bring you to climax. he’s taking his time and being a smug prick about it. you go to complain, again, hoping if you beg enough he’ll let you come, but before you can do more than open your mouth he’s quickening his pace.

“oh!” you gasp, clutching the sheets in your hands.

bucky slides his hand down your thigh, bringing his thumb inward to swipe around where his other fingers are buried inside you to gather your wetness and using it to rub circles on your clit. your back arches, head thrown back against your pillows as you feel your orgasm build. it’s not tears, but damn, it feels good enough.

just as you start to clench around his fingers, legs spasming, he stops.

your eyes open in a hurry, brows furrowing in confusion. “no, please, don’t stop,” you plead.

bucky smiles. “i gotta get the right build up.”

you groan in frustration. he laughs quietly and lets the inferno burning within you simmer down to embers, then starts inching his way down until he’s lying on his stomach, mouth poised above your pussy. the feel of his warm breath makes you shiver, and with no warning whatsoever, he leans in and sucks your clit into his mouth.

“fuckin’—oh my— bucky!”

you’re pretty sure you black out for the next several minutes, the only thing you’re aware of is the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and the feel of bucky’s mouth on you. you’re lost in a mindless haze of pleasure, unable to think or feel anything else. you feel your orgasm cresting for the second time, and just as before, bucky pulls away before you can succumb to it.

“why,” you hiccup on a moan, wanting nothing more than to just come already, but he’s not letting you.

he shushes you, softly kisses your knee. sitting up to take his underwear off, bucky keeps his eyes on you, expression hungry.

“gonna take care of you, sweetheart,” he promises. “just a bit more. you’re being so good for me, yeah?”

“please,” you whimper, feeling completely pathetic.

he makes quick work of putting a condom on and then settles between your thighs. you sigh in relief when he wastes no time and pushes in, being careful not to go too fast. once he’s fully inside you, he pauses, wanting to give you time to adjust, but you’re back to whining.

“bucky, please, please just—fuck me,” you beg, squirming beneath him.

he takes mercy on you, finally, and sets a hard pace. your hands fly up to push against the headboard, moaning and gasping from his harsh thrusts, loving the stretch of him inside you. his thumb is back on your clit and you cry out, clenching hard around him, but his thrusts don’t falter. all too soon, you can feel yourself getting close. you hear your own voice chanting please, please, please, mixed in with bucky’s grunts and the sound of him fucking you.

you whimper, eyes squeezed shut as your climax hits the point of no return, crashing over you in waves. you think you might scream, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything other than the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. part of you thinks this’ll be it, bucky will come now and then you’ll have had one of the best orgasms of your life and he’ll be on his merry way home. but no, that’s not what happens.

instead, bucky keeps thrusting relentlessly into you, dragging out your pleasure to the point of oversensitivity.

“s’too much,” you breathe, gasping for air.

bucky shakes his head, face contorted in concentration. “one more,” he tells you, voice gruff and deep.

unbelievably, you feel tears beginning to gather in the corners of your eyes. bucky’s still rubbing your clit, still keeping a steady rhythm of his hips, and fuck, he’s so beautiful. you watch him fucking you, wondering how the fuck you got to this moment, how you got lucky enough to bear witness to the sight of bucky fucking, let alone be the one he fucks. his body is ridiculous, looking like it’s carved from marble. you know how much strength it holds, as well, know that if he really wanted to, he could probably fuck you against a wall.

it’s with that thought, with the added bonus of the way bucky touches you, looks at you, like you’re something treasured and gorgeous, giving you such intense pleasure, that the tears threatening to spill over finally fall from your lashes.

bucky notices, because of course he does, and he thrusts into you just a little faster, a little harder, and your body seizes up and then you’re falling into another orgasm. it spreads through your veins, slow like honey, making sure this one settles deep into your bones. bucky groans as he, too, reaches climax, hips twitching into you in aftershocks until he stops moving altogether.

you both pant for breath, sweat gathered in every crevice on your bodies. you think you won’t be able to move for the rest of the weekend.

“need to pull out,” bucky says softly, breaking the moment.

you nod and he carefully pulls his hips back, grunting. you poorly suppress a whimper and close your legs, already hating the empty feeling.

“well,” he starts, plopping himself on his back next to you, “i think i deserve some kind of reward.”

when you turn to face him with an exasperated look, he’s got his arms crossed behind his head, a smug smile across his lips.

“how about i don’t kick you in the balls? how’s that for a reward?”

“i literally just did the impossible.”

“what, made me come twice? i can do that all on my own. you’re not special,” you retort with a huff.

he scoffs. “i fucked you so good you cried.”

“you can’t prove it,” you say to the ceiling.

“keep up this attitude and i won’t do it again,” he threatens, poking you in your side.

you wiggle away from the ticklish touch while trying to tamp down on the hope bubbling in your chest.

“oh, we’re doing this again, are we?” you say as casually as possible.

he rolls his eyes. “of course we are. now,” he sits up in your bed, stretching his arms as he stands and picks up his underwear, “i’m starving. wanna order takeout?”

well, you guess if you’d been worried about any kind of awkwardness before, you shouldn’t have. this is bucky, your best friend. he’d never let things change between you.

***

except, things kinda change between the two of you.

it’s not very noticeable at first, changes so subtle you miss them, until one day he showed up at your apartment and greeted you with a kiss. you stood frozen in your doorway as he rambled about how stressful his day had been as he kicked his shoes off. it was only when you heard him calling out from the kitchen that he was gonna eat your leftovers that you snapped out of it, yelling back that you’d kick his ass if he even touched your dumplings.

another day, he facetimes you and asks if you want to go to see that new movie you’ve been talking about.

“oh,” you’d said. “are nat and sam coming, too?”

he’d given you a funny look, replied, “no, i thought it would just be us two.”

“oh,” you said again. “okay.”

so you’d gone to the movies, let him buy you buttery popcorn and peanut m&m’s and a soda bigger than your head. he shared with you, despite your protests, and halfway through the film you felt his hand settle on your thigh. you blinked and stared at it for a beat, turning to him in question. he only smiled at you briefly before focusing back on the movie.

in between all of this, you continued calling him over for sex. honestly, how could you not? as much as you didn’t want to admit it to him, he was the best you’ve ever had. and if he’s so willing, why shouldn’t you take advantage while you can?

a week ago, though, you’d texted him and asked him to come over, replying to his question of what time and then started getting ready. you’d purchased a new piece of lingerie, a periwinkle babydoll nightie, that left very little to the imagination. it had a matching pair of panties and felt soft and luxurious on your skin. you’d taken extra time to do your hair and makeup, wanting to look like sex on legs, and you’re pretty sure you succeeded.

but when he got there and you answered the door in your sexy outfit, he didn’t see it right away. in one hand he held his phone, typing something on it, and in the other hand he held a grocery bag that you eyed curiously.

“i brought stuff to make spaghetti—“

when he did finally look up, his eyes widened and traveled the length of your body several times. you bit your lip, trying and failing to hold back your smile.

“how about we skip dinner?” you’d said, fisting his nice button-up shirt and dragging him inside your apartment. you grabbed the grocery bag from his hand and sat it on the floor, absently noting he was wearing his date jeans.

whoops, you’d thought, hope i didn’t pull him away from someone important.

you hadn’t let yourself dwell on it, standing up on your tippy toes and kissing him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. he’d returned the kiss, licking into your mouth, drawing your tongue out so he could suck on it and made you moan embarrassingly loud.

“wait,” he’d murmured, “we should eat first.”

“or, you could eat me,” you’d retorted with a giggle.

he groaned like it pained him to say no, gripped your hips hard and put a tiny bit of distance between you. the look in his eyes had made you want to find the nearest flat surface and bend over.

“why don’t you be a good girl for me, hm? let me cook dinner for us and after we eat i’ll fuck you however you want me to. okay, sweetheart?”

you whined, but ultimately agreed, knowing he’d make it worth it.

and then there’s tonight, where he came over unannounced, armed with groceries again and promising to cook you the best meal you’ve ever had. to say you were confused would be an understatement, but you also didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

it’s just… well, bucky’s not really acting like a friend with benefits. sure, you hung out alone with him all the time before, but he never once cooked you dinner, and he certainly never helped wash dishes after. you guess the hello kisses could be explained away as part of the new aspect of your relationship, but something about that didn’t sit quite right with you.

after a truly delicious dinner, you find yourself on the couch with bucky as he scrolls through netflix to find a movie to put on.

“what do you want to watch?” he asks.

“mm,” you mumble, shifting closer to start kissing his neck, “don’t care.”

as he narrows down his decision and finally picks one, you make your way up to his jaw, sucking a small mark into the skin there.

“baby,” he protests softly, “let’s just watch the movie, yeah?”

you pull back, confused. first at the pet name, then at his words. he’s never denied you before, which isn’t to say that he can’t, it’s just that he’s always seemed on board. and, you know, you thought that was kind of the whole point of this thing.

“okay,” you reply after a moment.

he gives you a smile and a sweet kiss, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his side to cuddle. you can’t help but frown, feeling like you’re missing something, but not knowing what it could be.

it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to creep up on you. before he showed up, you had planned on probably ordering out for dinner and going to bed early since you’d had a pretty rough day. in fact, you remember texting bucky about it just that afternoon. your eyelids get heavier and heavier, finding it harder to keep them open as the seconds pass. your head droops and in the next blink, you’ve fallen asleep.

you’re not sure how much time has passed when bucky wakes you, but you groan, pouting and burrowing into his shoulder more.

he huffs a laugh. “c’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you to bed.”

“don’ wanna move,” you mumble tiredly.

“i’ll carry you,” he offers. “up you go, baby.”

you half heartedly argue about being jostled, but let him carry you to your bed where he carefully places you, helping you out of your sweatpants and pulling your blankets up around you. you sigh in content, feeling yourself already drifting back into sleep. you hear bucky shuffling, but think nothing of it until the bed dips beside you, then feel his warm body slide in underneath the covers and press in close.

“goodnight, darlin’,” he murmurs.

you’d ask him what in the word he’s doing, but sleep is just far too enticing to ignore. you fall into slumber with bucky’s warmth along your back, his arm draped over you.

the next morning, you wake to the feeling of his fingers playing with the tiny bow on the front of your panties and his lips placing gentle kisses on your shoulder. you hum, eyes still closed, in the back of your mind thinking this is a nice way to wake up. at the sound of you, his touches get firmer, more insistent.

“good morning,” he rasps, breath tickling your ear.

you don’t really get a chance to reply. he dips his fingers into your panties, making you inhale sharply, moaning as you buck into his hand. he fingers you for a while, kissing along the column of your throat, biting and sucking marks into the skin there. when you’re begging him for more, he relents, eases your panties off and lifts your leg to slide in from behind. the angle is so nice it has you gasping.

you clutch the sheets weakly, burying your face in your pillow and muffle your whines and moans. bucky keeps a slow, lazy rhythm, acting as if he’s got all the time in the world to draw this out. it’s good, so good, and you can’t hold back your whimper when he kicks up the pace a little, tells you to touch yourself. you come seconds before he does, shuddering through it and humming happily.

as you both lie there and catch your breath, awareness trickles into your mind. you swallow roughly, staring blankly at the wall as you realize your feelings have grown far too much for this to be only casual anymore.

bucky kisses your shoulder again. “i’m gonna go make breakfast, okay? i’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“okay,” you whisper, blinking rapidly to keep tears from forming.

hearing bucky bustle around your kitchen makes your heart clench with want; want for something you can’t have.

***

bucky: dinner tonight?

you bite the inside of your cheek as you stare at the text. you know you need to cut things off with him before you get anymore hurt than you already are. it’s not fair to either of you if you continue with this arrangement when you’ve caught real feelings for him. you have to tell him, and soon. with that thought in mind, you type out a reply.

you: sure. what time?

bucky: reservations are at 8pm, i’ll pick you up by 7:45.

reservations? where was he taking you? you get another text before you can ask.

bucky: dress nice ;)

with a sigh, you text back an affirmative and try to start mentally preparing yourself for the conversation you dreaded having. you could only hope and pray that he agrees to still be your friend after.

by the time there’s a knock on your door that night, you’ve worked yourself up into an anxious mess. you open the door to see bucky standing there with a single peach colored rose and a bashful grin.

“hi,” he greets, leaning in to kiss you on your cheek. “this is for you.”

he hands you the rose and you feel your heart crack in your chest. you muster a small smile.

“thank you. let me go put this in a vase and we can head out.”

he nods and waits patiently at the door. as you fill a vase with a little water, you take a deep breath, giving yourself a mental pep talk.

this was going to suck.

the drive to the restaurant doesn’t take too long, and when you see where he’s taken you, your eyebrows shoot up. this is one of the nicer places in the city, definitely not on the affordable side. he helps you out of the car, leading you inside with his hand on the small of your back. you’re led to a small booth in a far corner with overhead lighting that feels too intimate. maybe you’d have to wait until you left to tell him…

conversation is light, a bit surface level, and you get the feeling that bucky is a little nervous. you wonder if maybe he’s gonna let you down gently first, hoping that he doesn’t, because you’d rather not cry in such a fancy restaurant.

after the waiter takes your drink orders, bucky sighs.

“okay, let me just… get this off my chest.”

oh fuck, here it goes.

“i know i’ve never really come across at the most romantic guy, especially since i’ve never felt the need to be.” he runs a nervous hand through his hair. “you’ve always been so important to me, and this last month has been so, so wonderful.”

“bucky…” you trail off, attempting to somehow stop him, but he powers through.

“i just—i never thought i’d find somebody, you know?” he says, earnest, gaze locked on yours. another crack in your heart. “especially not somebody who was my friend first, that i already had a solid foundation with. the attraction had always been there, but the friendship meant more to me, and finally allowing that to blossom into this amazing, new, fun relationship has got to be the best decision i’ve ever made.”

did he start dating someone and not tell you? oh god, has he been sleeping with someone else? at the same time? your stomach turns, eyes burning, hating yourself more and more as he speaks.

“so, i guess what i’m trying to say is,” he says, rolling his eyes at himself and smiling, “happy one month anniversary, sweetheart.”

you blink, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. “what?” you croak, beyond confused.

bucky, however, looks concerned. “baby, why are you crying?”

“i…” you blink some more, eyes flitting around the room as if you’ll get some kind of clarity that way to the situation currently happening. “what?” you repeat.

“did i come on too strong?” he asks, looking embarrassed now. “i wasn’t sure if you’d even want to celebrate, but i’ve just been so happy with you—i’m sorry, baby, i should’ve asked.”

“bucky, what are you talking about?” you finally manage, unable to keep the bewilderment out of your tone. “anniversary?”

bucky frowns. “i didn’t get the date wrong, did i?”

“no, i—this isn’t—i’m not talking about—ugh, i mean, when did we even start having an anniversary to celebrate?”

bucky’s face goes blank, sitting back in his chair. your heart is pounding wildly in your chest, so fucking confused, so fucking hopeful.

“we… we’re dating,” he says, slow, unsure. “aren’t we?”

“since when?” you ask probably too loudly, cheeks flushing.

he opens and closes his mouth a couple times. “when i asked you out?”

“bucky, oh my god, you’re gonna have to be more specific before i lose my goddamn mind. when did you ask me out?”

he huffs, his own cheeks flushing. “at the cafe! a month ago, at brunch with natasha and sam.”

your eyes widen in disbelief. “when you asked if you could fuck me until i cried?” you hiss, ignoring the scandalized look on the waiter’s face as he brings your drinks over.

smiling apologetically, you thank him and wait until he’s gone before sending a glare bucky’s way.

“that’s not how you ask a person out,” you seethe.

“i asked if you wanted to give this a try and you said yes!” he replies desperately. “i’ve taken you on dates!”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking of all the times you thought he was being too romantic, more-than-friends type of behavior. you’re a fucking idiot, but god, so was he.

“at no point did you say anything even remotely close about us starting a relationship. i thought we were just fucking, bucky, i didn’t realize it was more than that!”

“you don’t—“ he starts, then stops, looking down at the plate in front of him. “you don’t want to be with me?”

“i didn’t know it was an option,” you say carefully.

“well, it is.” he meets your gaze, cautious. “i just spilled my guts to you. you know how i feel now. how do you feel? about me?”

you lick your lips. “bucky, i… i was planning to end things with you tonight.” his expression drops, even though he tries to mask it, so you’re quick to explain. “not because i don’t like you, but because i do like you and i thought you wouldn’t want anything more than just sex with me.”

“it’s never been and never could have been just sex with you,” he replies, quiet and relieved. he reaches across the table to take your hand in his. “i meant it when i said you’re the best decision i’ve ever made. i want this—the sex, the dinners, dates, all the gross and sappy shit i never wanted before… i want it all with you, if you’ll have me.”

you can’t fight the smile spreading across your lips. “of course i’ll have you, bucky.”

he smiles in return, a laugh bubbling out of him, which makes you giggle, until you’re both laughing so hard and loud that patrons from other tables are sending dirty looks your way, which only makes you laugh more.

“do you wanna get out of here?” you ask, laughter dying down. “there’s pizza and sex calling our names, i think.”

bucky moans dramatically. “i knew i liked you for a reason.”

he leaves money on the table and then the two of you quickly make your way through the restaurant, giggling and holding hands the whole way, even in the car.

#avengers fic #marvel fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

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foldingfittedsheets · 4 months

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One thing I’ve inherited from my mother is my feet. Not only are they the same size but we get the same utility out of them, which is to say both of our big toes are unusually long and flexible.

When she was pregnant my mom used this fact to just pick up things with her feet instead of bending down. She never lost the habit, so when I was young I hopped immediately on board the fun game of picking up stuff with my toes.

Laundry, pencils, I’ll casually grab stuff laying on the floor with my toes without bending down. It’s proven itself as a useful skill with my chronic illness or when my back is thrown out.

But there is a dark side to these toe powers. My mom uses her toes for evil more often than not. Because they’re ideal for pinching. A common cry in the house was my dad from their bedroom going, “Ah! Don’t pinch me!” Followed by my moms evil giggle.

Tragically it is so fun to use pinchy toes for evil. The most fun thing to grab is someone’s Achilles tendon or calves but y’know. They tend not to like it. Cause it pinches.

I’ve never done more than gently grip my betrothed with my pinchy toes, an act of love and a testament to my iron willpower because again, it’s so goddamn fun. But one night after they told me to knock it off I started telling them that my mom is always pinching my dad when they cuddle.

“It hurts?” they asked me in perplexity.

“Well yeah, like, I could be hurting you, but I’m not, because I love you. It so easy to pinch hard.”

They radiated disbelief at me.

“Do you need me to show you I can pinch hard enough to hurt?” I asked.

“Sure, show me.”

I greedily reached for their legs with my evil toes unleashed and in seconds they exclaimed, “Ow! How are you doing that!”

I snickered and subsided. They processed the breadth of my toe skills while I savored the tiny mischief I had indulged.

Finally they said, “I want to try.”

“Sure.” I laid passively while they clumsily attempted to grip any part of my leg between their toes. They grew increasingly frustrated while I stifled giggles. Their toes gripped helplessly at me like toothless gums, failing to gain purchase.

Finally they managed to grip my Achilles tendon and gave a triumphant laugh. By no definition was it remotely uncomfortable, let alone painful but I indulgently said, “Ow,” for them.

“Don’t patronize me,” they whispered venomously. Then they snuggled close and my toes returned to their humble life picking up socks that have fallen from the laundry basket.

#ramblies #story #my betrothed #writing #funny story #ffs foibles

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comradekatara · 4 months

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katara’s role as the show’s narrator is so underrated because no one really seems to understand just how deeply katara is impacted by the nature of stories, with regards to their craft, their promulgation, and their cultural significance, so they don’t truly register the sheer metatextual brilliance of having her be the resident storyteller of the narrative itself.

the first thing atla establishes about katara is that she is someone who is fueled by dreams and fantasies, and believes in a return to a world where “all four nations lived together in harmony” (which is obviously an illusory ideal, as there was always geopolitical strife even if it wasn’t as overt as the devastating imperialist project they are now subject to), described to her by kanna’s stories about the old days.

katara is someone who indulges in fantasies of adventure and heroism, projecting these ideals onto both herself and others. she is an idealist in the truest, purest sense of the word, and what is an idealist if not someone who tells themselves stories about a more beautiful world to survive?

it’s no coincidence that the episode where katara successfully scares everyone with a very compellingly narrated campfire story is the same episode that she must contend with her heritage, the ominous lacunae in her stories, the pitfalls of her own naive idealization. it’s also not a coincidence that the story she tells was first told to her by her mother.

katara grew up hearing stories passed down to her from kanna and kya, and those stories gave her hope and brought her the possibility of happiness in a bleak, cruel world where she was ultimately alone. there used to be people like her, said the stories, and they were brave, and they fought til their final breaths to hold onto their culture, their love for their people, their humanity.

well that’s who i’m going to be, says katara. someone who fights, someone who cannot be knocked down (because there is no one else left to take her place), someone who will never cease to have faith in the capacity of others for good, for truth, and for justice.

stories are her heritage, they are her culture, they are how she defines herself and how she understands the world around her. stories are how she copes, how she survives; they are all she has left to cling to. and sometimes they are reductive, and sometimes they are outright false, but that’s okay too. she grows, she adjusts her narratives, she learns to leave room for more grey in her neat tapestries of black and white. stories can define a tragic past, but they can also pave the way for a better future. she keeps telling stories.

#i could sunlit garden this girl so easy (probably what hama was thinking)#katara #analysis #kanna&katara #katara&kya #hama&katara #this is also what makes the southern raiders so brilliant as the apotheosis of her arc #but that’s for another post #(one that I’ve probably made before lbr)#everyone in atla has a sunlit garden / mythmaking event / whatever you wanna call it #but katara is the QUEEN of narrativization #and you do not get katara at ALL until you get this #fyi.#anyway i love her so much that i nearly teared up writing this. it’s whatever tho

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pippin-katz · 9 months

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6 Little Faces Alex Makes That I Love - Part 1

(not ranked in any order)

No. 1:

There is no other word for this expression than starstruck and it’s adorable. ✨

No. 2:

I’m completely obsessed with the way he watches Henry come closer. It’s so clear that he’s not done something like this, and he’s a little out of his element, but doesn’t care cause he’s so enamored with Henry. There’s just a bit of nervousness and curiosity in his eyes, like he doesn’t know what Henry is going to do next. I think he was already surprised by the way he pushed him.

One of the things that drew Alex to Henry in the first place was the sparks of personality he hadn’t been expecting from a prince. It looks like Alex was genuinely surprised by how forcefully Henry pushed him, like he wasn’t expecting something like that, and he probably wasn’t. Like he told his dad later, “he’s tougher than he looks” and you can also substitute that “tougher” for all the other traits that surprised Alex, like his sense of humor, his authentic and deep compassion for others, and his ability to stand up for himself.

There’s this little trace of awe within the surprise and curiosity. I see that expression and I can feel the way his heart is pounding.

And then of course he starts to get that smile on his face, that somehow still maintains a level of disbelief or admiration. It’s like he just had the brief thought of “I can’t believe how lucky I am”.

I am completely obsessed, how dare you Taylor Zakhar Perez, you adorable, talented, and attractive bastard.

No. 3:

This is like the look he had when Henry first arrived at the dinner, but even more unabashed. You can see the nerves, and the way he takes a deep breath as soon as he sees him. It’s like his mind is going, “wow, he really is beautiful, and now we’re alone”. It’s like he’s thinking “don’t freak out, stay calm” while also being completely blown away by how handsome Henry is.

It is so cute, I hate it.

No. 4:

It’s fast and a bit hard to see, but he gets this quick smile on his face that’s like “oh, okay, we’re doing this then”. He still has that little bit of surprise too, like “damn, alright”, cause Henry pins him hard against that wall.

It makes me think of that moment in the book when they first hook up and Henry tells him why he kissed him on New Year’s, and he mentions being jealous, and Alex says: “You were jealous. You want me.”

And he’s teasing him, so you know he has a shit-eating grin, but also he’s registering the fact that Henry has wanted him for a while, like he’s a bit surprised that he actually wants him, and that the kiss wasn’t just a drunken impulse, or Henry being lonely, but something Henry was wanting to do, with him specifically, even while sober.

That’s kind of the vibe I get from that smile, like “oh, Henry really wants me like this, alright, this is fun, I’m down with this”. I don’t know if I’m making any sense for this one, but hopefully you get what I mean.

No. 5:

This is a sweet moment because you can see the change in his eyes. Henry is explaining why he was a prick to him, so he's still primarily thinking about himself and how Henry's behavior bothered him. But here, you can see the moment he actually registers what he said about losing his dad, and the crown using him, and it's not about him anymore.

Even if you've never experienced the loss of a loved one, you can still understand the gravity of that situation. You may not know exactly what it feels like, but everyone knows it feels horrible.

You can see Alex thinking, and realizing that it had nothing to do with him. He's thinking about the fact that Henry had to deal with the loss of his father, which is already tragic and heartbreaking, but then on top of that, he hears that the crown used him for the attention his grief would bring them. Alex quickly goes from being mad about Henry's attitude to feeling so sad for him.

No. 6:

He laughs a little bit about Henry's quip about him being "ghastly", but it shifts into a small, almost unnoticeable smile. He's so content and happy to be talking to him. Henry probably is too, but both of them are kind of aware that there's no reason for them to stay on the phone any longer. There's a pause before Henry finally says he's going to hang up, and Alex, being the little shit he is, wants to be the one to hang up. Henry lets him, but it takes him several seconds of silence, and Henry making a comment about what the red button was for, before he actually turns over and hangs up. It's so obvious that he doesn't want to, but he subconsciously knows there's no reason to keep talking.

Sometimes when you're on the phone with a friend (or partner), you fall into this rhythm and comforting space of having a friend with you, even if they're not in the room. It's a nice feeling, and when you have to hang up, it can bring about this little wave of sadness. When you hang up, you're suddenly very alone again. I've had it happen to me tons of times after talking to friends on the phone.

The way he smiles softly tells me he's feeling that comfort and relaxation that I described. Then he's reluctant to hang up, because even if they're not talking, they can feel each other's presence through the phone, and that makes him feel like he's not alone.

That's all for now! I might make a part two, we'll see! Thank you for reading if you got this far! :3

part 2 | part 3

#red white & royal blue #rwrb #rwrb movie #rwrb thoughts #alex claremont-diaz #taylor zakhar perez #firstprince

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alliekitaguchi · 9 hours

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one thing I’m hoping is addressed in future episodes is the fact that laudna sometimes acts like she’s the only one who’s ever been through her own trauma. and yes, what she’s been through is AWFUL, but everyone has been through something

- laudna was tricked, tortured, hung, revived, and wandered the world for about 30 years by herself before she found Imogen (though Marisha has stated there was someone before Imogen, but that hasn’t come up in game yet), and then died again, before being revived again. she has delilah in her head, which is Not Great, but laudna consciously brought her back

- imogen was abandoned by her mother at a young age and grew up with an absent father, who revered her as a freak, and was an outcast everywhere she went

- fearne was abandoned by her parents and has had her life be in the hands of others for over 100 years, mainly her “grandmother”, who has been stretching their time together to keep her longer. she’s also been killed, and found out that she was a purposefully made by a villain for some nefarious purposes

- ashton lives every single day in pain, grew up in a cult, died, woke up in a new body that was broken, didn’t know anything about himself, has been alone since he was a child

- fcg was an assassin bot that sat untouched for 2,000 years before being brought to life and thrown headfirst into society with no help or instructions, and then died tragically

- chetney has lived over 300 years by himself because his family abandoned him and he had to come to terms with the fact that they’re all likely dead, and the loss messed him up so bad that he’s avoided making meaningful connections with people ever since

- orym watched the love of his life and his father figure be cut down in front of him, watched his friend accept a cursed crown that permanently changed her, was killed and revived

there’s no denying that she’s been through something horrendous, but she has to make the conscious choice to get better. to quote matt & marisha both: laudna is an addict, and she digs herself into her grief so deeply that she can’t see the cracks in everyone else.

she was right that orym should’ve talked to the whole group before taking otohan’s sword, but she was a hypocrite because she tried to steal it off of him. the sword is the source of her trauma, but it’s the source of orym’s too. she told chetney to not talk to her about loss after learning just mere weeks ago that he lost his entire family in one day.

i thought dorian put it beautifully: “it’s just a thing.” it only holds power over you if you let it. she’s dead. the blade no longer hurts you unless you let it.

there’s something so riveting about watching the nuances of trauma unfold in juicy, juicy ways

#in case any of y’all cannot read: this is not a critique or criticism #I think laudna is beautifully complex and wonderful and I just want to see this plot thread explored further #and while I’m an Orym defender until I die #I 100% get laudna’s points and I agreed with her about some stuff #but there has to be balance and what she’s doing is not good #laudna #critical role #bells hells

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in-a-continuous-daydream · 7 months

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Details from Richie’s death that break my heart

(Really specific because NPMD has been in my head since September the 15th and I think that scene is HEARTBREAKING)

Also MAJOR THANKS to @jensen-frackles for the gifs 🫶

-this

-how he sort of colapses in the stairs while trying to run away from Max + his reaction when Max “closes” the doors

-the fact that he was on the floor when he begged Max not to kill him + through the whole “who will pray for me” part

-the way Jon closes his eyes when he sings “when my body’s gone” for the second time

-he was forced to ask himself WHO WOULD PRAY FOR HIM WHEN HIS BODY IS GONE?!?!

-The fact that Max tells him “this is the consequence for what you’ve done” when “what they did” was try to stop him from bullying them non stop which led to a tragic accident

-“I’M NOT A LOSER!” (+ again the fact that Jon sings this through closed eyes)

-the way everyone is sort of like a witness to his death in the back idk the real symbolism but it gives me chills

-that he begs Max by his name in the end (“no, please, Max”) @jensen-frackles

-the fact that NOBODY notices he isn’t around after he dies (when they go to school the next day)

-very specific but, the first lines Richie sings are: “I’m dead, the blood is all but draining from my head, (…), my pulse is certainly dropping, and my life is hanging on by a thread.” And that breaks me because the thought of Richie, alone, scared and in pain, bleeding out on the floor, while a football match is going on outside is too much

-Finally, the way he shrinks himself down 😭

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capricorn-season · 1 year

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Homophobia in drag

When I was a young boy, I loved spending the night at my grandmother’s house. There, I could stay up as late as I wanted, and in the morning, there would always be Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast. But the best part was raiding the closet in her basement, which was full of the gowns she had worn in the 1960s and 1970s – frilly pink and purple confections made of lace, chiffon and silk. I would put them on and watch The Golden Girls, sophisticatedly sipping Coke from a wine glass.

When I was nine, my dad bought a video camera, a giant monstrosity that my siblings and I struggled to balance on our shoulders while we filmed home videos. Alone, I’d prop the camera on the coffee table and record myself modelling various outfits, explaining to the camera why this plaid shirt went with these cargo shorts, or why this teal Starter jacket complemented these acid-washed jeans so perfectly. I captured on camera the dance I had painstakingly choreographed to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch’s ‘Good Vibrations’.

As a kid, I followed my two older sisters around like a shadow, mimicking their mannerisms – the way they tucked loose strands of hair behind their ears when they were concentrating on their maths homework; the way they jutted their hips whenever they were talking to cute boys. Like them, I was a naturally athletic kid. My favourite sport was lacrosse, but I much preferred to play with the girls instead of the boys. The boys were quick to push and shove, and they loved to whack each other with their aluminium sticks. Girls relied more on their speed, their reflexes and the skills they’d honed to keep the ball securely cradled in the shallow mesh of their wooden sticks.

I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian community – most people would call it a cult. From kindergarten to the sixth grade, I attended the community’s tiny school. Because enrollment was so low, there was no in-crowd, no separate cliques of jocks and geeks. In retrospect, I’m sure my classmates and especially my teachers noticed my gender-nonconformity – all of my home videos prove that it was glaring – but it went largely ignored. All that mattered was that we were good Christians, that we loved Jesus and evangelised God’s Word to as many people as possible. When I learned about homosexuals in Bible class, or about AIDS (which we were told God had created to punish homosexuals for their sins), I didn’t think for a moment that I was one of them. Sure, my first real crush, when I was 11, had been on a boy – Elijah Wood, an actor about my age whose performance in the 1994 B-movie, North, had captured my heart. But at the time, before sexual maturity, I mistook the longing I felt for Elijah with the more sanitised desire to simply keep his company and be his best friend. I indiscriminately absorbed all of the lessons I learned about homosexuals, as if they were and would always be irrelevant to my life.

The summer after my sixth-grade year, my family left the community and we moved to a neighbouring town. I began seventh grade in a large public school, where there was definitely an in-crowd. My new classmates wasted little time informing me how unacceptable it was for a boy like me to behave the way I did – the way I enunciated my s-words, the way I brushed my auburn hair, which I had highlighted the previous summer with Sun-In. They called me a faggot, delivered me notes that said everyone knew my ‘dirty little secret’. They asked me frequently, ‘Are you a boy or a girl?’. Well, of course I was a boy, I would respond, trembling.

Meanwhile, I was beginning to sexually mature; I was soon developing crushes that inspired more than just a desire to keep a boy’s company. With horror, I realised that I might actually be what the kids were calling me – which, I knew in my bones, guaranteed me a tragically short life and a one-way ticket to hell. That, after all, was what the old form of homophobia entailed. Self-loathing.

To survive the onslaught, I defeminised myself. I lowered my voice, started wearing baggy jeans and sweatshirts, cut the highlights out of my hair, and replaced my Mariah Carey CDs with Nirvana. Soon, the fear and the anxiety became too much to bear, and the only refuge I found was in alcohol and drugs.

In high school, with each passing year, my drug use got worse. After graduation, I lasted one semester in college before dropping out. Two months later, at the age of 19, I had my first of several stays in a local psychiatric ward. I was delusional, addicted to drugs and suicidal.

It was during my second stay in the psychiatric ward that I was introduced to a 12-step programme, which was how I would eventually get sober in my early twenties. It was slow-going in the beginning of my sobriety to accept my homosexuality. I began to reconnect with the young boy I had once been, the boy whose interests expanded beyond what was typical for males. I experimented with bronzer and mascara, and got French manicures and pedicures.

Engaging in these behaviours felt liberating for a while, but eventually the novelty wore off. In fact, they started to feel performative. I realised I didn’t need those things to be my authentic self. My ideas, my voice, the way I treat other people – these are the things that make me the person I truly am.

In 2011, when I was 28, I fell in love with a man. The following year, I joined the fight for marriage equality. After we won that campaign, I knew I wanted to become a gay activist. I wanted to help create a world in which feminine boys and butch girls could exist peacefully in society. A world in which gender-nonconforming people were accepted as natural variations of their own sex. Minorities, sure, but real and valid nonetheless.

The trans question

In 2017, at the age of 33, I enrolled at Columbia University, New York to complete my undergraduate degree. There, I was shocked to discover how gay activism had evolved since marriage equality became the law of the land. The focus was now entirely on personal pronouns and on being ‘queer’. My classmates labelled me ‘cis’, short for cisgender. I didn’t even know what it meant. All I knew was that they called me ‘cis’ in the same cadence that the seventh graders had called me ‘fag’.

Soon, I learned about nonbinary identities, and that some people – many people – were literally arguing that sex, not gender, was a social construct. I met people who evangelised a denomination of transgenderism that I had never heard of, one that included people who had never been gender dysphoric and who had no desire to medically transition. I met straight people whose ‘trans / nonbinary’ identities seemed to be defined by their haircuts, outfits and inchoate politics. I met straight women with Grindr accounts, and listened to them complain about the ‘transphobic’ gay men who didn’t want to have sex with women.

All around me, it seemed, straight people were spontaneously identifying into my community and then policing our behaviours and customs. I began to think that this broadening of the ‘trans’ and ‘queer’ umbrella was giving a hell of a lot of people a free pass to express their homophobia.

At Columbia, I took classes on LGBT history, but much of that history was delivered through the lens of queer theory. Queer theorists appropriate French philosopher Michel Foucault’s ideas about the power of language in constructing reality. They argue that homosexuality didn’t exist prior to the late 19th century, when the word ‘homosexual’ first appeared in medical discourse. Queer theorists proselytise a liberation that supposedly results from challenging the concepts of empirical reality and ‘normativity’. But their converts instead often end up adrift in a sea of nihilism. Queer theory, which has become the predominant method of discussing and analysing gender and sexuality in universities, seemed to me to be more ideological than truthful.

In my classes on gender and sexuality in the Muslim world, however, I discovered something else, too. I learned about current medical practices in Iran, where gay sex is illegal and punishable by death, and where medical transition is subsidised by the state to ‘cure’ gays and lesbians who, the theocratic elite insists, are ‘normal’ people ‘trapped in the wrong bodies’. I privately drew parallels between the anti-gay laws and practices of Iran and what I saw developing in the West, but I convinced myself I was just being paranoid.

Then, I learned about what was happening to gender-nonconforming kids – that they were being prescribed off-label drugs to halt their natural development, so that they’d have time to decide if they were really transgender. If so, they would then be more successful at passing as the opposite sex in adulthood. Even worse, I learned that these practices were being touted by LGBT-rights organisations as ‘life-saving medical care’.

It felt like I was living in an episode of The Twilight Zone. How long were these kids supposed to remain on the blockers? And what happens in a few years, if they decide they’re not ‘truly trans’ after all, and all of their peers have surpassed them? Are they seriously supposed to commence puberty at 16 or 17 years of age? These questions rattled my brain for months, until I learned the actual statistics: nearly all children who are prescribed puberty blockers go on to receive cross-sex hormones. Blockers don’t give a kid time to think. They solidify him in a trans identity and sentence him to a lifetime of very expensive, experimental medicalisation.

I wondered how different these so-called trans kids were from the little boy I had been. Obviously, I grew up to be a gay man and not a transwoman. But how could gender clinicians tell the difference between a young boy expressing his homosexuality through gender nonconformity, and someone ‘born in the wrong body’? I decided to dig deeper into the real history of medical transition.

Medicalising homosexuality

What I learned validated all of my worst fears. I learned that for decades after their invention, synthetic ‘sex hormones’ were used by doctors and scientists who sought to ‘cure’ homosexuality, and by law enforcement to chemically castrate men convicted of committing homosexual acts.

I learned about actress and singer Christine Jorgensen, one of the first people in the US to become widely known for having ‘sex-reassignment’ surgery in the early 1950s. Jorgensen may now be celebrated by the modern ‘LGBTQIA+’ community as a trans icon, but he seemed more concerned with escaping his homosexuality, which he said was ‘deeply alien to my religious attitudes’. As Jorgensen put it, ‘I identified myself as female and consequently my interests in men were normal’.

I learned that of the first adolescents to be treated for gender dysphoria (or what was then called ‘gender identity disorder’) with puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones in the 1990s and early 2000s, the vast majority were homosexual. And I learned that these studies inform current ‘gender-affirming care’ practices.

Soon, I met detransitioned gay men who had sought an escape from internalised and external homophobia in a transgender identity. They continue to suffer severe post-surgical complications, years after their vaginoplasties.

I began to fear we had reached a point of no return a couple of years ago, during a conversation I had with a supposedly ‘progressive’ friend. I told her that, if I had been a young boy now, I likely would have been prescribed puberty blockers and gone on to medically transition. ‘And you don’t think you would’ve been happy as a transwoman?’, she asked me. Her question left me speechless. I couldn’t find the words to state the obvious: that I am a gay man, not a transwoman; that statistics tell me my medical transition may not have been successful; and that I would suffer severe medical complications. In any case, if I had transitioned, I wouldn’t be living an authentic life. After all, isn’t that what this is supposed to be about? Living authentically?

Sylvester, an androgynous disco icon of the 1970s and 1980s, was once asked what gay liberation meant to him. He answered, ‘I could be the queen that I really was without having a sex change or being on hormones’. Perhaps I belong in an earlier era, when newly liberated gays and lesbians rebelled against the medical and psychiatric experiments they had long been subjected to. Perhaps my early aspiration of expanding what it means to be a boy or a girl was nothing but a pipe dream. In Europe, there is hope that these medical experiments will cease, and that gay and lesbian adolescents will be spared from a lifetime of medicalisation. But in the US, nearly eight years after same-sex marriage became the law of the land, it is full-steam ahead with these homophobic practices.

For voicing my concerns about gender-affirming care for minors, I have been called a transphobic bigot. If that’s what speaking out against the medicalisation of homosexuality makes me, then so be it.

#gender critical #jk rowling #twitter #artículo

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certifiablyinsanez · 11 days

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Honestly, the travesty that is Edwin Payne’s life and death is so twisted and gorgeous, so bittersweet.

There is no doubt as to why Charles wanted to stay and run away with him. How could he not? Charles, who is so brave and protective, who died protecting someone undoubtedly saw the shadow that haunted his strange psychopomp.

Edwin, who is an innocent child, had his very soul hardened by unimaginable pain. Even a centuries old, magical creature who has lived countless years and seen much, admits that he cannot begin to fathom what this poor soul has been subjected to. The fault of which seems unclear and yet someone aught to pay for this unforgivable mistake.

Fiercely clever Edwin, who after a tragically short life that was loveless and brutal, who went on to suffer even more, managed to be so cunning that not only did he escape Hell, he mapped the whole thing with frightening precision. He did it alone, just as he had always been alone.

He returns to the very site of his murder, alone, in a world quite different from when he left it, to find that bullies were still out for blood, and did the job of Death so sweetly and efficiently that Charles had no need of Death herself.

Edwin who’s homosexuality can be swallowed down and controlled with the proper British stiff upper lip, so much so that he managed it for decades until a single gentle soul offered him permission to be courageous, and suddenly it was too much to bear. To much, that he couldn’t even wait until he was out of Hell to say something. In it we can feel the spirits of those who came before us that we couldn’t save or comfort. Taking a century for him to simply be told not only that it’s possible, but okay.

Edwin Payne, the very boy who Despair calls a friend, who doesn’t hold out hope for the integrity of his goodness yet is not questioned by those around him, because even the night nurse knows he is righteous and does not deserve his lot.

Edwin Payne, who I’m sure is a friend of Death, because his virtue is something that he is oblivious to that no one else is and Death is certainly not a fool.

Forever teenager Edwin, who has never felt more alive after a century of death.

#as you can tell I’m not alright #dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #queer media has genuinely saved my life #queer

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certifiedwhore4slashers · 12 days

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final girl | coriolanus snow

pairing: ghostface!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

summary: you've become a target, the final girl of a killer's movie.

warnings: dark content, possessive!coryo, dark!coryo, obsession/obsessive behavior, suggestive themes(if you squint), stalking, murder, blood and gore, coryo being delusional, threats of violence, violence, sort of modern!au, no use of y/n, naive!reader, r is too kind.

It was october, not only that but there was a killer on the loose. You were by yourself, much to your parent’s annoyance. You told them,”I’m 18 Mom. I technically could be on my own. Please, let me be on my own. I’ll be fine. I’ve got friends who can help me. And 911 on the phone.”

Your mother sighed. "The capitol’s safe enough. Fine. But if anything happens-” “Protocol, I know, I know all the rules, You replied. You did. Normally, your parents weren't like this. But there was a killer. A fucking killer. Of course they'd be worried for their only child.

You were also the heir to wealthy parents and known in the capitol. Your parents were. If there would be a target, you might be on that list. Either way, you were going to be as safe as you could be.

. You place yourself on the couch. The staff, which included the maids, were on their day-offs today, which was unfortunate for you. Tonight, would be different, though, you had no idea.

Clemensia, your best friend, texted you.

Home alone?

You replied almost right away.

Yeah. It took convincing, though. My parents are kind of protective.

You knew she was sighing and rolling her eyes at your comment. Clemensia was logical, so were you. The both of you were, but sometimes you could be reckless. Her, too, but not tonight apparently.

For good reason. I mean, there's a killer out there.

You wanted to just watch a movie, something that was a form of entertainment in the Capitol, obviously. You decide a horror movie was too gruesome for a time like this, and were planning to watch a rom-com. A surprise, considering you loved horror movies.

Yeah. I feel too... scared to watch a scary movie. That's how bad this is getting.

That was the truth, you were utterly terrified. Terrified to even watch scary movies, as if it'd become true. You check your phone. Updates in the group chat continue.

Your friend, Coriolanus, was discussing the killer. But also said that everyone should be careful. It was a known fact he liked you, but you were oblivious.

You were always so naïve.

They say he calls his victims before he kills them. I hope that's not true. I mean, what if he gets one of us?

The latest kills were students at the school, Gaius Breen and Androcles Anderson. This was tragic, and they didn't deserve it. They really didn't. And it made you wonder, why?

Why?

Clemensia was texting you and then calls. “Hey Clemmie, You say. “Hey! She replied. She sounded a little better but still, she was probably terrified just like you. "You okay, Clemmie, why did you call? You ask her, naturally. "Clemmie" was a nickname given in your childhood. You had a friend group that all had your own nicknames, including you. "I don't know, I don't think I'd like to be by myself, She admitted.

"That's fair, You agreed."I don't think... Hold on. I'm getting another call. Can I be right back on that?" "Mhm, it's not your fault, Clemensia said.

You end that call, and while the number was not one you'd recognize, sometimes you don't put in numbers on accident, or change the name. It happens. "Hello? You say, kindly. No matter who called, you tried to be as polite as you could be.

"Hello."

Already, you know this is a stranger. For one thing, the voice isn't one yo recognize, secondly, the number wasn't in your contacts. So it wasn't one you accidentally kept the number on. Unless this was a prank.

"Sorry I have to ask, who is this?"

"Who is this?"

"I already asked that. What number are you trying to reach?"

"I don't know, what number is this?"

You chuckle. "You called me, shouldn't you know?"

"I guess not."

In your mind, you conclude that this must be a wrong number. It wasn't his fault, so you weren't going to be annoyed by it. They seemed to be confused. "Wrong number, it's not your fault, it happens." You hang it up, and it was eerily similar to the beginning of Scream. You brushed it off, and planned to call Clemensia back, when the number called again.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry. I guess I dialed the wrong number."

"Oh, then why did you call again?"

"To apologize."

"Well, I forgive you, so-"

"Wait, can we talk?"

You sigh. "I'd love to. But i've got a phone call to do, bye, buddy." You hang up again. You innocently think of this as some joke. So, entertaining the prankster wouldn't be too bad for you.

However, you needed to call Clemensia back, ASAP. As you were about to tap her name to call, the prankster called again. However, you weren't going to be mad or annoyed, you were that good of a person.

Maybe naïve for your own good, but kind nonetheless.

"Hello?"

"Why don't you want to talk to me?"

"Oh, hi, um... I just don't know you at all. Sorry."

"You seem very sweet and understanding."

"I try to be. You never know. What's your name?"

"You tell me your name, and I'll tell you mine."

You place a piece of popcorn in my mouth, my soda beside me by the movie." As much as it'd be nice to make another friend, you'd have to earn that." A while ago, you texted your boyfriend to come over. Where was he? Your parents were gone. This was your chance to finally get intimate tonight. Still, no response. You texted him a couple of times. You frown. Is he cheating on me? You thought.

"What are you eating?"

"Popcorn, You immediately reply. "I'm watching a movie."

"What movie?"

"A rom-com, I can't bring myself to watch a horror movie."

"Rom-coms are cheesy, I think horror movies are incredible."

"Ah, a horror nerd, You joke. "Well, I normally think so, too. But, it's just... whatever."

"What's your favorite scary movie?"

You smile. "I guess I'd say, Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It's interesting."

"A good choice. It's brutal."

You check your phone a couple of times, still on the call, your boyfriend messaged once. He was on his way, and apologized for not being there. You accepted it, he was a good boyfriend, and was normally on time or responded, he was perfect. So, you forgave him immediately.

"So, you've got a boyfriend?"

His voice was flirty, and suggestive, even. But you weren't flattered or anything. You loved your boyfriend. "Mhm, You say."So, I'm not interested. We're happy together."

"Ah, lovebirds. How cute."

His voice was sarcastic. However, you still tried to remain kind. You didn't say anything as a response though.

"You never said your name."

"Why do you want my name?"

"Because I want to know who I'm looking at."

You freeze. "What did you say?"

"I want to know who I'm talking to.""

You shake your head."No. That's not what I heard." Panicked, you text your boyfriend and Clemensia. Someone was watching you."I'm hanging up."

"Why would you do that, Doll?"

"I... I just have to go."

"Don't hang up."

You text your boyfriend once more, hoping he'd come quick. Instead, however, you got a disturbing response.

Don't hang up on me. It won't end well for you.

You lock every door in your house, this creep wouldn't come in your house. But you also weren't ignoring his calls anymore certainly. He calls again, and you pick up. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk, doll."

"No, clearly not. Otherwise-"

"You've caught me. I want to play a game. Like I played with your boyfriend."

"What did you do with him?"

"Go check for yourself."

You whimper, stepping towards the back of your large home. You had a feeling it'd be in your backyard, the answer you were looking for. When you turn on the lights, You scream. Your phone drops, but thankfully doesn't break. Your boyfriend, was hung and gutted in your tree, bloody and all. You began to sob, shakily picking your phone up. "Please, why did you kill him?"

"You belong to me, doll. You're mine. I won't let anyone take you from me."

In that moment, a figure with a ghostly mask bursts in, grabbing you from behind, hands on your waist as you begin to fight, what was he going to do? Take you? You kick, your elbow kicking his rips, and a groan came out from him. You run. You held your phone, call ended. You take this chance and call 911.

Ghostface gets up, and mid call, is fast and you dropped your phone. You yelp, trying everything in your power.You’re thrown onto the floor and now he’s on top of you, knife in hand was clean but probably washed off the blood after murdering your boyfriend.

what was he going to do with you?

He must be contemplating what he was planning to do. Your legs were stuck, so you couldn’t kick him. He tilts his head. His knife trails down your body, suggestively but also mocking you, it's between your breasts, and then you grab his wrist, trying to pry him off of you. But he's stronger. He says,"Be a good girl and I won't hurt you." He must mean death, so you nod, still crying. The police would come.

You must've hit the floor hard, because your vision was foggy, and you were close to passing out. If this was death, you were ready. But you had no injuries. You clearly were just going unconscious. You use your free arm to take his mask off.

Your eyes widen."Coryo?" You barely see the grin on his face before you black out.

#yandere coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #fem!reader #ghostface au

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