#Instead of treating him like a doll or an empty shell | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

avada-kedavrugh · 4 years

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How stupid you must be?

Pairing | Tom Riddle x Reader

Genre | Angst (cheeky lil bit of making out)

Words | 2323

Warning | Making out, mentions of death, very unhealthy/abusive relationship that I do not endorse AT ALL but I just find it interesting to write. <3

How stupid you must be.

Tom’s hand slither around your neck, ever so delicately like a snake entangling its prey marvelling at each drop of fear it evoked, his fingers gracing the expanse of your skin like you were a porcelain doll, exquisite, dainty and so fragile in his touch. You are so small against him as he towers over you, your body quivering against the wall from the toxic mixture of anticipation, lust and fear that welled inside you, staring up at him with a look of complete adoration. The very touch of his cold fingers around your throat is so empowering, so overwhelming, so shattering as it destroys every barrier in your mind and subdues your entire being to his control. His dangerous gaze on you, searing through your mind, simultaneously imploring you to delve in closer with sweet nothings calling for you to give yourself to him, and screaming warning signs of ‘danger’. But it’s already too late for you as you’re faltering, falling, fading into his touch, unashamedly losing whatever part of you clung to sanity, replaced with the sheer desire, yearning, desperation for his lips to devour you, to take the final step of consuming you and leave you an empty shell.

Within the eery silence of the dark closet, your own thoughts echo in your mind, as you silently plead with him. As if hearing your desperation, his hold on you tightens, teasing you with the searing touch of his fingers as his eyes look down on you with a cold, dangerous look. Your eyes flicker with infatuation and your cheeks flush a soft, pink hue, in a way that would be almost endearing, perhaps, if Tom was capable of love. If he was capable of love, he’d be ensnared in your affection and devotion, allow himself to shrink into your touch and be consumed by you, let your unceasing attempts of warmth to burn through him, act as the furnace that would cause his heart to shudder to life. Instead he found the way you looked at him repulsive, your looks of adoration received by a look of apathy, at best. Sometimes, he struggled to bury the contempt he felt towards you and he’d snap. He’d feel his eyes blazing with disgust, the dark look screaming ‘i hate you’ in what was both a shattering roar and a shivering whisper.

Out of your lips slips a moan, your teeth quickly baring down on your soft lips in a feeble attempt to hide your sheer desire, bashful and ashamed of the effect he had on you. The sound echoes through the closet, burrowing itself into every crevice of the room, slipping into his ears and drilling into his mind, quickly registering as a sign of your weakness, of his absolute control over you. Although he will never love you, he relishes in the dominance he has over you, knowing this is only just the start of his strive for power. He felt no remorse, simply enjoying the incentive your weakness brought, grip tightening, his ring indenting itself into your skin and knuckles turning white whilst pressing against the silky expanse of your throat.

“Tom-” A guttural moan rumbled from your lips, desperation dripping from the very sound. His stony look flickering with amusement; with the knowledge you were defenceless against his hold, your mind falling into a dark abyss that matched your pupils – thick molasses, dilated, faltering at his every move. Secretly, he savours the sight, his lips curling into a sinister smirk as he watches you unfold against him, trapped between him and the wall, knowing that even if he let you go, you would stay there, hopelessly waiting for him to return your feelings. You allowed yourself to be a puppet, directed by his simple touch or a mutter of words, completely consumed by him. Lavishing in this knowledge, he set himself to tease you, make you ache with your utter lust, dipping his head down as he brought his lips dangerously close to your ears.

“Now, I’ve never seen someone so desperate,” The warmth of his breath tantalising against your skin, his words erupting from his voice in a sadistic purr. “How stupid you must be.”

How stupid you must be.

The statement sounded in both of your minds. Tom’s lips twisting into an even crueller, ever so tantalising smile, while your heart was being thrashed and you felt your stomach momentarily dip.

How stupid you must be. Completely subservient to the man who held you pinned against the wall, who belittled you and shamelessly looked at you with total contempt. The man was able to cause the pool of rich, luxurious heat sprouting in your lower stomach with just a single touch while at the same time, with just a simple statement, he had caused a churning pit in your stomach that made you wish the ground would just swallow you up right there, taking mercy on you and saving you from the agony he caused. You knew your heart belonged to him.

Like many complicated things in life, it began innocently, coy glances at a cute boy during classes, feeling flustered around him, laughing as you told your friends about your attraction to him, becoming hopelessly drawn to the mystery that surrounded him. Tom. The tall, dark-haired, dark eyed Slytherin boy surrounded by his friends that all looked up at him with expectation. Who would you be to ignore your innocent, school crush? So, the chaste glances turned to watching him during classes, to trying to talk to him, despite his disinterest, to following him through the corridors. All in - as you told yourself several times - a desperate attempt to help him.

Along the path of simple curiosity and attraction, you found yourself thinking of him more and more, every second of your day your mind would wander and lead you to him. At first it scared you, so you forced yourself to distance yourself from him. Without him you sank into a seat of sadness, staring into the dark gloomy depths of your drink, while your friends chattered around you, excitedly gossiping about whatever interested them. Wherever you were, sitting in the great hall with your friends or sitting alone in the library, that feeling of emptiness clung onto you. So, when your eyes glanced over him as he walked past, feeling your heart shudder to life, you gave yourself the little treat, let your eyes linger for a second longer, and then another second longer, then another second, and then another, and another, until every time you saw him you allowed your eyes to fix on him – his image imprinting onto your mind. Just seeing him filled you with a euphoric high and who would you be if you denied yourself the feeling? You convinced yourself it was fate, that your life was tied into a hangman’s knot with his. Curiously, one day, he returned the interest, tipping the earth of its axis and letting you fall into his arms. And that was the day, you allowed yourself to become his servant, become besotted him, allowed your obsession with him to begin to ravage you. And now, you knew he wasn’t human – not really - and knew he wasn’t capable of love, yet you’d sacrifice everything just for a simple kiss.

In retrospect, early on, you caught glimpses of something sinister lurking within him, his heartfelt words jumbled with a tone of hatred and his eyes occasionally flaring with something bordering loathing. Maybe, you stayed with him because you wanted to help him or, maybe, you stayed with him because of some sadistic voice that sung in your head that urged you to comprehend him, take him apart and reconstruct him secret by secret, just to know the very truth behind Tom Riddle and who he really was.

How very stupid you must be, your heart fluttering in your chest at his touch despite the obvious torment of his words, returning his sinister look with a look of full-blown lust, the darkness in your eyes caused by your pure desire while his was caused by something far more twisted. How very stupid you must be to allow yourself to slump against him, allowing his rigid body pressed against you to hold you up, his hands clutching your neck and keeping you afloat, the final restraint stopping you from falling into complete delirium.

“Tom, please-” You whined, a painful, raw, raggedy sound. Begging for the cushion of his lips. All of you hoped for the release of his animalist desires on you, for him to shed his cruel exterior, to reveal his raw being to you, bare his soul to you, allow you to squirm your way in, embrace him for who he was, love him, care for him. Caress every wound on his soul, kiss it better and make his heart feel something. For you. You stared at him hopefully, eyes twinkling with some innocence that you desperately clung to, slowing being chipped away every time you worked out what he’d done. His grip on you went slack, the colour returning to his knuckles, your lungs unexpectedly filling with oxygen you didn’t even know you needed as you breathed him in.

Your eyes dancing with dreams, the dreams you replayed in your mind when the sky got dark, when your dormitory grew still, while your mind was too loud, your dreams embraced you like the warm arms of a mother, coddling you, soothing you into a calm slumber, a lullaby of dreams that would never happen, the dreams of Tom Riddle. Tom’s eyes lacked such excitement, instead they stilled with a vacant expression - one you found rather serene – as he took in the sight of you. Your heart unashamedly raced, desperate for you to reach out and press your lips against his. Risk your life just for the caress of his lips against yours.

His body pulling away from you, letting you to fall back against the wall. His smirk souring into a look of disgust, eyes full-blown with revulsion and contempt, looking down on you as if you were the most disgusting beetle on earth, as if all you deserved was to be stamped on. He moved forward again, this time his lips grazing your ears as he whispers “I don’t need you anymore Y/N.”

Your heart continues its shameless rampage within your chest, thundering against its weak confines, threatening to breakout and escape into Tom’s hands - where it knew it belonged. How very stupid you must be. It was too late for you now, you knew what his words meant, knew the threat they held within them, yet as his hot breath moved away from you, your hands desperately moved to grab onto him, your fingers hopelessly dragging against the material of his shirt, failing to cling onto anything, clawing at the air between you.

He was looking over your small form, taking in each detail of you for one final time; you were his obedient servant that he could manipulate to do his will. You, such a meek being, that seemingly devoted your life to his. Had become entangled, enchanted, encapsulated with him, by him, completely submitting yourself to him all for the human feeling of love. He knew you would do anything for him yet he knew that human feeling inside you, that clung to its innocence, unmoving from its claims of compassion, was stronger than your fragile feelings for him, one wrong move and it could easily overcome your devotion for him and leave him at risk. Something jolted in his heart. And then he did it.

Lips barrelling towards yours. Smashing against your soft lips. Teeth clashing. Like two starved animals that hadn’t eaten in days, absolutely ravenous from hunger, finally given a measly morsel between you. One of his hands wound itself around your neck again, all delicacy thrown aside as he roughly held you up by your throat. His nails attaching themselves to your skin, ripping into your skin so violently, leaving behind imprints at his very touch. Slamming your body against the wall and pressing his form, so crazed in its frenzy yet so rigid, against you. You took your chance to savour him, memorising the feeling of lips against you, the feel of fingers wrapped around your neck. Your mouth opening, tongue pressing against his mouth, desperate to taste him. The concoction of unrequited love and lust had left you famished, and now your body drowned in the touch of Tom Riddle. He was blessing you with what you had always wanted. Quenching the aching feeling that had laid dormant inside your lower stomach for months, incited only by him and growing more dangerous as he disregarded your desires. Yet, niggling in your mind was the emptiness of every touch, every taste, every movement. His sexual ferocity felt more like a primitive instinct than a conscious desire.

How stupid you must be.

He was going to kill you.

He had used you and tossed you aside like a doll. And every step of the way, you lapped it up like a desperate puppy, hanging at the edge of his every word, the promise of his touch having the power to control you. Inside your heart swelled, as his lips thrashed against yours in their rampage, ever so desperate, like prey entangled within a snake. The warmth pooling through your entire body, drowning the remnants of sanity, and sending you into delirium. How stupid you must be. He was going to kill you and yet, he was kissing you. For the first time, your final wish and he was kissing you, for the last time. Buried under his ravenous lips an uncontrollable grin broke out from your own, torn and bleeding. A grin that pressed against his lips. A grin that mirrored the euphoria that filled your soul.

Maybe he did love you.

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cake-writes · 4 years

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making the beast beautiful (one)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (cheating); Steve x Reader (married)

Story Warnings: Mental Illness, Borderline Personality Disorder, Splitting, Clinical Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Low Self-Esteem, Cheating, Angst, Drug Addiction / Abuse (Cigarettes, later Alcohol & Pills), Recovery, idk it’s gonna get depressing but we’ll have a happy ending!!!, Eventual Smut, 18+

Summary: Bucky knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. And some days, he still struggles – even told you once how low he’s been. But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? No, Steve doesn’t understand. He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. So one day, you finally give up and give in to your most self-destructive temptation of all: your preoccupation with his best friend.

A/N: i know this is another wip SORRY but it’s literal word vomit because ya girl just really needed to yeet these sad bitch feels into outer space lmao 🤷

Your addiction to him starts slow, like the creep of nicotine through your veins from the cigarettes that he offers you on the rooftop.

Not often enough to do any damage, you try to tell yourself about your smoking habit – or maybe what you actually mean is the amount of time you spend with him. Bucky Barnes. Your husband’s best friend. Your former teammate. Not that it matters, because from one night to the next it’s all you can do to cling to the one good thing you have left, the one ray of light– or maybe he’s the one last shred of hope you’re willing to bind yourself to like a lifeline.

And if it snaps, you’ll fall.

Too bad the threads are already starting to fray.

And lucky, lucky you that you fall even sooner, because your reality has shifted to one shade off from normal, and you can hardly tell what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. You want to prioritize yourself because you know you should – maybe be a little selfish for once, to combat the awful feelings of self-hate that plague your mind, but you don’t know if that particular affirmation is driven by self-esteem or self-destruction.

You can’t tell anymore. You don’t know who you are.

You’re a mystery, a chameleon, borderline, and the only thing you do know is that Bucky makes you feel again – too much. He makes you feel things you shouldn’t, makes you obsess and overthink and daydream and wonder about what life could be like with him instead of Steve.

Because that’s what you do when you fall in love. You turn into that. A monster. A beast. A siren hell-bent on the destruction of yourself.

So, you fall. You fall deep. You fall hard. You fall fast, but it’s the savouring of the moment that always brings out the worst in you. It brings back the worst part of you that you’ve buried under layers and layers of trauma and depression – the clinginess and neediness and desperation at the center of it all, and every layer covering up the euphoria makes you cry because you have to hide it for fear of losing yourself all over again. Losing that feeling. Losing what makes you you.

You’re happy, now. Right? So why do things you shouldn’t do?

But you just can’t help yourself.

You shouldn’t have accepted that first cigarette.

You shouldn’t have texted him asking for another.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about personal things meant for your husband.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about the most personal of things: your husband. Your relationship. Your insecurities because of your illness.

You shouldn’t have – because Bucky knows. He understands. He’s been there.

He knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. He’s been there. He’s done that. And some days, he still struggles – even told you, once, how low he’s been.

He might have a different slew of acronyms to define his own mental state, but they all spell out the same thing: FUBAR. And so do yours.

But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? The man of your dreams, the one you’d married in the gown of your dreams, in the venue of your dreams? He’s resilient. And let’s not forget your wedding, with Bucky standing right there as his best man – the same Bucky who accidentally caught the bouquet you threw in his direction, because your aim was purposefully off to make him feel like he belonged for once.

Even before you got to know him, you always had a soft spot for him.

And now? You’re fucked. Completely and utterly smitten.

No, Steve doesn’t understand. He absolutely, fundamentally cannot, through and through. Not for a lack of trying, though, or that’s what you keep trying to convince yourself. He supports you physically: makes dinner when you’re ‘tired’, runs errands when you’re ‘busy’, gives you love and affection just like he always has. You’re his wife; it’s his obligation. He has to.

That’s how you feel, anyway.

He treats you that way out of duty, not love, because Steve always has to put the greater good before himself. He puts your happiness before his own, you think. And he tries so hard – he does. And whenever he tells you he’s happy, you just can’t believe him because you think so poorly of yourself.

Why would anyone willingly want to be around you?

And emotionally? He tries so hard with that, too, but he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it. He never says the right things, only well-meaning insensitive ones because he hasn’t been there, he hasn’t done that, and he thinks it’s all in your head – that you’re just not trying hard enough, that you just don’t want to get better badly enough, because if you did then you’d be up and at ‘em already. Then you’d be healed. Then you’d be out of this funk and back in the field with him.

You’re not.

You won’t be for a long time.

You’re not the same girl he fell in love with. Not that he’s ever said that directly to you, but sometimes you think it’s how he feels. He signed up for a wife, not a child. He signed up for the you from a few years ago, now, not the shell of a person you’ve become because of your illness.

Ironic, considering what he was like as a kid, Bucky likes to remind you when you start to hate on yourself because of how you’ve changed – because you’re not normal anymore. He used to be so sick all the time. Then the serum made him right as rain. Don’t take it to heart.

Steve got better because of a miracle. Hard work and determination can only get a person so far, but it was pure luck that got him to the serum. You know that. Bucky knows that. Steve probably knows that deep down, too, but he doesn’t see it that way. All he sees is his hard work.

He lies to himself. He always has.

He probably lies to himself about his love for you, too.

So it’s hard to believe he’s happy. How can he be? You don’t bring anything to your relationship but self-pity and unhappiness. And how can you not take it to heart that Steve doesn’t understand? Your husband, the one who should be supporting you and validating you and making you feel like you’re seen, thinks you’re always throwing a pity party for yourself, thinks you’re just too lazy to get up and actually do the things you want to do, thinks you’re just not trying hard enough.

Come on, doll, he says. Let’s go for a walk.

To you it just sounds like, Walk it off.

Because he’s said that before, too. A hundred times. In the field, and out.

You’re not an agent anymore. You can’t handle it anymore. You can’t handle anything anymore.

Deep down, you’re convinced that Steve thinks because it’s not physical – that because there are no scrapes or bruises or broken bones to prove that you’re in pain – that your depression isn’t real. Not really. It’s an illness, same as any other, and he just doesn’t understand it because he can’t see any physical evidence of it.

Never mind the weight you’ve lost.

Never mind the bags under your eyes.

Never mind the crying spells, the dissociation – but then, you hide those from him the best you can these days. You don’t want him to see how bad you are anymore, because he just doesn’t get it. Because it hurts so much every time for him to look at you with those soft, confused baby blues and act like it’s not a big deal, like a little bit of sunshine’s a cure-all for your woes.

Ironic is right. The boy’s been to war and he hasn’t even processed his own trauma. Hasn’t even been to a shrink despite having two best friends poking and prodding for him to go. He’s in denial.

He refuses to believe that you just couldn’t get to the laundry today because you’re too exhausted from lying in bed all day. He refuses to believe that you couldn’t eat a bite because you didn’t even think to, too busy caught up in your own pain to remember, let alone care. He refuses to believe that you don’t even feel like you deserve to do anything good for yourself, so why even get up? Why bother? Why try to do anything anymore?

Just let the darkness take you away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. And then, maybe one day you won’t have to feel anything anymore. Maybe you’ll just disappear.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

He refuses to get it, and some part of you feels like it’s because he doesn’t want to. Because he’s afraid to acknowledge that it’s true. That if he starts therapy like you did, then this could just as easily happen to him, too.

But hey, that’s his problem, not yours. You’re still learning to prioritize yourself – to break away from co-dependency and focus on your own needs for once. You’re barely keeping your head above water; why should you have to work on him, too, when he doesn’t offer you the same consideration? You’ve done what you can, and he just turns a blind eye because he doesn’t want to understand your issues. Or his.

So, you’ve given up.

You plaster on a happy face when he’s home – a painful, never-ending reminder that you’re not okay, and you keep your troubles to yourself. You’ve stopped sharing your struggles with the man you married because he doesn’t understand, and it hurts. You try so hard to act like nothing’s wrong that sometimes you dissociate, and you don’t come back to yourself until you have a cigarette hanging between your lips, lit by a Zippo engraved with a clever, If you want to make love, smile when you hand this lighter back.

Seeing the joke on Bucky’s lighter always brings you back, because it’s ridiculous. It’s a throwback to his army days; Steve found it awhile back with Bucky’s old personal effects. Makes you wonder what he must have been like back then.

Cigarette smoke and leather and sandalwood in the dead of night – and you always make a point to smile when you hand it back to him.

Temptation incarnate, now. What a dream he would have been back then.

Sometimes you text him when you and Steve have had another fight.

Sometimes he texts you when he needs you to ground him.

Sometimes the two of you just text each other for the hell of it. It’s usually related to someone’s mental health, usually yours, but occasionally not; after all, over the last few months he’s become your partner in misery and crime. The two of you have shared things to each other that you’ve never told another person, not even Steve; and in some ways, you feel like you’ve bared your soul to him.

It’s intimate.

In other ways, you’ve kept your guard up because you know you’re playing with fire.

It’s wrong.

You know you should really tell Steve about your midnight conversations – that you probably know his best friend almost as well as he does, now, but Bucky’s become a guilty sort of pleasure that you keep near and dear to your heart. He makes you feel things that you haven’t felt in a long time, but you’re not ready to acknowledge what that means. Not yet.

And neither is Bucky, evidently, because Steve’s still none the wiser.

Eight months of this and you still want more.

Your husband trusts you. He never asks who you’re texting or what you’re up to. You’ve given him no reason to believe otherwise. He feels safe and secure in your relationship, but maybe he’s turning a blind eye to that, too.

He shouldn’t.

You wish he didn’t.

Some small part of you wants him to catch you, and that’s what you resent the most. You’re self-destructive – ready to destroy the one good, stable thing in your life in favour of an impossibility, but you can’t deny that Bucky gives your brain the dopamine it needs, it craves, it lacks.

He’s been gone on a mission the last week and a half, but you saw the Quinjet fly in the hangar earlier in the evening, around six, and you’ve been keen to text him since. You’ve held back for a little while, not wanting to appear to eager to message him – so you’re certainly not too proud of how quickly your resolve cracks.

You, 10:33pm Please don’t tell me you came home with Lucky Strikes again.

Bucky, 10:41pm Sorry, princess. Didn’t realize I was seeing royalty tonight.

And then he sends through a photo of a slightly crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes in his hand – an invitation to come to the rooftop. Judging by the setting, he’s already there.

Despite his choice in a particularly harsh smoke, you’re more focused on the pet name that has your face burning hot. It’s something he’s started to tack on recently – ‘princess’ being most common, particularly when he’s teasing you about being spoiled in some way, but when he slips it in during a real conversation is what really makes your heart pound.

You know you should tell him to stop. You know you should, but, you don’t.

You like how it feels to feel for once.

You’re married. It’s wrong. You need to stop, but you just can’t help yourself. You’re lonely.

Steve’s still away on a mission, which doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it used to – you hope he returns safely, of course you do, but you don’t really miss him. Not like you should. That’s happened more often than not as of late, and you can feel your attention shifting the longer you keep up this dangerous game with his best friend.

If it even is a game, that is. It’s probably not. How could he possibly be attracted to you? You’re depressed. You’re boring. And, to top it all off, you’re his best friend’s wife.

Of course you’re the only participant. Bucky’s just humouring you. That’s all.

And now, as you swipe on some deodorant and attempt to make something out of the rat’s nest that is your hair, you feel a particularly awful level of disdain for yourself. The self-loathing pairs nicely with your poor appearance; you haven’t slept well in days, and you’ve barely eaten in just as long.

It’s only when Steve is here keeping you on a regular schedule that you do. Otherwise it’s a free for all anymore.

Bucky never seems to mind – just encourages you to go do what needs to be done when the conversation’s over. And somehow, you listen.

Sometimes he texts to ask if you’re doing okay while he’s away on a mission, too – and you always lie, because he can’t prove otherwise. He sends you a couple reminders anyway, because he just knows. He understands that you’d rather not burden him with the truth.

And then, when he comes back, he calls you out on your lie. He calls you out and reminds you how valuable you are – to Steve, mostly, and to the team. You’re irreplaceable. You’re needed.

He never says how important you are to him, but you always wish he would.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

Tonight will be no different. Despite your negative beliefs about yourself, he’ll tell you otherwise, but you won’t believe him. You never do, even though you desperately want to.

You’re a mess, so a beanie it is. You pull it over your tangled hair and somehow get your bangs looking presentable, at least; then you give your clothes the sniff test, spritz a little body spray just in case, and head out the door. You had a shower yesterday because even you couldn’t stand it anymore.

That’ll do.

Fingers tap anxiously at your feed in the quiet elevator. There’s some mild jazz playing, just like usual, but your heart pounds inside your chest – only brings more attention to your nerves.

Bucky hasn’t been gone long, but you’ve missed him.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

After exiting the elevator, a short flight of stairs takes you to the roof. Once you start to push, the fire exit door blows open of its own accord; it’s windy up here due to the change of seasons, not that you’ve even noticed it considering you haven’t been outside in over a week. The fresh air shoots straight through your hoodie and sweatpants, and you briskly rub your arms to warm up, immediately wishing you’d checked the temperature before you came outside, maybe grabbed a jacket. You hadn’t even thought of it. Your mind’s a mess.

Hadn’t thought of dinner, either. Or lunch.

That’s when a heavy leather jacket is deposited ungracefully on your shoulders, and you glance up behind you to find Bucky standing there, giving you the look. It’s the one that pre-empts the lecture. “That help?”

You nod, basking in the smell of him – sandalwood and spice. Ah. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He knows.

He can tell with just one look that you’ve been lying to him – that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you said you were. But he doesn’t reprimand you this time, or offer you platitudes; the disapproving look is enough.

Slippers on your feet, you pad over to the two lawn chairs he set up awhile back near the edge of the eastern wing; it’s got a nice view of the landing pad, but beyond that is the lake, and the two of you have come up here long enough to catch the sunrise once or twice. It’s nice.

“Good mission?” you ask, shoving your hands into your pockets as you collapse into your chair. It’s made of a terrible green fabric, seated low enough to the ground to let you curl your knees to your chest and cry when you want to. And you do. A lot.

This time, however, you’ve got your legs extended far ahead of you. You don’t want to talk about yourself tonight. You want to focus on him.

A distraction. That’s all. That’s what you try to tell yourself.

The other chair, woven blue and white, is where Bucky comes to rest just like always. You suspect that it was the cheapest one in the store, because it creaks and groans and you always think it’s going to break when he sits in it, but it never does. It’s also taller than yours, so you call him old man every now and then for it because that’s just hilarious.

It’s not flirting. It’s not.

Not even when you’ve nearly fallen into his lap on more than one occasion thanks to drinking beforehand.

“Well,” he starts hesitantly, pausing to consider his answer, “I made it back.”

His tone is soft – distant. Not a good mission, then.

“I’m glad you made it back,” you offer, giving him what you hope is a hopeful smile. It feels fake, but the intention behind it is real.

He studies your face for a moment or two, before he averts his eyes. “You’re probably the only one. I had to do some things on the mission that I—” He cuts himself off, then, and pulls the pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket to fiddle with. A crutch. “I don’t like to use my strength when I don’t have to. Makes people nervous.”

He’s told you about it before. By ‘people’ he means ‘agents’. Other agents. The ones he was working with, no doubt. As if his arm isn’t reminder enough, sometimes if he doesn’t hold back – well, they start to treat him a little differently after that. It’s a reminder that he’s not fully human.

You can empathize. “It’s a little shocking at first,” you remind him gently, “but you do get used to it. I did. It just takes some time.”

Of course, you also married a super soldier, so there’s that. You can’t really gauge what’s ‘normal’ anymore.

That’s when he cracks open the pack of cigarettes – half full, which means he must have been smoking on the mission, too, something he doesn’t usually do – and when he meets your eyes, the dark, anxious look there turns your stomach to knots.

“Are you?” he asks, voice low and laced with an emotion you just can’t place – or maybe you’re too afraid to acknowledge that you can, and very easily feel the same way. “I could break you in thirty ways before you could even tell me to stop.”

Your brain halts like a record scratch when the clear implication of his words sends a jolt straight to your core. Not just because it’s true, the threat, but because of the dangerous way he’s staring at you, coupled with the casual authority in his voice.

He could hurt you so easily, but you know he wouldn’t. Not you.

He could do other things, too – something a lot less violent and a lot more pleasurable – but you don’t let yourself consider that. You can’t. Even if it’s what he’s implying.

Is it what he’s implying?

You’re married. He knows that.

There’s a long pause while you try to gather your thoughts, until you finally manage as evenly as you can, “Are you trying to scare me?”

Your voice is still a little hoarse despite how much you willed it not to be. He did scare you a little – not that you’d ever admit it, because he excited you a hell of a lot more, and you hate that, too. But you love it even more.

Your question makes his shoulders slump, just slightly, just enough to let you know that that’s exactly what it was – that Bucky was lashing out, in his own way. That he’s the one who’s scared. That he’s trying to push you away.

Why?

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” you reassure him, because you aren’t. You could never be. Not like that. What you’re afraid of is so much worse than that – because it involves him and you, and you can’t make yourself stop wanting more of this. More of him. More of what he threatened to do to you – the underlying meaning you hope to god you’re not imagining, but you should never, ever want.

It’s wrong.

“You should be,” he responds, quiet, rolling the cigarette he’s half pulled out of the pack in between his fingers like he’s debating whether to light it, but he’s trying his hardest not to this time. “You shouldn’t be up here with me.”

The ball drops.

The truth that the two of you have been dancing around for months finally comes out, and you laugh – you laugh, because otherwise you’ll cry. “What are you talking about?”

“Darlin’, you’re—” he starts, and then lets out a frustrated sigh and shoves the cigarette right back in, shoves the pack shut too for good measure. Blue eyes burn into yours. “You know why.”

“We’re friends, Bucky,” you emphasize, lightly, but deep within your chest you can feel the anger, the anxiety start to burn and meld together into something entirely unrecognizable. It’s the tiniest ember now, but it won’t be if this keeps up. You know you’re married. You know that. You don’t need the reminder. “We’re just talking. What’s the problem?”

“Come on, sweetheart.” He’s calm, too calm, and it bothers you. “Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that.”

It’s just pretend. It’s not real. You’re happily married with Steve. You’re happy.

Right?

“That’s all it is,” you argue. “I’m married. You said so yourself. Steve and I are happily married.”

Saying it out loud is just another cold, brutal reminder that you aren’t. Just like the façade you’re forced to wear.

“Yeah? You’re happy?” Bucky asks, pulling himself to his feet – and you suddenly realize how tall he is when he’s towering over you like this. You’re not scared, no, you love it. And that makes it worse, the way he makes your heart race like this. “Then there’s gotta be a reason why you haven’t told him about our little talks.”

Because they’re more than that. That’s the reason.

“Well, why haven’t you?” you shoot back, finally getting to your feet, too, feeling your face flush with anger. “You haven’t told him either. Why’s that, huh?”

Tense silence falls over the two of you as you glare at each other, the only light illuminating your features coming from the full moon. It’s a beautiful night, clear and chilly and bright, and you originally had hopes of maybe stargazing with him like you’ve done so many times before.

Not tonight.

He’s pushing you away. He wants to push you away. You know he is, it’s obvious – he tried one approach, and when that didn’t work, he went for the thing he knew would invoke a reaction. The thing that would hurt the most.

Steve. Your marriage. Your happiness, or lack thereof.

No matter how many times you try to tell that to the rational side of your brain, you just can’t handle it. It’s another rejection from someone you cared about – someone you felt yourself growing a potentially unhealthy attachment to – and he just had to hurt you like all the rest. He wanted to hurt you. He wanted to see you suffer.

You can’t stand him.

So you shrug off his jacket and shove it at him. “Take your fucking jacket,” you bite out. “You want me gone? Well, I’m going. Hope you’re happy.”

The way he takes it from you catches you off guard, blue eyes wide with hurt and surprise – but you don’t give him another second of your time. Instead you spin around on your heel and stomp your way back to the access door.

You’re not well enough for this. You’re depressed. You’re broken. You’re lonely.

And now, the only person who understands has thrown you away – discarded you like you’re nothing. Maybe because you are. You’re worthless.

Your fingertips just brush against the handle when you’re tugged back by the wrist, and then his arms are around you, his chest pressing into your back.

He’s warm.

It’s wrong.

But it feels right, and you hate how easily you melt into his touch, into the feeling of his lips at your ear.

“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, and you’re done for.

The heat from your anger warps into something else – something that burns you up in a different way, and you swallow thickly at the feeling of his arms so snug around your waist. “What do you want, then?”

It’s barely audible, your question -- but he hears it just fine. Soft lips drag from your ear to your pulse, and you shiver, lulling your head back onto his shoulder.

“You tell me,” Bucky breathes against your skin. “I need to know what you want.”

The two of you are playing a dangerous game, and the stakes are only getting higher. You both have a lot to lose, but you’re the one taking the higher risk. Not him.

“I want—” His teeth gently nip at your neck and you can’t help yourself. “I want you—”

And then your back is pressed into the closed door, cold metal biting through your sweats but you don’t even notice, too focused on the feeling of his lips on yours. They’re soft and ever-so-slightly chapped, and his stubble scratches just a little, pleasantly, just enough to hurt in the best way.

It’s hot, too hot, god, you can’t handle the heat of his body against yours—

“Bucky,” you gasp against his lips, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers carding through his hair to pull him closer. You can taste with the barest bite of mint from his gum, along with the slightest hint of cigarette smoke, and you realize—

He must have been up here for awhile.

Overthinking. Wondering what to do. Lost in thoughts of you, perhaps.

The idea of it sends a rush of delirium through you, and you open your mouth just enough to let his tongue explore – or dominate, which you soon find you like very much when Bucky does it to you. His flesh hand cups the side of your face as he kisses the breath out of you, and his vibranium one snugly presses into your lower back – purposely, you soon find, because suddenly your knees go weak and your arms tighten around his neck to catch yourself from falling.

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Oh, wow. That’s never happened before.”

“First time for everything,” he teases, kissing your forehead as he steadies you back on both feet – and it’s then that the realness of the situation seems to sink in.

You’ve just cheated on your husband.

He’s just kissed his best friend’s wife.

There’s a prolonged silence as the two of you look at each other, watching, wondering, waiting, and then—

“We have to tell him,” you say, a little uneasily. “Just… not yet. Figure this out first.”

You can feel the desperation to see where this leads, no matter what a bad idea it is.

Bucky swallows. It’s clear that the prospect of lying to Steve bothers Bucky just as much as it bothers you, but you know he feels that same desperation when he suggests, “And if it turns out to be nothing, then…”

“Yeah. No harm, no foul.”

You won’t tell him. Because if it’s nothing, then it’s not worth worrying about.

Even if it’s wrong.

Right?

two

and a moodboard I made because why not

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes

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poison--ivory · 4 years

Text

Uninviting Cataclysm (Alastor x Reader) Chapter 2

June 16, 1915 (Monday)

Ten days have gone by since the radio man has offered me a job here at his studio. I still can't shake the chill of his touch. I heard rumors he could use voodoo because of his creole background, but I didn't want to judge too quickly.

____________________________________________

"You want me to work for you. But, why?"

"Of course! You look perfect for the job, darling.” His grin widen to surprising width. Pearly white teeth glistening from the light radiating off them.

"What can I possibly do that might help you?" Cocking your head to the left. Eyes drifting from his gazed. Not daring to meet his eyes.

Snapping his fingers your brain compelled you to look up at his eyes. Looking pleased he folded his hand on top of the other. "You'll do menial work like organizing files, coffee runs, rereading my manuscript before each show and working for me until I say otherwise."

Eyes still fixated on him you tried to pry them off, but like a mouse being hypnotized by a snake. You felt as though you were compelled to keep your eyes up or he'll swallow you whole.

"Will it pay well?" Your voice sounded faded and small. But, your surprised he heard you.

"Why my dear, of course I'll pay you generously." Rolling his eyes and they drifted off for bit before shooting back on you. You straighten your back and inhaled sharply. Throat getting dryer each second he looks at you. The air felt like it got thicker and heavier, you felt like you were drowning. "So, darling do we have a deal." His arm stretched out in front of his body and again your body moved by itself. Taking his hand with yours and gave it a good couple of shakes. A sharp jolt shot up your arm.

You could of sworn you saw a green light emitting from his hand trailing slowly to my hand. My body felt like it was on fire heating up with each passing second. Then, as soon as it stared it went away leaving a loitering coolness behind. It all ended with the waitress nearly slamming the plate down in front of me and gently placing Alastor's right in front him. He thanked her and she walked off giggling with a huge array of red on her cheeks.

Body shaking slightly you tried picking up your fork. His gaze was still on you waiting for you try yours first.

'What the fuck was that?"

_____________________________________________

Ever since then I tried to keep my distance from him outside of work, but he insisted he should drive me home each night. Because of the killings going on and that a lady should be accompanied home by a fine gentleman like himself. Reasoning with him was out of the question. I told him no before and his face made me regret even thinking about turning down his offers. What made it even more terrifying he kept that sickening smile on the whole time. I still have the bruise from when he pinned me to the wall. I hide it from my family I haven't really been speaking to them for a couple of days now. They have their own problems and what use do I have to burden them with my own situation.

Thinking about it Mimzy's always looked happy to talk to Alastor without hesitation. From what I know she really idolizes him.

'I wonder if Mimzy's treated like this. If she was she doesn't really act scared.'

The light that read 'air' went off and a sense of dread flew throughout your body. Before getting up he always fixed his hair and loosened his bow tie. Smiling he walked out the studio with a pep to his step. Making eye contact you managed a smile on your lips before he pulled you towards him and gave your body a small twirl.

"Can you please take me home, Al. I'm quiet tired." You weren't lying it was a long night shift and with the gruesome story telling of another murder. You just wanted the day to end so you could sleep in your lovely bed.

"Oh, did I not tell you dear." He tilted his head and that smiled stretched . "I'm taking you out for a night on the town." The excitement in his voice was kind of sickening.

"B-but I-" was interrupted by him dragging me along with him down the hall and waiting upon the arriving elevator. Looking up to speak with him again you noted the look on his features and decided not to question anymore. Stepping into the elevator you both made it downstairs and straight into the lobby. The old lady at the front waved us both a good night, she herself already getting ready to leave and retire for the night.

Alastor's car was waiting outside like usual and he finally took his hold off of me to open the passenger door. Thanking him you sat yourself in and leaned more to the window when Al got on the driver side. Smirking he pulled off in the opposite direction of my neighborhood. Even though your already out you still feel like you should call home and tell them your gonna be out for I hope a short while.

Passing by fancy light up signs and all sorts of folk walking around from building to building. A couple of bands were setting up their instruments into backs of cars. Groups of friends making good memories of their youth by drinking it away with silly juice.

"Where are we going this late?" You know people party after this hour, but you never really expected him to be a party type. Well maybe his attitude changed after a couple of drinks or can he hold his liquor. I guess you were going to see another side of him this night.

"Our dear, Mimzy's is singing at a local bar tonight and she wanted me to invite you as well." Looking at me from the corner of his eyes, then trailing them back to the road in front. "She never really opens up to most of my dame friends. I guess she's taking a liking to you."

"She's sounds pretty protective." To be completely honest with yourself you've never been in lady drama before. So, you couldn't tell if she liked him as a brother or a man. The glares from now and again would tip you off, but her inviting you to her show sound friendlier than her usual self when she's around you. Though for all you know Al brought you up in conversation and she got the idea from him.

"She does cares a great deal for me, she's one of the few of my close friends." He gave a short chuckle, which sounded more of rumble that came from his chest.

"How long are we going to out for, because I don't wanna worry my family." Messing with your small fingers, you kept you gaze lowered afraid of being put under that overwhelming fear again.

Instead answering he laughed and gave the steering wheel a firmer grip. "All you do is ask questions, darling." An arm reached out and cupped my cheek with his gloved hand. "No need to worry that pretty little head. Time does fly by when your having fun."

He gave my cheek a small tap and slowly withdrew his hands. Not before dragging it across my neck at a snails pace. Then, placed it back on the wheel.

_____________________________________________

"Here we are my dear." The place looked like any other bar. This doesn't look like the sort of place for someone like Mimzy to sing her songs.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Squinting you couldn't find the appeal of taking any business here.

"Don't judge a book by it appearance, my dear. It's what's on the inside that counts." He was right next to your ear, hot breath on the shell of your ear. Making you jerk to the side holding your right ear in protection. Before you could protest he entangled his arm with yours and pulled you towards the run down building.

The place was nearly empty besides the drunken gents at the bar and the few in small booths. Alastor lead me to back where a single man stood pressed against the door. He made eye contact with Al and stuck his hand out for him to shake. Smirking he met his grip and they both started a weird and complex handshake. The man groaned and stepped to the side.

"Play nice, Al." He shot him side glare. "I Don't wanna clean another room."

"Oh, don't you worry my friend. I have a doll tonight, why would I cause trouble." With a narrowed eyed smile to his face and jester me inside. If I couldn't hear music before I can clearly hear it now. All sorts of instruments playing. Smiling I bobbed my head to a certain beat matching with anyone of the instruments. The grip that was on my arm was gone and replaced on my waist by the tall gent. He was smirking down at me, then looked back in front of himself leading us down, deeper until the music was blaring into my ear canals.

'So this what a real club looks like. So nice besides the drunk people.'

Alastor lead me deeper into the crowd passing people who seem to moved out the way for Al and he sat me down at the bar.

Bopping my nose he turned the seat around to face the man serving the drinks at this bar. "This fine man here is, Husker. He serves refreshments at this fine establishment." Looking up at the man he looked like he never got a wick of sleep with rough, black stubble on his face. Combed back black hair and even though he looked around Al's age (20), he looks like he doesn't take the best care for himself and looks about twenty-nine going into the mid thirty area. "She's the one I've been talking about lately." His full attention's on the male now who only nodded and continued cleaning shot glasses.

"Shouldn't you be gettin' ready." His gruff voice sent delightful shivers down your spine.

"Oh, why yes! I nearly forgot!" Detaching his arm from my waist he turn towards the crowd.

Al's gaze reached out across the tables and he stopped on on particular person. "Husker my dear friend. Do you mind watching over this little doe for me." He fixed his bow tie and fluffed his hair. "I have something I need to do before show time."

Before I knew it he disappeared into the mass of people and went to the lower platform. Looking back at Husker you only managed a small wave, and tried to make eye contact. Finding his eyes more easier to fall upon.

"So, you want anything to drink?" His gruff voice hardly reached your ears, but you still made some words.

"Anything without alcohol or water, please." Smiling you tried to make good first impressions. He reached behind the counter to fill you glass with seltzer water. Sliding the medium sized cup towards you. Nodding your head in thanks you took a small sip. Little bubbles splashed your upper lip and unladylike of you wiped it off with the back of your hand.

"So, how long have you known Alastor. I only know him for ten days." Taking another gulp of seltzer.

"Eh, a few years." He gave a guy his stiff drink before turning attention back onto me. "He's been talking about ya non stop and it's fucking annoying."

I really don't see what's so interesting about me to talk to his friends about. "Oh, really. What about? I hope it's good things." Actually curious you leaned forward. From the way he treats you expect him to tell them that your doormat and easy to walk on.

"Fucking weirdo talks about courtin' ya and told him your just gonna scare the lass off." Your whole body froze. "Don't know if he actually doing it though. Is he?"

Courting. You've never been courted before, maybe the occasional flirt from guy friends and wolf whistles from men walking down the street. But, letting someone become a candidate for marriage. To actual know that someone thought about you in that light made you feel special. No one wanted you in that way, to flirt or fuck yes, but you never gave into those whims. Most guys white or black didn't like your skin tone, but loved your body. A lot of women hated your body and skin tone they always mentioned it when talking behind your back.

"You don look black or white."

Your just the spectrum floating in between.

"So, you know how to play cards." Changing the subject entirely and pulling out his deck of cards.

"No, but my papa plays some poker with his friends. I always wanted to learn." He started shuffling the deck a smirk started to form across his face.

"I can see why he likes ya now." Sliding out cards like it was second nature and collected his bunch. "Ya gonna pick up your cards, so I can teach ya or what?"

Quickly snatching up the cards you let Husk take the reigns. He taught you has much of his tricks he knows and the rules.

_____________________________________________

Jolting out of thought Husker motioned towards the stage. Stacking the deck back into its rightful compartment. He put his pointer finger to his lips to tell me to keep quiet. Looking at the stage, Alastor stood front and center. People's attention solely on one man. Tapping his microphone he announced himself loud and proud, no mistakes.

"Now let me introduce you to the one all of you love to hear. Who most of you are present to hear. Her voice could leave anyone entranced. Here we have Mimzy's the Miracle!"

The audience clapping and shouting for Mimzy to come out. Deciding to join in on the fun you started clapping louder. Before, you knew it she stepped out on stage and some collared men whistled. Alastor stepped off stage, you couldn't really see from this angle where he was at.

(Using a song not of this period)

You had plenty money 1902

You let other women make a

Fool of you

Why don't you do right,

Like some other men do?

Get out of here and

Get me some money too

Your sitting here won drink

What it's all about

You ain't got no money

They will put you out

Why don't you do right,

Like some other men do?

Get out of here and

Get me some money too

If you had prepared

Twenty years ago

You would be a-wander'

From door to door

Why don't you do right,

Like some other men do?

Get out of here and

Get me some money too

Oooh oh ah

Why don't you do right,

Like some other men do?

Oooh ahhoh ah

Claps ensued after even louder than the music from earlier. The grin on my face grew and my chest felt so, light and warm. I didn't even notice Alastor sitting next to me until he rested his arm around my waist pulling himself close to frame. Smiling up at him my heart skipped a beat just looking at his face.

Thinking about the conversation from early with Husk my face heated up faster than a bullet cutting through air.

While Mimzy was getting ready for another song. I looked up at Alastor who was already smiling done at me. My heart started pacing, no one has ever deemed you worthy for courting.

Why are feeling this way now, you didn't like him a few hours ago and now you feel like throwing up rainbows.

"What's on your mind, my darling (y/n)." The smirk on his face looks more appealing now. It's making your heart flutter. "Did you and Husker get along liked I hoped."

"Yes, we did, but he told me something that made me question your intentions with me." His smile faltered and he tensed up for just a few, short minutes. "Is it true you wanted to court me, Al."

Staring directly at him, you witness his face go into freeze mode with a few blinks here and there.

Bringing your hand up to touch him your wrist was caught within his hand. He squeezed your wrist with such constriction that you felt you whole hand go numb.

"My dear, what do you think this evening was for. Introducing you to my few friends is just the first steps of my courting ritual." His arm still around my waist he started dragging me out the club.

Before, leaving you look behind to wave Husk off, surprised to get one back in return. Maybe you can be friends with these people after all.

Once you left out of earshot Husk groaned to himself and pulled on his face to relieve some stress.

"She should of stayed away from the bastard."

_____________________________________________

Stepping outside you realized how warm the club's inside was. The cool air making chills go up your spine. But, like this whole night Al pulled you over to his car.

Opening the car door for you and, then situated himself in. Sitting in silence for a minute or two. He leaned over the into the passenger seat and gave the outside of your lips a kiss. A squeak of surprise exerted from your throat. Smirking to himself about the dumbfounded look on your face he went in to give your lips a kiss. Eyes still wide you tried to get into a more comfortable head tilt, before you finally found it.

Smiling into the kiss you can feel his hand caressing your face. His lips feel dry and chapped, but you don't mind. This is probably the most intimate time you'll ever have with a man.

I just didn't know about the monster that was awaiting around the corner.

#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel au #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #period typical racism #courting #husker hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel mimzy #human au #1920s #human alastor #human husker #human mimzy

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cheemerthelizard · 4 years

Text

Trauma and Toxicity (Jotaro x Reader)

Tw: verbal abuse, almost physical abuse. Survival AU, but everyone is suffering from lots of PTSD.

You had done it. Dio was gone. You and your friends were on the brink of death so many times, but you all made it out alive, and you couldn’t be more grateful. Plus, now that everything was over, Jotaro told you about his feelings for you, and how he was hiding them to focus on the mission. You couldn’t have been more surprised, but you immediately accepted. It may have been tough, but now that Dio had been defeated, life was starting to get better again.

At least, it should have.

You and everyone else were swamped with trauma, making it hard to do anything anymore. Jotaro didn’t put up with his fangirls anymore, and got suspended multiple times for beating a girl up. Kakyoin became an empty shell, no longer doing the things he loved, since they reminded him of the trip to Egypt. You didn’t see what happened to Joseph, Avdol, or Polnareff, but you were told it hit them hard, too.

And you? Well, you actively tried doing things to forget about the trip, but that was really hard, since your only friends were still stuck thinking about Egypt. That, and your boyfriend wasn’t really being as sensitive as he should be, yelling at you multiple times. You felt like you were constantly walking on eggshells when you said just about anything.

Today, you, Kakyoin, and Jotaro were hanging out after school at the corner store, looking for a small snack.

“I think I’ll take some strawberries,” Kakyoin thought out loud.

“Strawberries?” you asked. “But I thought cherries were your favorite.”

“Not after Egypt,” Kakyoin sighed. “I can’t eat one without thinking about our trip.”

“Oh,” you mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I think I’ll take some cherries, though, that sounds good.”

“Right after Kakyoin told you about how they make his trauma flare up?” Jotaro asked. “You’re so insensitive sometimes, did you know that?”

“Jotaro, it’s okay, she’s allowed to-” Kakyoin started to say, but was cut off.

“He clearly stated that he can’t eat one without thinking about Egypt, and you know how stressed we all get thinking about Egypt! Do you think about anyone else except for you?”

“I’m sorry,” you squeaked, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it, (Y/N)! You’re so selfish! Why am I even dating you if all you think about is what you want, what makes you happy, you, you, you! What about me? What about Kakyoin? What about that kid across the street? You never think about others’ feelings when you do anything! Maybe you need a lesson in caring about other people!”

“Jotaro, calm down,” Kakyoin intoned. “She didn’t mean anything by it, I’m not offended or anything.”

“I won’t calm down until she’s learned that actions can hurt others!” Jotaro seethed, summoning Star Platinum. “I don’t care if it’s menally or physically!”

“Jotaro, that’s enough!” Kakyoin pulled you away just in time to avoid being hit by Star’s fist. When the shock of being yelled at and threatened to be beaten to a pulp finally settled in, your tears poured out, and you desperately clung to Kakyoin for safety. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her? I understand some people like cherries, and it’s not when I hear the word that I think about Egypt. It’s only when I taste it. You’re the one who made a big deal out of it. She’s not only your girlfriend, but a living, breathing, human being. I think she needs some time away from you.”

After that, Kakyoin put an arm around you, shielding you from Jotaro in case he tried anything, and walked down the sidewalk, letting you cry.

“Why did I have to have feelings for Jotaro?” you asked yourself. “I could have had feelings for a different guy, but instead I got feelings for a person who gets angry instead of sad, or afraid, or anything else! I could have gotten feelings for you, Kakyoin.”

“Oh, no, I’m not much better than Jotaro,” Kakyoin chuckled. “Apathy is almost as bad as anger.”

“I want to end our relationship,” you mumbled. “I just want to stop feeling like I’m saying something wrong as soon as I open my mouth, and the only way to do that is to break up with him. But I can’t. I still love Jotaro, and the last thing he needs is a breakup.”

“(Y/N), no, you’re missing the point,” Kakyoin said. “The last thing you need right now is to stay with him. Just because someone is going through something doesn’t mean you have to put up with abuse, verbal or physical.”

Just thinking about the fact that the only way to get away from Jotaro’s toxicity was to break up was sending you to tears again.

“I know, I know,” Kakyoin consoled, using both of his hands to wrap you up in a hug. “It’s hard having the courage to end a relationship, even if it’s a toxic relationship. But you have to.”

“But I can’t,” you bawled. “I can’t do it!”

“(Y/N),” Kakyoin lifted up your chin so you had to look in his eyes. “You’re strong. You can do this. I believe in you.”

“But I don’t believe in myself,” you whimpered. “And I’m scared. I’m scared to confront Jotaro at all.”

“Well, we don’t have to confront him right now,” Kakyoin clarified. “Honestly, I’d be too scared to even approach him. He’s scary when he’s mad. Maybe later, when both of you have calmed down. But you have to do it. I can’t tell him for you.”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes. “Okay,” you said. “I’ll do it tonight.”

“Good, good,” Kakyoin ruffled your hair, and started walking off. “Take care of yourself, alright? You’re the only one of us with hope of getting over this.”

“I will,” you promised. “Bye, Kakyoin!”

“Bye!”

You made a promise. Not just to Kakyoin, but to yourself. You would get out of this relationship, no matter what.

Is what you said in the afternoon. Now that it was actually time, you couldn’t even get yourself to knock on Jotaro’s door.

“Take your time,” Kakyoin consoled, standing right next to you. “I know you can do this.”

With a shaking hand, you rapped your knuckles on the door, then brought your arm back down.

“Oh, well, I guess he’s not here,” you shrugged after no more than two seconds of waiting. However, before you could run off and get away, Kakyoin grabbed you with Hierophant.

“You aren’t just going to avoid this forever, you know,” he told you.

“I was kind of hoping I was,” you mumbled. Then, when you looked up, the door had opened, to reveal none other than Jotaro himself.

“(Y/N). Just the person I needed to talk to,” he said. “Do you want to come in or just stand outside?”

“I think I’d rather be outside,” you answered. Kakyoin took that as his queue to leave the two of you alone, and mouthed “good luck” before he walked away.

“Jotaro, I don’t think-”

“No, please, let me start,” Jotaro interrupted. “Look, I’ve noticed that I haven’t been very nice recently.”

“Yeah, that’s a given,” you whispered.

“And I know that you know that I haven’t been very nice. I’ve been using trauma as an excuse for my behavior, but trauma doesn’t mean I can just treat you like trash. I mean it from the bottom of my heart, I’m truly sorry. But I know if you stay with me, I’ll keep yelling at you. And that’s why… I need to end this relationship, right here, right now.”

After Jotaro poured his heart out for you, you didn’t have the strength to tell him that you were coming to say the same thing. “I understand,” you deadpanned. “I’m gonna miss you.”

As you waved goodbye to Jotaro, you caught sight of Kakyoin hiding in an alleyway.

“You heard the whole thing, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Kakyoin admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You were just looking out for me. I appreciate that.”

“Thanks,” Kakyoin smiled. Both of you walked in silence for a moment before Kakyoin spoke up again. “Hey, this may seem a bit weird, but do you want to go to the arcade tomorrow?”

“I thought videogames reminded you of Egypt,” you replied.

“They do. But I’ve been thinking, what if I replace those bad memories with good ones? What if I can’t think of Terrence T. D’arby and my soul being trapped inside a doll because I’m too busy thinking about the fun times I had with my friend? I don’t want to be a husk of who I was. I want to live. And I want you to see me start to live again.”

“That sounds like a really good idea,” you laughed. “Count me in!”

And the two of you walked the rest of the way home, smiling for the first time in months.

#jotaro #jotaro kujo #kujo jotaro #jotaro x reader #stardust crusaders #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure x reader

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starkeristheendgame · 5 years

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Complicated Boyfriends and Cute Waiters

Just a little something for @starkerchemistry for all the love she threw at Complicated Boyfriends and Kidnapping. Also, pls reminds Chems of how amazing her work is bc the lil shit disagrees >:( Also for @starkerintheparker because I keep converting her to WinterSpider >;D WinterIronSpider.

Tony takes one look at his waiter and sighs heavily.

Not because there’s anything wrong; no. In fact, the plush lips and the shaped jaw and the mop of curls desperately styled into something resembling purposeful mess is actually quite pleasing. The large, honey eyes that widen in recognition don’t hurt either.

No. It’s because Tony knows Bucky is going to take one look at this twinky little slip in his smart shirt and his tie and he’s going to want.

And Tony so had been looking forwards to a quiet evening. A little wine, some $80 salmon and perhaps even getting dicked down into the next fortnight by his boyfriend. The standard casual night in.

“Mr. Iron Stark” the boy whelped, and immediately flushed scarlet at his mishap. Tony could only smile quietly into his book, endeared if a little mollified.

“I think ‘Tony’ would suffice” he responded demurely, sliding the bookmark into place and setting his book aside. The boy was now stood bolt upright, and had obviously steeled himself into giving the Best Service Ever, though he looked a little like he might crumble if Tony so much as looked at him for too long.

“Oh, god. Right. Yes. Mr - I mean, Tony. Of course. I’m sorry, I’ve only just started this job and I’m not used to...” The boy trailed off, clearly trying to think of a way to say ‘people like you’ without it coming across as a little insulting. Tony flashed him an easy, warm smile.

“Breathe, kid. I’m just like anyone else in person, I promise. How about you start me off with a nice, fruity red bottle and two double Presidential 25′s, if that’s okay? Take your time; Lord knows my boyfriend certainly is” he teased, head tipping as he disarmed the boy with another dazzling smile.

His waiter could only gape, before he shut his mouth with a painful sounding clack and spun on his heel, fleeing to the nether-regions of the employee zone. Tony gave an amused sound as he checked his phone. It wasn’t like Bucky to run late; that was Tony’s thing.

And then, like Beetlejuice and undoubtedly because Tony had been thinking of him, Bucky came sauntering into the restaurant like some sort of underwear model. His suit was a deep, silken black with a slightly lighter floral pattern in the fabric, the jacket hanging artfully off his shoulders as he swept the room for his lover.

His hair was styled neatly, and Tony still loved the more modernised cut that he’d opted for; longer on one side, layered and fluffy with bangs that fell over one eye constantly. His stubble was a neat shadow on his jaw, and his eyes focused on Tony with such intensity as he approached that Tony lifted a brow.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to out-do me” Tony greeted as he leaned back in his seat, enough that Bucky could duck down and suck his lower lip into his mouth for a brief but promising kiss.

“Actually, I’m just trying to do you” Bucky shot back shamelessly as he slid into his seat, one leg immediately finding Tony’s under the table to press against. Tony gave an indignant sound, because it was both a truth and a lie, but let it go as movement caught the corner of his eye. Much as he wanted to watch the boy approach, he turned back to Bucky.

Storm-grey eyes slid away, following the path his own had left, and oh, yes. There it was. The subtle up-down of Bucky’s lashes as he sized up the boy, the curl of a smirk at the corners of his mouth. Bucky’s gaze drifted back to Tony in an undeniable stake of predator-prey. Tony could only tip his head in response, smirking slowly.

“H-here. I’m so sorry it took a while” the boy fretted, balancing a tray neatly on one hand as he set a tumbler of whiskey opposite each man, complete with artful glass freezer cubes and an empty, polished wine glass besides that, setting the bottle of red - freshly corked - in the centre of the table. He had to lean over a little to do so, and you would have had to be blind to miss the way that Bucky leaned back to sweep over his body.

“What did I say, darling? Treat me like any other rich shmuck in this place. And don’t mind him, he only bites if you ask nicely” Tony hummed, gesturing to his boyfriend, who eyed him both like he wanted to throttle him and kiss him senseless. In Tony’s experience they often came one with the other regardless.

“I - Sorry?” It came out as a question, but the boy was flushed from hairline to shirt collar and fumbled with his notepad, hands a little shaky as he produced a pen from his breast pocket. “Um, are you ready to order? Or would you like me to give you another minute?” He asked, and it was impossible to miss the way his gaze flit between them, eyes raking their bodies like they were two cuts of steak he was trying to decide between.

“Oh, I think Bucky knows what he wants, alright” Tony purred in obvious, gleeful amusement. Bucky smiled at him in a flash of canine, but didn’t miss a beat as he tipped his head back, eyeing the waiter with a charming smile.

“I’ll settle for the stripped, gold-crust steak served rare, and your name, since this moron was clearly too impolite to ask”. And ooohhhh, wasn’t that a low blow to gain favour? Tony pressed the toes of his Louboutin’s into Bucky’s own none too gently.

“Peter” the waiter blurted, eyes flitting between them as he scribbled down Bucky’s order in impressive short-hand, gaze drifting to Tony, who only smiled serenely at his boyfriend.

“You’re so predictable. Always going for the tender, high-class meat. Always liking it raw” Tony purred, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about the steak. Bucky only gave an elegant shrug in response; at a loss to deny it. Peter was looking between them again, vaguely like he might know they were talking about sex, but unable to address it.

“What can I say? I like something solid to sink my teeth into. I like a little juice to lick at and taste. And you of all people know I prefer it raw” Bucky replied steadily, gaze not leaving Tony’s.

“I’ll have the salmon, please, Peter.” Tony hummed, gaze leaving Bucky to look sweetly up at the boy, who nodded and turned, striding away like he was desperate to run away. Tony let his gaze drop back to Bucky. “Less wolf, more fox. He’s a skittish young thing. Haven’t I taught you anything about hunting?” He sighed in mock admonishment and Bucky reached across the table to cup his jaw, smirking.

“Doll, I was fucking people in back-alleys long before you were born. You taught me nothing, old man”. And, well. Rude. “You’re right, though. We might spook him off at this rate. Last time I saw someone that red it was Clint, and he was choking on a mint”. Bucky leaned back, picking up his whiskey and taking an indulgent sip.

They made comfortable small-talk over the time it took for their meals to arrive, Tony lamenting the boredom he’d faced at the quarterly performance review and Bucky noting the progress he and Steve were making with their veteran programs. Tony was proud of his man, really. He’d come so far since Steve had shown up at the Tower with him, both sopping wet and bloodied.

Peter came back no longer than ten minutes later, a plate upon each hand. He delivered Tony’s first, bending down to slide the plate onto the table, and Tony couldn’t resist leaning over, flashing a sweet smile at the boy up close, where he could see flacks of green in his eyes. “Thank you, darling” he murmured, and Peter’s cheeks went red yet again, like Tony simply speaking to him was an activation button for a blush.

Bucky, the brat, had to go one extra. Instead of giving Peter room when the boy bent down he crowded in close, practically licking the shell of the boy’s ear as he whispered a sultry "Thanks, Doll”. Peter’s gaze jerked to Tony, alarmed, but Tony only half-rolled his eyes and picked up a delicate mouthful of smoked salmon.

“You’re a pest” he noted, once Peter had stammered his way into retreating once more. “I had a quiet evening planned” he added, as though it mattered. It didn’t. This practically was his quiet evening, he just now had two desserts instead of one. By the way Bucky eyed him, he knew that, too.

“Shut up and eat your fish” Bucky drawled, popping a cut of dripping steak with tiny flecks of gold powder into his mouth. Obnoxious prat.

But Tony did as told, polishing off the salmon and whiskey both, and filling their wine glasses with a generous serving. It was sweet and rich, just his taste, and he wondered if another waiter hadn’t advised Peter on which choice to bring. “So. The choice is yours” he announced after a pause, when Bucky had finished his own meal and was sniffing daintily at the wine.

“You wanna play sheepdog, or am I?” Bucky asks in answer, lips curving into a wicked smirk that has Tony grinning in response, leg twisting around Bucky’s in a hidden touch. Tony shifted his wine glass in response, allowing a few measly drops to fall onto the edge of his jacket. Good thing he wore grey and hated this suit anyway, because that red wasn’t gonna come out.

Bucky only rolled his eyes, because they’d played this game before, and pushed to his feet. “Woof woof, bitch” Bucky murmured, low into Tony’s ear as he passed, and Tony resisted the urge to drag him back by his hair, to put him on his knees right then. Largely because of he had one more PR disaster this month Pepper got his custom Audi, and he only had four days to go.

It took another short collection of minutes for Peter to come practically skipping over; during which Tony had splashed a few more drops for good measure. “Oh, Peter. D’you think you could help a clumsy old man out? Buck’s gone on a phonecall and I tipped my wine” Tony pouted, putting on his best helpless, sweet aura. Peter’s eyes zeroed in on the red splashed at his hips, tongue peeking out like the solution was to lick it clean.

“Of course! I can - I’ll see if there’s any stuff behind the bar? I can be right back” Peter breathed, but Tony shook his head, pushing to stand. Peter’s eyes are wide now, like a startled deer. They’re stood close enough for Tony to note he has almost a full head on the boy. For a man who’s boyfriend towered over him, it made him rather smug.

“Oh, no need for all of that. Just come to the men’s with me to help me dab the wet patches, hm? At least I won’t reek like a wine cellar on the way home”. He added a charming smile for good measure, turning on his heel. He didn’t need to look to know Peter would follow obediently. Refusing Tony Stark wasn’t good for business, after-all.

Bucky is perfectly concealed when he swings the door open, shrugging out of his jacket and listening to the clack of another polished shoe on the tiles as Peter steps in after him, practically vibrating with nervous energy. Tony carelessly draped his jacket over the edge of the sink and begun to run the tap, because what was a story without details?

Peter hovered closer, clearly unsure of why it would take two men to wash a jacket. “I - What do you need me to do, Mr. Stark?” The boy asks not a moment later, and Tony can’t bite back a grin. Peter has wandered around to his right, which means when Bucky makes his dramatic entrance, it’s gonna be behind the kid.

“Oh, nothing you don’t want to, darling. But if you do want to, then just stand there and let me make you feel good, hm?” He asked, head tilting as he turned off the tap and took a step closer. The hitch of Peter’s breath is audible.

He doesn’t step away, though. Interesting.

“Y-You’re here with your boyfriend” Peter whimpered, even as Tony’s hands came up to his shoulders and chest, petting gently. He trembled under the touch, but didn’t back away, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Over Peter’s shoulder Tony can see Bucky swing around the edge of a stall door, prowling quietly closer, but he doesn’t dare look up, doesn’t dare alert Peter of the predator at his heels.

“I wouldn’t worry about hurting my feelings, Doll” Bucky purred, low and raspy in Peter’s ear as he pressed up against Peter’s back, until the boy was a pretty little sandwich filler. Peter actually yelped, driving forwards into Tony’s chest, and Tony let his hands fall to slim hips, holding him steady.

“Now, Bucky” he chided, voice softening. “What do we do before we play?” He asked, arching a brow as Peter panted between them. Bucky cast him a pouty but gentle look.

“We ask for consent” he hummed, metal hand reaching up to gently brush aside a curl when Peter whipped around to face him, lips parted.

“Good boy” Tony murmured, gaze dropping back to Peter. They take a step away from him in unison, giving the poor thing some room to breathe. “So. That means you can tell us to stop, and we’ll walk out, pay our bill, and we won’t approach you this way again. Or...You can say yes, and we’ll be gentle, but we’ll make you feel good” he continued.

Peter shifted between them, looking cautious but also like he was two breaths away from sinking to his knees. His voice is small, rough when he finally speaks. “If...What will you do? To make me feel good?” He whispered, and Tony and Bucky wore matching, slow smirks.

“Well. I’m more of a practical person” Tony drawled, eyes roaming Peter’s face for confirmation. He found it in a weak nod, the boy’s pupils blowing as he advanced closer and reached out, him and Bucky closing Peter between them once again. Peter was small between them, lips bitten and eyes wild as Bucky reached down, sliding metal fingers along the curve of his ass and between his thighs, rubbing there like you’d finger a girl, his other hand winding around to press flat over Peter’s stomach.

A wrecked, torn sound slips from Peter’s throat, practically collapsing against Bucky as Tony’s hand dripped down, palming over the half-hard bulge there none too teasingly, the other hand cupping his jaw and tipping his head.

“We’ve maybe got five minutes or less” Tony breathed, licking into the corner of Peter’s plush, pink mouth as Bucky pressed up against him, dropping to mouth at his neck. “I can think of a few things to do”.

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cheemers-writing-archive · 4 years

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Trauma and Toxicity