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existentialdreadinc · 2 years ago

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Special Delivery

When David arrived at the obsidian tower, the parking lot and lobby were as deserted as they’d been the day before.

Stepping out onto floor thirty-seven, he didn’t bother to announce himself this time and instead went straight to his office. His desk, which had been empty yesterday apart from the packet, now sported a gunmetal gray electric typewriter that appeared to be the same vintage as the one he’d used in his high school typing class. There was a blank sheet of paper rolled into the platen and David could hear the IBM Selectric humming softly. Lying beside the machine were two other pages. The first appeared to be a letter to someone named Mr. Devereux and the second was addressed to David.

Greetings Mister Schiff,

Let me say again how delighted we are to have you with us.

On your desk you’ll find a missive to one of EDIs primary investors, Alfred Devereux. He’s a local resident of Marterborough and a rather fastidious and eccentric individual. Mister Devereux is adverse to modern forms of communication and to what he refers to as ‘stale correspondence’. He has the uncanny ability to suss out such things, something about the smell, and requires that all his letters be given to him within an hour of their creation. This rules out the usual methods of transport via postal or parcel services.

Please duplicate the letter on the machine provided and deliver it to Mister Devereux at the address listed below.

Also, try your best to avoid scrutinizing the letter as you’re replicating it, or at the very least, refrain from retaining the information as it tends to anger him.

After you’ve completed this important task, the rest of the day is yours to do with as you wish. Simply make sure to report back to the office at eight the following morning.

I have the utmost confidence in your abilities and very much look forward to meeting you in the future.

Sincerely,

Edwin McPherson – EDI Level Manager (34-39)

David read over the instructions again and fought back the urge to flee the building.

He slipped on his reading glasses, pushed the roller bar into place, and began typing.

*****

Driving over to Devereux’s place, David worried that he’d remembered too much of the letter and tried to fill his head with mundane things like song lyrics and dialogue he’d memorized from movies.

He honestly didn’t know what was so sensitive about the information as it wasn’t much more than accounting balances and the minutes of some recent meetings.

“Damn it, stop that!” he scolded himself and started humming the chorus from “500 Miles” by The Proclaimers.

He parked his car on the street in front of a gray, wooden-shingled house with white shutters that was bordered by a black picket fence.

The small gate in front of the concrete walkway leading up to the door screeched on its hinges like an injured bird when he opened it.

“Guess I don’t need to knock.” David muttered and was only halfway up the path when the door to the house swung inward revealing a tall man with gaunt, ashen features and thinning silver hair.

“Good Morning, Mister Devereux.” David said.

“Nearly afternoon by my count.”

David glanced at his watch to confirm that this was not actually the case and then grimaced in acknowledgment. “My apologies for not arriving sooner.”

“No matter, not like I’ve got any pressing plans. Come in.”

David nodded and quickly made his way across the threshold, nearly being clipped by the door as Devereux closed it behind him.

“So you’re the new one they sent.”

“I’m from EDI, yes.”

“Last fella was a good deal younger. Suspect he’s moved on to bigger things.”

“I’m not really sure about my predecessor.”

“Course not, why would they tell you.”

David pretended not to hear this last bit as he fumbled around in his coat pocket for the letter.

“Here you are sir.” David said, handing Devereux the envelope.

The old man pushed the paper rectangle firmly up against his nostrils and inhaled deeply. “1977 IBM Selectric with a Courier print ball.”

“Yes sir, I believe that’s correct.”

“More of a Smith-Corona man myself, but the Selectric is a good machine.”

David nodded.

“Assume you haven’t been with the company for very long.”

“…oh, um, no.” David stammered. “It’s actually my first week.”

Devereux made his way from the foyer over to a desk in the adjacent living room. “Have a seat.” he said, absently motioning toward a leather sofa at the opposite end of the room.

David shuffled over and sat with his hands in his lap, diverting his attention to the mantel above the fireplace and pretending to be engrossed in the various knickknacks while Devereux read.

The entire message was only a page long, but the old man seemed to be pondering each word as he ran the tip of his finger along the paper. After several minutes he stood up, folded the paper back into thirds, and crossed the room.

“Did you read this?” Devereux said, brandishing the letter at David.

“No sir.”

Devereux arched an eyebrow.

“I mean...I obviously had to when I was typing it, but I made sure to forget everything on my way over.”

The old man examined David for several moments, but then nodded. He grabbed a box of matches off the mantel and struck one, touching the flame to the end of the paper and then tossing both into the fireplace.

“You don’t know what they do over there, do you?”

David considered trying to come up with some business related jargon that sounded feasible, but just shrugged. “No sir, not really.”

“When they first came here to scout out the town, one of the company founders asked for my assistance. It wasn’t my money they were interested in, but rather my influence in helping sell the idea to the other residents. Fact of the matter is, this town wouldn’t be here now if they hadn’t showed up, but I guess they didn’t want to be viewed as interlopers or invaders. So I did my little song and dance, told everyone what they wanted to hear, and we all cheered like simpleminded children when that grotesque totem was erected in the center of our home.”

David started to say something, but realized he had no reply.

“You’re here because they want you here; same as the rest of us. Knowing more than that is liable to get you into trouble.”

“…what sort of trouble?”

“The only sort there is.”

“I don’t—”

“My suggestion is for you to keep your mind focused on your work.”

“...okay....”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t show you out. There’s an urgent tobacco related matter I need to attend to.”

David nodded and made his way through the front door.

When he went to close the gate at the end of the path, he saw that all the lights in the house had gone dark.

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yandins-beleagured-historian · 3 months ago

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“Hmf. Were I so fortunate.” The figure says as it straightens, back turned to Diomat. The warrior’s gunmetal-grey plate is mostly a medley of newer components, topped off with a bulky jump pack, but there’s a vambrace here, a pauldron trim piece there, that Diomat would recognise as the same mark he wears himself. And the hand emblazoned on that pauldron is a golden one, clenched into a fist.

“The flesh is weak, but the flesh and blood of a distant successor is weaker still. And yet,” Syrak stares at the fingers of his power fist as they flex, “steel will always overcome.” He sighs like a man who’s forgotten what it’s like to have lungs as he admires the oversized bionic, listening to the whispering of its hissing servos and mechanisms. “This particular steel, though, I have sorely missed.”

Outside the contourless void where the dreadnoughts’ spirits hold court, the biomoniters intone and flicker in chorus as the data feeds from each sarcophagus are combined. Whatever psychically-active mind-state the Chief Apothecary has induced in the old warriors has already brought the two neural patterns into close enough alignment for comparison as the two old warriors sink deeper into the dream of their own flesh.

Syrak takes three steps, probes the edge of the void, artificial fingers tapping against a hard surface, bare metal revealed by the retreating shadows. Something is engraved there. Like wiping dust from a long-forsaken pict-screen, Syrak banishes the shadows and stares at the armorial carved into the wall. He sighs wistfully, his words barely more than a murmur, more to himself than to his counterpart.

“So this is a dream. This is the Inflexible, before she was lost.”

Syrak turns to Diomat. His face has the weathering of an Astartes approaching his first century. Dark skin, grey hair, and a great rift on the left side of his face, from jaw to temple, where riven flesh has been replaced with worked steel. The eye that winks from that side of the face is a cold blue diode, almost as cold as the stare that he levels at Diomat.

“Mark Three. Nonstandard, early production run. A full suit, no less.” There is something in Syrak’s grudging tone. He is either impressed, or very envious.

“So what are you, then? Another component of this dream? Or…something else?”

There was laughter on the wind here, out on the fringes of the Opphon plain, as the veil began to break down. Warpfire, re-entry heat and the cataclysmic death of titans had burned back the snow as far as the northern foothills, where the Iron Fists had died. The path of their retreat was marked by a trail of broken bodies and smoldering tanks, a fresh road stretching out from the wreck of the Cestus Relictor, to the ugly looking barbican that guarded the mountain pass. The broken ship squatted darkly amidst a forest of smoke columns; the first wave landing craft downed by its colossal guns, but even now, lesser warbands were no doubt crawling through its halls in search of prizes, plunder and prisoners. The sons of Fulgrim had watched the battle from afar, like vultures waiting to see which duelling beast became carrion. There had been a pleasance to the ebb and flow of it, the way the line of grey bloomed and sparkled with muzzle flashes and detonations each time the infernal tide rolled in upon them. Each murder of a titan was a slow, graceful affair, punctuated by energy discharge that dazzled and slashed their way through the smoking air. The dreadnought was not hard to find. They'd watched as the gunship was gutted as it tried to hasten survivors back to the safety of the mountains. The bodies had scattered like dark pollen from the riven craft, but the single fruit, the larger shape, had fallen faster, throwing up dust and soil as it bounced and rolled and ploughed its way across the plain. There was not much left of it at the end of the furrow such fall had carved, but there was still a sparking, guttering sense of life within the crumpled wreck. The golden gauntlet sigil of the Iron Fists chapter had been torn off along with its arms, but the name, 'Syrak', was still legible on the sarcophagus lid, in spite of the dark, viscous fluid that marred the lettering it as it trickled from the vision-slit down into the dark earth. As the figures approached, there was a whine of broken servos and a series of unpleasant clunks from within the wreck. Slowly, falteringly, the mangled vox-modulator churned out a stuttering sequence of words, carrying neither emotion nor any sense of recognition of the figures that surveyed it. "Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere."

"Of course it's far from me to pass a verdict here … I'm not someone who needs to pass judgement on others …" A brief silence, then a harsh laugh at his own joke, which continues for quite a while before it dies away with a chortle. Accompanied by quiet words in a language that is more of a hiss than actual syllables. "… but in general, I wonder whether earlier intervention would not make for a much better harvest. Not to mention the fact that we are damaging other people's image here."

The person at whom the words are obviously directed due to sheer physical proximity does not reply. Instead, he continues to work on finding a good approach vector to the dispersing battlefield that won't cause the aggressive gunship to rebel too much if he denies it prey, while remaining inconspicuous.

Instead, an answer comes from further back: "And by better harvest, you don't mean select cruelty and silly new skin garments, do you?" - "Pah! I'm always fighting prejudice here." Waving it off and then ramming the midnight blue helmet with the bat wings onto his head.

"There's a very good reason why the Chief Apothecary didn't send any of our purple friends here. All tactical discipline falls out of their heads as soon as they see the opportunity to interfere in a battle and make a spectacle of themselves. Waiting and striking surgically - that really doesn't suit them anymore." - "Yes, yes, yes. Precision and boredom. When did that happen?" - "You can discuss it with him when we get back. I'll make some popcorn and watch this conversation from a safe distance."

For a while, there is only a busy silence as the three Apothecaries finish equipping themselves and force the angrily protesting gunship to land in a crater left by a Titan's footstep in the churned-up mud of the battlefield.

Everyone not only arms themselves, but also adds several extra canisters for Gene Seed to their belts. Then they open the ramp, taking advantage of a moment of distraction when the ship wouldn't shoot at them out of sheer fury and spite, and run crouched to the nearest remnant of wall. One shadow in scuffed black, one in well-maintained metal with yellow and black accented stripes, and one in midnight blue.

They orientate themselves and then start systematically scanning the battlefield. Their prize is what is always needed in the Eye of Terror. Harvested compassionlessly but not cruelly. The last mercy given without engaging in the maelstrom of mysticism that has spread tumour-like through the galaxy in the time since their rebellion failed so resoundingly.

None of the three believe in anything that could be called fate or predestination. And yet, after about half an hour, the small canisters full of dripping tissue, they find themselves almost simultaneously at what is, in a strange way, a burial site. The second time.

„Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere.“

"Huh," Skalagrim mouths in astonishment.

"Look at that, a playmate for Diomat! Can I keep him?" laughs Duco, his rasping laugh once again making him so uncomfortably similar to his Sire.

Tzimiskes sighs.

Finally Skalagrim steps right up to the fallen dreadnought. Tilts his head. Looks to Tzimiskes, "Can you do anything with him?"

The Iron Warrior shrugs his shoulders, but nods. All three look at their Narthetica at the same time, check their readings and begin to stabilise the fallen old man. They don't have to coordinate much. Every move is perfect. After a while, Tzimiskes rises and disappears in the direction of the hollow, where Butcher Bird is bored and probably in an even worse mood than usual.

Duco injects several different sedatives and coagulants and says in a paternalistic manner: "Well, my old friend, now tell Uncle Doctor - where are we from and what year are we living in?"

#iron fists #warhammer 40k #the consortium #fabius bile

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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 years ago

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Larkin and Yvette

Summary: Larkin is curious. All Fae are. That curiosity leads her to college. That curiosity leads her to Yvette.(F/F, fantasy, original short story)

-----------------------------.

“What did you do that day?”

There’s a cage around the bare bulb dangling above the table. Larkin looks for shadows from the bars on the walls, but doesn’t find any. The small room is evenly and uncompromisingly lit from that single lightbulb, the only shadows lying directly beneath the metal table bolted to the ground. Larkin wonders if her chair - more of a stool with a low back - is bolted down too, but doesn’t dare check. She feels if she moves, the man braced on the other side of the table will lunge for her.

The man raps his knuckles against the table, the sound like a soda can crumpling, and rocks back and forth on his heels. There’s no stool on his side. “I said, what did you do that day?”

Larkin wipes her lips with the back of her hand. There’s a red ring around her wrist left behind by handcuffs. “What day?”

“October 18th,” the man says. His teeth are probably white but look yellow next to the gunmetal walls. His canines are prominent, pressing against his thin lips. “Thursday. The day you killed her.”

“No,” Larkin says. Her long, brown hair slides over her bare shoulders as she shakes her head. The room is making her head spin. No, not spin. Ring. Like silver bells. “No.”

“Yes,” the man insists, banging his knuckles against the table again. That sets off another round of ringing in her head, a chorus of bells that seeps through the air. “You killed her on October 18th.”

“I met her that day,” Larkin says. The memory swims through the fog, presents itself like the opening credits of a movie. Curtains rising. Bells resolving into a chord so sweet that she can’t help but remember Yvette’s smile. “A year before that day. Exactly a year.”

The man stands upright, folding his arms over his thin chest. Victory flashes through his cold, blue eyes. “Tell me about it,” he commands. “Tell me about the day you met Yvette Troy.”

————— The beginning————-

It’s a stupid idea.

Larkin presses herself against the tree she’s hiding behind. The bark bites into her skin, sharp and real and painful. If she wants she can melt into the tree, slide herself sideways until it accepts the paleness of her flesh like new bark, wraps older, hardier stuff around her. Young voices - young human voices - drift on the wind.

It’s a stupid idea, but it’s one she keeps having over and over again.

Larkin sucks in a breath through her new teeth and steps out onto the manicured lawn. Immediately the sun is too bright, no longer mitigated by the thick, deciduous canopy, and she blinks against its rays. Slowly, her vision adjusts, irises shivering until they settle into a new shape. She blinks, testing the surprising lack of flexibility in her pupils.

Huh. Humans really are blind.

A heavy bell rings from deep within campus. Iron cast by the sound of it. Larkin shivers but forces herself forward. Her boon will save her iron’s sting for a year and only a year. She is not so foolish to waste a second of that time on fear.

The other students are as bright as the sun. The bell signaled a new hour and a majority of them are entering the same path through the heart of campus, splintering off into this building or that. One of them is wearing all red from the soles of her shoes to the ties in her hair. Another is singing as he walks, meaningless little syllables that nobody but Larkin can hear. Metallic nail polish waves to a woman sitting on a bench the color of sea foam.

Larkin slips amongst them as easily as she might slip into a tree. Nobody falters at the sight of her black t-shirt, her jeans, her navy blue backpack clutched against her chest. Of course not. She’s done her research, sought the wisdom of her elders, clawed through the memories of those few humans lucky enough to survive a night dancing for the Court.

A cautious and shuddering joy begins to unfurl in her chest. She can do this. She is doing this.

And she has a whole year to enjoy it.

The classes are fascinating. Larkin never goes into the same one twice. There’s an older woman pointing to diagrams of ancient ruins in Building 6a, telling the class of bored freshmen that the ancient civilizations had urban planning, a sign of advancement ignored by early colonizers. A man in a tweed vest reads aloud in Conferences Room 178, odysseys and sonnets that remind Larkin of her native language. One class is spent entirely in silence, a nude human posed at the front of the room, staring out the sub-level room’s window and into the blackened hall.

“Auditing,” she tells curious TA’s when they can’t find her on the roster. She smiles and readies a glamor in her hand under her desk. Just in case. “For next semester.”

They never ask her to leave. It’s well past the time for audits, well past the time for casual drop-ins to test majors and minors, but nobody cares. Larkin doesn’t need to use a single bit of magic. She no longer slips into classrooms and lecture halls. She strides in, chest high, head up, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

Then on Wednesday, October 18th, she meets Yvette Troy.

Larkin is sitting in the first row of the smallest theater on campus. She came to see a play the night before. A beautiful, grating, horribly written play which none of the actors had memorized and only a smattering of people showed up for. She’s been trying to figure out what it was supposed to be about since then and hasn’t bothered to move even as the lights turned off all around her and the sun came up outside. Why should she move? Nobody will ask her a question.

“Oh,” a woman says. “I didn’t know someone was in here.”

Larkin twists in her seat to find the woman standing at the top of the aisle, bracketed by the theatre’s double doors, and backlit by the sunlight streaming into the lobby.

“I saw Fiddler Diatribes last night,” Larkin says. She turns back to the stage, seeing the actors and stage lights in her mind’s eye. The main character entered from stage left and Larkin is trying to decide if that was supposed to be symbolic or not. “It was about the devil. Or maybe a particularly unlikeable salesman? I can’t figure it out.”

“My roommate wrote that,” the woman says. Her footsteps are soft on the crushed carpet. She walks like a dancer. Toe, heel, toe, heel. Then, at the bottom of the steps, the rhythm changes. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. “You didn’t like it?”

“I loved it,” Larkin declares. She turns to face the woman and is momentarily struck dumb. The lighting had hidden the woman’s features from her before, but now, illuminated by the low lighting of the room, she might be the most stunning creature Larkin has ever seen. High brows and a sweet, round face. Dimples pressed into the swell of her cheeks as if no matter how hard this person tries, there’s no way to hide her smile. Her eyes glitter like the crystals growing in the deepest parts of the woods. Larkin swallows. “Not to say it was good. It was really bad. Really, really bad.”

“I know,” the woman says. The physicality of her feels like a compulsion. Her hands swan through the air as if directing her own words. Like music. Like a symphony. “That’s the whole point though. It’s a commentary on how mandatory art - in this case, a play written for a grade - will never be fully authentic. Natalia cast Economic majors and Computer Science majors only. She bribed them with beer but I think they would have done it for free.”

“It was authentically awful,” Larkin says. Her nails are digging into her thighs. She eases them out of her flesh and stands. “I’m Larkin. Please, tell your roommate I’m a big fan.”

“Yvette,” Yvette says. She doesn’t offer her hand. “Natalia would hate having a fan after last night’s performance.” She cocks her head to one side, eyeing Larkin’s feet. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

Larkin is in love.

Fae desires are minnows. They flash in the shallow edges of the pond, never venturing into deeper waters. If they do, they grow. All things do when given the right amount of space and nutrition.

Larkin sips at Yvette, herding the minnows of her interest into the shallows as best she can.

Yvette is 24 years old. She loves gardening but always forgets when to water or what to plant which plant in. Her counselor wants her to decide on a major sooner rather than later. She was homeschooled and protected from the crush of the masses until she threatened to run away and join a circus. College was a compromise. Her parents call every week with worry-filled words, but Yvette doesn’t believe them.

“They miss what I can do for them,” Yvette tells Larkin. She’s solving a Rubik’s cube on the lawn, propped up on one elbow and lounging across the picnic blanket Larkin insisted on spreading out. She completes the orange side and frowns at the blue. “They’re missing a skill set, not their daughter.”

“And what skill set is that?” Larkin asks. The flower crown in her hands burns with purpose. She eyes the bowed top of Yvette’s head speculatively and dismisses it. Larkin gets the impression that Yvette will fight her to the death if she attempts to place the crown there.

“Magic,” Yvette says. She says it like a joke, that smile flashing in her dimples before she clicks her tongue at the Rubik’s cube. The orange side now has one red cube in it. “Or something like that.”

“Or something like that,” Larkin echoes.

Larkin wonders sometimes what Yvette would look like in the woods. She wants to know how the sunlight through the canopy would lay across Yvette’s brown skin and what the brooks would look like reflected in her amber eyes.

Yvette purses her lips and sets the Rubik’s cube on the blanket, completed blue side up. She turns all of her attention on Larkin. “What about your parents? Do they miss you?”

Once, when Larkin was small, she fell out of her tree. There was a flower just on the river’s edge that was big and red and unusual this deep into the woods. She leaned towards it, imagined what its petals would feel like against her lips, and then pop! The wet, decaying leaves beneath her tree stuck to her skin. The ground was cool and shocking against her warmth.

Larkin remembers reaching out to lay her hand against her tree. She made a conscious effort not to slip into it, intent on studying the bark from this side rather than inside. That’s where I came from, she thought. She stared at her long, spindly fingers spread out against the grooved bark. That’s what I’ll be someday.

She twisted back towards the flower, the idea that, since she was out of her tree, she best make the most of it. The flower was now leaning away from the river. She could see right into the center of it and, where there should have been a stamen, she saw only darkness. A root writhed under the earth towards her, dragging the flower a centimeter away from the water’s edge.

The wind slipping through the forest felt new and invasive. She slipped back into her tree and did not venture out again for a long, long time.

“No,” Larkin says. Then, because sometimes she is not good at keeping her minnows away from deeper waters, “But I miss home sometimes. I would like to show you it someday.”

Yvette stares at her. Her face doesn’t change, but Larkin can feel something softening in her. A barrier lowering. A cautious interest growing. “I suppose,” Yvette says slowly, “I could. One day. For a visit.”

A visit. Larkin doesn’t know if all of her kind think the sort of mean and mischievous thoughts that are in her head. It would never be just a visit.

Larkin imagines inviting Yvette into the woods. She would help the shorter woman over the decaying logs with her hands under Yvette’s elbows, her shoulder there to lean on. She’d chatter meaningless words like birdsong, each sentence tumbling over the next until the air was filled with Larkin’s voice and Yvette had no space to think. No chance to second guess.

A visit.

She’d sweep the twigs and branches out of Yvette’s path so nothing could trip her as she stepped into Larkin’s world. Why, if Larkin did it right, Yvette would never feel the magic close behind her, sealing her away from the human world forevermore.

She could show Yvette the dark part, deep, deep into the woods where the brooks collided into the river and the red flowers had begun to take over the banks. She could press Yvette against the harsh bark of the deciduous trees, cage her in with her long limbs until Yvette slipped into the tree, Larkin’s tree—

“No.” Larkin barks the word. It’s more directed at herself than Yvette. She grabs the hair on either side of her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “No, you can’t. You must never.”

Yvette’s eyes are wide, but not afraid. The sun shines out from her amber irises. There’s a magnetism to them that Larkin can’t look away from. “It was only a thought.”

“Thoughts grow,” Larkin says. She can’t get the image of Yvette against her bark out of her head. Larkin jerks to her feet, uses the motion to break eye contact. “I’m going.”

Larkin feels the light of Yvette’s eyes on her back like solar flares.

Larkin is selfish. It’s a new concept, a new description, a new boundary she must be mindful of. The fae are not selfish. The fae just are. But Larkin is not fae right now. Larkin is human and being a selfish human hurts.

She does not want to hurt Yvette.

She hides from Yvette after that day on the lawn. Not wanting to hurt is also new. There’s a hard, stone-like part of Larkin that doesn’t care if Yvette hurts so long as Yvette is hers. But another, softer part wonders, would Yvette cry?

Larkin growls and follows a cloud of students towards the Drama building. She doesn’t have a ticket to whatever play they’re going to, but it doesn’t matter. For the first time in ten months (and when did ten months pass?) she uses glamour to slip inside, bypassing the ticket seller entirely.

The back row is completely empty. Larkin hunches down in the center of it, arms folded tightly over her chest. She can feel her ribs shifting, thinning and lengthening as her emotions surge.

Her minnows mouth the surface of the water, hungry. Needle-like teeth fill their mouths, too big for their frames.

“Damnit,” Larkin whispers. Her heart is pounding and her palms feel clammy. She feels hunted. Haunted. Cornered. She thought she had everything under control, thought herself above the infatuation the elders had warned her against. But in her certainty, she’s trapped herself and, worse, she’s trapped Yvette. “I have to leave.”

A warm body slides into the seat next to Larkin. The smell of sun and magic wraps around her and a plump, short hand wraps around Larkin’s four-jointed fingers.

“The play has just started,” Yvette whispers into Larkin’s ear, so close that her lips brush the shell of it. She squeezes Larkin’s hand. “Stay.”

Larkin feels herself root to the spot.

“In the end,” Yvette says after the show, “you never had a chance.”

Larkin is walking in the shadows behind her. She can’t quite remember how long human legs are supposed to be so she’s dipping from one pool of shadow to the next, dodging the circles of light left by the campus’ streetlights. Yvette’s shoulders are relaxed, her hands clasped behind her back.

“I didn’t?” Larkin asks. She’s lost control of her voice too. It’s smoother. Lower. It comes from somewhere deep in her belly. “Me?”

“Neither did I,” Yvette admits. She eyes Larkin out of the corner of her eye. “I didn’t know what you were at first. You’re very good at camouflage.”

“I forgot my shoes.”

“It’s college,” Yvette says. “Lots of people forget more important things than their shoes.” She sighs, looking up at the sky. It’s a waning moon nearing its height. “In case you need it spelled out, I love you.”

I love you.

Larkin reaches out from the deepest shadows and drags Yvette out of the pathway. The shorter woman is soft and pliant as Larkin spins them behind the corner of the dining hall.

“Ouch,” Yvette says mildly. She blinks up at Larkin, one hand lightly wrapping around Larkin’s wrist. “I’m going to get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

Larkin doesn’t want Yvette in pain. She breathes in once, twice, three times quickly and then lets the air shudder out of her. She shrinks on the exhale, skin regaining human warmth and hands shortening until her fingers barely curve over the back of Yvette’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean for you to be uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t mean that, it wasn’t bad,” Yvette says. She studies Larkin for a long moment and then sighs. “We are in quite a mess.”

“I love you,” Larkin says. She wants to press her lips to Yvette’s forehead where the skin looks smooth and soft like a flower petal. “You love me. What mess?”

“I was understating my parents’ concern,” Yvette says. “This might be their worst fear. Their precious baby mingling magic with the Unnatural.”

There’s a story there that Larkin isn’t privy to. Humans and their biases. They never let anything be. She tucks a curl behind Yvette’s ear. “We could run away.”

“You say that like you’re joking, but it might be our best bet.” Yvette frowns, eyes going far away as she thinks. After a long moment, she refocuses on Larkin. “I’ve got an idea, but it needs time. I need to think about it.”

“I only have two months,” Larkin says. It seems stupid and short-sighted now to have only asked for the boon of a year. Ten years would have been better. Twenty even. “Before I need to go.”

“If my plan doesn’t come together by then, we’ll do it your way,” Yvette says. She shivers when Larkin’s hands drop to her hips. “We can run away.”

Larkin wonders if Yvette really knows what it means to run away with the fae. But it seems like it’ll hurt her to explain it, so she doesn’t. Instead she noses at the skin behind Yvette’s ear. “Mhm.”

“We have better things to do anyway,” Yvette says breathlessly. Her hands come up to grip Larkin’s biceps. “In fact, planning can wait until tomorrow. Perhaps even the next day.”

“What better things will we be doing until then?” Larkin asks. She’s fascinated by the way Yvette’s breathing is growing more and more ragged. She wants to hear it change even more. She drags her nose along Yvette’s jaw. “What do you mean?”

“You confessed, I confessed,” Yvette says. “What do you think?”

Larkin bends down to press her lips against Yvette’s.

One month and nineteen days later, Yvette drags Larkin into her dorm room, her eyes burning like stars. Larkin’s been here any number of times, but today is different. There is electric energy in the air as Yvette closes and locks the door.

“I have it,” Yvette says, “a plan.”

Larkin’s heart is slowly losing its humanity, but the news is enough to make it beat. One week left. “Oh?”

“You need,” Yvette says, “to do exactly what I say.”

———-The end ———-

The man is an agent for the Witch’s Council. No, that’s not right. Not an agent. An investigator.

“You claim you fell in love,” he says. He raises an eyebrow, blue eyes disbelieving. “You? And a witch of Yvette Troy’s caliber?”

He’s laughing at her. Larkin keeps her face smooth and her hands hidden under the table. She’s lost her boon, but her heart stings at the mockery.

It was real. It was. No matter what this man thinks.

Let him laugh, Yvette whispers in Larkin’s mind. They’ll laugh and you must let them.

Larkin lets her roots ground her in her seat.

“You really didn’t kill her,” the man says when he’s done having his fun. He props his hands on his hips. He watches her as if she’s a bug. “Did you?”

“I did not have the chance,” she says evenly. Her wrists sting. When Yvette’s parents found their daughter missing at the end of the school year, they exploded. Ripped through Yvette’s dorm. Found traces of Larkin, the only fae on campus, and jumped to the conclusion they wanted.

Just as Yvette predicted.

The investigator put Larkin in iron handcuffs to satiate the bloodthirsty demands of Yvette’s parents. As soon as he got her in this room, he took them off of her. No need to pretend to be afraid of a silly little fae.

“Don’t lie,” the man says. Despite his words, he sounds amused. “You didn’t have the chance. Let me guess - you tried to take her, but she was stronger than you. Didn’t expect a human to be so powerful, did you? I bet she beat you and ran.”

Larkin looks down at the table. He sees her as cowed. Ashamed. A foolish fae who tried to make prey out of the most powerful witch in Northern America. She raises her chin to look him in the eye, lets him see what he wants to see. “Humans are more powerful than I imagined.”

It’s the truth. That’s why her words ring with sincerity. She just doesn’t mean it in the way he thinks.

The investigator laughs and his canines wink in the harsh light. “That they are!” When he’s done laughing, he sighs. “Time was I could kill you for even thinking of laying a hand on a witch, never mind a witch as protected as Yvette Troy.”

If he tries, kill him, Yvette whispers. Don’t let him lay a single finger on you.

“I saw no protections on her,” Larkin says.

“No,” the man says. He’s already looking to the door. “That’s part of the problem. Between you and me, I think she was planning to run ever since her parents let her out of the house. Probably spent the past year stripping the magical compulsions and trackers they left on her. They couldn’t see it though. They’d rather think a fae killed her.”

Larkin stares at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want you to get the credit for something you didn’t do,” the man says. He’s got one hand on the door. “Your kind always thinks you’re so clever. I want you to remember that Yvette Troy escaped whatever twisted infatuation you had and she did it without meaning to. You were never an adversary. You were never a player. You were nothing to that witch and it’s a shame that her parents made me waste this time on you.”

Something dark curls in Larkin’s chest, purring. This man thinks he knows. This man wants her to feel small. This man doesn’t know she’s already won.

Keep pretending, Yvette hisses, he could be testing you.

He’s not. Larkin knows he’s not, but she won’t bet Yvette’s plan on it. She bows her head and waits as the man leaves. She watches her fingers lengthen and shorten, her pale skin mottling into bark and then returning.

She feels the man leave the building, drifting back towards the heart of campus where Yvette’s parents wait, two supernovas in her mind’s eye.

A year without Yvette and their stolen power will wane.

Larkin grins, teeth sharp and needle-like, and lets herself slip out of her chair and through the back wall.

The woods on the edge of campus will be watched, sure. That’s why Yvette isn’t there. No, Yvette is safe, deep past the brooks and the circles of oaks that mark this world from Larkin’s.

Come home, Yvette whispers. Come home.

Larkin slips into the trees and runs.

-----

Thanks for reading! I love these sort of Romeo/Juliette stories where I get to keep both of them alive <3

If you’d like to read stories like this a week early, please consider checking me out on Patreon (X)!

I also post Patreon Exclusive stories at least once a month there.

Thanks for reading :)

#My writing #the fae #long post #short story #amwriting

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empress-simps · 4 years ago

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Strangers (one)

▪︎Pairing: Kuroo Tetsuroo x Reader, Bokuto Koutaro x Reader, Bokuto Koutaro x Akaashi Keiji and Hinata Shoyo x Kageyama Tobio

▪︎Pronouns: She/Her [Fem! Reader]

▪︎Alternate Universe: Soulmate Au!

▪︎Warnings: Reader getting hurt

▪︎Genre: Angst

▪︎Synopsis: Finding out your soulmate rejected the bond to be with someone else feels terrible.

note: Not everyone has soulmates in this one! Some people are just born without a soulmate. The name turning gray is also my idea! Also, the more you get older the more it will appear(it will be very faint when you're a baby but as the time goes by it will slowly be more visible), by the time the youngest of the pair turns 15 the mark will be completely visible.

》 next

》 Strangers Masterlist

Not everyone is blessed with a soulmate.

Since having a soulmate bond is rare, it made you feel special. To have a certain someone out there just for you, it made your heart beat a little faster as anticipation crept up to you.

You've spent countless days daydreaming about the one you're destined to be with. You often wondered if you'll get the spark when the two of you meet that your mother gushes about as she reminicised about her first meeting with your father.

You let out a sigh as you traced the faint undistinguishable lines slowly forming as you grow older.

Looking at your parents, they seem to be happy being with one another. You only hoped that you and him will be like that someday.

So when it finally made itself visible on your 15th birthday, you were more than elated.

You stared at your wrist with shock and amazement. Obviously, you expected this ever since you were young but you didn't expect it to be.. him.

Overwhelming emotions took over you. You felt giddy, excited and you were longing to meet him. In your state of happiness, you didn't even notice the curious looks your volleyball crazed friends give to you.

Hinata whined as he tried to grab your arm, only for you to turn away. "LET ME LOOK-" Kageyama, his soulmate, quickly smacked him upside the head. "Oi! Boke! Let Y/n have her moment! What does it say..." His voice died down as he read what was on your wrist. The name slowly turning gray as the two of you stared at it.

You felt your heart drop into your stomach.

"W-what's happening.." You mumbled, still not believing your eyes. It can't be.

Your body went into shock as your eyes went wide and you felt your mouth go dry. Hinata, who already peeked over your wrist could only stare in disbelief at the mark .

"No way..." He breathed out as his gaze locked into Kageyama's mirroring the confusion and shock on heir face.

Kageyama and Hinata looked at you worried expressions, they can feel their heart breaking alongside yours.

When your soulmate's name fades into gray it means he/she decided to be with someone who doesnt have a soulmate. Basically rejecting your bond and making you soulmateless.

All those daydreams of him down the drain.

All those stupid scenarios you created with a fairly domestic life with your destined flew out the window.

You looked at them with a closed and teary eyed smile and laughed "Why are you guys looking so glum? I'll be fine." Hinata pulled you into his arms, letting you let out the unshed tears.

He already broke your heart even if you haven't met yet.

"Akaashi..." Bokuto was oddly quiet, he stared at his wrist with unknown emotion swriling in his eyes.

Akaashi already knew what was going on as dread enters his system. Will Koutaro leave him for his destined soulmate? Or will he stay with him?

Either way, no one is safe from getting hurt.

"I got my mark.. I guess that they're a first year.." Bokuto mumbled, golden eyes still transfixed at the writing on his arm. Akaashi bit his lip and looked. "I guess so too.."

Koutaro looked at him and gently cupped his face and stared at his gunmetal eyes. "Keiji.. You already know I made a promise to you."

Akaashi's eyes welled up with unshed tears as he gingerly placed a shaky hand on rop of Bokuto's "What if you find her better than me?"

"I won't. You're the only one for me." Bokuto tells his lover, sealing their lips with a reassuring kiss.

You felt like throwing up.

The bus barely moved and you were about to throw your guts out. You don't know wether it's from nervousness or you just suddenly got severe carsickness. Probably both.

The bundle of nerves in your stomach gradually grows as the bus you're in gets farther and farther away the school grounds.

Asahi eyed worryingly as he rubbed small circles on your back, "You don't have to attend it Y/n.. You can still get off the bus, we haven't left Miyagi yet." He chuckled, attempting to make you feel better. Afew chorus of agreements filled the bus.

You shook your head and gave him a small smile, "Im a manager, I need to do my duty to take care of you guys. And this-" You pointed at your wrist. "-Won't hinder me from functioning like I normally will." You heard a snort somewhere in the bus which made you growl. That damn dino nerd, you made sure to send him a glare while he just acted like nothing happened.

Asahi ignored the sound as he fought the urge to laugh as he nodded along, scared to upset his kouhai even more. "If you say so.."

"Didn't you say you want to cover the mark?" Sugawara piped up, his head peeking above the seat infront of you. He tilted his head slightly as you nodded and snapped your fingers.

"Oh yeah! Let me go grab my concealer.. Thanks for the reminder Koushi senpai!" As you finished concealing, you showed it to the third years which made them nod in approval.

The squeaking of shoes and volleyball hitting the floor made your nervousness grow as you helped Takeda sensei lug out the things that you'll be using during your stay. Takeda probably noticed your state as he smiled and patted your back. "You'll be fine."

You sighed mentally as you gave your teacher a curt nod. I hope so too.

Once you stepped inside, oh you were absolutely not fine. Why?

Because you saw him looking around and asking for you.

You hid behind a beanpole tall blonde which happens to be your classmate stingyshima. He looked down and gave you an inquisitive stare.

"What are you doing stupid? That's going to make you stand out even more." He rolled his eyes as you sent a glare to him. "Shut it you bastard, this is the only help you can offer me."

"Tsk. Who said I was helping you?" He looked down to meet your annoyed gaze with his mocking ones.

"Well you would've already stepped aside- Hey!" You exclaimed as he did what you told.

Luckily no one heard you, or so you thought.

Konoha hummed to himself, looking at you with amusement.

"Found her."

There's part two! If anyone wants to be notified just send an ask and I'll make a taglist

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internalsealpanic · 4 years ago

Text

Death Cannot Take You

Summary: You died. You should have died, yet here you are having the audacity to still be walking.

A/n: This is semi abandoned old guard au. I made it for 3 reasons. 1) I love Old Guard. 2) I love writing resurrection scenes cus it makes my brain calm. 3) This is a poly that I am desperate for.

Warning: Violence, kidnapping, terrible explanations, and blatant disregard for patient care.

The world shook violently as it staggered into view— blotchy patches of fluorescent lights and rough textures. Drowning the heavy scrape of metal is a chorus of thumping and ringing in your ears. Your hands fly to the seat in front of you, cold metal pressed against hot skin as the train rattles on. It makes your stomach lurch, dredging out its contents.

Crumpled in your seat, you heave a ragged breath. You retch, the contents of your stomach burning in your esophagus. You screw your eyes shut unable to take another long gulp of air; it stung to breathe in the piss heavy air. You need to breathe. You need the oxygen. You need your mind in working order. Sucking in a greedy lungful, you cough it out, body rejecting it.

There was a heat.

A pulse.

A pistol.

A laugh.

You can remember the wetness of saliva and blood and tears on your face as the warmth bled out of your fingertips.

It was cold.

It was so cold.

Your heartbeat picks up. It’s getting harder to breathe. Your windpipe is closing. The world is getting smaller. The bones in your hands are rattling.

A cry pries itself out of your chest, tearing its way out of your mouth. They’re not stopping. They’re still laughing.

No.

Please god, no.

With another violent rattle, your consciousness slips.

You’re cold again. Shadows grasp at the corners of your vision. The world is blotchy— a patch of tangling threads.

The alley smells of piss and garbage. The smell is thick enough to make you choke. Your heart had stopped a while ago. No, your mind did. No, it was your heart you’re sure. No, no. It was his heart that stopped.

It’s cold. Someone is crying out for you. It’s your father. You’re scared. Your blue eyes are fading in color. You’ve faced death before— No, not you. He has. He’s faced death always with a smile but now with his heart at a complete stand still he’s sure this is it. He’s sure this is how he dies. It isn’t on the trapeze or because of some cookie plan made by a costumed nut case. Your— his heart stops.

He died.

So did he. There’s another man. He’s lying on the battlefield. The sky is so pretty. You can hear canonfire. There’s another man beside him. He’s dying too. Your fair hair is matted red. Your— his flesh is reknitting itself. It’s— The whole in his— your stomach is closing the whole in it. You’re gasping for breath. The alley doesn’t stink of piss and garbage; it smells like cotton fields and summer heat.

He died.

You died.

There’s a buzzing in the air— the thrum of electricity as it writhes in the wires. Bouncing your leg, you wait for the receptionist to call your name. Anxiety sings in your veins like a chorus of scraping metal.

You don’t remember what happened last night— not clearly.

It’s all a melting pot of images and voices and touches.

You cup your hand over your mouth, the stomach acid burning its way up your esophagus. Your tongue is tacky with dried saliva and the lingering taste of copper. They’re laughing. They’re all still laughing. The ringing in your ears won’t stop.

You fold. Legs curl up into your chest as you dip your head under. Eyes sliding shut, you let the darkness pool in your mind. The vague sounds in the emergency room coalescing into a discordant symphony. You let yourself dream again.

You lift your head up slowly, colors bleeding into view. The words don’t make sense.

“Kid, are you ok?”

You regard the large man with the open—mouthed confusion of a fish. He’s handsome in a rough sort of way— grisled with a full beard, cropped hair, and gunmetal blue eyes— eye. He’s got an eye patch. You swallow. Your lungs inflate as they inhale the sterile scent of the room. The smell of hand sanitizer is too thick. He’s tall. You crane your neck to look up at him. It hurts. He must easily be 6’3”, maybe even taller. His chest is broad and through the shirt, he’s wearing you can see the expanse of taut well—defined muscles. His lips are curved up at one side in a lopsided smirk. Your head is pounding. You shut your eyes, vigorously nodding your head. You know what he’s staring at. You know what his eyes— eye— are trained on.

You… You haven't changed. The crisp white shirt you’d worn to your job is dark and wrinkly with dried blood. You hate it. You hate how uncharacteristically messy you look; it makes you feel off—model, like something that is a cluttered version of you.

You curl up again. This time the ringing in your ears blocks out everything else. Your head dips back into the dark. It’s cold and stuffy and your ears were ringing when they—

Your eyes fly open and there’s a figure in front of you. You squint. The figure is smaller, less broad; a nursing assistant with kind eyes stands over you with a clipboard. You breathe. You turn your head to the man from before. He’s standing next to a man— younger, shorter. He looks dwarfed next to the other man but he’s average height and it would be funny if you had the energy. You’re far enough away that you can’t be sure of his features but it’s not hard to tell that he’s pretty. He’s got rich brown skin, black hair, and a gymnast’s poise. He’s familiar. Both of them are. They’re talking to the police. You freeze.

Are they here for you? Who are they?

“I need you to follow me back into the ER,” she says gently, grip firmly grasping your shoulder. You run your hand through your matted hair. Your hand comes back slick and sticky with sweat and dried blood. The oxygen in your lungs stutters. You feel another squeeze on your shoulder. You’re back. You’re not whole but you’re back.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, legs wobbling beneath you as you stand.

You follow her. It’s faint but you can feel someone follow you as you disappear into the hall with her.

The walk to the hall was peaceful. It was steadying. It’s the talk with the doctor that’s putting you on edge. He’s tapping his pen on the clipboard. Your mind writhes with every tap. Sighing, you rub your eyes and try to push the sensations away. “I— I’m so sorry. I’m just. It’s my mind. I just can’t—” you breathe “—I can talk. I’m sorry.” You wave vaguely.

“Alright tell me what happened.”

You swallow. Your trachea still feels splintered. “I—” breathe “—I was cornered. In an alley. Behind a butcher shop. I was trying to take a short cut—” he taps a pen against the board "— I was attacked." You finish, fingers tracing up the length of your throat. Attacked was too quick a word. Attacked was the kind of word you used for the quick in and out of a knife— the split second bite of a bullet. You weren’t attacked. You were— what happened to you felt like an eternity.

Shuffling, he looks you over. There's a prickle in the back of your neck. There's someone watching you. Your eyes flick. There's the young man. His eyes are a warm tropical blue. He waves at you. He looks uneasy. The man from before is trying not to pay attention. Your legs swing, almost clipping the doctor's clipboard. The doctor frowns at you but you shrug.

"You don't seem to have been injured."

You blink. "That's not possible," you say, hands shaking,"they had me for hours." No that wasn't true. At most they had you for an hour or maybe two but that didn’t matter not at the bite of the bullet, not at the slice of flesh, not at the impact of the bat.

"I need you to breathe," the doctor instructs, placing a hand on your back; it tenses. You go rigid. He pulls back muttering about x—rays and brain scans.

Catching his lab coat in a death grip, you beg: "Please don't leave me."

"Ma'am, you're perfectly safe here."

They will find you.

He thinks you're hysterical. You know that from the way he looks at you, like a caged animal. "We have security personnel if need be," he assures, none—too—gently prying his coat from your grip. "We'll close the curtain if that makes you feel safe and there are hospital gowns in the closet if you'd like to change."

You nod quietly.

You slowly peel off your shirt. The cool air stings. You suck in a breath. You think of the dream you had. That man's heart stopping. The press of lips. The bite of metal against skin. You look down at your skin— no bruises, no cuts, nothing.

You're scared.

You know these memories aren't fully yours.

You hear the door slide open. Your knee jerk reaction is to be embarrassed. You're in your underwear. Pulling on a gown, you're ready to snarl at the intruder. Your heart stops. It's the man from before.

"Did they take a blood sample from you yet?" He asks, closing the curtain behind him.

His gaze is unyielding as he makes slow predatory strides towards you. You flatten yourself against the wall. "No— I— what?"

"Good."

"What—" There's a sharp pain in the side of your head. There's blood trickling down the side of your head. Your vision is fading.

Falling forward, you grasp your blood tacky hands at his shirt. You feel weightless. You're on his shoulder.

"Who are you?"

"You'll find out."

The desert sand billows as a gust of wind blows through the dunes. You’re searching for someone. Your friend. His friend not yours. He’s somewhere. He’s being held prisoner. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.

You turn your head and the scene shifts.

There’s a sky full of lights above you, glittering. You can’t tell if they’re man made or not. You reach out to them. Your hands aren’t yours. You squint. Your hands are dark and calloused— covered in sawdust. There’s a terrible shape in your stomach. You’re scared but that’s not new. There’s always a little fear when you go on the trapeze.

You shift under the cover, limbs wrapped around a pillow. The smell of freshly roasted coffee is heavy in the air. You burrow your face more into the pillow. Mark can wake you up—

"And you thought kidnapping her was the solution?!"

You wince at the tone. Shuffling your limbs quitely out of the covers, you press yourself to the wall, peaking over the corner just a fraction— just enough to see two men arguing. The taller man with white hair facing the hall opening into the sleeping area.

“It was.”

“Slade, you can’t just go kidnapping people!” the younger man shouts, his face red while his arms waved all over the place. Slade, you assumed, stood impassively, but his arms were now crossed over his chest in a defensive manner.

“I just did.”

The younger man runs his hand over his face and through his hair, ruffling it in frustration. “She’s going to be terrified when she wakes up.”

You are. Your eyes flick to the window. You could escape. You're in a motel room you realize. If they’re distracted enough, you could make it out.

“Well, Kid, it looks like you’re right.”

“Of course, I am—”

You look up. The two men are looking in your direction. Should you go back to the bed and pretend to be asleep? Is there any point? Just make a run for it.

You sprint only to hit what feels like a brick wall. You stagger back but what feels like a metal band wraps around your waist. The next thing you know is that you feel weightless.

“Slade, put her down! You’re going to give her a heart attack.”

“Relax, kid, it’s not like it’s gonna kill her.” Your body is dropped unceremoniously on the bed. You bounce a couple of times before your body settles against the soft sheets. Scrambling back against the headboard, you look between the two men trying to decide what to do. You place a pillow in front of you as a shield. The pounding of your heart is loud in your ears that you don’t think you’ll be able to hear anything that comes out of your mouth.

“I’m broke,” you finally manage. You turn to the younger man. “My roommate is broke too.” He gives you a confused furrow in his brow. “We can’t afford ransom. You won’t get anything, so please just… just let me go. I won’t tell the police. I promise.” Folding your legs behind the pillow, you press yourself into the headboard further. The young man sighs and slumps. “We don’t want money.” You stiffen, keenly aware that save for the flimsy protection of the hospital gown, you’re only in your underwear. He seems to realize what you’d concluded.

Slade snorts. “Way to go, kid.”

“Yeah, thanks for the help, asshole.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Ah, yes. Aside from kidnaping her you mean,” he snarls. You swallow loudly, trying to keep the bile down. The younger man turns to you, the impressive glare he was sporting slides way too easily into concern. His body rolls into a different shape; it’s the kind of posture you’ve used when comforting your younger sibling. He lowers himself on the bed slowly. He reaches out a hand. Carefully, he says “We won’t hurt you.”

And you want to believe him. You desperately want to believe him.

“Real convincing, Grayson.” Slade sneers as he watches your recoil from Grayson’s outstretched hand. Grayson levels another glare at Slade who simply huffs and shrugs.

“I haven’t done anything to you. Please let me go.” You croak.

Grayson looks at you helplessly. “(Y/n)... We can’t...”

“You died last night.” Slade says. Nothing in his tone suggests a question. It’s just a statement. No room for doubt.

You blink, nose scrunching. “I— I was mugged.” You cover your face with your hands. You’re pretty positive that you’d remember being murdered and you say as much. You got cornered by three to four gang members and they mugged you. That was it.

Your stomach rebels at the thought.

Grayson gives you that pitying look again. He pries your hands from your face, blue eyes bearing down at you with so much concern. His touch is so gentle that you almost cry. “Sweetheart, think about it.”

You shake your head trying to pull your hand away from him. He doesn’t let you. Your head is throbbing. You’re scared and confused and you’re starting to feel anger prickle under your skin. “I think I would know if I died, asshole,” you snarl and the shift in tone catches them both off guard.

Slade sighs. There’s a flash of metal and a gunshot. The pain radiates from the middle of your stomach; it’s sharp. Some small, shrill sound escapes you. You’re gasping as you look at him again. He’s looking at a watch. It looks expensive. It’s funny how even during death your mind finds a way to procrastinate.

“It’s taking a little while. Of all the inconveniences, why is it so slow the first few times?”Slade mutters in a voice that would sound right at home in a self checkout line. His shoe is tapping against the rug. You wonder if that’s expensive too.

“Why would you shoot her?” Grayson demands, shooting up from his spot on the bed. The loss of weight jostles the bed. You wince.

You look down. Something strange is happening. Your flesh like cloth is reknitting, leaving the seamless expanse of your stomach.

You look back up, eyes blown wide and frantic. You pat your stomach, hand coming away with a thin film of blood but the strange tingling you get when you’re expecting to feel something but you don’t. The bullet hole wasn’t there. It just wasn’t.

A sprawl of frantic horror lives down the line of your sternum. It was the kind of amorphous energy you get when something doesn’t make sense, when something just shouldn’t have happened— a sort of odd dislocation in the universe.

Grayson holds his hands up in a placating manner as he sits back down on the bed. He’s careful not to jostle you but you barely notice. You think his hands look familiar. Your— his calloused hands reach out to you. “You need to trust us.”

“You. Just. Shot. Me.”

“Correction, he shot you.”

Slade rolls his eye. “Ah yes, kid, very helpful.”

“It’s an important distinction.”

“Fine!” You point to Slade. “You shot me.” You point to Grayson. “You. Let. Him.”

“Sweetheart, I appreciate that you think I have any control over that brute,” Grayson says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “but I have about as much control over that brute as I do over a storm. ”

Unamused, you throw a pillow at Grayson hard enough that he almost topples over the edge. You grab another pillow and Grayson raises the pillow you threw at him in defense. You can see the smile in his eyes; it makes the acid behind your teeth boil. All embarrassment and horror bleed out to give way to anger as you throw the pillow at him with the same ferocity as before. Slade snatches the pillow midair saving Grayson from having to deflect it. Grayson gives him a smile that looks like an insincere apology. Slade, like you, seems unconvinced and pushes your discarded pillow into Grayson’s fine—boned face. It does nothing to wipe the grin off his face but you feel a little better knowing you’re not the only one who has to endure him.

You fight the urge to laugh but not too hard. The chords of your muscles come loose and for the first time in what feels like an age, you feel tired. “I’m dead. I died. Then you shot me… And then you shot me. WHAT THE HELL?” You say, the accusation directionless. You were supposed to die on a smoking heap of trash, gutted and pathetic. Hands falling limply to your sides, you let your mind go through that a dozen times because, well, how does one process their own death and undeath? You shouldn't still be here.

"What’s happening to me?"

"She's acting far more reasonable than you did." Slade teases.

Grayson scowls at him, slapping him with the pillow. Slade just kind of grunts clearly less hurt than annoyed. Considering the solid wall of muscle the man is sporting, you wouldn’t be surprised if it would take nothing short of a brick to hurt him. "YOU SHOT ME IN THE HEAD THEN SHOT ME THROUGH THE STOMACH."

“I only shot you in the stomach because the bullet through your head didn’t get through your thick skull.”

You’re one missed heartbeat away from laughing. Your brows shoot up, limp limbs coming back to life as you curl in on yourself again. What have you gotten yourself into?

"Oh my god, I mean— Shit!" Slade snorts as Grayson flails. Grayson puts his hand in his face, groaning. “Sorry about that… Slade is terrible at explanations.”

Slade makes a noise in the back of his throat. It sounds like a laugh and twitch of his lip would suggest so but you're still second guessing yourself. "You're one to talk Mr. We Won't Hurt You." The air fills with Slade's amusement as Grayson’s cheeks flush. It's funny how easily pretty shifts to adorable.

You sigh raking your hand through your hair. It's been an exceptionally long day. "What’s happening to me?" You whine mostly to yourself. "I'm not a meta. I think I would know if I was something like that… Right?" You look up at Grayson who just gives you a complicated expression. "You know what's going on don't you?" You say, crawling closer to Grayson. He shifts a bit, keeping his eyes straight. Grayson blinks and runs his hand through his hair, collecting his scattered thoughts. He leans back, putting a bit of space between you as he speaks. "We got off on the wrong foot," he says extending a hand to you, "the name's Dick—”

“Are you sure?” and Slade laughs at your question. Grayson— Dick (is that really his name?) looks tired like he’s heard this question a million times. “Yes, I’m sure about my name.” You feel a little bad but not enough to actually say anything that even comes close to an apology. “Anyway,” Dick (?) continues,”the grumpy old man over there is Slade. We’re sort of in the same boat as you.”

The last line makes you pause. You think back to your dreams, the quick flashes of sensations. Oh. That was— Oh. Your stomach feels like lead. You watched them— Oh.

“I’m sorry.” you say, at a loss of what else to say. Death was an intimate thing. You guessed that only the dead or the previously dead would know that. You fold your hands on your lap as you sit back on your legs, a primm gesture that made you feel solid and a bit more like yourself than you had in hours.

Dick’s warm blue eyes are wide. He goes still for a moment taking in what you’d just said. His head shakes and he smiles at you, an expression that is weightless. It made you think of the trapeze. “It’s ok,” he assures you, warm hand on yours, “it’s not your fault… Anyway!” You use the very sarcastic brows you’ve been given to convey your concern about the neck snapping shift in tone. Dick looks at you sheepish, hand rubbing the back of his neck before deciding to soldier on. “We don’t know why but some individuals are brought back to life and are made immortal. We’ve— I’ve got a few working theories but—”

“Immortal.” You repeat, trying to make the concept make sense.

“We, now including you, don’t die, kid.” Slade deadpans.

“Thanks. I’ve read a dictionary.” You say, eyes flicking to your very much intact stomach. Dick laughs, the sound high and breezy. He tries to stifle it but even the hand cupped over his mouth couldn’t contain the sound. Slade’s long leg stretches to give Dick a not so light kick. This does nothing but increase the volume of his laughter. You look back up at them. “So, what does my latest existential crisis have to do with either of you?”

“Well for one,” Slade says, standing up, “we can’t have you running around with a millenia old secret without even attempting to teach you how to disappear first.” This is what gets your stomach to rebel. Bile is climbing up your throat. Dick, quick as a whip, holds a trash can out for you. You put your hand in front of you. You hold out your hand to stop him, not even sure if you had anything in your stomach aside from acid.

You had just started getting your life back together and then this. Shaking your head, you try to break the thought down into more manageable pieces before swallowing it. “Ok. ok. That makes sense. I guess.”

Dick pulls back still looking concerned. “You are taking this alarmingly well.”

You stare at him. Your stomach rolls again. "Do I have a choice?" You ask from behind your hand.

Slade huffs, "she's right, kid."

"Is he just gonna keep calling us kid or..."

"Considering he's got 700 years on the both of us?" Dick laughs like he didn't just hit you with a ton of bricks.

"Ah, so he's a museum piece. Got it." You deadpan and you're rewarded with another roll of laughter from Dick. Slade grunts but doesn't protest much more than that. You turn your focus to Dick. "So how old are you?"

"A lady never tells," Dick says, crows feet wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. You blow air between your lips. "Lemme guess, you're like 2000 years old."

Dick makes a noise; it sounds offended. You don't much care, finally feeling a smile creeping on to your face. It doesn't hurt when you do not like everything else right now. That fact would be almost uncomfortable if you weren't so weary.

Folding your knees against your chest, you squish your face against your arms. "No seriously, old man. How old are you?"

"You're persistent." Dick hums.

"I want to know if I can cite you for my thesis on ancient greek culture."

Dick shakes his head. "You're better off citing him."

"Sadly, he's right Grayson is just a mere 27 years old."

You blink. He's— He's around your age. You breathe. "Ok so I'm not alone. Great."

"You're not," Slade says, "he was much harder to deal with."

"Do I have to keep mentioning that you shot me twice?" Dick asks crossing his arm sover his chest.

"Are you ever going to stop bringing it up?"

"When it stops working."

"It ever started."

From their banter, they're familiar with each other. The tiredness from before ebbs back in. You feel alone. Out of habit, you bury your head against your knees. There is something comforting about the stillness.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder. You jolt up, knocking the back of your skull against the headboard. It makes a loud thunk against the wall. Dick winces, pulling his hand away from you. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine." You lied still seeing stars.

They look unconvinced. You don't quite care. "You look like you need a good meal."

"Or a hot shower," Slade suggests.

You think it over, hand on your stomach brain still looking for the bullet wound. Eyes flicking between both, you lick your lips before saying: "I'll take you up on that shower." Your eyes drift back down to your arms, concentrating on the small details, the imperfections you've gathered through the years. The thought that you won't be able to add more doesn't really register like it should.

Dick nods getting up to grab something. "I might need a couple of minutes in there," you say absently.

"Take all the time you need." Dick says handing you a towel and a fresh shirt. You accept them with a small nod, carefully peeling yourself away from the bed. Your eyes go into a tunnel vision, only focused on the door to the shower.

You stop, a hand gripping your wrist. The pressure is solid and reassuring. You turn back to see Dick, biting his cheek."It'll get better I promise."

You give Dick a crooked smile. "I'll probably feel a lot better when I'm not covered in blood."

"That always helps," Slade says flatly.

"You'd know."

"You really wanna scare her more right now?"

"It's just way too easy with you around."

"Please save the other world shattering revelations after my shower," You whine pulling the towel to your chest.

"Can't promise that." Slade says with a rumble that just radiates bastard.

You blow out a breath, raising a middle finger over your shoulder. It was a rude gesture you'd never normally even consider but it felt appropriate at this moment.

"Hope you don't mind pizza." Dick says already dialing the number.

You stop leaning against the door, face squished against the frame. "What kind?"

"Hnnnnn... I figure you would like ham and mushrooms."

With amusement, you note how Slade blanches quietly behind Dick. You quietly question both of their maturities. "how'd you figure oh wise ancient one?"

"Please don't ask him that."

"Why not? I'm curious to see how his mind works."

"You're going to regret that."

You cock your brow as Dick draws himself up. He reminds you of a pitcher winding up. "Because I'm a fun—guy, get it?"

Slade groans, hand on his face and for once he looks like an old man not like a terrifying wall of intimidation.

"You're right. I do regret it," you say, stifling a laugh,"anyway, if you'll excuse me, the shower is calling my name. You two love birds have fun."

Slade sits beside Dick, an arm wrapping around his waist. "You heard the lady. She told us to have fun," Slade rumbles into Dick's ear only loud enough for you to hear. You flush. Realization hitting you like a truck. The color of Dick's face mimicking yours as he shoves Slade's face away. That warm shower will now be a cold one, you think as you awkwardly shuffle into the bathroom.

Instead of a shower, you elected for a nice soak. You're too weary and rung out and you hadn't seen a decent bath tub in a few years so you took the chance. It's not like an infection from the tub could kill you, right?

You step out of the bathroom feeling refreshed if not a bit cold from your shirt. Dick's shirt was big but it stopped shy of your thighs. You couldn't really complain. You were just happy to get out of the blood soaked clothes.

You pad your way into the room and eyes are instantly on you. Slade quite blatantly stares at the curve of your ass as it peaks out from under your shirt. You think of scolding him but decide to leave that up to Dick who… is also staring at you… in the same area. He has the decency to look embarrassed when you catch him. Clearing his throat, Dick answers the knock on the door which just adds another set of eyes on you.

A poor pimple faced kid stands frozen at the door, slack jawed. His eyes dart around the room, frantically looking for a camera or something. You sigh. You too could see how this could be a lazy set up to a porn. You’re slightly flattered at the idea that you could be astronomically hot enough to be in a porn with either of these two but you’re more worried about the kid having to deal with a boner while he delivers pizzas. Dick, incredibly oblivious to the problem, seems to take his time looking for his wallet.

Slade, not oblivious to the problem, makes his way to the poor kid, looking as imposing as possible as he hands the kid a fifty. Whatever arousal the kid felt at the moment floods out of him along with any color in his face.

You snort plopping on to the bed and crossing your leg over the other and you watch as the men’s eyes widen as they trace the expanse of skin. This is the closest you will ever be to a bond girl.

Slade slams the door in the kids face, not even bothering with the change. Dick rolls his eyes with a crooked smile playing on his lips. “She hasn’t been with us for a day and you’re already acting possessive,” Dick laughs, patting Slade’s chest as he walks past.

Dick plops on the bed next to you. You press your cheek into his shoulder as he opens the box. The smell of greasy cheese and canned vegetables floods your nostrils in a concert of sweet, unhealthy goodness. Your stomach rumbles and your hand darts down to get a piece. Your hand jerks back as your skin tingles from the heat.

“Sorry, love, you can still feel pain.” Dick says, puckering his face as he blows the rising steam away. As if to be contrary, Slade grabs the largest slice and immediately takes a bite. You turn to Dick, raising a brow to ask. “Him? He’s just a weirdo.” Dick answers, grabbing his own slice. You roll your eyes grabbing your own slice.

Dick’s trying hard not to stare at your legs but ends up staring at your lips instead. “Do you have any spare pants?” You ask around a mouthful of pizza.

“I’ll get it,” Slade says before Dick can even stumble out a response, “clearly wonder boy hadn’t thought this through.”

You hum around another mouthful in agreement and Dick just looks at you betrayed. You uncross and recross your legs to prove your point.

Shifting away from Dick and swallowing the last bit of your pizza, you take the pants Slade offers you and you’re not at all surprised that it doesn’t fit right. “Any chance I can go back to my apartment? Even just for clothes?”

“Sadly no.”

“Should I ask?”

“Do you really feel like talking to cops right now, kid?”

“Yanno, you’re gonna have to distinguish between us at some point,” Dick huffs, opening a can of soda,”and she’s right we do need to get her new clothes.” He hands you a can. Not feeling parched, you just roll it in your palm feeling the need to indulge in the feeling on cool metal. You catch yourself before you tuck your legs against your chest again.

“I don’t see why you’re so hell bent on this, kid 1. You clearly like seeing her in your clothes.” Slade says, flatly the way you’d read out the summary of a particularly boring movie summary, probably based on a Nicholas Sparks novel.

“You think adding a number is enough effort to distinguish us?” Dick sneers, trying to distract from the flush of his cheeks.

“Would you prefer I call you ‘Sport’?”

“Dick, for both of our sake’s please accept being called Sport.”

“No!”

“How about ‘Chum’?”

Dick’s nose wrinkles at the name. You’re not sure if it’s the name itself, the way it rolls off of Slade’s tongue, or something to do with your dream. You don’t know Dick well enough to discern.

“Please don’t.” Dick tries politely and there’s a tinge of sadness in his tone. Slade seems to back off, easing into his chair.

You open your mouth wanting to pry but instead of asking the question on the tip of your tongue, you settle for asking for another slice. The air is full of questions but you’re not really sure which one to pluck out. Then again, you’ve got time. And really? Right now, that’s all you have.

Before you can dwell too much on that thought, Slade turns the TV on to drown out whatever Dick was saying. You’d tuned him out a little bit ago. It wasn’t really a matter of choice; it was more a matter of your brain going on power saving mode.

You blink sleepily, the voice of the anchor falling into a low hum in your mind. You’re pretty sure your name blips in between the static of words. There’s a dull recognition in the words ‘kidnapping’ and ‘suspects’ but it all seems so distant at the moment. No reaction registers upon realizing that they were probably talking about your kidnapping and really could anyone blame you when some cosmic fuckery just occurred and now your life has been turned on its head? ____________________________________________________________ Thanks for reading!

#dick grayson x reader #slade wilson x reader #Slade Wilson #dick grayson #slade wilson imagine #dick grayson imagine #crack au #poly

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ayzrules · 3 years ago

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Find the word tag

Thank you to @druidx for the tag 💝💝💝

Walk

They don’t bring Dover through the front entrance; instead, they skirt around the sides, weaving between austere arches carved out stone, orderly walkways fretted into something rigid and unyielding despite the passing of rain and time and footsteps.

Run

The air runs clear with trickles of snowmelt, the sun tumbles merrily over breaths of dew-mist, the earth is cupped dark with rain and loam, and their suicidal knucklehead of a patient has decided to accelerate his already looming-near death by jumping through a portal straight into the middle of a Kyllvuen military camp.

Meander

A meandering sort of melancholy—half-remembered dreams and unremembered sorrows drifting mist-like about a lake—and dawn is now upon them, its gleaming tears of dew like the most precious of pearls.

Skip

The wind is picking up again, skipping long-grassed murmurs overhead and underfoot, rustling whispering fingers through the ends of coats and sleeves and skirts: a susurrating chorus fretted beneath the snarl of metal and ash and flaring wisps of gunsmoke.

Trot

It’s impossible not to tense up with Tselvya pressed to her left and Vallis sitting just across from her, their armed escort trotting into position in front and behind—a looming, orderly herd of polished hooves and rigid-starched uniforms and gunmetal burnished in char.

Move

Demetrius moves to introduce them—and Alejandro already has a beaming smile locked behind his teeth, ready to string up his lips and canines at a moment’s notice—but Tselvya turns to Dover instead, her dagger-eyed gaze slashing bronze-dark lacerations through the tumbling shine of daylight.

Tagging: @odysseywritings @blind-the-winds + anyone else who sees & wants to do! Your words are water, day, table, rainbow 💕

#my stuff #my writing

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upcloseandchaotic · 4 years ago

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Girls’ Night

This idea has been bouncing in my head for a while mostly as a distraction from doing my other WIPs. It was also originally supposed to be short.... I don’t know what happened 🤷🏼‍♀️

Summary: After helping Bucky with a rough round of nightmares, you decide that you need to have a Girls’ Night with your friends.

One Shot; 2,478 words

Disclaimer: Bucky, Natasha, and Wanda are not my characters.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanova, Wanda Maximoff, Female!Reader

Relationships: Bucky x Female!Reader

In the sunlight his hair was a soft chestnut color, but now as you ran your hand through it and wrapped the silky locks between your fingers, the night seemed to darkened it to where someone could mistake it for black, almost as dark as the night sky. You hummed to yourself, imagining what his hair would look like filled with falling stars and circling planets, but then quietened down as you heard his voice start rumbling in his chest, a pained groan building in his throat.

Soon Russian words started falling sharply from his lips. His arms and legs started twitching, his brow furrowing. You quickly grabbed your phone from the side table, pressing the button to open your notes app and started writing down everything that seemed important, like names or locations. It looked as if his nightmare from a couple of hours before was coming back, but this time his dream went more in depth. You were able to pull some ideas of where this “vault” was located, names of people, random words that you think were once used to help program him. It hurt for you to watch him twisting and turning, crying out in pain, it left you feeling helpless even though you knew from experience that waking him up would just make it worse.

The longer it continued you felt a rage start simmering down in the pit of your stomach. It burned as if a coal had finally caught a flicker of a flame and grew until your hands were shaking and you were silently fighting with yourself to stay there with him and not go find the people responsible for his pain.

Once his murmurs turned into more like whimpers and his twitching started to slow, you started whispering sweet nothings into his ear and gently combing his hair back from his sweating face. Slowly, without waking up from his dream, he started to relax back into the bed and eventually you can hear light snores signalling that he has fallen back into a dreamless sleep. Before you slide back into your spot beside him you grab your phone and send a message to Wanda and Natasha. Girls’ Night soon?

Wanda was probably still asleep, seeing as it was around five in the morning, but you weren’t surprised to see three dots flashing. Natasha seemed to have an uncanny sense of when Bucky was having nightmares and always seemed to be awake.

Yes! I’ll bring the nail polish! 💅

You smiled and sent back a gif before turning your phone off and threw it back onto the nightstand. Reaching out to Bucky, you smiled as he unconsciously moved to accommodate you; his arm wrapped around your shoulders and when you tucked yourself into his right shoulder he turned, curling up around you and throwing his metal arm around your waist. You could feel the warm huffs against the top of your head and his usual scent of spice, leather and gunmetal surrounded you. With the sound of his heartbeat in your ear and the warmth of his body seeping into you you close your eyes and drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

You were standing in the kitchen putting together a cheese and cracker plate when you felt two hands circling around from behind you, one warm and soft and the other cool and hard. They wandered under his shirt you were wearing and started creeping upwards slowly with gentle caresses.

Smiling softly, you put the crackers and cheese down to place your hands over his, halting his movement and . “What are you doing, Buck?”

Bucky’s chin dropped onto your shoulder and he whispered into your ear. “Do I really have to go, doll? You know I don’t care about what you all talk about. I’ll even let you and the girls paint my nails.”

You sighed and twisted around so you could stare into his aquamarine-colored eyes, which were trying to pretend to be charming but actually belied his nerves. He always required some more physical reassurance after having a bad bout of nightmares, and as much as you wanted to allow him to stay so you could comfort him you knew that this Girls’ Night was necessary and that he couldn’t be here. To ease some of his discomfort, though, you pulled him towards you and reached up to cup one cheek. He sighed and leaned into it and you watched as some of the tension in his jaw relaxed.

“Baby, I wish you could. If it was any other night it would be fine, but tonight it really has to be just us girls.” Bucky gave a dejected huff and closed his eyes, leaning a little bit more into your hand, “But I will take up your offer to paint your nails. I have a really pretty blue color that would match your eyes.”

When he opened his eyes again you could see a glint of mischievousness flash briefly and before you could blink he had a grip on your thighs and had you up in the air. You squeaked and quickly wrapped your legs around his waist. He laughed and sat you on the counter next to your half-done cheese and cracker plate. You gave him a mock glare and lightly smacked his chest.

“Don’t be like that, Doll,” Bucky crooned. He stepped forwards so that he was standing between your legs, pressed up against you. Leaning forwards, he hovered his lips so that they were a hairsbreadth apart from yours. You got a clear whiff of his favorite cologne and the mint toothpaste he used. “I was just havin’ a bit of fun. We both know how much you like it when I pick you up like the babydoll you are.”

“That’s true, but the girls are going to be here any moment and I still have a lot of stuff to finish getting ready. Also don’t you have to meet Steve and Sam in about 20 minutes anyways? You still have a 15 minute drive, Buck.”

He hummed, pulling your wrist off of his face to read the time on your watch. When he saw that he was going to run late he grumbled but backed off, allowing you to hop down from the counter but close enough that he could keep his hands on your arms in case you lost your balance.

You hurriedly finished up making the plate of appetizers while Bucky begrudgingly went and collected his wallet and keys and then you both met up at the doorway.

“Have fun with Steve and Sam, baby. Call me if you need me,” You say, leaning up to give him a chaste kiss. Before you could step back, though, he snuck a hand into your hair, keeping you close as he proceeded to deepen the kiss. After a few minutes though someone knocked loudly on the door, startling both of you into separating. When you and Bucky gathered enough braincells to answer the door, Natasha and Wanda were standing there, smirking and giggling at the dazed look on both of your faces.

“Come on, Barnes, it’s our turn with Y/N. You can have her later tonight,” Natasha joked, pushing past you and Bucky to place the wine bottles she brought with her on the living room table. Wanda snuck past too, dropping her bag onto the couch before starting to search for wine glasses in the kitchen.

Bucky chuckled, ignoring the two girls as he dropped another kiss onto your lips. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Bye, babydoll, I’m countin’ down the seconds until I come back to you.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you heard a mixed chorus of fake gagging and awe-ing behind you. “Go on, Buck, I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t use all of the nail polish, ladies! I look forward to my manicure when I get home!” he shouted as he walked away, smiling brightly as you laughed. You stayed there, leaning against the doorway to watch him until he disappeared on the stairs.

“Hate to see him leave?” Wanda asked as you closed the door and stepped back into the apartment.

“But love to watch him go,” You sighed dreamily. Natasha groaned and threw a pillow at you, causing you and Wanda to break out into laughter.

“Okay, okay! Truce!” You cried, throwing your hands up.

“Fine,” Natasha conceded, “You live to see another day, Y/N… Now, what information did you find the other night?”

As Wanda opened the bottle of wine and set it to the side to let it breathe, you pulled up your notes and explained what Bucky had said during his latest nightmare as well as what you had been able to find from an initial search. Natasha stayed quiet during your explanation, responding with nothing but the occasional nod, and Wanda pulled her laptop out of her bag, starting it up and opening the files you all had compiled and sent them.

At the end of your report Natasha poured the wine into the glasses and took a quick sip. “This place sounds familiar to me, but I’m not 100% sure I have been there. I think maybe they used it as a threat in the Red Room? What were the names he mentioned again?”

When you repeated them, Wanda chimed in with “I think I’ve heard about that place, it’s in Siberia. Pietro and I were almost sent there a couple of times, they told us it was their top training facility.”

“Could you point it out on a map, Wanda?” You asked, quickly pulling up a map of Serbia on your phone.

“I think I could…here let me see.”

Wanda looked over the map and you bit your lip, twisting the wine glass between your fingers, anxious to see if you guys would have a break through.

“Here,” she said, pointing at a spot in the Balkan Mountains, “It’s closer to Serbia and it’s hidden deep inside one of the mountains.”

“I’ll try and see if I can pull some layout plans from the upload you did, Nat,” You said, reaching for Wanda’s laptop. As you did your deep diving into the files, Natasha and Wanda made a quick order for food from the Italian place around the corner.

Right after the food came in and Wanda had refilled all of the glasses, you gave a short cry of triumph and flipped the computer around to show them the layout of the Hydra base, as well as the information needed to get in. The three of you smirked while raising your glasses in a toast, celebrating that for once you were able to get all of the information needed..

The rest of the night was spent making a plan of attack and then double and triple-checking to make sure everything would go as planned.

You slipped into your apartment silently, placing your heels next to the door and padding softly down the hallway. The whole apartment was dark except for the lights of the busy New York street shining through the window. Using the little bit of light and muscle memory you managed to weave around the furniture, setting your jacket and purse gently on the living room table on your way to your room.

You could see Bucky, sprawled on his side of the bed, body facing the door as if he had tried staying up so he could make sure you got in all right. You sighed, letting your body sag against the door frame briefly even though you winced as your sore muscles ached, a reminder of what you had gotten up to tonight. Even though, originally, it was supposed to be just Wanda and Nat infiltrating the base, you had had to go in to hack some computers. It was just bad luck that those computers were guarded by some giant, beefed up Hydra goon who seemed to be immune to effects of a fucking taser. Needless to say, it was extra satisfying when he did eventually succumb to Natasha’s famous thigh chokehold.

Bucky was snoring lightly, but it seemed as if his sleep would be undisturbed tonight, almost as if his body sensed that one more nightmare was no more. You stepped forwards and cursed loudly as you tripped over his combat boots and went sprawling across the floor. As Bucky startled awake and flipped on the light, you sat there hissing and briefly wondered how satisfying it would be to just throw them in the trash right in the moment.

“Babydoll?” he asked, his voice rough and low as if he were still half asleep, “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” you huffed, wincing as you climbed back up,, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, Buck.”

“Don’t worry about it, I was waiting on you anyways.” Bucky pushed himself up the bed and sat back to watch as you started to gather all of your supplies to get ready for bed. “How was your Girls’ Night? Did you get some free drinks tonight?”

“You know it,” you shot back, winking over your shoulder. You heard his breath hitch as you drew your dress up and off, revealing your black lace thong and push up bra. You turned around and before he could say something you know would lead to both of you not getting any sleep that night, you pointed a finger at him and said, “Not a word, buster.”

Bucky raised his hands in the air with an innocent expression on his face that was quickly overtaken by a charming smile, “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’, doll….but now that you mention it, that set does looks stunning on you.”

“Ah ah!,” You cried, wagging your finger once more, “It is 2 AM, James Buchanan Barnes, and we are both exhausted. We’re getting some sleep before anything else, ya hear?” Bucky laughed but agreed, sinking further into the bed the closer you got to finishing your nightly routine. By the time you were climbing into bed yourself his eyes his body had sunk into the bed and his eyes were slowly blinking. Once you were comfortably resting on your side facing him he tucked an arm across your waist and pressed his hand between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer to his body until you both were unable to figure out where one started and the other ended.

“I’m glad you had a fun night with the girls, babydoll,” Bucky whispered into your hair groggily.

“Thanks, baby,” You whispered, smiling as you heard the soft huffs of his breath above your head. You kissed the shoulder closest to you and sighed as you sank into the warmth of his body, the bed, and the knowledge that Bucky was now safe from one more nightmare.

tags: @babiiface95

Dividers by: @whimsicalrogers

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female!reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you

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peakgenko · 4 years ago

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Cafe Wonders- Pairing: Akaashi Keiji x F!reader

prologue: Fate has never been on your side. Whether it was someone blocking your path or a spilt coffee cup, it seemed your chances of speaking with the black haired man were dim.

genre: fluff, angst if you squint

note: timeskip aâägaahshi brainrot</3

5:43 pm.

Punctual as always.

He has his satchel kept in his fists, a silk black blazer sprung over his shoulder— and his usual circular frames riding down the bridge of his nose.

He picks his usual spot— a booth positioned just in the centre of the window.

In the winter, he drags the pads of his thumb across the window pane to create small doodles.

In the spring, he’d meticulously watch one rain droplet race against another.

In the fall, he’d watch the fall leaves drape over the window sill— eyes trailing after the vibrant orange and yellows as they tumbled to the ground.

And in summer, he’d accentuate his features under the sun peaking out from the crevices of the blinds.

His head was always faced to the windows, his posture straight as always and his hands— always busy with a pencil in between them. He kept his sketchbook in his lap so no one was ever able to catch glimpse of what he was sketching.

But occasionally, when he’d jerk his head in your direction time is nothing but a nuisance.

You’ll see his gunmetal eyes narrow and almond like.

They change colours. Sometimes he’ll stare with his eyes blue- like a calm sea or a tranquil green much like a vegetation of pine trees. But never at you. He’d turn your way only to beckon the waiter over to him who stood just behind you. But in that slim window of 15 seconds, you’re able to capture his features to the best of your ability.

You figure you should probably do something about your infatuation. And so, you decide you want to talk to him. It really shouldn’t be that hard. He looked soft spoken and gentle so even if he were to reject you, he’d do it in the most pleasant way possible.

You knew every gesture.

Every habit- every mannerism.

The way he’d cover the lower half of his face underneath his turtleneck when he was lost in thought.

He’d roll up the corners of his sketchbook when he was frustrated.

He’d click the top of his pen to the chorus of an ufamiliar chime. You’d hope that one day you could ask him what song it belonged to.

But it seemed fate just wasn’t on your side.

The first time you tried to strike up a conversation, you reached over to pick up a pencil that had begun to roll off his booth. But when he began to turn your way, a waitress interjects your plans terribly. She stares at him eagerly— her eyes hungry with anticipation and her fingers wrap around the pencil flirtatiously before handing it back to him. He nods her a smile and grants her a small thank you before turning back to the window once again.

The second time you built up the courage to speak to the man, the waitress called out your order number.

The third time, quite confident with your chances, you got up and strided over to his table when suddenly a group of girls surged toward him. You could hear them giddily pining over him.

He’d turn down each of their requests every time which was a relief to you for the most part. But if anything, it only discouraged you further. Because if he rejects them, what makes you think you’ll be any different? For how high could his standards be? Besides, he doesn’t even take the time of day to glance your way nevermind sparing you a minute of his time.

But, there was no harm in trying. And today you were going to test that theory.

You slowly slid out of your seat— teeth gritting together in discomfort as the chair drags across the floor to produce an unsettling screech.

He’s leaning onto the table with his forearms, his finger is hooked around a petite coffee cup, and the other holds a book open.

In the stillness, your stomachs churns.

With every step, you’d scold how stupidly you walked or how dumb you stood. You began to point out insecurities you weren’t even aware existed. You’d critique yourself heavily, breaking the confidence you were sure you had the moment you stood up on your two feet.

But nonetheless, you disregard yourself completely and continue to step closer. Every treacherous step was a stab to your gut.

You’re scared you’ll choke on your own stomach.

You’re just about close enough that- if he had his head upward, he’d see you.

But alas, like every other day, his nose was buried in a book— too alienated from everyone else to notice his surroundings.

With a single deep breath, you pronounce yourself ready.

The feeling of unease began to calm itself as you picked up your pace.

Your chance is apparent. Right now.

But, to your disappointment, your head betrays your heart when your legs continue to walk on right past him.

Perhaps not today.

You scold your traitorous legs for being too afraid.

But they don’t stop. They continue to walk on in defeat.

And then a voice interjects your path.

“Wait.-” The voice is deep, like a low growl- a scratchy texture etching at his throat. It’s soothing and warm.

Your head jerks the other way to meet a pair of green eyes. Enticing and welcoming.

His book is set down as he repositions himself.

His adam’s apple bobs as he fixates his eyes on you— glasses riding low, the subtle glare from the sun accentuates his black frames.

“I figured one of us would have to build the courage some day. I guess the coward in me was just sort of hoping you’d be the one to do it.” He tilts his head upward to look up at you.

And at first you weren’t quite sure what he meant by that but when he beckons you over, it dawns upon you that he too, had been planning to speak one on one.

“Keiji.” He smiles kindly with his hand out.

And when your hands elope, fingers slowly grazing against one another, it is then that you have found your forever. Though, it was best to take it slow for now.

Maybe later would you tell him your countless embarrassing attempts to approach him and maybe then- would he confess that it was you who consumed his sketchbook pages that he hid so carefully.

#haikyuu!!#haikyu x reader #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu oneshot #haikyuu x reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi #akaashi x reader #keiji akaashi #akaashi oneshot #akaashi imagines

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ddullahan · 3 years ago

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hadestown au 2

I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN ABOUT THEM it’s a constant brainrot tbh and i’m gonna throw the next chapter out because i’m experimenting with things so if you’re new here, welcome, and here’s the first chapter if you haven’t read it: hadestown au 1 ------------ it’s a love song Music is everywhere in this world. From the hot, mosquito infested plantations to the coldest points of the north, it hums in the earth above and for what? It's off-key and discordant, but it follows the wind off the train tracks as if it has nowhere else to go. Yang remembers growing up on the tracks. She remembers singing with the winds, and hearing laughter in her ears. The Fates were always at the back of your mind, pulling you from choice to choice like there's fishing wire wrapped around your soul. Invisible, they beckon you away from home. They beckon you to the fires down below. She remembers thinking their voices sound unkind. It still sends shivers through her body. The idea that her destiny might not be good, or bright. But it’s not anything she’s dwelling on. She remembers her first melody. How it came from her tiny house hidden in the willows. Willows, with their long branches that wave in the breeze like the sleeves of a robe. Waving at the train, waving at her as she draws chalk flowers on her front porch. They're friendlier than the blues give them credit for, and when she was younger, she wanted the world to know. So she opened her mouth to sing, and the willows suddenly weren't weeping anymore. She loves those willows as much as she loves her guardian, and the little train station she finds herself crying in - but that's something for later. Yang's not crying as her hands dunk beneath soapy waves. She's humming, as she always is. Slow and soft, sponge scraping in time with the swinging door. Voices trip over themselves in the amphitheatre beyond. Everyone's excited for spring to come. The train is on its way. They just need to wait for the Queen to start their summer fun. Yang loves this time of year. There's dancing, and singing. Joy wraps around the rafters and the walls get painted in hope. It’s a rolling tide of an echoing chorus, too happy to be contained. She stacks the last clean plate into a bucket and dries her hands. She knows the festivities can't go on until the Queen’s grace touches the land - but there's something she has to do first, with these plates they've never used. She has to break them all. She has to meet her muse. It's a story that's already been written into the floors, Yang just needs to follow Fate’s wires threaded in her hole-y shoes. So without thinking too much, she swings around; picks up her bucket of dishes. She makes her way out from the kitchen. Except nothing can prepare her for the moment everything begins. Her feet slip into grooves she’s never noticed before. She’s thrown by the recognition worn into her soul - like this stranger across from her has touched it before. Like she’s already gone and marked Yang’s soul like a worry stone. Like she’s already pressed a divot in the shape of her thumb. Ink black hair set in short, fluffy waves. A sharp jaw and rich brown skin. There’s buttery yellow light in the walls that spill onto her face. It turns her lips into a plush, dark valley that Yang needs to sink her teeth in. She’s pulled away by the eyes, though. They're precious gold glinting with hints of amber. They're set under nightdark banners, black eyelashes that flutter like raven wings. They almost seem to glow with hunger. The sight is enough to knock the wind out of Yang's sails. To empty her lungs. There's something familiar in this awe. Aching and ancient, it moves her like there's fire at her feet. Suddenly there's a song building palaces in her chest, and she knows that melody like she knows her willows. She hears in the rafters. She knows its very nature. Yang's entire body yearns with the desire to sing. The world stops. And then resumes. As Yang's pale lilacs start to search gold eyes for that same, ancient ache - she has only seconds to understand something fundamental, and profound. That this is meant to be. That she’s known this woman's soul as long as she’s been alive to breathe. Longer, even. There’s something familiar in the mahogany of her cheeks. Something echoed by the trees. Maybe it’s because the song they sing is the same. Because willows are friendlier than the blues make them out to be, and Yang gets the feeling that this woman is not all she appears to be. Oh, Yang needs to know her again. The woman has a mouth that begs to be fed. She has a body that drowns in that tattered old coat. But it still makes Yang remember that she has an empty bed, in her house under the willows. She wants to offer shelter to those hollow cheeks. Though she swallows the urge like it's a handful of nails in her throat. There's enough pain in it to make her drop the forgotten bucket in her hands. The dishes shatter through the fuzziness in her ears. And it's only by a miracle that she gathers her wits. The miracle being Summer Rose in the form of guidance. She touches Yang's arm, asks her to get a broom. She has a knowing glint in her eye, but it's a little sad, too. Like she knows the world shifted two inches to the left. Like she’s known the story before it ever began. Yang snaps free of the binds in her feet. She jumps to attention, and makes a hasty retreat. Her hands are in her bangs within seconds of the door swinging shut. She stammers gibberish to Summer, who only smiles with love. "You want to talk to her?" She asks in a coo. "More than anything," Yang breathes. She's sure there's stars being born in her eyes. "Well, go on." Summer says. "But don't come on too strong, dear. She's still very new around here." "I won't!" Yang replies, already planning her wedding. "I'll - I'll take her to see the night sky, and I'll give her a melody! I'll sing songs about her eyes and show her the willows when they don't weep. I'll write her poems and maybe she'll agree to marry me-" "That's all well and good, dear," Summer laughs. She reaches up to pat Yang's cheek fondly. "But maybe you should start with your name. There's no rush." "No, but I feel like I've done this before." Yang presses an anxious fist to her chest. "I feel like she'll say yes." "Baby girl, you have such starlight in your eyes," Summer says softly, "And I support you regardless. But maybe, just for once... You should take your time with this." Yang frowns. Her heart doesn't want to wait. But Summer's face holds a deep, deep pain. Her silver eyes are gunmetal gray. She smiles, but still gives off an aura of resignation. It's the same look she wears when something is wrong, or will be soon. It has something to do with Yang, and the girl in the other room. Yang knows that age doesn't dare show it's face on Summer Rose. She looks young, for a goddess of course, but Yang doesn't know what she's seen. She doesn't know what it's like to live for eternity, though she tastes it a little when she sings. She doesn't know what it's like to be Hermes, but from the expression Missus Rose gives… it must be bad. All Yang really knows is that she took her in, when her muse of a mother abandoned her on the road. She knows that, and she knows how much she loves Summer Rose. So it's with her guardian on her mind, instead of the song bursting in her chest, that she says softly, "Okay, Missus Rose. I'll try my best." Summer double-takes. Her face is filled with surprise. The silver seems to slip back into her eyes with hope and wonder. "...Thank you, sweetheart." She says, stilted and unsure. "I'm just looking out for you." "I know." Yang smiles, blinding and bright. "You always are." Yang doesn't remember when she grew taller. She just knows that Summer, in her fast steps and suited splendor, has never really admitted that she was Yang's mother. Though that never stopped her from loving Yang just as hard. So Yang bends down, and gives the goddess' forehead a kiss. She admits to her shyly, "You're a good mom. One of the best, I think." Summer's eyes fill with tears, but none of them fall. She murmurs thickly, "When did you get so tall?" "Don’t know," Yang laughs, "Time really flies when you blink." "Mm." Summer gives a sweet grin. "Don't you have a girl you need to meet?" Yang's face flushes in red. Summer hums thoughtfully; skips away too fast to see. She's back with a soda, and hands it to Yang with a wink. "Try this for an icebreaker," She says, "You'd do well to take off the cap for her." "Th-thank you!" Yang squawks in surprise. Her usual honeyed voice cracks way too high. She blushes harder, but Summer is already ushering her out the door. It swings shut, and she is alone on the floor. The girl - woman, rather - is huddled at a table with her head bowed down. She's hovering over a ratty backpack that's probably seen a thousand towns, a thousand homes, and a thousand trains. She looks weathered, and cold. Yang desperately wants to wrap her up and make her warm. She needs to know her name. So she takes her first step, and then the next. Crawling over to her awkwardly, the bottle held to her chest. It's mechanical, the way she pops off the bottle cap. The way she watches it slip from her shaking fingers. Lets it clatter over to fingerless gloves. She sees a flash of gold hidden beneath those black lashes. She's struck stupid by the way they almost glow in their sockets. And they meet, lilacs to amber. And her heart screams, marry her, marry her. She feels a hole rip open in her chest. It gapes with awe and wonder. It consigns her to no other lover except the woman she swears she's already met. The song in the rafters starts over, and Yang just stands. There's so much hunger set in the woman's face. It's a landscape of starvation, with valleys built from sharp cheekbones and soft black waves. Despite the insistence of the muscle in her chest, Yang takes a breath, and her wedding plans go out the window. Her every ounce of confidence seems to dwindle until the last of it drips from her fingers. Those gold eyes are suddenly too much. There's a strange, visceral fear in Yang's bones. It pulses in veins of gold. It's foreign, and old. It bleeds with desperation. She knows for a fact she's been down this road. That this lovely creature has held her hand before, and turned away. Promises stick to her throat and rot. Fruit of the vine filled with blight, and not a cure to be seen. A cycle that repeats. A tragedy that has always been. Visions of a future long past. A die that’s already been cast. It's all too much. Her heart seizes, and Yang - for once in her life - runs. She turns and wobbles her way back to the kitchen. She feels those haunting eyes burning into her shoulders. Palatial notes and flowering verses twist in her chest longingly. The song she feels inside her like a heartbeat starts to wail at the absence of her muse's name. The emptiness sits black in the cavern of her ribs, silent as a grave. She wants to turn back... but her feet won't obey.

#rwby hadestown au #bumbleby hadestown au #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #summer rose #yes she's hermes LOL #i thought it fit the narrative angle i'm goin for XD #also i unabashedly love summer rose and will look for any excuse to put her in my fics #anyway here's part 2 of the brainrot #thanks again to yangsbandana for keeping this au constantly in the back of my head #ngl i posted this for you because you inspire me so #<3 #rwby fanfic #rwby au #rwby

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