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tothemeadow · 4 years ago

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I would love to ask for a steamy scenario with fem reader x tanjiro in which reader teases tanjiro to hell and back all day before finally leading to a steamy makeout sesh and maybe some grinding at last towards the end of the day.. if youre uncomfy with this thats fine pls feel free to delete! i love your writing thank you in advance.

“if you’re uncomfy with this”

as I write this after kinktober 😂😂😂

‘just a little game’ / Kamado T. x Reader

warnings: spicy

words: 1,281

(a/n): Tanjiro is 18+ in this!

You love Tanjiro, you really do.

He’s just really… dense.

Plus, he’s super easy to embarrass, so there’s that.

You and your devious little mind love to tease the boy, no matter the situation. He blushes so much, it’s ridiculous. Between him and Zenitsu, it’s a miracle that they have blood still circulating through their bodies.

This is what you tell yourself throughout the day; you’re only looking to get a rise out of Tanjiro, nothing more. At first, it starts off with relatively simple things – flirty looks, lingering touches. Of course, Tanjiro doesn’t pick up what you’re putting down. Again, he’s incredibly dense. It’s up to you to crank up the heat if you want to see any kind of reaction out of him. A plan formulates in your head with little thought. It shouldn’t be hard to get him to do what you want, but it’ll take some time.

Smoothing down your skirt, you glance over your reflection, checking for anything that you might’ve missed. If you’re being totally honest, you look absolutely scrumptious in your short skirt and thigh-high sock combo. Topped off with turtleneck sweater, you’re the textbook definition of a flirty schoolgirl. If Tanjiro doesn’t appreciate this outfit, you’re going to sock him in the face.

“(y/n)?” Tanjiro calls from the bottom of the staircase. “Are you ready to go?”

You bite back a smile. The first part of your “plan” was to ask Tanjiro to go shopping with you; he, of course, didn’t know you planned on wearing such a mouthwatering outfit. Smoothing a dab of red lipstick, you onceover yourself once more before finally stepping away from the mirror.

“Coming!” you respond.

As you round the top of the staircases, Tanjiro’s eyes land on you, a bright smile blooming on his face. Everything seems okay at first, but then you begin your descent with an extra bounce in your step. The smile on Tanjiro’s face droops the tiniest bit; his eyes catch onto the way your skirt flounces with each step, the hem flying up and giving him a perfect view of your panties.

You flash him a pleasant grin as you take the final step. “We good to go?”

Quickly darting his eyes to the side, Tanjiro coughs into his fist. “Uh, yeah, I’m good…”

Unbeknownst to him, you smirk. Oh, this is going to be way too easy. Time to amp things up, yes?

“Tanjiro,” you say, feigning innocence, “do you like my outfit? I picked it out especially for you…”

His eyes momentarily flicker to the bit of skin exposed between the hem of your skirt and your socks. You can see something dark flash across his eyes, but then he shakes his head and looks up to your face. “I think you look really pretty! But you always do, no matter what you wear!”

Your eyes narrow into mischievous slits. Oh, if only he knew what was in store for him…

God bless high heels because damn you’re looking sharp!

You know you’re a bit overdressed for a simple trip to the supermarket, but who cares? You’re looking positively gorgeous and maybe you’re showing off a little.

Tanjiro more or less stays in front of you, his eyes never daring to travel any lower than your neck. You can practically see it written across his face that looking at you meant trouble. And so, being the little mastermind you are, you purposely swing your hips as you walk, touch his bicep (you squeeze it while you’re at it), make sure you’re dangerously close, etc…

You’re finding it to be quite fun.

Standing in front of one of the numerous shelves, Tanjiro’s eyes scan over its contents. You can tell he’s trying to distract himself and focus on something more appropriate.

“What are you hungry for?” you ask as you lean into him. “I’m in the mood for meat.” You smirk at your obvious innuendo.

Tanjiro, bless his soul, blinks. Again, dense. “What kind of meat?”

“Sausage.”

“Oh, okay! Any particular kind you want?”

“Kamado.” Slinking yourself around one of his arms, you press your cheek into his shoulder. “And then maybe we can have whipped cream for dessert.”

Tanjiro tenses under your hold. Oh, so now he gets it. “I-I-I… I guess. We could probably pick up some…” His cheeks turn a cherry red. His rambling is just so damn cute!

Your heels clack against the floor as you step in front of him. With the most innocent expression you can muster, you pretend to smooth down the front of his shirt, your palms coming to a stop on his pectorals. His chest heaves under your gentle touch, his heartbeat racing below your fingertips. Yes, finally.

This is what you want.

“What’s wrong, Tanjiro? You seem distracted.”

Tanjiro worries his bottom lip. His hands clench and unclench into fists at his sides; the nervousness and tension rolling off him are almost palpable. “I want thighs,” he murmurs absentmindedly.

You cock an eyebrow at that. “And what kind of thighs?”

His eyes flicker back down to your skirt. “…Chicken.”

Placing your index finger beneath his chin, you tilt his head up until he’s looking directly at you. “I bet you want some legs, too, huh?”

He releases a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

With your heels, your legs seem longer than usual. No matter – you easily slip one between his legs, an easy smile spreading on your face. “We can work with that. Do you want to eat now or at home?”

Tanjiro’s pupils blow wide at your proposal. “Home. Please. Can we do it now?”

You tap his bottom lip with a fingertip. “Of course we can, baby boy. Let’s go.”

Needless to say, your plan worked wonders.

Pinned to the couch, you let Tanjiro’s calloused hands roam your body. He cups your sides, your neck, your thighs. God, it’s like he can’t get enough of them. He openly gropes them as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, a moan slipping past his lips.

Your fingers are already tangled in his hair, yanking at the strands and eliciting some of the prettiest noises from him. A pleasure filled sigh graces the air as his tongue rolls against yours, a bit of saliva rolling down your chins. It’s so perfectly hot; his teeth sink into your bottom lip, yank at it as he pulls away.

“You and that little skirt of yours,” Tanjiro mutters. He ducks down, his lips skimming your jaw. “And the socks-“

A breathy moan leaves your lips as he manhandles your hips and your thighs. “Whatever do you mean?” you purr.

“Can I just…?” His fingers skim underneath your skirt; you shiver at his touch, but you understand the silent question. Reaching down, you yank your skirt up. Tanjiro immediately looks down and chokes out a groan.

Your most intimate parts are covered in a flimsy, satiny fabric. Pure white in color and covered with frills, it just seems so innocent compared to the sultry expression on your face. Tanjiro’s wild gaze locks onto yours.

“Do you like them?” you coo.

“Fuck, they’re beautiful,” Tanjiro husks.

Sweeping down for another kiss, he easily penetrates your mouth with his tongue. Low groans slip from his mouth as his hips drop down onto yours. You can feel his hardening cock straining against his jeans; the friction of it all has you keening, your back arching into his touch. Frantically, you grind your clothed pussy against the bulge in the front of his pants. There isn’t a single doubt in your mind that you’re ruining the delicate material, but you don’t care.

You got what you wanted, after all.

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer x reader #kamado tanjiro #kamado tanjiro x reader #kny tanjiro #tanjiro kamado #tanjiro kamado x reader #request #thanks for asking!

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monellabella · 4 years ago

Text

The Starving Games ft. Freddie Weasel: AKA Pt. 1 of my Hunger Games x Harry Potter crossover series (OC x Fred Weasley)

Warnings (None of these are really graphic, but feel free not to read if any of these things make you uncomfortable!!): Blood, knives, knife wound, character death(s), severe injury mention (lost limbs), dead animal mention?? (a rat)

This is the first fic I’ve ever written! I got the idea from a post I saw from @wand3ringr0s3 Comments and criticism are GREATLY appreciated and it’d be really cool to get some feedback on my writing style!!

a/n: Also if I do write more, this is gonna be an enemies to allies to lovers situation bc I <3 angst

Tagging my mutuals: @ourloveisforthelovely @darthwheezely @amrtxntia @anchoeritic @kellsslut @whizboingies @beiahadid

Darkness. Pure black. I hear noises coming from somewhere. Muffled. Echoing through the endless void around me. The noises become louder. Someone is talking. The more I listen, the louder and clearer they get. Clear enough that I can almost make out the words. Suddenly, everything goes deafeningly quiet. My ears start ringing. But then, a single voice echoes through the silence, “Seph?”. I recognize it immediately. “Maeve?” I call out. “Seph? Is that you?” she responds, her voice shaky with fear. “Yes, yes, Maeve, it’s me. Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” she responds, panic rising in her voice. “Seph, I’m scared.”

“I know. I know, kiddo,” I swallow hard, “Hey. Hey, listen, I’m gonna find you, okay? Just stay calm.”

My heart is racing. I look around for some sort of clue, but nothing but complete darkness surrounds me. I tentatively reach my hand out in front of me. My fingertips graze something. Something cold. I take a step forward and reach out again. My hand finds what feels like a thin chain. I roll it around in my fingers before pulling down on it. The space is immediately flooded with blinding white light. I blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the sudden brightness. I’m at home; a tiny one room flat that I share with my mother, sister, and our cat. Except it’s empty- no furniture, not even a door. I see my sister standing a few feet in front of me, her hands bound together by a thick rope. “Maeve!” I rush towards her. “Seph!” she cries. As I reach out to hug her I’m pushed back by an invisible force. I look up and there she is- standing inside a giant glass dome. I take a few steps back, trying to register what I’m seeing.

“Shall we draw the names?” I whip my head around to see a woman in a magenta frock standing on the other side of the room. Her dress is covered in so many frills and flounces that she takes up half the flat. On her head is a ridiculous blonde wig that must add at least two feet to her height. Her face is covered entirely in white powder, with her cheeks overly rouged, and her top lip painted magenta to match the dress. She looks like a very posh clown.

“I-I’m sorry what?”

She laughs airily, “The names, darling. Surely you remembered?”

“Remember what?”

She tsked then pulled out two smaller versions of the glass dome from the frills at the front of her dress. They each had a small slip of paper in them. “Go on. Pick one.” Her voice was incredibly high-pitched, and she spoke with a capitol accent. I stepped towards her and hesitantly reached into the bowl in her right hand. I unfolded the slip of paper, ‘Maeve Whitlock’. I stared at the name in confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

“Will you take her fate as your own?”

“What do you mean? What fate?”

The woman let out another laugh, this one high and cold, it echoed around the entire room and caused the floor to shake. Suddenly, I heard Maeve call out to me, “SEPH!” I looked back to where she was in the dome. There was a dark, shadowy figure standing behind her, holding a knife to her neck. Her hands and feet were bound to a small wooden chair, and her mouth was now gagged with a dishcloth. I ran towards the dome, panic rising further in my chest. “MAEVE!” I shouted desperately. She looked at me fearfully, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. I banged and kicked and rammed my body at the glass so hard, I should’ve shattered something. But it was no use. I looked back to where the woman had been standing, but she was gone. The shadowy figure stood still, holding the knife to my sister’s neck.

“LET GO OF HER YOU FREAK!” I cried, banging my fists against the dome. Maeve was panicking now, her chest rising and falling rapidly, tears running down her face, her muffled pleas penetrating through the glass. “MAEVE.” I cried out; my voice cracked as the salty tears streamed down my cheeks. But I was too late. The dark figure suddenly slashed the knife across her throat, her cries stopped and she slumped down into her seat, eyes still half open, blood now seeping into her blouse. “NO!” I screamed, sinking down to the ground. The glass squeaked as my hands dragged down over the exterior. I looked back up towards the shadowy figure, only to see it was no longer there. In its place I saw myself, a satisfied smile on my face. I heard the clownish woman’s disembodied laugh echo through the flat, “What a pity,” the voice said, “you could’ve saved her! But now, I’m afraid, you must face the consequences of your actions.” The clone slowly raised the hand still holding the knife, and pointed directly at me. Suddenly, I felt the cool touch of metal against my throat. The other me winked, and I felt the blade drag deep across my neck. I started to choke, the blood pooling into my airways. I instinctively brought my hand up to the wound. My vision started turning black around the edges. I looked down to see the front of my dress already soaked in red. The last thing I saw was my own hand, holding the knife, droplets of blood falling steadily from the tip of the blade. Then, everything went dark.

My eyes shot open. All I saw was fur, and something was blocking my breathing. I sat up quickly, and the ball of fluff leapt off my face. The cat looked up at me from his new place on my lap- those big amber eyes practically staring into my soul- and meowed loudly. I sighed in annoyance. “Stupid cat.” I grumbled as I lifted him up and let him jump to the floor. I rubbed my eyes and tried to slow my racing heartbeat. My body was covered in a sheen of cold sweat. I looked down at the bed to see my sister still sleeping soundly beside me. I took a deep, shaky breath and stroked the top of her head, moving away some of the stray hairs lying across her face. I glanced over at the digital clock next to me, SUNDAY: JULY 4. 8:26 AM. Today was Reaping Day; no wonder I had that horrible nightmare. This would be my 4th year participating in the drawing, it was Maeve’s first. How unlucky it was that her twelfth birthday had only been three days prior. If she’d just been born a few days later, she could’ve been spared for another year.

I sighed and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My mother was already awake, sewing some buttons back onto Maeve’s school shirt. “Hi, mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah, just now.” I yawned.

“Is Maeve still asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost 8:30. Should I wake her up?”

“No, it’s okay,” she sighed, “let her sleep some more. I’ll wake her up soon.” She held up the shirt to examine her work, “Still needs a few more stitches…” She held the needle between her teeth and reached down to her sewing basket to grab another spool of thread. I looked down as I felt the cat’s bushy tail brush past my ankles. I knelt down and scratched behind his ears.

��Did you feed Tulip yet?” I asked. The fluffy, tricolor, flat-faced cat was now sitting at my feet, purring contentedly.

“Didn’t have to; he caught his own breakfast. A huge rat, which he so lovingly dropped on my pillow this morning.” My mother replied.

I stifled a laugh.

“Since you’re already up, go ahead and shower. I’ve laid out your clothes for you on the kitchen table, so when you’re done, just change into them and come back here so I can do your hair. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She smiled at me then went back to her work. I grabbed some soap and a clean towel from the small shelf near the entrance and walked out. “Make sure you don’t use up all the hot water!” she called out as I closed the door behind me. “Don’t worry, I won’t!”.

We didn’t have our own bathroom- there was one toilet and one shower per floor, which could be shared by anywhere from 5 to 20 people. There were 5 apartments on each of the 4 floors- all one room- with one bed, a stove, a sink, a small table and chairs, and some shelves for storage. Each apartment had a heater and air conditioner, but they were never guaranteed to work when you needed them. Sometimes only one side of the building would have heating, or only certain floors had AC, or only specific apartments. Often, the whole building wouldn’t have either for days at a time. The same thing happened with the water and electricity. You could never fully rely on any of the appliances being in working order. As a result, we shared a lot with other apartments. If someone’s stove wasn’t working, they could just knock on a neighbor’s door and use theirs. If only one apartment on our floor had heating during the winter, there were no objections when everyone else would come over and make themselves at home. It made it feel like we were all one family, and it was customary to refer to many of your neighbors as your aunt or uncle. This was common throughout the District, as almost everyone aside from the mayor and peacekeepers lived in small, rundown tenements, expanding outwards from the city center, which was home to the Justice building. Here, in District 8, we produce textiles. There are 6 factories in total; one of which is entirely dedicated to making peacekeeper uniforms. We typically start in the factories at 14, splitting the day between school and work. We aren’t assigned specific jobs until we turn 18. Until then, those in charge of production make requests for certain numbers of workers, and we go wherever we’re needed. Once we finish school, we’re assigned permanent job positions based on both our aptitude tests and our performances in various factory tasks. The better you do on the aptitude test, the better (or at least safer) your job will be. Those with the highest scores tend to be assigned as desk jockeys- where the risk of dying on the job is fairly low. Those with the lowest scores are sent to work in the most dangerous parts of the factories; you can always tell who works there because chances are, they’ve lost some part of their limbs...or face...or they’re, you know, missing a hand...Then there’s those whose scores fall somewhere in the middle; if they have a specific skill, like baking, or perhaps healing, they’re assigned a job based on that. The rest are assigned mid-level factory jobs, which were still dangerous, but the chances of getting to keep all your fingers were significantly higher! (But not guaranteed).

When I turned on the shower, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the water was delightfully warm. It took everything in me not to keep standing there, enjoying the warmth, until the water would turn cold. I shivered as I stepped out of the shower and quickly wrapped my towel around me. I walked swiftly down the hall and flung open the door to the apartment. I grabbed my outfit from the kitchen table. A white trapeze-line dress ending an inch or so above my knees, long billowy sleeves pulled tight at the wrists, and a mock turtleneck with tiny ruffles adorning the edge. My shoes sat on the floor next to it; dark blue suede ankle-boots with small square heels.They were a birthday present from my mother; most definitely from the black market. I got dressed and pulled up a stool in front of my mother’s chair. She combed through my curls as gently as she could, but I still winced when she pulled too hard at a knot. She braided four small plaits at the front and sides of my hair, pulling them into two larger braids that she twisted together and pinned to the back of my head. She handed me the mirror. I looked into it and smiled, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I turned around and hugged her tightly. She smelled of soap and clean linen, and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on- all I knew was that it was comforting and warm. I held on a little longer than usual. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. She brought her hand up and gently stroked the back of my head. We both knew what could happen today...I tried my best not to think about it. Maeve soon came back from the shower and changed into a mod-style purple dress and black mary janes. My mother braided her hair in a similar style to mine, adding a small flower clip at the side. She looked us once over, nodded, then stood at the mirror and added a few pins to secure her own hairstyle. She sighed, “Ready?”

“Yeah.” “Yeah.” my sister and I said in unison.

My mother chuckled lightly as we stepped through the threshold.

We walked the few blocks over to the underground and boarded the train headed to the Justice building. The train car was packed. Everyone was dressed in their best (and most colorful) outfit. These types of clothes were only worn on special occasions; those above working age wore grey coveralls to work and school, and something drab and ill-fitting otherwise. As we exited the train car, I kept a tight grip on Maeve’s hand. As we emerged from the underground, our eyes were bombarded with light, and I squinted as the brightness flooded my vision. When my eyes adjusted, I spotted the registration table. I gave my mother a brief hug and went to join the girls’ line with Maeve. Soon, we’d reached the front. I looked down at Maeve, “You want me to go first, kiddo?”

She glanced up at me with wide eyes, then stared forward and shook her head.

“You sure?”

“Mhmm. I just wanna get it over with.”

“Okay.” I hunched over and whispered into her ear, “You’re gonna be fine, I promise. It’s not as bad as you think. I’ll see you in a few minutes, yeah?”

She nodded. I gave her hand a squeeze and watched her walk up to the table. I heard them speaking faintly and a few minutes later, she turned around to look at me, a nervous expression on her face. I gave her a reassuring nod then headed over there myself.

The woman at the table sat there with a bored expression. She looked to be in her 30’s, but the heavy dark circles under her eyes seemed to age her quite a few years.

“Last name?” She said. She didn’t bother to look up at me.

“Whitlock.”

“Whitlock…” she muttered, flipping through the pages, “Right, Whitlock. Persephone?”

“Yeah.”

She crossed my name off the list. “You’re sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she sighed, “Hold out your hand, please.” She took a small device next to her and clipped it onto my index finger. I winced when I felt the needle prick my skin. She unclipped the device then stamped my wrist with the capitol’s sigil.

“You can go join your age group, fourth line from the left.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

She paused, then looked up at me sympathetically, “And um, good luck.”

I nodded and gave her a curt smile before heading over to join my peers. We were arranged by age and gender, boys and girls separate, all standing in rows in front of the stage. I stood waiting, and mindlessly watched the rows slowly multiply. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but soon enough, I looked up at the stage to see a woman in a bright magenta pantsuit. The hem of her skirt was decorated with a flounce of fabric, and she wore a light pink blouse underneath her suit jacket. The front of it contained so many ruffles, you could hardly see her neck. Her hair was pale blonde, and styled in a way that made it look like a cloud sitting on top of her head. Her face was powdered white, save for her blushed cheeks and glossy lipstick. Her lips were absurdly over lined, both painted a shocking fuchsia that closely matched her outfit. She approached the podium with tiny steps and cleared her throat daintily, “Welcome, everyone, to the reaping ceremony for the 59th annual Hunger Games!” People remained silent; the only reaction being a cough from someone in the crowd. She cleared her throat once more, “As always, we shall begin by watching a special film from the capitol, telling us the history and origins of this unique tradition, and to remind us why we are all standing here today.”

At her words, the two televisions turned on to display the Capitol’s sigil. It faded out, and a film about the glorious history of Panem started rolling. I tuned out and stared blankly at the rows of people ahead of me. When the film concluded, Ms. magenta up at the podium clapped enthusiastically. She was the only one. “Oh, wasn’t that wonderful?” She exclaimed, “What a rich history this nation has.”

I scoffed, that’s one way to put it, I thought.

“Now, as always- ladies first.” She stuck her hand into the large glass bowl on the right side of the podium and shuffled her hand through the slips of paper before snatching one up. She gingerly unfolded the paper and held it delicately between her index finger and thumb.

She cleared her throat and read out the name, “Maeve Whitlock.”

I felt my heart stop in my chest.

No.

My eyes darted through the crowd and I saw people make way for her as she slowly walked to the stage, shaking with every step. Images from my dream flashed through my mind- most poignantly, the image of me watching helplessly, as a dark shadowy figure slashed a knife across my sister’s throat. Panic rose in my chest; my heart beat so loudly in my ears that I barely heard myself shout, “WAIT!” Everyone turned to look at me. My breathing sped up as I suddenly felt at a loss for air, “I volunteer.” I added, my voice cracking slightly, “I volunteer as tribute.” Maeve looked back at me with pleading eyes and shook her head furiously. I avoided her gaze and stared straight ahead as the crowd parted to allow me through to the stage. I paused to grab Maeve’s hand and squeeze it tightly. I cradled the back of her head and planted a kiss atop her forehead. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment as I shakily released her from my grasp and allowed the other girls in the crowd to place a comforting hand on her shoulders as they quietly pulled her away from me. I walked up to the stage and slowly climbed the short flight of steps to then take my place just behind the glass bowl from which my sister’s name was drawn. I can’t believe I’m about to be shepherded to my untimely death because of a stupid glass bowl. I felt my hands getting clammy, and I held to the hem of my dress to keep them from shaking. Ms. Magenta smiled and stepped towards me, “And what is your name, dear?”

“Persephone Whitlock.” I stated.

“And you are…?”

“Her sister.”

“Her sister! Oh, well, of course you are!” she remarked, “Well, that was a very brave thing you just did, Persephone. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that this was a truly inspiring moment! Well done! And may the odds be ever in your favor.” she smiled brightly and turned towards the crowd. There were a few measly claps, but they quickly fell silent. “And now, let us draw our male tribute.” She stepped over to the glass bowl on her left and repeated the process. I stared blankly past the rows of people; only when she read the name was my trance broken, “Frederick Weasley.” A tall, redheaded boy emerged from the crowd. I stared as he made his way up to the podium. I recognized him from school. I didn’t know him well, but I knew he had a twin brother- George, I think- who’d lost an ear in a factory accident a few years prior, and was thus ineligible to compete in the Games, as his injury would be an unfair advantage to the other tributes. Apparently, he’d been checking the cogs underneath a broken machine when it somehow turned on and cut his left ear clean off. It was formally reported as an accident, but it’s been rumored that he did it on purpose. There were no witnesses, so no one can say for sure, but if it was intentional, I can’t say I blame him for doing it. There are very few ways you can get out of the games if you’re under 18- something as extreme as losing an ear would certainly fall under that category. I stared at the redhead as he took his place behind the other glass bowl. He was tall, at least 6 foot 4, and seemed to tower over my own 5 foot 10 frame. I’d always thought I was fairly tall for my age, and was used to surpassing most adults in height; but standing next to him, I felt like a child. His entire body was long and lean, but I could tell from the way his shirt clung to him that he was not just skin and bone. He had a well-structured face. Round brown eyes, thin lips, a prominent, romanesque nose; his jaw was clenched as he stared straight ahead and refused to look at me. Him and his brother were known for pulling pranks and cracking jokes at school- there was a strange, impish quality to his features that unintentionally revealed his penchant for mischief. Every inch of his cool, pale skin was covered in freckles. Despite his pallid complexion, his cheeks always seemed to have a slight blush to them that made everything about him appear bright and lively. However, at the present moment, his face had been drained of all colour, save for a rather sickly green tinge. No wonder he doesn’t want to look at me- poor kid looks like he’s about to puke. Ms. Magenta finally stepped forward, “Excellent! We now have our two lovely tributes! Both of whom will now be escorted into the Justice building to await further instructions; Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” And with that, the Capitol’s sigil was once again displayed on the TVs, and its anthem blasted through the speakers. Suddenly, I felt four hands grab me by the arms and forcefully pull me backwards. I stumbled slightly, and looked up to see the two peacekeepers responsible. They continued to pull me across the stage before practically shoving me down the stairs and onto the cobblestone street. From the corner of my eye, I could see that my fellow tribute was receiving the same gentle treatment as they dragged- I’m sorry, escorted him- to the large, looming structure behind us. As they “escorted” me towards the building’s heavy brass doors, I looked back frantically, trying to spot my mother and sister. But the crowd had gotten rowdier, and they were all being jammed together as the peacekeepers continued to push them away from the stage. My breathing quickened, and I could feel the blood pumping through every vein in my body. When we reached the threshold, the brass doors opened to reveal a high-ceilinged marble hall, and a rush of cool air escaped them. So THIS is where all our air-conditioning goes, I thought to myself. Every sound echoed through the building’s marble interior. I craned my neck upwards and tried to take in every opulent detail as I was dragged down a hallway and shoved into a small room, where the peacekeepers finally released me from their vice grip. “Wait here,” one of them said. They both left and shut the door behind them. I massaged my sore upper arms. “You didn’t have to pull me so hard, you know!” I shouted at the door, “not like I was planning on going anywhere!”. I sighed and stepped back from the door. “Assholes,” I muttered to myself. I plopped down onto a green velvet armchair and examined my surroundings. The walls and ceilings were paneled in rich, mahogany wood. The square panels above me were covered in intricate carvings, complementing the elaborate crystal chandelier hanging in the center. While I assumed the floor was wood, it was hard to tell because of the heavy oriental rugs that adorned its surface. There were two large windows behind me, both framed by plush velvet curtains. They were the same emerald green as the chair, and were tied back with a thick, gold rope that had tassels on the end of it, so as to allow in natural light. There was not much furniture in the room aside from two armchairs- one of which I already occupied- a round, wooden coffee table between them, and two empty bookshelves inlaid in the wall on either side of the room. A thin blue vase containing a single white rose sat in the center of the coffee table. The smell of it was unnaturally overpowering. Something about it made me uneasy, so I carefully pushed it to the far side of the table and shifted away from it. I unconsciously started chewing on my lip. I couldn’t sit still. Sitting there shaking my leg, or playing with the hem of my dress, wasn’t helping. I let out a frustrated groan and jolted up from my seat. I continued to chew my lip as I restlessly paced back and forth across the room. The heavy rugs didn’t hide the creaking of the floorboards as I stomped across them. After what felt like hours, I heard the door creak open. I stopped in my tracks and ran to the door to greet my mother before she’d even entered the room. Her and my sister enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug which I eagerly returned. The peacekeeper standing behind them cleared his throat. We slowly let go of each other and turned to face him. “You have ten minutes to say goodbye- not a second more.” he said in a gruff voice. As my mother and sister stepped fully into the room, the peacekeeper roughly shut the door behind them and left.

END OF PART ONE

a/n: If you’ve made it this far, 1. Hi, I love you 2. Will I write more for this series? To quote John Mulaney, “Who’s to say?”.

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dearlazerbunny · 5 years ago

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If/When/Then

Pairings: Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Five Times trope; G, mentions of severe anxiety

Words: 4200

Summary: Or, five times Kyoya didn’t kiss you (and the one time he did)

WARNING: the last bit gets a little angsty

One

“Kyoya. I swear to god. Can we please just-” you rub your eyes exhaustedly, trying to get the harsh blue glow of your laptop out from under your eyelids- “take a break? Or better yet, call it a night?”

The boy sitting across from you on the sofa glances up, his work reflected in his glasses. “How many words do you have?”

“Kyoyaaaaaaaa-”

“Y/N. How many words?” His tone is partially amused but mostly paternal, like he’s asking a small child how many candies they snuck before dinner. If you weren’t so brain dead it’d piss you off, but as it is you’re mostly just petulant.

“Um… three thousand and… something?”

A slender finger pushes his glasses further up his nose. “And the minimum word count is…?”

“You damn well know,” you mumble, before letting your head drop into your hands. One of your elbows is resting on your keyboard, leaving a long trail of jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjs across your half-finished essay.

“What was that?” A socked foot aims a kick at his shin, but your aim goes wide and he dodges it easily. “I believe the answer is six thousand.”

You give a long, heartfelt groan.

Kyoya sighs. He can easily knock out an essay in under an hour, while you require a little more effort- and a lot more bribery. Even if English is one of your best subjects, he knows sitting here for the past few hours laboring over a boring political comparison has to be dragging on you. And he’s been too caught up in his own work to even try to keep your spirits up- something he’s now regretting, seeing the usual sparkle in your eye dull to something uncharacteristically quiet.

“Here.” He reaches over the edge of his perch and feels for the basket of blankets he knows will be sitting there- his sister has a fondness for being wrapped in a minimum of three layers at all times. Carefully, as so not to disturb his own precious computer, he reaches over and drapes a loose-knit woolen beauty over your lap. He even takes a second to tuck the ends over your toes. You watch, fascinated, so used to his fingers tapping out mile-a-minute documents in a harsh staccato that this moment of softness seems unreal. Maybe you’ve already fallen asleep and are dreaming, or it’s a particularly nice sort of 2AM hallucination. Kyoya notices you staring- of course he does, he notices far too much about you nowadays to try and convince himself he only values you as a friend- and very pointedly looks anywhere but your gaze. He’s not sure he could look away if he caught your eye now, hazy with sleep and reflecting starlight from the nearby open window. “Better?”

“Um- yeah.” You settle a little further into the cushions. “Thanks.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Of course, when he glances over at you not ten minutes later, you’re fast asleep, laptop precariously close to toppling to the floor. He rescues it and saves your work before shutting it down. There’s a slight smile on your face as you dream, and the overwhelming urge to lean over and press a kiss to your forehead makes Kyoya stop still.

His fixation on you has grown over the past few months, that much is clear, but he hadn’t predicted them to progress this quickly this fast. He has his grades to maintain, a club to run, and a company to prepare for. He shouldn’t have time for silly distractions, like categorizing exactly how peaceful you look curled up next to him, or reaching out and brushing a piece of hair out of your eyes.

He shouldn’t. And yet, he does- he always will, for you.

Two

“Remind me again who said this was a good idea?” You squint your eyes as you turn your face towards the sky, which is lit by a brilliant sun. The Host Club is hosting on location this time- a beautiful stretch of beach peppered by towels, umbrellas, waiters offering fruity drinks, and a couple hundred squealing girls. You know. Relaxing. “I think I might like to punch them.”

“You might talk to Mori about a healthy and productive way to manage your rampant anger issues.” You snort and roll your eyes, which in turn makes the corner of Kyoya’s mouth tick up. He’s under an umbrella nearby, neatly marking down figures on his notepad. “Besides, I thought you liked the water.”

“I do, when it’s not so…” you gesture to the gaggle of twenty or so girls nearby, all primping and twisting in their bikinis to hopefully catch the eye of their favorite host- “crowded.”

“Ah.” He can sympathize with that. The smell of salt and brine takes him back to childhood, with the two of you making castles in the sand and pestering the other with seashell-finding competitions. Beach days were lazy days when your parents couldn’t be bothered to have either of you in the house, but to the two of you they were worth their weight in gold. Today, as he watches you stretch into the heat, his childhood friend is overshone by the you of here and now. You’re gorgeous in a simple one piece more stunning than any of the frills the other guests are wearing and hair in a sea-woven braid dangling down your back. Likewise, the Kyoya of here and now is having some thoughts that his five-year-old self have would never even dreamt of.

“I’m going swimming. If I don’t come back in an hour, tell Tamaki it’s his fault for dragging us all out here.”

“Hm? Oh,” Kyoya clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”

You throw him a glance- is he acting strangely? You can’t quite tell; it might just be the heat- before jogging off towards the waves, well away from the party as a whole.

He watches you go, and thinks about going with you, before a guest trills his name and his attention is dragged back to where he doesn’t want it to be.

At the end of the day, the crowd has left, and the club gets a precious hour or so of pink sky and calm surf to themselves. Hikaru, Kaoru, and Haruhi are searching the shoreline for shells and sand dollars; Mori is hauling damp sand for Honey’s massive sand castle; and Tamaki surveys all of them like a proud father. You and Kyoya are sitting a little away, just close enough to the water to let it kiss your toes. “This is more what I remember,” you murmur, a smile on your face, and Kyoya digs his fingers into the sand so they don’t accidentally wind their way around yours like they want to.

“Oh, here.” You pluck your friend’s glasses from his face and use the towel draped loosely over your shoulders to wipe the lenses. When you hand them back, Kyoya has a bit of a stunned expression on his face, making you giggle. “Sorry. They had salt on them. Seemed like it would annoy you.”

“Indeed,” is what he says, willing his tone to be nonchalant or at least neutral. What he wants to say is, do you remember when we were eleven, and you tried the same thing? You ended up getting knocked over by a wave and lost them in the ocean. I was so mad at you, but I still had to hold your hand on the way home so I wouldn’t fall. You didn’t let me trip. Not once.

If he were a braver, bolder, better person, he’d kiss you right now, and see how you taste like salt and sunshine and memories. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t- he lets the Hitachiin twins, who are sneaking up behind you, douse you in water instead. He lets you shriek at them and take chase, threatening to drown them both, breaking the moment and leaving him sitting by the sea alone to remember what was and what might be.

Three

It’s safe to assume that Valentine’s Day is never a dull affair in Music Room 3.

Everything is decorated with lace and delicate crystal trimmings; the roses are even more bountiful and in every color the human eye can see. The attire is more formal than usual, the cheeks rosier and the lips pinker, and it tends to be the one day when the hosts receive more than give.

Each of their tables is piled high with gifts, cards, baked goods swirled with elaborate frostings. Even though Tamaki keeps insisting that the girls should be the ones receiving sweet nothings, not the hosts, you can tell he’s more than pleased by the growing mound of sentiments slowly dwarfing the other boys’. As it should be, Kyoya supposes.

Honey’s haul is mostly sweets, naturally, and this year Mori also has a surprising armload- apparently one of the only times his admirers hear him speak is when he says ‘thank you’, leading to multiple gifts just so they can hear his voice more than once. Hikaru and Kaoru’s combined mountain looks more like a dragon’s treasure horde than a pile of presents. Haruhi adamantly refused everything until one guest brought her a particularly excellent platter of fish, based on the way she’s been sitting in the corner with her cheeks stuffed for the last twenty minutes.

Kyoya notes all of this with a vague smile, adjusting his calculations and trajectories for the next few months to match the turnout. Valentine’s Day is one holiday he can generally sit out. Sure, there’s a small stack of cards and remember-me’s on the sofa next to him, but his persona as the analytical and aloof host tends to leave him further down in the ranks than the other boys. Which is just fine with him, if he’s being honest- he has manners, but being constantly charming is tiring at best and egregiously aggravating at worst.

“Mother Dearest, it appears you have another card to add to your beautiful collection!” Tamaki flounces over in his wine-colored suit, at least thirty guests in pursuit. “It doesn’t come with a giver, unfortunately- oh! Perhaps you have a secret admireeeeeer!” He wiggles his fingers excitedly and hands over the card with a flourish. “How exciting! A mystery for Valentine’s Day!” His groupies sigh and fan their faces, overcome with the romance and intrigue of it all.

“Thank you, Tamaki,” Kyoya says drily, nimbly plucking the proffered gift from the boy’s fingers. “Please, don’t ignore your guests on my account.”

“I would never! Each and every one of my princesses mean the world to me!” As he and his followers fade back to the other side of the room, Kyoya props his glasses back up on his nose and curiously slides his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It’s a plain white paper, not embellished with hearts or gemstones or ribbon or any of the other garish decorations usually attached to such a thing. The card is similarly simplistic, with only a pencil-sketched heart on the outside and a greeting that reads, “To My Favorite Host.”

Interesting. Perhaps there’s a mystery here after all. He flips it open, not sure what to expect- and immediately has to keep himself from laughing outright. Inside is a crude sketch of two stick figures- one has comically large glasses drawn on its blank face to helpfully distinguish itself as the Kyoya of the pair- and note in chicken scratch: You’re such an asshole, but I guess I love you anyways.

Only one person could be responsible for such a thing. After all, you were never renowned for your artistic talents.

…

“I got your… note.”

You don’t look up from the book you’re paging through out in the courtyard underneath a spectacular old tree. The leaves frame you beautifully against the afternoon sky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm. I found the art particularly museum worthy.”

Now you smile a bit. “Well, you’re a museum worthy sorta guy.”

“Favorite host is quite the compliment.” He’s getting dangerously close to… something; toeing a line he hasn’t touched before, and it’s making his heart race.

“Don’t get too cocky. Mori’s still got like, an eight-pack.”

Kyoya sits beside you, careful to leave several tree roots between you and him. “Why a valentine? I see you every day; you could have just told me yourself.”

“I dunno.” He fixes you with a look, one that says sure, I believe you. You give a halfhearted shrug, shoulder almost brushing Kyoya’s. “I went by the music room. Everyone else had, like, mountains of stuff and I just… felt like you were under-appreciated, that’s all.”

“I see.” A beat passes with nothing but the wind ruffling your hair. “That’s… kind of you.”

Now you do close the gap between the two of you, nudging your knee against his. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Four

Your laugh, Kyoya thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.

You’re draped over the edge of his bed, head towards the floor, giggling wildly to yourself as you mutter an inside joke that only make sense to you. Your cheeks are flushed, and the bottle of alcohol you snuck into Kyoya’s room is sitting a few feet away, half full. He’s had a few sips, but he isn’t much for relinquishing his mental faculties so easily. It’s tempting, though, what with you so lazily tapping his shoulder or nudging his side to get his attention- it’d be so easy to demolish all his carefully crafted walls and drown in you.

But someone has to be the responsible one- and if he’s honest with himself, the thought of you or he regretting what happened in the dead of night come light of day makes him sick to his stomach. So he sits primly against his headboard, the computer on his lap a boulder pinning him to his spot, only glancing at you every so often to make sure you haven’t tumbled off the bed completely, despite your absolutely intoxicating mood coaxing him closer and closer to throwing caution to the wind.

“-and you’re just… you’re just a good person,” you continue, meandering through your thoughts. “Like, seriously. Why do you have to be so amazing. It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He desperately hopes you’re too out of it to notice the reddening of his own cheeks. “I am hardly what anyone would call ‘good.’”

“Lies! Lies. And. Slander.” You emphasize every word with a poke to various parts of his body- his big toe, his elbow, his knee. “Like- okay. What are you working on right now?”

In actuality he’s browsing through the Ootori Group’s latest research and development journals, evaluating their recent findings and sifting the unimportant from the extraordinary. But you’re most likely far too gone to actually understand any of that, so instead he just generalizes: “refining new data from the company.”

“Yeah! You wanna be a fucking doctor, that’s like- that’s amazing!”

Kyoya quirks an eyebrow. “You do realize my entire family is in the medical profession.”

“No, your entire family throws their money at the medical profession.” You wave a finger in the air like a drunk scientist hypothesizing their theories. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No, listen you jerk!” You haul yourself up and place yourself face-to-face with your best friend, close enough that Kyoya can see the intensity in your eyes. “It’s one thing to pay for shit, it’s another to actually be in the room when someone is having a heart attack and wanting to save their life. You care. More than anyone I know. And that makes you amazing.” You let out a rush of air, the sudden verve in your words having worn you out. “I dunno. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. Whatever. I’m gonna lay down.” You curl up next to his knee and half heartedly arrange a blanket around your legs before falling asleep.

Meanwhile, Kyoya’s gaze has never left your face. The words may have been spoken by a loose tongue, but anyone could hear the honesty in your voice and see the passion in your eyes. You really think that much of him? Or rather, could you possibly think as much of him as he does of you?

He wishes he could shake you awake and ask you to elaborate. He wishes he could tell you that if he’s amazing, you’re a supernova. He wishes he could get drunk and fall asleep next to you while pressing lazy kisses anywhere he can reach.

His reaches for the bottle, but his fingers barely brush the glass before changing course and clicking off the lamp instead.

Five

God, I hate these things, you think to yourself as you tug on the straps of your dress. You’re not quite sure if you’re referring to the pins sticking your scalp, the uncomfortable formal gown you’re squeezed into, or the entire event in general- actually, it’s most likely all of the above. As much as you love Kyoya and the rest of the boys, you adamantly refuse to attend any of their grand balls. You’re not a fussy person, so the general pompous air of the things always gives you a headache, and you hate wearing dresses anyways. But today you zipped yourself into a slinky black sheath number that’s long enough to hide tennis shoes under the hem, forced your hair into something presentable, and even threw on a little mascara.

Because of Kyoya.

Kyoya, who mentioned in passing that this was the best celebration he’d ever planned, and seemed extremely proud of it to boot. Kyoya, who always grumbles as he slips on his suit, wishing he could spend the night with his charts and figures instead. Kyoya, who always returns to school the next day more stressed than usual, a tight smile plastered on his face as he fends off hordes of fangirls.

The things you do for this boy.

It’s immediately clear when you arrive that you stand out in your ebony gown, a wisp of smoke and night sky amongst a sea of flouncy pastels. Luckily, each of the boys steps up to greet you- a sweet hug from Honey, carefully avoiding wrinkling your dress; good natured teasing from the twins; a particularly extravagant complimentary poem from Tamaki. Eventually you meet Haruhi at the table laden with food, grateful for someone down to earth to laugh with.

After an hour, you’re almost convinced Kyoya finally worked up the nerve to skip the event altogether when there’s a delicate gap on your shoulder. “Would you care for a dance?”

“No,” you say, because that’s what you always say when Kyoya asks you to do something (even if he knows you’ll do it anyways). He smiles and takes your elbow, ignoring the whispers and glares from the other guests- who is she? What makes her so special? Everything, he wishes he could tell them. So many things he it would take him years to count them all.

“I thought you hated these things,” he says when you’re safely tucked in his arms on the dance floor. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly, as though marking you as something uniquely precious amongst all the other attendees.

“I do,” you reply. You’re slowly taking his lead, following the waltz music played by a six-piece orchestra. “But I think you hate them more, so I figured if anything I could help put you out of your misery.”

“Hm. Poisoned boutonnière, perhaps?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiding up in the rafters with a blowdart gun.”

Kyoya chuckles, sweeping you along. You’re not a bad dancer, all things considered. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, though that might be difficult given your choice of attire.”

You grin at him playfully, raising your hem up just enough so he can see your battered old sneakers on your feet. “Nah, I always come prepared.”

It’s such an odd juxtaposition- this beautiful girl in the sinful dress accessorizing with sharpie-covered shoes that are peeling rubber- he can’t help but laugh, a real laugh, perhaps the first one he’s given since the night began. Even out of your element, you still maintain something that is so quintessentially you. He wishes he could tell you how beautiful you look. He wishes he could nudge your sneaker with his dress shoe in a secret invitation to follow him somewhere quiet, to steal small fleeting moments that would make the whole night worth its while.

He thinks about this every time you scuff your feet, hearing the slight squeak of rubber against the polished tile floor.

And the beginning…

“Stop it, Kyoya,” you grit out through a clenched jaw, using all your strength to unfold your friend’s fingers from his bloody palms. His fingernails have dug so far into the skin they’ve left bright red crescent moons dotting his hands. You focus on those, trying to soothe the sting with the fabric of your shirt, because if you look at his face and the tears crawling down his cheeks you’ll start crying too, and that’s not what either of you need right now. “Just talk to me. Please.”

No response. He’s trembling as though there’s a blizzard only he can feel, so you sit him on your bed and wrap him in every blanket you have, leaving his hands free so he can clutch at yours like a lifeline. “Just focus on me, okay? Everything is fine.” You try to keep your voice steady as you murmur anything reassuring you can think of, trying to coax life back into his eyes. You knew his anxiety had gotten worse, but this… this is the most catastrophic yet. You sit cross legged in front of him, so close your knees brush his, and hold onto his fingers for dear life. “Keep breathing. I’m here. It’s all okay.” Please please please come back to me. Come on, Kyoya. Don’t let the demons win.

Slowly, piece by piece, something in him seems to uncoil. His grip lessens just a little, and his breathing becomes audible enough to reassure you he’s still with you. Gently, you put a hand to his forehead, then cheek, testing his temperature. “Hey. You with me?”

Something like a sob escapes his lips, thin and heartbroken. Your own shatters along with it. In an instant you have him in a hug, arms as tight around him as you can possibly manage. Kyoya tucks his head into the crook of your neck, practically collapsing on top of you until you aren’t sure where he stops and you start. He says your name over and over and over again, a hymn only he can hear. You press your lips to his temple just to reassure yourself he hasn’t left you and let him cry; only able to offer comfort in presence and spirit. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you hold him tighter.

“I’m always here. You know that.”

He sniffs and wipes away a tear with the heel of his hand, wincing when the salt burns his cuts. “Idiotic. I apologize for… all of this.”

“Stop,” you say firmly. You bring his eyes up to meet yours, so he can see the fire in your gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. Ever. Okay?”

Kyoya stares back at you, feeling small and worthless against the monsters in his own brain. Every second spent with you banishes them a little farther back into his mind, loosening the vises wrapping his chest and letting him breathe a little easier. It has almost consumed him today, so he ran to the only safe place he knows- you. And you had held him and wiped his tears and not for a single second judged him for falling apart.

It occurs to him you are one of the few people on earth who see him for who he truly is, and will still hold his hands anyways.

Ever so gently, he presses his lips to yours- soft, tentative, and barely there. It’s a thank you, and offering, and a question all at once. It’s not the grand romantic gestures he’s planned late at night, wanting to sweep you off your feet in a shower of confidence and joy, or even really a conscious decision- it’s instinct, want, and something like bittersweet love.

You blink at him, eyes wide. “Kyoya… I-”

He stills. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, bringing a hand up to press your fingers against his cheekbone. “Don’t ever be sorry,” you say again, and then you kiss him back. You kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do; like you’re saying to him what took you so long, you idiot?

He doesn’t know. But he won’t ever make that mistake again. He’ll kiss you every day for as long as he lives to make up for all that lost time, all those late nights and seaside musings and dances with a hand on the small of your back.

When the sun rises, it illuminates a world of a thousand new possibilities.

#Kyoya Ootori #kyoya x reader #Kyoya x you #ohshc kyoya #reader insert #ohshc fic #ohshc fanfiction #ohshc angst #ohshc fluff #kyoya ootori angst #kyoya ootori fluff #kyoya imagines #kyoya ootori imagines #ohshc imagines

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Problem

Summary: Problem: a matter or situation regarded as unwelcome or harmful and needing to be dealt with and overcome. Pairings: Bucky x Reader A/N: Someone asked if I would consider doing a part 2 to DEADCRUSH ... so here it is! 1k word count because I can be brief! Also update: Part 3

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

There is a routine now that Bucky is with you. There is a routine that introduces order to your life and comfort to his. There is also fun, so much fun—movie nights full of cuddling and inside jokes, lap races in the pool punctuated with wet and sloppy chlorine kisses, missions filled with impatient energy and heated bodies snuck away inside supply closets.

He can’t get enough of how you squeal and whine under his hands. Even though he’s re-discovering how to kiss and touch, you tell him it’s all wonderful, that you love it, that you can’t get enough, either. Then, your smile flashes like headlights and blinds him completely.

So, there is tension. He’s nervous and wound up and even though you are the balm that can soothe him, you are also the flame that ignites him.

And then for once—for the first time in seven months since he’s met you, on a Saturday evening, there is a problem.

Bucky feels like he is being ripped in half. Split open like a paper doll when he sees you leaned up against a table next to a stranger.

The Latin Pop you are such a fan of bumps through the compound speakers, vies for the attention of his ears. People dance in the middle of the floor, drinks in hand. Adults letting go of their inhibitions at a Stark party, all liquored up and loose tongued.

“What’s up, Buck?”

Steve notices Bucky’s rigid shoulders, the downward curve of his mouth and the way his eyes blaze a clear path over to the bar.

“You uh—hey…” Steve’s voice is low and firm when he realizes what has Bucky so mesmerized. “Don’t, pal.”

“Don’t what?” Bucky hisses, eyes fixed ahead. Don’t get upset? Too fucking late, he thinks.

“She’s just talking to someone. People do that.”

Yes, he sees you talking. But he also sees that you have a beer bottle in each hand- one empty, the other you are pouring down your throat like its water and you are lost in the desert, and then he sees you twirl them both around like drumsticks.

He sees the way that guy hovering over you grins and laughs and puts his hand on your bare shoulder.

He sees the outfit you are wearing tonight, something he felt a little stitch about when you first emerged from your room. A top with little frilled ruffles, hem sitting high on your torso, neatly pinched into a triangle point at the middle of your sternum. A strip of your chest shows before the matching skirt with two slit up the sides flows down, down, all the way to your toes. You’re dusted head to toe in pale pink, lips glossed, lashes flared.

And he just can’t fucking help it because you are so pretty. Glowing and smiling-- that wide stretch of your mouth he daydreams about when you’re not around.

And now some fucking guy is completely spellbound and will daydream about those lips too.

At your door, he had said, “Honey—you uh, you wearin’ that tonight?”

“Yeah! You like it?” You chirped, flouncing around him like a woodland nymph, bursting forth with energy, anticipating the moment when he’d compliment you. Of course he liked it. Of course. You could be wearing a damn potato sack and he would like it.

Now Steve is shaking his head at him, pained to see once again how utterly smitten his friend is. He knows Bucky has always had a protective streak, all those years ago, so defensive of any girl on his arm. Its blanket under the ice has been chipped away, waking up the dormant turmoil until it rose up to flare out of Bucky’s eyes.

Steve also knows you are utterly oblivious and entirely unaware of this situation. Not that you should feel one way or the other because he knows Bucky is also being unfair.

“Buck,” Steve warns, “You can’t get mad at some guy for trying.”

Bucky says nothing.

“Bucky,” Steve calls again, more firmly. “The girl you like is beautiful. It happens. Look at her.”

Across the room, you wave, biting your lip with your teeth in a smile and shrugging your shoulders coyly at him. Then your attention is caught by Peter strutting up, engaging you in a conversation and pulling you away to marvel at the fish tank Tony had brought in last week. You snatch the beer from Peter’s hand and scold him for underage drinking.

The fucking guy at the bar stands baffled.

Bucky can’t help but shake his head at the way you lean on Parker, elbow on his shoulder, a whole head taller than him with your heels on, foot tapping to the beat of the music. You tilt your ear onto the top of his combed brown hair and point to a glowing streaked fin on a lustrous rainbow fish.

“Holy shit, look at that shiny boy!” You squeal, turning to gaze at Bucky and give him another grin. His heart flutters as you completely forget Parker and nearly skip over.

“Hey,” Bucky breathes when you nuzzle his neck, getting a lungful of the flowery perfume you sprayed on earlier this evening. He had watched you affectionately as you spritzed it into the air and walked through, eyes shut, muttering something about not using too much but not knowing how else to “do the damn thing”.

Steve plucks the empty bottles from you and sets it on the table with a smirk.

“You havin’ fun?” Steve questions and you nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah. Have you guys seen the fish yet? There’s this awesome one with a silver fin. Oh, Pete!”

Peter is standing with his arms outstretched, brow scrunched, and mouth open peevishly as if to ask what the hell, man? until you careen back next to him at the tank, cackling all the while. “Sorry! I got-”

“Yeah, yeah, saw your boyfriend. I’m nothing to you!”

“You are such a baby, Peter. Oh dude, there’s a little shrimp in there. Look, Double P! It’s you!”

Steve looks pointedly at Bucky, now softened and adoring again. “Didja hear that, Buck? She thinks the one with the silver fin is awesome.”

“Shut up. Jerk.”

He looks at you with a smile, wiggling around on your feet, bouncing to the music cheerfully and teasing Parker. He looks at your shiny hair, your rosy cheeks, your nose scrunched up as you laugh. That mouth he daydreams about.

He looks at you suddenly propping your hands up against the tank, feet stepping apart as the music quiets for a split second before the beat drops. Shocked, Bucky looks at you twerking against an audience of iridescent fish and Parker, who is screeching for you to stop.

And he bursts into laughter.

And then, suddenly, the problem disappears.

Part 3

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fanfiction #fluff #reader insert #james buchanan barnes #marvel cinematic universe

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kumeko · 4 years ago

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A/N: For the Live to Serve zine by @invinciblezine! I kept forgetting to post this piece. I think Cynthia and Sully would get along amazingly, their fans keep them well fed.

…

Examining his reflection in the mirror, Inigo ran a comb through his hair, brushing back any stray strands. There. Everything was set in place. Adjusting his bowtie one last time, he stepped back. In his black suit, he certainly looked like a perfect butler. Matched with his flawless skills, and the ladies would be swooning left, right, and center.

“Ready?” Cynthia asked, poking her head inside the change room.

Inigo resisted the urge to jump. He snapped his head toward her, growling, “This is the men’s change room!”

At least, he hoped it came off as a gruff growl. Judging by Cynthia’s snicker, it probably sounded more like a whine. Rolling her eyes, Cynthia sauntered in. “Yeah, and you’re the only guy left and you take forever with your hair. You’d think Gerome would take longer with his masks, but even he got ready faster than you.”

“It takes time for perfection!” Inigo fumed, turning back to the mirror. He should have expected this, really. Cynthia had never known personal boundaries, why would she start now? “I can’t disappoint the ladies.”

“True.” Cynthia nodded sagely. “You might find someone who’ll go on a date with you.”

She meant well. He knew that. Inigo still wanted to fight her. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself down. Just because she was oblivious to his charms, it didn’t mean the others were. And just because he had failed up to this point, didn’t mean it was impossible. “Anyways, I’m ready now.”

“About time.” Cynthia interlaced her hands behind her head and followed him out. “We’re opening in like five minutes. You know, this is really strange.”

“What is?” Inigo asked, heading down the pathway toward the big pavilion they’d set up yesterday. Around him, the army tents were emptier than usual. No doubt, everyone was helping out with the big event.

“Dressing up as maids and butlers to raise money.” Cynthia tapped her chin with a finger, frowning quizzically. “Bake sales are one thing, but is dressing up like this really gonna help?”

“You’ll see.” Inigo grinned. When the ladies started clamoring for his attention and the money started rolling in, she’d understand. Glancing at her, he raised a brow. “But what’s really strange is your outfit.”

“Huh?” Cynthia looked down, inspecting her black vest and white shirt. “This is what butler’s wear, right?”

“Yeah, butlers. I thought you wanted to dress like a maid?” Inigo asked, curious despite himself. She’d looked excited too the other day. “What happened to the dress Severa made you?”

“Oh that…” Cynthia laughed sheepishly, scratching her cheek. “I kinda…accidentally destroyed it.” At his questioning stare, she averted her gaze. “I stepped on the frills and tore a hole in the skirt.”

Ouch. Inigo winced. He could already imagine what Severa’s reaction must have been. “Well, the vest suits you.”

“You think?” Cynthia grinned, twirling around. “Sully found something that’d fit. We’re gonna match.” Spotting the pavilion, she raced on ahead. “Alright! Let’s make money!”

That sounded like something Anna would say. Inigo paused. Actually, wait, wasn’t it Anna who’d brought up this idea in the first place? A sinking feeling in his chest, Inigo made it up the final steps into the giant canvas tent. Inside, it looked like the interior of a café, almost identical to the one he tried to invite women to. In fact, almost too similar and they wouldn’t get into a lawsuit over this, would they?

Having found Sully, Cynthia was standing to the side with her, chatting up a storm. Just as she’d warned, Sully was also dressed in a tux; unlike Cynthia, she was wearing a jacket. There was something smart about the way she looked, about how she and Cynthia looked together, and Inigo adjusted his bowtie nervously.

“Alright, alright!” Anna rubbed her hands together as she flounced toward the back entrance. Just outside, Inigo could hear the quiet rumble of excited customers. “Everyone’s here! Get ready—I’ll send people to sections, depending on requests and space. It’s time to get rich—I mean, help the army out. Yes. That one.”

Without further warning, she skipped outside.

In retrospect, Inigo should have realized immediately how this’d go. He’d seen their fanclubs, the gifts both Cynthia and Sully received when they were apart. Together? Absolutely unstoppable. The second Anna started letting people in, a tidal wave of people flooded toward the two ladies’ station, crowding the tables in their area. When the tables started to get full, women started dragging chairs and other tables to that area.

“Wow!” Sully guffawed, taking in the crowd. “Didn’t think we’d have so much to do already! What did Anna say again?” She frowned for a moment, before remembering. Leaning forward, she took the hand of one customer and winked. “What’d you like to drink, princess?”

“You’re all here to see me?” Touched, Cynthia wrapped her arm around one lady, pressing their cheeks together with an boyish grin. “Aww, I’m so happy!”

It was too much, far too much. Ladies were swooning. The crowd grew wild.

Inigo stood in an empty corner, staring at where the tables in his area used to be. “Uh, Cynthia? Sully? Need any help?”

#fire emblem awakening #fire emblem #inigo #cynthia #sully #fea #fanfic

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angela-nicole-m · 4 years ago

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Bowen Dryden’s new organic collection has evolved…

Aware of the current climate and conscious of the environmental impact of fashion manufacturing, Bowen Dryden has curated a collection that not only considers the creation of a garment but also sustainability and the impact that untimely disposal of clothing has on the planet. Make way for ‘not so fast fashion’.

This topic is fortunately at the forefront of Millennial and Gen X brides minds. They think about the future of the planet.

Bowen Dryden has spent over 24 months working on this forward-thinking project, from the initial research stages to gaining knowledge and sourcing organic cotton fabrics from ethically grown crops without pesticides, to keeping every part of the garment biodegradable. Conscientiously designing these sustainable garments so that they can easily be worn again.

Even the buttons are ingeniously manufactured in cotton, the garment label is embroidered and the swing tags are recycled seedling paper tied with hessian. All materials used are fully compostable.

The style of the collection has a barefoot relaxed 1980's vibe, with hippie chic frills and flounces on soft unstructured robes and mix ‘n’ match co-ords. Billowing tiered dresses, coatdresses, hot pants, palazzos and bikinis in pure white shifle cotton makes this fresh, bright and clean collection perfect for summer weddings right through to the honeymoon.

Bowen Dryden always likes to provide options with an individual touch by offering distinct floral and fauna embroideries using natural cotton threads in tone on tone or beautifully shaded with vegetable dyes. The whole garment can be colour customised by using ombre, tie dyed or full colour dying techniques if the bride so wishes.

Personal messages and symbols can be added outside or inside the dress, or on cool accessories, ie bags, shoes and veils to `write your own story`.

The Bowen Dryden studio has for 15 years now been sewing, embroidering and dying all under one roof in an effort to keep a small carbon footprint. The studio has a fully qualified, multi-cultural workforce and this year will be introducing an apprenticeship programme in collaboration with the charity WONDER Foundation, to empower women in developing countries to work in the fashion industry. We pride ourselves on our working environment in South Delhi.

So POEM in a nutshell: Gorgeous design, flattering shapes, organically sourced, naturally dyed, ethically made and biodegradable.

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pkstudiosindia · 4 years ago

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Amazon Fashion collaborates with four leading designers to launch a new label, RIVER

Our time in quarantine has put a pause on life as we knew it. The lockdown has meant adjusting to a new, extra amicable relationship with the digital world. For the primary time in generations, customers have spent extra time on e-commerce shops than in brick and mortar outposts for his or her important and non-essential wants. The behavioural shift isn’t going to change radically even within the coming months. This is why manufacturers and designers are continually re-assessing their digital choices to create essentially the most seamless expertise attainable. Now, in a distinctive collaboration, e-commerce large Amazon Fashion joins forces with DBS Lifestyle LLP to launch RIVER (Season I). A multi-designer model, RIVER is created in partnership with four of India’s most celebrated designers together with JJ Valaya, Ashish Soni, Manish Arora and Suneet Varma. It’s USP? The just-launched label will supply prêt and event put on, catering to each women and men, at reasonably priced costs.

Speaking of the initiative, Mayank Shivam, director, strategic initiatives, Amazon Fashion India, disclosed, “When we think of the customer for Amazon Fashion, each customer is looking for something different and the same customer is looking for different things at different times. So, with that kind of a model, one thing that still connects all customers to Amazon is trust. We make sure that for every customer the experience is unique and as personal as possible through technology and customisation.”

The first drop presents a various vary of 270 kinds, from clothes and jumpsuits to saris and tunics, reflecting the designers’ signature aesthetic. Just as its title suggests, Soni’s Millennial Man assortment, which took over 18 months to full, is focused for a youthful viewers. “I have been inspired by the youth of India and that segment is hip and energetic. It is even for people who might be older and want to look like the current generation. My collection includes the key elements that the Ashish N. Soni brand carries, and also aligns with RIVER. In terms of the actual product, it is far more ready-to-wear, easy-going unlike my main line that’s more structured and formal. This collection has many separates that can be mixed and matched with the pieces in your wardrobe and has a lot of athleisure influence,” says the designer.

New Delhi-based designer JJ Valaya’s Royal Sports Chic line additionally boasts of simple up to date separates, that are a departure from his common couture items which can be “essentially Indian in spirit. We have taken the spirit of my design DNA, which is seeped in royalty and applied it to a clean, modern ‘royal sport’ line of separates unlike anything we have done before. The core idea of RIVER was stylish accessibility. What do Karl Lagerfeld, Roberto Cavalli, Jimmy Choo, Versace, Victor & Rolf, Lanvin and Kenzo have in common? The fact that they are all super luxury brands which at some point of time collaborated with Swedish fast fashion brand, H&M. And I am happy to say that RIVER is at the forefront of a similar revolution in India.”

In distinction, Varma ensured to convey his eponymous label’s ethos to the forefront with the Floral Glam line. “I wanted our first collection for RIVER on Amazon Fashion to encapsulate the Suneet Varma timeless idea. It is very much inspired by our DNA, so I would say it’s more classic, but still girly and flirty. Whether it’s the frills or the flounce, the pastels, or the beautiful prints that I like to associate my inspiration with, we pulled off those elements on the design board. We then pulled out the strongest out of those which would be true to the fact that RIVER was coming out a collection with the Suneet Varma mind. So, it was a very interesting experience I have to say.”

Scroll by way of for a glimpse at their collections.

Suneet Varma, Manish Arora, Ashish N. Soni and JJ Valaya

Also learn:

All the new vogue e-commerce web sites you want to find out about proper now

Tarun Tahiliani on weddings underneath lockdown, the launch of his new assortment and his love for kashida embroidery

The post Amazon Fashion collaborates with four leading designers to launch a new label, RIVER appeared first on Pet Food India.

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#Pet Food India Featured News #fashion #Amazon #aquaculture #Aquarium #aquarium india #aquatic anima

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thebestandworstdayofjune · 8 years ago

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Call Me Thomas- Pt. 3

Requested: Yes, by a lovely anon and of course, @secretschuylersister (even though she also proof read this for me, becuase she s wonderful)

Pairings: Thomas Jefferson x Soulmate!Reader

Summary: The Schuylers can’t let a week go by without a minimum of two dinner parties, and Thomas Jefferson is also permanetly on the guest list.

Previously: {1} {2}

Warnings: A sickeningly sweet Thomas Jefferson

Word Count: 1,436

A/N: I hope that you guys like this new part! It is my favorite part so far and I can’t wait to right the next one. Let me know what you thought about this part!

“So, it’s Thomas now, is it?”

You groaned, not even wanting to acknowledge the situation at hand. You flopped back into your bed, throwing your arm over your eyes. “If you think that I didn’t see your glowing stomach at the party then you are sadly mistaken. I can’t believe that you found your soulmate and then didn’t say more than five words to him for the rest of the night.”

Leave it to Peggy to see a problem and immediately start to fix it. “We both know that he is a terrible person.”

“Do we?” Peggy asked, pulling you up to look her in the eye.

“What do you mean? He has been fighting your brother-in-law every step of the way.”

“So you know Alexander’s impression of him. Have you bothered to form your own?”

You blinked at her. Sometimes you forgot that Peggy was so smart. You spent your time together laughing and smiling, but when the conversation took a serious turn, she always had something to say that you had never even thought to consider.

“I- I don’t know.” You said. You supposed that the words could have come off in a mean way, but Peggy knew you. Somehow, through all of this craziness, you had forgotten that Alexander was not the supreme authority on personalities. Nevertheless, you weren’t ready to admit that to yourself, much less Peggy. “I'm so happy that you know.”

At least now that someone knew, you could talk about the thoughts that were running around in your head. “Can I ask you something?” Peggy gave you a look that simply said of course. “Do you know why I would be… glowing?” you asked, motioning to your stomach “Even when he isn’t? And it’s the day after?”

“You don’t know?”

“You know that my mom has been gone for a while, and my dad barely explained what a soulmate was before he turned so red that he left the room claiming that he had some very important work to do.”

“Well, my mom always told me that you were going to glow until you accepted that you were going to spend the rest of your life with them.”

“So I'm just going to glow forever?”

“We both know that if the universe says that you are going to be together, then everything is going to end perfectly.” You could only laugh and shake your head. “Y/N- you know that everything will work out- right?” she asked, quirking her head to the side.

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that you just didn’t know. “I know, Peggy.” Damn your need to make sure that everyone was happy around you.

“By the way, we are having a party tomorrow, and I already told Eliza that you were going to be there. Okay, bye!” And with that, Peggy flounced out of your room, leaving you with the knowledge that you were left to prepare for a dinner party that was definitely a plot to set you up with your soulmate. And for some reason, you were rifling through your closet, looking for something that you could wear tomorrow.

You had thought that you were going to have a calming morning before the horror that happening that evening. Your wishful thinking was shattered when there was a knock on the door around ten that morning. And much to your chagrin, all three of your best friends poured into your foyer.

“Hi! We brought baked goods.” Eliza announced, setting down a box on the table and making her way up the stairs.

“Peggy told us how helpless you were, and we weren’t going to let you struggle on your own,” Angelica laughed, patting you on your head in her signature Angelica way and following her sister up the stairs.

Peggy gave you a shrug that didn’t really say that anything other than “deal with it”. You took a deep breath, watching all of them making their way up the stairs. You grabbed a muffin and followed them up the stairs, mentally preparing yourself for a morning full of party prep.

It happened every time that they thought they had found a new suitor that could be the one. It was a day full of rifling through your closet, before putting you into the one that they had all chosen the night before. And then it was onto hair. And jewelry. You loved them, but party prep mornings were trying times.

After three dresses, six different hairstyles, and three pairs of earrings that you thought were exactly the same (but apparently they were drastically different), Angelica deemed you ready to go, and good thing too, because their party was going to start in an hour.

They rushed you out of the house, decked out in frills and curls that you usually wouldn’t have bothered with but the Schuyler’s meant well, and so you were going to put up with what they had chosen for the night. Even if you were a bit uncomfortable in the process.

“Fancy seeing you here.” A smooth voice said behind you.

You had been tucked away in a corner all night, and somehow, you had mercifully stayed out of the way. Until now. You took a deep breath, hoping that the dress and corset put together would muffle the light a bit. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to matter how many layers that you put on, the mating bond was going to make itself known.

“The light of my life.” He laughed at his own joke.

If your torso wasn’t the focal point at the moment, then Thomas definitely would have noticed your face that was the color of the roses that Eliza had chosen to decorate the house.

You offered him a small smile, but still refused to move your arms regardless of the fact that they were doing nothing to hide the glow of the mating bond, still peeking through.

“Would you take a walk with me?”

You glanced around the room, hoping to find an excuse to say no. Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to be already entertained. You met his eyes and offered a small nod before allowing him to take your hand in his and lead you out of the house.

You couldn’t help but feel that girls had planned for something like this, because their already spectacular garden was lit up with beautiful lanterns, something that screamed “romance” and “Eliza”. You hated to admit it, but it was working. You felt you heart fluttering and your pulse speeding up.

“I would ask to write to you, but I have a feeling that we may have moved past that point by now.” Thomas noticed you shift uncomfortably, and he scrambled to fix his mistake. “Not that I want to rush you into anything that you aren’t comfortable with. I know that you are still… glowing” he made an abstract gesture at your stomach.

Oh god, he knows. He isn’t glowing which means that he loves you and you are glowing, and you are which means that he knows you don’t and-

“Y/N” his strong hands grabbed your arms, successfully drawing you out of your downwards spiral. “It’s okay that you are still working through things. I want you to be happy. And if taking time is what is going to make you happy, then that is what we will do.”

Was Thomas Jefferson being sweet?

“Maybe we could take a walk tomorrow? In the park?”

If you didn’t know any better, you would think that Thomas Jefferson looked nervous.

“I think that could be arranged.”

You glanced up at him from underneath your eyelashes, and you could have sworn that you heard his breath hitch. You offered him a smile, which in turn made his face light up.

“Around noon? Is that too early? I don’t want to seem overeager.” He rubbed the back of his neck, sufficiently stopping his babbling.

“Thomas, I think that we are way past that.”

And even though it felt like second nature to you, Thomas noticed the gentle way that you took his hand, and he couldn’t help but agree. You were way past that.

“Maybe wear something that you like, because you look like you can barely move around in that monstrosity.” Without another word, he offered you a kiss on your knuckles and a small bow before making his way back into the party.

You glanced down at the ruffles and remembered the ridiculous huge curls on the top of your head and smiled to yourself. How did he know that this wasn’t you?

Oh, right. Soulmates.

Read part four here!

#hamilton imagine #thomas jefferson imagine #thomas jefferson x reader #daveed diggs x reader #daveed diggs imagine #my writing #call me thomas

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