also because i'm an awful person

i know it’s such a given and for most people it’s already their favorite thing about superhusbands but cAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT THEIR BANTER. because it’s everything it really is. it’s one of the best and most easily recognizable things about steve an tony but i jUST ???? 

like steve is steve but he’s also captain america and Every Single Person he meets can’t help but treat him like that and there’s always wonder/awe/hero worship that comes with meeting him and well, you can’t really blame em for being starstruck. and it’s not a deliberate or negative thing but so few people are able to approach steve or communicate him with like he’s just a normal guy.

that’s not to say tony isn’t all of those things about steve too. but you have him meeting steve as iron man and as mr. stark and he has zERO hesitations going from ‘you’re kind of a national icon and personal hero of mine and that’s amazing’ to just teasing him and joking around with him like he would anyone else, and he’s so simple and charming about it. and when you think about all the expectations and burden of always being Captain America for steve and carrying that image everywhere and never being able to rest. then you think about how lonely and isolated he was after the ice, after losing everyone and everything

–– and tony coming along and being so willing to treat him like a normal person, like he’s just steve, that is such a huge fucking deal and you can tell because it goddamn shows every time steve talks about tony being the first friend he had out of the ice and “nobody calls me winghead like you just did” and mr. stark when i woke up in this era i had no one, nothing. you gave me a purpose, somewhere to belong" 

brb i’m going to go crawl back to my corner and sob

Randomly 

it was just occurring to me that of course, just because something is *really good* or culturally important doesn’t mean any given person is gonna like it 

and conversely, something objectively awful can be seen or read or heard or whatever at just the right point for it to be really important despite being, you know, dreadful on every level 

(and so much stuff in between, where something’s Pretty OK but it clicks somehow and now it is the Most Important Story, or it hits some button or gets linked with some experience and becomes The Worst Thing Ever even though like CLEARLY that’s not the case but on the individual level it is)

what I’m saying is that there is potentially somewhere out there someone who saw The Room at just the right time in their lives for it to hold enormous emotional meaning and I am just boggling at the wonderful variety of human experience now. 

so I haven’t complained much about this whole situation but I wanna get this out I guess. it makes me kind of sad and disappointed in myself that my idol is defending a person who bullied me. i don’t know, she’s the reason I spoke up about it and now I feel really bad about it because I’ve been accused of so many things and called awful names and it just makes me sad that the girl who inspired me to stand up for myself is also the girl who probably hates me because of it.

This drabble is dedicated to Amanda/ @infernalandmortal because she’s awesome and we developed this headcanon together! *-*

Also tagging these people because I think they deserve a mix of Bellarke fluff and angst: @bellamyblake @bellsqueen @crooked-queen @bellamysking @underbellamy (because this was sort of inspired by one of your fabulous headcanons)

Description: Two incidents invovling the car…

Darling you cannot pull me from Hell (because I won’t let you)

It starts with the first fallen leaves, with her finding him as he found her, hidden from the brutality of the world, biting his cheek and trying to swallow regrets that tastes of metal, of blood. If it hadn’t been for the radio, filling the room with soft tones, Clarke would have thought that her eyes must have been playing a cruel trick on her when they saw him walk in here. In the shadows, she sees him leaning up against the car, his face behind a book, and it briefly stops her in her tracks. Could he be reading the story of Orpheus and Eurydice? The one he’d written on her cheek, as he’d run his fingertips over it, making the words impossible to rinse off.

Since she returned, Clarke had been forced to watch Bellamy work himself to the bone every day, punishing himself while gritting his teeth. But what nearly shatters her heart is knowing that the weight of the world is carried on his back, bending his spine to its breaking point. There’s no limit to his bravery, his love, and that’s why he shouldn’t get so comfortable in the darkness: It will ruin him like it nearly ruined her, and if you think for one second that she is going to let that happen, you are certainly mistaken.

To her immense relief, when they get the option, Bellamy’s eyes shift from the words on the page, choosing her face. Nevertheless, the look on his all but sends her heart to the bottom of her gut: the sparks within his earth-colored gaze have died, his frown is deep, just like the color of the shadows underneath his eyes.

Clarke is, was an artist. She can paint his smile back on, but she knows that in order to do so, she has to convince him that he actually wants her to. Yes, there are many things, countless issues between them that they still need to sort out, but the least she can do is to try to make him feel better. Undoubtedly, he would do the same for her.

         ♬ I’ve been trying to do it right. I’ve been living a lonely life. I’ve been                             sleeping here instead, I’ve been sleeping in my bed ♬

Slowly, she takes the book from his hands, places it on the hood of the car.

“What? Why are you interrupting my reading?” In the attempt to hide his surprise, Bellamy fails to sound annoyed.

“But you weren’t reading,” she corrects him, “you were looking at me,” at that, he doesn’t break eye contact, only raises his eyebrow a little bit. Quickly, Clarke has searched for a translation of that specific look in her mind, and found it: ‘Seriously, get to the point.’

“This is a beautiful song,” remarking that, she watches his eyebrows fall, furrow, mostly in wonder she reckons, because he nods slowly, “ so let’s dance.”

“What?”

Teasingly Clarke rolls her eyes, her hands grabbing onto the fabric of his jacket and she spends a couple of moments shamelessly studying how it affects him, not much, but his palms move to the car for support. “Didn’t you ever dance on The Ark?” Frankly, she finds it difficult to imagine him dancing at all, ever, with anyone, but the truth surprises her: “Of course, but-“

“Then you have nothing to be afraid of,” Clarke declares, and shockingly as she pulls a little on his arm, he follows her willingly, most likely because that’s what he always does, no matter how crazy the scenario.

His jaw clenched, Bellamy places a hand to her waist, and as the wonderful warmth from it seeps through every layer of her skin, Clarke has to fight to urge her eyelids hold to close. To distract herself from the fact the he is touching her, she takes her hand in his, feels how the blood has worn them, as her own have been torn and controlled. Unsurprisingly, the mere thought of that creates a lump in her throat, which disappears as Bellamy’s other hand slowly moves to small of her back where it begins to pull her in.

      ♬ So show me family, all the blood that I will bleed. I don’t know where I                                   belong, I don’t know where I went wrong ♬

The tips of their noses graze as their breathes easily mingle, yet for a while their feet decide to not move. For them to do that, the world around them, the pain it brings, must be invisible. Someone must take the chance, must make the choice to begin the process, and surely, that person is Bellamy, because when the chorus commences, he squeezes her hand, and as he moves, she moves with him.

Honestly, Clarke doesn’t see the first spin coming, or the next, and even though she’s scared of being too far away from him, she falls right back into his arms every time he lets the space between them grow. At some point, through, after many happy returns, she decides to stay, as his hands against her spine, their hearts beating in synch and the smell of him, of the woods, of smoke, of gunpowder becomes equivalent with safety, with home. Ignoring the beat, together they sway, her face in the crook of his neck, his lips pressed into her hair.

        ♬ I belong with you, you belong with me. You’re my Sweetheart ♬


It ends when raindrops are replaced by snowflakes, with her begging that it’s the only thing bound to change. Sadly, it isn’t, because the rain reminded her of him, cleansing and refreshing, even if he more often than not caught her in his hurricanes. The snow is too icy, nothing like him, but still affects him, makes him colder. When he roars, her heart aches.

But at least he’s finally being honest: “You don’t get it, do you? You can’t leave again! There’s no way I’m letting you,” as he slams the car door shut, he looks at her, lightning striking with desperation in his eyes.

On her lips, she can taste the sweetness of his name. They part slightly to let it out, yet it doesn’t emerge. Instead, she stares at him, how the anger marks his features - well, at least she thinks it’s anger for a while, until he shouts again, his voice breaking from hurt: “Everyone hates me, Clarke! Even I hate me, but you –” At that, he pauses, unintentionally allowing a noise to escape his throat; it sounds terrifyingly close to a sob, “– You don’t! And I, I–”

“Bellamy…” Of course, when the name at last comes out, it’s too late. He’s too broken to see that this is breaking her.

No! I can’t lose you!”

Shut up! The words burn in her stomach, hurting just as much as the tears in her eyes. Right now, she can no longer question why he didn’t say all of this when they were standing at the gate months back, because the truth is close to bringing her to her knees. She let him down when she left him, and because he never told her that it tortured him, she could keep walking away.

No more.

Even though her lungs are already pleading for air, she kisses him, pours every ounce of her panic into it. She can’t lose him to the mercilessness of winter, when she wants him to love him like summer. At first, as he responds, his lips are bruising. His hands move to her waist, pushing her against the car door as hers tangle within the messy curls of his hair.

   ♬ Have you got color in your cheeks? Do you ever get the fear that you can’t             shift, the type that sticks around like something in your teeth? ♬

Shamelessly, she pulls at it when the tip of his tongue runs along the seam of her mouth, asking for an invitation. Honestly, he doesn’t really need to work for it, because he still holds her close like she is about to choose that godforsaken car over him. As she parts her lips further, his hand runs from her ribs to her waist, the touch igniting a burning trail. Clarke wonders if she can make him feel the same - therefore, she permits her blunt nails to explore his back, and sure enough, she hears him restraining a noise; not a sob this time - No, something entirely different, but this might scare her even more.

 ♬ So have you got the guts? Been wondering if your heart’s still open, and if                                       so I wanna know what time it shuts ♬

Now, his hand slips just underneath the hem of her shirt, and the sudden skin-to-skin contact does not only send shivers through her - it has him breaking the kiss to look at her; at how her chest is heaving, leaving her breath ragged. His hand doesn’t move as his eyes search hers, so soon enough, he presses their foreheads together. For a long minute, he stands there, only holding her while they continue to breathe the same air. And when finally kisses her, it’s so different that it causes her heart to ache a little: his lips are now soft, coaxing as they press to her neck which makes Clarke hold her next breath.

      ♬ The nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say                                                                    tomorrow day ♬

She know what he wants, what both of their hearts are screaming for, and you could think that after infinite times of falling back to him, she should feel more than ready to fall into his bed, but unfortunately that’s not the case.

That’s why she pushes him away, as gently as she can muster when she’s this frustrated with herself: “I’m sorry, I-“ As her lower lip wobbles and her hands shake, he moves back to her, placing a hand to her cheek, causing her to avert her gaze, “I can’t.”

At that she feels his fingers under her jaw, tilting her head so that her eyes tear from looking at the floor. Instead, she meets his eyes, painted with hurt. “Why do you keep running? Don’t you trust that I won’t hurt you?”

Frankly, the only reason why she hasn’t told him, is that she’s pretty sure he already knows why. After all, they read each other like open books.

But in case he hasn’t, she manages to croak, the bitter tears clogging her throat as well as her eyes: “I’m terrified, Bellamy,” as soon as his name has escaped her lips, the sobs take over her body, rolling in like waves and causing her to shake. Instead of asking questions, he pulls her into his chest, whispers into her hair: It’s okay. I understand - understand her fear is not of being hurt, but of being happy. Happy if they become one, if he pours any more of his love into her, because then she may start using it as a drug, which would be wrong.

He deserves better than that - better than her.

So with the press of his lips lingering on her forehead and tears staining her cheeks, she walks away again, for the hundredth time, the only difference this time being that she looks back, at his fake smile and his heart in pieces scattered all over the floor.

                             ♬ Do you want me crawling back to you? ♬