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matbarzyy · 2 years

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Winter Magic

A/N: This is my piece for @miracleonice87 for the winter fic exchange organised by @antoineroussel . I feel like it’s such a short one compared to all the fics I’ve seen being posted for this lately, but it’s very sweet so I hope you’ll like it! <3

Word count: 1746

“Baaaaabe,” Mathew whined from the couch, getting you to step out of the kitchen to see him pouting under his pile of blankets.

“What?”

“Cuddles,” the one word reply matched his attitude and you sighed.

“I’m nearly done,” you went back to the kitchen without another word, knowing that Mat would be sulking until you came back to him.

There had been issues with heating in the apartment the two of you shared for nearly a week, and it had been impossible to turn it on for two days now. There was, of course, no one to fix it until tomorrow, which left you to deal with the cold.

Mat had immediately decided that the best way to stay warm was to cuddle, and he had since refused to part from you. Cooking, however, required limbs free of Mat’s hold. You tried to make something quick, partly because you wanted to be back to hiding under a blanket as soon as possible, but mostly because Mat was acting like a toddler to get his way.

“Mat, you can’t eat if I’m sitting in your lap,” you grumbled when he pulled you onto him as soon as you had set the bowls of food on the table.

“I don’t care,” he nuzzled his face in your shoulder and gave your sides a squeeze.

“Mat!” You jumped and turned to look at him. He looked at you like a wounded puppy, so you settled next to him and extended your legs over his lap. “What’s going on with you?”

“Playoffs,” he sighed the word, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. His hands didn’t come to cover your legs like they usually did, and you knew it was because he thought he had annoyed you.

Mat was a lot. He knew it from hearing it a million times during his childhood. He knew it from hearing it from ex girlfriends who loved the affection at the start and grew sick of it so fast it gave Mat whiplash and made him wonder if he’d ever find someone who genuinely enjoyed spending that much time with him.

It had always been his biggest insecurity in your relationship. You laughed with him and were capable of the most stupid things when you were together, but he always had this lingering feeling that you’d grow tired of how annoying he could be.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you reminded him and brushed your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “We’ve done it before,”

“I know, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“C’mere,” You motioned for him to rest against you.

His eyebrows furrowed as he eyed the bowls on the table. “You don’t want to eat?”

“If you want cuddles, then we can cuddle first.” You declared, watching his eyes light up.

“Cuddles please,” Mat didn’t hesitate to move your legs so that he could lie down on you and rest his head on your chest with a content sigh. “Best pillow ever,”

“You’re such a baby,” you chuckled when he grabbed your hand and placed it on top of his head. You took the hint and began to play with his hair.

“Mmh,” he hummed without a care in the world.

“We’ll be fine, Maty,” you spoke softly, twisting longer strands of his hair around your fingers and slowly letting them slide away before doing it all over again. “It’ll suck, sometimes, but we also have down times when you’re home, it’s just life. I’ll do my best to be at games even if they’re far,”

“I want to marry you,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped a beat and your mouth went dry.

It was so unexpected, and it took several seconds for you to find your voice again. “Are you…”

“Not right now,” Mat reassured you, meeting your eyes. He could hear your heart beating ten times faster than normal with his head on your chest. “I just, I want to. I always hear all the older guys saying they’re going home to their wives, and I think of the day I’ll be able to say that about coming home to you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” you breathed out, slowly processing everything he had said.

Leave it to him to casually drop a bomb like that and carry on with the conversation like he didn’t make your heart jump out of your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to marry him one day, but more that you didn’t even know you were already at the stage of your relationship where you could talk about it.

Mat continued, seeming unbothered by your lack of answer. “I’ve had girlfriends before, but what I feel for you is so much stronger than what I felt for any of them, it doesn’t feel right to use the same word. I think wife might be a better word, if you think you can see something like that in our future,”

“I can see that,” you felt a surge of emotion at the thought. You had imagined it hundreds of times, but you hadn’t yet told yourself that it could very well become a reality. “I think about it a lot, especially every time we see Marty and Syd,”

“You want babies?” It was Mat’s turn to be shocked, his voice an octave higher than normal, and you chuckled.

“Let’s start with the getting married part,” you soothed him with your hand in his hair, and it only took a second for you to feel him relax against you again.

“Mmh, but we should talk about kids too, right? I mean, a mini you running around our place would be adorable,” he sighed, already creating scenarios in his head and picturing how everything would look.

“They’re adorable until they’re teenagers, Maty,” you brought him back to reality. “Especially if we end up with a mini you. Can you imagine the chaos?”

“Do you think they’d want to play hockey?”

“If they’re anything like you, they’ll find something to be passionate about.”

“I picture it, sometimes, when we go to sleep,” Mat confessed. “I wonder what it’d be like to have our kid crawl into the bed with us in the morning, or how you’d both come to games in my jersey and other stupid little things,”

“I don’t think they’re stupid things at all,” you smiled because you had pictured the same things. “I think about it too, but then I think about the way we’re living now and I know we’re far from ready,”

“One step at a time, love,” Mathew grasped your hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “No one said we had to have a baby any time soon,”

“There’s going to be a wedding to plan first, is that it?” You grinned, thinking of his disorganised self trying to deal with the preparations.

“Mmh, speaking of which, I’m going to need you to tell me your ring size.” He brought your hand up to his lips and brushed them over your knuckles. “And while we’re gonna take our time to get to the baby part… we can definitely keep practicing making them,”

“Oh?” Your eyebrows rose as he tumbled off the couch and scooped you up in his arms, the blankets falling to the floor. “Mathew!” You squealed as he lifted you off the couch and made his way to the bedroom.

“What? It’s a good way to warm up,” he dropped you on the bed, letting you bounce on the mattress before he crawled on top of you and rested his hips against yours.

Despite having been in this position with him hundreds of times, a new wave of emotions surged in your chest. Mat’s eyes were shining, and his smile was just as bright, telling you that he was feeling the same things.

“Are you going to kiss me or just stare at me?” You taunted him after several seconds had passed, and Mat only shook his head with a chuckle.

“Sorry, just thinking about you becoming Mrs Barzal in the near future,”

“Bold of you to assume I’m taking your name,” you snorted, surprising him.

“You don’t want to?” Mat hadn’t meant to assume anything, it was the twenty-first century after all, but he also hadn’t bothered to think you might be against it altogether.

“I like my name,” you shrugged, trying not to feel bad when the light in his eyes dimmed slightly and he nodded his understanding. “I could hyphenate, maybe? Does it matter to you?”

“It’s your name, honey. I would love for you to take mine, but I get why you wouldn’t want to. Hyphenating sounds like a good compromise, if you’re up for it.”

It was your turn to nod this time, but you wanted more than half a minute to think about it. This discussion was a start but you knew it would be better to come back to it once you had both had time to consider everything. “How about we talk about that again when it’s actually happening?”

“Oh it’s happening,” Mathew’s smile grew back on his face. “But we can go back to focusing on the baby making part right now if you’d prefer,”

“Yeah, I think I do,” you lifted your hips up to meet his as a response.

Mat’s tongue poked out to wet his lips and didn’t waste another second before his lips were on yours. You pulled him closer to you, your arms wrapping around his neck and your legs lifting to circle his waist so that you could get rid of any unnecessary space between your bodies.

A quiet grunt came from his chest as he gave in to your silent request, letting his weight press you into the mattress. “I love you,” you breathed out between two kisses, not even caring about catching your breath.

“I love you too,” he let you pull his hoodie over his head before moving to get rid of your own clothes. “So much,” he added just as his lips were about to meet yours again, his chest pressed against yours and his hips slowly rolling against yours.

Every touch made worry disappear from your body, comforted you in your decision and reassured you that Mat was the only person that would ever be right for you.

Even in the bleak and coldest of winter days, he knew just how to make you the happiest person alive.

Please reblog and let me know what you thought ‹3

#mat barzal imagine #mat barzal #mathew barzal #hockey rpf #mat barzal fic #writing #new york islanders

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messers-moony · 3 years

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So Perfect 2 | J.P

Paring: Young!James Potter X Fem!Lupin!Reader

Summary: James falls in love with a bookstore called, Lupin’s Library, and can’t believe what they’re going through.

Preparing for a date seemed easy enough, except when it’s with a twenty-five-year-old man that already has a child. Granted, the twenty-five-year-old man was handsome, very handsome; maybe that’s what made this so hard. Every dress that she tried on didn’t seem to fit or didn’t seem to look right.

Y/n was looking at her appearance in the mirror when a light knock was heard on her door, “Come in!”

Remus almost dropped the tea he was holding for her, “You look spiffing.”

“Spiffing?” Y/n crossed her arms with a stupid smile, “That’s all you could come up with?”

“Dashing, beautiful, gorgeous?” Remus shrugged, “I'm not good at this whole thing. ‘S why I’m into blokes, remember?”

Y/n hummed, reaching for the tea he was holding for her, “Thanks, Remmy.”

“No problem.” He replied, taking a seat on her twin bed, “So, are you excited?”

“Nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah, I mean, he’s already got a child, Rem!” Y/n said exasperated, “If this goes well, then he’ll expect me to be Harry’s stepmother, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

Remus placed two hands on his shorter sister's shoulders, “You’re going to be fine. No one is more prepared for that than you are.”

“I’m regretting this.”

“If you don’t go on this date, then I’ll never call Sirius.”

“That’s not fair!”

“It is.” Remus replied, “How about this-”

“Oh no, you only do this when you know you’ll win.” She murmured.

Remus smirked, “If you go on this date and have fun, I’ll ask Sirius out. If you don’t go on this date at all, I’ll block his number.”

“But you and Sirius are perfect for each other.” Y/n whined, “And so are you and James.” Remus countered.

Y/n pouted, and Remus smiled, “Now go have fun on this date. James is waiting outside.”

“Are you shitting me?!”

Remus laughed, “Nope!”

Y/n scrambled to grab her things, and Remus watched amusedly, “You’re the worst, Rem!” She yelled as she began to leave the bookstore.

“Love you too, sis!”

The door closed behind her, and she was releasing breaths of air. James turned to see her out of breath and a flush on her cheeks. It made him smile. She looked absolutely breathtaking too. Y/n’s hair was styled, and her dress looked dashing on her. James offered her his hand, and Y/n took it with a gentle smile.

“Sorry for making you wait.” Y/n apologized, “Rem was no help.”

James chuckled, “It’s fine.”

James opened the car door for her, and she got in. Instantly she felt out of place. Y/n hadn’t been in a car since high school and ever since then had taken public transportation or walked. She and Remus didn’t have money for a vehicle, so they made do with what they had. The seats were black leather, and the car didn’t have a spec of dirt on it.

He got into the driver's side of the car smoothly and took notice of Y/n’s awestruck expression, “I take it you like my car?”

“I’m sorry.” Her expression turned sheepish, “It’s been a minute since I’ve been in a car.”

James quirked an eyebrow, “Remus and I walk or ride buses to get by.”

“Well, I’m glad I could be with you for your first experience back.” They both laughed.

It was so easy with James. Conversation flowed like water, and the air was light like clouds. His hand went from the shift to intertwine his fingers with hers. Y/n’s face flushed, and James smiled genuinely. James couldn’t remember a time when a girl made his heart race and butterflies fill his stomach like this before.

When they arrived, Y/n was starstruck. It was fancier than she thought. Her heart pounded, and insecurity filled her body. James made his way to her side of the car and opening the door for her again. He helped her out of the car and felt her hand tremble just the slightest bit.

“You look beautiful.” James assured, “No need to be worried.”

Y/n swallowed thickly, “Hey,” James turned her face to his, “If I thought you were underdressed, I would’ve told you. You’re gorgeous, and I think you’ll be the prettiest girl in the room.”

“Thank you.”

He gave her another one of those beautiful smiles before walking up to the hostess, “Name?”

“Should be under Potter.”

The hostess smiled, “Right this way.”

James motioned for Y/n to go first, so she followed the hostess to the table. Y/n sat down, and James sat across from her as the woman set down two menus. Maybe it was a force of habit, but she couldn’t help but let her eyes travel to everything around her.

He smiled, slightly amused by her way of checking everything around her. It wasn’t the fanciest place that he could’ve taken her - there was much better - but he didn’t want to overwhelm her. It wasn’t pitying that drew him toward her, though. There was something about her that made him feel like a teenager again.

The place was made of what appeared to be a dark wooden material. The lights were a dim yellow, and the tables were polished beautifully. The booths were comfy and with red cushioning. The atmosphere was cooling and dry.

Y/n had opened her menu and began to survey it, “Pick whatever you want.”

“Are you sure?” Y/n asked, “I really don’t mind-“

“This is a date.” James reminded as he held her hands from across the table, “Let me treat you so well that you a second date.”

Y/n blushed, “You’ve already done that.”

“I have?”

“Shut up.”

James chuckled, kissing her knuckles, “Whatever you want, love.”

Half of the food on the menu Y/n hadn’t even heard of. Granted, she and Remus never really ate out much as kids. Usually, their mother - Hope - would cook them dinner as their father - Lyall - got home from work. Dinner was generally around seven-thirty or eight o’clock.

The dinner went by gracefully, with lots of banter and getting to know each other. It wasn’t until the end of the date where James had paid despite Y/n’s efforts, and they got into the car where he had asked the dreadful question. They both sat in the parking spot when James had turned to her.

“How do you feel about children?” James asked and quickly added, “I know that you’re good with them because of the reading on Saturdays but, I mean, about having children?”

Y/n wrung her hands, “I never really thought about it.”

“Why?”

“I have two jobs and a sick brother to take care of.”

Y/n replied, “Kids don’t really fit in. I’d also have to have a significant other to have children. Which I don’t have.”

James nodded, “Okay, but if you were to have a significant other.”

“I mean, I’d like to.” Y/n shrugged, “My life is just hectic right now. Bringing a child into this life wouldn’t be fair.”

Okay, so this isn’t going anywhere, James thought; I need to be blunt, “How would you feel about being Harry’s stepmother?”

She swallowed, “James….”

“I know that’s a hard thing to answer right now. Especially with us just getting started.” James added, “But if you aren’t interested, then this isn’t worth starting.”

“No, I know and understand.” Y/n said, fidgeting with her hands in her lap, “I’m sure it’s hard to find someone, you know, already having a kid and all.”

James nodded.

“I’d love to be Harry’s stepmother.” Y/n replied as James’ face lit up, “But I still have the bookstore, the bar, and Remus to take care of as well. It’ll be stressful.”

“I’m not asking you to be a stay-at-home mother.” James chuckled, “I’m just asking that at the end of the day, you come home to us.”

“And hopefully,” James smiled sheepishly, “Sirius can knock Remus off your list.”

Y/n chuckled, “Hopefully. Remus is a handful.”

“He seems nice.”

She snorted, “Until you officially meet him.”

“Well then,” James smiled, taking her hand in his as he began moving the car, “Looks like we’ll be having double dates.”

Y/n squeezed his hand as he began to drive. The car drove effortlessly over the unpaved roads. Light music played in the background. The sky was a beautiful blue littered with sparkling white specks. The moon was crescent and barely a sliver. James had gotten to a stoplight when he spoke up again.

“My house or yours?”

“Whichever.”

James smiled and turned the wheel to the left, “Okay.”

It didn’t take long to realize that they were going to his house. His neighborhood was much different than hers. Granted, she lived on top of a bookshop, but it was still different. James lived in the suburbs. The houses were breathtaking, and the streets looked clean. Asphalt roads were freshly paved, and sidewalks looked new. The homes were family-sized, but they looked ginormous compared to her and Remus’ studio apartment only suited for one.

James pulled into the driveway, and Y/n was flabbergasted. It was a two-story house, mostly white concrete, and the accents were a dark brown color. The grass was freshly cut, and the vegetation was trimmed. The backyard appeared to have a pool and a patio area, but Y/n could barely tell over the solid fence.

His keys jingled as he placed the key into the slot and the door opened with ease. Gently, he motioned her to go first. The floors were dark oak wood, seemingly similar to the dark paint on the accents of the house. Everything was so clean, exactly like the car, not a spec of dust laid on the surfaces.

A movie was playing on the television in the room on the right. The kitchen was on the left, and the sitting table was in the room beside it. James shut the door behind him, locking it. He took off his coat and shoes, placing them at the front door. He smiled.

“I take it you like the house?”

“It’s beautiful.”

James smiled, walking to the kitchen, and Y/n took off her shoes before following him. He sighed when he opened the fridge, and Y/n had taken a seat at the barstool in front of the island. James picked up an empty bottle of wine that was still residing in the fridge.

“You keep empty bottles of wine in the fridge?” Y/n questioned as James rubbed his face with his hands.

“No. Bad habit of Sirius’.”

Y/n quirked an eyebrow, “He lives here?”

“He acts as he does.” James muttered as he recycled the empty bottle, “But no, Sirius lives a couple of doors down. But I feel like he should be paying rent here.”

Y/n laughed, “Regardless, I’ve known him since elementary school, so he’s like my brother. Harry calls him uncle and everything.”

“That’s adorable.” Y/n said, “Do you have any actual siblings?”

“Nope. Jus’ me.” He answered, motioning to himself, “Sirius has a younger brother named Regulus.”

“His parents obsessed with constellations or something?”

“Supposedly.”

“Where is Harry now?”

“With Sirius.” James replied, taking out a full bottle of wine, “Told him I might get him tonight or might not.”

Y/n took the glass of wine he offered her with a smile, “Mind if I ask why the tv was left on?”

“My cat.”

“Cat?”

“Technically, not mine.” James explained, “It’s my ex-fiancées, but she left him here, so he’s mine now.”

“And your cat likes the tv?”

James nodded, “What's his name?”

“Moony.”

“Moony?”

“Yeah. Harry named him actually.”

Y/n smiled. They continued to talk, and the night kept going on by. It was well past midnight when James drove her back home to her shared apartment. The car ride was silent, primarily with music playing lightly in the background once again. He walked her to the door of the bookstore before bidding her goodnight.

Gently James pressed his lips to her forehead, “Goodnight, get some sleep.”

“You too…” Y/n muttered, blushing as she walked into the bookstore.

She hadn’t even made it up the steps when Remus began talking, “Had a good night, I presume?”

“You’re a dick, ya know?”

He smirked and closed his book with a thud, “Runs in the family.”

Y/n gasped playfully, “You ass!”

Remus chuckled as they both walked up the steps, “Seriously though, good night?”

“Yeah, really good night.”

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k-evans-reads · 2 years

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Distance Makes the Heart....

A Higher Love One Shot

Summary: Chris comes back to his hotel from filming to a surprise.

Pairing: Chris Evans x OFC Nickie Morrison

By: @k-evans-writes and @ourfinest-hour

We do NOT give permission for our works to be reuploaded, translated, or reposted on any other site. Our work is our own.

Word Count: 1,849

Warning: None

Previous l Writing Masterlist l Higher Love Masterlist | Extensions Masterlist

May 2021

2 months married, 13 weeks pregnant

“So do you want to tell me while you’re pouting like you did when you were five or are you going to just keep brooding?” Scott asked with a hint of a smirk in his voice, giving his brother a soft shove as they stepped out of the elevator.

“I guess I haven’t been very good company today,” Chris observed, the sound of his sneakers scraping against the hotel carpet. “I’m sorry Scott, I’m just missing home.”

Scott remembered the family group text that had popped up on his phone the day before, a picture of Nickie and that signature wide smile while she held a photo of the ultrasound. He knew that Chris felt like he was missing out and that suspicion was only confirmed while Chris shoved his hands in his pockets and kept shuffling down the hall, “You know how Nic ended up being farther along than we realized, right? She’s already thirteen weeks and it feels like I’ve barely been there for any of it.”

“I know, but at least the Morrisons and our family are all nearby,” Scott tried to find a silver lining, knowing that each and every member of the family loved Nickie so deeply and were there for anything she needed.

“Ma has been staying with her for the past week because she’s been really sick,” he noted, loving how much the pair adored each other, “It’s so cute when I call one of them and hear the other in the background.” While Chris and Nickie had spoken nearly every day since he’d left for Europe, it was mostly quick calls, centered around catching up and Nickie giving him updates on how she was feeling. So far, she’d spent most of the last three months getting sick and feeling horribly nauseous and slightly crampy. It was quite the difference from their normal calls while he was away, there were far less opportunities for pleasure and tension releases when your significant other felt like absolute shit for most of the day, and despite how much Chris tried to not feel this way or focus on it, he knew it was starting to come out as slight frustration.

“See, she’s alright and soon enough you’ll wrap and you can join Nic in Massachusetts,” Scott’s raspy voice assured him while they came to a stop in front of the two hotel room doors next to each other.

“Hey, want to watch a movie?” Chris motioned to his door.

“Nah I’m just going to head into my room. I did leave a little surprise in your room for you,” he mentioned, making Chris’ eyebrows raise in confusion and added, “Don’t be too loud though.”

Before he could ask any questions, Scott slipped into his room and closed the door behind him. Chris was so confused, not having a clue what he meant but just shrugged it off, pulling the key card out of his wallet and swiping it before pushing the heavy door open. He took a step inside, eyebrows furrowing when he heard the television on but all of his questions were taken away when he walked through the living area of the large hotel room, pausing in the door of the bedroom.

His blue eyes traveled to the bed where he saw her. His wife. His Nickie laying on the bed. Her long wild hair was messy and splayed out on the pillow, a hand behind her head and the other buried in a bag of Doritos. She was dressed in a pair of workout leggings and a long sleeve top, makeup gone from her face which only added to the casual comfortable look that he adored so much. Hearing him enter, she turned her head and when her dark brown eyes met his, that huge beaming grin shone in the room, making Chris feel weak at the knees.

“Well hi,” she said nonchalantly, her grin turning into a slight smirk as Chris stood frozen in the doorway to the bedroom of the suite.

“Nickie! Honey what the hell are you doing here?”

“Surprising you, dummy,” Nickie said as if it was obvious, sticking her thumb into her mouth to lick off the leftover dorito coating from her fingers.

“You fly all this way to come surprise me and then call me a dummy?” His left eyebrow rose while kicking his shoes off and started walking closer to the bed.

“Well if you weren’t being a dummy then I wouldn’t have called you that,” she smirked, sticking her tongue out as he climbed on the bed. “But that mustache still looks like shit, even in person!”

“How about you just let me fuckin’ kiss you, smartass,” his voice dropped, placing a hand on her cheek as his eyes flicked over her face, reacquanting himself with her. It’d only been three weeks since he’d seen her last in-person, having parted ways at the airport after the Morrison family trip to Italy at the beginning of the month. He’d flown straight from Florence to Paris, where he met the rest of the cast and crew from The Gray Man to resume their shooting schedule, and he wouldn’t be home in Massachusetts until, nearly, his birthday. It was a long five weeks to be without your wife, not to mention your newly-pregnant wife, who he’d married a mere two months ago. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through the rest of filming without seeing Nickie, but clearly she’d figured out an answer for him.

Nickie’s melodic laugh broke him out of his train of thought, giggling as she shrugged from underneath him. “Nobody’s stopping you!”

He smirked, leaning down as he kissed her slowly, his thumb rubbing back and forth on her cheek. She sighed into the kiss, her hands reaching to rest on his tense muscles, gasping lightly as he pulled back with a soft nip to her lower lip. He smiled one last time at her from up-close, rolling onto his side next to her.

Chris’ eyes dropped down to look her over, but paused when they’d reached her midsection, seeing the slight swell from where her shirt had ridden up, the tight material of the leggings showing off her stomach. His jaw dropped, his hand reaching out as he said, “Oh my god, babe you have a bump!”

She gasped, shoving his shoulder lightly while also pushing his hand off her stomach, pulling her shirt back down from where it’d ridden up. “Shut up! I do not!”

He laughed, placing his hand back on her, his thumb rubbing lightly. He propped his head up on his opposite hand, finally taking his eyes off of her bump to look back up at her. “Yes you do! Oh my god, it’s so cute. This is fuckin’ amazing!”

“Stop it, I’m not even that far along yet. I can’t have a bump!”

“Nic you’re pint sized, it’s not surprising,” he laughed before he tilted his head, looking at her seriously as he whispered, “I can’t believe how different you look.”

“Chris, you’re really not making me feel better,” Nickie muttered, rolling her eyes playfully as she reached down, moving the bag of Doritos to the nightstand.

“Oh shut up, you know I mean it in a good way. I fuckin’ love this bump,” Chris laughed, knowing he must look like an idiot with that crazy smile that’d settled on his face every time he thought about or talked to someone about this. “God, Nic, that's our baby.”

“I know,” she smiled, her hand moving to run through his messy hair. “And I have a little surprise for you too.”

“What?”

Nickie bit her lip, playing with his hair lightly. “When I got off the plane I saw I had an email in my inbox but I wanted to wait for you to open it,” she raised her eyebrows. “If you want to open it, it’ll tell us what we’re having.” Nickie had called Chris a few weeks prior while at the doctor, explaining that they could do a blood test to look for any potential complications with the baby’s genes, but also so they could find out the baby’s gender a few weeks early. As of that appointment, they still hadn’t decided for sure if they’d wanted to find out what they were having, but the more they both thought about it, the more they wanted to know, mainly just to help them nail down a name better. They’d been floating around a few possibilities, and in fact had already picked out a name for a girl, but between Nickie’s impatient tendencies and Chris’ need to be as prepared as possible, and because he was a slight control freak, they’d decided to find out.

His jaw dropped, staring at Nickie as he felt excitement flood him, seeing the same reaction reflected in Nickie. “Are you fucking with me?”

She laughed, her eyes rolling fondly as she listened to him. “No and you better hurry up and open it because I’ve been going crazy!”

“Okay okay, where’s your phone?” He asked, picking his arm up off of Nickie’s midsection so that she could reach for it on the nightstand, unlocking her phone and handing it to Chris.

“Here,” she whispered, pulling her legs up as she sat up in the bed, biting her lip. “I already have my emails pulled up.”

“God my hands are shaking,” he laughed, finding the email from Nickie’s doctor, pausing before he clicked on it, eyes scanning through the bloodwork results until he reached the last line, holding his breath.

Nickie was silent as he read the email, holding her breath as well until she finally had to ask, “Chris, what is it? What are we having?”

“It’s…a boy,” he said, looking up at her with tears in his eyes, clearing his throat as he felt a lump settle in it. “We’re going to have a son, Nic.”

Nickie gasped, her face breaking into the widest grin he’d ever seen on her. Tears filled those chocolate brown eyes, rolling down those perfect cheeks as she threw her arms out, almost yelling with happiness, “I’m going to get a mini you!”

Tears were streaming down both of their faces while Chris pulled his wife impossibly tight against his chest. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, crying and laughing at the same time. They kept alternating between wiping their eyes, laughing, kissing and just all around buzzing. Chris had no idea when he walked to his hotel room that evening, that this would be the setting for such overwhelming joy and bursting happiness but here he was, with a completely full heart.

“I just can’t believe it,” he breathed, his large hand rubbing up and down Nickie’s small back. “This is just… I can’t… I’m just so happy.”

“Me too,” she agreed while she leaned up, pecking his cheek lightly. “But there is one thing that would make this moment better.”

“What’s that, honey?”

“Room service because I’m starving.”

#chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x original female character #Chris Evans x ofc #Chris Evans x oc #chris evans fic #chris evans fanfic #chris evans writing #higher love

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( this chapter’s gif by @august-walker from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy!

( PREVIOUSLY | AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT )

MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh.

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #marvel imagine #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes/reader #bucky/reader

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gothchickwriting · 2 years

Note

omg im so soft for how you write for tanjiro. he’s the ultimate sweet boy!! if you aren’t sick of writing for him, will you write a imagine where he’s an (endearing) hypocrite because he realizes his love has a fever and forces them to stop training and he takes care of them himself (despite them being at the butterfly mansion)?

I’ll never tire of writing for this man. 😩 He’s a cutie and I want a Tanjiro taking care of me the next time I’m sick or have cramps.

Tanjiro x GN! Reader: Food for a Fever, Love for the Soul

The shift in your movements was subtle. You were sluggish and uncoordinated from your typical self. The one that prided in honing their breath to perfection. It wasn’t until your steps staggered that he threw down his sword to catch you, ignoring the discomfort of your own training sword digging into his shoulder.

“Did I hit you too hard?” He righted you. “Y/N?”

“I’m fine.” The soaps the girls used in the mansion were strong and masked the smell of sickness until he was this close.

Tanjiro pressed the back of his hand against your forehead, frowning once the heat against his skin confirmed it. “You’re burning up.” He argues softly. His frown deepens when you sniffle.

“You’d still train with a fever.” You tried to see if he’d deny such a statement. He was such an ugly liar. He hesitated before guiding you towards the Manor.

“But you shouldn’t overexert yourself.” His tone is sweet and soft, and you’re too tired to debate once he takes the wooden sword to put it away. His hand is on your waist as he corrects you, pulling you away from the recovery wing. Your brows furrow and he’s quick to assure you. “Let’s have you rest somewhere quiet, hm?”

You enter his room. It’s mostly bare, but the box resting against the wall tells you all you need to know. You’re tired and just how awful you feel begins to hit you now that you’re forced to relax. The worry of potential whispers about your reputation, sleeping in a man’s bed that you weren’t married to, were far away. Especially when Tanjiro tucked you into the blankets so attentively.

You would have been alone if he wasn’t puttering in and out of the room. Three sets of eyes peek in as he gives you your medicine, no doubt having gone to the girls to get what you needed. There were excitable whispers between the little ones in the hall. Tanjiro was a catch: Kind, handsome, and selfless to a fault.

Though he quickly begins to wear on your patience. You adored him, but you wanted to sleep. His questions seemed endless and he was already backing up towards the door as he asked each one. ‘Are you thirsty?’ ‘Do you need more blankets? More pillows?’ ‘I’ll see if I can make you some okayu.’

Your hand comes up when he rouses you from the wisps of sleep, offering you the porridge he’d made. “Tanjiro,” You begin. He looks to you expectantly with the sweetest ‘hm?’ you’ve heard from him yet. Typically, you wouldn’t allow him to do much in the way of caring for you.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s enjoying such an opportunity.

“I’m not crippled, just sick.” The scolding comes out softer than you’d like. Something he notices too. “I can feed myself.” You hold your hand out expectantly. He doesn’t hand over the bowl, however. In fact, his lips purse before he shakes his head. The way his earrings sway with the motion makes it seem more energetic.

“I want you to relax.” There’s no way he’d budge. Your face sours and you suck in a breath to calm your frustrations and embarrassment. He couldn’t be more transparent with how his smile grew wider once you, begrudgingly, opened your mouth. “There we go~.” The praise warms your cheeks, which only get hotter once you hear the giggles from the hall.

He feeds you another bite. “Let them have their fun.” Tanjiro murmurs to you. “I want them to know how their husbands should treat them.” Your eyes narrow, but there isn’t any venom behind it. Nor is there a rebuttal of ‘We aren’t married’. You simply take another bite in the hopes that you can sleep after you finish your meal.

#x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer x reader #request #tanjiro fluff #fluff #tanjiro kamado #tanjiro #tanjiro x reader #gender neutral reader #gender netural

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citrinesparkles · 3 years

Text

patience, love.

jason todd x gender neutral reader. 1317 words. notes: okay. maybe this got a little out of hand. maybe a simple idea grew legs and ran right out of my grasp. maybe i got carried away. i can admit that that may have happened here. (4 times he didn't say i love you. 1 time he did.) warnings: food, patching up wounds, bad self doubt. angst in the beginning.

♡ "i love you," you were warm and content from dinner, and the words slipped from your mouth and over his counter before you could stop them.

not because there was any doubt in your mind- there wasn't, at this point, you knew you loved him like you knew the sky was blue- but because you were afraid of how much doubt was in his.

but maybe that was why you said it.

the doubt in his eyes now, wide and almost fearful as he stared at you, felt like a punch in the gut.

"is that okay?" you asked over the sound of the forgotten faucet and steady drip drip drip off of the scrub brush frozen in his hand.

"you shouldn't." he croaked it out, voice scratchy and weak, viciously tearing his gaze down from your eyes.

you opened your mouth, protests on the tip of your tongue, but he only shook his head.

"please. just... not tonight."

♡ you found him on your balcony, leaning against the railing and staring at the horizon.

the sunset painted the sky pink and purple and red, vivid colors washing over him and catching in his hair and highlighting the scars visible around his t-shirt.

"whatcha need?" he asked gently, acknowledging your presence without looking back.

"you." it was the truth, even if you said it with a playful grin. he healed something in your chest, soothed every break and wound on your heart, quieted the noise in your mind.

a small huff of laughter escaped him, floating into the evening air, as pink and warm and beautiful as the sky. "you have me."

"good." you dropped your head against the doorframe, letting your features relax into a gooey, affectionate smile as you watched his hair shift in the breeze. "love you."

he tensed for a few moments, and you took a deep, silent breath to push your own nerves back down.

it was hard.

a not-so-small part of you hissed that you would scare him off, chase him away by admitting the depth of your feelings again. that despite him being by your side through thick and thin, your love of all things might be the final straw.

he did push back from the railing, sending your heart plummeting into your stomach.

but instead of brushing past you and walking out the door, his hands found your shoulder and your hip and delicately, slowly, cautiously pulled you to his chest.

when you almost immediately melted against him and tucked your chin into his shoulder, his arms slid around your back and held you as close as possible. held you as though you were the most important thing in the world.

he couldn't say it yet, but maybe this was his way of saying it anyway.

♡ "i'm heading out, jase." you leaned over the back of the couch to kiss his cheek. "be good, okay? love you."

he hummed, eyes trained carefully on the tv. "just be safe. and don't forget you're out of pickles."

♡ it had been a very, very long day.

you were very, very tired.

and, as shuffling into a freshly cleaned apartment that smelled like your favorite meal reminded you, very, very attached to jason todd.

you stood silently for a moment, taking note of what all had been swept or dusted or vacuumed, how the blanket you'd left haphazardly on the couch was now folded neatly, and the old lopsided chair you kept meaning to fix was now sitting at attention.

just- seriously, this man was going to be the death of you.

you set your stuff in the corner by the door, neatly kicked your shoes off against the wall, and followed your nose into the kitchen.

his back was to you. he was swaying gently to the jazz playing in the background, hands busy in front of him, and he looked relaxed and happy and the domesticity- the simplicity- of it all was enough to make tears prick at your eyes.

(maybe the ache in your head and feet and- well, okay, all of you- had something to do with that, but he was much nicer to think about.)

"the chair, huh?" you greatly enjoyed the way his motion stuttered for the briefest of moments at the sound of your voice. "you get sick of looking at it?"

he turned to face you, his brow furrowed and cheeks dusted with pink. "i- maybe. maybe a little."

"dinner, too, huh? what'd you do, break something?"

"what? no, i didn't- i'm just-" he stopped, eyes narrowing at you. "you're messing with me."

"maybe. maybe a little."

he groaned, turning back to the counter and grumbling playfully. "i try to be nice and this is the thanks i get."

you chuckled, moving forward to slip your arms around his torso and lean into his back. "sorry, sorry."

"no no, by all means, keep making fun of me. i know it's your favorite hobby."

"i'd make fun of you less if you weren't so cute when you get all pouty about it, y'know."

"i do not get all-" another groan escaped him, and he dropped his head forward into his hands. "would you please just go get into some pajamas so we can eat? stop trying to give me a migraine?"

your laughter was muffled slightly by his t-shirt. "fine." you reluctantly pulled away from the most comfortable moment of your entire day and headed towards the doorway, pausing for a moment just inside of it. "hey, jay?"

he dragged his hands down his face dramatically, looking over his fingers at you. "hm?"

"i love you too."

the soft smile he gave you was worth every single minute of frustration and exhaustion that had led up to it. "yeah, yeah, get out of my kitchen already."

"it's my apartment-"

"gooooo."

♡ your bathroom was bright, cold, and smelled like hydrogen peroxide and blood.

his blood, mostly, but you really didn't think he'd take well to being asked for details just yet.

plus, you weren't totally sure you wanted to know.

regardless of where it came from, the truth was the red liquid had soaked through his shirt and coated his gloves and you were pretty sure some had gotten on your cheek, somehow, before you'd managed to get him cleaned up and bandaged.

now, he rested on the edge of the wet tub and let you gently work a towel through his freshly washed hair that smelled like your shampoo.

you could feel his eyes on you as you stepped back to grab a comb.

"hey, baby?"

stepping back into his space, you hummed in acknowledgement.

"i..." he cleared his throat, inhaling sharply. "i love you."

you froze, eyes snapping down to find his trained carefully on the ground in between the two of you.

you could see the tension in his jaw and shoulders, the way his hands were gripping the wall of the tub. the way he was avoiding your gaze like it would burn him.

"i love you too." you knelt down in front of him, fingers tracing his cheek and jaw and falling to where his neck met his shoulder, gently hovering over his pulse. "you know you don't have to say it, right?"

he nodded sharply, slowly softening under your touch. finally meeting your eyes. "i want to. you deserve to hear it. you deserve a lot more than that."

"you deserve to be comfortable, jason."

a small heh escaped him. "i don't know if i deserve it, but if there's one thing you do, it's make me comfortable."

"good. that's more important to me than hearing you say a few words, okay?"

"okay." he leaned forwards, dropping his forehead against yours and wrapping his fingers around your wrist, cradling it against his collarbone. "as long as you... as long as you know."

"i know, handsome, i promise."

#citrine writes #jason todd #buries my face in my hands #don't look at me ok #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #dc #dc imagine #dc imagines #food cw #medical cw #imagines

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sunkissedpages · 3 years

Text

instead of you [part twenty-one]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, death mention

word count: 2.1k

series masterlist + ko-fi

Tom and Harry were holding a spot in line for the four of you already when you arrived at the gate with Sam. You mumbled a handful of sorries and excuse me’s as you shuffled past other guests in the queue. You hated being that person to cut in front of others, but you weren’t left with much choice since Sam’s brothers had gone ahead without you.

To be fair, you had shown up later than you’d agreed upon. Patience didn’t really run in the Holland family. Sam was probably the most mild-mannered of the bunch.

You weren’t even sure that the people you were squeezing past understood you as you whispered half-assed apologies to them. You just hoped they were able to read your pitiful expression and took it as remorse.

Sam held your hand as he dragged you through the line to get to his brothers. You ran your thumb over the little scar on his knuckle repeatedly to comfort yourself. His hand was nowhere near as sweaty as Tom’s, or maybe yours had just dried by now, but accepted the familiarity of the motion, letting him lead you to the front.

Tom perked up when he saw you and Sam finally break through the crowd. He waved you down and stepped aside to give you both some space.

“You okay?” Harry asked, putting his phone in his back pocket to give you his full attention.

You nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Did you get sick?” Tom pressed, thinly veiled concern evident in his voice.

“No, I was fine. Sam bought me some popcorn so I’d have something on my stomach just in case. Now I’m just... embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Harry insisted, “everyone’s afraid of something.”

“But not everyone’s a pussy about it,” you sighed.

“You’re just unique like that,” Sam teased, earning an elbow in the ribs from you.

You glared at him and then turned to the other two boys. “Anyone need a ride partner? Mine is available for trading.”

Sam pretended to pout. “Aw, babe, don’t be like that.”

You ignored him. “Anyone? Going once...”

“I’ll take him off your hands,” Harry offered with a smug grin.

You traded spots with Harry so that you were standing next to Tom. You’d wanted Sam to be able to ride with Harry anyway. You felt guilty that he’d be stuck with you when it was tradition for him to sit with his twin brother. You also felt a little guilty that Tom would be stuck with you as a result, but less so. You figured it was only fair given what had gone down in Rome.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay without him?” Tom asked, low enough for only you to hear.

“I’m sure. This is just like a bike ride, right?”

“Yes, but elevated.” A lump formed in your throat. “Did you not see the track outside?”

“It’s not as high as the other rides,” you said, mostly to yourself. You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you just trying to get rid of me? Do you not want to ride with me after what happened last time?”

Tom’s eyes widened in surprise at your accusation. “No! That’s not-”

“Because that’s sure what it sounds like.”

“I swear, I wasn’t trying to discourage you from riding the bike thing, I just didn’t want you to feel forced to or regret getting on it or anything.”

“I’m just giving you a hard time,” you confessed.

He visibly relaxed. “Jesus, don’t do that.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t think you mean that.”

You shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at your lips. “Can neither confirm nor deny.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The queue for the Ptera Cycle moved slower than the one for the coaster had. It made sense, seeing as it drew in a greater variety of riders. There were a lot of families with their small children in line, many of them wearing backpacks or harnesses attached to a tether held by one of the adults or older siblings.

“I used to be a leash kid,” Tom said, following your gaze to a toddler trying to unbuckle the straps of their backpack.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

He shook his head. “I wish I was. To be fair, I was a runner, so my parents didn’t have much of a choice unless they wanted to lose me.”

“I’m surprised they never ‘accidentally’ forgot to secure it. I know I would have.”

Tom put a hand over his chest in mock offense. “You’re mean. I can see why Sam likes you.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t necessarily a compliment. To you or Sam.”

“I know. But I took it as one.”

Tom mumbled something under his breath that you didn’t catch before continuing the recollection of his childhood. “All three of us were leash kids, actually.”

“That makes sense. You guys look like leash kids.” He didn’t acknowledge your comment aside from scoffing. “I don’t blame your mom, either. Twin boys plus you would be hell.”

“Jesus, brutal.”

“What about your youngest brother, was he also a victim of the leash?”

“No, my parents had pretty much given up by the time Paddy was born. They just got lucky that he was the most well-behaved out of all of us.”

You grinned wickedly. “I can’t wait to hold this over Sam’s head.”

“Hold what over my head?” Sam turned to look back at you suspiciously.

You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, holding him close.

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you chided.

“Too late, I am worried about it.”

“Your big brother just told me some very interesting information about you.”

“Tom, I will strangle you,” Sam muttered through gritted teeth.

“I’d like to see you try,” Tom challenged.

“Guys, we’re next,” Harry said tiredly, yanking his twin brother forward by the collar of his shirt.

You waited silently until you were paired off with Tom by one of the ride operators. He took the bike closest to the outside edge and you climbed onto the one next to his. The bikes were situated in a little cart together, with the handlebars extending over the edge. The cart was topless and open on both sides so that the riders could feel like they were suspended above the park- something that you preferred not to experience.

Tom gave you a sideways look once you were strapped in, once again looking worried. You mouthed I’m fine to him, but you weren’t sure that he bought it.

“We can go slow,” he said.

“I don’t want to hold up the people behind us, though.”

“Fuck them. We can go as slow as you need to.”

You rolled your eyes, but secretly appreciated the sentiment. Although, you’d try to pick up the pace so as not to ruin the ride for the others. You tried to pedal in tandem with Tom at first, but that proved to be too difficult. Every time you would stop to try and match his rhythm he’d also stop, and your car would get stuck in the middle of the track. It made you both laugh every time, but you weren’t so sure that it was as funny to the couple behind you.

Finally, you decided to just focus on your own pedaling which ended up working a lot better than the previous attempts.

Tom talked to fill the silence. You suspected it was to distract you from the height, but you liked listening to him anyway. He had a nice voice. And it was endearing, watching him come up with new topics so that you’d never have the chance to be consumed by your own thoughts. It reminded you of Sam’s stories.

“And over there is a ride themed after tea that Harry and I saw on the map. I don’t know how you feel about tea, but as brits, I think it’d be a crime not to swing by there. It’s a water ride and they have a fountain that looks like a giant kettle.”

You nodded. “You definitely have to ride that.”

“Right?”

“I think the queen would have you arrested for treason the second you stepped foot back on English soil if you didn’t” you added.

“We’d be hanged.”

You chuckled at the notion, as morbid as it was.

“Where’d Sam and Harry go?” you asked, suddenly remembering there were two other people in your party.

You squinted, trying to see ahead through the darkness. You were unable to make anything out, even with all of the Christmas lights twinkling around you.

“They’re probably trying to see how fast they can make these things go,” Tom said dismissively.

“You’re right. I’m sure they’re already waiting for us at the photo checkpoint.”

“They turn everything into a competition.”

“Uh huh, they do. And I’m sure you have no idea where they got their competitive nature from...”

“None at all.” He grinned, but you frowned in realization.

“I’m sorry I’m depriving you of that. I’m sure you would’ve wanted to race them, or beat their time or something if you weren’t stuck with me.”

“Stop that,” he said softly.

“I’m serious though, Tom. You guys can leave me in Child Swap for the next ride and I’ll wait for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, we’re not leaving you in Child Swap. Stop acting like you’re a burden, because you’re not. I’m perfectly happy taking our time, admiring the view. I mean, how often are we going to be able to see this?”

You paused for a moment to take in the surroundings he was referring to, slowing your pedaling so that you were almost stopped.

There were strings upon strings of lights as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the colors of the lights bled together so that they were indiscernible from each other, creating an ever changing rainbow effect.

“The lights are beautiful,” you whispered.

Tom hummed in agreement, but he wasn’t looking at the lights.

When you turned back to look at him you locked eyes automatically. The nearby light display was illuminating his face in the most captivating way. It was like looking at an intricate mosaic, or a stained glass window. Gentle hues of blue, pink, green, and purple washed over his features, reflected even brighter in his eyes.

You looked away and pushed forward on the pedals, making the bikes lurch back into motion.

“They, um, remind me of Disney World’s old holiday lights. It used to be the biggest light display in the world. I would go every year with my family, but they got rid of them.”

“Oh, at Hollywood Studios, right? I always wanted to go to that, but they axed it before I got the chance.”

“Have you ever been to Disney World?”

“Yeah, I do promotions there a lot. DisneyLand too. ”

“Right, I forgot who I was talking to.”

Harry and Sam were, in fact, waiting for you at the photo checkpoint like you had predicted. They were both laser focused on the screens that were showing new pictures of riders, though you couldn’t say why. Neither of them noticed you and Tom approach them until they heard your voices.

“We thought you guys might have gotten stuck!” Sam exclaimed teasingly, scooping you up in a hug.

“Nope, we’re just slow.”

“I’m slow,” you clarified.

“We took the scenic route,” Tom added.

“There’s only one route,” Harry pointed out.

“It’s an expression, dumbass. We went slow on purpose.”

“Because I’m a pussy, remember?” you mumbled, giving Sam a pointed look.

He smirked and opened his mouth to respond, likely to turn the word pussy around on you in an even less family-friendly way, but thankfully Harry cut him off before he could.

“What’s next on the agenda? The park closes in like two hours.”

The boys squeezed as many attractions out of those two hours as they possibly could. Your social battery had died hours ago so you clung to Sam the rest of the night, using him as a human shield so that you could avoid conversation.

Nikki and Dom had already left the park and taken a cab back to where you were staying. They had texted the group that you didn’t need to worry about them and that they’d see you in the morning.

The four of you piled into a taxi around one am. Everyone was sore and exhausted by then, and for once no one was in the mood to talk. Tom took one for the team and sat in the passenger seat even though he was just as tired as everyone else. It was odd to see him so quiet. He was usually so personable and talkative, but he only spoke when he needed to give the driver directions.

Sam kept his hand on your thigh for the entire ride back, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb. You could tell he wanted you to rest, and you weren’t going to argue. You drifted off with your head on his shoulder, lulled to sleep by the quiet thrum of traffic.

lmk what you think i always appreciate feedback!!

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endreal · 2 years

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Man, I remember when covid first started becoming A Thing I was actually a "isn't it comparable to the flu?" kind of person, because at the time the only stories I was hearing were about how it originated in China and how it was spreading from China and China this and China that and sensibly I had cautionary doubts about the veracity of what popular media and new sources were sharing because it seemed like a perfect vehicle to carry nationalistic propaganda.

It took about 4 weeks after I started hearing initial news for me to change my tune, because that's about how long it took for me to start seeing numbers and impacts. I didn't want to fall into the spiral of believing the stories, but the facts were things I was willing to give credence and weight to. Shortly after, my workplace went into voluntary and then mandatory shutdown, things like curfews were put in place, and everyone started masking. I was a little slow on that, mostly because I didn't act fast enough at the beginning to get masks and had to wait for back orders and whatnot. Now 27ish months later it feels like the stories are once again at the forefront but in the opposite direction, and every day I feel like maybe I'm a little bit crazy for taking precautions even as the world at large has mostly "opened" again. But goddammit I'd rather be a little bit crazy than I risk vector for myself and people I care about.

These days by and large I mostly feel isolated and exhausted. Not because I lack avenues to interact with friends and loved ones (thanks tumblr!) but because for 27ish months or feels like everything I've learned, everything I've been told, shown, or otherwise exposed to about COVID-19 has been expressed with an agenda thst doesn't have my best interests at heart (and by "my" I mean myself of course, but also the public at large) - thst at every step along the way I've been told I should be more afraid than I am, less afraid than I am, more cautious, less cautious, numbers look good, numbers look bad, and always always always that there's someone to point to.

I'm so tired. I feel divorced from reality, and that the sources that are supposed to tell me about reality are even more unhinged than I am. I've been well, I've been sick, I've been well while feeling like I ought to be considered sick, and thst there's no forward motion in the world just endless circles of people following the people in front of them who are following the people in front of them and on and on and on until I realize someone has probably been following behind me this whole time too.

I'm tired.

I'm so tired.

#Endreal vs. introspection

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neckromantics · 3 years

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Trips in the Regalia:

Chocobro Headcanons—

could be seen as platonic or not! whatever you want. :) SFW and gender neutral.

Went on a road trip recently so these just kinda popped into my head. Also I missed you guys. :)

Okay, so Noct or Ignis are in charge of driving, obviously. Poor Prompto is pretty much banned from ever touching the wheel unsupervised bc the one time they let him behind the wheel it ended in disaster.

You’re totally allowed to drive but you outright refuse to do so now-a-days because someone distracted you by standing up in his seat and you almost drove off into a ravine out of fright.

Ignis has been known to let one of you sit on his lap and steer just for fun. Sure it looks ridiculous, but he can not handle the puppy dog eyes that are sent his way whenever he's asked.

There’s a cooler in the back by your feet that’s stocked full of Ebony and tiny little seltzer waters just in case Ignis gets cranky or someone starts to feel a little car sick.

The glove box might as well be considered a medicine cabinet with the amount of curatives that's stuffed inside.

Long road trips ALWAYS become even longer road trips because no one in the car knows how to synchronize their pee breaks. You keep telling them to just go all at once but they never listen. Someone always insists they don’t have to go and then changes their mind five minutes after you’ve left the rest area.

Parking at the side of the road where said someone has to do the walk of shame to nearby shrubbery while everyone else stays in the car and talks shit about them.

The Regalia always smells strongly of whatever essential oil that’s been dripped into the USB powered diffuser Iris gifted to you guys. It's a godsend, especially after those particularly long hunts where you all could use a shower. If it weren't for her it'd always reek of sweat and desperation in there.

It doesn’t happen very often, but there have been a couple of times that you’ve miscalculated the distance to the next fuel station and had to push the car the rest of the way after running out of fuel a few miles away.

Now Ignis has to reassure you constantly that there's enough gas in the tank, but you still peer over his shoulder to check the fuel gage and start to nervous sweat whenever it drops below half full.

Prom’s always trying to initiate a game of I Spy and you’re the only one that will entertain it lol.

No one in the car is allowed to have the aux due to past music-based arguments. You all have a joint playlist on a music app that you take turns adding songs to, and it gets played on shuffle. The genre is almost never the same back to back, which makes things interesting and also ridiculous.

Naturally Prompto takes so many photos he has to bring what is essentially a briefcase of backup storage. Will crawl into the back seat when he’s bored to sit half on your and Noct’s lap to show you some of them instead of just handing the camera over like a normal person.

Whoever gets to be in the passenger seat has the privilege of feeding Ignis while he’s driving. Apparently, Iggy burns a crazy amount of energy at the wheel because he’s ALWAYS hungry up there. He could feed himself just fine, but where’s the fun in that?

Honestly everyone’s just always feeding each other for some reason.

At some point when Noct’s driving you sneak a carrot stick into his mouth instead of a potato chip and he tries to kill you. Like, I’m not kidding he slams on the breaks and throws himself across the car at you like a rabid animal. It’s not threatening at all because he’s mostly flailing around, but it does take all three of the remaining guys to pry him away from you. You are cackling the entire time.

Gladio spends most trips reading (and then re-reading) the book he brought with him. Will let you lean in close to read it if you ask nicely. Always waits for you to give him the go ahead to turn the page.

You, Noct, and Prompto play rock paper scissors to see who gets shotgun and somehow Prompto wins nine times out of ten.

Ignis is an excellent driver but for some strange reason he loves to do U-turns in the WORST places possible. Will miss an exit and say whatever posh equivalent there is to “My Bad.” and just do a complete one eighty like your lives mean nothing to him. Also? He will slam the breaks on if any of you start misbehaving and it’s hilarious.

Gladio likes to mess with people in passing cars.

He’ll do this blank, dead-eyed stare at them at red lights until they make eye contact with him.

If the top of the Regalia is up for some reason, he’ll roll his window down and motion for them to do the same only to immediately roll his window back up as soon as they roll theirs down.

There's a compartment in between the two front seats that has five sets of matching novelty sunglasses that Noct bought at the shop in Hammerhead. It also has some lip balm, sunscreen, and bandages for when someone inevitably scrapes their knee or something.

There's not a lot of room in the car with all of you inside, so naturally you're forced to sleep in the weirdest of positions. Half on one boy, half on another. An arm or leg hanging out the side of the car. Nearly upside down in the seat.

It’s safe to say the Regalia is like your tiny home away from home by now. Sometimes it’s easier for you to just to pull a blanket into the car and sleep rather than attempt to sleep in some strange, fancy hotel room. The bros will wake up wondering where you are, only to find you curled up like a baby in the back seat.

#ffxv headcanons #ffxv imagines #chocobro headcanons #chocobros #ffxv #prompto headcanon #noctis headcanons #ignis headcanons #gladiolus headcanons #gladio amiticia #ignis scientia #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum

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janecrockeyre · 3 years

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scum villain is a greek tragedy disguised as a regular tragedy disguised as a comedy disguised as a danmei

this is going to be long, and this is only PART ONE.

a.k.a, Analysing the plot of Scum Villain’s Self Saving System through Aristotle’s Poetics, because I Have Mental Issues

Part One: Introduction and the Tragic Hero

Scum Villain’s Self Saving System is a tragedy disguised as a comedy, unless you’re Shen Yuan, in which case it’s a mixture of a romance and a survival horror. It's a fever dream. It's a horrible, terrible book that made me feel new undiscovered emotions when I finished reading it.

The thing is... SVSSS shares characteristics with some of the most famous tragedies in the West, such as Oedipus Rex, Medea, Antigone, the Oresteia... if you haven’t read these, I’ll explain everything. But the gist of my argument is this: SVSSS is the perfect tragedy. In triplicate.

Tragedy as a genre is old as balls and so it has meant slightly different things to different people over the last few thousand years. I'll be focusing on ancient Greek tragedy, which was performed at the yearly Festival of Dionysus in Athens during the 500-350s BC (give or take a hundred years). Aristotle, when writing about this very specific subset of tragedy, had no idea that one day Scum Villain would be written, and then that I would be using his work as a way to look at Shen Qingqiu’s Funky Transmigration Mistake. Anyway!

Greek tragedy greatly influenced European dramatic tradition. I have a lot of opinions about white academics idolising and upholding the classics as the "paragon of culture" but I'll withhold them for now. I have no idea if MXTX has read Greek tragedy or not, so don't take this as me saying they are writing it.

In my opinion, tragedy is a universal human constant. We are surrounded by pain and hurt and none of it makes any sense, so we seek to process that pain through drama, art, literature, etc. We want to understand why pain happens, and how it happens, and try to make sense of the senseless. The universe is cold and cruel and random. Tragedy eases some of that pain.

On that note: Just because I am analysing Scum Villain through a Greek lens doesn't mean that it was written that way. I'm pasting an interpretation onto the book when there's probably a very rich and deep history of Chinese tragedy that I just don't know about. If you ever want to talk about that, please, god, hit me up, I would love to learn about it!!

Anyway, tragedy. MXTX is excellent at it! Mo Dao Zu Shi? Painful dynastic family tragedy. Heaven Official's Blessing? Mostly romance, but she managed to get that pure pain in there, huh?

But in my opinion, Scum Villain holds the crown for the most tragic of her stories. MDZS was more of a mystery. TGCF was more of a romance. Neither of them shy away from their tragic elements.

Scum Villain would fit right in between the work of Sophocles, Euripides and Aeschylus. How? Let me show you. Join me on my mystery tour into the world of "Aristotle Analyses Danmei..."

Part One: The Tragic Hero

What is a tragic hero? Generally, Greek tragic heroes are united by the same key characteristics. He must be imperfect, having a "fatal flaw" of some kind. He must have something to lose. And he must go from fortune to misfortune thanks to that fatal flaw.

There are two (technically three) tragic protagonists in SVSSS and all of them are tragic in different but formulaic ways. Each protagonist has their own version of “hamartia” or a “fatal flaw”.

Actually, hamartia isn’t necessarily a flaw - rather, it is a thing which makes the audience pity and fear for them, a careful imperfection, a point of weakness in the character’s morality or reasoning that allows for bad things to happen to them. For example, in Oedipus Rex, the king Oedipus has a “fatal flaw” of always wanting to find the truth, but this isn’t exactly a flaw, right? Note: this flaw can be completely unwitting, as we see with Shen Yuan. It can also be something that the protagonist is born with, some kind of trait from birth or very young.

Shen Yuan

Shen Yuan’s “hamartia” is his rigid adherence to fate and his inability to read a situation as anything but how he thinks it ought to be. He believes that Bingmei will grow into Bingge, and it takes several years, two deaths, and some truly traumatising sex to convince him otherwise.

Shen Jiu

Shen Jiu’s fatal flaw is his cruelty. It is his own sadistic treatment and abuse of Binghe which directly leads to his eventual dismemberment. This is kind of a no-brainer. Of course, it isn't all that simple, and as an audience we pity him for his cruelty as much as we fear it because we know it comes from his own abuse as a child. This just makes him even more tragic. Delicious.

Luo Binghe

Luo Binghe’s fatal flaw is a complicated mix of things. It is his position as the “protagonist” which compels him to act in certain ways and be forced to suffer. It is his half-demonic heritage, something entirely out of his control, which sets in motion his tragic reversal of fortune when he gets yeeted into the Abyss. He also, much like Shen Yuan, has the propensity to jump to conclusions and somehow make 2 + 2 = 5.

As well as having their respective “flaws”, all three protagonists match the rough outline of a good tragic hero in another way: they are in a position of great wealth and power. Even when you split the different characters into different “versions”, this still holds true. Yes, Luo Binghe is raised a commoner by a washerwoman foster mother, but his dad is an emperor and he also ends up becoming an emperor himself.

Yes, Shen Jiu is an ex-slave and a victim of abuse himself, but Shen Qingqiu is a powerful peak lord with an entire mountain’s worth of resources at his back.

Shen Yuan is a second generation new money rich kid.

Bingge is a stereotypical protagonist with a golden finger. Bingmei is a treasured and loved disciple with a good reputation and a privileged seat by his shizun’s side.

In a tragedy, having this kind of good fortune at the beginning of your story is dangerous. Chaucer says that tragedy is (badly translated into modern english) “a certain story / of him that stood in great prosperity / and falls out of high degree / into misery, and ends up wretchedly”. If we follow this line of thinking, a good tragedy is about someone who has a lot to lose, losing everything because of one fatal point of weakness that they fail to address or understand.

If we look at Shakespeare, this is what makes King Lear such a fantastic tragic protagonist. He is a king in control of most of England, who from his own lack of wisdom and excess of pride, decides to split his kingdom apart to give to his daughters, favouring his murderous, double crossing progeny, and condemning his only actually filial daughter to death. He loses his kingdom, his mind, and his beloved daughter, all because of his own stupidity.

This brings us to:

Part Two: Peripeteia

This reversal of fortunes is called peripeteia. It is the moment where the entire plot shifts, and the hero’s fortunes go from good to bad. Think of it like one of those magic eye puzzles, where you stare at the image until a 3D shark appears, except you realise the shark was always there, you just couldn't ever see it, waiting for you, hungry, deadly, always lurking just behind that delightful pattern of random blue squiggles.

Each tragic hero has their own moment of peripeteia in SVSSS, sometimes several:

Shen Qingqiu

In the original PIDW, SQQ’s peripeteia presumably occurs when he finds out that Bingge didn’t perish in the Abyss but has actually been training hard to come and pay him back. There’s really not much I’m interested in saying here - as a villain, OG!SQQ is cut and dry, and the audience doesn’t really feel any pity or fear for him. As Shen Yuan often mentions, what the audience feels when they see OG!SQQ is bloodlust and sick satisfaction. There is also the trial at Huan Hua Palace, which I will talk about in Shen Yuan’s section.

Shen Yuan (SQQ 2.0)

One of SY’s most poggers moment of peripeteia is the glorious, terrifying section between hearing Binghe for the first time after the Abyss moment, and getting shoved into the Water Prison.

“Behind him, a low and soft voice came: “Shizun?”

Shen Qingqiu’s neck felt stiff as he slowly turned his head. Luo Binghe’s face was the most frightening thing he had ever seen.

The scariest thing about it was that the expression on his face was not cold at all. His smile wasn’t sharp like a knife. Rather, it showed a kind of bone-deep gentleness and amiability.”

This is the moment of true horror for Shen Yuan, because he knows what happens next: the plot unfurls before him, inevitable and painful, and he knows that death awaits him at Luo Binghe's hands (lol). Compare it with the bone deep certainty with which he faces his own downfall during the sham of a trial later in the chapter (I’ve bolded the important part):

“In the original work, Qiu Haitang’s appearance signified only one thing: Shen Qingqiu’s complete fall from grace. [...] Shen Qingqiu’s heart streamed with tears. Great Master… I know you’re doing this for my own good, but I’ll actually suffer if she speaks her words clearly. This truly is the saying “not frightened of doing a shameful deed, just afraid the ghost (consequences) will come knocking”!”

After the peripeteia is usually the denouement where the plot wraps up and the threads are all tied together leaving no loose ends, but because this tragedy isn’t Shen Yuan’s but the former Shen Jiu’s, it’s impossible to finish.

Shen Yuan cannot provide the meaningful answers that the narrative demands because 1) he doesn’t have any memory of doing anything, and 2) he wasn’t the person who did them. Narratively, he cannot follow the same path as the former SQQ because he lacks the same fatal flaw: cruelty.

This is why Binghe doesn’t kill him - because he loves him, rather than despises him. And this is why Shen Yuan has to sacrifice himself and die for Luo Binghe in order to save him from Xin Mo: because the narrative demands that denouement follows peripeteia, and SQQ’s fate is in the hands of the narrative.

(Side note: I believe that this literal death also represents the death of OG!SQQ's tragic arc. The body that committed all those crimes must die to satisfy the narrative. SQQ must die, like burning down a forest, so that new growth can sprout from the ashes. After this, Shen Yuan's story has more room to develop instead.)

It must happen to show Bingmei that SQQ loves him too. And this brings us to Bingmei.

Bingmei

Bingmei has two succinct moments of utter downfall. The first is a literal fall - his flaw, his demonic heritage, leads his beloved shizun to throw him down into the Abyss. From his point of view, SQQ is punishing him simply for the status of his birth. He rapidly goes from being loved and cherished unconditionally, to being the victim of an assassination attempt.

He realises that he is totally unlovable: that for the crimes of his species that he never had a hand in, he must pay the price as well: that his shizun is so righteous that no matter what love there was between them, if SQQ sees a demon, he will kill it. Even if that demon is Bingmei.

The second moment is when SQQ dies for him. Again, from his point of view, he was chasing after a man who was struggling to see him as a human being. Shen Qingqiu’s death makes Bingmei realise that he has been completely misunderstanding his shizun: that SQQ would literally die for him, the ultimate act of self sacrifice from love: that SQQ loved him despite his demon heritage.

Much like King Lear holding the corpse of his daughter and wailing in sheer grief and pain because he did this, he caused this, Bingmei gets to hold his shizun's cold body and cry his eyes out and know that it was his fault. (Kind of.)

(Yes, I’m bringing Shakespeare into this, no I am not justifying myself)

Maybe I'm a bit sadistic, but that scene slaps. Let me show you a comparison of scenes so you get the picture.

Re-enter KING LEAR, with CORDELIA dead in his arms; EDGAR, Captain, and others following

KING LEAR

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:

Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so

That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!

I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;

If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,

Why, then she lives.

[...]

KING LEAR

And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,

Never, never, never, never, never!

Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.

Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,

Look there, look there!

Dies

Versus this scene in SVSSS:

Luo Binghe turned a deaf ear to everything else, greatly agitated and at a loss of what to do. He was still holding Shen Qingqiu’s body, which was rapidly cooling down. It seemed like he wanted to call for him loudly and forcefully shake him awake, yet he didn’t dare to, as if he was afraid of being scolded. He said slowly, “Shizun?”

[...]

Luo Binghe involuntarily held Shen Qingqiu closer.

He said in a small voice, “I was wrong, Shizun, I really… know that I was wrong.

“I… I didn’t want to kill you…”

PAIN. SO MUCH BEAUTIFUL PAIN. Yes, I know Shakespeare isn’t Athenian, but he was inspired by the good old stuff and he also knew how to write a perfect tragedy on his own terms. Anyway. I’ll find more Greek examples later.

This post was a bit all over the place, but I hope it has been fun to read. Part Two will be coming At Some Point, Who Knows When. This is a bit messy and unedited, but hey, I’m not getting paid or graded, so you can eat any typos or errors. Unless you’re here to talk to me about Chinese tragedy, in which case, please pull up a seat, let me get you a drink, make yourself at home.

ps: if you want to retweet this, here is the promo tweet!

#svsss #scum villain #luo binghe #shen qingqiu #shen jiu #greek tragedy #hello followers this account has been silent for a long time but today i bring you whatever this is #long post #i am gonna cross post more art here from my twitter i think #you guys really like my shitposts on here

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chil2de · 3 years

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hi yes the benimaru fic i mentioned earlier— fire force fandom will you let me in please??🥺🥺 i don’t know what i’m dealing with fanbase wise mmfldjfj sometimes it feels like i’m head over heels for bens by myself so... i’ll drop this here for now.. see how it goes and i’ll continue w/ a second part if ff isn’t dead

nsfw themes throughout, so please read my disclaimer if you’re new. enjoy :)

w.c: 1.7k, characters: 9.6k (incl spaces)

there’s a certain sluggish quality that plagues your movements. it’s not fatigue or incompetence. or so benimaru would hope.

his mix matched gaze glosses over your unnecessary movements. that extra exhale you hiss, the additional bat of your eyelashes and the excessive perspiration that drips onto the earth below.

“stop.” he commands, tone low and stern as it pierces through the open air.

“huh? captain shinmon, i’m fine. we can keep going.” you huff through laboured breaths, pausing to gasp and drink in the plentiful oxygen around you.

“it’s one thing if you’re overworking your muscles. it’s another if you’re running a fever. go inside.”

“b-but captain-“

benimaru shoots you a dead stare, keeping his statement rooted deep where he stands.

judging by the bruises that adorn your knees, you know better than to disobey the captain.

“waka! have you seen (l/n)?” konro lingers in the doorframe of the main communal area, gaze scanning for one of his colleagues.

“she’s in her room. why?”

“her room? she has a few errands to run. is she feeling okay?”

“she’s running a fever.” benimaru exhales, shifting to get up from the table. he lightly scratches the back of his neck, adorning that usual aloof facial expression.

“in the middle of summer? how’d that happen?” konro chuckles through a small glimpse of bewilderment. of course he’d be concerned for one of his best recruits.

“hell if i know. what do we need? i’ll head out.”

if anything, benimaru is probably the sole reason why you’re running a fever. why he subjected to railing you underneath water that felt like it was nearing sub-zero was beyond you. it’s not like he’s about to admit he enjoys fucking his special little fire soldier. how he relishes and engrains the sight of your fucked out facial expression deep into his head, burning the image into his retinas. shit, you wouldn’t be surprised if the reason why he sometimes spaces out is because of you.

it’s always been blatantly obvious that you’re the captain’s favourite, no matter how much he denies it and how many glares he shoots at the people from other companies. you’re always left apologising for his behaviour, attempting to keep a straight face.

for the one time you dragged him out to patrol with you, and the amount of incessant whining, complaints and bribes you offered your captain, after a full month of lovely slow burn he decided to come along with you. he just up and left, had the audacity to turn around and ask you why you’re still standing there. benimaru always kept his distance to yours close, in fact the separation was almost minimal. you could feel his shoulders ghost over you.

every time he noticed someone staring at your figure for a little bit too long to be deemed appropriate, he hissed a scoff of distaste. at around the third or fourth person, you were already forced to deal with his short temper.

“what the hell are you gawking at? mind your damn business.”

but sure. apparently you’re not his favourite.

he can scoff and complain all he wants, but that won’t stop him even now from lazily snaking his hand around to his favourite baby girl’s waist. to him, this seems like the most normal thing.

“how else is she going to stand upright? she’s all stick and bones, the wind will knock her right over.”

okay, benimaru. you keep telling yourself that. even when his fingers feel an itch every time they’re not touching a part of your skin. he tends to get a whole lot more mouthy and irritable every time you’re not around, too.

hell, even his own townsfolk pick up on the fact that he’s out and about more. rounds that he always left to the lesser important underlings became more commonplace, especially with you by his side.

but the things that go on behind closed doors?

his peppermint red eyes that haunt your mind, infiltrating your very thoughts. you could be minding your business, going on about your day until you get an abrupt flicker of his mundane tic-tac-toe gaze staring up at you from in between your thighs.

you could be taking care of hinata and hikage, entertaining their antics when you feel the weight of benimaru’s stare burn holes into your uniform.

you could be doing your daily sparring with the captain. in the zone, breath held and blood stream steady until you remember the feel of his hot tongue trailing along the side of your neck. for someone who seems to be stuck in a perpetual state of sadness, you always catch the arrogant smirk that pulls at his lips.

“thinking of something?” he’ll cock his eyebrows, using the distraction to take a jab to your gut.

you groan, stirring around in your bed. you hate him, hate that stupid half lidded gaze of his. you hate how soft his wavy jet black locks are. the way the strands tug and bend whenever you try to yank his face away from your cunt. you run your fingers through your hair in a valiant yet futile attempt to free your thoughts from your captain. it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, and you haven’t done anything but reminisce about your lover for the past hour and a half.

a meek and uneven sigh hisses from your lips. your eyes screw open and you flinch at the hard sunlight that pours in from the window. as you use the inner portion of your elbow to shield your gaze, you catch glimpse of a very familiar figure in the doorway.

“captain shinmon?” you inquire, propping yourself up onto your elbows. he closes the door behind him. you’re certain that you looked like a loyal dog sat panting and wagging its tail upon discovering the return of their owner.

“excited to see me?” he remarks in a flat tone, opening the grocery bag he’s carrying before setting a few things down onto your nightstand. it’s mostly medicine, though he snags a few of your favourite snacks and drinks. there’s also one of those fascinating green tea bottles that you buy at the vending machines, except they’re served piping hot.

“how’re you feeling?”

“i told you i was going to get sick if we had the water that cold.” you huff, averting your gaze in a fit.

“not my problem you can’t take a little temperature difference”

“a little? that shit was freezing! how the hell can you take water that cold?”

“how can you not?”

you chuckle a little, shifting to stare up at the ceiling.

“don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“you know i don’t do paperwork. sure as hell not gonna start doing it now.” benimaru huffs, kicking his boots off by the door. you can hear his clothes rustling and your head snaps to face him. he shoots you a glare, as though to scold you. it’s dripping on his face. ‘really? you’re so eager.’

“move up.” he cocks his head to the side, motioning for you to move over. you shift up, room spinning a little too much for your tastes. the mattress dips with his weight and his right arm (our left) reflexively hangs in the air for you to dip your head into the crook of where his shoulder and collarbone meet. he discards his navy kimono, the article of clothing hangs on one of the hooks at the back of your door. it’s probably not much comfort for him to be relaxing in a bed with half of his uniform still on.

you squish your face against his hard chest, head rising and falling in time with his breathing. the said arm relaxes and his hand rests against your shoulder. subsequently, you realise this is the first time you’ve seen him fully without his kimono on. at the very least, he’d still have the other sleeve on.

benimaru notices your blatant staring at his other arm. he can’t comprehend why you’d gawk at it now, since he’s used it plenty of times to choke you.

he hums a small ‘hm’ in question, asking you what you’re so fascinated about. you can feel his voice thrum and rock against his chest, it sends small shivers licking your body that he doesn’t miss.

“you look so funny without your kimono on. why don’t you wear it like this more often?” you drag your nails softly against his biceps. there’s a small groan that hisses from him. as you await his response, you outline a large vein that runs from his upper arm and trails down all the way to his wrist.

“i get cold easily.”

“then why did you take a shower with me?”

“are you hearing yourself?”

surely a little bit of his body temperature was enough to sacrifice. even if it meant he was sneezing a little bit and shivering afterwards.

“seriously? you can take a tranquiliser but you can’t stand a little cold?”

“you’ll make a shitty wife if you can’t even keep me warm.”

“beni!” you hiss at benimaru in appaul, craning your face up to guffaw at him. the manners on him sometimes are despicable.

you pout, shifting your upper weight to flick benimaru in between his eyebrows. he screws his face in mutiny, lips curled into a scowl.

you and him both know that if it were anyone else flicking him like that, they’d be sent crashing through six different blocks of houses down the street.

“oi.” he warns you, tutting.

“konro come by and work some voodoo magic bullshit on you? ‘cause you’re testing your luck by pissing me off. you’re such a menace when you’re sick, it’s unbelievable.”

you hum in awe, inching your face closer towards his. there’s a wave of mockery that paints your face green and you can only laugh at the unrest that swirls in benimaru’s eyes.

he won’t have his pet talking down to him like that. no, no. that just won’t do.

“oh? really? you want me to do it again?” you flash him a cocky smirk, digits curled into a flicking position. you rest the bridge of your middle finger against benimaru’s forehead, slicking some of his charcoal stained locks out the way.

his left hand flies to catch your hand in an instant. with just two of his fingers, he can wrap himself around your wrist. his touch is assertive, firm. he can drag you the fuck away from him as he pleases, but there’s no real malice or force behind him just yet.

“yeah? try me.” he barks, peering down at you through his lashes.

you just might.

#?? i hope he sounds okay?#his dialogue was extremely finicky to me #i’ve heard lots of people complain that their or someone elses beni sounded ooc so ihope thats not the case here #benimaru shinmon #benimaru x you #benimaru x y/n #benimaru x reader #fire force x y/n #fire force x reader #fire force x you #fire force #fire force imagines #fire force self insert #fire force smut #fire force hcs #fire force headcanons

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