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lizzobetumblin · 7 months ago

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Melissa hated her feelings.

She buried them in a chest in the 5th grade (along with her ability to express them). Other peoples' feelings on the other hand was her forte. She could process, decipher and regurgitate other peoples emotions effortlessly. This gift could’ve taken her through college, all the way to a degree in psychology. Distinguished Dr. Jefferson with a PhD and a cozy office and impressive roster of high-profile, weallthy clients was a shiny idea. Fate would have a different hand for Melissa her talents were exhausted on mediating family fights, friend group drama, and charming her way out of confronting her own feelings.

“Feelings.” Even saying it out loud to herself seemed silly. Something reserved for ‘cry babies’ and water signs. Typical Sunday nights started tame, reading or writing fan-fiction and drinking cranapple juice. And then like clock work her father would yell her name,

‘MELISSA!!!’ Emotionless, she’d get up dust off her Winnie the Pooh shorts and make her way downstairs. On the long walk down the hall to the stairs leading to the living room brawl, she’d go through her check list:

1.) Don’t cry.

2.) Stay neutral; Deescalate

3.)Don’t take anything personal. This isn’t about you

She padded down the carpeted stairs in her old soft socks to see her mother tightlipped and tear streaked thinking,

‘she broke rule number 1’. Her father, Michael was proud and angry, his big belly filled with self righteousness. She knew he would be unyielding in his resolve and at this point her only option was to deescalate.

‘Rule number 2’. Then her sister the water sign and calamity for the evening sat on the floor nearly fetal, face red and raw with emotion.

‘Its not your fault’ Melissa wanted to say ‘You just didn’t follow the rules… you’re loved.’ But she couldn’t say that because she’d be breaking rule number 3. It wasn’t about how Melissa felt. Even though she felt like screaming,

“VANESSA, YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. DAD—YOU JUST HAVE PENT UP ANGER BECAUSE YOU GREW UP IN THE HOOD OF DETROIT AS A BLACK MAN IN THE 60s AND 70s. YOU NEED A HEALTHY OUTLET LIKE.. I DONT KNOW… THERAPY?!?!?! THIS IS A WASTE OF ALL OF OUR TIME. I LITERALLY JUST WROTE THE BEST SAILOR SATURN x CHIBI USA FANFICTION EVER AND THIS IS KILLING MY VIBE!”

Instead, she decide to hear every one out. She decided to help. To calm her dragon of a father down. To be a translator for her emotional sister. To not take it personal. To stay neutral. To not cry.

9 years later, at her fathers funeral she still never broke the rules. She played her flute and spoke at his memorial. She was present for her mother because it wasn’t about her. When other peoples' emotions bubbled up she stayed neutral. She sat through both services and she did not cry. It wasn’t until she excused herself to make a phone call outside did she collapse onto the stairs of the funeral home and weep alone in the cold Detroit snow.

It’s okay to break the rules sometimes, she reminded herself. As long as no one else sees it.

Traumas began to compact on Melissa, as they do. Humans tend to collect traumas like pebbles on a long hike. We toss them into our backpacks and keep moving forward. Some hikers would falter, but Melissa was built for this. She’d carried the stones of her family’s traumas uphill for years. She was strong.

When men began to befriend and reject her, saying ‘you’re too good for me’ but not too good to make them feel good. She carried that.

When childhood friends began to cut off the strings of her heart, saying ‘We can’t be friends anymore’. She carried that.

When her family separated like dandelion seeds, it seemed like they’d never be together again. Melissa slept on so many couches, floors and car seats sometimes she didn’t know if she’d see them again.

She carried that.

Dying was never an option though sometimes she didn’t mind the thought of it. Peace and warmth were two things she’d desperately yearned and hadn’t felt fully since the womb. Then one night in the pitch black of the hot, sweaty, roach-infested studio in southeast Houston she slept in she wondered:

‘Why can’t I break the rules?’ She’d seen everyone else in her life break them like popsicle sticks. And she didn’t just want to break the rules, she wanted to break them boldly and loudly and annoyingly and honestly and sloppily like every one else gets to do. It was in that moment, tucked in a thin jacket inside of an 8-foot high instrument cubby in the inky darkness—it hit her.

‘Is my suffering for a high purpose? Or is my suffering trying to kill me?’

She cried.

She escalated.

She took it personal.

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to scream in a microphone in a sea of shadowy faces. She drank whiskey and wove her pain into rock music.

‘Music is my boyfriend’ she declared. The only man that kept his baggage to hisself. And it healed her. It gave her voice reason and purpose.

The pebble-laden hike became lighter with time. The incline eventually evened out to flat, beautiful landscapes where the breeze finally met her back. She knew it wasn’t gonna be easy or sunshine but even the rain cleansed her and it was beautiful too.

Somewhere in the rain she decided rules were meant to be built and broken. Like trust and love and friendships and families. Because every thing deserves the opportunity to change and grow.

So... She broke rule number 1 on stage while singing a beautiful song. Dr. Jefferson (PhD) screamed for her to stop but she didn’t listen and the tears flowed like rivers of emotion down her cheeks.

Rule number 2 was broken when she grew older and saw the injustices of the world. Marching with hundreds in protest she realized not everything needs to be pacified.

And one day when she finally fell in love, she broke rule number 3. No matter how much training she’d done she couldn't help but take every thing her lover said and did personal. But it was ok. Because in all her resistance she realized breaking rules was her power.

Melissa began to fall for her feelings. Her feelings gave life purpose. They weren’t always logical, as feelings seldom are. They were sloppy and embarrassing and rude and so fucking uncomfortable. But they were hers. And they were real. And when she sat alone sipping wine, staring at the moon…They were the only ones still by her side. Ready to break the rules for her because they loved her.

And she finally loved them back.

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dorkszn · 8 months ago

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SOULLESS + katsuki bakugou

SYNP — after losing your quirk, you had no idea what to do with yourself and katsuki couldn’t help you

WARNINGS — masc reader, suicide, quirk loss, heavy angst | 1.3K

A/N — did i cook, y’all? 🥺

Your quirk was what made you. That was the mentality most people in this world had. It was what you grew up on. You took it seriously. Your quirk defined you.

Katsuki knew this. He understood you. Even he knew he was more than his quirk. He never put you down for it, he just pushed you to work harder.

And you pushed. You pushed and pushed and pushed. Until it all fell to shit.

You don’t process the silencing sound of the gun shooting until you feel the impact. The world slows while simultaneously crumbling around you. You can’t hear. You can’t hear Sir Nighteye shouting, you can’t hear Izuku’s gasp, you can’t hear Togata’s cry. You just feel. Feel a part of you being ripped away.

The bullet sits in your body. And you feel. You feel the gash in your flesh. You feel the blood seeping from the wound. You feel the sting of its penetration. Then you feel the strength drain from you. You pushed too far.

Everyone described your time in the hospital as uncharacteristic and silent. The only time you spoke was when Katsuki visited you. And he felt. He felt the emptiness radiating from you. Even then, you sat in quietness as you attempted to tell him how you were feeling. Empty. Weak. Soulless.

He couldn’t treat you like everyone else. For one of the first times in his life, he knew, a quirkless person was nothing less than him. He had to treat them right. He had to treat you right. Which he did of course.

Your mental and emotional condition always hurt him. Always made him feel like a piece of him was missing. Even when you were allowed to return to your training. When you’d help him with his special moves or by sitting on his back while he did pushups.

It was a mental trick. It was supposed to make you feel like you were back. It was supposed to make people see you and smile and pat you on the back. Giving you “good job!” and “we’re glad to see you back.” But you weren’t back. You weren’t anything. And nobody knew. Nobody knew until Katsuki and Aizawa did.

A normal day of physical therapy while everyone else was training. One where Katsuki requested to come with you and one where Aizawa sat in with you. Your arm wasn’t functioning like before. No part of you was. Not your mind, heart, or soul, if it was even still there.

The physical therapist gave you your usual spiel before leaving you with the two men.

“The way you’re taking this ain’t very heroic, you know?” Aizawa told you, taking a seat next to you on the bench. He put a comforting hand on your head, pulling you close to him.

Your words struck through the two like the bullet that hit you. The bullet that robbed you. “I’m not a hero anymore. I’m nothing.”

That’s when the two realized. You weren’t the same. The hero you were and the person you were now, were completely different.

Katsuki saw the signs. He knows he did. His only mistake was not knowing what to do about them. He had sick thoughts. He thought maybe if Izuku had gone through with his words, he’d know the signs. He’s grateful that Izuku is alive and well but a bit upset that he didn’t have the experience he needed.

You zoned out often, stayed in your dorm all the time, slept in class, and barely spoke at lunch, you wouldn’t text with your old spark and enthusiastically run up to him after school. He missed you. Not any more than he does now but he did. Even though you were right there. Like you were just a body floating its way through life.

He told Aizawa. Aizawa said to give you time. Katsuki doesn’t blame him. Not entirely. He couldn’t have known. But giving you time was the wrong move. Giving you time was the last thing you needed.

Katsuki knows he should’ve been smarter the day you gave him a letter. An envelope that you didn’t want him to open until the next day. Aizawa got one too. So did Hitoshi. And Izuku. But none of them thought anything of it. Just a way for you to get the words you couldn’t say out.

Katsuki should’ve known after seeing the way you grinned around everyone and stayed by his side all day. But he was stupid. He thought you were getting better.

Dear, Katsuki Bakugou.

Katsuki. I love you more than anything in this lifetime. I am forever grateful for what you’ve given me. My life has gone so much better than I ever expected because of you. I want to give you the world. I tried. I tried really hard. But I can’t. Everything feels dull and nothing feels right. I feel trapped and I don’t feel like myself. And I can’t get out of this slump. Being here feels like being dead. I’m not here. I know this would hurt to text you or say to your face. I can’t think of those eyes of yours without it hurting me. Nothing is your fault. Never. Thank you, Katsuki. I love you in this life and beyond. Take your time, hold your ground, and become the best. I’m rooting for you. I’ll see you on the other side or in another life. I know if I become myself again, I will always find you.

Love, your dumbass, y/n l/n.

The wind rushed past you. Everything looked so different from your view. The same scenery you’d be taking in for the past few months sits ahead of you but it looks different. It feels nice. Maybe because this was the last time you’d see it.

The ground glares up at you, it’s pavement calling to you. The moonlight shines on your skin, casting your shadow on the rooftop of the dorms. You try to smile. To take it in one last time. But you can’t. Your mind won’t let you. Whatever was left of your soul won’t let you.

You just take a deep breath. And feel. You feel the bullet breaking your flesh and shattering your bone. You feel Katsuki’s warmth surrounding you. You feel Aizawa’s hand on your head. You feel and feel and feel. Before you fall.

It only took minutes after sunrise before you were found. An unlucky student stumbles across a corpse. Their blood-curdling scream immediately grabbed the whole world’s attention. It only took hours for them to collect you and identify you.

After that, it only took minutes for it to be announced to the class. It only took seconds for Katsuki to unwillingly break down. As fast as the bullet ripped your quirk from you, his soul, his mind, and his heart were ripped from him.

It only took seconds for the pity and grief to intoxicate the room. Poisoning every first year and teacher at the school. It only took days for Katsuki to finally convince himself to read the letter. It only took seconds for him to break down again and be pulled into Aizawa’s chest.

It only took a week for Katsuki’s world to crumble.

He visits you through the snowy days and warm nights. Sitting in front of your stone and replacing your flowers. Your soul is long gone and it feels as if his was too. The picture of you in his t-shirt, stupidly grinning at the camera stares into him. And he feels. He feels the hurt. He feels the pain. He feels your warmth. He feels your missed presence. He feels and he feels and he feels. Until he doesn’t think he can anymore.

“You weren’t nothing, y/n. You were everything.” He pushed the words out.

#dorkszn #dorkfilmz #bnha x reader #bnha #mha #mha x reader #mha angst #bnha angst #anime angst #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x you #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x male reader #bakugou x reader #anime x reader #katsuki bakugou angst #aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x you

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charliemwrites · 9 months ago

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Nikto's Commandments part 8! (and the first half of the Jealousy Duet).

I'll be honest, I got stuck with this one! For some reason I just couldn't get a good flow going and had to try writing this a few different times. I think it shows in the beginning, but I get the rhythm back towards the end.

Also, apologies if there are more errors than usual. I kind of powered through it and am too afraid I'm going to hate it if I try to read it over.

Anyway, please enjoy as always <3

Content: Jealousy, Acts of Devotion, Declarations of Love, Kissing

It’s your first mission since Nikto failed you.

(You may have forgiven him. He’s even accepted that you have, merciful as you are. But that doesn’t change the truth of what happened – that he failed you. That he left your side, and then almost didn’t return. You’ve forbade him from hanging himself with “almost,” but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel the noose around his throat.)

You’re long since healed and recovered under Nikto’s devoted watch. Nurturing may not come naturally to him, but he’d bend himself into any shape for your use. So, he made himself into your caregiver. Weeks of helping you sit up, walk, bathe… until you were back in the gym, right by his side, gritting your teeth through physical therapy.

A scar is all that’s left now, silvery and tender. The only sign that Nikto’s world nearly bled away on dirty concrete. A reminder of his failure, his disgrace. How could he possibly deserve a place at your side, when he couldn’t even protect you? When he thought, for even a moment, that vengeance mattered more than your life?

Still, he returns to your side. Because you told him to, all that time ago. Because he has so much to make up for after everything. And because you haven’t given him leave to be anywhere else.

(He prays that you don’t the only way he knows how. Through meals from his own hand while you grin, nipping at his fingers. Through tea shared from one cup. With fragrant products in your wet hair while you sigh. You haven’t told him he could be anywhere else, beckoning him into a bed bigger than the one on base, still tucking in close like one of you might fall off the edge.)

It’s not that he thinks you incapable now. He would never blaspheme that you are anything other than utterly competent. It’s just that every blink superimposes pools of blood over his vision, a strobe of you near death.

In his most selfish, private thoughts, he imagines taking you away from it all for good. Tucking you away warm and safe in the cathedral of your off-base apartment, where a god belongs, in their own house. He soothes himself on visions of devoting himself to you fully and wishes he were a prophet. But for all you’ve given him, visions of the future are not one of them.

You were eager to return to duty, nearly cornered O’Conor once you got final clearance from the doctors. Nearly shook him down for a new assignment – for the both of you. Even if he had reservations about sending you to duty so soon, an opportunity to keep Nikto and his temper away a little longer was too tempting. (The bruises Nikto left on his throat were long gone, but the memory clearly was not.)

And so here you both are, in the gym of an SAS base, sparring with Task Force 141.

“Oi, lass! Care for a match?”

“Bring it, MacTavish!”

Nikto stands back to observe as you and the sergeant square off.

The 141 has been cooperative, despite previous tensions with KorTac. You, Nikto, and Konig have managed to build a decent working rapport – though most of that work has been yours. Their captain seems to like your friendly personality and straightforward professionalism; their lieutenant has been cordial. But the two sergeants (especially the Scottish one) have taken a liking to you.

“Fuck!”

Nikto jerks as you get taken down on your bad side – no, it’s not your bad side anymore. You’ve fully recovered; he must remember that. Interrupting a sparring match would be unwelcome and unnecessary. Not just overprotective on his part, but disrespectful to you as well, as if he doesn’t think you can hold your own. Still, he balls his hands into fists as you struggle against the sergeant.

At least you’re laughing, breathless and curse laden as it is.

“She is okay, ja?” Konig asks.

Nikto grunts the affirmative, eyes sharp as he watches you knee MacTavish’s side. Good, he thinks proudly as you twist to get on top. You’ve been working tirelessly to improve your groundwork techniques, learning all the different ways you can use your smaller stature against bigger and stronger opponents.

“He is… friendly,” Konig continues.

Another grunt of agreement. Most people are with you. It’s a natural reaction in the face of divinity; to reach out to a smiling god. It worked on Nikto, anyone else would be helpless. It’s just the natural order of things like green grass, blue skies, or gravity.

There’s a pause that starts to prickle the back of Nikto’s mind. Disinterested as he may be in socializing, he understands how it works. A program that runs in his mind – body language, tone, inflection, facial expression. A complex algorithm that computes to emotion, conversation, feeling. It’s just not an equation that applies to him, or that he can apply to himself anymore.

And right now, Konig is trying to imply something. Nikto cuts his eyes to the side, meets Konig’s.

“Too friendly, don’t you think?” he adds.

Nikto snorts and turns back to the match – where you are just tapping out. MacTavish is unwinding his arm from your windpipe. You’re sat between his legs, back to his chest. A tough position to get out from in a fight. As you’re scooting away, the sergeant pats your hip, leans to say, “good match” in your ear. You shoot him a grin over your shoulder and then push to your feet, sauntering back to your own team.

“Whose turn is it?” you ask, wiping sweat from your brow.

You don’t see MacTavish’s eyes darting up and down your body, zeroing in on the sliver of skin revealed by your lifted shirt. But Nikto does.

“Mine,” Konig answers, stepping forward.

You smile at him, bump fists with him. “Kick his ass for me, yeah?”

“Ja.”

He shoots Nikto one last, pointed look before stepping onto the mat. But Nikto has no interest in watching his match. Not when you’re right in front of him, a sheepish look on your face.

“I can’t believe I lost like that,” you groan. “Guess I need more practice.”

“We will practice,” he promises.

You beam and knock the back of your hand gently against his.

Like an insidious weed, Konig’s observation takes root and sprouts. Sergeant MacTavish’s friendliness.

It’s almost like Nikto is hallucinating again – or perhaps that he has just stopped. A veil pulled away from his eyes. A creature camouflaged in the brush, his eyes skipping over the landscape until an irregularity in the pattern was pointed out to him. And now he cannot stop seeing it.

MacTavish saying hello to you first every morning, asking how you slept with a twinkle in his eye. He offers to accompany you to training sessions, often chooses you first for cross-team drills. In downtime, he’ll invite you to socialize (with the rest of the 141, sure) and always save you a seat or a spot. Usually right next to him.

And it is not that he doesn’t acknowledge Nikto or Konig. He is amicable with both, works well with either of them when paired up. But there is always a tilt to his mouth when he speaks to you, a lilt to his voice. A subtle incline to his shoulders that makes every interaction seem just that slightest bit intimate.

A week into the assignment, and he is touching you freely. First a hand tapping elbow or shoulder. Then an arm around the back of your neck. Platonic, commiserating. Within a day, that arm drops to your shoulders and he’s leaning the side of his head against yours, something a bit warmer than a hug.

One morning, he scoops you up in a hug, your toes nearly off the ground. You seem surprised, reciprocate with a pat to the back before you’re set down and offered a chair.

And the sparring… the sparring gets worse. Not just an exchange of blows and a chance to improve skills with a new partner anymore. It’s become a game of teasing you, joking with you. Tagging you with hits to coax you into going after him. Wrestling with you on the ground and dragging it out while he grunts and huffs against you.

And Nikto… Nikto burns.

This is not hell, he knows; but maybe this is some form of purgatory.

He has no place, no right to suffer. Knows that trying to claim you as his own would be like trying to cage the sun. It wouldn’t just be selfish; it would be heresy. You’ve already given him a miracle; you told him you love him. That is far beyond anything he could deserve, anything he could hope or dream or long for. To take after all that, to demand more of the time, attention, energy you pour into him like holy water…

And yet.

And yet he wants to claw his skin off when MacTavish winks at you. Wants to set the world on fire when that accent purrs “bonnie” or “hen” at you. An awful, deafening static scream fills the fractures of his mind when you smile at the sergeant, when you wish him a good morning or evening.

“How are you with a sniper, hen?” MacTavish asks one day.

You hum, glance over at Nikto. He’s been training you with his own rifle for months now – though it’s obviously been on pause since your injury. “Well, I’ve been working on it, but I definitely need some improvement.”

MacTavish crosses his arms, biceps bulging against the sleeves of his t-shirt. “I wouldn’t mind giving you a few pointers, if you want to come down to the range with me some time. Promise I’m a good teacher.”

You blink, hesitate. Then lightly, “Yeah, maybe!”

Nikto can’t hang himself on an “almost,” but he’s gutted on a “maybe.”

That night you come out of the bathroom frowning. There’s a furrow between your brows that you only get when you’re both frustrated and worried; if it stays, you’ll have a headache within the hour.

“Nikto?”

He glances up from the knives he’s polishing. You stop, eyes darting all over him, towel frozen in your hand.

“Hm?” he prompts.

You don’t answer. Instead, drop the towel carelessly on the floor and stride across the room. Towards him. He only just manages to shove his equipment out of the way by the time you reach him. And you don’t stop, climbing onto the hard desk chair he’s in, straddling his lap. Your fingers curl so tight in his chest straps that he can hear them creak.

He’s trapped as much by your gaze as your weight. Something swimming in the pools of your irises that he hasn’t seen in them before. Doesn’t know how to name or how to tame.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

He jerks back in surprise, but you’ve got a solid grip and there’s nowhere to go.

“Did I… do something?” you ask. “Or… or not do something?”

He stares. “What?” he asks, mouth gone suddenly dry.

Your eyes are still darting between his, like you’ll find answers playing peekaboo between them.

“You haven’t been right the past few days. Maybe even a week,” you explain. “I’ve been giving you space to tell me, but you won’t. And I’m sorry, I’m not trying to pressure you, but please just talk to me.”

Now his brows furrow. “I haven’t been…?”

You sit back a bit, assured that you have his attention – as if that isn’t guaranteed.

“You’re not eating the same. Didn’t even take the green beans I put aside for you,” you say. “You’re not sharing my tea or letting me wrap your hands. You keep leaving for a smoke in the middle of the night. Hell, you’re wearing your mask in our room.”

It dawns on him like apocalypse. That he has been worrying you, affecting you.

“And you’re not… you’re not talking to me.” Your white-knuckled grip eases a bit as you run out of steam, sadness tinging your expression. “I know we don’t talk the normal way but… I haven’t been able to read you. You won’t look me in the eye or press our legs together. You’re even pulling away in your sleep.”

His heart is trying to claw out of his ribcage, wants to crawl into the palm you press to his chest.

“So… if I’m doing something or not doing something… you can tell me. I promise I won’t be upset. I just miss you.”

He crumbles.

Weeks under torture, but he breaks at four words.

You gasp as he rips the gear off his face. Try to help, but he just pushes your hands away. Knows he’s aggravated the old wounds, but a balm is at hand, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

“моя любовь,” he whispers fervently. “моя надежда. моя богиня.”

You curl around him instantly, arms around his shoulders, fingers fluffing through the fuzz of hair at the back of his skull. Gentle and kind and everything that sinners and saints would fall on their swords for. And yet all you ask of him is to speak, to confess.

“I fear,” he rasps into your skin.

“Fear what?” you ask.

He is your protector, your disciple. Yours to command, to damn, to sacrifice if you so wished – and he would gladly spill his corroded innards at your feet, careful not to bloody your shoes. And he fears that you won’t ask him to.

“You are not mine, but I fear losing you,” he admits. You suck in a breath, arms tightening around him. “If not to MacTavish, then to the world. I will be left here without you again.”

He squeezes his eyes shut as the scars sear all over again, crushes his crooked nose against your collarbone.

“I am yours,” he whispers, lungs burning, “and I cannot be that if you are gone.”

You shift, pressing closer, tighter. Lay your cheek on his head and squeeze him so tightly he wonders if you’re not inviting him inside your ribcage.

“I thought you understood,” you whisper, and even that cracks with emotion. “I’m sorry, I thought I made it clear. I thought you knew…”

You urge him back. He wants to resist. Wants to stay right there in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the soap you two share, basking in your warmth. But you are bidding him to do something, and he is a weak man to your command.

Your eyes are shiny, but there’s a smile on your face when you look at him.

“You’re mine,” you assure him, “you will always be mine. I will never turn you away.”

His eyes flutter with relief. Always. He has no business questioning the truth of that. You’ve said it; it is so.

“I’m yours too, Nikto.”

His eyes snap open again, but you hold him still, hold him right there.

“Our love isn’t a cross for you to bear,” you murmur. “I belong to you the same way – the exact same way – that you are mine.”

“I don’t—”

“You remember what I told you in that car all those months ago?”

Don’t deserve it? That’s not your choice. Don’t understand? You don’t have to. I just do. It wasn’t a choice I made.

Your word is genesis. It is revelation. It is creed and commandment, redemption and atonement.

You’ve said it; it is so.

“Here.”

You snatch a pad of black ink from one of the desk drawers, grab at one of his useless, hovering hands.

“What are you—”

You smear his bare fingertips across the damp pad. Then press them to your forearm. He jerks his hand back, but it’s too late. His smudged fingerprints stain your skin in inky little pools. When he looks up at you, you’re grinning. Wide and beautiful and so damn proud of yourself.

“C’mon,” you coo. “Do it again.”

He hesitates. But his eyes are drawn back to his fingerprints on your skin. His mind echoes with your declaration.

You are his. You are his.

To deny you this, to deny your belonging, would be beyond blasphemy. Beyond sin.

You have said it; it is so. You. Are. His.

You beam as he takes the inkpad and gets his fingers wet again. Begins leaving marks all over you. Along your arms, over your collarbone. Lean back to get palm prints on your thighs. Sits you on the desk to smear lines up your calves. You even tug your shirt up, giggling all the while, so that he can mark up your stomach.

He pauses at the gunshot. Places his blackened thumb over the entry scar. Pulls it away to see the whorls of his fingerprint covering it.

You soften, kind hands cupping his jaw and guiding him up. Up and up… until your plush lips are slotted against his. His own stained hands land on your hips – likely ruining your little sleep shorts – and pull you as close as he can get you. Infusing himself with the taste of you, of your love, of your belonging.

“Yours,” you murmur against his mangled mouth.

“Yours,” he repeats.

The next day, you walk into the mess hall with Nikto’s fingers hooked into your belt loops. There’s a single black smudge on your jaw.

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Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #nikto x reader #cod nikto #nikto's commandments

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p0orbaby · 2 months ago

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It Doesn’t Get Any Easier

summary: you’re the new physio, tasked to help leah one on one with her recovery; but lines start to blur the longer you spend with one another

warnings: none

a/n: i enjoyed this one. also trying out a slightly different style so let me know what you think

word count: 2.8k

Leah comes in every morning just after 7:30, always a little earlier than the rest of the team—well, what’s left of the team—who roll in around 8, give or take. You start noticing her patterns by the second week. It’s not intentional. It’s just that she’s hard not to notice. The way she slips into the room quietly, moving like a shadow, like she’s trying not to be seen even though she’s Leah Williamson and there’s something impossible about Leah Williamson going unnoticed. You’re not sure she’s aware of it, or maybe she is, maybe it’s part of the act, something people like her learn over time—how to balance being seen and unseen simultaneously. Either way, she always acknowledges you. It’s a brief nod or a soft “Morning” that comes out like a sigh. But it’s there. And you nod back because it’s professional, it’s polite.

You’re the new physio, brought in because someone higher up decided that ACLs are the new pandemic, and Arsenal’s hit hard by it. One by one, players dropping like flies—tears, rips, stretches that aren’t supposed to stretch. Someone needed to focus on rehab, on these slow and tedious one-on-one sessions. So, here you are. Your life has become a revolving door of knee braces, resistance bands, ultrasound machines, and cold compression therapy. A strange, repetitive kind of intimacy.

Leah is assigned to you. "Take care of her," they say. She’s a captain. She’s the face. There’s an unsaid urgency that comes with her, an invisible asterisk by her name. You feel it in every briefing, every passing mention of her progress. Everyone’s waiting for her return. Waiting for her to be fixed.

Your first session with her is awkward. Stilted. You’re overly conscious of how she sits, her knee elevated, her eyes on the ceiling, like she’s counting the tiles instead of looking at you. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and that weird plastic-y scent that medical equipment always has. You ask her the standard questions: pain level, range of motion, any stiffness. She answers with one-word responses, tight-lipped. There’s a distance between you that you can’t quite figure out if it’s professional or personal. Maybe both.

Weeks pass, and the routine becomes muscle memory. You know when to push and when to pull back. How to make her laugh, how to coax her into stretching just a little more without her getting defensive. You start to notice the little things about her. Like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts after you adjust the brace on her leg, or how she clicks her tongue when she’s frustrated, a soft noise that barely registers unless you’re paying attention, which you are. You’re always paying attention to Leah.

It’s in the middle of a session that things shift. You’re guiding her through a series of exercises—balance work, stuff that’s boring but essential—and she’s sweating, biting her lip as she focuses on not wobbling. You’re right there, hands out, ready to catch her if she stumbles. She doesn’t, but the proximity is there. Too close, maybe. Your fingers brush her waist as you correct her form, and she inhales sharply. You freeze, but she doesn’t move. Neither do you.

"Is this okay?" you ask, your voice lower than usual, and you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the weight of her stare, those sharp blue eyes locking onto yours.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds strained, like she’s not sure it’s the right answer. She’s not looking at you anymore, her focus now on the floor, her hands gripping the sides of the bench like she needs to anchor herself. The room feels smaller, the air thick.

You pull back, step away, putting space between you, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You can still feel the echo of her skin under your fingers, the heat of her proximity. You clear your throat, force a smile. "Let’s take five”

She nods, doesn’t say anything, just grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink, her throat working, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck. You turn away, pretend to be adjusting something on the ultrasound machine even though it’s perfectly fine, just to give yourself something to do, something that isn’t thinking about how her skin felt under your hands.

The next time around is more tense. There’s an unspoken tension now, like a line has been crossed, or maybe it hasn’t, but it’s close. You’re hyper-aware of every movement, every brush of skin. Leah doesn’t mention it, but there’s a change in her too. She flirts, subtly at first—offhand comments, jokes that land just a little too close to something more. You laugh, play along, because it’s harmless. It’s nothing. Except it’s not.

You catch yourself watching her more. The way her muscles ripple under her skin as she moves, the way her lips part when she’s concentrating, how her eyes flick to you when she thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if she notices you doing the same. You wonder if she feels it too—this thing simmering between you that’s becoming harder to ignore.

One day, after a session, she lingers. The rest of the team has filtered out of the gym, and it’s just the two of you, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound.

"Thanks for today," she says, her voice soft. She’s sitting on the edge of the bench, her knee still wrapped in the brace, but she looks more relaxed than she has in weeks. There’s something in her eyes, something you can’t quite read, and it makes your chest tighten.

"It’s my job," you say, but the words feel hollow. You’ve been telling yourself that for weeks now, trying to convince yourself that this is just work, that this is just another injured player, another knee to fix. But it’s not. You’re not sure when it stopped being just that, but it has.

"Is it, though?" she asks, and her voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

She stands, slowly, her movements careful, deliberate. She’s close to you now, too close again, and you don’t step back this time. "I think you know what I mean," she says, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You don’t have an answer, or maybe you do but you don’t trust yourself to say it out loud. The air between you crackles with something electric, something that feels inevitable.

She leans in, just a fraction, and you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You could close the distance. You could kiss her, right here, right now, and no one would know. It would be easy. Too easy.

But you don’t.

Instead, you step back. You force a smile. "We should stick to the plan. Don’t want to push the knee too hard too soon”

It’s a cop-out, and you both know it. The shift in her expression is almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the brief flicker of disappointment before she masks it with a shrug.

"Right. The knee," she says, her tone casual, but the tension is still there, hanging between you like a thin thread ready to snap. She doesn’t push it, though. Instead, she grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and heads for the door. But just before she leaves, she glances back at you, her eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure you out, trying to decide if this is a game or something else entirely.

You stand there for a long time after she’s gone, the gym feeling too big, too empty. You can still feel the weight of her gaze, the heat of her body close to yours. You tell yourself it’s just work, just rehab. But deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

It’s never that simple.

The sessions after that are different. There’s a push and pull now, a tension that neither of you acknowledges but is impossible to ignore. Flirting turns into something sharper, more pointed, like you’re both testing the limits, seeing how far you can go before something breaks. But nothing breaks, not really. Not yet.

Then one night, you cross the line. It’s late, the training ground is empty, and Leah’s the last one in the gym. You’re both exhausted, worn down by weeks of slow progress, of frustrations mounting. The conversation starts off innocuous—something about her recovery timeline, how she’s feeling. But it shifts quickly. There’s an edge to her voice, a sharpness that cuts through the usual banter.

"Why do you keep pulling back?" she asks, and there’s nothing light in her tone now. It’s serious. She’s serious.

You blink, thrown off. It’s late, the harsh fluorescent lights above cast everything in this sterile, washed-out glow that makes you feel like you’re in a hospital, or some kind of waiting room where nothing feels real, nothing matters. Leah’s standing in front of you, close but not too close, not like before, but close enough that you feel it—the weight of her presence, the space she occupies, the air between you vibrating, charged with something neither of you is willing to name but it’s there. It’s been there for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, but it’s a lie and you both know it. You’re tired, too tired to come up with something convincing, and it’s the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s seeing through every excuse you’ve built up, every wall you’ve thrown up between you because you know you have to, because you’re the physio, you’re supposed to be the professional, the one who stays detached, clinical, objective. You’re supposed to care about her body, her knee, not the rest of her. Not this.

But the truth is, you do care, too much, and it’s bleeding into everything. Into the way you touch her during sessions, the way your fingers linger just a little too long on her skin when you’re adjusting the brace, or the way your pulse speeds up when she leans back on the bench, sweat glistening on her forehead, the tendrils of her hair stuck to her neck, and you wonder what it would feel like to brush them away. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s a line you can’t cross, but the line’s blurred now, so faint you can barely see it anymore.

Leah narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing an old Arsenal training kit, the fabric worn and soft, the logo faded from too many washes, and you notice that she tugs at the hem of her shirt when she’s frustrated, twisting it around her fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy, like she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “You’re not stupid,” she says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something vulnerable, like she’s exposing a part of herself she doesn’t want to, but she can’t help it. “You know exactly what I mean”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. You’re not stupid. You know why you’ve been pulling back. Why you’ve been keeping your distance. It’s because this—whatever this is—is dangerous. It’s complicated. It’s wrong in a way that’s hard to define but easy to feel, like a low hum in the back of your mind that you can’t shake. And yet, the more you try to stay away, the more you find yourself drawn to her. Like gravity. Like something you can’t control, no matter how hard you try.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You’re aware of how this looks—two people alone in a gym, the air thick with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that feels like it’s been building for a long time and is about to spill over. You glance at the clock on the wall—it’s almost 10 a.m.—and you wonder how it got so late, how time seems to bend around her, how hours slip by when you’re with her but still, its never enough. There’s always more, always something unsaid hanging in the air between you.

Leah uncrosses her arms, taking a step closer. You can see the faint scar on her knee, the way the skin’s still a little pink, a little raw, and it’s a reminder of why you’re here, what your job is, but all you can think about is the way her eyes are locked on yours, unflinching. “I’m not asking for simple,” she says quietly, and there’s an intensity in her voice that catches you off guard. “I’m asking for honest”

The word hangs in the air, heavy, and you feel something in your chest tighten. Honest. You think about what that would look like. What it would feel like to stop pretending, to stop playing this game where you act like you don’t notice the way she looks at you, the way your body reacts to hers. You think about what it would mean to cross that line, to give in to what’s been building between you. The consequences. The fallout. The way it would shift everything irreparably, and yet, the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

You take a breath, slow, steady, trying to collect yourself, trying to find the right words, but they’re all tangled up in your head, a mess of things you can’t say, shouldn’t say. “Leah,” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence, because there’s no good way to say what you’re thinking, no good way to explain the way your heart speeds up when she’s near, the way your skin prickles under her eyes, the way your mind drifts to her at night when you’re lying in bed, staring into the darkness, replaying moments in your head that shouldn’t matter but do.

She’s watching you, waiting, and you can feel the weight of her expectation, the way she’s daring you to say something real, something that matters. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired of pretending, tired of holding back, but something inside you cracks, just a little, just enough.

“I’ve been trying to keep this professional,” you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over themselves like they’ve been waiting to escape. “Because I have to. Because I don’t know how else to do this without—” You stop, shaking your head, because it sounds ridiculous, it sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is. “It’s not just about your knee,” you say finally, and it feels like a confession, like something you’ve been holding onto for too long. “It’s about everything else”

Leah’s eyes widen, just for a moment, and you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely. She doesn’t say anything right away, but she steps even closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her sweat mixed with the scent of her shampoo, something clean and floral, and it hits you like a wave, overwhelming in its simplicity. You feel the pull again, stronger now, undeniable.

“You think I don’t know that?” she says, and her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness that cuts through the haze in your mind. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

The words hang between you, suspended in the air, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the gym, the team, the world outside this room. It’s just you and her, and the weight of everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

Leah reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt through you, a spark that ignites something deep inside, something you’ve been trying to suppress for weeks, months. You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you disappears, and her lips are on yours, and it’s like everything snaps into focus all at once.

The kiss is rough, urgent, like it’s been building for too long and now there’s no stopping it. Her hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of her body against yours, the way her breath mingles with yours in the small, stolen space between kisses. It’s messy, frantic, like neither of you can get enough, like you’ve been starving for this and now you’re finally letting yourself have it.

You don’t think about the consequences, about what happens when this moment ends. You don’t think about the power imbalance, the lines you’re crossing, the mess you’re making. All you can think about is the way she feels against you, the way her fingers dig into your skin like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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yandere-sins · 3 months ago

Text

A Camgirl's Happiness

a/n: To be fair, I know very little about actually streaming or cammodeling, and it's not as easy to read up on, so take my descriptions with a grain of salt. Also, I know that most people doing that job are really into it and I'm very happy for them, but I needed the drama for the story, hope you can understand! I hope you guys enjoy it regardless, it was fun to write!

Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Reader is a camgirl, mentioning of stripping, fulfilling sexual favors for viewers), Fem!Reader, Life struggles (Debts, Mental health problems), Mention of stalking, Obsessive Behavior

You knew exactly what you were doing, pulling your legs up on your chair, squeezing your breasts just a bit more prominently towards the camera.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

"Hi SweetsMaster! Longtime no read! We're just talking today, but I'm so glad you made it to the stream!"

Ding! Ding!

Smiling, you watched the crushing waves of messages, your fanbase as active as ever as they flooded you with their adoration. Even when you had an image to uphold, you couldn't help but be pampered by their compliments, giggling and telling them to stop calling you adorable and their "dream girl".

Still, you played along to their fantasies, hid your face behind your palm coyly, and kept them believing that you were this cute internet star they loved so much. Life was hard, but getting an end to your means barely needed more than an hour or two talking about all the cute things you'd do if you had one of these lonely, unhappy people behind the screen as your partner. You didn't complain that they invested their savings into spending time with you instead of therapy.

Not like you ever considered going to therapy yourself, too ashamed of the truths you'd have to share.

You sighed inwardly, forcing yourself to smile a bit more convincingly at the camera as you took a sip of water, letting some drops fall into your cleavage. "Oopsie!" you giggled, forced to appear bashful, hoping no one clipped that. But what were you thinking? Of course, they did.

"Stop that, guys! How embarrassing! People will think I can't even drink!"

Sometimes you didn't recognize your own voice as you put on a show. The pitch was too high, your words made you cringe. As if you were in a sketch, rather than a life performance. You quickly wiped away the droplets sitting on top of your skin, threatening to run down the curve of your breasts as many of your viewers hoped before continuing to chat with the rapidly growing crowd. Being a camgirl had been fun once—unforced.

When you started doing it, you enjoyed the time with every new follower you got. Some were creeps, but some were genuinely nice people who paid you to do things you enjoyed. You didn't feel strange being yourself back then; people supported you just as you were. Taking off your clothes and doing favors was a fun little side hustle to get you through college. You didn't plan on doing this forever.

But even with your degree, your real job, and all the possibilities you had now, you couldn't stop streaming. You tried countless of times! But every time you said goodbye for good, your life was thrown into chaos, your bills left unpaid. You lost your job, lost your home, lost all the friends that couldn't watch your life being ruined.

And now, you were tired. So, so tired.

You got back on your feet, thanks to streaming. You found a new job, a new home. More and more people joined your shows; they bought you gifts and sent you money. Even if there was no one to share your earnings with, at least you didn't have to worry about your debts anymore. You'd stream after work, on the weekends, vacations. You organized photoshoots and sold your pictures and merch on the side, even though no one ever wanted to get hired by you to help with all the packaging and work it took.

> you're nothing like you were when you first started

Someone typed in chat, and your fake voice began to crack as you read it out loud. Quickly, you composed yourself, but it stung.

"Yeah, well, aren't we all someone different than, let's say, three years ago? I've grown a lot as a person since I first started! And thanks to you guys, I was able to afford better equipment, too!"

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

You laughed at the incoming donations, forming a heart with your hands as you thanked your patrons. "That's going to be a new mic soon!"

> that's not what i meant

The same person from before wrote into the chat, their name—DarlingLover—highlighted in baby pink, revealing they were a superfan. You couldn't ignore them, even though you wished nothing more than for this conversation to end.

> you looked much happier back then

"That's not true!" you chimed up, using all your strength to press down the tears you felt shooting into your eyes. It was bittersweet to be seen in this industry. To not be objectified and idolized, but to have someone truly notice the person behind the on-camera persona.

"I love hanging out with you guys! I made so many new friends, and I'm grateful for all the support and love you guys have shown me! I would never have had the chance otherwise!"

Blowing some kisses towards the camera, your donations went wild, reassuring you that your cover hadn't been blown. You had to keep yourself together, you couldn't risk one perceptive fan to showcase how miserable you were. But perhaps you had to take it as a sign. A sign that it was enough for today. You needed to eat something, and the clock on your monitor—10:47 pm—reminded you that you skipped dinner long enough. And once you had some substance, you'd need the five hours of sleep before you'd have to drag yourself out of bed and to your real work.

"Okay, guys, that's it for tonight! Thank you all for joining our talking stream! I hope you had as much fun as I did!"

Slipping your hand beneath the spaghetti strap of your tank, you pushed it off your shoulder teasingly. "And just as a little reminder," you mumbled seductively, winking at your audience. "Join us tomorrow for a very fun night!"

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

You grinned cheekily, waving at the people and blowing them a few more kisses while the donations kept pinging in. Just two more clicks and you had closed the stream, watching it on your second monitor to see if your 'stream ended' notice got displayed properly. The animation had been damn expensive, and you wanted to use it to its fullest until it would be too outdated that you needed a new one.

Watching it for a while, you noticed that amongst the countless messages notifying you that someone left the stream, a few people still had a very eager conversation even after it ended. Immediately, the baby pink name of the superfan who had chatted with you before stood out, the user vehemently defending their standpoint against some newer fans. You clicked their names and checked them out, seeing the varying times from a few months to a few days of subscription to you, as well as the very sparse donation they made.

> i've been here longer, i'd know if she was truly happy

DarlingLover wrote, and you gulped, feeling the anxiety brewing inside your stomach. You couldn't believe they'd go out of their way to try and pull others on their side. Were they trying to ruin your career on purpose?

>> what an idiot lol >> srsly she wouldn't do it if she didn't want to >> yeah what the hell lol

A sigh of relief escaped you, seeing how the others didn't believe DarlingLover. Once again, your reputation was upheld even if it might cost you this superfan. It was expected in this industry to lose and gain followers. Some could withstand changes with their devotion, and others couldn't. You watched as the number of current visitors to your stream continued to drop relentlessly, the sight calming your mind.

You should have gotten up and made dinner, hit the hay before you could pity yourself any more than you had all evening. Your mood was already down the drain, but you were too exhausted to get up, thinking of just dropping into bed and sleeping until morning instead of doing anything else. You couldn't afford to not care for yourself, but it all felt so meaningless.

> Darling, you there?

A stray message popping up in chat caught your attention. You had three more visitors. Two must have just left it open on the side, but the third one was still chatting. With who? you wondered, waiting for someone to respond. But no one answered, DarlingLover, and a whole minute passed by.

> if you read this, can you message me privately? i want to book a private session

You inhaled deeply.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," you groaned, letting your head fall back against the gaming chair you had bought for your desktop setup. Pink and cute and so expensive. Private Sessions were the only reason you could afford a 500$ chair in the first place. But you really, really didn't want to. Really didn't want to entertain someone who had ruined your evening enough.

Click.

< Hi! :) You wanted a private session? Thank you so much, I look forward to it! Do you have a date in mind? I'll check with my bookings, but I'm sure we can find some time this week!

Yes, you hated yourself. But this user was a superfan, and you never let anyone down before. For the right price, you could do anything—or so you told yourself repeatedly. Trying to make yourself believe you could do it, burned out and exhausted as you were. It was just one more private session; you'd get through it, just like you always had.

> i've noticed how unhappy you are lately. you don't smile like you used to, don't tell us about what is happening in your life. you're like a pretty doll that sits and entertains us out of habit. i hate it. i want the real you back

That again. You scowled at the screen, your stomach grumbling in agreement (and hunger). "What do you even say to that?" you mumbled into the silence surrounding you. It was pitiful that you still lived in the same two-room flat since college, all your money going into debt and equipment rather than buying nice things for yourself. It made the dark, quiet loneliness so much more derisive. It was your life, but even so you could do nothing but entertain others to live in a way you didn't want to. You were so lost, your whole life purpose seemingly meaningless as the streams and viewers demanded more and more from you.

< I'm sorry you feel that way! :( I'm always trying my best to be myself and kind. I hope it didn't seem like I'm just faking it for the others! Please give me a chance to prove that I'm still me, and I'll do my best to meet your expectations!

Tears stung in your eyes as you typed out the words. You didn't want to grovel or apologize for how the world had ruined you. You couldn't push the blame on everyone else forever, but you truly felt wronged by your own life. Apologizing for being forced into a role you didn't want to have was way worse than when you made an actual mistake, but if you wanted to keep up the image, it was what you had to do.

> it's okay. i know you work so hard, i'm so proud of you for that

Your supporter's sudden shift in attitude made you lean back in your chair, your breath escaping you as you felt the tension being lifted. Perhaps he wasn't as weird as you assumed by his insistence on ruining the little composure you had in your stream. Maybe he was truly just concerned for you.

> that's why i'm going to help you!

Raising an eyebrow, you couldn't help but cringe. Nothing good ever came from someone saying they would "help" you. They were merely justifying themselves for wanting something unhinged from you, mostly something you weren't comfortable with. You relented to them in the past, but did you really have to put up with it still?

< Thank you so much for giving me a chance! ♥ Have you decided on a day then for our session?

> tomorrow night, 8pm, hotel loveline. i'll book the room, just mention my name to the receptionist, and they'll give you a key

You felt all goodwill shatter into a million pieces as you read the line. Bringing your hands to your face, you rubbed over the wrinkles and tension you held in the grimace of an expression you were making, wishing you could just drop the conversation and go to bed. It wasn't the first time someone asked to meet up personally. You had never done it before and wouldn't break your boundary for that guy now.

< I'm so sorry, but I don't do personal meet-ups! If you want a private cam session, please let me know, and I will arrange it! :)

"Please, god, let him get the hint," you prayed under your breath, but you should have known better. He was a persistent one.

> i'll make sure you gain thrice the followers than you do in one month just from our collaboration. surely people will send lots of donations, too. the only thing i want is you, natural, real. mine for the night

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mister," you grumbled, slowly getting angry at this guy. Why did he lie through his teeth? How in the world would someone get you thrice the subscribers from a private session? Why make big promises that were impossible to keep? And he was paying for it, so there would be no donations for you. But even so, with your teeth grinding in frustration, you typed out the nicest rejection you possibly could.

< Sorry, but I'm really not comfortable with personal meet-ups! And charging you for a whole night also makes me feel bad; my rates aren't cheap, after all. It wouldn't be fair to you. Let me know if you are still interested in a cam session, I'll give you a discount since you've been a fan for so long! :) ♥

There was an eery silence in the chatroom, and you glimpsed towards the bathroom, wondering if you had time to get ready for bed until he replied. Ultimately, you decided to wait it out, just to be polite, while you scolded yourself for offering a discount. This interaction alone should have warranted an extra charge on top of your regular rates.

> you like your current day job, don't you?

This statement caught you off-guard. You hadn't spoken much about your new employment on stream, not wanting to bore your viewers with such trivial things when they were there to be entertained.

> wouldn't you be sad if you were fired again?

"What do you mean?" you typed back, the confusion growing.

> i take good care of my darling, and you'll enjoy what i have prepared for you. if you can no longer pretend to be happy, i will help you find that happiness again, help you choose the right path

< you scare me

You typed the words before thinking them through. This was the real you, not the persona he knew and wanted to see, and she just messed up big time.

< I'm sorry, I meant to say your comments can be interpreted weirdly, and it's a little scary to read them right now. I'd still be up for the cam session if you're interested, though?

Anything, you thought, anything to stop him from saying more weird shit.

Does he... does he know you? You pondered the thought for a while. Trying to find a weird interaction you might have had before in your real life. One where someone spoke to you like he did. But you couldn't recall it. How did you know about your job though? Was he perhaps a colleague? But even they knew very little of you, and definitely not about your other job.

"Do I know you?" you asked when he didn't reply anytime quick.

Immediately, you regretted showing vulnerability in front of this stranger. From the moment he joined your stream, DarlingLover had seen through your charades, the online persona you had kept up so carefully. They were laying you bare in an uncomfortable, personal way. You've always been so careful with information about your personal life, keeping all your stories vague and unidentifiable, never naming brands of the stores you visited, or talking about the companies you were part of. How did he know where you lived and about your work?

You wished he'd just stop and disappear to where he came from.

> not yet :) > but you will get to know me—all of me—when we see each other tomorrow. i'll make you smile again, i'll make you happy. you'll be my darling star again, just like before! my reason to live, my beloved. i can't wait for tomorrow, see you soon!

DarlingLover left the chat.

You stared at the message for a while, perplexed and dumbfounded as you tried to make sense of it. You replayed the interaction over and over but could find no logic or reason behind it. You didn't know this guy, he didn't know you. At least, not personally. But he did know more about you than any of your subscribers should.

Part of you hated him, but the rest of you was scared. Scared of what would happen if you scorned him, the havoc he'd unleash on your life. You were scared of the embarrassment he could cause you if he revealed your secret sidehustle to your work, feared how the opinion of you would change now that you finally found work that you liked and coworkers that you could have fun with. You were finally one leg into having a normal life, only for some stranger on the internet to come and ruin it again. It made you mad and drove you downright crazy.

Clicking his username over and over, it stated he was offline. You couldn't open a new chat again, couldn't scream at him how you weren't going to do that! How you wouldn't meet him for real because he could very well be a psycho or murderer! Surely, he'd not give you back the time you lost streaming, the friends you pushed away to earn money, or your happiness in exchange for success!

"What do I do?" you sighed, rubbing your face once more. You were so tired, you had to go to bed. Soon, you'd have to get up, get to work, and decide whether you wanted to attend the meet-up.

Wait.

Why was that even a decision?

Of course, you wouldn't go! He couldn't force you! He couldn't—

Did you really have a choice?

Flopping into your bed, you groaned. In a fit of anger, you punched your fists into the mattress a few times before the strength left you. Of course, it was your choice. You had started over before. If the worst came to fruition, you'd just do it again. Nothing was lost. You could do it! You could refuse the offer and live a happy life away from streaming and the judgment of other people! It would be hard. So very hard. But you could do it!

Sleep overtook you before you could prepare yourself for bed. You didn't hear the ping of a chat message. All your body had left in it was to sleep away the exhaustion, even if it meant knocking you out for good and without having an alarm set for the next morning. Big decisions would have to be made the next day, but you were asleep, unaware of the weight resting on your shoulders.

And you didn't notice the red light on your webcam, saying it was still on even though your screen had long closed down.

< sleep well, darling :) ♥

His lips curled into a wicked, lovestruck grin as he moved the window with the video live feed of your bedroom to the second monitor. Finally. Finally, he'd get to meet you. His idol, his darling, his beloved streamer. He adored and worshipped you since the day you started. Watched every one of your streams since the day you joined his life.

Without you, his channel wouldn't exist. People wouldn't adore him, wouldn't watch him. The masses of fans enjoying his lengthy cock-stroking sessions, buying his ASMR audios to masturbate to—they all wouldn't exist without you. Even when he was down when he just started, seeing you smile and do your best for the few followers you had was what made him continue working hard for you.

And now that he had long surpassed you, it was time he gave back the gratitude he felt towards you.

The thought alone of meeting you was getting his cock rock hard, ready to burst. He wasn't even sure if he could look into your eyes without cumming instantly like a pathetic loser. But he wouldn't mind being a loser again if it meant he got to meet you.

"I love her streams," he hummed blissfully, closing the connection to your stream as he palmed himself over his sweatpants. Thanks to your lovely end of stream announcement, showing all your best moments, no one even noticed he'd be off chatting with you. "She's my favorite streamer ever."

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

Donations went off as he pulled down the waistband, revealing the girthy mass that his followers loved so much. He'd been so ashamed as a teenager for having this monster of a cock, but on the internet, he found solace. People loved imagining riding him, giving him BJs, the whole nine yards, but he saved himself. For you. You'd be the first, and if he did his job well, you'd be his last.

"Before we get to the main part of tonight," he teased, gripping his length in his hand, squeezing and caressing it for the whole community to see. Head rolling back, he imagined your warmth spread around him, his cock pulsing eagerly as he wished to know what it would feel like to pop the tip into your tight pussy.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

He grinned. They loved him so much. Everyone loved the former loser now turned into a hot, sexy internet sensation. And you would, too. Very soon.

"I want to announce that we're going to have the collaboration of the year right here, on this channel, tomorrow. Starting at 8:30pm! Make sure you're here to witness it, Darling."

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

#camgirl!darling #camboy!yandere #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

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vrystalius · 27 days ago

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Live to see another day

After the Mugen Train incident your husband Kyojuro is slowly recovering with your help.

Pairing: Kyojuro x gn!reader

Despite all his injuries and great pains, your husband’s bright smile matches that of the sun. You dream of it every night, how life was before Kyojuro went on that damned mission that caused so much suffering and pain for the both of you. Yet, despite everything, he pushed through and forces himself through physical therapy in hopes to recover fully. Your head was resting on your crossed arms, on the hospital bed your husband was laying in. You weren’t planning on falling asleep like this, but you were so, so tired from everything yesterday.

Shinjuro came to visit and caused nothing but make Kyojuro’s heart-rate rapidly rise, his eye sight in the injuried eye got worse, his resistance to the pain-medication that Shinobu assigned to him increase and with that his pain got more intense. You thought your husband was getting better. Last night you were even able to crawl into his narrow hospital bed and cuddle with him. The first time in months. It was so nice to feel his arms wrapped around your body. His touch felt so securing and as if nothing in the world matters anymore, as if Kyojuro can protect you from anything. Even if he may be bedridden for so many more months.

You didn’t want to open your eyes yet despite waking up. You can’t look at your husband’s bandaged body yet, it’s too early in the morning for that. Your body relaxed in the awkward position you were in, your arms stretching and spreading out to carefully rest them over his legs. You wanted to feel him close but weren’t sure where you’re allowed to touch him without him giving you a pained smile and gently reminding you that what you just touched was making him want to cripple in pain. You left Kyojuro’s legs shift beneath your arms and you carefully pulled them back to your body, fearing you might did exactly what you were afraid of doing— hurting him. You slowly opened your eyes but didn’t lift your head, staring at your husband’s handsome, bandaged face from where you were resting your head. He was surprisingly awake already, staring right at you. Was he watching you sleep? You gave him a weak grin and rubbed your eyes, sitting upright on the incredibly uncomfortable chair you were sitting in, stretching your tired limbs. Kyojuro watched quietly.

“Good morning. You shouldn’t sleep like that, my flame. You will get back aches.”

You stretched your back and groaned loudly, proving his point. He laughed quietly, his eyes sparkling at the sight of you. His hand slowly reached out to your cheek and pulled your attention back on him. You carefully leaned into his touch, placing a small kiss into his palm.

“How are you feeling? You need anything for the pain?”

Your voice was still laced with sleep. Kyojuro shook his head slightly and pulled you a little closer.

“I’m fine love. Just stay with me, please.”

How could you refuse that wish? You scooted closer with your chair and rested your head on the edge of his pillow. His arm weakly wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers tracing loose patterns on your arm. His head slowly moved closer to yours, resting on top of yours. His warmth was radiating off his body and his touch was relaxing to the point of melting against his body. You lifted your arm and hovered over his chest and glanced at him, silently ask for permission to wrap your arm around his shoulders. A smile spread on Kyojuro’s face and he planted a kiss on the side of your head, nodding quietly. Slowly, your arm lowered to rest on his shoulder. You closely watched for flinches or pained expressions in case you were hurting him in any way, but wrapping your arm around his shoulder seemed fine. Tension left out of your body as you smiled softly. Kyojuro sighed contently and closer his eyes for a moment. The morning sun began to illuminate you two, the comforting warmth acting like a cozy blanket tucking you two in.

“I love you... Thank you for everything, my love.”

He turned his head slowly to look at you, his hand giving your arm a weak squeeze. There it was again, Kyojuro’s brightest smile that was able to brighten up even the most depressing days. You can’t even begin to comprehend how glad you are that your husband returned back to you, to your arms.

What would you do without him?

🎃

Fictober prompt: “It’s a new day, let’s go.”

I was planning on posting something for Akaza today, but a mutual randomly reminded me that today is the fourth anniversary of the Mugen Train Arc release date (in Japan) and I thought I should write something for our best boy <3 I miss him greatly. I just noticed that I need a plushie of him or a figurine, I have neither although he was my first favourite character in the whole series. I want a big, huge plushie of him :(

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <3

My event masterlist 🎃

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noxcheshire · 1 year ago

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Ya’ll don’t know how much I love de-aged Danny prompts and fics.

The fluff, the cuteness, the absolute squishable potential of a little toddler Danny who allows his new siblings to rub at his cheeks as a form of therapy cause it’s so chubby and soft. 🥹

And when he gives a beaming smile when he’s bombarded by hugs and kisses; or when he’s kicking his little feet as he’s pulled through the sky by the armpits, his sibling rushing through the halls with him — that is magic. That is just 🥰 AAAAAAAH

But the potential of ANGST, is also my jam and I will blend this toddler in the slim of sadness while the bat family screams at me in the background like feral coyotes.

Like, bare with me for a second.

Danny Phantom who was captured.

Danny Phantom who was taken apart and put back together again.

Danny Phantom who kept loosing more and more until he was just a tiny little baby version of himself, trying to sustain his own life but knowing that soon he will cease to exist in all its entirety.

Danny Phantom who has been hurt for so long that he dreams. He dreams of a life that could have been, and would have been, had things not become so terrible. And he dreams of people, of friends, of places he isn’t even quite sure ever truly existed.

He dreams happily in his own head, unaware of the passage of time and his ever closing in second death, until he wakes up.

His dreams splinter and fade like mist when the sun breaks through the sky.

But there is no comforting warm light for him when he blinks, only a searing, indifferent and blinding white.

He’s scared, and confused, and damaged in a way that makes him want to throw up but nothing comes out.

He isn’t even sure what he does, but he’s not there anymore in the cold white rooms with sharp things and green looming containers. Instead he’s somewhere outside, stumbling on trembling weak legs that he’s certain are too short but he isn’t quite sure because his head hurts and he can’t really see when everything is spinning and — and —

His lip trembles.

There’s a lot of green and red.

He doesn’t think his tummy is supposed to do that.

Is it supposed to be green? Or is it supposed to be red? Was it supposed to be coming out at all? It hurts. It really, really hurts, and he doesn’t know what to do when he doesn’t even know who he had been.

But he tries to gather it up, pushing the reds and green underneath the cover of his open skin.

It’s supposed to be in there… right?

But it’s not staying. Why won’t it stay?

He sniffles, frustration, exhaustion, hurt, and childish confusion mixing itself so spectacularly that he begins to cry.

And then something big and heavy plops itself on the ground with him.

It was so startling that he hiccups into a stop.

He stares, hands wet and his spilling tummy very heavy, but he doesn’t mind it as the very big cat person blinks slowly back at him. Or maybe a bat?

Is it friendly?

It’s crouching very slowly, even speaking in soft words. It must be friendly! He didn’t know bat-cat people existed, but he liked it very much.

He gives his hands to the bat-cat, presenting his insides for help.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #de aged Danny #ya’ll don’t understand #my cuteness aggression will give him so much trauma

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queen-of-the-avengers · 2 months ago

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Break Free

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.8k

Warnings: angst, prison!wanda

Summary: Four new prisoners get admitted into the Raft, and you now have four new clients as the resident psychiatrist. Wanda is an interesting person and the more you get to know her, the more you understand the position she’s in. She’s a hero even if she doesn’t see it.

Squares Filled: "I won't let you be hurt anymore." for @scarletwitchbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

When you got into the psychiatric field, never did you think you would be at one of the most dangerous prisons on Earth. The Raft houses the most dangerous criminals known to man. They started letting superhumans into the prison since it’s the only safe place to put them.

Never did you think you’d ever see any of the Avengers here, either.

You’ve seen some of the worst humans known to man, so why the hell are heroes locked up here? They didn’t do anything wrong. It’s no secret that the Accords were put into effect, and you know some of the Avengers signed it and others didn’t. Everyone heard about the fight at the German airport.

If you were on the team, you wouldn’t have signed it, either.

Thaddeus Ross walks with you down the hallway where the Avengers are staying. You’re the on-call psychiatrist where you work with each prisoner one-on-one and provide them with a bit of therapy and medication to help them. Since they’ve just arrived, Ross is introducing you to them since they are now your new clients.

“We will be giving most of the other prisoners to Dr. Farrow so you can focus solely on our new guests.”

“Are you sure this is the best option? They didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ross stops walking and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“They violated the Accords. They’re criminals.”

He won’t listen to reason so you don’t say anything more of the matter. Everyone knows who the Avengers are but Ross takes you to their cells to do introductions anyway.

“Meet Sam Wilson a.k.a the Falcon.” Sam paces the entire cell and only pauses when he locks eyes with you. “Steve Rogers right-hand man. If he gives you any trouble, don’t hesitate to punish him how you see fit.”

“Real mature,” Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to pacing.

Ross takes you from his cell to the next.

“Clint Barton a.k.a Hawkeye.” Clint looks at you but doesn’t say a word. He’s known for being stealthy and not making any noise. He’s not a big talker which is going to be a problem for you. “He’s one of the most notable spies besides Black Widow. Don’t let him manipulate you.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Clint bites out.

Ross takes you to the next cell.

“Look, I have a family. They’re going to be worried about me. I’ll do whatever, just get me out of here.”

“Scott Lang a.k.a Antman. He’s a talker. Won’t shut up. Wouldn’t blame you if you skipped his session every once in a while,” Ross scoffs.

“Come on!” Scott begs, but Ross ignores him.

The final cell he takes you to is the one you’ve been looking forward to the most.

“Wanda Maximoff.” She is sitting on the ground with a straight jacket on and a blank look on her face. She looks so broken. What have they done to her? “The witch.”

“Why is she in a straight jacket?”

“We can’t allow her to use her magic. Be careful with her. She’ll get in your head.” Ross takes you back to his office before you can say anything else about it. He must know that what he’s doing is wrong, right? “You’ll be given two hours with each person a day while also tending to some of the other prisoners. I don’t care who you start with but plan your time however you’d like. Any questions?”

“Are you sure they belong here?”

“Yes. They’re criminals. They went against the Accords that over a hundred countries had signed.”

You don’t think the Accords should have ever happened, but you keep your opinions to yourself. You start the day by having sessions with the other prisoners because you’re unsure how you’re going to go about treating the Avengers. They have nothing that needs to be treated but if you don’t do your job, you’ll get fired.

After lunch, you decide it’s time to talk to the Avengers. You wanted to start with an easy one, Scott, but you find yourself in Wanda’s cell with her.

“We didn’t get to meet last time but my name is Dr. Y/N. Can you tell me a little about you?” Wanda doesn’t speak. She looks at you but you don’t think she’s seeing you. She’s distancing herself from the situation. “Wanda, don’t do that. Don’t disassociate.”

“What do you know? You have no idea how I’m feeling,” she says and looks at you.

“You’re right. I don’t, but I do know that disassociation hurts more than it heals. I’ve been doing this a long time, Wanda. I want to help people and understand them better. I believe in the power of medicine which is what I give out.”

“Do you think I need help like that?”

“No. I don’t think what they’re doing to you or the others is right.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs and looks down.

“No, it’s not. It’s not humane.” She looks at you. “I don’t think you did anything wrong here.”

“They seem to think so.”

“For now, don’t think about them. Think about us. It’s just you and me in this room. I just want to get to know you.”

“Because you have to.”

“Because I want to. I could just sit here and pump you full of so much medicine you’ll forget your own name or I can get to know you and understand you as a person.” You hate that she’s in a straightjacket. You fight the urge to take it off her but then Ross will blow a fire under your ass for doing it. “Your choice.”

Wanda doesn’t say anything for five minutes as she contemplates her options.

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with your interests. What do you like to do in your free time?”

“Before… Sokovia… I loved going to the movies with my brother. We’d sit in the back and make fun of the characters.” She has a faint smile on her face from the memory. “We’d do everything together.”

“You must miss him.”

You’re no stranger to what happened in Sokovia.

“He was my best friend.”

“What about afterward? How did you cope with the loss of your brother?”

“I didn’t. My home was ruined. My parents were gone. My brother was gone. I had no one left. I was living in a place with strangers. I usually kept to myself. I liked playing guitar. Tony got me one. I watched a lot of TV.”

“What were your favorite shows?”

“The Dick Van Dyke Show. My family and I used to watch those when I was a kid. It makes me feel close to them.”

“What made you feel safe?”

“Vision.”

“What will make you feel safe now?”

Wanda looks at you in surprise. She didn’t expect you to ask her that question. Normally, prisons don’t care about the comfort of their prisoners but you do. She looks down at the jacket wrapped around her and you nod in understanding. She flinches back when you approach her but she doesn’t move away from you. You step behind her and undo her jacket so that her arms aren’t restricted. You take the jacket off her and lay it over your arm.

“I can’t do much but I can do this. You don’t deserve this.”

Wanda looks up at you with unshed tears in her eyes. Your phone rings and you look at the message Ross sends you.

My office. Now.

“I gotta go. I look forward to talking to you again.”

You leave her cell and make your way to Ross’ office. He doesn’t look too happy and you have a feeling it has something to do with the jacket still over your arm.

“Who gave you the authority to remove her jacket?”

“Me. I did what was best for my patient. Isn’t that why I’m here? To help them become the better versions of themselves? Isn’t that why you hired a psychiatrist and not a psychologist so I could prescribe them medicine if needed?”

“Yeah, but--”

“Then let me do my damn job. No one who isn’t clinically insane deserves to be in a straightjacket.”

“I don’t like your tone, Y/N.”

“You want to fire me? Go ahead. Good luck finding someone who will want to come out here.”

“You’re dismissed,” he says through clenched teeth.

You’re the only one here who doesn’t put up with Ross’ bullshit and he knows it. Everyone else is afraid of him but you won’t let him control you like he does everyone else. You respect yourself too much to let him.

Scott is the easiest to talk to since he won’t shut up. You ask him one question and he’ll go off on a tangent that has nothing to do with what you asked him. Clint is more reserved and will only give you one or two-word answers. It’s clear he isn’t interested in talking with you. Sam is more talkative than Clint but loves to compare this to his experiences with the Air Force. Wanda is the only one you connect with on a personal level. There’s something about her that’s pulling you to her, and you know it’s not her magic.

The next time you see Wanda, you’ve brought her something to eat. She is lying in her bed when you enter, and she sits up to greet you.

“I don’t like what they serve. I brought you something from my personal stash,” you wink at her.

“Thank you,” she smiles.

You sit down on the other side of her bed and share your food with her even though you let her eat most of it.

“Tell me, do you like your powers?”

“I’m kind of stuck with them so I have to, right?”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you like them?”

“Sometimes, no.”

“How did you get them?”

She knows you know how she did but talking about it helps the mind come to terms with what happened so that it may start to heal from it.

“Do you want the short version or the long version?”

“Whatever version you’re comfortable with giving.”

“My parents were killed by a bomb hitting our complex. The bomb came from Stark Industries. Pietro and I grew up to hate Stark and anything that he did. We attended every protest against him, did everything we could to try and stop him from making weapons and destroying cities for his selfish purposes.

“Hydra saw us and gave us an opportunity to strengthen our country. They gave us a way to fight back those who had too much power. They had Loki’s scepter. Apparently, I was born with the ability of magic but it was so weak that had I not been with Hydra, it probably would have diminished into nothing. The experiments they did allowed the mind stone to reactivate that side of me. It gave me my abilities.”

“Did you want to volunteer for their experiments or do you think Pietro had to convince you to?”

“I think we wanted to matter. I think we were looking for a reason for why all the bad things were happening to us.”

“Do you think you’d do the same thing if you had the chance?”

“No, I don’t,” she sighs. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you do what you do? Why prisoners?”

“I believe in helping everyone regardless of what they’ve done. Some prisoners think prison is a rehab and use that to get better. Some don’t, but I believe in the power of medicine. I just want to help people.”

“And us?”

“I’d use medicine if I thought it would help. Honestly, I don’t think you guys have done anything wrong. I don’t think you guys deserve to be here. You’re heroes in my eyes, especially you.”

Wanda looks into your eyes and tries to understand what you’re thinking. Her cell has power-dampening technology in the walls so she can’t use her magic. She glances down at your lips. Time stops and the only thing that matters is Wanda. She barely moves an inch when the alarms go off and the red light flashes in the hallway.

“Shit, I gotta go.”

“What’s happening?”

“A prisoner escaped. Finish the food. I’ll be back for it later.”

Wanda watches you leave and she doesn’t realize she’s smiling until she sees her reflection in the glass. Ross got a handle on the prisoner who escaped. One of the nurses came by to administer medicine for him but they didn’t know that the prisoner doesn’t like to be touched without warning. He knocked her out. You’re the only one who knows this about him since he’s worked with you since he came here.

That took the next three hours of your time, so it’s nearing dinnertime when you’re finished. Wanda deserves more than the slop they serve, so you’ll fix her a plate from the nurses’ station. You’re plating the food when you hear commotion come from the other nurses.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Tony Stark is here.”

You drop what you’re doing and head over to the command center where you spot Tony talking to Ross.

“If Sam’s going to talk to anyone, it’s you, Tony.”

“Yeah, let me see what I can do.”

Steve and Bucky are men on the run, and Ross is searching for them since they violated those stupid Accords. Ross thinks if Tony talks to Sam, he’ll tell him where they are. Tony leaves Ross’ office and you rush to catch up to Tony.

“You’re not on Ross’ side, are you?” you whisper.

Tony pauses and looks at you. He doesn’t know who you are and he doesn’t trust you to reveal his true motives.

“Get back to work before you get in trouble.”

Yeah, he’s not on Ross’ side. Tony and Steve are best friends. He’s here because Steve needs him. If he is going to get Sam to tell him where Steve is, then he can’t let Ross know. Tony has a plan. You’re not sure what it is but you’re going to use it to your advantage. If this goes sideways, you’ll get fired but if it works, you can get Wanda out of here. You rush over to her cell and open the door without letting it close.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“I need you to trust me for the next ten minutes. Come on, I’m getting you out of here.”

“What?”

“I don’t have much time. Tony is here talking to Sam. I don’t even know if this is going to work but I have to try. You don’t belong here, Wanda. None of you do. I won’t let you be hurt anymore. Come on.”

Wanda jumps out of bed and follows you out of her cell. She feels her powers heighten inside of her now that she is no longer under the influence of the power-dampening technology. All eyes are going to be on Tony so you’re banking on none of them seeing you and Wanda escaping.

You hold her hand the entire time you’re running with her to where Tony’s helicopter is. Of course, there are guards patrolling the area and moving shipments in and out of the area. If you go now, you’ll be spotted and she’ll be in even more trouble than she already is.

“Shit, that’s a lot of guards. I really didn’t think this through.”

“I got this,” she whispers.

She uses her magic and puts each and every one of the men to sleep. They all fall to the ground like dominoes, and you know you’ll have even less time to get her on that helicopter.

“Yeah, that works,” you nod. “Come on.” You run with Wanda to the helicopter and practically shove her inside. “Keep your head down and don’t let Tony see you.”

“Wait, what about you?”

“I have to stay and make sure they don’t find you. Don’t tell me where you’re going but I’ll find you, okay?”

“No, it’s too risky. You have to come with me.”

You pull her in for a hug and run your hand down her back.

“I have to help the others. It’s what I do, remember?” You pull away but keep your hands on her. “Wanda, you deserve to be free. Now, go before Tony comes back.”

You’re about to leave when she pulls you back into her. This time, her lips plant themselves on yours. You kiss her back feverishly, not knowing when the next time you’ll be able to do this again. You pull away seconds later and run away so that Tony doesn’t spot her. He comes walking out moments later with Ross on his heels.

Wanda peeks her head out one of the windows and looks at you. You give her an encouraging nod and disappear back into the prison. You have to have faith Friday disabled the audio and video but you’re prepared for the ugly alternative.

In case Ross figured out Wanda is gone and you helped her, you have to get the others out as soon as possible. They don’t belong here. They’re heroes and it’s time people start seeing them as that.

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

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froggibus · 2 years ago

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The Three Times You Share A Bed - Leon S Kennedy

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x reader

Genre: fluff, some light angst thrown in towards the end?

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: two times you sleep in leon's bed, and the one time he sleeps in yours

CW: roommate! Leon, kinda friends to lovers?, light angst, abandonment issues, paranoia, fear + insomnia, mentions of zombies, bedsharing, leon has intimacy issues (get therapy challenge)

OMG HAPPY RE4 RELEASE!!! I am SO excited to play once im done work this weekend! Leon looks so damn fine in the gameplay ive seen and i am going FERAL! pls no spoilers for anything new in the game! <3

RE4 remake spoiler free zone!! I have yet to play the remake so there are no spoilers in this!

————

The telltale clicking of a key in the door has you on your feet in seconds, abandoning the plush throw blanket on the couch. Before it even opens, you’re standing on the doormat. You feel a little silly, like a golden retriever waiting for its owner, but the shame is washed away when Leon steps through the door.

It’s been three weeks since you’ve last seen your roommate and best friend, and just as long since you last had company. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of you standing in front of him, the dark circles under his eyes becoming more prominent.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He sighs and drops his backpack on the floor, locking the door behind him.

“How was it?”

You fight the urge to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and inhale his scent, knowing that’s not what friends do. Still, the feeling is there and if he went in for it, you’d reciprocate in a heartbeat.

He opens the fridge and beams at the fully stocked drinks and snacks. He cracks open a can of cider and leans against the counter. “Long,” he admits, “way too long. And my nose is still burning from the smell of rotten flesh.” You crinkle your nose at the thought. Leon’s never been much of a talker and most of his work being classified didn’t help. Whenever something wasn’t top secret, though, you were sure to sit there and listen no matter how horrific the details were.

You settle in on the couch next to the agent, listening to him drone on about a zombie-like creature that had peeling flesh and fifty eyes. You could vividly picture it from his words alone, and the image of the creature sent a shiver up your spine.

Leon talks for hours, spilling every miniscule detail of every horror he encounters. You stay the whole time, nodding along. Leon laughs at the way you scrunch your face in disgust or close your eyes in fear. He hates how cute you are, but he can’t seem to stop telling you stories. After many hours and a few drinks between the two of you, he’s almost run out of stories to tell.

Leon pats your shoulder gently, collecting his cans from where he’d set them on the coffee table. “I need a shower,” he states. “I’ll see you tomorrow, y/n.”

“Go shower. You stink,” you joke and punch him in the ribs.

He feigns injury at your blow, pretending to suck in a breath like you’d really hurt him. He keeps up the facade the whole way to his bedroom, only leaving character when he shuts the door behind him.

It’s only when he’s disappeared that you realize how late it's gotten—and how dark. Even though your shared apartment is on the 19th floor, you can’t help but worry something is going to crawl through your window. You shake the thoughts away and get ready for bed, but every gust of wind and rustling of leaves makes you flinch.

You close your eyes and tug your comforter over your head, hoping that if there is something out there, it won’t know you’re there. You toss and turn for a while longer, staying dead quiet and pushing your fears away.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You take a deep breath, throw your comforter off of your shoulders, and sprint to Leon’s room. It’s like your brain is on autopilot—it knows exactly where to go to be safe.

You don’t knock on the door, instead quietly twisting the knob and slipping in through a crack in the door. Leon sits up as soon as your feet touch the wooden floor, eyes snapping towards your silhouette. He’s been a light sleeper ever since Racoon City, waking at the slightest of sounds.

He relaxes at the sight of you but only for a second. He glances at his digital clock, eyes widening at the time. “Y/n? What are you still doing up?”

“I-I couldn’t sleep…I feel like a flesh eating zombie is going to climb through my window and eat me.”

He chuckles. “That would be my fault.” He shuffles over in bed and pulls back the comforter. “You’re more than welcome to stay here for the night.”

You crawl into bed next to him, keeping as much distance between the two of you as possible. You can feel his body heat radiating through the blankets and smell his body wash on his skin. The feeling is new, yet so familiar it eases you instantly.

“Leon?”

He hums in response.

“Is it safer to sleep next to the window or the door? From like, a secret agent standpoint.”

“We’re on the 19th floor so window, but unless it's a hotel room, the door. You would more than likely hear it if they broke down the front door so you’d have more time to get out.”

You think for a second. “Can we switch places?”

“Honestly, y/n,” he laughs dryly, “the safest place to sleep right now is next to me.”

Your face warms at that and you nod, relaxing into his pillows. While you drift off to sleep, Leon watches over you. He knows nothing is going to come for you here, but he did promise to keep you safe, and he’ll keep that promise no matter what.

—

When you get home, you’re in a foul mood. You practically throw the groceries onto the counter before walking to your room and throwing yourself onto your bed. It’s been a long day. All of the stores were so busy you could hardly get through the aisles, and all of the people you encountered were rude.

Leon comes out of his room a few minutes later. Seeing the groceries abandoned on the counter, his first thought is to check on you. He doesn’t check on you, though. Not yet, anyway. He knows you’ll just be more upset if the frozen items melt and the milk sits out all night, so he sets out on putting them away.

After almost an hour of laying in your bed trying to recuperate after the day you’ve had, you’re snapped out of it by a text.

Leon: Come here, I have a surprise for you

You don’t feel like leaving your bed, but you force yourself out of it anyway. It’s not Leon you’re mad at. Leon is probably the only person in the world you don’t hate right now. You knock on his door softly, holding your arms behind your back.

“Come in!” He shouts.

You open the door, shuffling into his room and closing it behind you. Your jaw drops when you see a tray in the middle of his bed piled high with your favorite snacks, drinks and two wine glasses. Leon pats the spot next to him and you’re happy to oblige, relaxing onto the mattress.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

He shrugs, pouring you a glass of wine. “It already seems like you had a bad day, I just wanted to do something to make it a little better for you.”

“Thank you.” He nods in acknowledgement, turning on his tv and handing you the remote. “You can choose the first movie. Just—maybe no zombies?”

You snort at that. Classic Leon, using his corny jokes to make light of even the worst of situations. You settle on an old favorite movie you love, handing the remote back to the blond and switching it for a wine glass.

Between your favorite movie, the delicious wine and your favorite snacks, your spirits are lifted in no time. One movie turns into two, and two turns into three. Soon enough, you’re dozing off in Leon’s bed.

He moves the tray of snacks and the glasses off of the bed to give you more room to sprawl out. Laying down next to you, he watches you sleep. A part of him wishes he could see this every night—the same sight he fantasizes about on even the hardest of missions.

He flicks off the lamp on his side table and settles in. “Good night, cutie,” he mumbles, knowing you’re far too deep in sleep to hear him.

—

You wake up in the middle of the night, moonlight streaming through the window and illuminating Leon’s bedroom. You’re still numb from sleep, your senses dulled just enough that it takes you a minute to realize that something is grabbing you. No, not grabbing—holding.

You blink a few times. Leon is laying next to you, his chest pressed to your back, his arms around your waist. You can feel the slow beating of his heart and the heat coming off of his skin. He’s so close it overwhelms you, yet it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

You think about slipping away but you know what a light sleeper he is, and you don’t think you could handle it if he woke up and saw how close you were. You close your eyes and try to calm the beating in your heart so you can fall back asleep.

When you wake up again, Leon is gone. Your body feels cold where his once was. You sit up—is he showering? He can’t be, the bathroom door is open. You sit up, letting the blankets fall off of you. You swing your legs over the side of his bed, walking out to the kitchen, but he’s not there either.

Did he leave to go get something?

You check your phone, expecting to see a text saying he ran out to go get more milk or something, but there’s nothing. You sigh, typing up a message and sending it to him.

Y/N: where’d you go?

You practically jump when your phone lets out a noise, but your heart sinks when you see what it is.

Message Not Delivered. Try Again?

You sigh. That can only mean one thing: he’s on another mission. Typical Leon, disappearing in the middle of the night to go god knows where for god knows how long. The frustration bubbles up in your chest and you feel like hitting something, but you don’t. It’s not worth it.

You try to keep your mind off of his sudden disappearance by throwing yourself into chores. You wash his bedding and make his bed, then wash your own. You sweep and mop the floors and vacuum the carpets. You dust the blinds.

It doesn’t help.

Your mind keeps wandering back to the fact that he left without saying goodbye. That he woke up at some ungodly hour, saw you laying in his arms, got up and left without another word. He didn’t even leave a note. He really cares that little.

You shake your head and even though the pit in your stomach makes you feel like not eating, you make yourself a sandwich regardless. Seeing the untouched groceries in the fridge just adds to the feeling.

Even though you know he’s not going to get it, you pull out your phone and start typing.

Y/N: do you at least know when you’ll be back?

Message Not Delivered. Try Again?

The message makes you roll your eyes. Leon fucking Kennedy.

—

A week goes by, and then two, and you still hear nothing from your roommate. You send texts here and there, hoping for an answer, but none of them go through. Eventually, you start venting to him through there, too. Expressing how frustrated you are that he didn’t say goodbye, how annoying your feelings are, how sometimes you wish you didn’t know him so you didn’t have to go through this.

It’s a random Sunday night when you’re sitting on the couch, watching trash reality tv and eating snacks. It’s cold in the apartment, but you can’t be bothered to turn on the heat. Only when your arms puff up with goosebumps do you scour the room for a sweater, settling on a random one hanging on the back of a chair.

It’s Leon’s, an old one from the Police Academy. His smell floods your nose when you pull it over your head, and it's so bittersweet you don’t know if you should laugh or cry. You settle back on the couch, but a rustling at the window makes you freeze in your tracks.

It stops for a moment, and you can almost convince yourself you’ve imagined it or it’s a part of the show—until it happens again. You scramble for the remote, pausing it so you can hear better. The noise starts again, and you waste no time in hightailing it to your bedroom and slamming the door behind you.

You flop onto your bed, trying (and failing) to remind yourself that it’s just the wind. That you’re safe here. But it’s hard when it’s late and you’re tired and you’re alone and the only person you feel safe with just abandoned you.

You curl up into a ball, pulling Leon’s sweater over your mouth and inhaling the familiar scent. It’s enough to calm you down, if only for a few moments. If you close your eyes, you can almost trick yourself into thinking he’s there, and for now, that’s good enough.

—

Leon knows he fucked up when he gets back to the country and turns on his phone. Almost fifty messages from you, each one more sad than the last. He wants to slap himself—why couldn’t he just grow a pair and say goodbye? Why did he have to be so noncommittal?

He reads every message on the cab ride back to the apartment, and his heart breaks for you. He didn’t think about how you would drive yourself crazy over him or how worried you must have been. All he thought about was getting the call for the mission in the middle of the night and not wanting to wake you up.

But he didn’t abandon you. He thought about you every day and god—he wishes he could have talked to you. Hearing your voice and seeing your face was enough to make everything better. With the horrors he’s seen lately, all he wants is to be back in that bed with you for one more night.

He’s quiet coming into the apartment, hoping he doesn’t wake you up or scare you. And even though he knows you’re sleeping, he’s still disappointed you’re not waiting at the door for him.

He tosses his backpack into his room and strips off all of his holsters and velcro. He’s quiet walking down the hallway to your room and even quieter opening the door. He relaxes at the sight of you curled up in a ball.

You look so cute and so peaceful and—is that his sweater? The sight brings a smile to his face. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, climbing into the bed next to you.

You wake up when the bed dips down and arms wrap around you. You’re so tired you don’t even care who or what it is.

“If you’re gonna kill me, can you at least let me sleep first?” You mumble.

You fully awake as soon as you hear Leon’s laugh.

“You’re back?” You say, and you hate the way your voice cracks.

You turn around to face him, tired ocean eyes meeting yours. He nods sleepily, “‘m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. It was stupid of me.”

“It’s okay,” and it really is okay. All the resentment you felt melted away at the sight of him.

“C’mere,” he mumbles.

You lay your head on his chest, wrapping your arms around him. You can hear his heart rate slow down at the contact.

“I just—I just need you tonight.” Those are big words coming from the agent, and they leave you completely stunned. He must have seen or done something horrible while he was away for him to be this vulnerable, even with you.

“You can have me tonight.” You try to keep your voice even, “you can have me whenever you need me,”

He kisses the top of your head. “But I always need you.”

“Then I’m always yours.”

Neither of you speak after that, Leon falling into a light sleep. You stay up a while longer, watching the blond boy rest beneath you. He looks so fragile like this, you can’t imagine him fighting off monsters and handling weapons. You kiss his collarbone through his shirt and let yourself fall asleep with him.

#resident evil angst #resident evil fluff #resident evil #re4 leon #resident evil 4 #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #x you #x reader

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