#(he’s flea bitten but we’re gonna let it slide just once)

[slytherflynn]

Old and New | Pt I

Blaise Zabini x muggle!reader

word count: 1971

summary: y/n is new to France on a study abroad trip. Blaise is visiting France post-Hogwarts. rags to riches story of an unfortunate muggle falling for a complicated, ridiculously wealthy person who just so happens to also be a powerful Wizard.

a/n: this started with an idea, became a moodboard, then became an entire fleshed out fic! I thought it would be short but my brain had other ideas. enjoy! note: I did write this from my personal perspective in life. as a result it is not very inclusive. I plan to change that with my next fics, I’ve just been having a really hard time lately and have been writing a lot of comfort fics and/or self-inserts to escape from irl bc irl is rly shitty for me rn

It’s a brand-new start, in a brand-new apartment, in a brand-new city, in a brand-new country... an ocean away from home. I can bring Tacoma to France, right? At least, that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Study abroad is fucking... scary. I kinda regret it. It’s a good opportunity and for someone who doesn’t travel, it should be a fun experience. But I’m currently having an anxiety attack over taking out the garbage, so I’m not sure my positive self-talk is working.

I look out the window of my top floor apartment, wait until someone finally finishes walking down the stairs, and run out my door - I nearly trip about five times going down the spiral of death, my arms feel like jelly thanks to perpetually pushing my garbage deeper in to avoid this trip, and I swing with all my might to hurl my garbage bag into the trash compacting dumpster - only it hits the bottom lip and falls to the ground, splitting open.

“Great!” I say, sarcastically, “First they send my luggage to the wrong location, then they try to say my passport isn’t valid because my apartment was a temporary address, then I’m greeted with a fridge full of rotting food and no power, then I’m bitten up by fleas and now - I just- fuck. Why can’t I just- do anything- right-“ I cut myself off when I hear a screen door slide and blink a couple times to erase the threat of tears that had been creeping up on me while I ranted.

When I look up, I see a tall, dark-skinned guy about my age - handsome. He’s wearing a suit, and expensive jewelry. Combine that with the fact he’s living in the apartment building next to me, which is worth more than my life just for one month of rent, and I put together that he’s probably rich beyond belief. I quickly look away, not wanting to stare. I silently pick up my garbage, piece by piece. As I work, I feel eyes drilling holes in the back of my head. I ignore it. It continues, and I still ignore it as I finally shove my ripped garbage bag in the compactor and slam the door shut. I hear a slight jump up above, and chuckle to myself.

I zoom back up the stairs and almost make it to the top, but I trip 5 stairs away from my door - and fall, hard. Body laid out flat hard. Cheek scraped and stinging from the metal grating on the stairs, hard. Lost the goddamned slide that caught on the stair, and can see it gradually falling, bouncing and rolling down the stairs, hard. I lift my head and see blood on the stair. I feel it running down my face. All I can think is that this really fucking hurts. The tears come, a combination of pain and frustration, and I pick myself up and stumble my way into my apartment, completely forgetting about the attractive rich boy who just watched me be a danger and inconvenience to myself.

I rush to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels, and run to the bathroom, I see the markings in the mirror and can tell it will leave a sizeable scar. Do I need stitches? I don’t know. Anyway, I start dabbing at everything and blood is still oozing out of every nook and cranny, to my displeasure. I’m about to start bandaging my face when I hear a knock on my door. “Fucking Christ!” I mutter to myself as I slap a wad of paper towels on my face and sulkily go to fling open my door.

I’m not sure who I’m expecting, but to see the same rich guy on my doorstep, slide in hand, probably wasn’t it. “Hey, um, I saw what happened, and I thought you might want your shoe back.” His accent sounds very British - I was expecting it to sound more like a snooty Frenchman’s.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” I say flatly.

As my muscles twitch to begin closing the door, he says, “Would you like some help cleaning that up? I have certifications to give medical aid... and stitches. My name’s Blaise, by the way.”

Doctor, maybe? Probably. “Sure,” I say, opening the door wider and standing back so the blood doesn’t drip on his suit. “I’m y/n.”

A few minutes later we’re in my bathroom, me sitting on the toilet, him sitting on the bathtub as he helps me fix my face. “So, Mademoiselle y/n,” He asks, “Do you find yourself in these predicaments very often?”

“Which one? Poverty, flea bitten, or bloody?” I say.

“I suppose whichever you’d like to think I was referring to.”

“Well, in *that* case - I’m usually caught unawares in all kinds of predicaments - though I’d say self-injury due to clumsiness is an uncommon one. And do you usually find yourself in predicaments requiring you to treat someone’s wounds?”

“I used to, though now it’s only on the occasion.”

“Sounds like an improvement,” I note. “I won’t guarantee it, but I think I’ll get the hang of walking up the stairs soon enough, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily mind it if I did worry about you once or twice more. Why were you running? It seemed like you wanted to get away from something. Does your garbage compactor smell that disturbing?”

“It doesn’t smell great,” I admit, “But truth be told, I’m not a fan of human interaction. It’s scary. Especially when everything is new to me.”

“How long have you been In France?”

“A few days, just enough to get myself physically settled.”

“I see. And you are from America?”

“Mhm. Let me guess, my accent gave it away.”

“And the slang, I’ve yet to hear someone from France use certain terms that you seem to favor.”

“Oh, most of my slang is specific to my city, not just my country.”

“Your city?”

“Yea, Tacoma. It’s near Seattle, if you know where that is. Tacoma’s better, though.”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there. My mother is a fashion designer, but she only travels where there’s inspiration or a business deal.” So that’s how he gets the expensive clothes. The rest of the money too, probably.

“Must be nice, having a handmade closet.” I muse. “Not that I care for having any more clothes than I brought. They’re pretty reliable, if I do say so myself.”

He laughs. “Yes, well, if the blood stains don’t come out of your jumpsuit you might need a new one. They shouldn’t be too difficult to remove, though.”

“Yea, I’ll just dump a bucket of Oxi-Clean on it and call it a day. That is, if any stores nearby have it.” I frown, realizing I have no clue if France carries any of the products I usually get. This is gonna suck. Hopefully the internet has some answers so I don’t have to ask anyone for help.

“Why don’t I take your jumpsuit back with me? Save you the trip. Believe it or not, I used to have chronic nosebleeds, so I know a thing or two about stain removal.” Blaise offers.

I smile, only just. “Well, if you insist. But I love this jumpsuit practically more than myself, so I expect it back right away!”

He returns the smile. “A fan of fashion? You ought to meet my mother.”

I chuckle. “I’m sure your mom would despise me - I only own seven jumpsuits and some athleisure for going on runs.” I pause, then tack on: “Oh, and some fuzzy pajamas for when I’m sick.”

Blaise cocks a brow at me. “And when you’re not sick?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I grin mischievously.

A wave of recognition graces his eyes, and he very quickly looks away, I assume for being flustered.

“You Americans, always so scandalous.” He tsks in mock scorn.

“That’s what we’re known for, is it not?” I say cheekily, “Beer, boobs and gun barrels. And all the other problems that come with that, but that’s a can of worms I am not looking to open today.”

He ties off his handiwork, and says, “It looks like my job is finished, other than stealing your jumpsuit off your back to fix it. I can wait in the other room, if you’d like?”

“Um, yea, that works. Lemme just, grab my next jumpsuit. Gonna have to do laundry early, I suppose-“

“I can wash your jumpsuit for you. I’m pretty good at reading labels, if I do say so myself.” He jokes.

“Oh?” I say, “Then you must be a real genius! Who taught you, Einstein?”

“No, but it was another white-haired, eccentric man, so you’re not that far off.”

“When all teachers are like that it’s kind of impossible not to hit relatively close to the mark.” I remark, then change clothes as quickly as I can, tossing the dirty outfit into a trusty plastic bag and tying it shut.

When I walk out to the living room, Blaise is toying with one of my sculptures. He’s definitely been meandering and lurking around. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask, at which he jumps. “You’re rather skittish, Blaise.”

“And you’re rather quiet on your feet, y/n.” He observes. “But yes, I quite like your eclectic style. If only you had an apartment that let your customization shine. Something more minimalist.”

“Yes, well, it’s something I’ll forever dream of and likely never accomplish. I don’t suspect I’m going to be someone leaving the income level I was born into.” I say, just a little bit cynical.

“And why is that?” He asks.

“Because most people don’t, and the ones who do are the ones who make money. My career isn’t going to make me money.” I reply.

“So why did you pick it?”

I sigh. “Because somebody has to care about the people like me. The politicians don’t, the middle class don’t, and the rich are hell bent on keeping us there so they can have factory workers and have people going straight to prison after they graduate because we’re all desperate and miserable.”

He frowns. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s reality. And I don’t want to be like the people who get rich and stop caring because all they see is the wage difference and pretend it’s justified so they don’t have to feel complicit in the system.” I look him in the eye, my face grim. “Not all luck is by chance. Most of it is by design.”

He nods. “I understand, in a way.”

“Everyone does.” I say. “But understanding in a way and caring enough to do something about it are two different things.” I look away from him when I see his posture change. “I’m not trying to be rude, but it’s impossible not to notice the wealth gap between us when you’re wearing designer clothes and living in what looks like a mansion and I’m living in a building made in like 1900 with no elevator. It’s just the way things are, though.”

“I know.” He says quietly, thoughtfully. “I’d better get going. Your clothes?” He reaches out tentatively for the bag I’m still holding.

“Oh. Right.” I say, handing it to him. Our fingers brush against each other slightly, and it sends chills down my spine. He heads to the door while I’m rooted to the spot, collecting myself.

“I look forward to seeing you again, y/n.” He nods, meeting my eyes with a rather changed expression.

“I’ll see you soon, then?” I ask, not quite sure which answer I’m expecting.

He smiles, only just. “As soon as I am able.” Seconds later, he’s out the door, and I’m alone in my dingy ass apartment. How in the fuck did any of that just happen?

[avengerscompound]

Your Own Bed

Your Own Bed - A Bucky Barnes Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count:  1859

Warnings:  PTSD, Smut (Oral sex)

Synopsis:  You share a bed with Bucky because of his nightmares. One day he stops having them.

Your Own Bed

The first time you slept with Bucky Barnes had been on a mission.   You were staking out an arms dealer who had been dealing in stolen Stark Tech.  It was you, Bucky, Clint, and Natasha holed up in this shitty little one bedroom death trap with a flea-bitten mattress on the floor taking shifts monitoring the building across the road.

Clint was adamant that he didn’t want to share a bed with Bucky.  He’d complained he took up too much room and Clint liked his sleep too much.  Everyone knew it was really because he and Natasha had some sort of thing going on so you’d just agreed.

The truth was, you’d been harboring a crush on Bucky.  He was this huge, scary looking guy who on a mission did not look like someone to fuck with at all.  Back at the tower though, he was quiet and sweet.  He liked to cook and you’d find him playing video games like Mario Kart by himself.   The opportunity to share a bed with him had sparked some hope that the closeness would make him see that same little spark of attraction to you too.  Or at the very least you’d get to know him better.

The latter happened in a rather drastic way.  The first night you slept curled up on that uncomfortable mattress Bucky had had a nightmare.  He didn’t tell you what it was about that first time.  Though he would later.  Bucky dreamed about a lot of things.  Falling. Being electroshocked.  Having vivisection performed on him.  Mostly he dreamed of killing his friends.  Over and over.  His metal hand clamping down around each of your throats and no matter how hard he tried to let you go all he could do was watch as the life drained from your eyes.

He hadn’t even woken from it that first night.  He’d just started thrashing and muttering in a small terrified voice.  “Please.  I don’t wanna do this.  Don’t make me do this.”

You’d wrapped your arms around him and whispered to him.  “It’s okay.  You’re safe, Bucky. No one will hurt you ever again.”

He’d grabbed you, pulling himself tightly against your body. Then he stilled.  You had slept the rest of the night wrapped around each other.  The next morning he’d woken up still wrapped around you and apologized profusely.  The process kept repeating itself for the entire stakeout and by the time you got back to the Avengers compound Bucky was the best rested he’d been since you’d known him.

Once you got back though he’d started to not sleep again.

“I wonder if it’s just that I can only sleep on shitty mattresses on the floor?”  He asks you one night as you sat up playing Super Smash Bros together.

“Uhh… I think I know what it is.”  You reply, not looking at him.

“God, doll. If you could tell me I’d be in your debt.  I don’t know how much more I can take only getting a few hours of sleep at a time.”  Bucky says, hitting pause and looking at you.

You sigh.  “You have nightmares, Buck.”

“I already know that.  But I didn’t while we were on the mission.”  Bucky says.  He frowns and turns back to the screen.

You put your hand on his controller before he can start playing again.  “You did have them on the mission.  I’d hug you and tell you that you were safe and they stopped.  That’s why you always woke up cuddling me.  You’d cling to me and I’d just talk to you until you went back into a deep sleep.”

Bucky’s shoulders slump.  “Damn.  I guess I’m screwed then.”

You both start playing again and you chew your lip.  “I could come and sleep with you if you want.”   You say, quietly.  He pauses the game and looks at you, his brow furrowed.  “I mean as friends.  If it helps you sleep.”

“I couldn’t ask ya to do that, doll.”  He says, shaking his head and running his hand through his hair.

“I don’t mind, Bucky.  It’s kinda nice not sleeping alone.”  You say, trying to not sound too enthusiastic.  You truthfully really loved it.  You still harbored a huge crush on him.  You loved waking up wrapped in his arms.  Even if his metal arm was a little cold and quite heavy.  You loved the way his body felt pressed against yours.  You loved how he smelled.

“Really?  I promise I’ll be good.  I just… I really could use some sleep.  And I get it if you have a date or something.”  He says, speaking really quickly.

So it had become a habit.  You slept in his bed every night.  Every night you soothed him through his nightmares.  He started to become a new man.  He laughed at people’s jokes.  He agreed to socialize more.  You two became really close.  You knew you weren’t his best friend, that was always going to be Steve, but he was yours.  And every day you fell deeper and deeper for him.

He had nightmares every night until one day he didn’t anymore.  You both just slept right through.

You woke slowly, his arm draped over you.  As you opened your eyes and slowly you’d realized he’d actually properly slept through and rather than feeling good about it your heart dropped.  You knew you should feel happy for him.  That him sleeping through was a sign that his mental health was well on the mend.

All you can think is if he started doing it regularly; he won't need you anymore.

Bucky shifts and pulls you a little tighter to him before slowly opening his eyes.  “Damn, doll.  That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had.”

You smile weakly at him.  “That’s great, Buck.”  You roll over, freeing yourself from his arms and sitting up.

He puts his hand on your hip.  “What’s wrong?  Did something happen?”  He sits up suddenly.  “I hurt you didn’t I?”

You turn to him and wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest.  “No.  No, Buck.  It’s stupid.  I’m being selfish.”

“What is it?”  He pushes.

You sigh and let him go.  “If you stop having nightmares you don’t need me anymore.”

Bucky laughs and hugs you from behind.  “What are you talkin’ about?  We’re friends aren’t we?”

“Yeah… the best.”  You sigh.

“Don’t you want your own bed back?”  He teases, ruffling your hair.

You let out a huff of breath.

“Oh god,”  Bucky says.  He lets you go and sits back.  “Oh god.  I’m an idiot.”  He reaches forward and puts his hand on your shoulder.  You feel the cold metal close onto your skin.  “I’m real sorry, doll.  Forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what?”  You ask, looking back at him.

“Not realizing.”  He replies.  “It’s been a long time since a dame…”  He shakes his head.   “Woman… since a woman was interested in me.  I forgot what it looked like.”

“Buck, don’t worry.  It’s … you don’t feel the same way.  I was trying to just be your friend.  I’m being selfish.”  You say, looking at him sadly.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at you.  “Who said I didn’t feel the same way?”

“Do you?”  You ask.

Instead of answering with words he brings his lips to yours.  You startle, to begin with but as soon as you realize what is happening you sink into him.  Your lips part and for a moment your tongues flick against each other before they pass each other and dip into the other’s mouths.

His hand goes to your hair and he pulls you closer to him.  Your hands run down his chest, trailing down the scarring where his flesh meets steel, before moving down to his abs.  A shiver runs through him after each place your fingers touch.  His muscles contracting and releasing in a ripple.

You shift onto the bed again and as you move your hands move around to his back and slide back up you pull him down on top of you.  He makes a sound half moan and half growl and grinds up against you.  He breaks the kiss and nips at your throat, sending little shivers down your back.

You feel his cock start to harden against you and you reach down and start palming it through his pajama pants.

“Ah fuck, doll.”  He groans.  “Isn’t this too soon?”

You shake your head.  “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

He makes that growl/moan noise again and he starts scrambling to remove your clothing.  He tears the tank top you wore to bed like it’s made of paper.  “Oh damn.  I’m sorry.”  He huffs, the ruined material gripped in his metal fingers.

You pull him back down into a kiss.  “It’s fine.  Just… oh god, Buck.  I need you.”

He pulls your panties down and you use your feet to kick down his pajama pants.  You feel the press of his cock against your pussy.  He moans and nips at your bottom lip.

You slide your hands down the length of his body, gripping his cock and guiding it inside of you.  You both hum softly as he fills you.  “Oh god, you feel good.”  He murmurs.  His lips grazing over your neck.

“You feel good too, Buck.”  You hum and clench around his cock.  He groans again and starts to roll his hips into yours.

You start slow.  Gentle even.  You rake your fingers through your hair and run them down his back.  Things shift suddenly and he starts really just fucking you.  Hard.  He holds onto his bed head with his cybernetic hand.  The timber cracks and warps as his grip tightens.  The headboard bangs on the wall.

You are helpless to do anything over than hold on.  Not that you need any more.  It feels like your blood has been replaced with molten metal.  It pumps through your system.  Making sweat bead on your skin and your breath hard to catch.  Bucky keeps his face so close to yours so when you are able to take a breath in, it’s comprised of the hot, moist breath he just exhaled.  The heat builds in your gut.  Bubbling in you.  Pressing down.

“Fuck… fuck… Bucky.  I’m gonna come.”  You babble, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it, doll.”  Bucky purrs.  “Let me feel ya.  I’m right behind.”

You bring one of your hands to your pussy and you start rubbing your clit.  It’s like a dam bursts inside you.  Your whole body arches up into Bucky and it feels like every single muscle tenses as you come.  You make a single, primal cry before you bury your face into Bucky’s neck.

You feel the throb of Bucky’s cock inside of you and he thrusts three more times before releasing.  His cock pulsed inside of you as he fills you with his hot come.

He kisses you again and rolls onto his back. You both just lay there, panting looking at the ceiling.  Bucky links his fingers with yours.

“Don’t go back to your bed.”  He says.

You laugh.  “This is my bed.”