#wavey writes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

worldsokayestbabysitter · 1 year

Text

a little snippet that might one day turn into more. a kind of sequel to this

-----

Steve remembers holding his mamas hand every Sunday, the only day they consistently spent together when she was home. Remembers sitting in the pews, trying to keep his eyes open in the midday heat. Remembers looking down at his hand in hers, seeing that his was entirely engulfed by her painter’s hands. Felt like he could survive anything as long as his hand fit in his mom’s.

When he woke up in the hospital, for the third time, for the last time, after he swam his way to consciousness, his mom was at his bedside. And his hand was bigger than hers, his hand was calloused, cut to hell from where he fell running from the end of the world. Her hand was still soft. More wrinkles than he remembered, but still as unblemished. She was gripping his hand like her life depended on it, even in her sleep. Same deceptive strength.

Steve knows it's only been a week since he last saw her. Leaving again, but this time he was grateful. She would be safe.

It feels like it's been an eternity. Just the weight of his mom's hand has brought him back to himself. Time feels like it's passing again, every tick of the clock and every rise and fall of her shoulders rushing through him.

His mom is here. Her hand in his, asleep, but here.

He's alive. It all comes back to him in waves. They all survived, it's over. His mama's here, and it's over.

When she wakes up and sees Steve looking at her, she freezes. Looks at him in disbelief.

They don’t say anything, at first. What is there to say? Where do they even start?

Steve wants to say, where have you been. Steve wants to say, why are you here, just you, and not dad? He wants to say, I did it all without you, I survived without you, I went through hell and lost so much and you weren't there. He wants to say, thank god you were safe, he wants to say, why didn't you protect me?

But he waits for her to speak first, doesn't think he's able to if the dryness of his throat of is anything to go by.

"Oh Steve," she finally whispers. She runs her free hand through his hair and her eyes quickly fill with tears.

"My Steve, my baby, I'm sorry," she says. She could be apologizing for a million things, for leaving him, for the long business trips, for the wounds he's starting to feel, for the years he was left alone, for the horrors he's endured, for showing up now instead of then. She could be apologizing for all of it. And Steve knows he should be angry. Knows that some distant part of him is furious and that that white-hot rage will bubble up to the surface eventually, but his mom is holding his hand, her thumb gliding across his knuckles like they used to in church, and she's here.

"Mom-" Steve chokes out. It comes out rough, through the lump in his dry throat. His mom moves from the chair at his bedside to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, hand never leaving his.

"I know, I'm here, I'm sorry," she says, her voice still soft and wobbly. Tears have started to run freely down her face, and she does nothing to catch them. She leans over and grabs a glass of water, holds it as he takes tentative sips from the straw. When he leans away, she sets it aside, helps him sit up. That same angry relief bubbles up again. Here she is, being his mom, finally. He must have really come close to death this time, he thinks.

They stare at each other again, his mom's hand running through his hair. And it's been too long since he's studied his mom's face, because he can't tell what that emotion is.

"Steve, I-" she takes a breath, struggling to find words. So different from the woman who used to pick out her sentences carefully, used to enter conversations like they were battles. "I don't know what happened, to you or to Hawkins. I know it was bad, that whatever you went through was- that it was bad enough to put you here. There's been a crowd rotating through here and I can't get a straight answer from anyone. But whatever it was, I should have been here. I should have been here a long time ago, and I'm- I'll be sorry for it for the rest of my life. But I'm here now, If you'll have me."

A year ago, hell, a week ago, Steve would've scorned the idea of it, an apology. Forgiveness past the last minute.

But his mom is here. And she's holding his hand.

#steve harrington #steve harrington's mom #also i know he just woke up or whatever and prolly isnt coherent but blah blah hand wavey medical science #the concept for this one is inspired a little by Sun Bleached Flies + Strangers by Ethel Cain #I want to write a whole series for that album #but a couple of drabbles will do for now #stranger things #my stuff #my writing #fic #stranger things fic

7 notes · View notes

soulsolid-a · 1 year

Text

WAH i missed brook’s birthday

#[ ooc. ] ─ ♪ 《 from tomorrow to the future 》#[ 00:33.....#[ fucked up!!!!#[ lies down meant to write a hc post on brook n birthdays bc wavey hands but assignment hell real....#[ will try n write afterwards anyway <- still stuck in assignment hell #[ but brook belovd..... wacky peepaw real.....#[ belovd funky guy need to write him more fr

4 notes · View notes

the-penguinspy · 1 year

Note

40 questions ask: 17, 21, 33

17. Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

i write them out of order!! when i have an idea for a piece, i plot out the barebones in an outline, adding details here and there until i've got a saturated skeleton for the story. but in terms of actually writing the thing...i go for the fun stuff first, which is usually the parts in the middle. i'll have sentences and phrases scattered about the whole piece, stuff that comes to mind, but usually i flip-flop back and forth a whooooole lot.

21. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

i go back-and-forth a lot while writing so i end up reading up on the passage im writing + a paragraph or two before and after the main chunk. this leads to frequent edits and revisions everywhere pretty much all the time. but once i have the entire thing written, i do a pass for grammar and flow. i consider the revision process 'finished' when i can read through the whole thing without editing anything.

33. How do you feel about crack?

really exposing me here, huh! ive respect for crack -- there's a place for it. for me, i feel like there's less pressure to 'do well' when writing crack, just due to the nature of the piece, and it's really refreshing to just go ham with no expectations or high standards, y'know? it's not everyone's cup of tea and that's totally fine (and understandable lmao) but i've a soft spot for it.

#penguin honks #cowboycatd #saw the crack question and withered inside a little bit but! my answer is true. ive respect for crack. its got its place #in the fandom ecosystem #yes ive written crack! yes there's less expectation and pressure but i also put my whole heart into it :)#that being said im not gonna get offended if people don't read it or if they dont like it dksjkfdj but that kinda goes with everything #ie. not everyone's gonna like the stuff i write. thats just how the wind blows! and thats fine :)#thanks for the asks davey wavey :>

1 note · View note

tariah23 · 3 months

Note

I’ve been writing some goiji and it made me think of you! I hope you have been having a decent time. Ijichi nation is rising 🫡

This ask is akin to dangling my favorite treats in front of my face, I feel like a cat about to attempt to wake up their owner because they’re hungry AF

#tkf replies #anonymous #anon I made a loud groan I’m the only one in this apartment rn I can’t take this anymore #thank you for your service…….. I want to cry oh my god what is the story about is it a long one is it short is it iS ITJSJSJSKKS #let me be normal rn *straigtens my tie* erm where were we-#catnip to me…#fellow goiji warrior this was delightful to see in my inbox I can’t take it tho-#I’ve sketched up some future goiji stuff myself they have a daughter she’s like almost as tall as gojo and he’s of course annoying as hell #in her eyes #I need to fix her design because she’s looking too much like megumi for some reason and that was not my intention lol #it’s just that she has Ijichi’s hair and eye color #and her hair is short and spiky like or wavey like Gojo’s… but it’s like I drew megumi ☠️#i’m delusional #I want to write some stuff soon… I’ve written a lot of ideas and scenarios down but haven’t tackled anything yet outside of a text fic that #that I need to go back and edit but I’d like to post that soon… eek #crazy about them #hope you’ve been well!!!#it’s getting cold out here so make sure to bundle up appropriately if you’re able to and if it is cold where you stay!

1 note · View note

bigfatbimbo · 2 months

Text

silly low effort Sir Pentious x reader headcanons —

I don’t write much for him but I know that you Sir Pentious fans are malnourished and starving so eat the fuck up. Also he’s a silly guy so he fits right in with my silly low effort headcanons series. Let’s start off with the funny shit, this bitch is dramatic as fuck. Like say you bail on hanging out with him to go do something else, even if you actually have to do it. He will literally be so sad you’d think he was dying all over again (hah.) And it’s not even to make you feel bad, he’s just genuinely that sad. ”Oh…yes that’s okay, I suppose. I’ll just sit here and… and wait for you to get back. And think about us together… hanging out.” Like he’s so poutty in such a genuine way it’s actually sad because his eyes got all watery and his mouth curls down in a comedically wavey frowns as he crosses his arms and turns away from you. He’s literally so sensitive in general, actually. Like if you make one single harmless comment about how his hat looks crooked, he’s literally thinking about it for the rest of the day. You will literally catch him adjusting his hat every ten seconds and unconvincingly smiling at you and acting like he’s not that self conscious. More on that, he literally needs a crazy amount of reassurance all the time. Like he lives for your compliments. He’s so easily flustered by them too if you genuinely catch him off guard. Like maybe he’s just talking and you’re looking at him totally adoringly, and he notices and goes “What?” And maybe your like “Your smile is so cute.” He’s literally falling backwards, darting his eyes to the side, and not even trying to hide the way his face flushed. “Oh! My dear, i’m glad you—uhm— feel that way. Well, I have to go! Thank you, um, your smile… as well.” He’s also the clingiest mother fucker in the entire world. Like hats off to him, he should an award or something. It’s not even necessarily that he’s touchy or anything, which he is, though. But really he’s really just always lurking around you. He’s constantly following you around like a lost puppy, wherever you go just trailing closely behind. Whatever you’re doing, shit around the house, errands around town, he’s just happy to be by you. He’s also like a fantastic listener. Like he is processing everything you’re saying, and not even on purpose either. But like weeks from now you’re be talking about something and he’ll link it back to some other thing you literally brought up once. ”Oh that reminds me! Did you ever get your laundry machine fixed, because i’m quite good with mechanics so I could—“ And you interrupt him with like “what the fuck? I brought that up like one time a few weeks ago?” And he kinda just blushes and shrugs because honestly he’s not even trying to attain this much information about you, he just likes hearing your voice and in return pays special attention to everything you say. He likes hugs and cuddling so much but he’s so shy about asking for it! I see him as a big spoon or a little spoon, to be honest. Like big spoon because by nature, he’s such a giver. Absolutely anything to make himself useful is a must. So sheltering you and making you feel safe is his first priority. But when you spoon him?? He probably cries. Actually no, he actually cries. Because he is so not used to feeling wanted or deserving of love Vox i’m looking at you, you piece of shit it’s all your fault so when you just wrap your arms around him and pull him close, he can’t contain himself! All because you’re actively showing that you want him and love him, he’s tearing up and mumbling ‘thank you’s. I’m sorry but Sir Pentious would literally treat you so good too. Like he’ll do actually anything for you. Your laundry needs done? He’s on it. Your hungry? He’ll just slither to the store for your favorite snacks. Your back hurts? Have a massage. He lives to please. Especially with you.

a/n — @chronically1online YEAH THATS RIGHT BITCH I DID THIS ONE FIRST. PFF. SHOWS YOU! WHATS UP?? WHATS UP NOW??? 😤😤

#that’s a joke btw #much love brother #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #inbox open #hazbin hotel fluff #sir pentious x reader #sir pentious x you #sir pentious fluff #hazbin hotel sir pentious #sir pentious #silly low effort headcanons

414 notes · View notes

piratecaptainscaptainpirates · 4 months

Text

Need more positivity on my dash, so I wanna talk a bit more about how fucking amazing OFMD's writing for its characters of color is!

Now, I'm a professional historian (phd student 😔🤘🏾) and I read and watch a lot of historical fiction because I love it, right? And I have literally never seen a piece of historical fiction that is so respectful to its characters of color.

Usually, in works of historical fiction that actually bother to include characters of color, they fall into two big camps. The most common one is trauma porn, where poc only exist so White characters can save them, feel sorry about them, or so White audiences can pat themselves on the back for feeling sorry about them. Also popular are works that include characters of color but don't bother thinking about how race impacts their experiences in historical settings (shows like Bridgerton come to mind; they want to include poc but handwave racism). And in general I prefer the latter but it still takes me out of the story.

But OFMD hits just this amazing balance. There are many characters of color, and the racism of the world they live in impacts their experiences and perspectives in realistic ways. Ed remembering how his mom told him that fine things weren't meant for people like him has me by the fucking throat, it's so tied up in race and class and it's the root of so many of Ed's self-image issues into adulthood. But the real kicker for me - poc always get the last laugh in OFMD. Yes, the racism in this show is often very realistic, but this isn't a realistic show at its core and it is so, so comforting to know a character who starts acting like a racist dickhead is a dead man walking.

It's so carefully written, and for me it's such a huge comfort: race in OFMD is never hand-waved away, and it's thought-provoking and realistic and relatable. But the show always feels so safe because we know racism in the show is never excused. They tell us in the pilot that if you start being a racist asshole, someone's gonna stab you. Even Stede, our main character - when he makes a racist assumption in the second episode of the show, the narrative encourages us to call him out for it and has a character directly call him a fuckin' racist! He's held accountable and he fucking grows, because unlearning racist biases is important and he doesn't get a pass because he's the main character!

It's not just that OFMD has a lot of characters of color. It's not just that one of our main romantic leads is an indigenous Jewish man. It's not just that characters of color are consistently depicted as smart, clean, competent, and respected. It's that the show respects them enough to think about how racism realistically shapes the world of OFMD, while at the same time providing viewers with a wonderful fantasy of racists getting what they deserve. In the genre of historical fiction, it stands out because it completely avoids the trauma porn and hand-wavey angles, and I can't articulate strongly enough how much I appreciate that.

#ofmd #our flag means death

513 notes · View notes

lovelybrooke · 8 months

Note

Hello, Brooke.

I was wondering, what are the headcannons for how the strawhats would react to a reader who obtained a horrid wound in a fight, but wont show and tell them? (I know the strawhats wouldn't allow them to fight, just humor me)

Were talking almight stomach blast level wound and scar, but over their chest, one that barely missing their heart, with the only one knowing being chopper because he was the one who probably healed reader, or not if that's the direction your thinking, I'm cool either way.

I refuse (Yandere Strawhats x reader)

Took a break from 'I have to be dreaming' to write this. Hope you enjoyed this.

---

No one has found you yet.

You take a slow, wavey breath in, a shallow breath out, as you grip your chest in pain. Rain fell upon your face as you listen to the distant sound of swords clanking, people screaming, and of course, your friends arguing even during the middle of battle.

It honestly made you smile, if you had to die at any moment, it would be now, after you did everything you could to protect your crew. You smile, knowing the ship was safe. And you smile even more, knowing your friends were safe.

---

The ship was wrecked, parts of it were missing, but most disturbingly, blood was everywhere.

Chopper scans the main deck with a bated breath as he examined the damage. The others were still fighting, and you stayed on the ship, just like they told you.

You had to be safe, but the trail of blood leading towards the storage room said otherwise. Chopper stumbles, nearly falling over as he carefully examines the blood. It was dry, the liquid already seeped into the floorboards and has darkened. Chopper quickens his pace, fallowing the trail before stopping at a door to the storage room.

There were a few small, red handprints that caused Chopper's stomach to churn. The doorhandle was completely soaked red, dripping onto the floor below. Chopper hesitates opening the door, afraid of what's inside. He takes a deep breath, entering the dark room with a shiver in his body.

He couldn't see anything right way, having to blink a few times for his eyes to adjust. He stumbles around as he tries to find the light switch, hearing wheezing coming from deeper in the room.

As the light flickered on, he could see more blood, and for a second, he thought he could smell you. "(Y/N)..." There was so much blood, it covered the floor and a few boxes. Chopper waited for a response, nearly letting out a sob when the room remained silent. The wheezing though, it remained, it was so miniscule he almost missed it.

Following the sound and the blood, Chopper is frozen by the sight of you, on the floor, your lower stomach and chest covered in blood. It seeped into your shirt, on your hand, and on the floor. You were the source of the wheezing; your mouth opened a bit while your eyes were shot wide. He could tell you were struggling to breath by the terrible sound coming from your mouth and by your chest that was struggling to rise and fall.

Chopper stumbled over to you with a loud sob. He searches your body for the source of the bleeding, realizing it's coming from multiple points. You don't move or react at all when he starts asking you questions in a panicked, rushed manner.

"(Y/N)!! W-what...what happened!?" He cries, growing frustrated when you don't answer, only continue to wheeze. Chopper takes your hand, pulling you to stand up, but you scream in pain, resulting in him dropping your hand immediately.

He panics for a second, looking at you, now groaning in pain, and the door leading back to the main deck, before crouching down next to your ear. "I'll be back...I'm going to get help." Chopper runs back onto the deck, your blood covering his hands.

On the deck, Chopper hops onto the railing closest to the island they were fighting on. He heaves, squinting as he looks for any familiar faces. There were too many people on the battlefield, but he could hear his friends far away. Taking a deep breath, he yells.

"Luffy!! Zoro!! Anybody!! (Y/N)'s hurt!!! Please come help!!"

---

Luffy stops moving, the marine he was fighting confused as Zoro stops as well, slashing a few marines in quick succession. "Was that Chopper?" Zoro turns towards the captain, who was already facing the sound.

Luffy's face was nearly devoid of emotion, only slight rage present on his face. He didn't say a world, and when the Marine behind him tried to pounce on him, he sends a punch flying his way. Teeth and blood shoot out as the Marine collapses. Blood drips down Luffy's fist as he faces Zoro.

"He said (Y/N) was hurt, let's go." Luffy didn't wait for him, bounding off towards the ship, Zoro quickly fallowing.

On the boat, Chopper was pacing tirelessly as he waits for anyone. Every few minutes, he rushes back to the storage room to check your pulse, it still beating faintly.

The moment he heard someone enter the deck, he rushed towards them, being greeted by a very panicked Luffy and Zoro. Chopper stammered a bit, watching with tears as Zoro's jaw tightens at the sight of the blood.

"Where are they." His voice was so cold, and Chopper could help but notice his tight grip on his swords. Chopper points towards the storage room, trying to catch up to the two men as they rush to you.

"I-I...they need to be moved to the medical room...I can't lift them...they're in pain..." Chopper explains as they weave in between the boxes of the storage room.

The wheezing has stopped, and Chopper swears his heart breaks when he Luffy shakily checks for a pulse, and his eyes widens when he doesn't feel it. Chopper starts to sob when Luffy hurriedly checks on the opposite side of your neck, then your wrist, which was cold.

"Chopper...why--there's not pulse--" Luffy mumbles, looking at the crying reindeer.

"I--I checked...they were breathing...I swear..." Chopper sobs, hiccupping as Luffy presses his fingers deeper like he refused to except what's happening.

"Zoro..." Luffy chokes out. Zoro had remained silent, his eyes fixated on you and the blood surrounding you. "Take them to the medical room." His words were stilted, robotic like as he directed Zoro towards you.

Zoro swallowed hard as he inched towards you. As he got closer, he could hear the squelch of your blood on the bottom of his shoes. He had to bite his tongue in order to ignore it, flinching when he touched your cold skin.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and legs, attempting to lift you up when you groan in pain. The sound is more of a gurgle, but he could tell you were in pain by the blood that was now soaking his arms.

"You're okay...I'm just going to take you to the medical room." He whispers at your cries, trying not to drop you when you weakly cough out some blood. Luffy and Chopper follow him, Luffy attempting to hold your hand only for it to weakly flop to the side.

Zoro kicks open the door to the medical room, placing you down on the table while Chopper hops up onto a chair next to you. Luffy and Zoro stand next to you as Chopper cuts open your shirt. Underneath, stab wounds were littered all over your chest and stomach, a large, deep cut traveling near the side of your heart.

Luffy clenches his fist as Chopper pats alcohol onto the wounds. You remain quiet, your body still as Luffy keeps a hand on your pulse, constantly checking for any signs of light. He leans down near your ear, ranting to you in hushed whispers that you don't respond to.

"(Y/N)...you're okay. Everything is going to be okay. I promise when you wake up, I'll kill whoever did this to you." Zoro stopped listening to anyone or anything a while ago. He couldn't, not when you were so clearly dying right in front of him. No...you weren't dying...he wouldn't allow it. He refuses for you to die.

"Luffy! Zoro! Where did you--" Zoro turned around, being faced with Nami's terrified face. Her shaky hand was covering her mouth, and her eyes were blown wide. "W-w-what...happened..." She could barely get the words out as she attempted to move closer without actually looking at your wounds.

Luffy nor Zoro responds, Chopper having to do the work for them as he prepared the stiches for you. "I-I think they were attacked, I'm not sure."

"Do you think they're dead?" Luffy, who was previously to concerned with whispering in your ear, shoot up, sending Nami a terrifying look.

"NO!" He shouts, scaring Nami. He grips you hand tighter as Chopper begins to stich you up. He leans down back near your ear. "I swear I can feel a pulse. You feel it too, right Chopper?"

Chopper doesn't respond.

More footsteps are heard, all rushing towards the commotion. First was Usopp, who had a similar reaction to Nami, nearly screaming when he saw you on the table, asking questions no one could answer. Then came Sanji and Robin, who both were more muted, but still visibly upset at the state you were in.

"Do you know who did this." Currently everyone, except Luffy, was gathered in the dining room. Sanji was trying to make food for everyone, but no one was really in the mood for food currently.

Zoro shook his head at the cook's question. "No, but it had to be a marine who got onto the ship." Zoro was stating the obvious, but it was better than nothing.

Sanji placed down some soup for everyone onto the table, lighting a cigarette afterwards. "This is all your fault. I knew we should've kept them in an inn. Less obvious and less dangerous." Sanji snarled at Zoro.

"Yeah, an inn is super inconspicuous." Zoro rolled his eyes. "Dumbass."

"Don't call me a dumbass when your stupid decision has them laid out across a medical table!" Sanji howls, standing up in pure anger, nearly spitting on the swordman.

Zoro stands, face to face with Sanji. "Well at least I'm not selfish enough to keep them locked up somewhere they don't want to be."

Sanji laughed. "You're calling me selfish. They begged to be left off the ship for weeks now and you know who kept them from leaving? You!"

"Enough!!" Nami stands up, separating the two. "Blaming each other isn't going to solve anything. We did what we thought, as a crew, was best for them. We collectively me a choice." Nami says.

Sanji and Zoro both sit, rage still radiating off of them. Usopp, who was sitting near Chopper in the corner, looked down at his hands. "Do you...really think they're, y'know..." Usopp couldn't finish, he couldn't say the word, but they understood.

"No." Zoro said matter of factly. "They're going to be fine."

No one had the heart to refute him.

---

Luffy was still sitting right next to you, even when the sun set, and the stars were decorating the sky. He remined, waiting for you.

"And them Sanji kicked some Marines ass, it was so funny, he was crying like a baby." Luffy recounts the battle from earlier today. He smiles at your unconscious body, it was wide, but devoid of any real happiness.

Luffy wants to cry at the sight of you. He's the captain, he's your friend, he has to protect you, and he failed. He can talk to you, sit with you, apologize all he wants, but it doesn't change the fact you're still in this situation.

You were probably so scared, begging for them to help you, and they were off, none the wiser to your own plight. The thought makes him want to cry.

"(Y/N)...please...as your captain I demand you wake up. Right now." He was acting childish, but he didn't care. He wanted you back, that's all he cared about.

You didn't respond, he knew you wouldn't. But he had to try, it was the most he could do.

"When you wake up, Sanji said we're going to have a big feast." No, he didn't, he hasn't talked to Sanji in hours. "So, don't keep me waiting, alright?"

You didn't respond, and it was heartbreaking.

---

A/n: I wanted to try something more angsty, hope you liked it.

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #one piece x you #yandere one piece #one piece x reader #one piece strawhats #one piece

890 notes · View notes

54625 · 5 months

Text

I am absolutely enthralled by qFit being canonically gay btw. I expected his sexuality to be treated in that hand-wavey fashion that most MCRP characters' are, where if they have a relationship it's just kinda 'these two are in love cause they can be who cares about the semantics', but having it be an actual part of his character is so interesting and makes so much sense. Even outside of what it does for ships it is so good storywise because of the sheer amount of implication it carries. Need a character study fic about it. Need a better writer than me to write something from the perspective of a past 2b2t era Fit, thinking about that part of himself. I'd eat that shit up.

#qsmp #qsmp fitmc #fitmc #qsmp fit #fitmc tag

455 notes · View notes

nomazee · 6 months

Note

hihi!! i love ur writing sm and was wondering if u could do a chuuya x also mafia executive reader (similar to the dazai friends to lovers u did a bit ago) with the unestablished relationship but so obviously in love trope

thank u sm!!

i went so overboard omfg FORGIVE ME... i hope this is cohesive i kept working at it at like deep into the night so it's a little hazy omg but i loved this so much im such a sucker for this trope and chuuya and dazai are like the best characters for this kind of genre i feel

pairing: chuuya x gn reader word count: 2.8k content: fluff, hurt/comfort (an abundance of it), friends-to-lovers, mentions of sickness (vomiting, fever, etc), domestic fluff, sweet stuff, also hand-wavey teenage timeline because i didn't read all of stormbringer forgive me...

°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.

“They said they might promote me, did you hear?”

Chuuya glances to the side at the sudden sound of your voice. You’re leaning over his shoulder from behind him, face mere inches from his as you grin widely. He has to fight the twitches of his own lips to stop himself from smiling back. “And who’s they, exactly?”

“Oh, you know. The grapevine. Just some whispers in the organization. And Kouyou.” You lean back, the radiating warmth of your body suddenly escaping Chuuya. He walks behind you as you make your way down the hallway, a little jump in your step as you recount the news to him.

“It’s what you get for working so hard. Guess it paid off.”

“You think I’m hardworking! You’re a flatterer, Chuuya Nakahara.”

“Sure am,” he quips back with amusement. Banter with you is different than with Dazai. With you, it’s lighthearted, and silly, and makes him feel like he’s fourteen and messing around with the Sheep again. With Dazai, it’s… charged, and fast-paced, and builds up a kind of aggravated energy within him that works well in fights but not in a room of Kouyou’s antiques.

“But guess what,” you start again, looking over your shoulder where Chuuya follows close behind. Your pace slows down to let him catch up to you and walk side-by-side, now. “I think you’ve got a good chance, too. You’ve got some executive qualities, you know?”

It makes Chuuya pause for a moment, because he hasn’t really thought about it before. After the mess that was the Sheep, he hadn’t considered taking up any kind of leadership or executive position in the Port Mafia. It wasn’t really his thing—too much work, too much responsibility. And as much as he loathed to admit it, it would probably mean even less time to spend with you and Dazai. Being mentored by different people already limited your time with each other.

He tries not to think too hard about the implications of it—of you and Dazai working under Mori’s hands while Chuuya gets Kouyou’s firm, but gentler palms. A vague kind of sickness washes over him that he tries to shake off.

“I don’t know about that. I think I do better in a quieter position, don't you think?”

“Nothing is quiet about you. Especially not with that partner of yours,” you joke back. “I could put in a good word for you! Once I get promoted, I’ll have, like, a bunch of power and influence, and I’ll be all high and mighty, and you and me and Dazai can all take care of the Port Mafia and be all cool, and everything.”

It’s a pipe dream. Both of you know that. Chuuya knows best about your hidden resentment of this organization and all that it stands for, all that it does. He’s heard whispers about your plans to take over—plans that would never come to fruition. Plans that were more like dreams and wishes and hopes. Something to get you through the day. The budding smile on his face falters when he turns and sees that distant look in your eyes. A sigh bubbles in his chest, but he holds it down.

“Hey, slow down. You don’t even know if you’re getting the position or not.” His comment is met with a roll of your eyes and a chest-deep groan. You launch into a big speech about how qualified you are for the job, and all the different things you’d institute as a mafia executive (nap time, stress room with cats, petting zoo, iced tea dispensers), and Chuuya nods along and laughs for as long as he can.

===

You do, in fact, get promoted to an executive, but at the cost of a lot of things. Dazai leaves the mafia with no warning to you or Chuuya. You don't see him at all for two weeks leading up to his defection, and it all happens in a blur that leaves your head swimming with vertigo and your body much too frail to handle everything.

Chuuya finds you sobbing in your en suite bathroom, kneeling on the floor and crying so hard that you’re dry heaving. He hasn’t seen you like this before. Even in your rare moments of vulnerability, it was never something so visceral and uncensored. He stands in the doorway, looking down at you, and freezes. His palms itch with the desire to do something, something that he hasn’t learned.

“You… Hey, hey,” Chuuya drops to the floor once he snaps out of his daze, crouching next to your curled up form as you shake with the force of your tears. He tentatively reaches out a hand, easing onto your shoulder. When you don’t give any sort of negative reaction, he wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you in for an embrace.

It’s odd. This isn’t something that the three of you did. For all that you and him and Dazai kicked and pushed and shoved each other jokingly, this kind of touch is unfamiliar. It’s scalding in the way that sitting in front of a space heater in the dead of winter burns you.

He shushes you like a child because he’s not sure what else to say. He’s just as shaken by Dazai’s defection, but he knew that you and Dazai had become so close over the last few years. Being trained under Mori together does that. His chest squeezes at the sight of you like this, broken down and shivering and sick at the loss of your friend.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Shhh, it’s— it’s okay.”

Chuuya smooths a hand over the top of your head, sliding down to rest between your shoulderblades. His mouth presses against your temple in a gentle kiss, feeling how cold and clammy your skin has gotten. He doesn’t know how to heal you. His hands are made to weigh people down and hurt and subdue, and he’s not sure if he can handle the gentler things like holding you and swathing you in blankets and cooking you soup.

But, he thinks with a renewed determination. There’s no harm in trying.

Three months later, you take Dazai’s executive position at the age of nineteen. Chuuya follows suit after another year and a half and becomes executive at twenty. You only think of Dazai when your head swims in gin and when you can’t feel the heat of Chuuya’s hands near you.

===

The both of you find yourselves in Chuuya’s apartment drinking the night away. At this point, you’re both twenty-one, and being in the mafia has offered you countless resources for alcohol and the like. A warm haze has blanketed you as you take another sip of whatever sweet fruity drink Chuuya has concocted for you. He drinks a glass of wine, because he’s weird and bougie, which you tell him straightforwardly.

“Wine’s just an acquired taste,” he tells you.

“It’s glorified grape juice. It tastes like yeast.”

“That’s… kind of what it is.”

You laugh so hard that tears bead in your eyes and you hit him on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. It’s not even that funny, really, and he wasn’t even trying to make you laugh, but it’s so late into the night that you don’t even know what time it is and everything is funny when you’re this drunk.

“I’m hungry, Chuuya. I miss your soup,” you say, a whine in your voice as you throw your head back against the armrest of the couch. You’re stretched out on his velvet upholstered couch with your feet in his lap, and he’s been tracing circles against your bare shins while some documentary plays in the background on the TV. “You haven’t cooked for me in forever. I thought it was your duty as a househusband to cook every night, or something.”

“Hey! I’m not anyone’s househusband,” he shouts in protest. When you push your head up from the armrest to glance at him, his tanned face is flushed a warm red and his brow is furrowed in playful indignation and you’re struck with the urge to bite him like a chew toy. Instead, you let out a soft kind of laugh and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, you are. You’re my husband. Have been since the day I met you.” In a burst of newfound energy, you propel yourself up and off the couch, swinging your legs off his lap and standing up. “Let’s go make some soup. Your pantry’s probably stocked, right? Since you’re on top of all your housekeeping.”

“Geez. You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Of course not! Come on. You have to teach me how to cook now.”

Chuuya has reserved bone broth in his freezer, because of course he does. You submerge a container of it in hot water and wait for it to defrost while he helps you dice and saute vegetables in a pressure cooker.

(“Don't pressure cookers, like, explode, or something?”

“...who taught you that.”)

It’s a miracle you can even use a knife safely, because your head is still swimming a little bit and the line of empty bottles on the coffee table taunts you and your bad decisions. You also blame it for the way you stick close to Chuuya, bumping your hips together and leaning your head on his shoulder for a few fleeting moments until the pressure cooker starts hissing.

He serves you a heaping bowl and when you tell him you’ll puke if you eat the whole thing, he pushes the bowl at you from across the counter and says, “I’ll guess I’ll just clean your puke for you too, then.”

“Gross. You’re really a househusband if you’re brave enough to do that.”

“Househusband this, househusband that. All I do is cook.”

“And clean up the vomit of your lovely lovely spouse.”

“Sure,” he says, and he turns back to you and puts his own bowl next to yours. Then, in a swift, undeterred motion, he reaches across the kitchen island, over both steaming bowls of soup and kisses you straight on the mouth. It shocks you right into lucidity, eyes blown wide and lips nearly parting at the sudden contact. Before you can really think about it, Chuuya pulls back, circling around the kitchen island to sit next to you with two spoons so you can both eat. “As long as that lovely lovely spouse is you.”

You feel—light. Airy, sick, nauseous, more at peace than you have been in the last three years. A stupid smile starts forming on your face and you hide your giddy laughs into your soup.

Chuuya would never act like this sober, you think, still cherishing the little moment you have. Thankfully, you’re proven wrong when he keeps doing it—walking you back to your apartment the next day, going out to a mafia-affiliated diner the next week, in an empty meeting room after everyone has left.

===

Another year passes. You find yourself in the throes of the cannibalism incident—not as a bystander, but as a victim. Because that’s just your luck, really.

You don’t know how you were caught in the crossfire between Fyodor and Mori, but somehow you were infected with the cannibalism virus and bedridden for nearly three days, in-and-out of consciousness while you hoped and prayed that somebody would save you. For the entirety of the conflict, you were left alone in the PM infirmary, sweating off your perpetual fever and coughing up stomach bile into a metal garbage can.

It was awful. There’s no blame to put on anyone, though. Everyone who was able to stand was on the front lines, so to speak, and from what you understood you weren’t as big of a target as Mori. Three days alone in a sterile bed was worth it for the survival of the organization.

At the end of it all, in the calm after the storm, sitting in your dorm, Chuuya visits you.

You don’t look too great, still recovering physically and emotionally, but you can’t find it in you to care. The second you hear the familiar cadence of his knock and the shuffling of his stupid heeled boots, you rip the door open and are met with his wide-eyed expression.

“Hey,” he says, and you burst into tears because god. It hasn’t hit you until now, seeing him in front of you, his warmth radiating from his hands as they reach out to hold you, but you could’ve died or he could’ve died and then what would’ve happened? Years and years of knowing each other, seeing each other at your worst, taking care of each other. Cooking in your kitchen and sleeping on his couch and kissing him like it meant nothing. It could’ve all been gone.

The mafia isn’t a safe occupation to begin with, but this entire thing has made you realize how fleeting everything is. So you sob, and you let him hold you and bring you to the couch, and you let yourself be weak.

“Hey,” he says again, tone now placating, gloved hands resting on the back of your head and between your shoulder blades as he sits next to you on the couch. You have no regard for where your body is right now, legs sprawled out somewhere beneath you and arms reaching up to grab at Chuuya’s clothes in any way you can. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

You cough wetly into his shoulder, a whine forming from between your violent sobs. Your body shakes with the remnants of your sickness and the exhaustion of the week and a small voice in the back of your head tells you that it’s embarrassing, that it’s unbecoming of a mafia executive to be so affected.

Death threats and poisonings and shootings—you deal with it every week. You choke out another whine of distress as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids in an attempt to quell the tears. It doesn’t work. You’re still weak, no matter how hard you hurt.

“Shit, Chuuya,” you cough out a weak sob, shivers wracking your body as the weight of everything crashes onto you. “I was so sick. I was alone. I thought I would die. God.” You pull back from his hold to rub at your eyes with your raw palms.

“Stop that,” Chuuya says, with a gentleness you swear you haven’t heard in so long but in truth it’s been with you for the last two years. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.” Cold fingers wrap around your wrists and pull them away from your face.

The white-hot heat of embarrassment scalds the back of your neck. You feel like a scolded child with the pitying look he gives you, and with your hands locked between his there’s no way to hide.

“Stop,” you tell him, “quit it, Chuuya,” and you don’t know what you’re begging for, but it’s the lowest you’ve ever felt—a feared member of the mafia on their knees crying and asking for some kind of mercy.

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he mumbles, and he pulls you just a bit closer with the grip he has on your hands. His chin rests on top of your head and you shove your face into the crook of his neck.

For once, he doesn’t smell like his gross luxury perfume. He smells like your laundry detergent and grass and the city and even more tears spill over your cheeks. Your fingers curl into his and you clench his knuckles until you feel them creak through the gloves.

“I wouldn't let you die,” Chuuya’s voice is no more than a whisper, but it’s the most determined you’ve heard him sound. “I wouldn’t let it happen.”

“I don’t need your protection,” and it’s a weak protest, and you’re grasping at straws to argue with him and push him away and make him stop before you make yourself sick with how hard you’re sobbing. You feel one hand slip from yours and slide up between your shoulderblades and start trailing along the nape of your neck, tracing circles in a lulling gesture.

“I know you don't,” he says, “but I would really like it if you let me. Just once in a while. Let me cook you soup alone and wash your face and clean your hair. All that stupid stuff.”

You cough out a weak laugh. Your househusband shtick from a year ago comes back to you, and so do all the warm evenings spent together in the kitchen and the kisses left on his cheek and the ones left on yours. You feel the warm press of his mouth against your temple and let out your last weak sob before you hold him tight again, squeeze him hard against you to make sure he’s still there. And that’s where he’ll stay.

#chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #nakahara x reader #nakahara chuuya x reader #chuuya x you #chuuya nakahara x you #bsd oneshot #chuuya oneshot #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x you #nakahara chuuya x you

226 notes · View notes