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gureishi · 3 years

Text

gold rush

✧ — Summary: A chance encounter at the bar where you work. But is anything ever really a coincidence?

✧ — Pairing: Saeyoung x Reader

✧ — Rating: T (light cursing, bar setting)

✧ — A/N: This is probably as close as I’ll get to writing an AU. The way the characters are meeting is a little bit different, but we all know where they’re going to end up. This fic is set two weeks before the start of Deep Story.

chapter one

It was the beginning of a summer sunset—all reds and pinks and white hot light streaming through the windows and making you dizzy—when you saw him.

You didn’t believe in love at first sight or even fortuitous encounters. You thought coincidences were nothing more than accidents and miracles were just funny little bursts of brain chemicals.

And you weren’t interested in meeting anyone new. Your feet ached and your eyes felt heavy; you wanted an ice cold beer or a hot shower or maybe just a nap. But time twisted that day: worlds collided and the sun shone extra bright and your weary mind lit up in a way you’d never be able to explain.

You were standing by the bar when it happened. You had a faded blue rag in your hand, with which you were halfheartedly polishing a wine glass. The bartender (a friend, sort of) was telling you a story and you were gazing longingly at the door. A few more hours, you thought, until you’d leave—till you’d walk down the street with its overflowing trash cans and broken sidewalk, around the corner with its group of old men blaring music through their speakers, and home.

And as you stared at the door, it swung open—almost as if you’d compelled it with your yearning. You sighed and looked down at the wine glass in your hand, because it was slow today and on slow days, customers always wanted to talk.

You didn’t want to talk to anyone. You had no patience for conversation about the heat or somebody’s kids or their upcoming vacation. You wanted to lie on the floor of your bedroom in your underwear and stare at the ceiling fan till you stopped thinking about anything at all.

“Hey,” the bartender said (and her voice was a little too loud, like always, but you put on your best listening face for her). “Look at him.”

You didn’t roll your eyes, though you wanted to. She was younger than you and still found everything interesting—and ultimately you appreciated that about her. Instead, you tilted your head and peered through your lashes at the man by the door.

Ah, you thought (wildly, without knowing why). There he is.

He looked like the sort of person who never quite belonged.

He stood a little bit stiffly, his hands in his pockets—and then he waved at one of your coworkers and smiled, and all at once he seemed to fit in, after all. You didn’t know what to make of it.

“Cute,” the bartender whispered (standing on tiptoe to lean over the bar). “Don’t you think?”

“Oh,” you said, keeping your voice level. “Is he?”

You were a terrible liar. Your skin was screaming and your heart was racing; you felt as though you’d had the wind knocked out of you. The man strode casually across the bar and slid into a chair at one of the high-top tables, and you studied him. The bartender had called him cute, and your unsteady heart seemed to agree—but you weren’t even sure if it was true.

He wasn’t necessarily traditionally attractive. He was neither tall nor well-dressed: he wore jeans and a t-shirt that were both several sizes too big for him, and he had oversized headphones dangling around his neck.

But his hair was a striking shade of red that you’d never seen before—it made you think fleetingly of childhood days playing under a sizzling sun and the sweet taste of lemonade. He wore glasses that suited his soft features, and behind them his eyes were startlingly gold. He looked up and your thoughts scrambled; you felt, for a moment, like you were swimming through thick liquid.

The bartender sighed, stirring your strange vortex of feelings.

“He sat at a table,” she said. “So he’s yours, not mine.”

Yours, huh? You felt vaguely nauseous.

Without a word, you grabbed a big bottle of water from the bin by the bar. Something seemed to have shifted inside you: it was the feeling of seeing the bus pull up when you’ve waited forever—the feeling of an eternity of biding your time coming to an end.

You had no idea why you felt that way.

You paused to check on a couple sitting in a booth as you made your way across the bar, but they didn’t spare you so much as a glance; they were staring silently into each other’s eyes, hands clasped on top of the table. And the man in the corner wasn’t looking at you—he was typing something on his phone, fingers moving so fast you swore they were blurry.

“Hey,” you said when you reached him. His fingers didn’t stop moving when he looked up at you—but your eyes met, and he smiled.

“Hi,” he replied (still typing). His voice was not at all what you’d expected: much brighter and more musical. He cocked his head to the side as though he were drinking you in, and you had the eerie sensation that he was reading your mind.

“Been here before?” you asked (knowing he hadn’t). He set his phone down and drummed his fingers against the table like he couldn’t quite sit still.

“Yeah,” he said. “You don’t remember me?”

Liar, you thought. You took in his earnest expression: trust me eyes and a proud sort of smile. He wanted you to play along.

“Right,” you said, hands on your hips. “Didn’t I kick you out of here before?”

His eyes widened: a remarkable imitation of innocence.

“Me?” he trilled, sounding only mildly curious. “Impossible.”

A lock of his hair fell over his forehead and you felt a fleeting urge to brush it away.

“I could do it again,” you said instead, raising your eyebrows. He looked you up and down (the back of your neck burned), and then he grinned.

“You win!” he exclaimed, bouncing in his seat. It was weird, you thought, that he was so excited not to have fooled you—but there was something about his almost childlike exuberance that made you feel pleasantly squirmy.

“Obviously,” you said. “I wouldn’t have forgotten you.”

You hadn’t meant to be so honest, but the words slipped out on their own—and you watched, horrified and delighted, as he flushed a funny shade of fuchsia.

“Really?” he asked, giggling (actually giggling). “Me, specifically?”

It would have been easy to say something biting, but you found that you didn’t want to.

“You, specifically,” you said.

And for an instant, his boldness seemed to slip away: his eyes softened and his hands stilled, and you saw another person entirely. It was someone somber and small—someone who’d been waiting to be told you, specifically for a very long time.

Your heart contracted.

Oh, you thought. Me too.

But the moment had already passed. He was grinning again, his eyes glittering. He winked roguishly, leaning forward.

“Whatever you say, babe.”

Oh, what was happening to you?

You glanced around the room: two other tables seemed to have materialized while you were talking to him. In a voice you hoped was level, you asked him what he wanted (just a soda), and then you slipped away to greet the new groups of people. In your peripheral vision, you saw him pulling a laptop out of his bag.

The sun had mostly set by the time you made it back to the bar. You could hear him in the corner, typing away.

The bartender caught your eye and beamed.

“What was that?”

You tried to avoid her gaze.

“What was what?” You put the drinks on a tray.

She rolled her eyes dramatically as though she thought you were being incredibly difficult (and perhaps you were).

“You,” she said, laughing away your attempted ignorance. “Leaning all over the table and making puppy dog eyes.”

“I didn’t do that.” Did you?

“I felt like a real voyeur, watching you just now,” she said. She tossed her hair and you knew that she was teasing, but you still felt a little bit anxious. There was clearly something wrong with you.

“I hope you enjoyed it,” you told her drily. She waved you away; the ice was already melting in the drinks—and her laughter mingled with the sound of muted pop music drumming over the speakers as you strode back into the bustle of the bar.

You dropped drinks at your new tables first, and then you checked in on the couple in the booth (they were making out now, her legs in his lap). You knew that you were stalling.

But you didn’t trust yourself to go back to his table: you didn’t know what you’d do or say. It had been a long, hot summer—a long, dreary year. These days, nothing made you nervous—but the redhead typing furiously in the corner knocked you off balance.

When there was truly nothing left to do but return to him, you made your way across the room (too fast; too slow). You arrived at his side and your heart fluttered. His eyes were trained on his screen.

“I’m back,” you said, and your voice came out perky and loud. He looked up, then, his eyes taking a moment to refocus. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to require a lot of concentration.

Curious, you tried to peek at his screen, but he’d angled it so you couldn’t see. You wondered if he’d done that on purpose.

“Thank god,” he said, grinning crookedly. “I was lost without you.”

You set the glass, which was wet with condensation, on the slightly sticky wooden table. You should’ve brought a napkin or something.

“Are you sure you don’t want something stronger?” you asked, arching your eyebrows. You didn’t say the next part—why come to a bar just to drink Dr. Pepper?—but his smile widened, and for the second time you got the sense that he knew just what you were thinking.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” he said, flicking the wrapper off the straw and taking a sip. He drank soda, you thought, the way college kids drank liquor: hungrily. “You wanna know why I’m here,” he added. His eyes were piercing.

You gestured at his laptop (wondering what sort of program he could possibly be running to make it hum like that).

“I could take a wild guess and say that you’re working.”

He laughed.

“You get me.”

“What are you working on?” Again, you tried to peek at his computer; this time he shut it with a firm snap. Then he leaned in conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling.

“If I told you,” he whispered in a voice that dripped with provocation, “then I’d have to kill you.”

God. You should have expected no less. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms; the Bond act did nothing for you.

“Sure,” you muttered. “That’s what they all say.”

He paused, taking in your defensive posture—and then he burst out laughing. You'd gone from charmed to annoyed in a heartbeat—and now the ringing sound of his laugher was melting the tension from your shoulders. You weren’t sure what to make of it.

“Do you, uh…” he stammered breathlessly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Do you get that a lot?”

“It’s a vibe,” you told him. “Guys who think they’re cooler and more interesting than they really are.” Oh, you didn’t mean to antagonize him—but something about the way he was looking at you egged you on. He rested his chin on his hand and you couldn’t help noticing the thin white scars that dappled his fingers. Huh.

“So you think I think I think I’m interesting?” He was looking in your eyes again. Your knees felt weak.

“I think I…have other tables,” you said. And it was true: it was fully dark out now, and people were trickling in, looking around expectantly for someone to pay attention to them. You needed a break from him or you’d drown (oh, but there was a part of you that wanted to pull up a chair and stare at him till he looked away).

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but it sounded like a challenge.

You smiled because you didn’t know what to say. Talking to him was like skating on the surface of a pond that had just iced over: thrilling and precarious. You darted away (and by the time you’d made it to the other side of the bar, his eyes were back on his screen). It was louder in here now; you couldn’t hear him typing anymore.

You quickly checked on the couple in the corner (still ignoring you) and then greeted two large groups of people around your own age. One was friendly and probably already drunk (they ordered a round of shots); the other was stiff and rude. You suppressed a sigh as all eight of them ordered drinks that weren’t on the menu; as soon as they’d sent you away, they called you back to make several changes (because people like that always did).

Martini with a twist, not a gin fizz, you chanted in your mind as you shimmied through the crowd of people who’d gathered around the bar. Your mind was tired and hazy (and the man in the corner wasn’t helping; all your nerves seemed to be firing randomly, making your skin feel too tight).

You typed the order into the POS, trying to ignore the redhead in your peripheral vision; his table was just an arm’s length away. The bar was getting noisier now, and the familiar cacophony of music and voices soothed you and made you sleepy.

And then, in the midst of the sea of sounds: “Hey.”

You felt his eyes on you at the same time you heard his voice. You turned to see him watching you, your heart doing a little dance behind your ribs.

“What’s up?”

He smiled lazily and rested his chin on his hands.

“Don’t forget the martini,” he said.

For a moment, you stared at him—and then it dawned on you. Martini with a twist, not a gin fizz. You’d definitely just put the order in wrong.

“How’d you know that?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously. His face gave nothing away.

“How’d I know the order, or how’d I know you’d forget it?”

“Either,” you said (giving in, leaning on his table). “Both.”

“I’m a good listener.” His grin was too big (almost wicked): he was enjoying this. “I’m a good watcher, too.”

And that did seem to be the case. His penetrating eyes seemed to take in everything: a whisper of someone’s hair against their skin; a brush of fingertips beneath a table. You wondered what exactly he saw when he looked at you; you wondered what he’d say if you asked.

“Thanks,” you said. “Can you just hang out here all night and do my thinking for me?”

“I wish,” he muttered, sounding a little bit awkward. You got the sense that he meant it. You were starting to form a response when the bartender caught your eye—and you sighed, remembering that you needed to intercept her before she made the wrong drink.

“I’ve gotta—”

“Go,” he said.

You slipped from his side back into the crowd, but your thoughts seemed to have gotten stuck. You heard his voice in your mind as you spoke to the bartender; you imagined he was watching you as you ran some drinks (but you checked, and his eyes were glued to his screen).

The friendly drunk girls called you over and convinced you to do a shot with them (which wasn’t really allowed, but nobody followed that particular rule). The rude table complained that the music was too loud and the AC was too high. The couple in the booth finally asked for their bill.

Time—too much time—passed before you found yourself free again. You paid out the clingy couple and turned to face the dimly lit room, and your heart skipped a beat.

Your redhead was standing, tapping his fingers idly against the table.

“You’re leaving?” You darted to his side, relieved you’d caught him—anxious that he’d almost left without saying goodbye. “You gonna disappear into the night and never return or something?”

He grinned, but his cheeks were pink. He picked up on your sincerity whether you wanted him to or not.

“I’m going to the other side of the universe,” he said. He was slinging his bag over his shoulder, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’d left a wad of cash on the table (it looked like way too much). “If I don’t get lost in space, I’ll be back for you.”

The bottoms of your feet tingled. It felt strangely intimate to be standing face-to-face like this.

“What’s your name?” you asked. “So I don’t forget you this time.” You winked, because you wanted him to think you meant it lightly—but something dark passed across his expression anyway. That scared him, you thought. He’s afraid of being—

But he was already smiling wider; the moment of solemnity was gone before you could acknowledge it.

“If I told you,” he said, “I’d have to—”

“I’m leaving!” you declared, turning away from him with as much flair as you could muster. He cackled, and then his hand shot out and closed around your wrist.

Time had been moving in strange swirls and eddies all night; now, it stopped altogether.

“Oh,” he said. “Uh.”

His hand fell as you turned to face him. He hadn’t meant to touch you, you thought: he’d done it impulsively, instinctively—and something had snapped. A line had been crossed. His face was very red.

“Seven,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse and weak, like he’d just been burned. “You can call me Seven.”

“Like the number?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That way every time you count you’ll remember who I am.”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if anyone else had said something like that to you—but he stood so awkwardly and spoke so earnestly that you thought he might actually have meant it.

“I count a lot,” you told him. “I hope you’re prepared to be on my mind at least once an hour.”

He smiled and leaned forward and for a single, wild moment you thought he was going to kiss you.

Instead, he whispered in your ear. His breath gave you goosebumps.

“You’re the one who should be prepared,” he said. “Once I’m in your mind, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Before you could respond, he’d pulled back; he was retreating, lifting a hand and giving you an energetic wave.

“Bye, then,” he trilled. And then he said your name.

You were quite sure you’d never mentioned it.

“Oh—” you started to say—but the door chimed, and he was gone.

It was over.

Rocking back on your heels, you looked wearily around the bar. Everything was normal: the chattering of people and the beat of a song that had already played three times that night. It was almost as if nothing had happened.

But you couldn’t forget.

You went through the motions, because you had to: you spoke to people and brought drinks and cleared tables and thought about bright golden eyes. More people gathered around the bar, but the tables cleared out quickly—and you dutifully wiped them down and blew out all the little candles and imagined you were anywhere but there. You counted money with stiff fingers and collected your cash tips and bid goodbye to the bartender and wondered if it was still hot out.

It turned out that it was.

You nudged open the door with your hip and the heat hit you like the big, dangerous ocean waves you’d only ever seen in pictures. It was late (early, even) and the street was nearly empty; another bar across the street buzzed vaguely and the air shimmered with late night summer wetness. Wishing you were already home, you ran a sticky hand through your hair and turned the corner onto a street that you knew was always empty.

Except it wasn’t.

Someone was there.

Oh, you thought (frantically, irrationally). It’s him.

You could barely make out the figure in the darkness, but he was the same general shape as your mysterious redhead. He was the right height, and his hair was wild, and—

Your heart raced. Had he waited for you after all?

But then the figure stepped forward and the streetlight shone in his eyes. They were the color of a clear sea after a storm.

You cursed yourself for hoping; you felt as though you’d been sucked dry. The stranger looked just enough like your redhead, but also altogether different: his hair was bright white and he stood perfectly still, like a predator lurking in the shadows.

And for no good reason, you had the sense that you were meant to be the prey.

The man smiled—almost a smile, one corner of his lips quirking upward. You wanted to say something (what?), but he was already turning away. He walked slowly, like he wasn’t in any hurry—but two steps were enough: he disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the streetlamp.

You were left alone with the tingling in your toes and the feeling that you had been caught.

A coincidence, you told yourself firmly (but you retraced your steps, deciding it would be safest to take another route home). Or maybe just my imagination.

You turned onto your block and unlocked the front door to your building and squinted against the fluorescent lighting. The people around you, you thought, believed in fate and miracles because these things made them feel better about their otherwise ordinary lives. But you didn’t agree: time marched endlessly forward, and there was nothing to be done about it.

Oh, and yet—

You pushed open the door to your apartment (dark and hot as always), kicking off your shoes and fumbling for the light. You knew better than to believe in the things that made your friends pretend that life was softer and sparklier than it really was. You did.

But the air tasted different now. You knew it—irrevocably, inexplicably—whether you wanted to believe it or not.

Tonight, around sunset, everything had changed.

#mystic messenger #saeyoung choi #707 #saeyoung x reader #707 x reader #multichapter #gold rush

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kroerms · 3 years

Text

Half-way (Part two)

pairing: Akaashi Keiji x y/n (gender neutral, I think I stayed clear of using any pronouns for reader, please correct me if I made a mistake)

genre: angstish with a little bit of an open ending

warnings: aftermath of a break-up. Mentions of unhealthy coping strategies (bad eating habits, kinda isolation), usage of the word death twice, my bad writing skills ^^

a/n: this is part 2 out of 3 of this fic. I really love interactions very much, so feel free to tell me what you think of this :) Reblogs are greatly appreciated. Part 3 will follow some time this week I think :)

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Two weeks have passed by since “the dining table incident”, as you call it. Your days consist of laying in Atsumu’s guest room, refusing to exit it. If it wasn’t for Atsumu bringing you food twice a day and sitting next to you on the bed until you’ve eaten all of it, you would probably have starved to death by now. You just don’t have the energy to go out and do stuff. You just want to lay in bed with the blinds closed and reminisce about Keiji and you and how it all began.

Keiji and you met way back when you first moved to Tokyo. You were a very shy, very anxious, and most of all, very lost young person, trying to find your way to the little bookstore your friend told you about. To be fair, you never were big on orientation. Your father used to say you’d get lost on the way to your bathroom if it weren’t for your flat being so...cozy…

So you were just wandering around the streets of the city, looking like a lost puppy and -just your luck- it started to rain cats and dogs. And of course, you being you, the new umbrella you bought was sitting at home. Just as you found refuge under a hotel entrance, hugging yourself to find some sort of comfort and already wet to the bone, a voice next to you spoke. “Excuse me, but is this your phone?”

You slowly turned to face the person attached to the deep, raspy voice. You locked eyes with a tall, very handsome dark haired man with an unreadable facial expression, holding a (your!) phone in his hand.

“Oh my god, could this day get any worse?” you said, anger evident in your voice as you inspected the broken screen of your very new phone.

“Seems like Murphy’s law strikes again.” The man next to you spoke.

“Huh?”, you looked at the man with furrowed brows. You were absolutely not in the mood to entertain a stranger right now. You let your eyes wander over the young man standing next to you. His dark hair was wet and drops of rain ran down his forehead. His blue eyes were soft and his smile seemed genuine.

“What I mean to say is, it seems that your day is not going all too well, considering you kinda said so yourself. So - Murphy's law.” He smiled at you again, wider this time.

“Oh, well yes, it seems like everything is going wrong today, that is right indeed.” You answered, a small smile making its way to your lips. You bowed to the man with no name.

“Thank you very much for saving my phone. My name is y/n, may I ask yours?”

“Name’s Akaashi Keiji. Nice to meet you y/n. This may be overstepping a bit considering you don’t know me. But would you let me take you out for a coffee to cheer you up?” Keiji’s smile widened at your nodding.

“That would be very nice of you, thank you very much, Akaashi.” you answered shyly.

“Please, call me Keiji.”

You nodded again, a smile spreading across your cheeks.

Keiji led you to a small café. Ironically, the café was right next to the bookstore you were looking for. You giggled as you noticed, making him look at you in confusion.

“Sorry, it’s just funny how I was looking for that store right here for hours today and then I meet a stranger who brings me exactly where I wanted to go.”

“Well, this is fate then, don’t you think?” Keiji offered you an even wider smile as before. You didn’t think it was possible but he became more attractive with every minute you spent together.

The two of you sat at the café for quite a while. Keiji asked you why you moved to Tokyo and you asked him about his job. Keiji seemed very interested in you and you couldn't take your eyes off of him. His entire being intrigued you. It became clear very fast that the two of you had a lot in common. For one, you both liked to read. He told you about his friends and about his time in highschool, you told him about your family and your dreams. Time seemed to fly by, without neither him nor you noticing. It wasn’t until the waitress asked the two of you to leave because the shop was closing that you checked the time on your phone.

“Oh, it’s late already. And I didn’t even get to go to that bookstore,” you say, blushing slightly "don’t get me wrong though, I really enjoyed your company, you actually did cheer me up today Keiji. I really appreciate the effort.”

“Oh, I am sorry you didn’t get to go to that store. It’s actually really cute and they have lots of antiques as well. If you let me, I would like to take you on a date there some time? Maybe Saturday afternoon, say 2pm, what do you say?” Keiji’s eyes held something similar to hope in them. And who were you to destroy that? So you agreed.

The rest was pretty much history.

Keiji and you took each other out on different dates almost every other day for two months before he asked you to be his on a late sunny afternoon the two of you spent sitting and reading to each other in the park. The kiss that followed was a bit reluctant at first but tender and passionate nonetheless.

After that, the both of you became almost inseparable. You met his friends, he met yours and a little after a year the two of you moved in together. Everyday spent with Keiji was filled with love. From cooking dinner together to waking up next to him, his arm slung over your side, chest flush against your back, everything felt like home. Keiji became a home to you when you weren’t even looking for one.

Going through all these memories that connect the two of you makes you tear up again. You just wish for Keiji to come back to you. But since the break up you haven’t heard anything from him. It is killing you, at least that’s how it feels. But death would be too easy, so you are left suffering that loss.

At your shared apartment, Keiji is reading your letter for the nth time over and over again. Tears fill his eyes, the sound of his heart breaking audible in the sobs he lets out. And as if to punish himself, he reads your words again:

My dearest Keiji

I know you think taking a break from us is the right thing to do. And although I disagree, I nonetheless accept your decision. It hurts, I am not gonna lie to you. But I do understand where you are coming from. I just want you to know that I will always be here for you. If you decide that you want to end things definitely, I will accept it. But if you come back to me, I will be here with open arms.

Just know that you always were and always will be enough for me even in times when you don't see yourself as worthy. You are the most kind and most loving person I know and you make me feel so loved. And I can just hope that you feel the same way when thinking about me. If I did something to make you doubt yourself I want you to know that I would never doubt you. Sure, sometimes you annoy the shit out of me but I know for a fact that I not once doubted your love and affection towards me. And that, my love, will never change. I will never see you as anything less than the best part of my life. So if you decide to come back to me, I'll be here.

I love you today, I love you tomorrow and I'll love you every day after that for the rest of my life if you let me.

Forever yours

Y/n

All he can think about is that he wants to hold you again. He needs to, otherwise his life will never feel complete again, this much is obvious. He knows he fucked up bad by sending you away. He needs to make this right, he thinks. So he takes a piece of paper and writes down a plan. A plan to make the heartbreak end. A plan to bring happiness back into his life. The happiness he knows in the form of you.

He knows love is real because he can feel it. He can feel it with every fiber of his being when he thinks of you. He can see it in the way his eyes are dark and lifeless and the bags under them are the embodiment of the loss he feels every night when he can’t sleep because you are not laying in his arms.He knows love is real because it is what he feels whenever he looks at your pictures or when he reads your letter. And all he wants is to make you his again.

#keiji x y/n #keiji x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi x you #akaashi x y/n #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #akaashi angst #akaashi keiji #haikyuu fanfiction #akaashi fanfiction #akaashi x gender neutral reader

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ficsnroses · 4 years

Text

Nightlight - John Wick x Reader

Fluffy John is the best John.

Word Count : 2746

Warnings : Major Fluff

Summary : John asks Y/N, his girlfriend, to spend the night at his house, however, is pleasantly surprised when she tells him she cannot sleep in complete darkness.

A/N : I suck at summaries. Also, if *anyone* wants me to write the love making between John and reader in this fic, I totally will in another one shot, I just didn’t want this to get too long. I imagined this as a sort of sequel to this fic, but you don't have to ❤️ Enjoy!

As John lays out an array of fresh, vibrantly coloured ingredients on the granite kitchen island, Dog sits at his feet, chewing his favourite, brand new chew toy Y/N had gifted him. The sounds of gnawing teeth, his little whines and playful squeaks are audible every now and then. Dog and Y/N had gotten pretty close lately, and that was just the way John wanted it. His two favourite companions, loving each other.

John had fallen in love with Y/N in what felt like the pace of a heartbeat; before he knew it, he was long gone, with her becoming the most important part of his life. The purest, most enjoyable, innocent, most rewarding part of his life. Of course, he was ecstatic to know she felt the same.

Things had been going amazing between them. Each day felt so special, because that’s what love does. It makes each day feel as if a warm, sunny, bright day after a long, unfriendly winter. It was as if constantly having the words on their tongues, for how they felt, but never being able to let them out, because they just weren’t strong enough. Y/N had made John realize how much more he could be, how much more he was worth. She gave him a taste of the good life, the life he dreamt of as a lonely orphan, the life he promised he’d have one day with a family of his own. A family he created, with the woman of his dreams. Undoubtedly, his reveries saw no one else besides Y/N that could possibly fill this void. She truly was the one he’d been longing for. And boy, was she worth the wait.

Tonight, Y/N was coming over for a stay in dinner date. They had been seeing each other regularly, their encounters being the highlights of each of their days. There was something so unique about being with each other that they loved, appreciated. Even when they weren’t physically there, they felt as if their hearts were together. John was normally distant from others, quiet, reserved. It felt nice to be himself, with someone.

Everything felt picture perfect. In fact, all that was left now, was the anticipation of taking their relationship further. John had only dreamt of doing what lovers do with her till now, but day by day, the further their relationship progressed, it seemed as if it was becoming more real. The moment only coming closer. Whenever it was, whenever it would happen, he knew that would be it. That would be the moment he’d fall completely for her, never able to turn back.

“Hi!” Y/N beams, as John opens the door for her, the evening sun setting perfectly behind her, the golden hue striking a wavelength of vivacity in her luscious locks.

“Hi, darling.” John smiles, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her in for a soft, tender kiss. She smells of citrus, mint, and flowers, along with something so uniquely known to him. So matchlessly Y/N.

“I missed you,” she smiles against his lips, arms attached around his neck. “What did you do today?” she asks, letting herself in.

“Not much, took Dog to the park, went shopping for groceries, did some lawn work.” He closes the door behind him. “Counted the hours down till I’d get to see you.” He almost sings, holding his arm out for her to use for balance, as she shimmies off her shoes, placing them neatly in the corner beside his.

“Aww.” She grins, placing a kiss to his cheek. She turns to walk towards his kitchen. “And where is my handsome baby boy?” she coos, eyes searching for Dog. He pads away, jogging to her, as she crouches down to give him an abundance of pets. “There he is!” she chuckles, placing kisses on his matted grey head. John’s heart could have burst right then and there, watching them interact.

John takes his place, back at the kitchen counter, getting dinner together. He watches Y/N as she walks up beside him, snaking her arm around one of his, pressing a kiss to his bicep. “Lemme help? I’ll chop.” She says, grabbing a knife, slicing at a stalk of carrots. John smiles and takes place by the stove, stirring and sautéing.

“Music?” John proposes, leaning against the counter.

“Oo yes, Floyd?” she suggests, raising her eyebrows, throwing her hair into a messy bun.

“Hmm, how bout Zeppelin?” he vetoes, tapping his chin.

She frowns, before her eyes light up. “Beatles?” she recommends.

“Beatles it is.” He throws his thumbs up, walking towards his stereo. She watches him walk away, smiling at how lucky she was, to have this man to herself.

They eat at the dining table, sat across from each other. John kept just a small, high table dining set. For years, it had been just him alone, quietly getting through lonely nights and meals for one alone. It’s nice to have company at the habitually isolated table.

Their hands hold each other across the table, fingers fiddling with one another every now and then, soft touches and grazes placed on each others skin, soothing rubs ghosting across each others wrists. Quiet laughs flood their intimate conversation, smiles and grins exchanged frequent. Every now and then, John throws a safe piece of food down to Dog, who is munching away at his own food bowl by their feet. This was perfect. Their own, exclusive little family, lost in each other’s company.

Near the end of the meal, John brings a napkin up to his lips, quietly clearing his throat. His grip on Y/N’s hand tightens slightly, her eyes connect with his, noticing the difference. He has something on his mind, she’s begun to read him like the back of her hand. She brings her elbow to rest on the table, her chin taking place leaning on her hand, as she watches John, collecting his thoughts.

“Something wrong, babe?” she asks lightly, brows furrowing.

John lets out a small chuckle, sighing. “No, no. Everything’s perfect. You’re perfect..” his eyes connect with hers, getting lost in those gorgeous, lively orbs of hers. He toys with her hand again, looking down at his plate. “Do you…uh…wanna spend the night? Here?” he proposes, nervous she may decline. “Tonight’s great, and I just uh…I don’t wanna see you go.”

Y/N’s eyes pause in place, no emotion present on her face for a moment. John’s heart began to race rapidly, scared he may have crossed a line too soon. However, when her lips curl into a smile, her grip tightening on his hand as well, he hears her velvety voice chime.

“Sure.”, she smiles, holding his hand tighter, reassuringly.

John feels relief wash over him, sighing. He chuckles a reply. “Wow, awesome. I thought you were going to say no for a second.” He runs his other hand through his hair.

Y/N stares into him, studying each bump, each crevice of his face. His beard is lined perfectly, his skin is aglow, there’s a glint in his eyes, his lips are so exquisitely pink, so kissable. Each part of him was so lovable. He deserved, all the love she could give him.

“John?” she quietly speaks. He looks up to connect their eyes. “I love you. And I trust you. You know that right?”

He looks at her, heart full with admiration. “I know.”

After dinner, John hovers over the kitchen sink, rinsing the dishes in a solution of soapy bubbles, Y/N sat on the counter top right beside him, drying the dishes he hands her. Her legs sway around, as they engage in conversation still, sulking in each other’s presence. She playfully hits his side with her leg every now and then, as he stands defenceless, hands covered in soap. With a playful groan, John glares her, his deep voice filling her ears.

“Babe, you better stop that right now.”

She giggles, setting down her wash cloth. “Whatcha gonna do about it, Wick?”

Rinsing off his hands, before moving to stand between her legs, he places his palms on her hips. Wincing, she tries to shake them off. “John! Your hands are wet.” She frowns.

He smirks, eyeing her. “Well, isn’t that inconvenient?”

She scrunches her face, before ultimately giving in. “Okay fine, ya got me. I’m sorry. You’re just so fun to mess with.” She taps his nose, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Am I, huh?” he smiles, eyeing her lips, gently pulling her in closer as she still sits on the counter.

Her petite hands move to ruffle his dusty, dark brown hair, lips curling into a smile. “Yes, because I know you’re never going to say anything back to me.” Dog moves across the kitchen to sit near John’s feet again, as he straddles her standing against the counter. “Of course, besides maybe getting my shirt wet.” She smiles.

She stares at his lips as well, before bringing her eyes to connect his gaze, trapped in hers. Bringing a hand to cup his stubble ridden cheek, she lightly speaks. “You’re a good man, Jonathan.” A muffled giggle escapes her mouth, watching how awestruck his expression turns each time she reminds him. “You take care of me, and Dog. You’re a good, good man.”

John still hadn’t gotten used to hearing those words. No one, in years, for as long as he could remember, had called him anything remotely good. To the world, he was a petrifying, feared, symbol of death. Someone they saw as a monster.

But then there was her. This woman, who saw past all that, saw the human in him. Saw everything he so desperately wanted to be, saw the way he was clawing at the surface for someone to really see him, and everything he ached to be. Sometimes, it only takes one, special person, to fix us.

John never wanted to be a monster. He never was, and she knew that.

Without a thought, John connects his lips with hers, in a searing, adoring kiss. She gladly returns the affection, running her hands through his hair, along his beard, pulling him closer. Pausing momentarily, John connects his forehead with hers, eyes shutting in complete contentment.

This was where he always wanted to be.

She cups his cheek, missing his lips on hers so soon. They kiss again, fingers pulling each other closer, trying to feel more. John breaks away, bringing his hand to hold hers again. Squeezing gently, he almost whispers.

“Can we take this upstairs?”

Nodding, she smiles, feeling his broad, large arms scoop her up, carrying towards the stairs, her legs wrapped securely around his waist. Placing feather light kisses to his temple, his nose, and the corners of his mouth as she pleases the entire journey up to his bedroom, she beams at the way his eyes light up as she does so. The laugh lines crinkle around the corners of his eyes, making him look heavenly.

Placing her softly, gradually on the bed, he watches her lay, allowing him to hover over her. Kissing each inch of the soft, gleaming skin on her face, he reflects to himself, on just how lucky, how excited he was, to finally make love to her. To finally show her how much she meant to him, in the most fragile, sacred way.

He grazes his fingers under the hem of her shirt, softly smoothing over the skin. “Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asks, making sure she was ready for them to be intimate. Something they hadn’t done before.

“Of course, baby. I love you.” She whispers, pulling him in for another passionate kiss. She toys his belt buckle, as his hands explore parts of her body they’d only dreamt of touching, thus far.

An hour later, John lays shirtless in bed, with his lover’s head rested on his chest. He’s got an arm around her, holding her close to him. She draws figures and shapes, tracing over his rosy skin. To say it was amazing, would be an understatement. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands to themselves, despite finishing. In comfortable silence, to the sound of the rise and fall of John’s chest, Y/N’s voices.

“John?”

He shifts slightly, moving his head to press a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah, love?”

She feels her heart swell at the sight of him, his skin glistening, heartbeat calm, so naturally beautiful. He was so god damn beautiful. She smiles, unable to form any words for the way she was feeling. She rests her head down again on his chest, feeling him chuckle, embedding a small, gentle kiss in her hair.

John glances at the time piece on the stand. 10:15pm.

“I’ll grab you one of my spare shirts to sleep in?” he proposes, as she sits up, pulling the duvet to cover her shirtless chest. “Thank you.” She replies, still smiling. Watching him get out of the bed, her eyes gloss over his tattoos on his perfectly toned back, slipping on his pants. She follows suit, pulling on her panties, heading to the washroom.

Following a quick wash of her face, the water beads spritzing life back into her flushed cheeks, Y/N tucks herself away in John’s bed, as he’s taken Dog out for the final time tonight. She grins to herself still, the memories of what her and John did earlier that evening hazing her mind. The fact that she would be falling asleep next to him tonight, in his arms, only sent more butterflies drifting about in her mid.

She hears Dog run back into the room, padding in a few circles before taking place at the foot of the bed, retiring for the night. John follows not too far behind, smiling as his eyes set on Y/N in his bed, waiting.

“Hey you..” she speaks, voice filled with love.

“Hi,” he beams back, placing Dog’s replenished water bowl when he could see it.

“Come ere, the beds getting cold.” She smiles, her syrupy voice so warm, inviting.

John gladly accepts, switching the lights off by the door, before walking to his side of the bed.

Until he hears Y/N gasp.

“John?” She gulps. Don’t you have a lamp?” he hears in the pitch black room.

“No? Why?”

“I always sleep with light in the room…this is scary.” She murmurs, barely above a whisper.

John chuckles. “Baby, I’m sorry I don’t have a lamp. But I’m here with you, what’s so scary about that?” he expertly navigates his dark room, pulling the covers back to join Y/N in bed, immediately pulling her into his chest. Of course, he felt her startle slightly at the touch.

“I’m not scared of the dark, John. I’m scared of what’s in the dark.” She asserts, in a matter of fact tone.

“Well, only thing in the dark right now is me, babe.” He laughs.

“That’s scary enough.” She teases, trying to bring her hand to his face.

“Hey!” John giggles, securing his grip on her.

“John, I can’t see anything. I don’t like it at all.”

“But we’re going to sleep, darling. You don’t need to see anything.” He articulates, placing a kiss on her forehead.

“John!” She whines, nudging him. He hums in response, his hands soothingly rubbing her back as he holds her. “John, can’t you just leave the bathroom light on?”

He sighs playfully. “Sweetheart, I can’t sleep with lights in the room.”

“What if I wanted to kiss you? I can’t see where your face is.” She proclaims, hands trying to locate his face.

“Hmmm…” John contemplates. She brings her arms to sooth over his biceps. “Pleeeeasseeee babe, I really don’t like it.” She frowns.

John chuckles again, bringing his hand to cup her cheek. “I’m only teasing, darling. Lemme fix it.” He replies, getting out of the bed, switching the bathroom light on for her, Dog’s gaze perking up to the sudden change of hue. As John pads back to the bed, climbing in, Y/N cuddles in close, kissing his chest as his arms engulf her again.

“Better?” he questions, smiling down at her.

“Yes. Thank you.” She buries her face in his chest, breathing in his woody scent.

“My girlfriends scared of the dark.” John smirks, teasing. Y/N light-heartedly nudges him in response. Toying his hand through her hair, he sighs. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?” his voice is barely audible, in the hushed, silent room.

Y/N doesn’t reply right away; she takes a moment to relax, feeling him so close. Barely above a whisper, she finally speaks. “I know.” John grips her tighter, pressing another kiss into her hair.

“How about you start by getting a nightlight for me?” she proposes, giggling. “It could be a dinosaur one, so it doesn’t break your big, manly persona.” She teases, cupping his cheek, pressing a kiss to his chin.

“I suppose. Only if it’s a dinosaur one, though. Can’t have my lady sleeping in the dark again.” He agrees, bringing her smaller hand up to place a kiss to her palm. “You really are adorable, Y/N.”

If making love tonight hadn’t made him fall deeper in love with her, this encounter surely had. He couldn’t wait to learn more about her, be domestic with her. To have her to fall asleep to, just like this, to learn which side of the bed she prefers, when she drifts to dreamland, every single night.

“I love you.” John whispers, a few moments departed. He rubs her back soothingly, calmly again. However, when she doesn’t reply, he gently taps her. When she doesn’t move, he knows she’s fallen into a deep, well deserved slumber. Exhaling, he grins to himself again.

He couldn’t believe this was going to be his life.

With a pull of the duvet higher to tuck her in perfectly, the blanket draped, positioned flawlessly around her, John presses a final kiss to her temple, resting his chin a top of her head.

To the sound of Dog’s gentle snores, complimented effortlessly by the steady rise and fall of Y’N’s chest on him, John prepares to doze off as well, not too far behind. With the moon and it’s starry friends peering through the bedroom window, perfectly peppering the black and blue marbled sky, another wonderful day has bid good bye, with his lover tucked in securely beside him, whisked away in her own fairyland.

He thanks the sky for giving him this life, as his silvery voice whispers.

“Goodnight, angel”

*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*

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nightsinneverland · 4 years

Text

Aura, the Shield, and the Sword

Although Aura Storms hasn’t been around that long, she was given certain skills, gifts and wisdom that could fit into several centuries of living. Along with a sword engraved with Nordic and African runes and a dog that holds more to the visible eye, can Aura take any more challenges? Maybe say a soulmate who she thought was dead? Or maybe an entourage of heroes that are constantly in her way?

Chapter Four.

3:45 am. Red letters glare at Steve Rogers from his digital clock settled uniformly on his nightstand. A glass of water and his notebook keeping it company.

Rolling onto his back, grimacing at the cold feel of his sweat-soaked nightshirt , he replays his dream in his head trying to decipher its meaning.

A heavy storm paired with lightning and thunder strikes the top of a mountain. Or so he thought. Stumbling closer on the loose rocks, Steve squints to focus on the top of the mountain. His eyes widen at the sight of lightning shooting into a sword instead of the mountain. His eyes strain even more when he takes in a figure holding the long piece of metal.

There's a woman! His first thought is Peggy, but as the soldier gets closer to the woman, he realizes how wrong he is.

A sharp tingle goes down the back of his neck all the way down to his toes and travels through his body until it finally settles on his left wrist. The wrist that holds the name of his soul mate. He knows her name by heart and memory. She's the girl he’s thought about ever since he could read her name on his body. His girl. His soul mate.

A mass of desperation comes over Steve as he attempts to get closer to take in any detail that this dream would gift him with. He gets close enough to take note of a head of long curly hair, wet from the storm and a slim athletic figure before a flash of lighting temporarily blinds him and immense pain causes his body to twitch.

He looks down for the source of pain to find the lightning enhanced sword buried in his abdomen. Slowly following the sword from his impalement to the hilt, he notices a slim hand covered in engraved symbols. His left wrist starts to burn.

With another flash of lighting, he looks up into the face of his attacker and is pulled into a sea of pale green.

Shaking his head to escape the grasp of his most recent dream, Steve rolls over to grab his notebook to write down every detail so he won’t forget. He wonders when he’s allowed to be out in the public eye again if he’ll ever find her.

Jotting down the last few notes of his mystery girl, Steve rolls back onto his side to try to chase a peaceful sleep and wondering how his Aura is faring.

4:30am. Brooklyn lets me know because for once, as there is no watch adorning my wrist. It got thrown off an hour ago about a quarter into my continued “tasting” of Stark’s expensive booze. He has good taste. I'll give him that!

An hour ago, I was rudely interrupted from my sleep with a deep burning from that damned soul mate marking. I’ve tried everything to make it stop. Spells, more runes, even antibiotic cream that may or may not have been expired. In the midst of me attempting a temper tantrum and throwing the stupid tube of not-working cream across the room into the trash, the fancy bottle of whiskey caught my eye.

Normal people drink to take the pain away of their mundane lives, so maybe it’ll take away this stupid burning on my wrist?

That question led me to now, drunk off my ass trying to get Brooklyn to dance with me.

“Come on Brook! Shake a leg!” I laugh, scratching behind his ear to get him to comply with me. Dark amused eyes stare back at me and a small wag of his tail lets me know he’s close to cracking.

I step back, giving him some room, still rocking side to side clumsily,waving my arms in the air like a maniac, “Shift! I need a dance partner,” I poke his wet nose and a long, black tongue rolls out. I got my answer.

I give Brooklyn another few inches of room so he can shift and so my drunk ass can enjoy the show. Short white curly fur slowly starts to shed onto my hardwood floors revealing an opaque black mass of swirly auras, his tail appears to shorten until there is nothing left, nails elongate into sharp black talons that would never hurt me and floppy ears that grow into thick red horns. Brooklyn slowly stands to his 8 foot height on two legs, barely brushing my high ceilings. He extends his arms out to me as an invitation.

“Now that's what I’m talking about”, I say, shimming into his arms and beginning a clumsy waltz around my spacious living room. The burning in my wrist is long forgotten.

7:30am. Natasha stares at the analog clock across her bedroom. The little hand becomes blurry as another cold shiver runs through her body. She’s weak. Extremely weak. And she hates it.

It’s been a week and a half since she snuck into the witch’s home and got a chunk bitten off by her huge mutt. Her wound is rapidly getting bigger and nastier and according to F.R.I.D.A.Y’S analysis it is assumed that the venom that is compromising her immune system came from the dog’s teeth.

Natasha grits her teeth as she slowly lifts up her loose t-shirt, revealing a pus and blood infected gash on her waist. She looks to the ceiling to conceal her tears at the realization that it’s gotten bigger, almost reaching her hip.

A quick knock on her door kicks her into gear, shoving her t-shirt down and erasing the early presence of her crying, concealing the emotions on her face.

A head of spiky brown hair and eyes that scream “no sleep!” catch her attention. When they realize that she’s awake, a smile stretches across their face and they move into her room.

“Hey you! Glad you're up. We got some updates.” Clint tells Natasha, putting down a cup of tea on her nightstand and settling down on her bed.

He reaches over again to her nightstand and grabs a washcloth sitting in cold water and leans over his friend and teammate, “Her name is Aura Storms,” he says softly, gently patting away the sweat that’s formed on Natasha’s forehead, bringing the cloth down onto her cheeks to help cool her down.

“And her dog isn’t just a dog. We don’t know what it is but F.R.I.D.A.Y ran a scan on that thing when they were in the common room and it doesn’t have any organs or bones or anything of the sort. It just came up as a black mass.” Clint finished, bringing the cloth down to her neck and decollete, internally worrying about the lack of response from her.

Natasha’s hand slowly rose and settled over Clint’s wrist that was holding the cloth. “Do we know how to find her?”, the hope in her voice broke his heart. He reached his other hand to cover hers, gently patting and rubbing over the thin skin, knowing that she wasn’t going to like his answer.

“Not yet. But we will. I promise.” His eyes betraying him and watering at the dead look in Natasha’s eyes. He fights to maintain eye contact as the woman on the bed closes her eyes and turns her head away.

“I should've known better than to ask. She’s not someone you find. She finds you.” Natasha uttered, as she slowly took her hand away from Clint’s wrist and continued to turn onto her side facing away from the man silently crying.

Clint took her hint at telling him to leave. He leaned over to kiss the back of her head, put the cloth back into the bowl on her nightstand and left to find Tony and Bruce hoping for something new so he could lift Natasha's spirit and will to live.

#aura the shield and the sword #steve rogers x reader #sam wilson x reader #tony stark x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #mcu #avengers #marvel #bucky barnes x reader

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theateared · 4 years

Text

What’s Wrong With You? ❜

Summary: There's a reason that Murr’s career is almost entirely self-made. Warnings: N/A.

His eyes were drawn to the sticky mess covering the floor. What was left of his pudding cup had been smacked out of his hands, plastic spoon snapping painfully under the weight of a hefty palm. With disbelief, Murr shifted his gaze to look his manager in the face.

“What the hell? What’s WRONG with you?! I was just tryna enjoy a snack befer gettin’ back t’work!”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with YOU?! You know that stuff will only make you fat. We’ve had this conversation a million times!”

The words stung more than he cared to admit-- not necessarily because of their implication, but because of his own struggle with an eating disorder. It had taken him a hell of a long time to get into good habits, and though he wouldn’t fall back into bad ones for the sake of one comment, it did make the gears in his head turn in that all-too-malignant manner.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe one cup won’t matter, but one cup everyday? Maybe that will matter.

After taking in a subtle breath, steadying the slight incline of his heartbeat, he replied in a calm but firm tone: “Yer bang outta line, Zach. However ya feel, ya can’t just go hittin’ shit I paid fer outta my hands.” He cut his manager off with a tut as he spotted a dark stain forming on his shirt. “Yeesh, y’owe me dry-cleanin’ money...”

The sound of the dressing-room door slamming shut made Murr look up at him. Only now was he beginning to feel slightly worried.

Zach hadn’t been his first choice for a professional opinion. However, when they’d met while he was working in Vide, the man had wormed his way into Murr’s good graces with his patience and humour. On the surface, he was mild-mannered and fun, somewhat quirky to boot, but Murr had soon realised that he wasn’t really the person that he thought he was. His fuse was short, he was a control freak, always wanting to micromanage every tiny decision he made about his productions, and he was aggressive. Though he’d never laid his hands on him, Murr suspected that that much would change - and he wouldn’t allow it.

“You’re just so fuckin’ UNGRATEFUL! You think you can do whatever you want just because some people know who you are! You eat shite! You don’t take care of yourself! You drink and smoke like an idiot! You don’t think that shit’s going to ruin your look? Your VOICE?”

“Listen, yer not my fuckin’ dad. Back off ‘n’ mind yer own damn business, alright? I ain’t yer DOG, Zach, y’can’t tell me how t’live.” He turned his back on the man then, eager for the argument to fizzle out. Hands searched his desk for his revised script, darting past a celebratory bottle of champagne for after the show. Part of him knew that it likely wasn’t a good idea to show him that he’d made some last-minute changes to the play, but he was desperate to divert the focus elsewhere. He couldn’t stand being talked down to like a child. Not even his father spoke to him that way. “Look, I have some--”

“I don’t CARE, Murr!” He lurched forwards to slap the papers out of his hands, scattering them across the floor. The star stared at him at a loss for words, mouth half-open in a desperate attempt to neutralise the situation, when suddenly Zach’s hands entangled in his collar. He pulled him closer with a vehemence that startled the huro, horns bumping against his forehead as he was met with a furious glare. It smelled as if his manager had been drinking, a hint of whiskey hovering on his breath. “What do I have to do to get you to fuckin’ listen?”

“Let go’a me…!”

“YOU’RE SABOTAGING YOURSELF!”

“GET OFF OF ME!” His voice was shrill as he shoved hard at Zach’s shoulders. The man staggered away from him - and the momentum sent Murr staggering back into the dresser, an arm stuck out haphazardly to support himself. The adrenaline had kicked in by now; he felt like a bird trapped in a cage, one that flapped and cawed and squealed, and his father’s words ran through his head like a strike of lightning.

You know your worth, son. Always be kind, always be generous, but don’t bend.

Murr’s gaze darkened. You don’t treat me like that. Nobody treats me like that. I’m not something for somebody else to control. Slowly, he straightened his stance, taking a deep breath in an attempt to steel his nerves before he pointed at him firmly. “Don’t ever lay yer hands on me again.” His voice dripped with venom so potent that it gave the drunk man a moment’s pause. He couldn’t tell whether he was affronted by being told what to do or if he was seriously considering the fact that he was wrong-- and he didn’t care.

At least, he didn’t until Zach squared his shoulders and advanced on him. “Or what, huh? What’re you gonna do? Don’t forget that YOU’RE in MY debt! Who’s gettin’ your name out here in Vide, huh?”

“I AM!” Murr retorted angrily, a thumb jabbing into his own chest as he glowered at him without restraint. If looks could kill, a glare from Murr would send a man straight to hell. “Don’t take the credit fer MY hard work! I’M the one singin’ ‘n’ dancin’ ‘n’ writin’ ‘n’ performin’ like a goddamn grease-monkey! This shit is MINE!”

“Like you’d ever get anywhere in Vide without a Vvder’s help!” Zach bit back, getting closer to him with every step. I’m going to punch this huro’s teeth in. I’m going to bend his stupid fucking horns until they snap. “You’re NOTHING here! You huros are all the goddamn same-- you’re all so PROUD.”

“Get away from me, Zach.”

“You’re all so EAGER to KISS YOUR OWN ASSES! You all pretend to work hard, but the only things you’re ‘fixing’ are the problems that you made yourselves, because your district is founded on false generosity and LAZINESS--”

“That’s NOT true!” Murr barked. Really, this realm wasn’t a great one. Though it was wondrous and beautiful, with surprises at every corner, things that could never be found on Earth, its people were so angry and hateful. Though Valor’s quest had done a lot to quell a lot of bigotry, it also wasn’t magically erased in one day. There was still a lot of work to be done-- which was precisely why Murr felt it appropriate to defend his district. It wasn’t out of patriotism; it was a direct response to a racist ideology that viders perpetuated every day. Even in spite of The Crossover, their districts very much conjoined at this point, some viders still fed each other the same dastardly lies like Nazis did with Jews.

Unacceptable. Disgusting. And what makes it worse is that you yourself are doing it. There’s no Big Bad making you think these things, or say these things-- you’re just terrible, and unwilling to learn.

Distracted, he fell when Zach’s hands met his chest in the form of a hard shove. For all of the grace that he possessed on stage, he tumbled to the ground like a sack of bricks, confused and dazed, staring up at him with a stupefied sort of silence. His manager wasn’t a very imposing man. He was a little smaller than him, and his stature was nothing to write home about, skinny like a weed; however, towering above him like that, with the intention of hurting him, Murr’s fight-or-flight response kicked in. Just as Zach drew back his arm for a punch, Murr hurriedly reached up, fingers coiling around the thick glass of the bottle and dragging it into his lap. Without even thinking about it, he hit it against the leg of his dresser, splintering the glass and spilling champagne all over himself and the floor. The jagged end was brandished like a weapon, teeth grit in a furious sneer, malicious intent clear.

In a fierce scream: “I SAID GET AWAY FROM ME--”

The dressing room fell silent then. The lights surrounding his vanity mirror were the only source of illumination ( he found it easier to proof-read and edit in dimmer places ), their space bathed in a baby pink glow. In any other context, one might have deemed it romantic; instead, Murr regarded it with the same quiet dread that he might a red room.

Slowly, Zach raised his hands, backing off. “... I’m drunk.”

“You’re fired,” Murr hissed in response, trying hard to hold back the urge to cry. Far from a crybaby he was, but adrenaline had a funny way of reducing him to tears. He was overwhelmed when it kicked in; torn between lashing out in furious anger and crumpling in on himself with unrelenting sorrow. He’d always been emotional like that. “Just go.”

“But--”

“I said GO!” He didn’t think about it as he hurled what remained of the glass into the nearby wall. The noise startled the other into a hasty retreat, the door barely flung shut as he disappeared from Murr’s life for good.

In the newfound quiet, Murr sat still. Slowly, he brought his knees up to his chest, chin settling atop them as his arms coiled around them like a snake. He didn’t cry. He didn’t yell. He didn’t work. He just sat there, willing his heartbeat to slow down, willing his eyes not to fill up, willing himself not to run back home to his parents now that his dream was almost within his grasp. They had too much faith in his ability to abandon the position he’d found himself in. Manager or not, he’d make his way in this district, and he’d do it despite all of the naysayers that expressed their doubt in him.

You can’t make it in Vide without a vider’s help, huro. Fuck that. I can do it.

After a few minutes to collect his bearings, hands no longer shaking, Murr slowly unfurled from his position on the floor, hands and knees climbed to as he searched for the pages his ex-manager had struck out of his grasp.

His heart sank when he was met something wet and soggy.

With mounting grief, the star slowly turned one of the sodden pages over. It fell to bits in his grasp, ink that had formed words now a blurred mess. He didn’t need to look at the others to know that they had all met a similar fate.

Tiredly, Murr sank back into his previous position, huddled in front of his dresser, the rosy light only touching the tips of his shoes; a black mark in the blushing light.

The show’s tomorrow morning. I’m screwed.

#🞮 — i think you're gonna be my biggest fan! ❜ ( murr. )#☆ — i never promised you your dream boy. ❜ ( main. )#☆ — i'm just here to destroy. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#/ JUST SOME DEETS ON ONE OF MURR'S PAST VENTURES!#AND HIS DICKHEAD OF A MANAGER AT THE TIME!#THSI IS THE FIRST PROPER THING I'VE WRITTEN IN A WHILE AYYY #might be gettin over that block!

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mutantsrisingrpg · 4 years

Photo

Congratulations JENN! You’ve been accepted as HYPERION.

Jenn, I’m so glad that we’re going to have Hyperion on the dash! I really enjoyed your writing style and the depth it brought to him. I was transported to the place where he grew up, and felt taken on such a journey that showed me where he is now. I can’t wait to see where you take him next, and I’m glad we’re all along for the ride!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Jenn

PRONOUNS: she/her, they/them.

AGE: 27

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CST. I am available to post on the weekends, and depending on energy levels, week days.

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Hyperion/Gerrard Bermudez

GENDER/PRONOUNS: he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

There’s something unrivaled in the brutality of hunger and thirst. It’s constant, a revolving door that doesn’t know where to find its close. It’s the original sin and the death sentence, competing for last place. It’s the wet, stone precipice before a bottomless fall and Gerrard walks it with a hand in his pocket and cigarette between his lips, a study on conceding just enough of oneself to hunger, and holding the rest at bay.

It always waits, preparing a cackle for when he falters.

The mediation isn’t out of any inherent moral uprightness. His neutrality isn’t peaceful, disengaged, and aloof; no, it’s far more the lack of motion on the chained dog’s leash. It’s control that exists because it has to, not because it wants to by nature.

Funny, isn’t it, that Hyperion is ‘the watcher above’— a titan who’s battle isn’t spoken of in the Titanomachy; perhaps it was something small in its scale. Perhaps hunger didn’t win that day, and history was allowed to take its course. Or perhaps his battle into Tartarus was regarded with a hush after he dared usurpers to hollow his bones and drag the power from his skin.

BIO: Mexico City was color. Unbridled, unrestricted, his first memories were of blazing colors and skulls that might as well have been neon lights. Their silence was rattling, eye sockets making dark pits to cute their contrast to the pinks, the oranges, the yellows—- to every tone that crept in to smile in the moonlight as the sun set on the dead’s day. He could remember marveling, he could remember crowds and makeup and the kind of sensory overload that was thrown into orbit by constantly changing music as he walked, weaving his way through bodies far larger than his. Something at the back of his find repelled it all, like a wild animal crossing something toxic, sidestepping the skull-in-crossbones the violent colors represented. All the more appropriate for the day. He could remember his sister, taking his hand and pulling him the moment panic started to seep in and scream that he was lost. Her timing was impeccable. It always was, accompanied by perfect words, the exact necessary moments to diffuse seconds before ignition. She’d pointed to a pair of twins, grinning as they moved in mirror to each other, their skin taking on the colors that dappled butterflies, arms echoing the beat of wings. His eyes grew wide, trying to drink in more than his eyes would allow, begging for comprehension he didn’t have. Their skin turned like a series of mosaics, one flipping and then the next as the patterns changed. Pesos were thrown around them in appreciation of their act, one that was other worldly and mutant to a boy who didn’t quite understand what that meant yet. He would see the pair the next year. And the year to follow. They became the main attraction amid the celebration, living works of art that surmounted a crowd. And then one year he could remember his head hitting the ground as he was pushed. He could remember the panic on his sister’s face as men approached. He could remember her standing between the cowering pair and the cartoon-like threats his blurry mind stylized. They bared down on the teenage girl, casting what seemed like impossibly long shadows like zebra stripes across her frame. Her hands were outstretched. He couldn’t make out her words, the ringing in his head too loud and all-encompassing, refusing to grant him moments of clarity among the clouds. He was old enough this time, old enough to see the confusion across their faces as their adrenaline stocked muscles found relaxation. They were taken by a haze of their own, stepping backwards, coaxed into submission by the way her words had reverberated in their minds, lulling them to stillness. He could remember not screaming her name fast enough when another group of men approached from behind. Her body hit the ground as fast as a trigger was pulled, and in discord, he was brought to his feet. A shattering, broken scream left him as his mind went blank. A year later he sat in a sanitary room, one that made his skin feel shallow from bleach, constructed of thick stone and rubber. The haze never seemed to leave, creating the same sort of cartoon, this time a storm cloud that existed between his ears. His eyes lulled shut for a few moments, head hanging forward until the sound of a thick barricade woke his senses from where they’d made their bed. A small, battery powered screen was slid in through slating, rubber casing of the door closing as soon as it was passed through. Slowly, he moved from his chair, feet giving their place to knees as he found himself crawling towards a playing video that made itself into a tune he knew. It was familiar. He didn’t touch it. He just peered down, watching a playback of those moments. The men. The twins. His sister. He wiped at his eyes as the tears welled. He watched her gentleness, watched the assisted diffusion, the kind that only pleased against violence, the kind that made no attempt to strike. He knew what was next in the sequence, and the gunshot still made him jump and wrenched a sob out of the boys frame, body shaking as the tremors of tears took hold. His own scream came next, and suddenly, his shaky breath caught; eyes widening as he watched the bolt of lightning contest the natural, arching upward into the sky. It expanded, like a deep breath was taken before it struck back down towards him. It collided with his body and splintered, shooting off in a shockwave that centered on his form. For a split second, he saw the men surrounding his sister drop to the ground. He couldn’t make it out, but the devices in their ears and across their bodies had overloaded, and they died in twitching heaps. Power collapsed as the wave pressed out around him, a stampede of energy that demanded its due. Darkness fell across the area, only candle flames remaining among the short circuiting flashes of cellphones before the camera recording lost its source like the rest, cutting off and leaving black and white fuzz behind. There was a void in his mind, the moments colored in with the worst crayons in the box, all shades of violent red and dangerous yellows. He curled into himself, letting tears take him, making a companion of the continual sound of that static. He could remember the first mistake they made. Rubber and stone didn’t conduct. Electricity found on travel through and across them, sent off like the free radicals that tore cells apart when left unattended. Their own curiosity sent them to the morgue. They like to shove nails under the skin and pry it away to see what was underneath. They found their victory in the crying boy on the stone floor, the one whose body sparked with frustration, draining itself without enough sympathetic energy around him. They’d come to bring the video again, anxious to watch him fold in on himself, to crumple into nothing. In the moments the rubber was peeled back, a veil was pulled back from his eyes, revealing the webbing that was electricity that ran rampant in the world outside his cube. Among them he found a string that dangled, a thread from the three Fates themselves that was dull and nearly lifeless. He reached for it and pulled. The pacemaker in the chest of the guard malfunctioned, spitting bursts of energy like an angry cat, sending the man into cardiac arrest. He clutched at his chest, words unfound, radio only silence. Gerrard’s arms passed through the slot they used to pass his food and likewise, their torture. He reached and felt for the crossbar he’d heard come down so many times, a heaving effort pushing it from its place. He remembered the sound of the door opening, a first in what could have been years. His escape was made in a fugue state, electronic locks overloaded, others like him released to pour from their cages, opportunities taken to strike out against hands that had taken such joy out of wrapping their hands around their throats. He disappeared that night. Chicago was the haven; it was an oasis, the closest thing to asylum for people like him. He met her when he was eighteen, and she didn’t turn him away. Instead, he’d been welcomed with arms he’d never felt before while she whispered in his ear: this was his home now. He could remember the first day in the city, hours upon hours of bus rides managing to bring him to the doorstep. He found shelter. He found food. He found others like him. Hyperion was born in Chicago; a thief to begin with that caught the eye of new family, one that found power in practice, and reminded him who had cast those long shadows and dropped his sister to the ground without a second thought. He learned, with those whispers in his ears, where to abandon petty theft for greater work. It spun the thunderstorms back to life in his skull, providing the static shock that started hurricanes and the kind of thinking that required payment for things that had been taken. Static was a constant itch that crawled under his skin, remnant energy from witches burned at the stake. There was a hefty debt, and Hyperion would, eventually, collect.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS: TIERNEY SINCLAIR, Thorn: Oh, Tierney. It’s a murmur, one that sounds coy and teasing in the way it floats and twists through the air, but it’s armed to the teeth, like knives in the dark that are only seen when they swing. Gerrard sees a mirror. And Gerrard does not like to share. EOIN DOUGHERTY, Customer: A dollar sign turned interest, one that, if coaxed in the right direction, could prove to be not just an asset but an investment. Hyperion is the one that watches over, and oh, does he watch this one closely for the opportunity he needs. KIARA MANDAL, Goal: Kiara is the twinkle at the back of his eye, the one that says that he’s up to nothing good; that he drags trouble with him. He finds Kiara to be…. Underutilized at best, and given the opportunity, he’d grab her wrist and pull her off the cliff with him to find what her potential really looks like.

EXTRA: “I’ll be there in a minute.” The presence behind him didn’t contest; he was left to his quiet, a dark silhouette against a bright interior. It was clinical, full of right angles and crisp edges even despite what was left upturned and in chaotic asymmetry as the lights above flashed once, then twice. They were electronic gasps, attempts to continue despite the way the damaged pathways frayed. He took a deep drag on a cigarette, the end taking a sympathetic coal breath along with the lights above, and suddenly they found their equilibrium. The lights held their connection, letting him look across the occasional smears of blood. Scattered ash. Rubble and the light, gentle dust it carried with it. Outside, there were sirens. They were like tiny pings to his radar, dots on the network his feeling stretched across, electric impulses firing back and forth among the vein like spindling that was a city like Chicago. He closed his eyes as he took another deep inhale, smoke filling lungs that screamed for the nicotine to keep the yapping of nerves away from his mind. He stretched out into it, a different plane of existence than most would tread. It was coursing energy, static made massive, interlinking at every step of a human existence. He followed the pathing, the comfort of surge sounds pulling a smile across his lips as he reached out, his finger wrapping in an electric thread the way someone would with the hair of a lover. He grasped and he pulled. The hospital dropped from the grid, leaving a hungry man satiated as he started his steps down the stairs; his feet never quite touched the ground, held aloft by the static of the storm surge that rippled across him, a downed powerline that learned to walk. – “Hype!” No response. “Hyperion!” He paused, steps stopping as he shrugged a jacket onto his shoulders. “Where are you going?” His eyebrows raised, amusement crossing his lips as he tilted his head to the side. “Incredible how that isn’t your business.” The response was met with a pout. “But what about your curfew? You’re going to get in trouble.” The side of his mouth twitched up further, pulling into something like a smirk that tried to pass as a smile as he reached out and tapped his questioner’s nose. “I hope so.” – Blood landed on the back of his hand, ejected by a cough. Energy zipped across him, skittering crackles, a lighting storm on the microcosm of his skin. The blood evaporated, hit with what might as well have been a laser, removed from its momentary existence with him. His knuckles weren’t beaten. No weapon in sight. Just him and his body, looking at the shape hunched against the wall. They weren’t battered. Purpling bruises didn’t cover their body. They sunk to the ground, eyes shut tight as they panted. A loan drip of blood found its way from the corner of their mouth, joining tracks with what tears had already left behind. “You’ll live.” His words were soft, almost reassuring in the way they landed. Perhaps they would have been were it not for the bouts of pain that had wracked them, leaving muscles sore and screaming from the way they’d been overloaded time and time again. They didn’t seem convinced, a shame. Hyperion crouched, looking at the other with eyes that liked to nit-pick. They clung to details, refusing to scoop in what they saw indiscriminately. He reached out a hand, making them flinch away instinctively. He followed nonetheless, fingers curving along their cheek as his thumb brushed to interrupt the teary path. “You’ll live. You will. And I want you to remember this. Can you do that?” The nod was almost immediate, a slight tremble through their skin. “If you remember, I don’t have to see you again.” They shook their head; no, god, please not again. His thumb brushed again and he leaned closer, holding their chin to make their eyes lock, no other choice found. His voice dropped low, a whisper with the edge of a growl. “I want you to remember whose fault this was. Because it wasn’t yours, and it wasn’t mine.” — A scream sent a number of pigeons dashing, response enough even if flight wasn’t taken. There was food to be found on the patio, under the cafe’s umbrella shielded tables, so the birds didn’t dare scatter too far despite the commotion. A woman clutched to her chest as her companion knelt on the ground beside her, crying out with panic in its purest form. “Help! She’s having a heart attack!” Phones were picked up along with audible gasps, 911 dialed as people gathered, useless as they stood and watched the scythe brought low, starting the process of cleaving the soul away. Gerrard turned in his chair, holding a small basket of fries. He snacked on one, a look of curiosity crossing him as he scanned the woman. His hand lifted slightly, fingers rubbing together as if disposing of the salt that clung to them. A slight spark occurred, like a generator spinning to life. Static hung in the air for a moment, and then another, as his eyes fell on the pin at the dying woman’s lapel. It was acrid in his mind, one that spoke to an agenda, one that saw mutants as beasts to cage. As the silence faded out, he picked up another fry, putting it to his lips, biting, chewing. All perfectly normal. And he watched the frantic electrical impulses, firing with no sense of syncope, and instead of letting it fade– letting the scythe swing— he rubbed his fingers together again, feeling his own heart skip to make hers struggle longer; just enough correction to let the pain ratchet through her. He watched, he ate his fries, and eventually he let her die.

#accepted #accepted: hyperion

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thorne93 · 6 years

Text

Helping Hand (Part 6)

Prompt: You’ve got a crush on Bucky, and Loki can’t help but notice you’re striking out - so he offers a helping hand.

Word Count: 2016

Warnings: language, adult content? (not smut)

Notes: I loved writing it, it was a blast. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did. Thanks to my two amazing beta’s @carryonmyswansong @fanaticfanfiction

Forever Tags: @cocosierra94 @essie1876 @magpiegirl80@letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @iamwarrenspeace @marvel-imagines-yes-please @superwholocked527 @missinstantgratification @thejemersoninferno @rda1989 @munlis @thefridgeismybestie @bubblyanarocks3 @random-fluffy-pink-unicorn @igiveupicantthinkofausername @kaliforniacoastalteens @feelmyroarrrr @kaeling @friendlyneighbourhoodweirdo @damalseer @heyitscam99 @yknott81 @sea040561

Bucky Barnes: @nedthegay @lostinspace33 @alwayshave-faith@elleatrixlestrange @ultrarebelheart @lenawiinchester @its-not-a-tulpaesoltis280

Loki Tags: @lostinspace33 @ultrarebelheart @lenawiinchester @esoltis280 @tngrayson

HH tag list: @sorryimacrapwriter @harrymewmew @mackievanstan-384imarockstar45 @hellkat2 @naniky @thebadassbitchqueen@learisa@anamcg317 @lost-moon-child96 @christy-winchester

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Loki, I can’t do this,” you stated as you paced in a panic in your bedroom.

“Calm down,” he instructed, his tone a bit harsh.

“I can’t! What if I mess up! I don’t think I’ve fully graduated this...this weird lesson you’re giving me,” you said, your hands going everywhere as you talked.

“I was afraid you’d have a meltdown like this,” Loki said with a sigh as he crossed the room and picked something up off your dresser and handed it to you.

It was the comms earpiece.

“Comms? But Loki, what...what are we going to do with this?” you asked curiously as you held the earpiece.

“The walking ego that is Tony Stark might be a total ass, but he does invent some handy tools. All we’re going to do is tune this to a private channel where I can relay to you what you should be saying.”

“Wow...Okay...And you think it’ll work? Won’t he see you or something?”

Loki shook his head. “No, I’ll change my form and blend in. I’ll sit nearby and be the little devil on your shoulder,” he assured with a wink.

-------------

A knock at your door signified that Bucky was ready to pick you up. Loki said he would wait down in the lobby and follow you two to the arena. This was of course after you had picked out an outfit of cute sandals, tight jeans, and a flattering blouse that buttoned at the perfect spot near your cleavage. Loki gave you two thumbs of approval after you completed the look with makeup and curling your hair slightly. It was a sports event after all, you didn’t want to overdo it.

“You look amazing,” Bucky stammered as his eyes trailed your body again, as they had the day he asked you out.

“Thanks. Just a little something I had in the back of my closet, you know,” you said with a wink.

A wink? Who the hell were you? Get it together Y/N, you scolded yourself.

“Well, ready to go?” he wondered, and you nodded as he stepped aside to let you walk in front of him to lead the way out of the building.

“Who’s playing?” you questioned curiously as the two of you got down to the lobby.

“The Rangers and the Senators,” he stated.

You gave a small nod. “Oh cool. Can’t wait.”

“Yeah? Most girls aren’t into sports, well not much anyway,” he noted as you stepped through the doors of the tower and out onto the sidewalk, before walking over to the subway and waiting for it.

“I’m full of surprises.” You were astounded at where this flirty vixen was coming from. Normally, by now, you would’ve laughed like an idiot and stammered at least three times. Maybe Loki’s teachings gave you more confidence than you thought. Maybe it was the outfit. The outfit did do half the talking for you, anyway. Bucky was hooked, you could tell that much, now you just had to keep it light and simple.

“You’re doing good,” Loki commented in your ear and you tried to sneak a look around to see where he was, failing.

“So you ever been to a game?” Bucky asked.

“Me? No. Well, not a hockey game. I’ve been to baseball and a basketball game, both sort of bored me,” you informed, trying to keep your answer concise.

“Very cool,” he noted before the two of you hopped onto the subway, chatting idly about work until you reached your stop, got out, made your way through the people of the city, and finally to the arena where he bought both of you tickets.

You two sat down at your seats and just as you were getting settled in, Bucky turned to you. “Oh, hey, I need to run to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing,” you said with a nod and he hopped up and ran off.

“Scared him away already, Y/N?” Loki said into your ear and you whipped your head all around, searching, before your eyes finally landed on him.

He was in an all black suit, his raven hair looked slick and styled meticulously. His jacket, pants, shirt, and tie all looked like the finest formal wear money could buy and it took everything in you not to drool and drop your jaw.

A little miffed though, you jumped up and ran up to him.

“What the hell are you doing? You didn’t change form, you just put on a suit!” you whispered angrily, hitting his arm.

“Oh calm down,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “He won’t notice me.”

“Well you aren’t exactly blending in! No one wears this to a hockey show!” you insisted.

“I’m not trying to blend in with these Midgardians,” he retorted, slightly offended. “I’m royalty,” he reminded you, with his chin raised haughtily.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay but don’t blow this for me!” you said, poking his arm before retreating back to your seat to await Bucky.

He finally got back and sat next to you, a wide grin on his face, warming you from the inside.

“So you like hockey?” he wondered.

“Do something non committal,” Loki answered in your ear, and you gave a half shrug.

“Meh,” you answered, your eyes going to the ice where the players were about to enter.

While you were trying to act cool and casual in front of Bucky, Loki was dealing with a drunken fan who was sloshing his beer around and nearly falling over him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Loki demanded of the person who was bothering him.

“What the hell are you doing?” you repeated, confused as to why you needed to say that.

Bucky turned back to you, lowering his hand as a man with concessions came over. “I was getting us popcorn. Do you not like popcorn or...?”

Realizing you needed to save yourself quickly, you came up with a random lie. “Oh, no, I just...I thought you were getting a hot dog and I’m not a fan of those,” you tried, hoping that was enough to cover your embarrassment.

“Okay, you recovered some of your dignity from that catastrophe,” Loki remarked and you scowled. It was his fault he screwed you up in the first place. “Now, let's make him really forget it. Eat the popcorn seductively.”

You frowned deeply, looking at no one as you quietly asked, “How?”

“Slowly put it in your mouth…” he urged, trying to add an undercurrent of innuendo.

Rolling your eyes but giving it a whirl, you gave Bucky your best flirty smile, took a few kernels from the bag of popcorn in his lap, holding eye contact as you slowly popped them onto your tongue. At first, it worked, the first two kernels went down just fine and it seemed to intrigue your date how your tongue danced around. But then the third kernel seemed to get stuck, causing you to go into a coughing fit, which made you hit his coke, sending the dark liquid all over Bucky and some on yourself.

He jumped at the sudden cold and stickiness, a little disgusted by it.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you apologized.

“Uh, no problem,” he assured.

“I--I--I’m going to run to the bathroom to clean up. I’ll be right back,” you informed as you jumped up and jogged away from the mortifying scene.

Shaking your head with a red face, you grabbed some paper towels and wetted them, trying to clean up your mess on your jeans and corner of your blouse. All the while, cursing Loki, yourself, this stupid bet, and your lack of flirting skills. How clumsy could one person be? After five minutes, it was as good as it was going to get, so you took a deep breath and left the bathroom.

Just as you exited the restroom, Loki was standing there, like a brick wall that you nearly ran into.

“What the hell was that?!” you demanded, pushing your index finger into his chest, while he pocketed his fists.

Loki seemed amused though as he simply answered, “I never told you to drown the poor man in cola.”

“Who the hell told you popcorn could be eaten seductively?” you questioned, eyeing him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Who taught you how to eat?” he bit back with raised eyebrows.

“This is a disaster. We should just end this,” you groaned as you leaned against the wall. “Look at me, I’m a total mess. I look like shit now, and I’ve made a huge ass of myself.”

Loki shook his head and closed his eyes, pulling one hand out to mimic a “calm down” motion.

“Just wait. I saw him go to the restroom, if he comes out and wants to go back to the game, he likes you. If he says he wants to go home, we’ll end this.”

Sighing, you shrugged. “Fine, might as well let him turn me down to my face,” you replied sardonically as you crossed your arms and leaned against the wall between the bathrooms.

“I’m going to disappear,” he informed you, and you were about to respond when he suddenly did in fact disappear.

“Loki! Loki!” you called in a hushed whisper. “Loki!”

“Hush. I’m back in my chair,” he replied in your ear.

“What? How?--”

“Y/N?” Bucky sounded behind you, making you whirl around.

“Oh, hey,” you greeted. “I’m so sorry, again. I’ll pay to have your clothes dry cleaned or whatever,” you ensured, nervous now that you completely blew any and all chance of being with him.

He waved it off. “No, it’s cool,” he assured. “It’s just clothes. They’ll wash out. Want to get back to the game?”

You couldn’t help the stupid giddy grin that came over your face. “Yeah, I’d really like that,” you sweetly said.

“We can order another coke too, to replace the one you dumped on me, just try to keep it in the cup this time, okay?” he asked and you laughed as the two of you took your seats to enjoy the rest of the game.

----------------------------

Bucky and you finally made your way back to the tower. As he was walking you to your door, he finally spoke up..

“You’re not like most women I’ve met..”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you simply said.

He turned to you in the hall. “No, no. That’s a good thing. It’s refreshing. Usually I have girls all figured out within five seconds. I thought I had you all figured out.”

You blushed and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“He’s a complete moron. I had you figured out in two,” Loki droned into your ear, and you made a strange expression for a brief moment. “Alright, moment of truth. Stick out your chest and tell him goodnight.”

Giving a slight nod, you took in big breath of air to puff out your chest. “Well goodnight,” you said as you started to spin around and go to your door.

Only a second after you had turned away from him, Bucky had grabbed your arm and pulled you quickly into his arms, his mouth finding yours instantly. His lips were warm and wanting, pulling your lip into his mouth. Your tongue glided along his bottom lip, ready to taste him. Fireworks erupted inside you as his arms slid around your body.

At the perfect moment, the kiss ended, enough to keep it sweet and simple, but enough to leave you wanting more. He gave you a sweet smile and bid you goodnight as he walked towards his wing of the tower, while Loki hid back out of sight.

When Bucky was completely gone, you ran to Loki and hugged him, excited beyond words.

“You did it! You actually did it!” you cheered.

“Well don’t seem too surprised, dear,” he stated. “But I do think the soldier actually likes you.”

“He’s great, right?” you asked, ecstatic.

“He’s...he sure is something,” Loki noted before you told him goodnight.

#helping hand #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #loki #loki odinson #loki fic #loki x reader

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thorne93 · 6 years

Text

The Right Path (Part 1)

Prompt: (From request) Hi! I was wondering, would you it be okay to request a Charles Xavier x telepath!reader? Where they have a mind link since their ability first showed up and so they already know each other even before theyve actually met and then he finds her when he first uses Cerebo and he and Erik go to her first?? Its an idea ive had for a while, but im not nearly an amazing writer like you!

Word Count: 1903

Warning: language (maybe??), child abuse, mental and physical abuse, depression…

Note: I LOVED this request. Thank you for sending it in. I am so sorry it took so long to write. I hope I did it justice dear. Plus, thank you for the super sweet note ; ) Beta’d by none other than @like-a-bag-of-potatoes

Forever Tags: @capsmuscles @cocosierra94 @essie1876 @magpiegirl80 @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @harleyquinnandscarletwitch @iamwarrenspeace @marvel-imagines-yes-please @superwholocked527 @myparadise1982sand @missinstantgratification @thejemersoninferno @rda1989 @marvelloushamilton @munlis @thefridgeismybestie @bubblyanarocks3 @random-fluffy-pink-unicorn @hardcollectionworldtrash @igiveupicantthinkofausername @kaliforniacoastalteens @feelmyroarrrr @kaeling

James McAvoy: @bohemianrhapsody86 @lenawiinchester

Charles Xavier: @bohemianrhapsody86 @lenawiinchester

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Comical. That was the word Charles Xavier would use to describe the dream he had the night before. There were several figures, some with faces, some that seemed blurry. But he didn’t recognize any of them, a single one, or the places he went in the dream. Everything about it was absurd. He was flying in a grocery store, and the car he went to in the dream turned into a metal dragon.

Preposterous.

But something ate at him…The dream didn’t feel like it was his. He felt…alien…invasive. Perhaps his powers were acting up in his sleep, he thought. So over breakfast, he asked his oldest friend and nearly a sister, Raven, if she had any dreams last night.

“No, why?” she asked as she leaned over a cup of coffee, her elbows on the table while steam rose from her mug.

“I had a dream or…I saw a dream, I’m not entirely sure,” Charles confessed as he frowned down at the island in the kitchen.

“Your mind playing tricks on you?” Raven teased as she smiled before taking a sip of the hot beverage. Charles offered a fleeting smile as a response, but was entirely too obsessed with this.

The next night, another dream happened. Again, he recognized no one, no places, not the voices - none of it. How could this be? Sure, he could read minds, even put thoughts in minds, even make himself seemingly appear, and stop time…But he never had his unconscious mind seek out other minds. This was new.

A week or so went by and only one or two more dreams came to him that he could tell weren’t his. He could tell which ones were. The ones about a thesis in his future that he would undoubtedly fret over, the ones about worrying about getting into graduate school, the ones about his parents, the ones with Raven…But never these strange and mysterious dreams of things he knew nothing about.

He decided to experiment.

One Friday night when he didn’t have to be anywhere the next morning, he stayed up. He sat up in his chair in his room all night, waiting for the dream to hit his mind, to ebb at his consciousness.

When it actually worked, he thought he would shout in success, but instead of possibly ruining this, he remained calm and kept his mind relaxed. It wasn’t his dream. Like all dreams, it started in the middle of a story. Someone, a woman, well a young woman, was walking through a house, Charles tried to walk towards her in her mind, but so far he was an observer. Until she looked at him, and then the dream stopped. His eyes flew open with exhilaration. It wasn’t much, but it was progress…

——————-

Your dreams were always weird, sure. You dreamed of zombies, libraries, flying, buying cars you couldn’t afford. If it was outlandish, you dreamt it. The sky was the limit.

But lately, a mysterious, handsome man was appearing in your dreams. You’d never seen him before. At least, you didn’t think you had. You thought you would remember that chestnut hair, striking blue eyes, and creamy complexion. He was stunning. But why were you dreaming of him? Everyone else in your dream seemed…irrelevant, except him. He seemed to always stand out like a beacon.

Over the course of a few weeks it went from him just appearing, to him trying to talk to you but it seemed every time he tried to talk to you, the dream ended or shifted and he disappeared. At first you thought nothing of it, but then it started to be more and more irritating. But soon, the mysterious dream man was the last thing on your mind as life got worse for you.

You suppose you were seventeen when it started. The voices, that is. The first occurrence was at home, at dinner. Your mom was grabbing more napkins when you heard her say, “I wish Edwin would help out more.”

“He’s had a rough day at work,” you responded, trying to defend your father as you stabbed at your green beans.

Your mom spun from the sink where she stood.

“Who has?” she asked and you looked up in confusion to meet two pairs of equally perplexed eyes.

“Uh, Dad,” you answered uncertainly. “Didn’t you just say you wished he would help out more?”

That’s when a look of pure horror lashed across your mother’s face, clashing with her perfect curls, makeup, and strand of pearls.

“No…No I didn’t say that,” she retorted, staring down at you as if you’d just kicked the dog and told your teacher were to shove it. You slunk away from the expression on her face. “What kind of a person can do that?” she thought. You knew she was thinking it because she was looking straight at you, not moving her mouth, yet you heard her voice in your head.

Your father frowned at you, peering at you as if you’d grown several heads.

“What kind of demonic power is this?” he thought as his eyes bored holes into your very soul .

“Mom, Dad…please…” you begged suddenly, tears pricking your eyes as your heart started to race. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you claimed as you looked up at them, pleading in your eyes.

“Now, that’s close enough,” your mother warned as she scooted along the counter, away from you, and your father got up to join her. Their faces told you everything, you didn’t even have to listen to their thoughts to sort it out for yourself that they were afraid of you, scared of you…starting to resent you.

“Mom?” you said, reaching towards her in fear.

“You just…you stay over there,” she warned.

“We’ll have no black magic Satanic worshiping in this house young lady!” your father bellowed as he went over to you and grabbed your arm and pulled you to the bathroom.

“No! Dad! No! Please!” you screamed as you fought him but he was double your size and strength.

He forced you into the bathroom, whipped off his belt, and asked, “Are you consorting with the Devil?” he asked.

“No!” you insisted, your cheeks red and hot and wet from all the crying you were doing as you gripped the sink.

“Liar!” he accused as he folded the belt in half, pulled his arm back, and slapped the leather material against your behind and upper thighs. “Ten for every prayer you should say for working with Satan.”

Whack…Whack…Whack.

Each slap stung worse than the last, as the leather cracked around your tender skin and caught your dress.

When he was done, you were drug up to your room and told to stay there until you could be a good child again. You wept into your pillow for hours and hours.

From there, things only got worse…

At school, you thought it would be a handy tool to have to read people’s minds. Just read the teacher’s minds or the student’s minds for answers to things you didn’t know. If this…ability was going to come on without your permission and there was no way to control or stop the ever constant stream of voices in your head, you could at least try to sort through the noise to help you, right?

Wrong…So very, very wrong you were.

Instead of helping you, you now heard what people really thought of you. Your best friends secretly pitied you. Strangers in the halls sneered at your clothing, your intelligence was either mocked or people were highly jealous of it, teachers thought you were too bright for a woman. Boys thought lude things about you as they eyed you and talked to you. Nothing was sacred. You heard judgement, jealousy, hatred, and lust from every corner of the school. It wasn’t like what you thought it would be at all.

Naturally, you distanced yourself from friends, companions, anyone. Your family feared you and when you came home, there was a plate of food for you, wrapped up on the table, that you were to take to your room. This was the routine every night. Your parents thought if you weren’t near them you couldn’t hear their thoughts, but they were mistaken. You could hear them just as clearly as if you were talking to them in the same room. They wanted nothing to do with you. Every so often, your father would ask you if you could hear thoughts again, and since you were raised to not lie, you would tell him the truth, resulting in another whipping.

Without family to enjoy time around, friends to socialize with, you receded into your own mind…rather ironic since you could literally jump from mind to mind. But you didn’t want to. You wanted nothing to do with the negativity, the darkness, the cruelty of your peers. So you focused on your studies, it was all you had left. You were a fairly good student before this…ability took over your life, but now it was your only companion.

Until the mysterious dream man started to appear again several months after the first few occurrences.

He stopped trying to talk to you, instead, he would hold up signs.

“I’m Charles Xavier,” he introduced on one night, holding a sign. You went to say hello but you couldn’t. Unfortunately for you, you could not lucid dream, and it seemed any sort of direct contact between you two always upset the course of the dream.

A week later, he held up a sign that said, “What’s your name?” But you still could not answer him. Try and try as you might, the dream world would do what it wanted and your bizarre dreams would still happen on the same course they were intended to go on.

Two weeks later, he held up a sign saying he was twenty-one. Only four years older than you, now that you had turned eighteen. It was still very unnerving. Was this man real? Was he just something your mind made up? Was he a fragment of someone else’s mind that you had picked up on and your mind was manifesting him into some dream character? If that were the case, then why did he show up without fail as the most predominant feature of your dream, when he did show up? It would seem like if he were just part of another dream, he would be like all your other dreams, where certain people were there sometimes, then other times they weren’t. But he seemed to show up rather often, and every time every feature of him was so real, as if he were standing right in front of you. Most of the time in your dreams you couldn’t feel, smell, or sense things. But him, he was tangible. In the dream you could feel his presence, smell his cologne, see his stubble, if he had it. After a few more instances of him appearing in your dreams, you realized this only happened on Friday or Saturday…You weren’t sure why. You tried to figure out why he only seemed to show up on weekends. There didn’t seem to be a logical explanation for that.

But nothing was logical, was it? Not when it came to what you were capable of.

#the right path #charles xavier #charles xavier fic #charles xavier x reader

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