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the-fangirl-from-hell · 1 year ago

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The Real Reason Xavier Can't Tell You The Truth

this is part 3 in a series. here is part 1, here is part 2

pairing: Xavier Thorpe x reader summary: in which Xavier is haunted by guilt for keeping secrets from you warnings: mentions of blood, injury, kinda cheating but not really, cussing, religious guilt?, they're horny but there's no smut yet tags: even more pining, we shouldn't do this, forbidden desires, mild angst, hurt-comfort, reader patches Xavier up once again, fluff, reassurance word count: 4k

Xavier never got to know whether (Y/N) would kiss him or not because their tender moment was interrupted by a loud growl. It sounded like something between a bear and a lion. Ferocious. Angry.

“I think we should run,” the girl whispered.

“Follow me, my shed shouldn’t be far off.”

Xavier grabbed her hand tightly and started running off with her towards the parts of the woods that pertained to Nevermore. They could hear screeching and leaves rustling under the beast’s feet as it followed them, but neither could bring themselves to look back and see what kind of monster would make this kind of sounds.

Neither of them could feel their own legs after a while. They were panting and whining in pain as they stepped on sharp rocks and small dried branches that snapped under their weight. A blood-curdling scream pierced through the night as Xavier fell on the ground and the beast snatched him by the leg with its long claws. In an act of desperation, the girl grabbed a rock she found on the ground and smashed the monster’s hand with it, forcing it to release the boy. It took one look at the girl’s terrified expression before it ran off into the woods.

She rushed to her knees to check Xavier’s leg. His pants were shredded and covered in blood from his thigh to his knee.

“Can you walk? How far is your shed?”

But Xavier didn’t answer; he just let out a pain-ridden sob as he was clutching the wounded area. The girl took one more look at his thigh and the blood pouring out of the gash. His face was getting paler by the second. She took one deep calming breath before making an important decision.

“I need you to trust me right now,” she received a weak nod. “Show me the cut.”

Xavier complied and raised his blood stained hands in the air, giving the girl free access to his wound. She put her own hands on top of the cut and pressed. The boy hissed as he prepared for the pain that never came. As soon as her hands were on his body the only thing Xavier could feel was the nice warmth he already came to associate with (Y/N). It was almost blissful. The bleeding stopped soon after.

“How did you do that?”

“I’ll explain later, we should get somewhere safer before that thing comes to finish the job.”

She yanked Xavier by the arm and got him on his feet. To his surprise, he felt good enough to walk already. But the girl insisted on holding his hand tightly all the way.

“It’s just that my powers only work when I’m making physical contact. I need to make sure the bleeding doesn’t return,” she explained on their way.

Xavier didn’t need explaining. If she wanted to hold his hand she could, anytime. Maybe because the whole monster thing scared her and she needed comfort. Or because it was dark and she wanted to make sure she didn’t lose him in the woods. Or because her hand was cold. Or simply because she felt the fraction of the butterflies he did when their hands were touching.

They finally got to the shed after about fifteen more minutes of walking, although Xavier was pretty sure they were safe anyway. The monster seemed to disappear and the forest was quiet. Their walk would’ve been quite romantic if they hadn’t been running from a monster less than half an hour ago. Or if she didn’t already have a boyfriend. Xavier needed to remind himself of that. She had someone else. She didn’t want him. No matter how hard his heart was hammering in his chest every time she was close by.

He opened the door for her and let her in first, then closed it after himself and propped a chair against the handle just to be on the safe side. No one could get in now. Xavier turned around to see (Y/N) drag the mattress he sometimes slept on in the middle of the room and grab some clean pieces of cloth he used for painting.

She was acting as if she’d been there a million times already. Xavier liked that thought.

“Sit down, let me clean you up.”

“You’ve done more than enough for me already, it’s fine.”

“Just let me help, okay?” she sounded more exasperated than she intended.

He realized that patching him up was her way of showing affection. He couldn’t complain. He plopped down on the mattress and let the girl take care of him. Her gentle nimble hands were caressing his leg, alternating between the cool feeling of the cloth cleaning him, and the warmth of her hands healing him. He didn’t mean to let out a moan but as he tried to relax and close his eyes for a second, it just happened.

Fuck.

Xavier could feel his face flush red and hot as embarrassment settled in his stomach.

“Did it hurt?” the girls asked innocently.

She had no idea of the effect she had on him, beyond her healing abilities. She had no idea of the many wet dreams he had that started just like this. The two of them together in the shed, at night, no one around, her standing on top of him, hands caressing his body. He half expected to wake up in his dorm, aroused and disappointed. But this was real.

Xavier had to bite his lip to stop a second moan before it escaped his mouth. He realised he couldn’t speak so he resigned to shaking his head no.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

She couldn’t hurt him. Every touch of her felt like heaven, every inch of his body in contact with her felt blessed.

“Oh.” The realisation hit Xavier like a truck. “That’s how I healed so quick last time after Tyler beat me. You used your powers then too.”

The girl nodded without taking her eyes off the area she was healing. Xavier felt grateful. If she peered up at him through her lashes in that moment he’d probably melt into the mattress. Right then and there.

“So that’s why your touch feels like that. No wonder Tyler can’t get his hands off you.”

Xavier was just thinking out loud at the moment, trying to get the realisation out so it felt more real. The normie girl he’s been in love with wasn’t even a normie. She was like him, an outcast. And that’s why every touch of her was electric, because a healer’s touch is almost like a drug.

“I’ve never used my powers on Tyler,” the girl finally said. “He doesn’t even know I have them and at this point, I can’t tell him. It’s too late.”

It made sense. When the psychic link was active Xavier could feel everything Tyler was feeling. The girl’s hands pulling his hair, her teeth biting his lip, her lips going down his abdomen (Xavier forced himself to stop there) and the spark was never there. When he was Tyler he felt hot like you do on a sunny summer day, not warm like when you drink hot cocoa next to a fireplace. Not like what Xavier felt when (Y/N) put her hands on him.

“But you used your powers for me. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it, I like feeling helpful. And you needed my help,” the girl let out a little laugh that reminded Xavier of wind chimes.

She seemed so content doting on him like it was the thing she enjoyed doing most. Xavier was almost sad that his wound was healing so fast and she was going to stop.

“I don’t get it. Why keep it a secret?”

“Mom insists,” the girl made a face as if she bit on something bitter. “There’s people out there who would do unforgivable things to get access to a healer. I heard many horror stories; it happened to my grandma.”

She swallowed thickly and stopped, almost as if the words were stuck in her throat. Xavier put a hand on her shoulder, trying to assure her that she didn’t have to go on if she didn’t want to. He understood what it was like to be different, to be hunted.

He decided to say something that would get her mind off things.

“Ok, but there’s one thing that still doesn’t add up. You always feel like that, not just when you’re healing me.”

“About that,” the girl awkwardly chewed on her lower lip. “It seems I can’t really control my powers around you. I can’t stop myself, every time I touch you my powers turn up to eleven. It’s like… like–” she stopped, unable to finish.

She didn’t need to because he knew exactly what she meant. Like there was something inside him so broken that was begging to be fixed. That’s why she was his peace. It’s why every time he was with her he felt like everything was right in the world. Because she was healing him.

The girl sat up as the cut on Xavier’s leg closed up, it looked like a small scratch made by a kitten. She put a gentle hand on the side of the boy’s face and he leaned into it, letting out a worried sigh.

“I can tell your seer abilities weigh on you. It’s like a darkness plaguing your mind. Is that why you couldn’t sleep?”

Xavier tried to swallow the knot that formed in his throat. He knew he should come clean and tell her everything. She had the right to know about his weird little voyeuristic visions of her. But he just couldn’t; the thought of her hating him or being freaked out scared him too much.

He barely managed to give the girl a nod.

“Because of that monster.”

(Y/N) eyes were fixated on the wall behind Xavier. More precisely, on the drawings he made and put up those walls. The boy was so preoccupied with getting to safety that he hadn’t realised until this point: they are in his shed. They are in. His. Shed. The one that was full of drawings he made over the past year, most of them from his visions and dreams. Many of them of her.

Right now her gaze seemed to be fixed on the drawings he’s been making of the monster.

“Is that the thing that attacked us in the forest? Have you seen it before?”

“Yes, I’ve been having visions of it for a while. When I draw it… it feels like I’m getting it out of my head and onto the page.”

“You’ve been drawing it a lot. We’ve got to figure out what this thing has against you.”

As she walked closer and closer to the drawings, Xavier thanked every god in existence that he remembered to cover the painting he’s made of her last night. If Bianca hadn’t barged in that morning he probably wouldn’t have.

“I almost forgot how talented you are,” the girl breathed out as her fingers grazed past a drawing of a wolf. “Have you ever thought of doing this professionally?”

The girl’s breath hitched suddenly as her eyes landed on an old pencil drawing of her, the first of many. That one depicted (Y/N) playing her piano in the town’s square, eyes closed, fingers gliding gracefully across the instrument. It looked beautiful. She was beautiful.

“Art is my hobby,” Xavier shrugged. “I don’t like mixing business with pleasure.”

The girl’s eyes were drinking in every drawing on Xavier’s wall individually and then all at once. The boy felt his face growing hotter by the second. No one looked at his art like that, eyes gleaming with adoration.

Thankfully, most of the drawings on her were in a sketchbook specially designated for her. As long as she didn’t find it, he was safe. Or so he thought until the girl’s fingers found the cloth that was over the painting of her. His entire life flashed before his eyes when she gripped the covering and she almost started pulling at it, until Xavier firmly placed his hands on top of the canvas, snatching it from the easel it was placed on.

“No – not that one. Please, I-I’d kill myself if you saw that,” Xavier said, cringing at his own brutal honesty.

He didn’t have anything else to say.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. This is probably like a sacred space for you and I’ve been touching and ogling everything. I apologise.”

Xavier felt his face was still burning hot, so he kept it on the ground, mostly covered by his brown hair draping over it. His hands were still gripping the top of the painting. His whole body was shaking. Guilt started burning up his throat like bile and threatened to spill everywhere. He never feared hell quite like in this moment.

“I understand if you’re mad-” the girl continued.

“I’m not mad, just embarrassed.”

He tossed the painting into a corner, still making sure it wasn’t visible to her. He should come clean, tell her everything. She deserved to know that in her most private moments with her boyfriend he’s been there, watching. Whether he wanted to or not he’d memorised every inch of her body so well he could draw it from memory. He did.

He looked around for a second to gather all his courage. It was now or never. His gaze fell on a drawing of a rose he made a long time ago and without thinking much about it he grabbed it from the paper and brought it to life. She asked him to throw her a rose once but it felt like eons ago.

He tried to hand the charcoal flower to the girl in front of him but as soon as her fingers touched the stem, it crumbled into fine grey dust. Despite that, she still looked at him with so much undeserved adoration in her eyes. She always seemed so impressed with his stupid little tricks. It made him feel special like he was worth something.

“I’m still trying to get the hang of it. I can’t quite control my powers yet.”

She leaned in a little closer and Xavier could swear to any God who would listen that she was waiting for him to kiss her. If he looked down he could close the gap and get the one thing in this world he wanted most. Not now. He had something important to say now. Let’s see if she still wants to kiss him afterwards.

“Lately I’ve been having these visions… about you.”

Xavier felt like he was choking on the truth. Like it didn’t really want to come out and it was suffocating, for a second he couldn’t breathe and it terrified him.

“I can’t control them, I swear! I’ve tried!”

He didn’t even tell her the whole story and he was already making up excuses as if there was any possibility of him finishing what he has to say and her not hating him feverishly afterwards.

The boy cleared his throat nervously, carefully picking his next words; feeling already extremely uncomfortable. He looked down at (Y/N) and the first thing he noticed was how radiant she looked in the moonlight cascading from an uncovered window. The second thing he noticed was the puzzled look on her face.

“I owe you an explanation, I know-“

“Your lips look so soft.”

Xavier almost didn’t understand what the girl said the first time, as she spoke over him. He must have misheard her. There was no way in seven Hells she’d still be thinking about kissing him in a moment like this.

“They just make it kinda hard to focus on what you’re saying.”

He felt her hand crawl up his back all the way to the base of his skull and he shuddered. Her finger was playing with a strand of his hair, and Xavier found himself closing his eyes and leaning in until their foreheads touched. It was as if he was under a spell. He knew he couldn’t resist her. Frankly, he didn’t even want to try. He’s been waiting for this kiss ever since he first laid eyes on her but she always felt too out of reach. Even before finding out she was taken, she was too pretty for him, too kind, too good.

Now they were alone in his shed at night, basking in the dim light and sharing an embrace. Her hands felt so good scratching his scalp and playing in his hair. It felt nothing like when he was experiencing it through Tyler. This was more intense. This was real.

He bit the apple. Leaning in just a little closer was enough to bridge the gap between their lips and lock them in a slow and tender kiss. He kissed her with so much gentleness as if he was afraid she’d turn into charcoal dust the moment their lips met.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispered.

“You’re right.”

Another, more forceful kiss. This time their lips crashed into each other like they were trying to devour one another. His hands started roaming her body as if trying to make sure she was real, she was there and he wasn’t about to wake up.

“Xavier,”

She said his name and it sounded almost like a prayer. Xavier felt himself coming apart at the seams, nearly bursting with excitement and longing for this girl. Nearly falling on his knees he had to steady himself by grabbing the table he usually works on. The sound of his art supplies hitting the floor didn’t startle either of them, too busy getting lost in one another. He didn’t even have to help her jump on the table, before he could register what was happening, her legs were already wrapped around him like a ribbon around a Christmas present. She was holding onto him like she was waiting for salvation.

A small voice in Xavier’s mind was telling him it was wrong. She was probably just using him to forget about her stupid boyfriend and his tantrums. An even smaller voice was telling him that he should let her; that if this was the only way to be with her, he should settle for it. Being a girl’s rebound wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Especially not if it’s her.

Xavier let out a sigh.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered close to her mouth.

They couldn’t go any further. It wasn’t fair to him – who was in love with her, to her – who was heartbroken and confused and probably still in love with Tyler. It wasn’t even fair to Tyler for that matter. Even if they’d split tonight for good (which they might not, Xavier has seen them break up and get back together again and again so many times in the past year) it’s only been an hour since that happened.

Not fair.

He forced himself to pull back for a second and just look at her. This was one sin he’d allow himself to commit over and over again every time he got the chance. Just to look at her. It still made him feel guilty.

“You look in pain, is it your leg?”

It fucking hurt. Being in this perfect moment with the perfect girl and knowing it has to end and it can’t happen again hurts like a motherfucker. Why must his conscience be so heavy?

Xavier shifted his weight on his now barely grazed leg just to test it. He felt a sort of dull ache, like the memory of the pain he was in when he got scratched by the monster. He shuddered at the thought of that beast. His dreams of (Y/N) made him feel guilty, dirty, creepy; but he preferred that tenfold compared to the blood curdling fear he felt when he was having nightmares about the monster terrorizing Jericho. He wondered how much worse would they get after tonight. Would he dream about being torn to shreds over and over again? Would it feel just as excruciating as it did in real life?

“I’m fine,” he managed to snap back to reality and answer. “It’s just…” he took a moment, two, three to find his words. “Can you stay over tonight? I can’t bear the thought of you going home all alone after all that and I don’t think I’m in good enough shape to walk you there.”

The girl bit on her lip as if she was mulling it over. After a few moments of deliberation, she nodded her head.

The two of them made themselves comfortable on the old mattress the girl previously dragged in the middle of the room and covered themselves with a sage bed sheet that didn’t do much in terms of keeping them warm.

“Are you cold?” Xavier asks draping a hand over her tentatively. “I could sneak you into my dorm room, it's warmer there, but I don’t want to make you climb through a window.”

He let out a hesitant chuckle, which died in his throat the second the girl cozied up to him, her head close to his chest. There was no way she couldn’t hear how frantic his heart was beating, but it didn’t seem to bother her. She was warm compared to the cold shed. And her body seemed to fit into his like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Their arms wrapped around each other’s bodies so easily, like they’ve done that a thousand times before in another lifetime.

So unfair.

“I’m fine here, it’s more intimate.”

Intimate. Xavier liked that word. Especially the way it rolled off her lips.

“I’m sorry I freaked out on you earlier about the painting. Please don’t hate me.”

(Y/N) propped herself up on her elbow and looked at Xavier for a second through sleepy eyes. She placed a gentle kiss on the boy’s temple. He knew what that meant. A healer’s kiss is their most powerful spell. It could bring someone back from the brink of death. The boy let out something between a sigh and a sob.

“I could never hate you,” she whispered.

Xavier couldn’t believe his own ears. He must have died and ended up in heaven. Though, what were the chances that someone like him would end up in a place like that?

“Maybe you should.”

“You went through so much, Xavier. The monster, the visions, the insomnia; you’re tired and hurt. Plus the whole ordeal with Tyler and the legal issues that came after. It’s okay to freak out, I understand. I’m here.”

It took everything in Xavier not to break down right then and there. He let go of a few silent tears and hoped she couldn’t see them in the dark. He had to tell her the whole story, he just didn’t have it in him to ruin the happiest he’s ever been in a long time. He was selfish as shit and he was going to pay for that in hell or on earth. But for the first time in so long they didn’t feel like the same place for him.

“You make everything better.”

“Let’s just go to sleep. As long as I’m here you shouldn’t have problems.”

She was too good for him. Knowing exactly what to say, knowing what he needed her to do before he even asked. And she was always looking to help him, to heal him. But there was a question weighing Xavier’s mind. What if he was meant to hurt? What if the pain was his deserved punishment?

“Good night, Xav.”

He couldn’t even mutter an answer because he fell asleep. And Xavier couldn’t recall the last time he slept so peacefully.

taglist: @ryswritingrecord; @rayliz793; @vviviivvivivivvivivivi; @kkmstblog; @khaylin27; @hopelessromanticwriter; @kis9na - feel free to ask in the notes to be added to the tag list. whether on this story or on all my writing

thank you to all the amazing people writing nice things in the tags, notes and reblogs. you are the best and i'm kissing you on the forehead.

[a.n.] can you guys believe i'm still alive? its been almost a year since i promised i'd publish part 3 and here it is. i never said when...

but in all honesty i'm sorry it took me so long. i have no excuse other my my own perfectionism didn't let me publish. i wrote this chapter with five different endings and none of them felt right. one was too angsty, one was too smutty too soon. i just wasn't happy with it. i write for fun and the more pressure i put on myself the less fun it was. i have three more fics written 3/4 but not finished simply because my brain won't cooperate. one fic is in the stranger things fandom. in other news i got diagnosed with adhd and autism and this might be a factor. my wednesday hyperfixation dwindled out. but i wanna keep writing if you guys want to keep reading. i just need patience and maybe medication. this hasn't been fully proofread, just bits and pieces because i fear if i reread it again from top to bottom for the hundredth time i'll rage delete all of it, my entire blog and then myself. sorry. let's hope part four will come out before wednesday season 2

#wednesday #wednesday fanfic #wednesday addams #wednesday netflix #xavier thorpe #xavier thrope x reader #xavier thorpe x you #xavier thorpe x y/n #reader insert #x reader

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ataraxiaspainting · 1 year ago

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the joy i feel when i check the chrollo tag and see your username >>>

(seriously!! you capture chro’s yandere chivalry so well)

gasp!! he's back in grease jail for a little bit but i promise...... HE'LL RETURN!

to be honest i'm very new with this kind of stuff. i'm still learning bits and gizmos when it comes to writing (and even outside of that), but that's life, i guess. there is just so many possibilities when it comes to writing, especially in the thriller/horror genre (though i wouldn't really call the stuff i write really scary per say.......). the human psyche still has plenty of traits that our pre evolved selves did, be it literal with science (for example, being scared of closed spaces, aka claustrophobia, which can be hereditary) or in a more figurative sense (with self-discovery, facing your fears, all that jazz). writing things that make readers uncomfortable, at least in my opinion, is at least somewhat based in psychology studies. for example, the oedipus rex complex with norman bates from alfred hitchcock's psycho. even though sigmund freud is still public enemy #1 in my eyes........ the man did indeed spring up my love for psychology in the first place because his research goes into nature vs nuture (which i find one of the most interesting topics to read about), as much as i want it not to be true. but alas. we win some, we lose some.

i feel like mr greasehead over here is also just interesting on a psychological level. he has no sense of self whatsoever, so he always molds himself to fit whatever situation he is in. until he can't take it anymore... which is a concept horrifying in of itself. but mainly he keeps his composure, which makes for an interesting combination with a darling that A: wears their heart on their sleeve, or B: also tries to keep their composure and acts in a way similar to him most of the time. for the latter it turns into a cat and mouse game of sorts. the question is who the mouse is and who the cat is when it comes to mind games. unfortunately for a manipulative darling, chrollo is always the latter. for plot reasons.

hier encore darling is always on her toes for a reason, after all.

You feel an invisible pressure on your neck. It’s just a knot in my throat, you think to yourself, closing your eyes. The sight of his stillness gifts you a veil of comfort so thin that if anyone were to touch it it would tear. I’m not going to die. But you can’t breathe.

Your heart tells you otherwise. You can feel, no, hear blood pulse to the very tips of your fingers. Your feet tell you otherwise. They are cold. They hurt. They are adhered to the ground. Your arms and legs tell you otherwise. There is nothing but pins and needles all over. This is your chance, the little voice in your head says with blind reassurance. Who knows when you will ever get this chance again? Do it now, and be quick about it. But you can’t breathe. You can’t breathe, and you have to try your hardest to stop the hand holding your espresso from shaking and falling on you.

babygirl is not okay. nuh uh. she'll return eventually though. much is planned for her, whether they are good or bad things. only time will tell if she gets a happy ending. very mean of me, i know.

back to what you said though, chrollo is many, many things. being genuinely chivalrous is not one of them. respect? he doesn't know her. he can be disrespectful when he wants to be when he's picking at darling's brain or when he snaps. he can pretend though. he can indeed pretend. even if darling calls him out on his bullshit, he'll never actually admit to it. smug asshole. unless he can push the blame to darling, whether that is subtly or not at all subtly. he knows that the human mind while isolated can be desperate and believe anything if broken down enough. that's where the real scare is, i believe. anyone can be broken down if the breaker is trying hard enough. be it yan chrollo with his darling, or poor darling unintentionally pushing him past his limit.

for now, all i have planned for him (aside from the yan chrollo requests that i'm working on) in a sort of analysis for him (it's very long sob sob). it will be broken down into the parts shown below:

introduction

darling character analysis

yandere MBTI (courtesy of god ddarker-dream's yandere MBTI)

unique qualities

strengths

weaknesses

daily life

punishments

quotes

conclusion

hopefully it will be done by mid to late january. but he has to wait for now. hence why he's back in jail. don't worry, he has feitan to keep him company. they'll rot away together. <333

#it's 50/50 always with feitan's darling though #like genshin/hsr #unfortunately for them they always lose #“which feitan am i gonna get today?” (spins the wheel of fortune)#helloclitty #aya answers

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dragonmasterhiccup · 4 months ago

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(I think this one's kinda long too, again 🥸)

Freya hesitated to respond, yet another feeling arising in her that was unfamiliar. His words indicated that he would now be leaving, and she should've been glad about that, but she found herself actually wanting to talk more to him. She shook it off, assuming it was because of her tiredness again, as well as the sudden opportunity she had to rant about everything she'd been keeping in for so long. "Uh, yeah, it's kind of weird how they mimic cats in a way.."

She tapped her arm, standing up too quickly as she nearly stumbled, managing to catch herself before it was too late. "You can.. you can come by tomorrow if you're not busy. Cause, uh, it's only Ayla that wants you over here anyways.. and I'm sure you gotta work with Gobber and everything.." Freya mentally scolded herself for beginning to ramble yet again, choosing to look up at Blaze instead.

She lightly kicked the small stick Hiccup had thrown on the ground, debating whether or not to voice her thoughts before she spoke, "Again, thank you. I still could've done all of that stuff you did for Ayla. But, thanks." Not knowing what to say, for once, she gently rocked back and forth on her feet, pressing her lips into a thin line as she slowly glanced back at him.

Why did he persist on knowing things she wouldn't have normally shared? Why was he treating her with the respect she really didn't deserve? Why didn't he just give up and leave her alone? What's his problem? Carefully thinking more, Freya restated the question in her head: 'What's my problem?'

Not realizing she was staring the whole time, and getting caught in the process, she frantically stepped closer to the door, fumbling over the right words, "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I was just, uh, thinking about something -- I got lost in thought, yeah."

"Get home already, Stoick's probably wondering where you are!" She gestured her hands at him for to leave, trying to recover from.. whatever it was that was making her behave differently. "Night!" She quickly stepped inside, shutting the door as she recovered her breath. She stood there for a moment, calming herself down.

Freya rubbed her forehead, questioning herself for the events that took place today. "I should be fine tomorrow.. I just need to.. sleep." She muttered, dragging her feet upstairs to her room, first checking on Ayla before throwing herself on her bed, shutting her eyes as she allowed herself to finally get some sleep in.

------------------

Getting up was a chore. If it weren't for Ayla's repetitive coughs, Freya would've most likely slept in. She forced herself out of bed, rubbing her eyes open as she groggily opened her little sister's door, feeling remorse for her as she rubbed her nose. After cleaning herself up, she almost immediately asked for the one person she tried not to think about.

"Ayla, y'know he's probably busy in the forge! He's in there nearly everyday! I mean, don't you remember being there with him?" Her sister pouted, threatening to cry - something Freya most certainly did not want. Groaning, she begrudgingly went out of her room, getting herself presentable as she muttered endless complaints to herself.

Fully ready, she whistled for Blaze, who had been playing with some leaves outside. Upon hearing her, he gleefully ran towards her, making sure to barely stop in front of her so she wouldn't fall. He leaned his head against her torso as she smiled, gently petting him as she yawned. "C'mon, buddy, we gotta go back to the forge.." Tapping on the crown of his head, she mounted the sand wraith, the last bits of drowsiness melting away as Blaze jumped in the air, choosing to glide over to their destination this time.

As soon as they landed, Blaze set out for Toothless, sniffing the air with a curious gaze, trying to find the Night Fury. Freya rolled her eyes at his actions, leisurely getting off her dragon, stretching her arms when her boots touched the ground. She tried to remain hidden, wanting another excuse to tell Ayla that she didn't find Hiccup anywhere, so she chose to remain standing outside of the forge behind Blaze, making herself appear as casual as she could without being noticed.

Nodding, he said, "Right. Only Ayla...I'll uh, I'll come by in the afternoon, then..."

He shrugged, waving a hand. "Again, I knew you could've, but it's probably better that you were here, in case she needed you."

Expecting her to respond, he waited, but she just...stared at him. She stared at him with an almost pensive expression, causing him to feel...well, uncomfortable.

"Uh...what, what is it? Did I say something wrong?"

That seemed to do it, snapping her out of... whatever it was.

He could only watch as she stumbled inside, only managing to say "Goodnight!" before she slammed the door.

Toothless joined him, and he and the dragon exchanged a look. "That was...weird. Come on, bud. Let's go home."

Stoick was indeed waiting up, asking Hiccup where he'd been the moment he returned home.

Hiccup muttered something about helping a friend, that he was tired, and going straight to bed, hurrying up the stairs before his father could ask any more questions.

As soon as his prosthetic was off, he fell asleep.

-----------------------

Hiccup was up at sunrise, he and Toothless sneaking out of the house for a morning flight before Stoick got up for the day.

His mind replayed the events of the past few days.

Freya had been... actually nice to Hiccup. He almost couldn't believe it.

But it happened.

And...it was nice.

By the time he got to the forge, Gobber was getting after Grump to light the fire.

The older Viking turned around, hearing Hiccup enter. "Oi! Ain't it yer day off? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I just uh, I wanted to help out a little extra, since I left early yesterday." He started getting his tools, putting his leather apron on.

Gobber waved a hand. "Ahh, who cares? You always overwork yourself. Take the day, go be with the girl."

"Girl?!"

"Aye, the one you ran off with yesterday. The angry one."

"Oh...Freya."

"Aye. That's the one."

"You know, Gobber, I don't think she wants me around all that much..."

"That's a shame. I thought you two had something going there."

Hiccup nearly dropped his hammer. "Wh-what? No, no, there's uh, there's nothing going on..."

"Then why is she waiting outside, hm?" Gobber gestured to where Freya was outside, and said, "Take the apron off and put your tools away. It's your day off, I can manage things here just fine."

Hesitantly, he did as he was told, make his way outside.

"Hey, Freya. How's Ayla?"

#asks #threads #justpeaxchy

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controlledchaos1342-blog · 2 years ago

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“Let’s have a battle!” Naive, vicious child. This is why I wear my mask these days. Before it was to hide, now it’s to make it all too clear ‘who’ I am to these people. I can see in their eyes that they don’t intend it to be a playful match like the small school-children getting a first taste of this life. They see me and my ‘disabled’ partner as easy prey.

I look to Missy and tilt my head, no need to say the question out loud. She simply nods and gives a responding “Kacha,” before jumping out to fight what ever opponent we were to face. If the brat was smart they’d send out a ground type like Sandslash or Graveler. It wouldn’t help them really, especially since this is a loose fight without stated rules so even if Missy couldn’t handle it Saoirce or Flicker could pick up the slack.

They aren’t smart, but they aren’t stupid enough to send a flying or water type in their cockyness. The opponent is a Ninetales. Arguably local to the area and no indication of its current power due to the fact it evolves with a stone rather then experience or even an attack.

“Natsume, Flamethrower!” The intention is clear, they want to surprise me with an instant death. I say nothing but instead shake my wrist. The bracelet jangles just audibly enough for Missy to know her own judgment is preferred, whatever that may be in this moment.

As the flames spew out of the large fox’s mouth straight at Missy, I still can’t tell the difference between “that’s a lot of hot air” and “Fourth degree burn incoming” so I can’t tell if having her jump out of the way will be required or a waste of energy. She, as a Pokemon from the wilds, has a better grasp on the flow of the magic needed for these attacks.

I can’t see what her choice is in the moment of truth, but when the flames go away, the stream cut off to avoid hitting me as I stood barely four feet behind her, I don’t see her. Merely a hole where she stood. The brat seems surprised but is quick to take on a prideful look. “Don’t touch the tails.” It took, quite honestly, far too long to be able to project my voice so easily across such a clearing. But such a skill is needed when you have no clue where your Pokemon is in a battle, when the fights are life or death and the attacks are roaring like storms and wildfires.

The brat is surprised once more and seems uneasy. ‘Word to the wise: Dig is a very useful TM for electric types.’ Missy finally pops out, across the field and right in place to grab the foreleg of the Ninetales. It yelps and the brat asks what happened only for it to rear back, yanking Missy out of the ground and preventing her from dragging it into the hole to snap its leg or at least twist its ankle.

“Natsume, flamethrower now!” I’ll give the kid one thing, they have good reaction time for these developments. If they weren’t so vicious I’d want to give them some proper advice on how to survive and protect their team. As it stands I can’t bring myself to care, or rather can’t allow myself to care. Regardless, Missy’s left cheek pouch goes from an occasionally sparking live-wire effect to producing bolts arching well past the length of the fox’s tails.

‘Natsume’ doesn’t even get the barest licks of fire out past their muzzle before Missy had unleashed enough electricity to likely rival an electric chair. The fox falls, the rodent brushes herself off, the brat drops to their knees, and I approach.

For so long I had dreamed of being in this world, knowing full well that a cartoon and game series directed at children would sugar coat it. I knew there would be horrors and turmoil, especially in this particular iteration of such a world. It doesn’t stop me from hating these kinds of fights, it doesn’t stop me from looking at the Ninetales, something that was always shown to be majestic but laid before me seemed ragged and feral, and making sure to check if it was alive.

It’s been made clear to me, a Pokemon that fights for another, whether to protect the weak under its care or as a soldier under its leaders guidance, that they would rather fight to the end of that battle than be given paltry mercy. But there is a catch, when the battle doesn’t need to end in death then they can loose without dying or being disgraced. Is it disgrace even? At least, is it by the standards that most humans and even I myself understand it?

“Oi,” I speak up to grab the kid’s attention, “Natsume isn’t dead. Either continue the fight or forfeit and run to town for treatment, ya got that?” The brat of course looks up with hatred. Shaking, crying, do they even understand that they caused this themselves? That they intended to do unto me what they thought I had done unto them? “You wanted a fight. You had Natsume use as much power as she could to attack Missy. You did not, in any way, imply that it was a spar.”

Spars are odd things in this world. It’s generally agreed that when fighting with preschoolers and other such young ‘trainer’s that it is a spar. Spars aren’t allowed in official competitions unless the competition is built around them, such as contests and battle tents that let you rent a Pokemon. In true fights you’re expected to either fight to the death or be able to act fast enough to save your own Pokemon’s life. Spars you’re expected to hold back enough to not kill, though accidents can always happen, and you can ask for a break to use items or swap out a Pokemon safely.

The kid slumps, seeming to understand that they had no right to feel attacked when they had challenged, when if the roles were reversed they’d have made sure their own Pokemon knew not to show the slightest bit of mercy.

“I… How much do I owe you?” A cultural part of this whole world that I still struggle with. Typically people will just give you half of their current savings as compensation, compensation for challenging someone who was ‘better’ or compensation for not being a good enough challenge. Sometimes it’s treated more like prize money, sometimes people treat it like a bet and set the money aside ahead of time. It’s thankfully not uncommon for someone to refuse but it is sadly seen as extremely disgraceful, at least in this country, to accept the money if you had lost outside of preestablished conditions.

It’s also not unheard of, though exceedingly rare and universally considered a ‘dick move’ to instead be paid in conditions or requirements. It’s one thing to have them established before hand, it’s another to make demands when the person is arguably defenseless and heartbroken. I haven’t cared for societal rules in so long.

“Look after your Pokemon with reasonable care, as in make sure they can live a content life,” already the kid is flinching at my demands, likely less what I’m asking of them and more that it’s not going to be a simple matter of maybe not eating for a week, “never demand a battle, but instead request and back off if someone is opposed to the idea,” the second command is arguably good practice for if the kid manages to stay at this well into adulthood, as once you reach a certain proficiency and or age you’re expected to ease off a bit, to not just slaughter the next generation, “and spar with me next week. We can hash out the exacts and it doesn’t have to be exactly seven days from now.”

The kid nods, recalls Natsume, and runs back to the nearest town. Or maybe they’re running to the next town on their travels? I honestly didn’t notice where they came from before they challenged me. Regardless, Missy climbs up to my shoulder, damaged cheek facing out to the world so it can spark out safely. The sparks don’t stop me from gently rubbing her cheek, by this point in our travels the tingles of electricity running down my arm feels comforting.

“So, do you think you’d rather deal with it or do ya want to shunt it off to Saoirce? Yes-you, No-Saoirce,” I mumble as I start heading off to our current ‘campsite’, a small nook where I dropped my stuff while we scavenged for food in hopes of avoiding a store-run.

“Chu.” A no, fair enough. I can’t tell if Missy just doesn’t want to deal with being burned, which fair enough, if she simply thinks Saoirce would find the spar fun, which also is fair, or if Missy is hoping the brat will realize who they challenged. If she’s hoping to see the dawning horror the kid will feel when, if they realize they challenged ‘Z-Sama’ and attempted to kill my starter.

There’s always a chance the kid would never realize. After all Pikachu do naturally occur in some areas in this country, it’s not impossible to get an Eevee to evolve into any of its variants, especially if your foolish enough to lie and order a pet-grade Eevee rather then a combat-grade one. Even if the kid sees Flicker, Charmander are one of the Pokemon in the Starter’s Initiative Breeding Program so it just means having connections or filling out a bunch of paper work.

Even my mask, one modeled after the Hisuian Zoroark and my ‘namesake’, paired with the exact injuries on my team wouldn’t be concrete proof. The masks have gotten more popular when people saw me challenge and hold my own in the league so quickly. The injuries are fairly common either as accidents in combat or shameful intentions so it’s not impossible for someone to either randomly end up with team members that match mine or, in the cases of people I’d want to personally gut and skin alive, purposefully injure, arguably cripple multiple Pokemon just to copy.

The idea of purposeful copycats is even more infuriating when one remembers that there’s a random chance that damaging a Pikachu’s cheek-pouch will leave it incapable of using electrical attacks of any kind ever again. That there is never a way to know how such an injury will play out, that there is no way to guarantee the true problem will be fixed with a transplant, that the sparks and static is less important for combat and more an integral part of their culture and communication.

#story snippet #one-shot #post-adventure isekai snippet #pokemon #nuzlocke #TW: mild gore #TW: death mention #childhood fantasies turned dark realities #yellow version timeline #sort of #if i write the story in full #you'd see how it differs and blends #pikachu #should i point out the other pokemon mentioned here or...?#mild vent piece

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leneemusing · 3 years ago

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extensive nonverbal memes

i wanted to make some more options, especially for muses who are quieter or nonverbal (whether permanent or selectively mute) . i added some basic sign language prompts as well.

[ contact ] one muse touches the other’s arm in a sympathetic gesture.

[ attention ] one muse puts their index finger underneath the other’s chin to hold their attention.

[ direct ] one muse holds the other’s jaws in their hand for their attention or to redirect their gaze.

[ tender ] one muse brushes their fingers over the other’s jaw.

[ bristle ] one muse plays with the others facial hair.

[ guard ] one muse puts their arm around the other’s shoulder to make them feel protected.

[ claim ] one muse puts their arm around the other’s waist in a possessive manner.

[ comfort ] one muse pulls the other to their chest to hug them after a dangerous moment.

[ seeking ] one muse embraces the other after feeling scared/upset.

[ check ] one muse takes the other’s hand to silently ask if they’re okay.

[ hold ] one muse cradles the other’s face between their hands ground them.

[ rest ] one muse comes and sits in the others lap.

[ intrude ] one muse walks in on the other while they’re treating their own wound.

[ tiles ] one muse finds the other sitting on the floor and joins them.

[ boop ] one muse playfully taps the tip of the other’s nose.

[ heal ] one muse kisses the other’s forehead after treating their injury.

[ two ] one muse holds the other’s shoulders with their hands to make them calm down.

[ clear ] for one muse to clean blood off the other.

[ prevent ] for one muse to wrap their arms around the other from behind to stop them from running towards danger.

[ away ] for one muse to pick up the other and take them to bed.

[ rescue ] for one muse to carry the other to safety because they’re injured.

[ heart ] one muse places their palm against the other’s chest in a soothing manner to indicate they aren’t alone.

[ insist ] one muse keeps a firm hold on the other and gives an expression to indicate they want them to open up/tell the truth.

[ pulse ] one muse rubs a finger over the other’s wrist.

[ direct ] one muse grips just above the elbow to guide the other while they walk.

[ wrinkle ] one muse curls their fingers into the other’s shirt to make them stay put.

[ subdue ] one muse places their hand on the other’s forearm to try and calm them so they don’t lash out at a third party.

[ parallel ] for both muses to lay on the floor beside each other but going opposite direction with their heads side by side.

[ reveal ] for one muse to take a hold of the other’s chin/jaw to stop them from hiding their tears.

[ inspect ] for one muse to take hold of the other’s face while inspecting a bruise or cut.

[ caress ] one muse kisses the other’s cheek as a gesture of gratitude.

[ keeper ] one muse watches over the other while they sleep with their head on their shoulder or in their lap.

[ coax ] one muse strokes the other’s hair until they fall asleep.

[ bear ] one muse lifts the other off their feet a little while they hug.

[ leap ] one muse jumps into the other’s arms, legs wrapped around their waist.

[ mirror ] one muse has the other hold a hand to their chest so they can mirror breathing to calm them down.

SIGN LANGUAGE

sign: are you okay?

sign: i’m fine.

sign: i can’t speak right now.

sign: i need help.

sign: leave me alone.

sign: please stay.

sign: what happened to you?

sign: let me help.

sign: don’t go.

sign: i love you.

sign: i hate you.

sign: who did this to you?

sign: why won’t you talk to me?

sign: i don’t know what to say.

sign: you’re upset. talk to me.

sign: i won’t leave you.

sign: i missed you.

sign: i need you.

sign: wait.

sign: what can i do?

sign: do you want me to stay?

sign: you can talk to me.

sign: you can trust me.

sign: you’re not alone.

sign: i feel so alone.

sign: you’re beautiful.

sign: i feel safer with you here.

sign: i want to make you feel safe.

sign: where are you going?

sign: i have to do this on my own.

sign: i don’t know how to ask for help.

sign: i don’t want to lose you.

sign: i’m afraid you’ll get hurt.

sign: you don’t have to worry about me.

sign: i’m worried about you.

#rp meme #rp starter #rp prompt #sentence starters #roleplay meme #if i do repeats from other memes #no i didnt

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tommyspeakycap · 4 years ago

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Hi :) I was wondering if you’d be open to writing something about Tommy and baby Shelby going to see Alfie. With season 5 Alfie trying to hide his scars because he thinks she’d be scared but she just cuddles into him. I get if this is weird or too specific😅

Protected

“Remember what we talked about eh?” Tommy says to his youngest sibling as he tugs open the door on her side of the car. (y/n) Shelby takes her brothers outstretched hand to help her jump down out of the car that was a little too high up for her to manage to climb out by herself. “Yes Tommy.” She responds, skipping off in front of him to the big heavy front door of the building they were going into. The little girl leans against the door to very little avail as it barely even budges until Tommy reaches the door too and pushes it open with one strong arm.

He steps very firmly in front of (y/n) in the lobby of the building to prevent her running off again, and crouches down to her height with both hands placed firmly on her small upper arms to hold her still. “You stay right next to me okay?” He repeats, “And stay quiet yeah? I’ll try and be as quick as i can.” (y/n) smiles in response, “And then we can go to the sweet shop?”

Tommy nods and gives his little sister a soft smile before he stands up straight and takes her hand tightly in his. His littlest sister is so fearless and unaware of the dangers of the life she was dropped into that it always gives Tommy a sense of relief in some ways. It was almost like a form of escapism. Bouncing between Polly, John, Arthur, Charlie, and Tommy had made her life very different from most, even from Tommy’s young son. It would be incredibly safe to say that it was a shock when Polly Gray had entered into the betting shop in Watery Lane holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket. They were all incredibly confused and very soon learned that Arthur Shelby Senior had shown up on the doorstep with another child he wasn’t interested in raising. She was an accidental one who’s mother died in childbirth and the deadbeat father had been gifted with yet another little life to let down.

Of course it became very important for Tommy that the baby girl did not experience the same kind of sheer let down that their father had given to all of them. He named sweet little (y/n) on that evening 6 and a half years ago. He felt like he was completely aimless and useless at that time. He had decided not to go after Grace and that lost love was weird for him after finally having it. Then that beautiful, quiet, warm and sweet little girl was placed into his arms and held tightly onto his finger and suddenly, his world and his love seemed to hold new meaning.

She was his muse, his greatest love and his favourite little sidekick.

“Tommy fuckin’ Shelby.” Alfie rumbles out, his back to the door as he faces out his balcony. “That’s a bad word, Tommy.” (y/n) chides in a whisper as she looks up cautiously at her elder brother. Tommy offers her small hand a gentle squeeze and nods his head, but promptly turns his head back to the man holding a gun at the window. “And you’ve brought your mini protégé, i see.”

Alfie turns half of his face, only his good half, to see the sweet little wave from the youngest Shelby sibling. “Alfie, this is my sister; (y/n).” Tommy introduces, hoping his willingness to divulge his sisters name would move Alfie away from the subject as quickly as possible so that they could talk about what he was really there to talk about and then he could take his sister and go quickly. He didn’t like her having to be involved in these things, he always feared it would bring her into the line of fire. “Mhm,” Alfie grumbles, “Last time i saw you, you was only about this big-” He gestures with his hand only a few feet off the floor, “Couldn’t speak much, either.” The Londoner adds, eyes slightly narrowed. The 6 year old tilts her head to the side.

“I can speak a lot now, Mister Solomons.” She says, somewhat proudly. The burly man laughs, not his usual sinister or mocking way. “I can see that.” He hums in response, eyes moving from the little girl to Tommy when he clears his throat heavily to draw attention back to him. “If we could, Alfie, I’d like to talk business.” Alfie nods his head in response, gesturing with his hand to the couch across the room. Tommy let’s go of his sisters hand to sit down on the couch, the little girl doing her best to climb up beside him with only a little help from her brother. Alfie sits on the chair across from them. Tommy knows there had to be significant damage to the side of the man’s face after the injury he sustained from the bullet fired out of Thomas’s gun. There was almost no way he escaped that unscathed.

“I’m going to kill a facist, Alfie. And i need some men.”

The words from Tommy prompt Alfie to rather abruptly turn his head, somewhat shocked by the words, but more shocked by the fact the 6 year old little girl was completely unbothered by the words her brother had spoken. The pre-school aged girl simply continues fiddling with the pocket watch Tommy gave to her. She looks to be dismantling it with a very distinctive focus that reminds Alfie she is a Shelby, and she might fully be aware of how to kill him already.

“A facist ey?” Alfie repeats, his eyebrows raised. “Politics got to you, Thomas?” Tommy rolls his eyes and lights a cigarette. “I need some men.” Tommy adds, making Alfie scoff. “Oh you do, do you? And you want mine?”

Tommy merely nods his head.

In his discussion with the head of the Peaky Blinders, Alfie had not forgotten the presence of the 6 year old on the couch, but it had fallen away from the forefront focus of his mind as he debated the thought of lending men to a Shelby’s cause. In doing so, he turned his head in thought and a little noise of awe left the youngest Shelby. Tommy and Alfie both direct their attention straight to her.

The little girl scoots herself off the couch and Tommy reaches for her arm, but just misses. She trods right up to the huge London gangster and tilts her head. “What happened?” She asks softly. Alfie shifts uncomfortably on the couch he sits on, running his finger absentmindedly over the scarring of his face. “Got shot.” Alfie responds, Tommy clears his throat heavily and almost awkwardly in knowing he was the one who had given Alfie Solomons his facial scarring. (y/n) tilts her little head in awe as she clambers up onto the couch next to him.

“Looks cool.” She mutters in awe.

Most look at him in some kind of shock or horror even. Some with sympathy thinking it had come from the war and some with fear knowing where it had really come from. But few with the kindness and curiosity of the 6 year old standing on his good couch.

“Does it hurt?” She asks quietly. Alfie shrugs.

“Depends.”

That’s when her little hand reaches forward to trace over the scarring with an almost feather light child’s touch as she stands there on the couch, her hands are cold and gentle over the markings that no one has touched since his last hospital appointment.

“Her mother’s daughter.”

Alfie flicks his eyes back over to a now standing Thomas as he reaches forward to lift his sister up into his arms where she sits on his hip with little furrowed eyebrows and a purse on her lips. Alfie’s residual aching cheekbone pain has faded to nearly non-existent for the first time he can soberly remember. He knows that Tommy knows this by the look in his eyes and the way in which he notes his prior statement before he gathered his sister.

“She’s sweet.” Alfie nods, standing to his feet. As softened as both men may be by the child in the room, Alfie does not like sitting as Tommy Shelby towers over him whether the man is an ally or not. “Polly says i get it from Tommy.” (y/n) chimes. Alfie raises his eyebrows with a grin that makes Tommy roll his eyes at the retired gangster. “Oh do you now?” Alfie hums, opening his mouth to speak again when Tommy cuts him off. “You go ahead to the car (y/n), eh? I’ll meet you down there in just a minute okay?”

The six year old nods and runs off the moment her feet hit the ground. Tommy turns to Alfie immediately.

“If you ever-“

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Mom.” Alfie rumbles, crossing his arms over his chest with a beaming grin. “Little miss Shelby has you whipped, mate. Tell me, what’s your favourite apron you wear at home eh Thomas?” He chuckles heartily, making Tommy glower in rage at his teasing. “I’m fucking serious, Alfie.” He growls. Alfie straightens up and stops laughing immediately.

His eyes narrow for a split second and he tilts his head, his eyes searching the depth of Tommy’s cerulean blues and immediately noticing the sheer panic and worry that lies deep within them, attempting to hide under brotherly protective instinct and rage at the prospect of harm falling on his little sister. Alfie inhales deeply. He would truly never dream of harming a child. It’s not in his nature, nor does it sit well with him. And though he had been quick to give the head of the Peaky Blinders a reality check in the past regarding the safety of his son, in the end he had no idea Charlie Shelby had been taken and he never would have arranged for that to happen.

Alfie nods his head and leans forward. “She’s special to you, yeah?” Tommy doesn’t know why Alfie asks. He’s sure it’s clearer than he wants it to be, but alas the Londoner asks anyway and Tommy doesn’t know exactly how to answer, so he simply makes a motion something akin to a nod though looks more like a twitch of his chin. “Mhm, I can tell. You can have the men. I’m sure you know the price.” Alfie turns away. Tommy doesn’t know what it was in Alfie’s eyes that reassured him more than words ever could that he wouldn’t lay harm on the 6 year old little girl who treated him with more respect and kindness in the ten minutes she spoke to him that anyone had in years. There was an element of brotherly protectiveness that Alfie felt only after knowing her a short time.

“And Tommy?”

“Yes, Alfie?” The Birmingham MP turns back as he leaves the doorway of Alfie’s sitting room.

“Anything ever happens to the kid, you fuckin’ let me know yeah?”

Tommy nods his head, the ghost of a smile somewhat on his face. His little sister is just about as protected as they come, and there was a distinct feeling of certainty that Alfie Solomons was there, lurking in the shadows of existence with a familial fondness of the little Shelby girl who carries the glow of an angel above her head that would ensure no men, from Birmingham or further afield would have to go through every Solomons and Shelby loyal man up and down the country before a hair on (y/n) Shelby’s head was messed. Tommy holds hope somewhere deep in his heart that his little sister will never have to see violence aimed at her, and that for as long as she lives she knows that she is instantaneously loved, dearly held in every heart and ferociously protected by some of Britain’s most dangerous men.

#tommy shelby x sister!reader #tommy shelby x sister reader #shelby sister reader #shelby!reader #baby!shelby #baby shelby #alfie solomons x baby!shelby #alfie solomons platonic #peaky blinders #peaky blinders blurb

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bajisbabe · 3 years ago

Text

# IT’S JUST A CIGARETTE

you need a cigarette but he won’t let you have one | Aki x Reader

warnings: smoking, kissing, Aki and the reader enemies if you squint, but the reader is eager to gain his recognition too, the reader is a lil’ naive, lil’ bit of a brat, lil’ bit of a crybaby, and sucks at smoking.

synopsis: Takes place during the mission in Chapter 15. Aki is your partner on said mission. While the others are away, patrolling the halls, you find that you need something to ease the stress, so you take one of his cigarettes. And he doesn’t like that.

song: none.

photo cred (left to right): 1 2 3

You and Aki have been paired up on a mission. Forced to chase down a devil that won’t stop running. And now, it has led you to a floor in which you’re trapped in some kind of labyrinth. And try as you might, you can’t seem to find an exit.

To make matters worse, you and Aki decided to stay behind while the rest of your unit patrolled the halls. Gradually, it began to feel like hours had passed and none of them had returned. Had you known it would take this long, you would’ve gone with them.

Of course, this situation is weighing heavy on your shoulders. It has been hours—or at least that’s what you think. You can’t be sure now that the clock has stopped. Aki has left the room momentarily to check the hallway, and you notice that he’s left his pack of cigarettes on the table.

So you casually stroll up to the pack and decide to take one, feeling no guilt as you doubt he’ll miss a single cigarette. You bring the cigarette to your lips, peering around to see if you can find what you need to light it. Unfortunately for you, he hadn’t left his lighter behind. And before you can find a lighter, Aki comes rushing in through the door.

And he is quick to ruin your attempt at finding some kind of relief.

“No.” He says, snatching the stick from your fingers and tossing it to the ground. He stomps on the tobacco with his foot, grinding it into pieces and staining the carpet below. “M’not letting you smoke that. It’ll rot your bones—”

“But you smoke it!” You whine, throwing your arms out in exasperation. You were stressed and needed something to take the edge off. Surely, a smoke wouldn’t hurt; even if it was your first. “You smoke all the time, and I—”

“I don’t care,” he cuts you off coldly, glaring at you from out of the corner of his eye. “If I say you’re not smoking, then you’re not smoking.”

You sit in silence for a moment, pouting some as you glance up at him from under your lashes. He has his back turned, looking out int the hallway to see if he can find your co-workers. You decide to take your chance then, reaching out for the pack of cigarettes and taking another.

Just as you’re about to put it between your lips, he grabs you by the wrist. His grip unyielding as he yanks you closer, “I said, you’re not smoking.” He grits out through bared teeth. “Why won’t you listen to me—?”

“You’re not my dad,” you say childishly. And before you can pull away, his grasp on you tightens to an extent that has your knees buckling. You crumple, hissing in pain as he works the stick from your fingers yet again.

“Don’t argue with me, stupid.” He spat, eyes blank as he took the cigarette from you. He pulls it to his lips, tugging a lighter out of his pocket and lighting the cigarette. He shows no remorse or guilt as you sit there, on the floor, rubbing your wrist as though the pain will go away.

He catches your eye for a brief second, causing you to look away. You despise him. You don’t want anything to do with him. He’s selfish, he’s crude, he’s mean, and he just overall doesn’t treat you very well.

You hate him.

But you have no other option as all the devil hunters have been paired up or assigned to someone else. You and him are a team now, you just wish you weren’t.

“M’supposed to be your partner,” you grumble under your breath. You don’t intend to cry, but you feel a lump forming in your throat and the backs of your eyes are burning. “Yet, you don’t even treat me like an equal.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette, parting his lips to let the smoke swirl and curl in the air before his eyes. And you’re envious. Tobacco must serve him well if he has a habit of smoking. It must make him feel good or something. You want to feel good too.

“I’ll treat you like an equal when you start acting like one,” he says, quietly and calmly. He always seems so nonchalant about things, never feeling strongly about anything unless it concerns his past or the Gun Devil specifically.

Your nose burns as the room begins to fill with lingering smoke and the scent of tobacco. You try not to make a disgusted expression; trying not to prove his point that you don’t need a cigarette. But you can’t help it as a frown appears on your lips.

He notices immediately, an eyebrow raising and a subtle tug of his lips. But it disappears before you can see it. He approaches you, steady and fast. His waist bent as he sank to your level, “Wanna smoke that bad, huh?”

The smell is enough to make you seriously regret your decision. You try to shake your head, or voice that you’ve changed your mind. But he is already grabbing you by the arm and tugging you to your feet.

“Don’t act shy now,” he says, the cigarette wiggling between his lips. One hand clutches your shoulder, the other working the lit cigarette out of his mouth. You pull back but he doesn’t let go, his fingers holding the cigarette and pressing it to your lips.

You jolt, attempting to push him away. He doesn’t budge, pressing harder until you relent. And you have a split second to note that the tip is damp with what you suspect is his saliva.

“Breathe in,” he says.

You turn away, trying to escape the sudden burning of your lungs. He shows no mercy, clutching your shoulder harder and practically shoving the cigarette into your mouth.

“Breathe in,” he repeats. “Do it now. Show me that you’re my equal.”

His equal. So, that’s what this is about. Your lungs burn as you inhale, taking too quick of a breath and doubling over as he removes the cigarette from your mouth. You cough and gag, spitting up as you try to rid of the taste it left behind.

He again shows no remorse or guilt. He simply takes another drag from the cigarette, seemingly uncaring that the same cigarette was just in your mouth. He taps the end of it against the table, letting the ash fall as he watches you cough and sputter.

“You wanna be treated like my equal, right?” He said, eyeing you from the side. He watches your eyes become glossy and wide as you finally catch your breath. Cruel and inconsiderate and he pushes on with the one-sided conversation. “Then take another drag, and don’t cough it all out this time.”

He holds his hand out, the cigarette balanced between his long fingers. His expression is blank as he waits patiently for you to make a move. You can feel your eyes burning just at the thought of having to take another drag. You don’t even want to entertain his cruelty, but you desperately want him to treat you fairly.

… should you…?

You gulp thickly, throat itchy as you slowly reach out. But before you can touch it, he pulls the cigarette away.

“Uh uh,” he says quietly, no emotion present in his voice. “...C’mere.”

You blink back tears of discomfort, still trying your damnedest not to choke over the remnants of smoke left behind from the first drag. You bite your lip, hesitating. But eventually you come to him. And he beckons you closer and closer until you two are only a breath away.

“Here,” he mumbles. “Do as I say, okay?”

You nod, your eyes on him the whole time. And he feels a strange shudder run down his spine. Something about the way you’re looking at him and how obedient you’re being. He likes it.

“Open your mouth”—you part your lips for him, and he gently places the cigarette on the curve of your lower lip—“Now breathe in. Slowly.”

He watches you take another drag, your chest trembling as you fight back the urge to cough. And you succeed in taking in the smoke. A small smile tugs at his lips as he instructs you again. “Hold it…” his eyes rack over your face, focused intently at every little twitch and jerk. “Now let it all out.”

You rush the exhale, coughing and sputtering again but not as much as before. You don’t notice the hint of admiration in his eyes as he looks at you. There’s something he likes about you—something he never noticed before.

He could’ve sworn he disliked you before. He always thought of you as lazy, ignorant, and overly passive. But something had changed in the last couple of seconds. He liked you.

“Have I”—the rasp of your voice draws his attention—“Have I proved myself yet?” Your eyes are watering, one squeezed shut as you gasp and swallow. Smoking clearly wasn’t for you. But you were desperate to please.

Maybe that’s what he liked. How you seeked recognition. Or maybe, how you fought so hard to prove yourself to him when he was no one special. You must respect him then, if you serve to please.

The corner of his lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. He couldn’t, not with you looking at him. So close, mere inches away from your lips brushing his. And you seemed unbothered by the lack of space between you two. He would take advantage of your naviety to social cues later, but now he had something else in mind.

“No,” he said.

“No?” You repeated, having to clear your throat after hearing how ghastly you sounded. “Whaddya mean ‘no?’”

“I mean, no.” He said, shrugging as he walked past you. Only one or two steps away before he turned to you, having to bite back a cruel grin. He liked toying with you like this. It was nice, and it took the stress of the situation away.

Maybe, he would do this more often. You could have his cigarettes in turn, and he could play with you instead. He wouldn’t need the sticks if he had you.

“One more.” He said quietly. “One more drag and I’ll consider you my equal.”

You stood in silence for a moment, unsure of whether or not to believe him. What little you knew of Aki hadn’t brought you to believe that he was a bad guy. He didn’t seem like the type to toy with others, not that you knew of. But you didn’t know much it seems. Foolishly agreeing with a curt nod of the head, “Okay.”

You tried to snatch the cigarette from his hand, far too confident in your ability to do as he asked. But like before, he dodged you. Eyes narrowing as he gestured you to come closer. His fingers curl as you follow his lead.

“This one’ll be different.” He said.

“What?” You muttered. “Well, that’s not fair. Why should this one be different if the other two were—”

“You wanna be my equal or not?”

That shut you up. With a huff, you glanced over at him, waiting for further instruction. His heart stuttered at the sight of your obedience. You were listening to him and without fuss. He found it intriguing.

“C’mere.” He said.

You wanted to argue, to say that you couldn’t get any closer considering you were already as close as could be. But you didn’t bother, knowing he would likely just shut you down and cut you off again.

You pressed closer, your bodies brushing against each other. And for a split second, you thought about how bad of an idea this was. The devil could show up at any moment and you would be unprepared if you kept messing around with Aki. Or even worse, Denji and the others could walk in and you’d never hear the end of it. But you found yourself justifying the action with the simple thought that you could win Aki over like this.

You and him would be a team for real this time. And he would treat you as an equal and you could work so well together. Wouldn’t that make all this worth it?

You decided that you were going to go through with it, no matter what he asked of you. But you hadn’t been expecting it honestly—what he said next.

“I’m gonna take a drag, and then feed it to you, okay?”

You froze, eyes blown wide and brows furrowing. What was this, some kind of joke? You choked, and not on the smoke this time. “Very funny,” you spat. Your defenses coming up quick, you didn’t even think twice before saying it. “I’m not doing that—”

“Don’t you wanna be my equal?”

You stammer and stutter, unsure of what to say as he takes a drag from the cigarette, closing the space between you both quickly. You put your hands up as though to push him away. But you freeze again, body stiff as he grabs you by the jaw. He tilts your chin, working his tongue into your mouth with ease.

And you find yourself clutching onto his arms, as he tugs you closer. The smoke swirling out of the spaces where your lips don’t quite meet. Your lungs burn and your eyes itch, but you don’t pull away. Whether because of your eagerness to please or because of how good his tongue feels against your own, you don’t know.

But when he pulls away, your head is hazy and it’s hard to breathe.

“Breathe,” he reminds you, his large hand placed on the space just below the base of your neck. “Come on. Breathe.”

And you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You can feel the blood rush to your head, your face heating up. Why had you done that, why had you followed him so mindlessly?

What were you thinking? What if he told someone, or if someone found out? Would you be fired? He’s your mission partner, you can’t just—

“So? Now that you’re my equal,” He says suddenly, causing you to flinch. He raises a brow before continuing without much care. “Did that ease your stress or do you need another smoke?”

#chainsaw man x reader #aki hayakawa x reader #hayakawa aki x reader #chainsaw man imagines #aki drabble #csm x reader #csm drabble #csm x you #cw smoking #cw kissing #csm x y/n #csm headcanons #chainsaw man headcannons #aki headcanons

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amistytown · 4 years ago

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The Brothers Comfort MC During a Panic Attack

This is my first attempt at writing down my headcanons for the brothers, so I apologize if anything is out of character. I meant it to be short and sweet, but it grew out of my control after a while. I’m a perfectionist and wanted to rewrite everything. I made minor edits and am posting it anyway or it’ll sit in my drafts forever; I admit I put the most effort into Lucifer’s, forgive me. Also sorry for the repetitiveness and any typos you may find. I decided to write how the brothers would comfort MC during a panic attack, especially as someone who suffers from anxiety and panic attacks themselves. Honestly, I wrote this as a way to comfort myself since I’ve been dealing with terrible anxiety lately. Of course, everyone experiences anxiety differently, so I can only speak from my own experiences. I didn’t go into detail when it comes to the symptoms themselves because it’s from the point of view of the brothers and only so many are visible to the eye. Trigger warning for depictions of anxiety and panic attacks. Thank you for reading!

LUCIFER

Lucifer is troubled. Following lunch, you disappeared, currently absent from class. This is unlike you, his worry intensifying every minute you’re out of his sight. Yet he maintains his composure, resigning himself to scouring the academy grounds. Time passes at a torturous pace, his thoughts beginning to take a turn for the worst. He contemplates whether to involve his brothers and Lord Diavolo himself at this rate, however the sound of his D.D.D diverts his attention. A wave of relief washes over him at the sight of your name lighting up his screen, chased by frustration at you, your silence, and himself for losing track of you so easily; he couldn’t bear living if anything happened to you under his watch. He expects this behavior from his brothers, not you. Though his heart sinks, the Avatar of Pride uncharacteristically overcome with guilt while he reads your message. Of course, you are not his brothers. He should not have doubted you.

Your texts are apprehensive, a weighty pause between them as you hesitate to lay bare the darkest depths of your soul. He approaches you cautiously, to avoid upsetting you further. Your words alone convey the sheer panic taking possession of you, the last of your strength used to press send. Outside he discovers you, huddled miserably in an isolated corner of the building, swathed in shadow. The desire to shelter you from the world burns within him, but your eyes widen fearfully in his presence, wounding his pride. Immediately, you apologize. Sorry you’re missing class, that you left without telling anyone, and upset him—especially when you’re aware of his busy schedule. You’re sorry for not having the courage to pull yourself together, succumbing to your anxiety, your shame palpable. The hand clutching your D.D.D is trembling, your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe. He aches for you, each tear shed hurting more than the last, your pain managing to touch the very core of his being and set him alight.

If anyone is sorry, it’s him, pride be damned. Kneeling in front of you, he assures you an apology isn’t necessary—your wellbeing of great importance to him. He wants you to rely on him, grateful you confided in him despite your doubts. Hopefully, he can eventually put your mind at ease. His voice low, soothing, he continues to console you, making sure you’re aware he’s not upset, and your feelings are valid. Although he’s not familiar with the inner workings of anxiety itself, he’s willing to listen, learning how to support you to the best of his ability—starting today, providing you’re comfortable accepting his offer. Initially, he prioritized your safety for the sake of the exchange program and Lord Diavolo’s wish to unite the three realms, now it’s merely out of adoration for you, his beloved. Once you’re ready, he’ll let you know you’re not alone. He’s never too busy on your behalf.

Offering you his hand, a smile graces his features as you accept. Slowly, he helps you to your feet, steadying you against him. He notes the way you relax at his touch, shoulders sagging and head coming to rest on his chest. Only you exist in this moment, his gaze not leaving you, not even for a second. Standing in silence until your breathing settles and you regain your balance, he sees you through the height of your attack before escorting you back to the House of Lamentation. He’ll personally excuse you from the remainder of your classes, understanding you need a quiet place to recover. Classical music plays softly in the background of his room, and he’s content to have you in his embrace, drawing you onto his lap after you finish the tea he brewed to calm your nerves. Lucifer pays you special attention, massaging your tired body and kissing you tenderly, his breath fanning across your lips as he reminds you how special you truly are—brave, compassionate, and incredibly loved.

MAMMON

Mammon mourns his loss, wondering how he let them gain the upper hand; admittedly, a foolish mistake on his part. He dreads breaking the news to Lucifer, and the resentment that shows on his brothers’ faces once he confesses does little to ease his mind. Still, he worries about your reaction most of all, knowing his stupidity has put you in a precarious position. In that moment he believes their words—only a greedy scumbag like himself dares to place his human’s happiness on the line. Although certain of his win at the time, he should consider how his actions affect you more often; otherwise, how can he claim he’s the Great Mammon? His confidence is his downfall in the end. Now you’ll suffer along with him. Yet you feign optimism, attempting to soothe everything over despite your innocence. His guilt only grows, a heavy weight on his shoulders. One he deserves.

Three days of waiting on and performing for large crowds at The Fall proves hectic for everyone. He can tell you’re struggling beneath the façade of a composed and hospitable server, going above and beyond to ensure the patrons leave satisfied. Furthermore, you lend him and his brothers a hand, coming to their rescue; it should be him making it as easy on you as possible. His concern for you runs deep, no matter how hard he tries to maintain his usual air of indifference, but you have the nerve to reassure him—it’s meant to be the opposite, dammit. Each night he goes out of his way to check on you, frustrated that you continue to dance around the subject. He can see the exhaustion on your face, hear the slight tremor in your voice, the toll his stupid decision is taking on you, and it stung. You comfort him, even when he’s undeserving, so why won’t you allow him to hold you and kiss the pain away? Not that he’s asked. You should realize by now you can rely on him, right?

Watching you suffer in silence tortures him. He can’t deny it regardless of his best effort to make light of the situation. You barely eat or spend time outside your room, saying you’re tired, which isn’t a lie—working is exhausting, no doubt about it—but he understands you well enough to notice the subtle signs of your anxiety, your smile unable to trick him into believing otherwise. Perhaps you find him as insufferable as his brothers do, or worse, and don’t want to see his face after what he’s done. That doesn’t stop him from showing up at your door, hoping he can offer some form of comfort. However, you keep up appearances, supporting the seven of them during the longest weekend of their lives. You work hard too, his chest swelling with pride as he watches you care for his brothers and customers alike. How can you like an idiot like him? You’re selfless and loving, looking past his flaws to see what lay beneath his sin. His human. His angel. He wants—no needs—you to be okay.

The last day comes and goes in a blur. Finally, he can toss these ridiculous clothes and rabbit ears in the trash and never perform that dance again. Better yet, you’re free of his burden, though the guilt remains. He can’t relax until he’s positive you’re okay, knowing he’s genuinely sorry. Standing outside your room, he tries to muster up the courage to open his heart to you—apologies not his strong suit—when he hears you crying. They’re small, muffled sobs that manage to shake him to his core, blood running cold. Yeah, he should knock, but he can’t control himself, throwing the door open without hesitation and rushing to your side. The sight of your tears is almost too much to bear, and he draws you into his embrace, face heating up at his own moment of vulnerability, but this is about you, not him. He can be strong for you too, telling you everything’s going to be okay, that the Great Mammon is here to help.

After his stupidity, you tell him you were afraid to bother him? He can hardly suppress the shock at your confession, the sadness in your eyes breaking his heart. You wanted to make sure it went smoothly for his sake? You suffer through Hell alone because you chose to put his feelings first? Crazy. Though he thanks you, not completely ashamed to admit he’s touched. However, he tells you that you don’t have to put aside your feelings for his benefit; he prefers to be by your side then know you’re having a rough time on your own. He is your first. Taking the initiative, he asks what he can do to make it up to you, no matter how big or small the request is because he’ll do it in a heartbeat. You opt to stay in his arms, burying your face into his chest, and he wipes away your remaining tears, being as gentle as he possibly can. He can feel how tense your body is, your skin unnaturally warm, and it takes a while until you stop shaking. It’s moments like these he’ll tell you how much you mean to him—that he loves you, okay—and he wants you to come to him for everything. He’ll hold you, taking your hand in his, and kiss you with all the adoration in the world because you’re incredibly important to him. Mammon can attest to that.

LEVIATHAN

Leviathan invites you to his room to play video games, a daily routine the two of you have comfortably fallen into. He loves gaming with you, though on occasion you opt to watch instead, thoroughly enthralled by whatever is on the screen. Miraculously, you enjoy listening to him ramble—whether it’s about the game he’s playing, anime he’s watching, or TSL among other things—genuinely showing interest in his passions; he’s incapable of expressing how truly grateful he is for your company. His heart nearly bursts whenever you compliment him on his gaming prowess, encourage him during a particularly intense battle, or merely tell him how you enjoy hanging out. How in the Devildom did a gross otaku like him get so incredibly lucky? He can hardly believe you love him of all demons. The thought alone sounds crazy lmao.

Unable to contain his excitement, he awaits your arrival that night, ensuring everything is perfect when he hears a knock on the door. However, his smile fades the moment he lays eyes on you, mind beginning to race as he wonders why you look miserable, your gaze trained on your hands. Before he can speak, you apologize, dissolving into tears while you return the game he let you borrow. You’re stuttering, completely winded, and he can barely hear you confess to accidentally corrupting his data in your panic. In fact, he loses track of the number of times you choke out a sorry. He treasures his games, his collection extensive, but he cherishes you most of all. The loss is a minor annoyance, nothing that lessens the feelings he harbors for you. Although difficult, he overcomes his insecurities to show you it’s okay—you’re loved.

Not only are you sad, but you’re also terrified, a part of him wanting to destroy the game itself if it means you never have to experience the pain that torments you now. Regarding you carefully, afraid to make matters worse, he reassures you that he’s not upset—far from it, honestly—and that he cares about you more than any game. No stranger to your panic attacks, he reaches out to take your hand in his, hoping you find comfort in what he has to offer. And when you finally glance up, hope shining in your tear-filled eyes, he can’t help but wrap you in his arms. A warmth spreads across his face, heart pounding in his ears, but he knows you need him, allowing his body to relax around yours.

Holding you against him, he tells you everything’s all right, stuttering out how he loves you and, most importantly, wants to you to feel better. Your arms circle around his waist, causing his heart to jump into his throat, but he only pulls you closer. You’re his Henry, and what friend is he if you can’t rely on him? Leviathan is understanding, wanting you to come to him for support at your most vulnerable. Now he puts his knowledge to the test, easing you into his room with continuous words of affirmation. You always know how to console him at his lowest, and he hopes he can return the favor. If anyone deserves to feel loved it’s you, who brought joy into his otherwise bleak world, and he’ll sit with you every day and night if you need him to.

SATAN

Satan knows he shouldn’t be awake, though he finds it difficult to satiate his curiosity as he peruses the books lining his shelves. He barely registers the sound of his D.D.D, reluctant to put the book aside to see who’s messaging him at this ungodly hour; Asmodeus most likely. His tune changes after he sees your name lighting up his screen, his annoyance replaced with worry. He knows you struggle, especially at night, but he can tell you’re hesitant to reach out. Nevertheless, you gradually begin to confide in him, his patience limitless if you’re concerned, and he feels a sense of relief that you choose to trust him at your most vulnerable instead of suffering on your own. Pouring over every book he can locate on anxiety, he studies it religiously, engraining each page into his memory. Not by giving unsolicited advice—he doesn’t want to make that mistake twice—but by comforting you the best he can, even if it simply means to stay by your side, waiting for the panic to pass.

A second later, he appears at your door, gaze softening as your eyes meet. In the darkness of your room, he can tell how exhausted you are. You apologize for bothering him, particularly this late, but he dismisses you with a shake of his head and a reassuring smile, sitting beside you on the bed. It saddens him that you feel the need to, but he’s familiar enough with anxiety by now that he understands how much of a manipulative monster it truly is; if only he can destroy it with his own two hands, strangling the life out of it so it no longer taints that innocent soul of yours. To watch you struggle fills him with a rage that he forces deep within himself, fully aware anger isn’t the answer no matter how great his desire to protect you is. So, he cups your face in his hands, your skin warm beneath his fingers as he strokes your flushed cheeks and presses your foreheads together.

Focus on him, he tells you, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his voice while he whispers words of love and encouragement. He never tires of letting you know how beautiful and strong you are, that he’s always here for you and loves you—all of you. You unravel in his arms, opening your heart up to him, and he listens intently, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips the moment you look uncertain. You’re not a burden he promises, hoping one day you’ll believe it yourself, but he’ll remind you every chance he gets; forever if he must. It’s worth it in the end, when you relax against him and smile, kissing him in return. Slowly, the anxiety leaves your body, Satan thankful that the waves of panic have receded enough to let you rest your weary mind. He remains next to you, pulling you down to lay your head on his chest and closing your hand in his, entwining your fingers. He’s content here with you, watching you fall asleep and chasing away the nightmares.

ASMODEUS

Asmodeus loves shopping, but he loves shopping with you most of all. The day is bright with you by his side, and he can’t help but buy you clothes and matching accessories to bring out your inherent charm. Your potential is endless, and he gushes over how gorgeous you are, unable to contain his excitement when your cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink in return. He can hardly control himself around you, gaze fixated on your every movement and heart racing each time you flash him one of the sweetest smiles he’s ever seen; your very soul seeming to shine through and blind him. Nothing prepares him for the love he feels for you, but he considers it a welcome surprise, his desire to grow closer to you intensifying day after day. You captivate him, the Avatar of Lust of all demons. What an exciting turn of events!

Of course, he attracts attention wherever he goes, posing for pictures with adoring fans and basking in the compliments constantly thrown his way; nothing new, but he enjoys it, nonetheless. Who can resist the allure of his very presence? However, anger wells within him at the sight of you being shoved to the side, falling to the ground and lost to the crowd that has gathered. Their words of flattery fall on deaf ears as he rushes to you, throwing a heated glance at the lowly demon who dares to touch his darling human. He desires nothing more than to punish them for such an injustice, but the fear in your eyes tells him otherwise. By the time he scoops you up into his arms you’re trembling from head to toe, and he can feel your heart pounding against him. A part of him places the blame on himself, an unfamiliar feeling, but he chooses to ignore it for now, focusing on getting you home in your worsening state.

In the peace and quiet of his room, he sits you on the bed, wrapping you in his arms as he affectionately runs his fingers through your hair. He can tell you’re upset—in an absolute state of panic by the looks of it—and all he can do is hold you through it, quietly asking what you need and willing to answer your every beck and call if it means that adorable smile graces your features once more. For a moment he considers seeking out Lucifer, worried something has gone terribly wrong, but thankfully you find your voice, mumbling into his chest about anxiety and panic attacks, that you’ll be fine—eventually—and are sorry for ruining your date. He doesn’t understand completely, though he knows you need him, promising to stay by your side for as long as you want. Kissing your cheek, he assures you there’s no need to apologize to him, your safety more important than anything else; the demon who laid his hands on you won’t go without punishment either.

Admitting a bath helps calm you down, he prepares one for you, steam rising from the surface and the heady scent of roses filling the air. Together you slip into the water, enveloped by its warmth, and he hums in contentment as you lean into him, his arms coming to rest around your waist. He watches you carefully, making sure you’re able to relax and preparing himself in case you call on him; he’ll do anything for you if it brings you the happiness you deserve. Your eyes flutter close, Asmodeus showering you with delicate kisses, comforted by the fact your breathing has levelled out and you appear a lot calmer than before. The day didn’t go as planned, and he hopes to make it up to you, vowing that no one else will hurt you on his watch. He loves himself. He loves his brothers. But loves you most of all.

BEELZEBUB

Beelzebub notices you haven’t touched your dinner and is beyond happy the moment you offer your plate to him. Yet he can’t bring himself to enjoy the food in front of him while you excuse yourself from the table, eyes downcast and voice quiet, the usual smile gone from your face and leaving behind an emptiness that rivals his own hunger. His mouth waters at the thought of seconds, but his concern for you grows, and he decides to follow you without question, disregarding the ravenous growl of his stomach. He catches you in the hallway, calling out your name. You turn to him, his brow furrowing in unease at the sight of your tears and the slight tremble of your lip. It hurts him to see you in obvious distress, and he earnestly offers his support.

The only sound is that of your sobbing. He desperately wishes to hold you tightly and rid you of your pain. However, he falters, studying you. Your gaze is trained on the floor, shoulders stiff with tension, and the color drains from your cheeks. When you speak, he’s surprised by how helpless you sound and the fact you’re trying to reassure him, putting his needs above your own although you’re struggling to hold yourself together. Fear flickers across your features at the echo of the brothers’ voices travelling up the stairs, and he mumbles out an apology as he carefully lifts you into his arms, cradling you to his chest.

Before the others can round the corner, he hurries down the hall and slips into your room, determined to protect his vulnerable human. He notices you relax against him, your fingers curling into his shirt, and he can’t help but want to keep you close, relieved after you lean in closer to wrap your arms around his neck. Stroking your hair, he allows you to cry, his patience and love for you endless. Eventually, you mutter an embarrassed sorry, thanking him profusely, but he’s merely relieved you’re beginning to feel a bit better, reassuring you that you can always depend on him.

Listening to you intently, he never breaks eye contact. You open up to him about your anxiety, his stomach twisting as you describe what you call a panic attack and how it wrecks you both mentally and physically. Beelzebub knows he has a lot to learn, but he expresses interest in understanding anxiety and, most importantly, how he can help you, so you don’t suffer alone. For the rest of the night, he keeps you company and eases you through the remainder of your attack, giving you plenty of hugs and rubbing your back in soothing circles until you no longer shake, and your heartbeat returns to its usual pace.

BELPHEGOR

Belphegor enjoys the time you spend together, especially when the two of you are alone. He asks you to accompany him in the attic, and it’s not long before he curls around you, falling into a peaceful sleep as he listens to the steady beat of your heart. However, when he awakes it’s to the sound of your soft cries in the dark, which fill him with a fear he can’t seem to shake. Without hesitation he’s at your side, sitting up to softly place a hand on your shoulder and ask you what’s wrong. The sadness in your eyes as you glance up at him, tears staining your cheeks, tugs at his heartstrings. He can’t bear to see you upset.

Once he realizes you’re having a panic attack, he’s attentive to your needs, cradling you in his arms as you cry into his chest. You confided in him about your struggles with anxiety after you fell to pieces in front of him months ago. A part of him understands, the loss of Lilith haunting him throughout the years and instilling a similar feeling of unease within him, especially when his nightmares seem to blur the line between reality and the painful memories of his past. You always came to his rescue and now it’s his turn to comfort you in your time of need. Sleep can wait.

With you in his embrace, he brings you down to relax against the pillows, pulling the blanket around your shivering form. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he gently brushes the remaining tears from your face, whispering words of love and reassurance. He listens to you when you’re comfortable to talk, the slight tremble of your voice causing him to draw you closer and press a kiss to your forehead. Belphegor tells you he’s here for you—forever—and although he’s still learning about anxiety and finding the best ways to comfort you during an attack, he wants you to depend on him no matter what. Even if that means you wake him up in the middle of the night. He won’t rest until he knows you’re okay, and you’re peacefully sleeping in his arms.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me mc #obey me reader #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me scenarios #my writing

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harfanfare · 4 years ago

Text

How to win a heart of Floyd Leech?

a/n: Someone requested this; ask got deleted by accident! Hope you will like it, Anon!

Warning!

Once you start walking through the specific points of the guide, your life will be exposed to the presence of Floyd Leech. Interrupting the action at one of the stages may cause many problems; F. Leech categorizes stopping as "boring", which puts the user of this guide in great danger.

The only way out is to get to the very end. Or not to start at all.

You act at your own risk.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‏‏‎

1. Be an easy new target.

To one’s surprise, it is much harder not to catch his attention.

You can easily become another entertaining target of Floyd, mostly by doing silly things or him just considering them as ones.

And to automatically get labelled as “silly”, you just need to fall into one of his traps—he prepares them for someone else, maybe for goldfish, maybe for another person given a sea-inspired nickname, expecting to enjoy watching how familiar face twitches with terror as he jumps into the scene and tightly embraces passing student.

But no. You were the one who showed up in the wrong place and time as Floyd jumped out from his hideout, scaring you half to death. With a strangled yelp, you sharply backed away. After gaining a slight flush on your cheeks, you recognised who you just bumped into and quietly gasped.

However, he was much more bewildered than you were.

He had never encountered somebody who wouldn’t just freeze under his touch. Jumping away, gasping, muttering half-hearted apologies and flushing? That’s new.

That’s also entertaining.

Even after your quickly disappearance from the scene, his gaze somehow inexplicably started returning to you.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

2. Visit Mostro Lounge often.

“We’re looking for someone who would like to work part-time for Azul~” Floyd said, sliding poster across the table. He popped up in front of you unannounced, having your thoughts return to dark reality.

“Oh,” you replied quietly, packing your things faster. “Good luck with it.”

You got up from your seat, but the thought of letting you go just like that didn’t even cross Floyd’s mind.

“Ehh? Shrimpy, aren’t you going to try?” he asked, frowning. You winced a little at the nickname he called you, not sure how to feel about it. “You know, you won’t work there for free.”

Azul will grant your wish.

You fidgeted a little, questioning your response. You heard—who didn’t?—rumours that Octavinelle leader could fulfil any request for a certain price. Ones were working for it, others were paying, and lasts were trading their request with Azul’s one.

The thought of having anything just by working in some café made you consider the offer again—this time quickier.

“I will go,” you decided.

“Hooray!” Floyd smiled cheerfully, just as if he won some grand prize in the lottery. “But what could Shrimpy possibly wish for, to change your response so drastically~?” he wondered but didn’t get any answer in return.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

3. Be honest.

“Shrimpy...”

You passed Floyd, without sparing him a look. Anyone who has known you for a while would notice that your movements were a bit stiff and creaky.

Once you heard Floyd’s voice, a wave of tiredness struck you as if you didn’t get any sleep last night after working your shift in Mostro Lounge.

There were so many people to serve, so many things to do... and yet, you couldn’t help with anything, still not knowing how everything works, messing up with orders and breaking some plates in process.

Floyd buzzing around you, asking you some random questions (“Shrimpy, have you done it before?”). You answered them quickly, but each of them bumped you out of rhythm, making you forget what you were doing. It also didn’t help that Floyd certainly liked you being disoriented, replying with a shrug and grin on his face at your thundering glances.

So now, after gaining a little trauma from working in Octavinelle’s café, all you could do is ignore Floyd’s presence, silently accusing him of your infamous fiasco.

“Hey, Shrimpy!” he called you again, catching you up. “Are you mad?”

“I am not mad,” you snapped and took an unstable breath. “Look, I just started working, and on my first day I made already so many mistakes—”

“Yeah,” he replied indifferently. “And what with that?”

“...I couldn’t even correctly serve drinks—”

“Oh, stop!” Floyd muffled your mouth with his hand, an annoying look on his face. “I know where it is going. And no, you can’t quit a job, after all my efforts to get you there. It will get boring again!”

“But—”

“Stop, stop, stop,” he corrected his hand on your mouth, now not letting even a sound get through his fingers. “Azul knows that you tried your best. And for these plates you broke, he already added them to your paycheck. You need to practice! Not to give up, Shrimpy!”

You looked up at him, quite stunned by these words. Perhaps he quoted someone from the book or heard someone talking like that...

But it was encouraging. In some way, considering that you couldn’t protest, having your mouth covered. But still, it was encouraging.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

4. Take classes together.

You can have the power of controlling Floyd’s behaviour, making other students’ life easier. Or you two can be a walking disaster.

Turning alchemy lesson into putting random ingredients into a boiler and praying that the mysterious mixture won’t explode.

History classes started being a regular pinching ritual to keep yourself from falling asleep (you are being pinched more, even when you don’t feel sleepy).

In contrast, flying lessons are peaceful. Nor Jade, nor Floyd, nor Azul are fond of these classes. Floyd is much eager to stand both feet on the ground, watching you practice or having you sulking next to him about heights.

However, if you are a calm, shy, or tranquil person, exchanging little notes or drawings will be a little habit of yours. Handing them discreetly under the eye of sir Crewel is quite a challenge, but it also gives satisfaction once the note was given.

Floyd throws away most of your paper conversations, but the ones he really likes, he cherishes them by keeping them with him, stuffed in his pockets. He will be irritated if anyone would like to see what you two were writing about, even if the talk was about new strawberries delivery for the new recipe.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

5. Being ticklish or not.

There are two possible scenarios, whether his new, lovely target is ticklish or not.

If is: prepare for being touched a lot. Observing how you quiver with surprise, when he lightly—he especially makes his touch less fierce, knowing very well that tickling isn’t violent—wraps his hands around your waist, making you hold your breath.

He would tickle you a lot, very often making you cry out of laugh and pain that follows sharp writhing and fidgeting, but never that much, to seriously upset you. That’s some luck in such unlucky situation.

If not: he will try to find other weak point. Or will try to make you ticklish—his hands are particularly cold and pressing them to your warm skin, might make you give him a reaction he would enjoy.

Albeit, if you also won’t return any expression even then, he will seriously search for some other weakness. Slightly biting an ear lobe, whispering next to your ear or anything that could make his smile appear, once he made you put him somewhere between “I despise you with each and every cell” and abstract mumbling with the heat on your checks.

Oh, he loves your reactions so much.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

6. Learn all nicknames he gave other people (you will unlock an option to slightly dish other people).

“Oh Lord...” you muttered to yourself, as your gaze followed scribbled list of names that Jade just passed to you. He willingly connected all student’s names with pseudonyms Floyd gave other people and handed the roaster over to you once you helped him with some kitchen cleaning.

“There are so many, right?” Jade replied with a polite smile on his face. “I’m sure you already memorised some of them, being around Floyd that much.”

You nodded mindlessly as you tried to get names into your head. You mouthed them soundlessly one by one, motivated to learn them by the end of the week.

The chuckle that escaped Jade’s lips startled you, and you realised that he still was in the room. Or that you didn’t leave the Lounge even after your shift has already ended.

“My brother surely didn’t exaggerate anything about you,” he said, his tone a bit more buoyant than ever, although you couldn’t be sure as the thick air of mystery still echoed in his voice. “I wonder how it will finally end?”

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

7. Always share your takoyaki with him.

“What are you hiding, Shrimpy?”

You shuddered at a voice that you did not want to hear at this moment, not for all the world. Unless that the world included a chest filled with takoyaki, which you could give to certain somebody.

You felt that instead of a shashlik of tasty balls, you were holding a knife in your hands, a veritable proof of a crime you had committed. It weighed heavily in your grip, and Floyd's approaching footsteps did not make your situation any better.

It was a time to hide the evidence.

You pushed as much as you could into your mouth and swallowed a few balls without even gnawing them much. You almost choked on them.

“Me? I?” you asked innocently. You sincerely hoped that no sauce or a stray piece of cake was left on your face. “What could I possibly hide?”

"Hmm, hmm~," he drew closer, and you needed all your will gathered, to make yourself stay where you were. Even without looking in the mirror, you knew you were all pale on the face. “With my little eye, I spy something...”

His gaze went down, just to your hands, which you tried to hide behind your back.

Not giving him a clear look at your palms or wooden stick, you turned around on the heel and run with all your might. Your muscles felt somehow stiff as if they also didn’t see a chance to win this race.

Now Floyd was sure you are hiding something, and there is no chance he’ll let it go.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

8. Watch him at his basketball practice.

81:30 for the blue team!

“Floyd once again started playing wild,” Ace breathed with clear regret in his voice. He glanced your way, frowning at you. “It’s your fault. Please come at practices when Floyd is in my team, not otherwise.”

You laughed awkwardly as he walked away.

A moment later, Floyd reached for a bottle with water and a towel you bravely guarded through the whole practice. He smiled wholeheartedly, happy with the win, water, and your presence.

“How did you like the game?” he asked once he changed from PE clothes and you two started heading towards Octavinelle.

“It was really fun!” you admitted, a speck of amusement appeared in Floyd’s eyes. “The red team didn’t have much time to capture a ball before you got hold of it again.”

“Hehe~ I’m glad you liked it,” he said. “I really like to play basketball, even more than ever, when I know that you are watching! That’s why,” he added, sincerity well-heard in his voice, “you need to come even more often!”

You nodded happily.

You just couldn’t mind it, all that accompanying him.

It was... fun.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

9. Dance, dance, dance!

Heels tapped on the floor and the sound of these steps would probably have spread through the room, if not for the jazz music pounding through Mostro Lounge’s speakers.

Floyd pulled you closer, letting a playful smile on his lips stretch even more. You couldn’t help but smile back, before gasping as he spun you around your axis. You lost balance and would fall if not steady grip around your waist, as Floyd leaned on closer to you, making you bend on one leg more and entirely rely on his touch.

Last notes of melody faded, and you still were in that pose, facing each other. With each second, Floyd’s face was changing from some form of amazement to amusement, finally letting you properly stand.

“Ha... When did you learn to dance so smoothly?” you asked smiling in wonder.

“Hehe~ With legs you can dance a lot more than in the sea,” he answered. “On land, it’s super fun~”

You nodded at his words.

Floyd was a wonderful dancer.

But you can’t be sure if being a good dancing partner is the only thing that made you feel all warm and fuzzy because butterflies still didn’t leave your stomach.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

10. “Let’s do something fun!”

“Here is your paycheck,” Azul handed you a white envelope, sealed with a stamp with the Octavinelle logo. “And you, [Name], was also working for some request, right?”

You nodded as you stared at the envelope.

Somehow, knowing how stupid the lingering thought in your mind was, you couldn’t bear to look up. If you would, your gaze would probably ignore all the elegant furniture of the room, even the owner of the room, Azul, just to settle on Floyd.

If you saw anything more than his shoes, that stupid thought would make their way outside, turning plans into action.

And Floyd unknowingly did everything to make them come true.

“Shrimpy,” he cupped your face with his hands, judging by his voice he seemed quite... worried? When he made you look in his olive and gold eyes, you started holding your breath. “Are you okay?”

With that question, your strong will to wish for something expensive or practical was broken.

You started fidgeting more, not knowing how to express your thoughts in words. “I think I have a request... a question for Floyd, rather than for you, Azul...”

Azul nodded at first uncertain and the room has fallen into silence once again until you spoke.

“Well, Floyd,” you turned to him, trying your best not to wander your gaze away from him, “Please, take your time with answering, but I want your response to be, uh, honest.”

You were tripping onto your own words, embarrassment soaring in your body as you started to think that you should’ve kept quiet. But Floyd was patient with your answer, as well as Jade and Azul who observed the situation as if they predicted it before.

“I mean- Okay, just answer the question.” You took an erratic breath. “Would you like to—”

“Sure!” Floyd interrupted you before even hearing the whole question. “I would like to do everything with you.”

You stood there, all confused. But, by Floyd’s expression you knew that he guessed what you wanted to say. Face heating up, you forgot about Azul and Jade, who hid a chuckle by turning his head to the side.

“How fun,” he said as Floyd wrapped his arms around you, as if shielding you from other people in the room.

“I won’t share Shrimpy with you, Jade. Not a chance.”

#floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #floyd x reader #floyd #twisted wonderland floyd #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland imagines #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst floyd #twst floyd x reader #anonymous

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wkemeup · 4 years ago

Text

Sunrise (6)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.7k warnings: PTSD, flashbacks/panic attack, a hint into our girl’s past, the sweetest fluff, another book rec 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“So, you really melted ice man's heart, huh?”

You pouted, throwing Sam a warning glare as you turned back to the stack of books on the cart.

It had only been a few days since the night on the park bench and you had seen Bucky nearly every evening since. Most of the time you’d find him waiting by the chairs at the entrance to the library for you to get off shift, hair tucked under a baseball cap and hand brushing down at the thigh of his jeans, like maybe he was nervous enough to find the evidence in his palms. He’d brighten up as you spotted him, a lightness coming over his features. You’d lead him down the residential side streets, through canopied trees and flowerbeds along the sidewalk, to spend a few hours at Luciana’s sipping decaf and nibbling through pastries.

The crowds didn’t bother him as much lately it seemed, or maybe he was getting used to the hustle of rush hour after spending so much time avoiding it. Part of you wondered whether your hand slipping into his and the constant pressure of a slight squeeze had anything to do with it. You wondered if it grounded him like an anchor when his body was eager to float off into space.

He was so impossibly sweet with you; hesitant, like Mrs. Jefferson had said the first day he wandered into the library, but still, there was a lingering charm in it. It sat in the way he looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the lines on your faces, in the way he listened to your long rambles on the latest book you were assigning him, how he had no interest in cutting you off, like maybe he could have listened to you talk for an eternity if you’d let him.

Bucky Barnes was a little rough on his edges, with some fraying seams and broken pieces, but he was still whole – still complete and wonderful and beautiful. He was soft in his undertones, glimpses of a subtle charm and confidence slipping through the cracks in the small moments when he let his guard down. You didn’t know the Bucky before the war that Sam and Steve spoke so fondly of, but you knew the man he was now and well, this Bucky was everything.

“He seems like he’s doing better,” Sam said, a little softer this time as he leaned his back to the book shelf. His arms folded over his chest, a smile resembling a sort of pride pushing up at his cheeks. “Took me months to convince him to leave the apartment long enough to check out the VA and you’ve got him down here visiting you almost every day. He’s walking through rush hour just to see you, Y/n. That’s huge for him! Hell, his face might break from how much he’s been smiling lately...”

You laughed, hushing Sam as an elderly woman shot a pointed stare in his direction. Sam held his arms up in defense.

“He seems happy, Y/n,” Sam finished as you set another book onto the shelf. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I get you’re implying that it’s my doing,” you said unconvinced, “but he’s stronger than you give him credit for, Sam. He would have come around on his own. He just needed time. All of you did when you got back. Clearly some more than others. But Bucky... he suffered an immeasurable loss over there. Imagine what that must be like for him to have to readjust to his own body. Of course, he needed time.”

Sam was still smiling at you, nodding along, like maybe you were only proving his point. You believed so strongly in Bucky that it didn’t even cross your mind that maybe it was because of you that he’d started to find himself again. You hadn’t known Bucky when he was holed up in his apartment, shielding himself from the light and drowning in his own anguish. It broke your heart to imagine him sitting alone in a dark, messy apartment, staring at the walls and wishing he were someone else.

You couldn’t imagine him like that because the man you knew was sweet beyond measure and he made your stomach twist into knots from a simple look across the room. It didn’t seem possible that the light could be drained from the blue of his eyes.

“I’m not trying to fix him, Sam,” you mumbled under your breath, keeping your eyes trained on the task at hand. “He doesn’t need fixing. I just... I like him and... I like spending time with him. If that means he’s doing better, if he’s starting to look more like the guy you knew, then... that’s good.”

Sam paused, pursing his lips as he studied your face for the subtle reflexes upon your features. You weren’t sure what he was looking for or maybe it was that he was debating whether to argue with you further on the subject, but eventually he resided to concede, letting out a heavy exhale.

“Just... thank you,” Sam said, relief etched into his voice. “It’s nice having my friend back.”

You looked up at him, a little stunned. “Sam, I haven’t done anything. We haven’t even...um... We aren’t...”

He smiled at you, something genuine, something softer than the cheesy grins you were used to from him. It was a glimpse into who Sam was behind the jokes and the comedic breaks in tension; a man who cared so deeply for the people in his life that he’d cross mountains to see them smile again. He’d come to your aid without so much as a second thought when you’d needed him most, when your world was thrown completely upside down, and here he was again, putting everything he had into making his friend feel whole again.

Sam put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. “You’ve done more than you realize.”

You stared at him for a moment, a little lost for words. Could just a few extra days spent wandering around the library, sitting across a café table nursing coffee and scones, and curling up on a park bench have that kind of impact? If you let yourself stop to realize how much brighter your days felt when Bucky was in them, maybe you’d understand what Sam meant.

“Besides,” Sam shrugged as his smile drifted, “it’s nice to see you happy again, too. Moving on.”

You swallowed and it tasted of bile. The book nearly slipped from your hand.

Sam chewed on the edge of his lip, a hand swiping over the top of his head. “I know it’s been a few years since we lost—”

“Please— don’t,” you choked out.

Sam bowed his head, nodding, and you could already feel the swell in your throat. You exhaled a tense breath that struggled to push past your lungs and forced yourself to continue restocking the books, concentrating on the alphabetizing and weathered feel of the covers.

“It’s still hard for me to talk about him, too,” Sam admitted, leaning against the shelf. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a frown pushing on his lips that felt so incredibly unnatural to the man you knew. “But the pain of it doesn’t hurt as much when we have reasons to get up in the morning. Reasons to smile, still. Good things to look forward to.”

You nodded, willing yourself not to cry. It had been so long since you let yourself drift into the memory of the man you’d lost, the name behind the membership card of the loved ones left behind to war heavy in your pocket.

“All I’m saying is Bucky’s good for you too, kid,” Sam smiled softly nudging you in the shoulder and tickling your sides until a laugh escaped. You clamped a hand down over your mouth as the two of you earned another pointed stare from the elderly woman lurking in the romance section. Sam raised his hands in defense.

You wiped at your eyes, cheeks burning from grinning. “I could have told you that, you know.”

“Speak of the devil.” Sam nodded over to the top of the staircase where a man emerged, holding onto the banister; a mop of long brown hair swayed down into his face, a dark green army jacket hung over his shoulders with a sleeve draped down at his left side untouched.

Whatever remained of the lump burning in your throat dissipated, the weight in your pocket feeling a little lighter. A smile grew so wide on your checks you’d nearly forgotten the frown that had ached in the very same muscles just moments earlier.

“Bucky! What are you doing here?” you laughed as he approached, a little surprised to see him. You nearly wrapped your arms around him before you stopped yourself. You’d only gone as far to hold his hand and you weren’t even sure he’d be comfortable with it given Sam was standing directly on your left.

“Hey,” he replied nervously, pushing a hand through his hair. It looked noticeably softer, a bit of a shine to it, and you wondered if he’d started to care for it again. It was the first time you’d seen him without the baseball cap on. He exchanged a look with Sam before turning back to you. “You said that it got pretty slow on Thursdays and I just wanted to offer you some company but... seems like that’s already covered.”

“Sam can leave!”

Sam pouted dramatically at you as Bucky started to laugh under his breath. It wrinkled up into his eyes and you saw for a moment what Sam had meant; a brightness had returned to the shimmering shades of the open blue skies in his eyes in favor of the muted and darkened ocean waves you’d seen that first day in the VA.

“That hurts, you know,” Sam whined, hand clutching at the fabric on his chest as if he could reach inside and touch his own heart. “We were friends long before this one wandered on scene.”

“Bye Sam,” you sang, waving him off with a nudging on his back. Hands pressed into his shoulder blades, Sam dug his heels into the multicolored carpet under his feet to keep you from pushing him along. You started to laugh loud enough for the woman who scolded Sam earlier to turn in your direction with a scowl upon her face.

“Alright, alright,” Sam groaned. He stood up straight, brushing you off. “Have fun, kids. Buck, I’ll see you Thursday for the game, right?”

Bucky nodded; hand tucked into his pocket. “Steve’s on nacho duty and we both know he’ll bring enough for twenty people, so you better.”

Sam grinned, pumping his fist in the air. “Exactly what I want to hear.”

“Weren’t you leaving...?” you teased, arms folded over your chest. Sam stuck out his tongue at you and quickly disappeared down the steps. You could hear the rhythmic bounce of his footsteps all the way to the bottom floor. You turned back to Bucky. “So, Thursday night football, huh?”

“Steve started it,” Bucky chuckled, a nervous hand raking through his hair. “They’ve been trying to rope me into game nights since baseball season started. Never had the interest before, I guess.”

That was what Sam was talking about; the small changes in his friend, little pieces of hope embedded into each day, small allowances of motivation and joy. He was finding it again.

“And now?” you inquired and Bucky shrugged.

“Sounds like it could be nice. Haven’t watched a game with them like that since before—” He swallowed, eyes darting down. It took a minute, a short breath in and a tense exhale before he cleared his throat and pushed out a smile. “Anyway, how are you? I didn't mean to interrupt if you were hanging out with Wilson, honest.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Sam. He likes the attention too much.” You laughed, stepping a little closer.

Glancing down at his hand as he held it down by his side – not tucked into his pocket, not curled up in a fist – and you dared to reach for it. You felt the slight twinge of surprise as he jolted under the touch, but relaxed almost instantly as you intertwined your fingers.

“I’m better now that you’re here,” you said simply, running your free hand soothingly along his arm. It wasn’t unfamiliar contact but it was still new. You could tell it still felt like the first time for him any time you touched him, like he was trying to retrain his body on how to accept touch like this; something gentle and affectionate. You put as much compassion and warmth into each embrace as you could, hoping it might help alleviate some of that anxiety.

He smiled at you, squeezing your hand in return. “Was kinda hoping you’d say that.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, a smile growing on his face as he watched your right hand slide along his arm, running over the bumps in his jacket and feeling for the muscle underneath. If it bothered him, he gave no indication. Instead, he squeezed your hand again, readjusting his fingers, rubbing his thumb sweetly along the back of your hand.

“Come on,” you nodded, gesturing to the book shelf behind you. “I’ve got more books to put away and I could use some of that company you promised.”

***

Three hours later and Bucky was sitting on one of the beanbags in the Children’s Corner, reading the latest book on a seemingly never-ending list you’d assigned for him: The Silver Linings Playbook by Mathew Quick – the story of a man determined to find the good in the bad as he navigates an evenly matched chaotic love interest, the approval of a strict, suburban Philadelphian family, and an undying loyalty to Eagles’ football.

After Bucky had helped place a few of the novels on the tallest shelves, you insisted you weren’t intent to put him to work and pushed him onto the beanbag chair. Most of the time he pretended to read while he watched you weave around the aisles. Always bright when patrons approached and sneaking a few lines of narrative from each book as you placed it on the shelf, as if you could capture a glimpse of each story and hold it for later.

You were never more than a few aisles away and he caught you peering over at him every so often, just checking to make sure he was still there. He winked at you as you caught his eye and a laugh would escape passed your lips despite your effort to hide it before you disappeared back to your task.

He was nearly halfway through the book, using the same clip you’d given him the first day of book club, when he heard the small voice of a child clear their throat.

A girl, no older than eight, stood behind you as you stocked one of the children’s shelves. She tapped on your spine and backed up a few paces, holding her hands tightly in front of her.

Bucky couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but you knelt down to her level – the same as you’d done for the boy in the café – and nodded intently to what she was saying. Then, after scratching at your head, scrunching up your face in thought, you brought the girl over to a different aisle and pulled out a book for her.

She glanced over the cover for only a few seconds before she tugged the book tight to her chest and squealed. She thanked you quickly with an enthusiastic wave before she rushed off to a couple standing by the elevator. She wrapped her arms around her father’s legs, excitedly showing her mother the book you’d selected for her.

But Bucky couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from you. You stood from your place in the aisle as you watched the interaction between the girl and her parents; how the father patted her on the head and ruffled up her hair, much to the child’s infectious delight, how the mother picked up the book and raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Your hands were crossed over your heart, a smile brimming bright on your face. Bucky couldn’t imagine how anyone had come to be as genuine and warm as you were; filled with an unending compassion for others beyond anything he’d ever seen before and a love in the simplicity of kindness. When you looked back over at him, he could hardly catch his breath.

“Hey,” you called sweetly, skipping up to him. The sleeves of a golden yellow sweater hung past your fingertips and you curled the excess fabric into your palms. “My shift’s over in a few minutes.”

Bucky blinked a few times, pulling himself from his stare before he glanced over at the clocking hanging high above the books. “Wow. That went fast.”

You nodded, swaying on your heels.

“Luciana’s?” you asked as you bit down on your lip, that nervous kind of look about you like you might actually believe he’d ever turn down more time with you.

Bucky exhaled a breath of relief, closing the book in his lap. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Come on,” you grinned, extending your hand to him.

You took the book first, placing it into the small bag draped over your shoulder, and slipped your hand into his. Bucky let you tug him up to his feet, though he didn’t need the help despite the sinking feeling of the bean bag chair numbing his legs. He liked the feeling of your hand wrapped tightly in his own and he liked it even more so when you didn’t let go.

“Heading out, dear?” Mrs. Jefferson called by the front desk as you passed by. She ran her eyes over Bucky, that signature smirk present upon her lips, though you didn’t seem to notice. She winked at him and he felt the tips of his ears burn red.

“Yes, ma’am! I’ll see you tomorrow,” you replied, waving her off as you pulled Bucky to the doors.

It was warmer outside than he was expecting, with children running down the sidewalk and tourists in matching t-shirts chasing on their heels. They carried pinwheels in their hands and bags of popcorn as if they’d been by a carnival – which seemed odd in the middle of Brooklyn. Another family across the street pushed a small child in a stroller with paint on her face in the shape of rainbows and a bag of cotton candy curled up tight in her hand.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, confused.

“I love this time of year,” you sighed, leaning your head to his shoulder as you walked. “Look at the sky. It’s beautiful.”

The sun was beginning its decent beyond the horizon, the dark cast of a night sky peering over the light blues as they faded into reds and oranges and a distant glimpse of purple. The stars had begun to peak through the clouds.

“Forgot how dark it can get,” Bucky said as you guided him back to the residential streets.

You shrugged. “Earlier sunset though. Makes for a nicer walk after my shift.”

Bucky smiled at that. You always managed to find the silver lings in every cloud, no matter how dark or grey or filled with rain – you found the good. He wondered for a moment, if you could manage to do the same in him, too.

“It was nice of you to come by today,” you said. You nudged his hip as you adjusted your hold on his hand with a gentle squeeze. When he looked down at you, you were smiling at him.

“Just like spending time with you.” Bucky shrugged, trying to play it off casually, though his heart was racing. You nodded slowly, the smile growing even wider on your face, though you didn’t say anything.

The sidewalks were empty on this part of the walk and while a silence had taken over between you, it was comfortable, like the wrap of a warm blanket. Your hand still tucked into his, a gentle squeeze now and then to remind him you were there, a soft humming under your breath. There was a sense of peace in it, a safety he hadn’t known in a very long time.

The quiet had been his enemy for so long. He’d done everything he could to avoid it; favoring instead the white noise of a broken satellite channel, the clanging of the radiator he’d never fixed, the static of an empty radio station. The quiet allowed too many memories to come through, memories he would have rather left behind when he boarded that plane for the last time. The quiet mocked him and pushed him so far inside himself, he was underwater.

But now—now there was a kindness in it. The quiet granted him the moments to listen for the gentle rise of your breaths and the hum in your voice. It allowed him a chance to focus on the click of your boots to the sidewalk and the way you said his name like he was something to behold. The silence gave him you.

And it was ripped away in an instant.

He felt the vibration of it, felt the rumble in his chest and the skip in his heart, before he ever heard the thunderous echo of the explosion.

No time to react, Bucky shoved you to the ground, throwing his body on top of yours, his arm casting up to shield your face. He couldn’t feel the heat of the fire, but he knew it must be close.

“Bucky!” you called, frantic, but your voice sounded too far away. His ears were ringing, his heart pounding so loudly he wondered if it could jump straight out from his chest, if it would spill broken and bloody onto your sweater below.

You called his name again, trying to grab his attention, but it was muffled, like you were calling to him from beneath an ocean.

He dared a glance back over his shoulder, searching for enemy soldiers, IEDs, tanks, trunks, anything, but he was only met with empty streets, autumn-colored leaves, and brick buildings when he was sure all he would find was dirt and desert.

Something was wrong.

“Bucky, you’re alright. You’re safe. Focus on my voice,” you called to him again and he felt the touch of something cold on his face. Your hands. Cupping at his cheeks, your thumbs brushing gently over the rush of heat on his skin. He stared down at you, breathing heavy, but you were steady, calm. “Bucky, breathe for me. Come on.”

You took in a deep breath, urging him to follow.

But no—he didn’t have time. He had to get you to safety. He had to get you out of the line of fire before—

Another explosion.

He flinched as it erupted, wrapping himself tighter around you, caging you down against the sidewalk in an effort to take the brunt of debris though he felt nothing on his back. You groaned underneath him, a slight pain in your voice.

“Bucky, honey.” Your voice was miles away. He could only hear the last remaining remnants of an echo at the end of a tunnel. Your hands pressed against his face again, urging him to look at you. Your eyes were wide as you searched his, full of concern and maybe even sadness, but no fear. Why was there no fear?

“Look up for me,” you told him gently, gesturing to the sky. “You’re safe, Bucky. It’s only fireworks. Look.”

Bucky kept his focus on you. His vision was blurry, a painful ringing piercing in his ears. When you looked up at the sky, tenderly tilting his head to follow, he saw the trail of illuminated sparks against the backdrop of the setting sun as it raced into the sky.

Then – the explosion.

He still recoiled at the sound as it erupted into his chest, but he kept his eyes focused on the stream of red and gold as it fluttered against the backdrop of deep navies and the peppered brush strokes of fading purples along the horizon, the smoke disappearing in ghosted shadows against the clouds. His lips parted in shock, his breaths coming in a little quicker.

“No, I... I thought... I was so sure it...” He couldn’t finish a sentence, his mind racing faster than he could speak. He shook his head, staring up at the outlines of the firework long after it faded, the wind carrying it away. It felt so real.

“Let’s get out of the street, okay?” you soothed, drawing your fingers down his cheeks, smiling encouragingly at him. He nodded, feeling a bit out of it, like maybe he was in some sort of trance.

But then, it happened again.

The firework exploded high into the air and Bucky pressed his face to the crook of your neck, drawing you in as close as he could manage. He was shaking as you ran your hand along his spine.

“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.” Your voice was the only thing keeping him from disappearing inside himself entirely. He focused on the imprint of your hand on his back, the feel of your fingertips as you traced the lines on his face. He concentrated on the heat in your breath as it touched his cheeks and the pressed of your body under his.

“I live close by,” you told him, gesturing to a street off the corner. “Let’s go now, alright? Before the next one goes off.”

Bucky nodded quickly, too lost within his own head to feel the rush of embarrassment seeping into his features. His felt nauseous, his arm shaking, his legs weak and numb as he slowly backed off of you.

As you began to stand, he noticed the tiny rocks embedded into your clothing when they fell down to the sidewalk, bouncing against the concrete by your feet. There were scrapes on your elbows and a tear in your sweater.

“Come on,” you called to him, extending your hand, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the patch of red on your skin.

But then he spotted another stream of light flying high into the sky and he reached for your hand, gripping it tight before the firework went off. Even prepared, it made him stumble on his feet as it echoed down into the empty streets.

“Focus on this, alright? Focus on what you can feel,” you said, squeezing his hand tight in your own. You picked up the pace as you guided him a few blocks away from Luciana’s, further into the residential streets.

If Bucky had been in his right state of mind, he would have thought it was rather pretty; the way the sunset cast a stunning illuminated glow onto the faded brick and the pots of flowers hanging from the windowsills. The fireworks lighting up the darkest parts of the sky in effervescent colors.

You were beautiful as you tugged him along – hair a little misplaced, leaves trapped in the fabric of your sweater, cautious looks back in his direction as you pulled him by his hand. So beautiful, it kept his focus as another firework went off and he felt the hardened pressure of your grip.

“Go on inside,” you instructed, and Bucky realized he was standing at the door to an apartment – your apartment. He didn’t even realize he’d walked up a flight of stairs and crossed inside a building.

You were staring at him when he looked at you again and it was only then he saw an ounce of fear in your eyes. You squeezed his hand. “Come on now, honey. Please?”

Bucky swallowed, nodding as he stepped inside. He tried to look around, wanted to know the sort of things you kept around your apartment; if it was littered in as many books as you carried in your bag or if it had the warm tones of the colors you wore in your clothing decorated around your living room. He wanted to look at old pictures on the wall and the stand of DVDs you held onto, even without a workable DVD player, as they piled by the television. He wanted to know so much more about you.

Even in the distance, through the walls and the locked windows, he heard the firework erupt into the sky, the flash of it echoing into your apartment and lighting up the living room, and his whole body winced.

“Couch,” you told him, quickly kicking your shoes to the mat and shrugging off your jacket. You grabbed a book from your bag and tossed it onto the coffee table. When Bucky didn’t so much as move, you took careful steps closer to him and stilled.

“Do you know where you are?” you asked cautiously, almost instinctively, like maybe you’d done that before.

Bucky swallowed, though it tasted of bile. He nodded.

You bent down to untie his boots. He stepped out when you asked him to, the slight chill of your fingertips against his ankles as you removed the shoes. Then, you grabbed his hand and led him to the couch.

You laid down with your back pressed against the arm rest, one leg draped down along the back cushions, the other hung over the side. You gestured for him to follow, patting at the space of the couch between your legs.

“I...” Bucky started, finding the words lost on his tongue. He knew it would help. The pressure, the feel of you to ground him back to reality, to keep his mind from the memories swarming back to the surface, but all he could feel was the emptiness on his left, the shame of a missing piece and he couldn’t stand for you to feel it, too.

“Bucky, please,” you urged. “Let me help you.”

The echo of another firework broke into the sky, the light illuminating your apartment, and despite Bucky’s best efforts, his body flinched.

He clenched his jaw, desperately trying to keep himself in the present moment, to focus on you and the distant scent of a pine candle on the coffee table, but all he could see was a rush of wind, sand in his eyes from the storm, the laughter of a kid far too young to be carrying a weapon of that size, the low hum of a jeep, a reflection over a hillside, someone screaming, his throat raw and burning and—and—and—

“Bucky? Are you—”

He crawled down onto the couch, sinking you into the cushions and resting the full of his body weight against you. He set his head against your chest; his ear pressed to your heartbeat so he could hear the steady thumping inside, the rise and fall of each breath. His right arm snaked up around your shoulder blades, tucking his hand against you like he was cradling a pillow.

You were incredibly still for a moment, stunned that he gave in, but then he felt you relax under him. A hum nestled in your chest as you slid a hand along his spine, drawing lines and circles to ease the tension in his muscles. The other swept against his hair, pushing it from his eyes, raking into his scalp.

You laid there with him like that for a moment, soothing your hands along the tension in his body and humming soft melodies under your breath to distract him from the fireworks as they lit up the night sky. He still flinched, but he recovered quicker, focusing on the steady beat of your heart under his ear and the movement of your hands on his spine.

He felt something warm touch other the crown of his head, a shaken breath brushing over his hair. Then, the book from the coffee table made its way into your right hand, the clip you’d given him on the first day of book club, affixed to the last page he’d read in the library that day. Resting the binding on his shoulder, you began to read.

“’When I read the actual story- how Gatsby loves Daisy so much but can't ever be with her no matter how hard he tries- I feel like ripping the book in half and calling up Fitzgerald and telling him his book is all wrong, even though I know Fitzgerald is probably deceased,’” you started, a soft smile evident in your voice. “’Especially when Gatsby is shot dead in his swimming pool the first time he goes for a swim all summer, Daisy doesn't even go to his funeral, Nick and Jordan part ways, and Daisy ends up sticking with racist Tom, whose need for sex basically murders an innocent woman, you can tell Fitzgerald never took the time to look up at clouds during sunset, because there's no silver lining at the end of that book, let me tell you.’”

Bucky sighed, sinking further into your embrace. He didn’t even notice as the final firework took its bow amongst the stars or the burst of applause in the distance, too focused on the gentle vibrations in your voice, the smell of an old book as you flipped through the pages, stealing glances up at your face as you smiled with every word.

When you finished the chapter, you closed the book and set it gently upon the table. Your hands returned to his hair, carding through it and drawing a hum from his lips.

“You alright?”

Bucky nodded, feeling a little dizzy. He certainly felt alright enough for the numbness to wash away and a steady stream of shame and humiliation to rush in and take its place. Slowly, he lifted himself from your embrace, crawling back against the couch and sitting on the edge of the cushions. You followed him, scooting up against his side.

“I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders sank. “Bucky, please, don’t apologize for—”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff, Y/n,” Bucky sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Bile was etching its way up his throat. He’d never felt so helpless, so small, so vulnerable as if he were no more than a child. He was dead weight on your shoulders. He couldn’t put that on you, he couldn’t let you carry the burden he’d become.

“What if I want to?”

He dropped his hand, looking over at you to find you watching him with that same desperation he’d felt to keep you safe when he’d heard IEDs exploding in downtown Brooklyn just moments before. You reached out for his hand, putting it gently into your lap when you were met without resistance and began to trace over the lines in his palm.

“What if all I want to do is be with you? What if it’s all I can think about?” you continued, a low ache in your voice he didn’t expect. You lifted his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles and drawing a shuttering breath from his lungs. “I’d hold you for an eternity if that was what you needed.”

Bucky stared at you in stunned silence. He was a mess, barely stable and breaking apart at the seams and... and here you were, willing to stitch him together with needle and string. You saw a mosaic when all he could see were broken pieces. His lips parted to speak, but nothing came out.

Instead, your hand made its way to his cheek, cupping at the side of his face. Your eyes softened, flickering down to his lips, the touch of your fingertips grazing over his jawline and along his neck like maybe you could feel every pulse of his heartbeat.

Could you feel his fears, too? The ones that warned him that you wouldn’t like the broken, disfigured fragments he’d become? Could you tell that he was sitting on the edge of a waterfall with the rush of water under his legs, just waiting to be pushed off the ledge? Did you know it was your hand on his shoulder pulling him back to the shore?

He leaned in closer, testing his courage, until his nose brushed against yours. So impossibly close, the heat of your breath warm against his skin. You stayed there for a moment, waiting, foreheads pressed together, until Bucky dared to close the space between.

Chaste and honest. Slow and aching. He kissed you and the first touch left him breathless, shaken as he drew in an inhale. You pulled him closer, hands wrapped tenderly on the sides of his face and he could feel your lips curve up into a smile as he turned toward you, wrapping his arm around your waist to hold you closer.

God, he’d never wished more for his left arm to find its way back to his body than he did in that moment. He just wanted to feel you in every way he could, to wrap himself around you in his entirety, to hold you the way a woman should be held.

You pulled back suddenly, laughing under your breath, and he realized your phone was buzzing on the table. You didn’t move for a second, just staring at him, trying to contain your laughter, and he found himself smiling so wide, it reached his eyes. His cheeks ached a little, too.

He realized it the moment you reached out and wiped your thumb over his lips, how you handled him with such intricacy and care, how you touched him like he was made of worth, how you looked at him like he was something to adore – he was in love with you.

You lunged for your phone, still smiling as you brought it to your ear. “Hey Nat, I’m kinda busy right— Oh.” Your face fell. “Are you alright?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his hand setting on your knee to give it a slight squeeze.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” you said into the phone, pressing your lips into an apologetic line. “I’ll be right there.”

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked as you hung up the phone. You nodded, reaching back out for him and your hand found its way to the side of his face. You held it there, thumb brushing along his cheekbone fondly before you leaned in and pressed slow, brief kiss against his lips – something so casual, so intimate, as if you’d done it a thousand times before. He wished you’d do it a thousand more.

“I’m so sorry, but... I have to go,” you sighed, a frown pushing down at the corners of your mouth. “Please believe that I’d stay if it was anyone other than Natasha... Something happened at her job and I—”

“No apologies, right?” Bucky eased, resolving your guilt before you even had a chance to allow it to rise to full display. “You don’t have to explain yourself. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?” You weren’t convinced, but he could tell from the hope in your eyes that you wanted it to be true.

“Yes,” Bucky replied sincerely. With the fireworks long faded into the night sky and the gentle chirp of crickets beyond your window, the only remaining cause of his racing heartbeat belonged to the woman sitting beside him, the casual touch of your hand against his face. He turned to kiss at the inside of your palm before he lowered your hand into your lap.

“You could stay here, if you want,” you offered nervously, glancing out to the window half wondering if a new set of fireworks would begin to light against the pitch black of the sky.

Bucky shook his head, though he smiled for you. “I should head home anyway. I’ve got a book to finish.”

He reached for The Silver Linings Playbook and held it up in his hand. He had a hard time letting his own smile fall with the way you were looking at him and he tucked the book against his chest as if it could feel his heartbeat. He wondered if you picked this particular book for him in hopes he might start seeing silver linings the way Pat did along the pages of the novel— how you seemed to, as well.

If anything, you might be his very own silver lining.

“Come on,” Bucky said, standing from the couch and extending a hand to you. “I’ll walk you there.”

You bit on the edge of your smile in an effort to contain it. It did no use and for that, Bucky was thankful.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n

1K notes · View notes

chiwhorei · 4 years ago

Text

wick(ed)

pairing: dabi x fem!reader

genre: smut, 18+ mdni

word count: 2.3k

tags: very, very sacreligious themes, trespassing, (pink) waxplay, blindfolds, bondage, public sex, oral

a/n: this is my contribution to the sewer’s valentine’s day collab: two in the pink, one in the kink. check out everyone else’s pieces here! valentine’s day was on a sunday this year, so as far as sacrelige goes, my hands were tied. this is dedicated to @undermattsun, as all bastardization of the catholic faith should be.

hymn: take me to church by hozier

For there shall be no reward to the evil; the candle of the wicked shall be put out. -Proverbs 24:20

The smell of musty wood and a subtle fog of smoke traps you as soon as you’re guided blindly. From the sound of creaking and the loud slam behind you-- the door you’ve been pulled past is tall and heavy. The sound makes you jump backwards into the body of your captor.

“Dabi, please just tell me where we are. You’re freaking me out.” You try to reason with the man escorting you, careful to ensure you don’t trip as you walk forward into the undisclosed building. You slump forward slightly, every sense trying desperately to piece together what’s covered by satin fabric.

“If I told you where we were, wouldn’t that ruin the surprise?” You let out a shaky huff, Dabi has never been one for romantic displays of affection, so you’re doubtful there’s a bouquet of roses and chocolate written into the night’s activities. You feel his breath fanning in hot puffs against your neck, he’s close enough to graze the shell of your ear.

“And don’t call me Dabi. That isn’t who I am to you when we’re alone,” Your skin prickles at his touch, one arm snaking its way to circle around your neck. He presses his pointer finger and thumb into the skin, dragging the pressure upwards to tilt your chin, “What’s my name, princess?”

Even blindfolded, you can feel the scorch of blue eyes on your face. A warmth that burns if you get too close. No matter how many times Dabi tried to push you away, whether with actions or sharp words, you always remained fireproof.

“I’m sorry, Touya.” Your voice is little more than a whisper, words filling the still secret space around you. Dabi hums, pleased at the way your body is reacting. Without being able to see, you’re sensitive and jumpy. Every sound, every movement, every feeling is amplified.

“Just a little farther, princess.” You lean against his chest, the feeling of rough skin and hard muscles calms the fraying ends of your nerves. You know Dabi-- Touya, he’s not even close to a good person. Under purpled scars and blue flames, he’s still a villain. But you know at least one thing for certain, he would never hurt you.

At least not in ways you wouldn’t like.

Wherever he dragged you probably didn’t come with a formal invitation, that much was obvious in the sounds of metal instruments against what you could assume was a lock. The tight little dress he had “bought” for you does nothing against the cold air assaulting your uncovered skin. Your teeth chatter, skin icey and hyper-sensitive. Dabi notices the way you bristle, and runs his warm hands over your arms. His fingers press into the skin, pushing you forward.

You can feel the drag of carpet under your shoes, the heavy footsteps directly trailing yours are muffled where Dabi’s boots usually stomp loudly. You’re stopped abruptly, his hands finding the fat of your hips, turning you around to face him. Your own come up to brace against his chest, the clamoring in your heart calming slightly at the comforting smell-- sage and freshly struck matches.

Dabi drops his grip onto the skin right below your ass, squeezing slightly as his lips hover over yours. You feel his mouth an inch from you, lifting up on the balls of your feet to connect them. The man above you laughs as you try to catch a kiss like a carrot dangling on a string.

“Hold on tight, kid.” Dabi rewards you a chaste peck before hoisting you up, your legs circle around his waist, instinct guiding where your sight can’t. The overwhelming anticipation for what he has planned ignites in your core. It’s not lost on him, with the damp fabric of your panties pressed right against his abdomen. Dabi can already feel his cock straining in his boxers, pressing obnoxiously against his zipper.

You nuzzle against the crook of Dabi’s neck, careful not to rub against the staples lining his collarbone. He braces you, holding on to your ass tightly as he walks up three short steps.

Rough linen hits the back of your thighs as he sets you down. Your fingers come down to your new perch, crinkling the farblic in your fingers. From what you can feel, it seems like wood covered in some kind of table cloth.

Dabi steps away, his warmth dissipates but you’re still trapped under his stare. From this position, you realize you’re propped up higher than where Dabi stands, His eyes burn in a trail from your face to your slightly parted legs.

“My beautiful girl.” He marvels at where you sit perfectly on display, his voice now loud enough to eccoh against high ceilings. The sound startles you, every inch of skin submerged in a fresh flight of goosebumps.

“Touya, p-please,” Your voice sounds like a stranger’s as it reverberates around the room before it hits your ears. What are you pleading for?

You’re not sure if your begging for less of his torture, or more.

“Patience, princess. Don’t you trust me?” His question is loaded, knowing full well that you absolutely shouldn’t be trusting the villain before you. It’s almost funny how easily he crept into your heart; staking claim on your body, seeping into your blood.

“I trust you, Touya,” Your voice is barely above a whimper, your words feel like a salve dripping down his scarred shoulders, “always.”

He stole your heart, he’s probably ruined you in more ways than either of you would like to admit. But in exchange, unlike anyone who has come before, unlike any other person on the planet-- you have his heart too.

Dabi lets the backpack on his shoulders fall to the ground, you can hear the rustling of whatever he brought with him. He’s quiet as he approaches you again, reaching up to rub his thumb over your lips. Upon the contact, your mouth falls open to capture the digit, closing around it to suck lightly. Your temperance is a stronger hit than any drug Dabi could find.

He pets your cheek before bringing the satin rope in his left hand up to your lap, you feel the soft fabric against the top of your thighs.

“Give me your hands, princess.” Dabi almost coos when you put your wrists together and lift them towards him as an offering.

The silken rope snakes around your wrists, just tight enough so you can’t move them. He sets your hands to lay comfortably back in your lap. You’re now robbed of sight and touch, all you can comfortably do with your hands is fidget with your fingers.

“You’re always so agreeable, kid, shouldn’t you be worried? All alone with a big bad villain.” His words are desperate confirmation, poking at your resolve to see if this will be the time you cry out and demand your freedom back.

“Never.” One word reads like novels, your tone clearly extending past tonight. Not an ounce of duress to be heard even as you bristle with anticipation. It’s true. The touch that no one else has ever found welcoming is one you lean in to.

The hands that could turn buildings to ash have never scared you.

Dabi leans in to capture you in a kiss, his teeth grazing your bottom lip in the way he knows will make you gasp. His tongue slides into your now open mouth, desperation pushing in to explore you. Dabi tastes like Seven Stars and mint gum-- you swear the nicotine seeps right into your nerve endings. Fingers tangle into the straps of your dress, pulling them down your shoulders. You jump at the cool air against your exposed chest, nipples hardening immediately. Every new sensation is acute when you aren’t given any forewarning.

His hands come up to either of your cheeks, anchoring himself to the earth. The world seems to stop on its axis when it comes to you. The moment frozen, suspended in time. He would live in your orbit every available moment if you let him.

Dabi snaps out of the spell you have on him at the sharp whine that leaves your lips. His forehead lands against yours, catching each other's unsteady breaths in the small space between you. Dabi looks down to see the way your thighs are rubbing together, laughing lightly at how worked up you’ve become. You can’t see it, but he’s fairing just the same.

“You always submit so sweetly, princess,” Dabi bites your lip with a playful growl, turning away to grab the last of his surprises, “but the fun hasn’t even begun.”

The first notable sound your ears pick up is a light crackle. Your brows crease under the blind, trying to place the small pop and flicker. Dabi brings a small flame towards your body, you can see the smallest outline of blue past the silk barrier covering your eyes.

Flickering fire is an inch from your skin, but you don’t flinch away. When it comes to Dabi, all you ever seem to want is to be closer.

The next thing you notice brings realization crashing against your skin like a bucket of cold water: the smell of a burning wick. All of your senses still available piece together the remaining puzzle. The cold echoing, the feeling of scratchy linen against your ass, the smell of wood and perfumed smoke and candles.

“C-church. You brought me to a--” Your realization is cut off with a sharp prick of heat dripping down your chest. You yelp at the feeling of melted wax trailing around the swell of your breast.

“Clever little girl,” Dabi punctuates each word with another splash of hot wax. It runs down your now sweaty skin and hardens in lines on your exposed chest and stomach, pooling in the bunched up fabric of your dress.

“You look so beautiful like this.” You hang on his words like they’ll save you from the onslaught of a melting candle.

“Please, Touya I--”

But you aren’t begging for mercy. You’re begging for more of his touch, for more of anything he wants to give you, even if it’s searing hot.

“You’re gonna want to see this, kid.” Dabi’s fingers are at the back of your head, loosening the blindfold so it drops around your neck. Even in the dead of night, you wince at the moonlight spilling through large stained glass windows. You look to where Dabi stands before you, a mix of lust and adoration flashes in the blue of his eyes. Your own gaze comes down to the lashes of pink splotching your skin.

“This is definitely your color, princes.” Dabi stares for a moment longer. You look equally angelic and depraved like this, almost naked and glistening in an onslaught of melted pink, positioned like the most holy sacrament. He’ll take you.

Dabi pushes you gently so your back falls against the altar, pulling both legs so they’re propped against the table top and spread for him. Your bound arms fall to lie above your head.

It’s so irrefutably evil-- both the breaking into a place of worship and the sick joy he gets from making you a mess below a god he doesn't believe in. Dabi pulls your panties away, the fabric almost matches the pink he dripped against your overly sensitive skin.

“So wet for me,” he muses, kneeling down to be eye level with your sopping cunt, “you like being on display like this, don’t you.”

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of Dabi’s tongue against your lips, your cunt all but quivers at his attention. Dabi wouldn’t be caught dead in the stiff wooden pews on any given Sunday, but he still kneels before the closest thing to religion he has ever known.

Both of his hands come up to either of your thighs to keep you from squeezing them together. There’s no escape from the devil between your legs, there’s nowhere to run from the whip of his wicked tongue.

His pace gives you no time to breath, lapping against your folds like a man dehydrated. Every long swipe against your skin ends in his lips closing around your painfully hard clit to suck harshly. You’re hurtling towards orgasm, twitching in Dabi’s hold.

“Oh fuck, oh my God.” Your chanting of prayer makes Dabi chuckle against the puffy skin, pulling back only slightly to slap your clit with a wet pop.

“Not quite, princess.”

His prodding is relentless, slurping at your pussy with no care to how you’re definitely dripping against the white cloth under you. The knowledge that your arousal is crisiting the altar below you should be mortifying. Instead it’s driving you higher.

Dabi can tell you’re close, the shaking begs for him and the way you clench around his tongue is warning enough. He’s well familiarized with how your body stiffens before the final--

“T-Touya, I’m gonna cum.”

Your warning is almost screamed, muffled only by a series of whimpers. You contract every muscle in your body tightly, it feels like your spine could snap in half before relaxing limply against the wood below you. Your eyes are squeezed shut but fall open as bliss consumes you, your body feels boneless and limp.

The first things your gaze can focus on is the cross behind you, from your position bent over the altar, it’s upside down. You shiver at the blaring symbolism but are quickly pulled from any impending guilt at the feeling of Dabi’s cock against your cunt. All you can, all you want, to do is let him have anything. Body and soul and whatever could exist of you.

As Dabi presses the head in, you welcome him like home. He has to steady himself with a rough grip on your hips as you suck him in inch by thick inch.

God doesn't exist, Dabi thinks to himself.

But he’ll take you like communion.

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #dabi smut #bnha smut #bnha x reader #the sewer collab #two in the pink one in the kink collab

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unwrittenlibrary · 4 years ago

Text

i know, you know.

summary -> bucky would die for you, but that’s not what you want from him.

words -> 1.7k

warnings -> light angst & near death & use of nickname (sweets)

notes -> i started game of thrones & i am obsessed with the idea of medieval bucky now so add that to my wips list

»»————-　☾　————-««

Bucky has no sense of self preservation.

You’re unsure if it’s because when he was a boy he was sent to war where it wasn’t a when you come home, it was an if. Or maybe because he’s lived so long he doesn’t feel like he needs to worry about life.

At first Bucky’s martyr-like care for you had made your pulse race. Throwing himself in front of punches thrown your way and saving you from bullets by reaching out his metal arm.

Then you realized he never thought things through. He just threw himself into harms way without worrying about whether or not he would survive the action.

You’ve learned all this within the two years you’ve known him. He’s become your best friend. Something more than that too. Shared stares and secret kisses that leave your heart fluttering and skin heating.

You love him, the kind of love that bubbles under the surface of kind smiles and more than friendly touches.

The kind that leaves your leg shaking as you sit beside him now, because Bucky Barnes has been asleep for three days.

A bullet had tore through his chest and left him gasping for air and bleeding out at your feet. You had dropped beside him to your knees after sending a bullet through the attackers chest.

“Sam, you’ve got to get us out of here.” You gasp into your comms. “Bucky’s hurt.” Your hands come to rest over the wound and you press harshly against them.

You look around in panic. “You idiot.” You mumble to him. Bucky’s blinking slowly and is obviously in a daze as he tries to focus on you leaning over him. “

“I’ll die before I let someone hurt you.” Bucky whispers. Your hands are stained red and Bucky’s eyes slide shut again after he breathes the words out. You let out a choked cry as you stare down at him.

“He’ll be okay.” Sam’s hand is resting on your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you. “Bucky is a fighter.”

You shake him off. “Bucky is an idiot.” You snap. Your eyes trail over his chest that’s rising and falling steadily.

‘He’s lucky.’ The doctor’s words come to your mind. ‘If it weren’t for that serum he most likely would have bled out in the field.’

You can’t stop thinking about the scene. The tips of your fingers are still stained red, the blood stubbornly refusing to wash away and remains a constant reminder of Bucky’s words in the field.

“Bucky is an idiot with no self preservation.” You start again. The words that had been caught in your throat the past three days come tumbling out like vile. “He’s selfish and doesn’t have any remorse for his choices or any idea what his actions may do to the people who care about him.”

You look at Bucky again. He doesn’t stir. His chest is still rising and falling steadily while his eyes remain closed. “I’m going to get a drink.” You push your chair our abruptly. Sam jumps away from you as you shove past him.

Guilt weighs you down immediately. You hadn’t meant to snap at Sam and you certainly didn’t mean all you said about Bucky.

It’s just - Bucky isn’t supposed to look like that. You had never seen him look so vulnerable. His skin pale and body completely immobile as he sleeps.

It has you panicking. Bucky, your Bucky, was strong and unmoving in a way that left enemies shaking. He had an aura that made you feel warm and confident with him by your side.

The hospital walls are a blank white that leave you simultaneously nauseous and comforted as you rest your back against it and shut your eyes.

Nobody stops to ask if you were okay or if you needed help, many of them too busy or preoccupied with actual patients. It was relieving to be able to have a moment of silence with nothing in your thoughts but what may be going on with the people you watched moves throughout the hospital.

How many were visitors there for a similar reason to yours? How many regular patients or who was a favorite nurse?

Sam’s voice makes you straighten out when you hear your name. You look at him apologetically, but before you can get the words out, he cuts you off. “Bucky’s awake.”

You pause. “Just like that?” You ask dumbly. You knew that this is what would happen. The doctor had explained that Bucky had been placed in an induced coma so his body could heal on it’s own and that he would wake up on his own time.

After three days though, you can’t imagine looking into Bucky’s eyes. You don’t know how to after seeing him so close to death.

“Just like that.” Sam says kindly. “I told you he was a fighter.”

You swallow thickly in an attempt to hold back tears. “I don’t… I’ll be in there soon.” You settle against the wall again.

Softly, Sam speaks, “Soon? He’s asking for you.” He tilts his head in an attempt to get you to look at him, but your eyes stay stuck to the ground. “Nobody ever said Bucky wasn’t an idiot, but he’s an idiot who cares. About you.”

“He can care about me without trying to kill himself!” You exclaim. You shoot an apologetic look toward the nurses who glance over at your voice.

There’s a beat of silence before Sam sighs. “He can. But how is supposed to know that? All Bucky has known is war, maybe in some way saving you from violence is all he knows how to do to show he cares.”

You look away again before you heave out a sigh. Your mind is a scrambled mess of panic, stress and exhaustion. All you want is to go home and forget any of this ever happened.

“I’ll give you some time.” Sam presses a reassuring kiss to the top of your head. “Just talk to him, yeah?”

You nod reluctantly. “I will.” When you don’t move, Sam raises his eyebrows. “Just… Give me a second.” When Sam leaves you in the hallway again, you suck in a deep breath in preparation.

<- ☾ ->

“Sweets.” Bucky smiles softly when he spots you in the doorway. “Been wondering where you were.”

You look him over like you’re expecting to see him covered in blood again. “Needed some air.” You answer curtly.

Bucky watches you quietly as you move further into the room. “Something wrong?”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” You avoid answering the question. Bucky notices you pause at the end of his bed and stares with furrowed brows.

When you don’t say anything else he forces out an awkward chuckle. “I’m always gonna be okay, sweets.”

“That’s not true.” You snap. You heave in a breath as Bucky watches with wide eyes. “You don’t get to just… Just wake up and be fine.”

“I am fine.” Bucky waves his hands out in front of him as if to show you. You shake your head in disbelief. “What? I am!”

“Your blood was on my hands!” You yell, shocking Bucky into silence. “You were bleeding out! Bucky, I had to watch you almost die in my arms. You don’t… You don’t get to sit here and just say you’re fine.”

“Sweets…” Bucky trails off. His eyes move over you like you’re a wild animal and he’s afraid you’ll pounce. It makes you even more upset that you look like the irrational one here.

You look away. “You were bleeding out and there was nothing I could do but watch. I can’t… I can’t do that again.”

“What am I supposed to do?” His voice raises and you know it’s so you’ll look over at him again. “Just let them hurt you?”

There’s a moment of tense silence before you nod. “Yes.”

“I’m not doing that. I can’t and I won’t.” Bucky’s shaking his head wildly at the thought of you getting hurt. “That’s not an option.”

You scoff. You’re still standing at the end of his bed and you can’t bring yourself to move closer. Not with how angry you are at him. “What is this self-sacrificial bullshit? Who does it help?”

“You!” Bucky yells. You’re almost afraid somebody will come in to check on him and find the two of you in the midst of a fight. “I’d rather be in this bed than see you in it.”

You let out a humorless laugh, but it just ends up as an exhausted sigh. “I can’t lose you, Bucky.” You finally admit in a whisper. “I can’t… I need you here, alive.”

Bucky’s eyes soften as you looks you over. “Come here.” Your eyes grow teary as he opens his arms for you crawl in beside him. “Please, sweets. Come lay with me.”

“Bucky…” You sniffle as the beginning of a sentence trails off. You move quickly to lay beside him, careful of the wires. “I don’t want you to die for me.”

His hand runs up and down your arm as your head rests on his shoulder. “This life. My life. It’s been full of violence, I just want to protect you from it.”

“You can protect me without almost dying. I won’t watch you do this again.” You look up at him sadly, the sound of his monitor beeping steadily somehow helps you breathe calmer as you push the words out. “If you want me in your life, you’ll give up this self-sacrificing bullshit.”

Bucky shifts so he can look down at you. “What else should I do?”

“Let me fight on my own. Have faith that I can handle myself.” Your hand trails down to intertwine with his. “If I… If I ever got hurt in the field like this, I’d rather you fight for me than die for me.”

Bucky inhales sharply. “I do have faith in you.” His left hand comes up to rest on your cheek and turn you eyes to face him again. “I know you’re a good fighter. I just… I…”

“I know.” You agree. The words are clear in his eyes and the nervous smile on his face. “I just need you to promise me, no more being a martyr. I don’t need anything else right now.”

Bucky’s thumb gently runs over your cheek bone. “I promise to try.” You allow your eyes to shut as Bucky leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

There are words unspoken between you two. Things that should be said and talked about, but it can wait. You’re content to lay with him, like this, for now.

»»————-　☾　————-««

notes -> just a short bucky piece while i work on my longer fics! next part of the survivor series should be out soon.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes writing #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #sam wilson

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