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watermelonlovershigh · 3 years

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Harry's Daughter Rose Get's Sick on the One Direction Tour Bus (singledad!harry)

AN: so i turned this Single Dad Harry & His Daughter Rose (journey through life) into a series where i'll write blurbs and maybe a one shot here and there. people seem to love this story so i'm happy to write for it.

This story contains: puking, child crying, comfort

{ singledad!harry - Prince Harry (2014 ish) - Rose age 2 }

word count: 1104

Rose wakes up sick to her little tummy on the One Direction tour bus and Harry cleans her up and all his bandmates help him out and clean up the mess she made with her sick.

On the tour bus, Harry and Rose usually shared a bunk. She's so small that it isn't a big issue. But tonight, Rose was attached to Niall. She fell asleep on Niall's chest when her bedtime rolled around and when they tried to move her, she's just start whining and crying. So Niall told Harry that Rose could just sleep with him in his bunk for the night and Harry agreed.

Harry did think it was weird that Rose had been cranky through-out the day, but didn't put too much thought into it. She is going through her terrible two's after all. But when he's suddenly being woken up by a loud scream coming from Niall's bunk, her moodiness correlating to her terrible two's goes flying out the window. Something else is wrong.

Harry is quick to jump from his bunk and barley has time to let his eyes adjust to the lights before Niall screams, "Harry, oh God. Come ere'." Thinking Rose might be seriously hurt or worse, Harry paces to Niall's bunk and immediately is hit with the stench of vomit. Then he sees Niall gagging into his bare arm. Getting a closer look, Harry sees puke all over Niall's sheets and running down his left arm.

As soon as Rose sees her daddy, she screams a heartbreaking cry, "Daddy, daddy, daddy." making grabby hands. Harry's little girl is covered in her own sick and shook up from the entire experience presumably.

Without second thoughts, Harry reaches into Niall's bunk and lifts up Rose, not caring if he gets covered in throw up. "Shh my love, you alright? Was your tummy just hurting?" he soothingly asks his daughter, but she just tries to burry herself deeper into her daddy's body and wails a loud cry that has Louis, Liam, and Zayn awaking and coming out their bunks to see the commotion.

"Mate, why is she crying for?" Louis asks in a Donny accent but soon sees the scene in front of him and realizes Rose has just been sick.

When Liam sees what's happening, he's quick to say, "Harry, take her to the toilet (the bathroom) and I'll clean up her vomit." Liam has always been the responsible one and the one who does the jobs no one else is willing to do, so cleaning up a bit of sick isn't a problem for him. He's cleaned all of his bandmates sick at some point or another so he can handle a two year olds puke without any problems.

Zayn on the other hand is quick to get back into his bunk, not being able to handle throw up. Just like Niall except Niall got unlucky and was the one who got puked on. That's why Louis goes over to Niall and is trying to comfort him because he's trying not to be sick himself.

Harry walks into the mini bus bathroom holding Rose to his chest and shuts the door, giving them a bit of privacy. He tries to set her on the top of the counter but she refuses, grasping tightly around his neck. "Baby, is your tummy still hurting? I need to know so I can help you."

Rose lifts her head from Harry's shoulder and mumbles, "Yeah, it wrilly hurts daddy." Harry takes that as a sign to go in front of the toilet and kneel down, holding Rose over the bowl. She lets out a few grunting gags before expelling more puke out her tiny mouth. Harry winces at the sight because he hates to see his daughters so sick. It breaks his heart.

Out of the bathroom, Louis has helped Niall clean the vomit off his arm and side, in the mini kitchen on the bus. And Liam has striped Niall's sheets and disinfected the walls and what puke that got on the floor. Zayn is laying in his bunk on his phone, trying to distract himself from what's happening around him.

Rose finally stops throwing up and Harry strips her clothes off, as well as his own (he left his boxers on), and stepped into the buses shower. He cleans them off and removes all puke that got on their bodies. The whole time, Rose wouldn't let go of her daddy. Almost as if he would disappear any second which is far from the truth.

Liam brings them two towels and searches through Roses' luggage to find her some clean sleep ware. He also brings Harry some dry boxers and has managed to put new sheets on Niall's bed. By the time Harry and Rose leave the bus bathroom all fresh and clean, everyone else was settling back into their designated bunks, ready to resume their sleep.

When Harry approaches his bunk, he sees where Liam was kind enough to leave a bucket on the floor beside his bed incase Rose needed to be sick again. Harry slips into his bunk with his daughter Rose to his chest, and holds her into his body heat. Her eyes slowly shuts by the seconds that pass.

When fully laying back down, Harry whispers to his baby girl, "If your tummy starts hurting again, please tell daddy alright. I have a bucket you can use. I love you my darling."

She mutters back, "Wove you." not being able to pronounce her L's very well. Harry gives her wet, clean curls a kiss and rubs his hand over her bony back, hoping to help her fall asleep easier. The covers are pulled up over their bodies and her tiny face is stuffed into Harry's shoulder length, damp hair.

The next day when they awoke, Rose was fine and they never figured out why she got sick in the night. Harry thanked his bandmates and friends for helping out with his daughter because he knows for a fact he wouldn't be able to have done it alone. Single parenting is hard, but even harder when you're on a tour bus and traveling all the time. They always step in and help with Rose when needed and he couldn't me more grateful for the people in his life.

(just edited this at 2 am so sorry for mistakes. this is my last fic before i leave my house to evaluate for the hurricane, so peace out and enjoy)

Masterlist (regular smut, fluff & sicfics)

My Favorite Harry Styles Fics MASTERLIST

Harry Styles Series One Shots Masterlist (for my one shots that go with a series universe)

Harry Styles blurbs, concepts, & short stories Masterlist- (short writing with little to no dialog)

#harry styles #harrystyles #harry styles blurb #singledad!harry #one direction #niall horan #louis tomlinson #liam payne #zayn #one direction tour bus #harry and rose #harry styles series #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles sicfic #sicfic #fluff

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fandomwriterstuff · 3 years

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My Spotify Playlist (Pt. 1)

Rick Flag x Reader

Rated T (so far)

~2.5k words

Part 2

Rick was just another boy you liked in high school. But your lives take very different paths. This is the story of how two people are brought together by a mutual love of curated Spotify playlists. Oh, and the story of how an innocent girl got thrown in metahuman prison.

… sometime during your sophomore year of high school…

You were watching a football game with your best friend, Sarah, a girl nearly loud and obnoxious enough to match your extreme level of quiet introversion. She’d convinced you to come, her boyfriend was playing and so was your crush. He was a senior and you were a sophomore so he’d never go for you, but you could always dream. You had your earbuds in, twirling the cord around your fingers as you listened to your favorite playlist to listen to over sports games (it was called ‘sports, go sports!’ and it was filled with mellow low-key vibes to counteract the chanting crowd and lack of personal space).

“Come on, Bunny! Rick’s about to score a touchdown!” Sarah screeched in your ear and you pulled out one earbud, tugged your school-colored beanie over your ears and searched the field for the most handsome boy you’d ever seen. Rick Flag. He made you want to swoon and flutter a fan in your face like some romance book heroine. The best you could do was smile softly at him and tuck your hair behind your ear shyly. You watched, enraptured, as he broke away from the other team and ran straight towards the end zone, unchallenged. A moment later the stands were shaking from the other students jumping up and down, and you shouted with them. You couldn’t help feeling the little spark of pride at the display of school spirit. You also couldn’t help the fluttering of your little rabbit heart when Rick turned to the stands with the brightest smile you’d ever seen. It was his senior Homecoming game, so he should be proud.

Your school wiped the floor with the other team, getting another couple touchdowns and field goals. As the stands were emptying, Sarah grabbed your hand and pulled you over to the side of the field where she started calling her boyfriend to come over. You liked him enough, he was a nice guy and didn’t mind how quiet you were. You tucked both of your earbuds back into your ears, listening at a low volume so you could still hear the conversation.

What you didn’t see as you brushed your hair behind your ear and tugged at your soccer hoodie (the only piece of school apparel you owned), was that Sarah’s boyfriend was coming over with Rick in tow.

“Hey babe!” He exclaimed when he reached Sarah, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Wasn’t Rick the man tonight?” He asked Sarah, but Rick had already turned to you.

“Hey, Bunny,” you looked up at him, your school nickname sounding like music exiting his lips.

“Hey, Rick,” you smiled up at him. For someone who was seventeen going on eighteen, he had really filled out. His shoulders were broad and his jaw was defined and you just wanted to wrap yourself up in him.

“Whatcha listening to?” He asked, pointing to one of your earbuds. You pulled it out and placed it into his waiting hand.

“It’s Sunday Morning by the Velvet Underground. Part of my sports playlist,” you spoke as he tucked the earbud into his ear, leaning down close to you so he wouldn’t pull your earbud out in the process. He listened for a moment before smiling that megawatt smile at you.

“This is really nice. Spotify?” He asked and you nodded before he handed the earbud back to you. “Can I follow you on it? I dunno how something that mellow fits into a sports playlist but I liked it,” you were trying not to panic or stumble or stutter, Rick’s eyes were on you and so were Sarah’s as you nodded and pulled your phone out to give him your username.

After he followed you, him and Sarah’s boyfriend bid their goodbyes, they had to meet with the team and the coach.

“Oh em gee,” Sarah squealed when the two of you were alone and on the way home. “Rick Flag is so totally into you!” She shouted into the car as you winced.

“I don’t think so. He’s just a nice guy,” you muttered, looking out into the dark night.

“Bullshit, Bunny. You should make a move on him before he graduates, maybe he’ll take you to prom,” she shrugged. “It could happen.”

It didn’t happen. In December that year you got into a car crash. You went to the hospital, had to be studied for abnormal brain waves, and came out with a genetic mutation that gave you superhuman agility and the ability to throw seismic energy out of your hands. Your parents pulled you out of school and moved you to New York to study with other kids like you.

Sarah’s parents were secretly anti-mutant protesters so she wasn’t allowed to contact you anymore. You were alone.

Except for sometimes, you could see what Rick was listening to on Spotify. He’d followed all of your playlists and would sometimes listen to them. It made you feel like you still had a little bit of home.

… some years later ...

When you were more in control of your new powers, you were allowed to get a Facebook to try and reconnect with your old school friends. You were nineteen when you found Rick Flag on Facebook. You weren’t terribly shocked to see he’d joined the Army. You sent him a friend request, but you weren’t sure if he even knew your real name. Everyone at your old school called you Bunny. Everyone here called you by your name. You almost missed the normalcy of high school nicknames.

But those last few years… They were hard on you. You had to learn a lot of hard lessons about mutant rights and the fear your parents held. Not fear for you. It was fear of you. They were afraid you’d hurt them.

It all made you so overwhelmed, you felt so helpless. You created a new Spotify playlist. This one was called ‘anxiety attack at 4 am’ because you thought it was funny. You ended up stalking Sarah on Facebook and deleted the app because it was giving you too much stress. You forgot all about Rick and Sarah. You didn’t want to think about what could have been.

You were twenty-one when you ran off. You hated the north. It was cold, the people were cold and always rushing, and it had never felt like home. You stole all the cash your parents had stashed in the house and took buses all the way down to Mississippi. That’s where you got caught. Your parents thought you were dangerous and when you ran off, they put out a missing dangerous mutant report. You scowled when you saw the cops come at you. You’d trained enough to know how to get away without hurting anyone but… You looked down at your feet, fighting back the tears as the moment took you back to all of those years ago. You were afraid. Your parents' car crash hadn’t killed any of you but the impact on your head had released some genetic code in your brain that had been blocking your mutation. When someone in the hospital tried to help you, you accidentally threw a shockwave at them and threw them through a door. You were so afraid when you got to the mutant school. You weren’t used to getting any attention, good or bad.

So when the cops came at you with guns, you panicked. You loosened your power-dampening wrist braces and threw a shockwave into the ground that shook the earth and jostled their cars. It was enough to scare them so you could run away.

You were twenty four, living off the grid in a swamp community. You hadn’t used your powers in years, but one of the kids in the community had come down with something and it was your turn to go out into town. You’d gone into town a million times, it should have been like every other trip. You’d get the boy to the doctor, pay them, and get back to the community.

But you were spotted by a cop, someone who clearly had a mental memory of all missing persons who’d been seen in Mississippi. You shoved the boy behind a car and held your hands out in front of you.

“Please,” you pleaded as he pointed his gun at you. “I don’t mean any trouble.”

“That’s what they all say,” he grunted and shot you, the pain of it embedding in your thigh was blinding. You fell to your knees with a cry and let out a shockwave that dug a crater around you. The cop flew back, but backup had come.

You struggled onto your feet and tried to drag yourself away, blood seeping out and staining your jeans.

You’d crawled to the edge of the crater, but you looked up to see another cop swing his baton at your head.

… several hours later …

“Hey! What are you doing?” You shouted as two men clamped an electric collar around your neck. You'd just woken up and were panicking.

“Don’t struggle. It’s just a power dampener so you won’t hurt us,” one of the cops spoke almost kindly to you.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” You wailed, panic rising up in your throat and tears welling in your eyes. “Please, there’s a boy who’s sick. I was only in town to take him to a doctor, please!” You screamed, but all the breath left your body when you were struck with a baton right on your leg where you’d been shot. You looked down though, they must have cleaned you up because your leg was bandaged. “Please,” you cried, but every time you opened your mouth another blow came at your ribs, your shoulders, your leg, your hands.

“Hey!” There was a shout from a distance away, but you were crumpled on the ground, metal collar around your neck like a dog. “What are you doing?”

“She was acting out,” one of the men called back, and you looked up, eyes blurry with tears as a man approached.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you cried again, hoping this was someone with some sort of conscience. “I don’t know where I am or why,” you were panting and the man crouched down to your level.

“You’re at Belle Reve Penitentiary. It’s for metahuman criminals,” his voice was low and calm, but you let out a wail at his words.

“I didn’t do anything! I was trying to get a boy to the doctor!” You screamed, anger rising up within you, surpassing the panic and anxiety. But that was shot down when one of the men kicked at your bruised ribs. You moaned pitifully, laying down on the ground and closing your eyes. Maybe it was best to accept your fate.

“I’ll look into your case. But for now, you’re coming with me,” you opened your eyes to see the man holding a hand out to you. He didn’t look convinced, but he did look… Familiar. You gingerly reached your bruised fingers out to him and he frowned at your black and blue appendages. “This isn’t how we treat prisoners,” he scowled at the other men and wrapped your arm around his shoulders, helping to support you as you limped towards the big building.

Well, you thought. Maybe if I cooperate he won’t hit me.

You looked down at your white t-shirt, but it was covered in blood. You frowned, but then the throbbing in your face made sense. They must have made your nose bleed. You brought your unoccupied hand up to your face, and came away bloody. You must be covered in it. It all seemed so surreal at the moment… You let out a giggle. It hurt, but you couldn’t help it. But it was followed by the waterworks.

“You… alright?” The familiar man asked strangely and you sniffled, wiping at your face and accidentally smudging the blood even more. You were probably unrecognizable anyway, so even if you did know him, he might not recognize you.

“I’ve never been arrested before. I never even got detention,” you whimpered and he frowned down at you as you made your way inside. But you stopped short. You looked up at him with wide eyes. “I left that boy in town. He needs a hospital,” your frantic eyes looked wild, set in your bloodied face, but you gave the man the boy’s first and last name and the name of the community you had been living in. “Please.”

“I’ll look into it,” he sighed before bringing you to a holding cell. “You’re going to wait here until you get processed. Don’t struggle, and don’t start any fights,” and with that, he left you.

You sat there alone for quite some time, bleeding through the bandage on your leg and out of your nose and mouth.

“What's your name?” A smartly dressed dark-skinned woman finally came over to you and you gave your first and last name to her. You were trying to make yourself look smaller, it wasn’t that hard to be honest. You were small, and you were used to going unnoticed whether it be in school or hiding from the authorities.

“Abilities?” Your eyes narrowed. The man had said this was a penitentiary for metahumans. But, you were trying to be cooperative. You wanted to get out of here.

“Superhuman agility,” you muttered before looking down at the dried blood on your hands. “And I can throw seismic waves with my hands.” The woman nodded and wrote that down, showing no emotion.

“We’ll get you cleaned up and put you in the general population until we figure your case out,” she signaled for two guards to come over. One opened the cell and the other grasped your arm and led you to a medical room where a tired-looking doctor set your nose and cleaned the blood from your face and hands. He also rebandaged your leg. But there was not much to be done about your stained clothes. Unfortunately, it was all your own blood, and you were starting to feel lightheaded. You were hoping you could sit down soon.

You were told you would get a tour the next day and were sent to a cell with two twin beds cemented into the wall. You shrugged. This must be what prison was like. Everything could be a weapon.

“Oooh! A roommate!” You whipped around, dizzying yourself in the process as you took in your new roommate. She was gorgeous, enough so that you immediately felt a flush coming up on your cheeks and arousal building in your body. It had been a while since you could feel anything for anyone. You were hiding and running and hiding and running and… Yeah you get it. “What’s your name, Sugar?”

“Y/N,” You smiled weakly. “But everyone calls me Bunny.”

“Bunny, that’s appropriate,” she cocked her head with a big grin. “Cute and tiny, just like you!” You blushed harder, but she passed by you and threw herself onto one of the beds.

“Doctor Harleen Quinzel at your service,” she turned her head and winked at you. “But everyone calls me Harley.”

#rick flag imagine #rick flag x you #rick flag imagines #rick flag x reader #rick flag #dceu fanfiction #the suicide squad x reader #the suicide squad fanfiction #metahuman reader #mutant reader #belle reve #the suicide squad #harleen quinzel #harley quinn

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scary-lasagna · 4 years

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Trust || Part VI

" Finally meeting the eyes of your soon-to-be murderer, you realized he was crying again. Fuck him, he deserves to cry, wail, scream, after what he's done to you.

You can't rip a flower out of the ground and expect it to grow in acid.

With a final reassuring squeeze, Hoodie let go."

Yandere!Hoodie/Brian x Reader

* * *

A month later and things haven't gotten any better than when you first arrived. Hoodie just keeps growing more violent and possessive my the minute. You really don't know how much longer you'll survive here from either dying from Hoodie's leather-gloved hand or by your own.

Hoodie leaves on most nights, which would be delightful in planning a route of escape. But it's hard to do so when you're locked in the windowless bedroom.

All you're left to do for the night is look at your picture of your previous life, contemplate your situation, plan his murder, and scan over a few books Hoodie found for you.

This could all change if you only said, "I love you." To him.

Which you weren't, but you were thankful to know that's an option in case you were nearing death by his hand.

It was late night, and thunder rumbled over the depths of the cellar. It must be going to rain soon. Hoodie was still gone, he didn't know when he'd be back. But you know he'll get caught in the rain if he doesn't get home before morning.

And you'll be charged with the task of drying his hair.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the magazine down and pushing yourself off of the bed. Hoodie got you a more qualified mattress to sleep on, along with a bedspread and blankets that kept the damp air off of you. But sometimes you just needed an open window or a fan.

Neither of which Hoodie has provided. A window means a chance of escape, not that he could just give you one anyways, it was a brick-lined basement. And a fan deems a possible weapon to hit him over the head with.

Oh, how you longed to do that. Even if he killed you, it would be so satisfying to watch him stumble with a yelp, clutching the back of his dirty blonde locks.

You shuffled around your room, sifting through drawers and pulling out wrapped clothing. You've been working on making a shank out of a shard of tile you found in the kitchen, and literally anything else you could find. You've only got a rubber band and a few pieces of tape to hold the fabric around the ceramic. It's not much, but it's your only form of protection.

But your plan to craft was cut short by the cellar door rattling. You stuffed the tile inside a few socks before shoving the drawer closed.

"Hoodie?" You called out, pushing yourself off of the ground to stand in front of your door.

"What? You hungry? You're supposed to be sleeping." Footsteps gradually made their way towards the other side of the door, followed by a series of mechanical clicks.

"I'm not tired." You looked up at the mask when the door open, which you cautiously took off. He was sweaty, and very gross in general. "Can't you find a new mask that doesn't suffocate your pores?"

"Yeah, but I like this one though." He gently took it out of our grasp, using the same sense of caution as you used with him.

Hoodie couldn't hold it in anymore. Everytime he left, he was never guaranteed in seeing your face when he returned. You were smart, too smart. You were bound to find the key he hidden in one of the loose bricks of your room. Just in case one day he doesn't return. He wouldn't want you to be left here and starved, even if the masked man did know about the situation.

He struggled to hold back to tears prickling his bottom lid, and he pulled you towards him into the colder hallway. But your skin was soothed by his warm chest.

"I'm so sorry for what I've done. You know I'd never want to hurt you." His muscles twitched along your back when he squeezed tighter.

You couldn't do anything but hug back, running your hand up and down the rough fabric of his hoodie. Even without the view of his face, his jerking chest was proof enough that he was holding back sobs and tears. "Prove it, then." You weren't even sure if he heard your voice through the muffle of his clothes.

"How can I prove my love to you?" He separates your bodies, but kept his large hands on your waist. Tear streaks were travelling down his dirty cheeks.

"Free me." You stared up at him, clutching his forearms. "Please, Hoodie."

He glanced back at the entrance, and for a moment, you had a spark of hope.

"Not now, darling. I'm sorry, really I am." His tone sounded sincere enough, and his eyes were tilted with sadness.

Your face fell and your tense shoulders slumped, "Why?"

He shook his head, his fingers flexing into your skin, "There's too much going on right now. Tim left Jay, and Jay's on his own. And Alex is a good hunter, he'll find you. He's already come around here a few times, actually."

All you heard was a pathetic attempt at an excuse. But in reality, it did make some sense.

"You pinky swear you're not lying?" Your eyebrows twitched as you looked up at him.

He managed a smirk, leaving the cool air to nip at a warm spot on your hip as he held his hand up, "I'd never lie to you."

You linked your pinky with his and it caught you off guard as Hoodie sealed it with a soft kiss on your knuckle.

Trust.

You craved for his lips sometimes, and it was often hard to remind yourself that this is a different person. Would it be cheating on Brian if it's the same body?

What the hell were you talking about? This dude kidnapped you and you're thinking about whether his lips would feel good against yours.

But you were satisfied as he kisses you on the cheek, "Get back to bed, now." He started to coax you back into your room.

"Can't I stay up with you for a bit?"

He squinted, and you could tell he was growing suspicious but nonetheless, he obliged with a, "Sure." Taking you by the hand, he lead you to the kitchen. "I gotta take a shower first, I'm sure you can make something for yourself while I'm gone."

The bathroom door was closed before you could even answer, "I literally just said that I wasn't hungry earlier." You mumbled, glancing around the cute kitchen.

Out of curiosity, you picked up one of the medicine bottles to see what he was taking and if that somehow made him more aggressive.

Tim Wright.

He had Tim's pills. How and why? Did he steal them or did Tim give them to him? Was it the same way he got the picture?

You set the plastic down and walked over to the humming fridge. There wasn't much in it, just a few packs of meat, two jugs of water, miscellaneous in the drawers, and a bag of chips. And that godforsaken tuna.

Why the hell does he keep chips in the fridge?

You took the box of ham and started making two sandwiches with cheese, lettuce, and mayo. You glanced in the direction of the hissing water in the bathroom before chucking the tuna in the trash, tossing some paper towels on top of it to hide the glint of the metal.

The hiss of the shower stopped, and you listened as Hoodie rustled around with some towels.

Oh fuck, he's gonna try and seduce you.

You turned away from the door, busing your self with slowly pouring juice into the glass. Wet footsteps pass the kitchen, and you couldn't help but glance though the window as he made his way to his room.

A guilty part of you wishes that Brian had those type of muscles when you were dating. This dude was really strong just from the look of his back.

He paused at the padlocks glancing over them, and then quickly locked with your eyes. You turned away, spilling the half-full glass all over the counter with a hissed curse.

You tried to look again, but the door was already closed.

You soaked up the juice, piling all of the towels in the trash until the counter was grape-free. Hoodie walked in, hair still wet and in (thankfully) clean clothes.

You accepted his advancements as he wrapped a pair of strong arms around your waist, nuzzling into your hair.

"You smell better than I do, and I've just taken a shower."

"I smell like damp basement and cheap Irish Sring soap, don't lie to me." You picked up a plate and held it out to your left, letting Hoodie take a hold of it as you grabbed your plate and the two drinks.

You could tell how exhausted Hoodie was by the way he flopped down on the couch, almost looing his dinner in the process.

You set your plate and drink on the coffee table, knowing he's going to want half of your sandwich anyways.

The air was calm, and rain had started to tap on the floor above you in the broken building. Hoodie was just chilling, watching the late night news and eating the sandwich you made for him.

It felt nice.

It felt normal.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, hugging his elbow as you cuddled up to him. You were touched starved, you craved affection and contact, and Hoodie was the only one around capable of giving it to you.

He set the plate down on the armrest and wrapped an arm around you, allowing the warmth of his chest to engulf you.

You closed your eyes and even dozed off a little bit until you were stirred by Hoodie running his hands through your tangled hair. You whined, aggravated that you were disturbed from your slumber.

"I love you."

You rolled your closed eyes. You didn't respond, it was obvious you're faking sleep now, but there was really no other option that would end well.

"[Y/N]."

"Hoodie, I don't love you. Not now."

He stood up, quite abruptly, actually, and you almost fell on the floor.

"Then why are you doing this to me?" His muscles flexed under the black t-shirt he was wearing as he scowled down at you. "Don't you realize this is torture?!"

The man sounded desperate, and his elbows were tucked to his waist insecurely. His eyes...they were truly filled with the pain of the truth.

But as he turned to leave, you managed an apology. "Hoodie, I'm sorry." You clasped your hands together, straightening up on the couch.

"You're not sorry." He hissed, twisting back towards you. "You know what you're doing." The blonde squinted at you, searching your body for something, anything, that looked like remorse.

In his blind state of betrayal, he didn't see any.

"I am sorry!" You stood up defensively, clenching your fists by your side. "How dare you say what I don't feel! I was sorry, but now I'm not! You're just an asshole who expects me to fall in love at first sight of you!"

"You did fall in love with me at first sight o-!"

"No, I didn't! I feel in love with Brian Thomas, your ass had to ruin a perfect fucking relationship for your own selfish needs!"

Hoodie stayed silent, he was holding back. His fists were clenched so tight, his knuckles were turning white, and his eyes were full of burning hatred.

"I'm never going to love you, Hoodie. Not truly. Not if you always act like an entitled brat."

"Don't fucking lead me on then." His shoulders slumped and his fingers loosened. "Don't give false hope."

You blinked, watching as he calmed down into sadness, "Hoodie, I didn't want to do that...I want to make you happy, I want you to feel comfortable instead of tense and awkward which gets you on edge. Maybe even a little dangerous.."

He looked up from the ground and into your sympathetic eyes. He stepped forward and grabbed your waist, pulling you towards him.

"Then you will not get rid of me until you love me."

"That wasn't our deal you sai-"

"Said that I'd free you in due time, yes,” He finished for you, “I keep my promises. Just like how I promised to make your life a living hell if you didn't learn to love me. It's a shared deal, sweetheart." His voice was eerily calm.

You didn't reply, you couldn't. You knew if you opened your mouth you would start sobbing for mercy, for freedom. But you knew that wouldn't happen on his account.

"Now, go to your room." He jerked his head into the direction behind him, staring through your eyes instead of into them.

"This will not make me love you." You whispered, looking closer into his eyes. You wished he could see the hurt in your eyes, the hatred.

But he kept his eyes trained on the plate sitting on the coffee table.

You sniffed, shoving past him towards your damp and dark room.

As you jumped into bed, you heard the sound of a plate crashing. Then another one. Right into the television.

You didn't care. You turned over and stared at the wall until sleep consumed your tense nerves.

___

The door to [Y/N]'s room clicked and creaked quietly open. Hoodie stared at them, hoping the metallic sound of the gun didn't wake them.

You could only see the shadow on the wall, and the clicking disturbance of the gun being handled. You couldn't quite see his position, but he might be aiming at you. You don't where else he'd point the gun at.

You dared not to move. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't. You were frozen in fear of the idea of being shot.

The rustling of fabric and shrinking shadow signaled that he put the gun away but was advancing towards you. What if he decided on a knife instead?

Instead, a rough hand brushed your hair out of your face, and placed a soft kiss on your temple.

You know he's not going to let up. You have to plan an escape.

#Trust #hoodie #yandere!Hoodie #yandere #story #creepypasta #creepypasta imagines #Marble hornets #marble hornets x reader #hoody marble hornets #it get spicy next chapter #brian thomas #ok i fixed it #masky #tim WRIGHT #NOT sutton #cmon kitty

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rose-writes-prose · 5 years

Text

Don’t You Hear My Call HalloQueenEvent

Hi Noah! @just-my-sickly-pride

Happy Halloween! I hope you enjoy this a lot.

(Apologies for it being so late. I wanted to make it perfect, and perfect is the enemy of complete.)

Warning: mentions of ghosts, blood, loud noises, and death

Your first mistake was being so trusting.

Well, no. That's not entirely true. Being too trusting was more of a personal flaw rooted in years of optimism, rather than an action that could be categorized as a mistake. Your first actual mistake was trusting the weather report for a chilly evening and cloudless skies. While it was crisp on the trek to the university's "Unofficial Costume Party," the air was thick with the stony smell of a storm. Skies were only partially cloudy, and any visible stars pierced the inky sky. If the report was wrong, perhaps it was off an hour. A downpour came when you were too far to retrieve an umbrella. What should have been a simple walk was warped into hopping over puddles and seeking shelter, which was oddly scarce. The road was empty, with no cabs or buses in sight. The thought of running occurred to you, but tripping in your costume was inevitable.

After too long, you finally made it to the front door of the party. A pulsing bass reached your bothered feet. Up the steps and through the door you went. It was very dim inside, and hardly anyone was recognizable in their costumes.

A sudden ear-piercing cry filled the air. Your head turned to see what is the matter. But everyone was partying, too focused on the bottles or lips pressed against their mouths. Maybe it was the booming bass of the speakers, but no one seemed altered by what had just disturbed you. It came again, louder, another consistent wail that sliced through the air and into your head. Your hands flew to your ears, failing to muffle the sharp invasion to your head. Tears pricked your eyes, a substitute for the whimper barred from escape by your pursed lips.

"Are you alright?"

A Gomez Addams placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, pulling you out of your trance. It felt warm compared to your now chilled body.

"Did your costume get wet? I've got some more upstairs if you need it. Though it would be ghastly to hide this piece you have."

Gomez led you up the stairs and down a hall to his dorm room, telling you about what other things he could offer you. A pile of clothes was falling out of the laundry bin, which he apologized for, and several loose papers were littered across the floor and bed closest to the window. After a minute of searching, he told you to wait there while he searched for his trunk of costumes, giving you a purple fluffy bathrobe to change into. "It must be in Roger's room. Oh, I'm Freddie, by the way. You're Y/N, yeah?"

You struggled to say anything at first, but a patient nod from Freddie coaxed you to ask: "Did you hear it? The scream?"

The perplexed look from Freddie shouldn't have surprised you, but it did. He was barely able to hear anything downstairs, but he promised to ask around if it made you feel better. It didn't, but you thanked him anyway. Freddie left, yet solitude did not come over you. An untraced gaze was scratching at your skin, an itch digging deep for a place no one was supposed to know about. The shriek came again. Harsher. More overpowering.

Closer.

You looked through the window to check for the sound. Maybe a wounded animal. Unable to get a proper look outside, you opened the window; the wind had stopped, but the rain poured on, sheets upon sheets of water shooting to the earth. It was too loud to hear anything over its deafening whisper.

Thunder shook the room, knocking out the lights. The door clicked behind you. You hesitantly turned your head back to look at the door.

It wasn't Freddie.

A tall figure loomed over you, intent eyes inspecting you from beneath a mop of curly shadow. His hands hung limp at his side, still as an autumn night. He had an ancient air about him, older than England, perhaps. With only his eyes, centuries of memories were sent deep within, none very happy.

"I'm not the only one."

The figure approached you until you were nose to nose, and you nearly screamed. His face was terribly gaunt, horribly pale, hauntingly translucent. The eyes so fixated on you were bulbous and bloodshot over dark, sunken eyelids. A curtain-like mouth revealed pointed yellow teeth in a crooked smile. His clothes were torn and faded, a white robe that fell to his ankles. Only the shrowd over his head was intact, pinned to a mess of stygian hair.

"Excuse me?" you choked out.

"You look just like me."

Oh, right. Your banshee costume, which had begun to conjure a foul smell. Your hair was heavy with rain that had streamed down your face, cleaning off any paint, which had stained your soaked ghost costume. It was a frightening sight. You weren't sure if that bothered you or not. It had to be you who was foolish enough to trust the weather report and leave their umbrella. It had to be you whose banshee costume, labor of copious love and intricate detail was utterly destroyed.

"Yeah, I guess," you sighed, "I'm a banshee that got caught by the rain. At least you look like you meant to."

The ghostly figure knit his brow in confusion. "This is how I always look."

You appreciated his mock confusion at the moment. "Are you Freddie's roommate?" He shook his head. "What are you doing here? The party's downstairs."

"Looking for you."

Blunt and very creepy. Or was this only a character?

You decided to play it cool, hoping for the best. "Is that the only reason?"

His smile faltered as he stepped back. "I thought you would be happy to see me."

Your stomach dropped. If he was doing a character, he was taking it very seriously. Too seriously.

"Why?"

"Wouldn't you want to talk? It's been so long for me."

"Since you've talked to someone?"

"Yes!" he cried.

Your lip curled at his unwarranted desperation. The digging itch in your skin was sharper now, infiltrating your nerves. A call in the back of your mind told you to solve the mystery of who the hell is this creep. You listened. You didn't need some stranger in disturbing garb making your night worse.

Without warning, he drew his hand forward to grab you. You pushed him away, somehow knocking him to the floor.

"I don't know who you are, and I don't know why you came to find me. You have me mistaken for someone else."

Red eyes glowed with pain in the dark. You stared back, ignoring the heaving of your chest from the sudden outburst. No move was made between the two of you. He stayed on the floor, timid. Perhaps you were wrong to be so harsh.

"I really don't remember ever meeting." you offered the spooky man a hand. "I'm Y/N."

"We haven't, at least I don't think. Perhaps a long time ago." The pain in his eyes remained. "I'm sorry to frighten you. I'm Brian."

You weren't convinced. "You could've just waited for me downstairs."

He shrugged. "It's louder than I'm comfortable with."

That was the first thing he said that you could empathize with. You decided to let your guard down and understand Brian. He lacked a few social skills, evidently, but was surprisingly charming. He was able to make you laugh a few times at jokes about music, which he knew a lot about. You told him about your interest in groups like Panic! At the Disco and the Beatles while he listened. The atmosphere was calmer than it was before. Brian appeared less ghastly as the night went on, less transparent or demonic. His eyes softened to a berry red. His crooked smile looked less menacing. The invasive itch was gone, the shriek long away from your mind.

Freddie burst in, a trunk of clothes on his hip. "Why'd you turn the lights out?" With a flip of a switch, the room was bright again.

Did he not notice the blackout?

"Blackout?" he laughed, setting the trunk on his bed, "A blackout in only one room? And you opened the window! You've only been here five

Five minutes?

No, it felt like you'd been sitting with Brian for half an hour.

You turned to Brian for an explanation. He must have turned off the lights when he came in. You got no clear response from him. He was silent, glowering eyes on Freddie, sizing him up. His glowering then turned to you, a twinge of shock and betrayal picking through. And, not knowing quite why, you felt guilty.

"Y/N," Freddie broke you from your trance, "what are you staring at?"

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Freddie couldn't see Brian. The lights went out as soon as Brian had entered the room. His appearance, his attitude, the way his presence was physically affecting you. He reacted so strongly to your costume and Freddie being able to see you.

Holy shit, Brian was a ghost.

And he thought you were a ghost, too.

"Alright, you're acting weird." Freddie shrugged, heading back to the hall. "See what costumes in the trunk you like, then hang your wet one in the bathroom."

The room was quiet again, but with the lights one, everything was more transparent. You looked at Brian, but for once, he wasn't looking at anything. His head was down, hair blocking his face.

"You're a ghost, aren't you?"

"Banshee, actually," Brian corrected. "You're just wearing a Halloween costume, aren't you?"

"I take it as a compliment that my costume was this convincing."

You remembered hearing of banshees as a child. Banshees came in scary stories to explain strange noises in the night. Ghosts who would present themselves to someone before they died.

Oh.

Brian kept his gaze down to his lap, uninterested in anything around him. His hands were folded into each other, thumbs massaging each other. You weren't sure whether to hug him or run away.

"But I am sorry I'm not what you thought I was." You hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder before it passed through. "You're the last of your kind."

No sooner had your hand passed through his shoulder that an earth-shattering wail exploded through the room. You covered your ears, but it did nothing to silence the wail pouring into them. Tearing flooded your eyes, blurring your vision. The floor shook as everything went dark. Brian sharply turned to you, glowing red eyes dripping down his into his mouth or onto his chin. Those eyes. They were the last thing you saw before you collapsed.

You awoke the next morning in your own bed. The haze of being partially asleep and partially aware that you're awake was still over you. The covers were twisted, leaving you to shiver. In a few minutes, you would will your body to sit up. But not now.

The sky was still gray from the previous night's storm, splashing scattered raindrops across the window. You didn't remember coming home last night, but a few sniffles and a stuffed nose indicated that you had to walk.

Strange how you couldn't remember a single thing from last night's party. No hangover muddled your memory, no texts on your phone revealed any interaction. But then you saw your hand.

There was a gigantic crescent-shaped scar on your palm.

You sat up immediately. Where had the scar come from? You couldn't have gotten it from last night. It would still be a wound. It like a substantial dent in your hand.

You still weren't convinced.

You lept out of bed and walked to the bathroom. In the fluorescent light, the scar was more real than ever. What was more real to you at that moment was a pair of blood-red eyes staring at you through the mirror.

Your blood-red eyes.

On a gaunt, translucent face.

Under a white, pinned shroud.

You screamed.

#just-my-sickly-pride #halloqueenevent #Brian May #brian may x reader

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 5 years

Text

See You in New York (part two)

A/N: The two week wait to see you again is up and Logan is thrilled to be in the Big Apple with you. (and I’m thrilled to write about it.) This boy’s got it bad. And no one’s going to feel unkissed after this part.

Word Count: 5,220

*part one and the intro to this series services no longer required are available on my masterlist*

The alarm blared on the bedside table, bright red numbers flashing 5:45 am. Normally, he’d turn his alarm off on the weekends, enjoying the opportunity to sleep in, rolling in the sheets and pulling them up over his head to guard his closed eyes from the rising sun. But on Saturday, his first morning in New York, Logan was lying in bed, awake and alert a full twelve minutes before the buzzer sounded. City noise could be heard through the thick window panes, even up at the penthouse level. Buses, taxis and delivery vans crawled across the asphalt below, engines groaning and horns honking, trying to dislodge themselves from the traffic that had already begun to clog up the roads. Wide awake in the city that never sleeps, Logan sighed to himself. An involuntary smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and he laughed, dragging his palm over his face. I’m in deep trouble.

He leaned over onto his side and silenced the alarm, grabbing the remote that controlled the drapes. Sitting up against the oversized pillows, he pressed the button that operated window coverings and watched as they slid open, the pleats sweeping the hardwood floor as the bright white morning light came into the room. Logan looked out over the city- your city- and excitement rose in his chest all over again at the thought of spending so much time with you. It was the same wave of adrenaline that he got when he boarded the plane at LAX, when he stepped off of it at LaGuardia, and when his lips finally touched yours, the faint flavor of your vanilla coffee creamer teasing his tongue. He ran it over his bottom lip as though he could still feel yours pressed there, and tossed the remote into the down duvet where it disappeared in a cloud of white blankets and sheets with a soft thud. Deep, deep trouble.

Combing his hand through his hair, Logan blew out a breath, recalling the way you wound your fingers through it the night before. In the two weeks since you’d left California, Logan had spent more and more time thinking about you and how it would feel to finally get you as close as he wanted, to finally fill his hands with your curves and cover your lips with his. He thought about what it would be like to have someone in his arms that actually cared about him; someone who he’d admitted that he was falling for. Falling hard and fast. He thought about how you were the first person he’d allowed himself to think about this way.

Sitting up in bed, he pulled the sheets back to swing his legs over the side, planting his feet on the plush area rug. His hair fell free over his forehead as he stood, acknowledging the slight tenting in his boxer briefs with a shake of his head and a laughing sigh. Hard and fast alright. He gingerly strode over to his luggage and rifled through it to find a pair of loose fitting black basketball shorts and a dark gray tee. He pulled them on and grabbed a pair of socks and his sneakers, his phone, earbuds and room key, and headed for the gym to work off some of his excitement.

But after two sets of push ups, dips, crunches and mountain climbers, Logan found that his morning workout routine was only fueling his thoughts. Every time he bent his elbows to 90 degrees, he saw your smile as you looked sideways at him, walking through the airport. Each time he lifted himself, locking his arms, he felt your forearm pressed against his, your fingers twined together. He recounted the entire evening with every curl, lift and press; your hand in his as you waited at baggage claim, the weight and warmth of it traveling through his veins and finding its way to his heart, the easy, comfortable way you chatted about your day and asked questions about his flight as though this were the hundredth time you’d met him at the arrivals gate. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel, grinning like a fool in the mirror as he replayed the moment that he told you he’d changed his reservation from the Four Seasons downtown to the Conrad, right in The Battery.

.. .. .. .. ..

“Alright, that all your luggage?” You motioned to the carry-on he had on his shoulder as well as the small, sleek black hard shell suitcase equipped with wheels and a pull handle, taking your phone from your pocket and Logan nodded. “I’ll call a ride. Four Seasons, right?” You hadn’t looked up from the app, tapping buttons to enter the destination when his hand covered your screen, fingers closing around your phone.

“Conrad,” he corrected you, smirk lifting one side of his mouth before his tongue came out to glide over his lips. He watched your eyes widen, delighting in the surprise that his change of plans had put there. “It’s closer. Closer to you, and you’re why I’m here. Don’t wanna sit in traffic for half an hour every time I’m gonna see you.” Don’t want to waste a second.

You bit your bottom lip before breaking into a smile, your eyes locked on his. “Good call, Delos,” you said, winking at him and pulling your phone back from his grasp to enter the new destination. You finalized the ride order and shoved your phone back in your pocket. “ETA says 5 minutes,” you told him, “We should head towards the pick-up spot.”

“After you,” he answered, trailing his suitcase behind him as you started walking. He reached for your hand with his free one, feeling your startled jump as he took it, enjoying the way your palm melded with his and the little tug you gave him.

“Oh, by the way,” you looked sideways at him as he fell into step next to you. He watched as the airflow from the pressurized doors that lead outside lifted a few strands of your hair as you walked through them, your fingers flying up to tuck it back into place. “Cynthia approved my time off request for Monday.” That’s good…because I have plans for you on Monday. Logan squeezed your hand as you continued. “I stayed late today, finished up a few reports, switched some things on my schedule…but I know it’s your last day here and,” you shrugged, coming to a stop along the sidewalk where the designated Uber pick-up sign indicated. It’s not my last day anymore but I’ll take all the time I can get. “I wanted to make the most of it. Make the most of my time,” you rose up on your toes to meet his lips with yours and it was his turn to be caught off guard. “With you.” You ran your fingers through his hair before dropping flat to your feet again.

Logan caught your hand on its way back to your side, kissing your palm and grinning against your skin. “Good,” he said. Cause I want every minute. “More time for this.” Setting his suitcase down and letting the carry-on slump off of his shoulder to sit on top of the larger luggage, he slid one hand around to the back of your neck, right at the base of your skull. The other pulled your hand until your chest was pressed against his, releasing his grip as your palm landed on his hip. The city lights blinked and flashed, neons in every color, arrows and marquis highlighting restaurants, theatres, businesses and attractions, the sounds of cars and crowds filling the night. But it all faded as Logan kissed you for a second time, feeling you respond with just as much hunger. He’d kissed countless sets of lips, held innumerable bodies close to his, shared breath with men and women, humans and Hosts. But never had it been as thrilling, as satisfying, as right as it felt with you. Never had anyone kissed him back with anything more than lust or their own personal pleasure on their mind. But you’d spent six months getting to know him on a much deeper level than any of his former flings, and when you kissed him he felt a rush that was entirely new to him. This time he let both of his hands frame your face as his lips parted yours, tongue slipping into your mouth, taking it further than the first one had gone. It was next to impossible, but he stopped himself again from letting it progress passed the point of decency, even though he was certain he’d just found the last addiction he’d ever be at the mercy of. Take it slow, Delos, he reminded himself as he exhaled through his nose and peeled himself away from you. “More time to get to know you,” he said against your lips. Every part, every inch.

You sighed, dreamily. “More of that sounds good to me, Logan,” you leaned into his shoulder as his arm came around you, and he was again struck by how different it felt to have you this close to him after keeping you at such a distance for so long.

The urban symphony of screeching brakes, wailing sirens and groaning bus engines picked back up as a black sedan pulled up right in front of where you were standing. You confirmed that it was your ride, the driver hopping out and hurrying around to take Logan’s bags, stowing them in the trunk. Logan opened the back door for you, his hand automatically going to your elbow to help you in. You scooted across the seat as he got in next to you, his arm going around your shoulders to bring you close again as you beamed at him. Can’t get enough of that.

Once the driver had confirmed your destination and made the obligatory small talk, he turned the radio up a few notches and left the two of you in peace for the rest of the 38 minute drive through Manhattan. You looked over at him, and even though it was almost 10pm, he saw the shine in your eyes as you smiled, cutting through the darkness. “Hey,” you said softly, “I’m really glad you’re here, Logan.”

He felt his heart flip, a warm wave crashing through his chest, and he almost laughed at himself for how easily you affected him. “Me too,” he trailed his fingers up and down your tricep, soaking up every bit of contact that he could. “I could barely concentrate in my meetings this morning…almost cancelled them to get here sooner.” But I changed my travel plans enough already.

You blew out a laugh with a playful role of your eyes. “I’m sure whoever the meeting was with was glad that you didn’t cancel.”

He wrinkled his nose and curled his upper lip. “It was just a few other executives, different divisions. Can’t stand most of them to be honest with you.”

You reached up to touch the tip of his nose and he relaxed, the look of disgust vanishing under your touch. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Only sometimes,” he made to bite your finger as you laughed again, giving him a light smack on the arm. Only when it comes to you.

You covered your mouth with the back of your hand, concealing a small yawn, grinning through it and apologizing. “C’mon, you’re not being a buzzkill already, are you?” He teased, turning to tuck the bridge of his nose against your temple before dragging it up until he replaced it with his lips, leaving a light peck there. The scent of your hair nearly overwhelmed him, and he took advantage of your yawn to inhale deeply.

“Some of us aren’t on West Coast Time, Delos, and some of us have been up since before the sun,” you reminded him, swallowing another yawn. Lips pressed together, you were determined not to let it out. Logan smiled, feeling his eyes shrink behind his cheeks.

“Well I won’t keep you out too late tonight, promise.” Tomorrow though, that’s another story. “Think you can make it through a nightcap, killjoy?”

Before you could answer, another yawn broke free pulling a genuine laugh from Logan that you joined in on once you’d sucked up more oxygen. “Yeah,” you nodded through your laughter. “Yeah I think I can stick it out.”

“What a trooper.”

.. .. .. .. ..

After an hour in the gym, Logan headed back upstairs, sweat soaked towel slung around his neck and over both shoulders. The lobby was relatively quiet, just a few front desk employees and one or two exhausted souls on the hunt for coffee. Logan nodded and offered a polite “Good morning” to the few people that he passed as he made his way to the elevator. As he reached for the button to bring him to the penthouse level, the sound of high heels clicking against the floor caught his ear, followed by a frantic female voice.

“Wait! Hold it, please!”

Logan quickly pressed the hold button to suspend the doors as the owner of the voice came around the corner and into view. She was young: mid-twenties, average height and a slim waist with curves above and below it. Her red lips were perfectly painted, wavy hair swept off to one shoulder to show off a stunning pair of diamond stud earrings. Wearing a tight blue pencil skirt with a sheer white top and toting a leather briefcase, it was clear that she was dressed for work. On a Saturday… that’s dedication. She spilled into the elevator, nearly out of breath from her sprint through the lobby, and stopped breathing altogether when she laid her eyes on Logan.

“Oh!” She squeaked in surprise, gaze trailing up his long frame. “Thank you, I-“ she stuttered, openly staring as her eyes traveled up to his chest and the outline of the muscles that were visible beneath his shirt. “I’m running late and waiting for the elevator would…” she blew out a breath that turned into a nervous laugh. “You saved me!”

Damsel in distress. Logan had her pegged the moment he heard her heels down the hall, but her dramatics and the wide eyed way she was regarding him like some white knight in a fairy tale confirmed his diagnosis. “Don’t mention it,” he said with a smile, despite the inward roll of his eyes. “What floor?” He pointed to the circular buttons, the 15 already lit up.

Her eyes flicked to the keypad, noticing which floor he’d selected. “Twelve please,” she licked her lips and smiled while Logan nodded and pressed the number 12. “Thanks,” she said, smoothing her skirt out, hands lingering longer than necessary on her hips as she did. The elevator car started to move and Logan adjusted his stance to accommodate the shift in balance, the damsel reaching for the hand rail, just an inch or so shy of where his hand was. “I have this meeting this morning for a case I’m working on. I’m really nervous about it, I’m new to the office and I want to do everything right.” She batted her long lashes and pressed her lips together to plump them. Trying too hard isn’t the way to do things right. “Left my laptop plugged in to charge in my room and, well… if you hadn’t stopped the elevator, I’d probably miss my meeting and,” she sighed, another half laugh. “Anyway, I’m Kylie,” she stuck her hand out as she introduced herself.

“Logan, nice to meet you,” he took her hand and shook it once, immediately letting go even though she kept his palm in hers for a fraction longer. This elevator can’t move quickly enough. “Good luck with your meeting, Kylie.” He gave her a closed lipped smile as the lights above the door showed floor 8-9-10.

“Thanks,” she leaned against the railing, her shirtsleeve brushing against his arm. He avoided contact by gripping the towel around his neck, eyes darting up to the numbers. Let’s go, come on. The old Logan would have either told her to fuck off or pressed the stop button and fucked her right there between the 11th and 12th floors. But after working with you to improve his image, he found that the old Logan wasn’t who he wanted to be anymore, even if the niceties were sometimes inconvenient. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around, Logan. Maybe we can get a drink later tonight after my meetings?” The door slid open but she didn’t move, just blinked at him as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

Logan cleared his throat. Absolutely fucking not. “I’m actually seeing someone, so I’m going to have to pass on that drink. But thanks for the offer. Have a nice day.” He kept his lips in a firm line as he looked from her to the open doors. Reluctantly, she returned the sentiment and exited the elevator, shooting him one last look over her shoulder. The doors closed leaving Logan alone again and he sighed, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, could she be more desperate?” he mumbled to himself, half amused with Kylie’s clear attempts to get in his pants, half amused with how much he’d changed. The doors opened again on the 15th floor and he exited, still shaking his head.

He let himself back into his room, setting his card key down on the small coffee table in the sitting area before heading for the shower. He tossed the sweaty towel on the bathroom floor, letting it smack against the tile as he peeled his gym clothes off and kicked them off to the side. Logan reached into the stall to turn on the water, and waited a few seconds for it to heat up before stepping under the rainfall showerhead. He stretched his back until he felt a small pop with the release of a knot, then stepped into the stall, the warm water washing away the sweat and all remaining residue of the elevator interaction with Kylie. As the droplets ran between his shoulder blades and soaked his hair, his thoughts returned again to you and the events of the previous night.

.. .. .. .. .. ..

The driver pulled up in front of the impressive red brick building, the chrome colored marquis and large letters boasting the hotel’s name vibrantly lit against the night. Logan got out of the car first, offering you his hand as the driver scurried to the trunk to grab his bags. Your fingers were light on his palm as he helped you out onto the sidewalk, giving you a grin as you closed the car door behind you. “Thanks,” you said, mirroring his grin. He answered by bringing your hand to his lips with a wink as the driver set his luggage on the curb.

Logan reluctantly pulled his focus from you and turned to the driver, pulling a $50 bill out of his wallet and handing it to the wide eyed man who sputtered with gratitude before getting back into his vehicle. He turned back to you, offering his hand again, linking his fingers with yours. “Shall we?” He cocked his head towards the doors and you nodded as he picked up his bags. A uniformed employee sprang to open the doors for the two of you, welcoming you to The Conrad, and Logan felt a rush of excitement, the whole trip becoming more real now that he was inside the hotel with you by his side. He turned to face you, dropping your hand and placing both of his on your shoulders, letting them run down your arms. “I’m gonna go check in and get rid of these,” he shrugged towards the bag on his shoulder and the one at his feet. “Why don’t you wait for me at the bar, and I’ll be right there.”

“Sounds good, Logan, see you in a minute,” you turned to head for the stairs that lead up to the bar but he pulled your wrist, spinning you back into him and causing a tingling laugh to spill from your soul and your free hand to fall to his chest. It brightened his heart.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, voice low as he stroked the inside of your wrist with the pads of his fingers, locking his eyes on yours. Now that he could look at you the way he wanted, could touch you and feel your body against his own, could intoxicate himself with your lips and tongue, he didn’t want to let you out of his sight, not even for a few minutes. But he hadn’t told you about his extended stay yet, and he wanted it to be a surprise so he let go of your wrist and swallowed as he watched you head towards the staircase before making his way to the front desk for check-in. He turned his bags over to the bellhop, along with another fifty from his wallet before following in the direction you’d just gone in.

Atrio, the hotel bar, was situated a few floors up, and he took the stairs two at a time in some places, long legs trying to get him back to you as quickly as possible. As he reached the entry, he undid the button on his jacket and his focus fell on you. You were sitting at the bar, your back turned to the entrance, and he took a moment to drink in the sight of you beneath the low lights. He saw your shoulders shake as you laughed at something the bartender said, the man passing two darkly colored cocktails to you as you thanked him. You stirred one with the small plastic garnish skewer as you turned slowly towards where he stood, smile brightening your face with more light than the bulbs hanging overhead. Logan’s heart beat out of rhythm as he walked over to you. This is really happening. We’re really… this is real. Miraculously, he kept completely cool, pulling out the chair beside you and leaning in to leave a quick kiss to your cheek. “Hey, stranger,” he said. “You come here often?”

You laughed as he sat down, passing him his drink. “Once before, but I’ve never seen you here.” Biting your lip you looked up at him through your lashes. “Guess it’s my lucky night.” You couldn’t keep up the façade any longer, breaking into a laugh that curved your lips around the sound.

Logan took the drink from you, his fingers brushing yours against the cool rim of the glass. “Nah, I’m the lucky one,” he said, lifting his glass. “To New York,” he toasted. To you.

“New York,” you said, clinking your glass to his and taking a sip.

Logan did the same, the rich flavor of bourbon mixing with berries, mint and a slight hint of almond. That’s fantastic. “What are we drinking?” he asked you.

“In honor of your change in reservations,” you pointed to the menu at the cocktail labeled The Battery and Logan chuckled.

“How apropos,” he responded. “Hope you didn’t mind that I didn’t tell you about the change in plans,” he shrugged. “Wanted to surprise you.” I have a few more up my sleeve, too.

“It’s okay, Logan, I like surprises…good ones,” you clarified and he chuckled again.

“Noted.” That’s one thing I didn’t know before today. “So, I was thinking,” you set your drink down on the square napkin in front of you, eyes on him and arms folded over the bar top. “You know a lot more about me than I know about you.” You nodded, raising your eyebrow. “Well I wanna change that, level the playing field so to speak.” You laughed with a small shake of your head. “What? You got a whole file on me and all my secrets,” he raised his glass to his lips, eyeing you over the top of it. “I wanna know you as well as you know me.” And then some.

“Seems fair, Delos,” you turned in your seat so that your body was squared with him and perpendicular to the bar. “But let’s make it fun.” Your eyes twinkled mischievously and he had to hold back a groan at the thought of how much fun he wanted to have with you. “I’ll tell you three things about me, and you tell me which one is a lie.”

“Alright,” Logan ran his bottom teeth along his lip. “Let her rip.” He took another sip of his drink as you thoughtfully looked up at the ceiling, trying to come up with your three statements.

“Okay, got it.” You took a drink, licking the spare drops from your lip, causing Logan to wonder how much better it tasted on your skin. “I have two younger brothers, I’ve never been out of the country, and my favorite holiday is the Fourth of July.” You pressed your lips together and narrowed your eyes.

“Really?” Logan sat back in his chair, casually leaning his elbow against the seat. “You’ve never been out of the country?”

Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped open. “That was… how did you…”

Logan laughed. “I’ve always been able to tell when people are lying, and that one was definitely the lie. So what’s your favorite foreign city?”

“Barcelona,” you answered, and he nodded appreciatively, telling you that he loved it there as well. He asked you about your brothers and about your favorite way to celebrate the 4th, both of you taking periodic sips from your drinks.

“Okay, round two,” he said, “try to gimme a hard one this time.”

“A challenge, Delos?” You asked, finishing your beverage. “Alright. Let’s see you figure this one out.” You shook your hair back from your shoulders and he caught the scent of your shampoo on the air. This is already a challenge. He was having a hard time keeping his hands and lips to himself, fighting with himself about taking you upstairs and learning different kinds of things. “I did a triathlon for charity, I broke my hand punching my sister’s ex in the face,” Logan’s eyes lit up in an amused fashion at that one. “And I’m allergic to peanuts.”

“Oof, peanuts, that’s a tough one,” he said, expertly picking one of the truths off without having to think. He eyed you carefully as he finished his drink. “I’m curious what your sister’s ex did to get punched. But you don’t strike me as a swimmer, so the triathlon is out.”

“How are you so good at this?” You laughed, looking down at your empty glasses.

He shrugged. “Just one of my many talents, I guess.”

You rolled your eyes. God I can’t get enough of that. When you were working for him, the roll of your eyes or the suggestion of something he didn’t want to do annoyed him in that it didn’t annoy him at all. And now, he was looking for ways to make you roll your eyes because he liked what it did to him. The bartender came by and asked if you wanted another round.

“What do you think, Logan?” You looked to him for an answer.

Yes. I don’t want the night to end yet. But you yawned again, and he looked down at his watch, the hands pointing towards 12. “As much as I wanna keep picking out your lies,” he scrunched his nose as he smiled. “I think I better get you home before you pass out on the bar.” You smacked his knee as you tried and failed to stifle another yawn. He placed his card on the bar and the bartender took it, running the payment and handing it back to Logan who signed it without looking, leaving a 100% tip.

You stood from your seat and Logan did the same, reaching for your hand the moment that you were both up and out of your chairs. It had only been a few hours, but he was already more used to the feel of your palm pressed to his than he should be. “Can I walk you home?” he asked, “It’s late and-“

You nodded, rising on your toes to kiss him like you had earlier in the night. “What a gentleman,” you said against the corner of his mouth. He grinned and let go of your hand to slip his arm around your waist, leading you out of the bar and back down the mahogany staircase.

Once the two of you stepped outside, Logan turned to you. “You’re gonna have to lead the way here.”

“No problem,” you smiled. “This way,” you said, tilting your head in the direction of the waterfront. “Let’s walk passed the park.”

The way was lined with well-manicured shrubs and a fence, the river visible passed the waterfront park. Lights in shades of pastels in the distance caught Logan’s attention. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

“Oh!” You smiled at him, pressing closer with excitement. “We can go there tomorrow. That’s the Sea Glass carousel, it’s beautiful, one of my favorite things in The Battery. Instead of horses, they’re all fish and the whole thing is encased in glass and… well, you’ll see.”

He smiled and squeezed you closer. “Can’t wait.”

The walk was quick, just a few minutes, and before you knew it you were standing in front of your building. “Well, this is me,” you said, opening your arms wide. Before you could drop them he stepped closer, sliding his arms beneath yours and pulling you into a tight hug.

He could feel your heart beat against his own chest, and the uneven rhythm made his soar. “I’m looking forward to the next few days with you,” he said, one hand sliding up between your shoulder blades, the other pressed to the small of your back. “Thank you, for saying yes.”

“That makes two of us, Logan,” you whispered into his shirt. “And of course I said yes, I…”

He gave a squeeze to cut you off, sensing that you were about to say something a little too serious for the sidewalk. He pressed his lips to the top of your head and rubbed both hands over your back, indicating the end of the embrace. “I’ll see you bright and early, okay? I want to take you for breakfast, I…” he looked down at his shoes before looking back up and meeting your eyes. “You said once that there’s a French Bakery around here that you liked so I looked it up and… Can you meet me there at 8 tomorrow?”

Your shocked expression was more than enough to promise the sweetest dreams. “You remembered…” Of course I did. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll see you at 8. Goodnight, Logan.”

“Goodnight, buzzkill,” he leaned down and gave you a quick kiss. Ending it was the hardest thing he’d done since getting clean, but he did. Tomorrow's gonna be even better. He watched you disappear into your building before turning back towards the hotel. The stars weren’t visible in the sky behind the pollution of the city lights, but he felt them beneath his feet as he headed back to The Conrad. I am in trouble.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @belladonnarey @ymariejp @obscurilicious @songtoyou @gollyderek @traeumerinwitzhelden @breanime @drinix

If you’d like to be added or removed just let me know! :)

#see you in new york #SYiNY #Logan Delos #Logan Delos x Reader #Logan Delos x You #logan delos fanfiction #logan westworld #westworld au #logan delos au

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izziedora · 5 years

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Elliot Westlake was a lot of things: pretty, popular, and everything Izzie Cardenas wasn’t. In every other time, Elliot and Izzie never were a thing. No one, and truly no one, not even her best friend - the one person she told everything to, Grace Roth, wouldn’t believe that she was Elliot’s friend in the two months away from home at Camp Caprice and had been since they were ten. Summer was a weird thing. The days were longer and time seemed to spin fast and slow at once, and while Grace and Izzie had been best friends since pre school, back when Izzie shared her sixty-four set of new Crayolas with Grace, her and Elliot had begun a bit differently. Before the rules of high school, or even middle school, Izzie had been sent to Camp Caprice the summer before grade five. She hadn’t wanted to go to camp at all, that much she remembered. Grace was going to Vermont to her family’s lake house, and Izzie was going to Maine to be in the wilderness, away from her parents. Erick had gone to camp the year before, and because her older brother had been fine, clearly, Izzie was going to be fine, too. That’s how it was in their family: Erick set the bar, and Izzie was forced to jump all the hurdles to meet it. Her mother had dropped her off at the buses at the elementary school, phone up to her ear, dealing with a client - her mother was a relator, dad a contractor: a pair to be reckoned with, in modest opinion - and cigaret in another. “Yes, yes, Mr Charles - I promise you, everything will be the way you want it. Mm-hmm,” she had been saying, puffing her cigaret as Izzie held her Sailor Moon backpack closer, eying the girls around her warily. Moving from side to side, she had wanted to be anywhere else but Lakewood Heights Elementary school at seven am, but with a snap of her mother’s phone and a puff of smoke, her mother said, in that tired voice - as if even having to be in proximity to her daughter was a tiresome task, “Isadora, please.” That, among with a long, heavy sigh that followed, “Oh, Isadora,” and blank stare that followed an eye roll and an impatient, “Isadora!” where the only ways her mother seemed to talk to her. It didn’t matter that Izzie was not Isadora to anyone else, or that she’d corrected her mother time and time again, it was always some impatient version of her full name. But anyway, after her mother said this phrase, Izzie had wailed about not wanting to go and begging her mom to change her mind. On the bus, Izzie sat with a girl she’d later learn was Lourna McPhee, who snored loudly and was a bossy know-it-all, who bored Izzie to almost tears and across from a girl, who she would later know as Elliot Westlake, a girl she knew of, considering they were in the same grade, just a different class, neither, Izzie had talked to as she shoved her headphones on and listened to Good Charlotte, wishing she was back home with Grace.

Elliot and Izzie shared a cabin with Lourna and another girl, Charity Hope Andrews, who demanded to be called by her full name, and was from northern New York. Izzie, being taller, got the bottom bunk beneath Elliot, and with the choices of friends being Lourna from Ohio and Charity Hope Andrews from New York, Elliot became Izzie’s friend by lack of choices and proximity. At least, Izzie knew that was true. She and Elliot never talked about it, but Izzie knew that if Lourna and Hope Charity Andrews hadn’t been their roommates, Izzie and Elliot probably would’ve never became friends; it was just science and facts. Izzie was the weird girl at school. She wore combat boots, a jean jacket with a REBEL ALLIANCE patch - among many others, and she was a social outcast from the marching band. And she played the oboe. As if being in band wasn’t dweeby enough, but she played the oboe, an instrument made for kids ages eleven to eighteen to mock, as far as Izzie was concerned. And if being the outcast, she loved anime and comics, and was best friends with Grace Roth. For as much as Izzie loved Grace, and she truly did love her best friend, Grace was intense. Valedictorian and future Harvard Law graduate and supreme court justice (Grace’s plan she’d had since grade three), it was hard to have anyone like you with her around. Grace had very little patience for most people, student class president, top piano player in the Hartford district, nothing Grace did was without intensity. Which was why, much to everyone’s surprise, even Izzie’s, that Grace and Fynn Paulsen, Izzie’s other best friend and Lakewood Heights High’s biggest underachiever who had only graduated because of Grace’s rigorous study enforcements and Izzie’s answers to the Spanish and European history finale, had made him pass by the seat of his pants, had begun dating in their junior year. But nonetheless, Izzie was a little less than popular, known as nothing more, even among her peers of band geeks, Drama freaks, AV and chess nerds, along with other various outlier groups, as Grace’s sidekick. Wherever Grace was, izzie was always a step behind her, quietly following behind, offering apologies to weeping freshman and random children alike who got in her way, and that’s how life was outside of Camp Caprice.

At Camp Caprice, Izzie was, well, Izzie. No one really knew the Izzie from Hartford because so many people came from all over the country, and all but Elliot and a few other girls from school who’d she’d known and stopped going over the years, when summers were no longer about dorky and babyish summer camp. Every year, despite the one hundred and eighty days of school they’d spend together, even in their senior year of taking three classes together, they never once spoke, when they got on the bus to Camp Caprice, none of that mattered. Izzie would, sometimes, imagine on the off moment, what would happen if she did speak to Elliot Westlake outside of the vast anonymous air of the camp. What would Elliot say if Izzie acted like that they were best friends, not just Summer Camp BFFS who traded bracelets and secrets under the starlight. She imagined various things, even Elliot not coming because of camp being for losers, but every year, despite that twinge of fear, Izzie would see Elliot on the bus, and they’d pick back up right where they left off; as if time hadn’t really even passed. For Izzie, Camp Caprice meant a few things: kayaking and hiking at night - a privilege she got during the summer between tenth and eleventh grade, when sixteen meant responsibility and privileges, s’mores, pine cabins, Elliot and their game.

The Game was Truth. Truth, as in the dreaded slumber party game girls used to see if their friends had gone all the way, who the virgins were, and who among the group wasn’t up to snuff with all things cool. Izzie had hated that game, had scowled when Elliot had suggested they play it one day during their first years, as they washed dishes. It was just to pass the time, and there wasn’t like they had other options, so Izzie relented and played. The Game had been going for eight years, and both girls were wicked competitive, something Grace had given her during their ruthless games of Monopoly and Crazy Eights. Every year, the night before Camp, Izzie would wonder if Elliot was going - never texted or breached their unspoken contract of speaking outside of Camp boundaries, and every year, Izzie would think of their game. The things she knew about Elliot and Elliot knew about her were outrageous. Even her own family didn’t know some of the things Elliot knew, hell, she doubted even Grace or Fynn knew these things about, and they spent every waking second by her side. And as Izzie entered the bus, taking a seat by the middle and placing her backpack beside her, she rested her head against the window with her headphones in, waiting as the cars piled in, looking for Elliot’s. When she saw it, her heart lurched in both surprise and joy, a smile splitting her face. In truth, Izzie was surprised. Izzie signed up immediately to be a camp counselor because, well, what else was she going to do with her summer? But Elliot?! Elliot had options! When she entered the bus, Izzie sat straighter, her smile huge as they exchanged hugs. “Hi!” she squealed, as if they hadn’t been in the same school all year long and were reuniting after hundreds and thousands of miles apart. Reaching into her bag, Izzie pulled out a tupperware container full of no bake s’mores, handing them to Elliot. “Here! I made these last night for you, since you liked them last year. I put extra fluff in them, so hopefully it’s better this year.” Sitting back into the seat, she wrapped the cord around her phone and said, “So did you hear back from colleges. I mean obviously you did, but where are you going next year? I got into NYU, and my mother was mad as a hornet, because she wanted me to get, I don’t know, Columbia or Yale, but I got in and I’m a contender for their arts program, so I’m wicked excited. I think my mother still thinks I’m going to turn a leaf and follow Erick’s direction and be a journalist, or some bullshit. A “respectable job” that guarantees me for life, as if journalism isn’t dying out.” Erick. The other thing between them that they pretended wasn’t. For a brief moment in time, during junior year, those lines had blurred when Elliot dated her older brother. Soon seeing Elliot on her couch or at the table, or coming from her brother’s room or the bathroom, had once been as normal as breathing. They weren’t Elliot and Izzie, then. Then, they were Elliot Westlake, future prom queen or homecoming queen, and she was Isadora Cardenas, the girl who protested the cafe with a bunch of other weirdos for vegetarian options and Grace’s lackey. They were not friends and if they spoke, it was things like: “Izzie, can you pass the salt?” or “Can I borrow a toothbrush?” not The Game, or anything close. It was like they were strangers, and they never spoke about it the summer after the breakup. It was as if Izzie had imagined it. And maybe she had. Her brother always had girls weaving in and out of his life, and in a moment in time, Elliot had been one of the girls on Erick’s needle and that’d been it. Gone. Lost in time forever, only to be proven by old, probably long since deleted, Facebook photos. “My mom was such a bitch about graduation, though. You think being in the top twenty would be a proud moment, but it wasn’t Erick. Erick who was VP and gave a speech,” she rolled her eyes. “As if I’m even good at public speaking! One time, during speech class in tenth grade, I ran from the room to vomit in a trash can, just because I was about to public speak! I mean, c’mon!” She said, telling the story as if Elliot hadn’t been in that speech class and a friend of her’s hadn’t mocked Izzie about it for months, and even time to time over the years. Resting her head back, she said, “I’m so glad for two months I don’t have to deal with them, Elle. You don’t even know.”

#p: 001;;

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moonstruckbuck · 6 years

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The City That Never Sleeps

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Y/N wakes up from a recurring nightmare and really can’t get back to sleep. She decides to watch the city, and before she knows it, Bucky is back from another debrief for the last mission that he went on with the Avengers.

Word Count: 1269

Warnings: FLUFF, and I think some swearing, I don’t really remember...

A/N: Hey hey so this is my first time posting a fic...anywhere. I originally wrote this using an OC that I’ve used for years, so that’s why this is in first person and not second like most other Reader x Blank fics. If I slipped up and forgot to edit out her name, that’s why. The timeline is all kinds of screwed up, too, and I’m really sorry about that. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it!

I wake up with a gasp to darkness, a flurry of sheets, and a cold sweat. The last flashes of my dream linger behind my eyes as I run my hands through my, damp hair. The feeling of falling, the wails of my name. The darkness shielding my eyes…

“Y/N! Y/N, help us!”

The cold night air flows in through my open window and dances across my skin. My sheer white curtains billow into the middle of my room, making the usually happy, cheerful looking area seem mysterious and rather eerie.

I untangle myself from my sheets, my breathing beginning to steady as I approach my nook at my window. I slowly sink into the soft seat, and nestle up to the sill, resting my chin on my arms. As I look out the window, I see the city lights of New York still glowing along with the moon and the stars.

“It really is the city that never sleeps…” I mutter to myself. I look out and just watch. I watch as taxis and buses drive by below me, I watch as couples stumble down the sidewalk after what was presumably a late night out.

A late night. Late. Crap.

My feeling of a slight high with my love for the restless city I live in and this goddamn window sill I could sit at forever slowly drains from me. I glance at my wall clock, merrily ticking away, and sigh at the time.

“It’s 2:30 in the morning. I shouldn’t be awake.” I slowly stand up from my comfy, curled up position, and groggily drag myself back into my bed. Even though it’s barely five feet away, my safe place, my nook, my window sill, it feels like it’s on the other side of the earth. Instead of looking at my cozy spot, I stare up at my ceiling, sprawled out on top of my sheets. My hands are tucked beneath my hair - which has long since dried - and my legs are in such an awkward position that I can feel them already begin to cramp.

I finally give into myself, and glance over at my beloved window sill.

“Sleep is for the weak, dammit!” I swiftly push myself out of bed once more, and plop back down onto my pillow-laden nook area. My eyes become lively again as I look out into the street, admiring the city, “I’ll just stay right here for the rest of the night.”

As I’m seated there, everything happens before me. Couples yell at each other, taxis pick them up and drive away, and the lights in Times Square flash and change. In time, I watch the sun begin to rise above the bustling city.

I yawn as the sun begins to paint the fading night sky mellow, pastel shades of pink, red, orange, purple, and blue. Life below me in the streets begin to pick up and become faster again. Crowds of people begin to cross the crosswalks, creating what looked like herds from how high my apartment was above them. The loud bustle of cars honking horns, people yelling at others to get out of the street, and the mixed, faint noises of voices float up to my window.

The sound of the door opening and gently closing forces me to pull back from the window sill, my face partially hidden behind the sheer white curtains still flowing into the room, “Buck?”

“Why aren’t you asleep?” His voice sounds groggy as he walks into the room, and collapses on the bed, “It’s 6.”

I sigh lightly as I inch out of my nook, and cross over to him, “I couldn’t sleep, so I was people watching. Per usual.” I sit cross legged above his head on the fluffy sheets. His long brown hair was messy from him running his hands through it, after what I can presume was frustration with Tony trying to be Captain Corrector, and his blue eyes look tired as he stares up at me.

“Another nightmare?” He reaches up and brushes a piece of hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear as I nod.

“The same one that I’ve been having.” I run my fingers lightly through his hair to try and flatten it. He props himself up, and turns around to look at me. His suit looks sharp, even after he’s taken off his jacket, and his white button-up still looks crisp. It’s almost as if he just ironed it and put it on, even though I’m fully aware he didn’t (chances are, the debrief lasted all night again because Tony’s unorganized and likes to argue, and Steve tends to need and provide every single detail down to who moved which limb at what time).

His face looks more concerned than it does tired now, and I can see his lips moving, but no words come out as I admire his beautiful face and get lost in his eyes. I snap back to reality as he waves his hand in front of me, “Y/N? Did you hear what I said, doll?”

“Huh? Oh. No, I didn’t.” I realize that I just keep...staring at him. Everytime. I do this same thing every single time.

“I asked whether or not you wanted to talk about it.”

I shake my head, “No. I think I’ll be fine this time. I woke up before I landed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Absolutely positive?” I watch as his eyes become bright as he teases me.

“Dolphinately.” I smile faintly.

“110% positive?” By now, Bucky’s smile is wide as we begin laughing at each other. His smartass comments get the best of me as he keeps asking me how sure I am about being alright without talking about that stupid dream. He properly sits up, facing the middle of our bed, and pulls me into a hug. I can feel him burying his face into my shoulder and chest. His metal hand is cool to the touch as he gently slides it inside my shirt and up my back, his scruff scraping lightly against me, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, tangling my hands in his hair. We each breathe deeply, trying to catch our breath. His strong arms hold me close, pressing me against his being, and pulling me onto his lap. His polished-looking, white shirt is soft, and it’s in this moment that I close my eyes and make a silent wish that I could stay here forever, our bodies twirling around each other as we laugh, protected from the outside world.

At some point, both of us calm down, and I plant a small kiss on his forehead, as he presses his lips to the areas near my chest and shoulders, tickling my back lightly with his left hand, and holding my waist with the other, “I love you, doll,” Bucky’s voice is soft and muffled by my skin, as he moves his lips to my neck, freckling (is that a thing? I’m making this a thing) my skin with kisses.

I slowly slide off his lap and let myself sit between his legs, my own still resting on the top part of his thighs, and I press our foreheads together. He kisses me before I can do much else, with my hands slowly falling out of his hair and draping over his shoulders. I smile against his lips and quietly mutter back to him, as the sun begins to shine through our window and onto our entwined bodies, “I love you, too, Bucky.”

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fluff #bucky fic #tony stark #steve rogers #james barnes #marvel #sebastian stan #avengers #mcu #mcu imagine #avengers imagine #bucky x you

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dellardragon · 4 years

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First Essay

I was born in Bloomington, Indiana in 1974, to a middle class couple. They were well meaning. But they weren't a particularly happy one. They would split up when I was 5. My father would ask me if I was happy he was leaving. I answered honestly. I said yes, because I knew the shouting matches that they would get into every few nights would stop...

My early years, at least according my mother, and some dim memories that I still hold from those times, apart from the friction between my parents, were reasonably happy. My mother has recounted that I was relatively easy going as a hatchling. Never complained unless there was something truly wrong. I was apparently very outgoing. Very focused on people. I seemed to be always trying to get them to smile. When we prepared to move to Alexandria, Virginia a year later, many of our neighbors, some who had acted as my sitters when my parents were working, made a point of saying goodbye to me specifically. I was apparently rather popular as hatchlings go...

My experiences at kindergarten were mostly positive. It was run by the Episcopal church my mother went to, after we moved into the DC area. I was diagnosed early with learning disabilities. Therapists that worked with the kindergarten, worked with me, explaining to me as best they could how I was different, and taught me ways to cope. They started physical therapy to help my brain learn to control the body it had a scrambled connection to. They taught me to make sense of the wall of noise, presented to me by my senses. My brain, having to do the hard work of processing the data that normally would have been handled by my malfunctioning brain-stem, became quite burley, as a neurologist would explain to me decades later.

I had an inquisitive mind. I was curious about everything, wanting to know how they worked. I was able to grasp complex concepts that often one needed to be much older to understand. At three years old, as my mother once recounted, I would exclaim the revelation that numbers could go on forever, without end. When I was in second grade, after my mother, at my insistence, read me a high school level book about how nuclear reactors worked, as a bedtime story, would start drawing up and then refining, schematics for a nuclear powered rocket, complete with two reactor cores, radiation shield, and RCS thrusters to spin the vessel to simulate gravity for it's occupants. My IQ would later be measured around 150.

I was understood in kindergarten. I had teachers well versed in learning disabilities, and patient and kind. And I had a mother who had once been an educator herself, who advocated for me passionately. I was happy.

My school career would be less happy.

I was still quite awkward. I would be receiving physical therapy for a further 5 years. When my mother took me to see what would be my first elementary school, I went running across the playground, and before she could catch me, would run straight into a metal link chain that would catch me at neck level, and throw me to the ground. I was unable to stop myself in time.

My first grade teacher would be a Ms. Stein who was every bit as unwilling to understand about my condition as the kindergarten teachers were kind to me. She would help make my first year of schooling an absolute hell.

This was the early years of understanding about learning disabilities. Many teachers, too set in their ways, were unwilling to make accommodation. The Americans With Disabilities Act, that would reserve the right of the federal government, to deny funding to a school that didn't make proper accommodations for disabled students, was still a decade away. Learning disabled students were picked up by smaller buses, on special routes. Some schools housed them in homerooms with students with a variety of disabilities, keeping them out of the general populations as much as possible.

I would have a spelling teacher in fourth grade, who would keep me after class every day, because I couldn't finish my work in time, largely due to the motor coordination issues I had with writing. While my classmates got to watch a mid day movie during the break before lunch, I would be forced to struggle through the rest of it, with the teacher breathing down my neck. I still remember her scowl. Her telling me that learning disabilities didn't exist. That I was just slacking.

The stigma was heavy, and the students noticed. For years I would spend nights cuddled up next to my mother wailing about how I had no friends. How everyone was mean to me. And I didn't understand why...

I began to withdraw. To dread school. To me it was all struggle. All judgment. All punishment for me being different.

It would not be the only horrible thing to happen to me.

When I was 7 I was sexually abused by a neighbor down the road. A mentally challenged teenager. He was 14 but with the mind of a 6 year old, and had no idea what he was doing. But the damage lives with me to this day.

My father had mental problems. He was violent towards me, when he had problems controlling his anger. While I would say that later on we got along well enough, he never really held the place a father would in my life. He tried, but he was too haunted by his own abusive past.

I developed severe OCD when I was 13. My early teen years was spent seeing psychologists, psychiatrists, and neurologists. I was put on a veritable cornucopia of various SSRIs and other medications, searching for the right medication or combination, to turn down the volume on the screaming thoughts in my head. The ones about how I was dirty, and needed to clean myself endlessly. It would get bad enough that, I would eventually spend 13 hours a day in the bathroom, doing horrible things to myself, trying to get clean. My hair turn blond, from all the hydrogen peroxide I was spraying everywhere, trying to sanitize my home around me. My mother would threaten to get me hospitalized, if I didn't seek help. Thankfully, I was eventually able to find a medication that turns that scream down to a dull roar.

When I was 17, I came to understand that I was Gay. My mother was extremely understanding. While she feared that I would experience further prejudice, she made clear that the only issue she had with it (and she made it clear this was HER issue, and NOT mine),was that she probably could expect no biological grandchildren. She was right about that, alas.

I also developed clinical depression. At one point I was sleeping 14 hours a day, and eating myself into oblivion, because I felt like I had no real future that wasn't filled with just more suffering.

Throughout my life, I would struggle. Find myself the strange one. The one looking in from the outside, not allowed to have a normal life. To be subjected to horrors that my mother could not completely shield me from. And worse, I was smart. I became increasingly aware of how dysfunctional the world was. How arbitrary.

Things have thankfully changed for the better, for me, lately.

I have friends that I have made over the years since I left school. I now have a bit of a social network. After two extremely dysfunctional relationships (after taking a break from such things), I found a partner that I am truly compatible with. Our interests compliment each other wonderfully. He is my best friend, my partner, and my collaborator in geeky projects aplenty. Even with the world ironically seeming to fall off a cliff, just as I'm finally finding my own equilibrium, I have new friends that helped me grow a community, that we found ourselves inheriting. It's a social circle that we all can lean on, for which I am very grateful. It took nearly 4 decades of life, but I feel like I finally have a future. Something to do. Something to look forward to.

I found that I am very unusual combination.

I am a nerd, with interests that until very recently, were considered fringe, and were generally derided in most cases. Not considered dangerous, but definitely childish and unmanly. Videogames, science fiction, fantasy, and being a science and tech geek, were all things that would get you looked at oddly, or dismissed as a dreamer, as if being a dreamer was a bad thing. My experiences have formed what I believe is probably either a unique or at least uncommon viewpoint on the world. I'm not a part of the rat race. I have no career due to my conditions. I have no children, and no plans to have any. I feel that I am too unstable. It would not be good for me to be having to take care of another life, that was entirely dependent on me, when I am not able to really look after myself on more than a very basic level physically. But I'm incredibly bright, which is both a blessing and a curse. I'm good with technology and science, and can grasp the concepts, if not consciously the math. I can make inferences that have proven to be reasonably accurate. And I have time to think. Time to wonder, and to learn. And I have what I hope is a decent writing ability.

And I've stumbled. Alot. I've made some doozies of mistakes in my life, that have humbled me, and hopefully given me some measure of understanding, if only simply "Okay, better not to do THAT again..."

So here I am. I may not be female, or a person of color, but I am still a minority in my own way. I'm gay, an abuse survivor both sexual and physical, a sufferer of mental illness, a person with disabilities, and a person with interests that for the majority of my life were looked down upon, and to this day still carry some stigma. A minority, of a minority, of a minority, of a minority, of a minority.

And I'm getting older. I'm thinking about mortality. About what I will leave behind when I pass off this mortal coil. There will be friends to remember me, but no children to carry on in my stead. Robin Williams once said the wonderful thing about having children is that they are both you, and not you. But that in some way, it's a ticket towards, if not immortality, towards having something of you live on, after you for at least a time. I don't have that...

I want to leave something behind. Something that hopefully can endure after I am gone.

As I said before, I have some decent writing ability, or at least I'm told that I do. It's not the first time I've considered doing this, but lately, with everything that's going on, I figured, what the hell. Best to just get on with it...

They say that nothing really ever disappears on the Internet. That it may become harder to find, but it's always still out there somewhere...

So, after much procrastination, I have decided to start writing. To create essays that give my point of view on what hopefully will be a variety of topics. Some will be on politics, some on philosophy, some on science and physics, some on more geeky topics like fandom and science fiction, videogames, etc.

I will try to post at least 1 thing a week on Facebook, Tumblr, and Furaffinity (yeah, I'm also one of them furries). Hopefully someone will read these and take away something of value. That maybe it will change an opinion, or give an insight or inspiration. Something that can survive me, even if my name and who I was is forgotten. Here's hoping.

And here goes nothing...

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baek-again · 7 years

Text

THIS ISN’T GOODBYE // PART 2 // BAEKHYUN [ANGST]

Baekhyun x Reader Words: 2096 Notes: Y/L/N = Your / Last / Name REQUESTED so this took a really long time and i have zero idea about how the korean military system works so i’m really sorry if this is nonfactual /: ALSO! i’m still very much not over descendants of the sun

PART 1 // PART 2

The call had come later that evening, from the commissioner's office regretting to inform you that Byun Baekhyun was unfortunately not been recovered and that until his body was found he would be considered missing in action. But, it didn’t come as a shock, you had suspected it to be the case before you had even picked up the phone, you just knew that he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. However, it still came as a crushing blow, like you were a delicate and refined sculpture carved out of thin ice and you had taken a hit from a mallet.

Your friend had offered to stay with you overnight to make sure you were okay, but you had assured her that you would be alright and that you didn’t want her engagement to be ruined because of you. So you slept alone that night, not for the first time, but the loneliness you felt made you feel more isolated than ever.

The sofa became your bed and each night you would dull your mind with the petty drama of soaps and sitcoms until you fell asleep. Because other people's problems seemed to be overshadowed by the feelings you felt inside, yet somehow it helped, you could zone out of the issues and heartbreak surrounding you and let your mind be consumed by someone else’s story.

It wasn’t until several months later that you made your way back to the bed. You had gone out for a couple of drinks with two of your friends, comforting one of them on her misfortunate breakup. Sat at the bar, the three of you had already attracted a bit of attention, so much so that your night of drinks might have been free if you had accepted. However, all of the bidders had been for your two glammed up friends, not for you- until then.

The man had almost caged you in, his thick, robust, ‘compliment me- I work out’ arms forming two barriers against the bar and the back of your chair. “Can I buy you a drink beautiful?” He asked, his voice deep and his words slow, he murmured them in your ear like an incantation. Perhaps he hoped they’d work like a spell and magic him into your tight fitting pants.

You glanced to your side, only to see your two friends sending you not-so-subtle nods and thumbs up’. But, instead, you pressed your painted red lips together in a sorry smile and said, “I already have a boyfriend.”

The man sighed and turned away without a word, visibly disappointed. You wrinkled your nose, glad to be out of the musty cloud of cologne that surrounded him.

In your peripheral vision, you saw two surprised faces staring at you open mouthed. “Are you crazy?!” Your friend squealed, “He was so hot! And you don’t even have a boyfriend.” Her voice is slightly slurred from drowning her sorrows in expensive cocktail probably named by a drunk Caribbean pirate somewhere down the line.

You shook your head, “Until Baek’s tags are mailed me in the post, he is still my boyfriend and until I see them bury his body in a coffin I am not single.”

Your friend raised her eyebrows, “Jeez, I’d rather my boyfriend was dead.” She mumbled under her breath.

Your other friend rubbed both of your backs, her diamond encrusted engagement ring glittering tauntingly in the dimmed pub light.

You forced back the tears that threatened to overflow. Why did everyone think he was dead, so far they had already found one of the other missing bodies. And that meant that the 5 missing soldiers had been alive, just under the imprisonment of a radical group of mercenaries, but not dead. The first body had shown up just over a month after they had gone missing, he had been shot in the head with his body left for dead in the dust of the fleeing group. When the forces found him his tags were laid out upon his chest like a message of ‘one down, four to go’, a sort of catch us if you can- before it’s too late game.

The words repeated themselves in your head in the taxi home that night, he is not dead. He is not dead. He is not dead.

And again when you dragged yourself into your bed, the sheets crisp from lack of use. He is not dead. He is not dead.

And yet again as you curled up in a cocoon of many blankets, the layers of material folding like petals around your delicate heart. He is not dead.

✦

The sunlight filters in through the unclosed curtains and you unfurl yourself from your blankets, the morning was strangely unpeaceful. Not from the expected cars and buses, or the business men and woman and students on their commute and not from the trucks and workmen who had already been up far before the sun. No, the thing that disrupted the peace was something in the air, it was carried on the breeze and in the song of the birds, it was in the rustle of the trees and the almost excitement it carried with it. A whisper humming a victory song that is growing louder the more voices that join it.

Your phone beside your bed rings and it makes you jump, violently shaking you out of your dreamy revery. “Hello?” You answer in a raw, morning voice, “Who is this?”

“This is General Seo. Is this Miss Y/L/N?”

At the sound of the deep voice on the other end of the phone line, your back immediately straightens and a buzz of electricity shoots along the arteries of your body, jolting you into a more upright position. “Yes!” You exclaim, trying not to sound too optimistic. Don’t get your hopes up. You tell yourself, but it’s hard to prepare yourself for the worst when the small voice in your head echoes the words had been chanting to yourself for the past months, he is not dead.

“What I am about to tell you is very important and should not be repeated until otherwise notified, do you understand?”

You hiccup out a weak “Yes.” and squeeze the spot over your heart, attempting to tame the creatures writhing about and feeding off your worry.

The man continues: “Last night we carried out a raid on a suspected hideout of the group that have our missing troops, that raid was successful and we were able to safely remove all four of the men being held captive. Your fiance was one of them and is being treated in intensive care, it will be a couple of days before he is released, but please know that Byun Baekhyun is not dead.”

You whisper the last words along with the General, not bothering to correct him that you aren’t actually engaged to your boyfriend, realising that it was probably only under that pretense that you would be allowed to hear those words. The tears stream down your cheeks, but they aren’t the sad, lonely tears that you have become accustomed to, far from it. These tears are full of gratitude, “Thank you.” You wail through the phone line, an intangible grin forming on your face as you imagine the old General Seo hold up in his office holding the phone away from his ear to avoid your hysterical sobbing. “Thank you so much.” And you hang up.

You flop back down onto your bed and roll around squealing, your body is full of the adrenaline of a drugged up cage fighter before a match and you can’t breathe, you don’t know what to do with yourself, with the overflow of emotions you are experiencing.

You reach for your phone and ring your friend and release a torrent of words about nothing in particular, things about Baekhyun that you miss and things you want to do when he gets back to make up for the lost time. If she stops listening at some point, she doesn’t let on, she lets you ramble about all the inconsequential things that mean the world to you, like the dimples in his cheeks and the way he makes coffee for you in the mornings, the sparkle in his eye when he kisses your neck whilst you wash up and the way he asks you to rub his shoulders after a busy week at work. It’s only after almost 40 minutes that she tells you she needs to go to work but there’s a smile in her voice as she asks: “When do you get to see him?”

“They’ll let me know.” you breathe happily.

And they do, two unbearable days later after being able to think of nothing else, your phone rings telling you that your ‘fiance’ will be on the 4 o’clock flight and will be ready to be picked up an hour after.

✦

The traffic on the highway is horrific, the cars are stacked up bumper to bumper for at least a kilometer in both directions, behind and in front of you and you slowly crawl forward at the pace of a snail. Luckily you set of several minutes- 34 to be exact- early and you get to the airport on time with a couple of minutes to spare.

The sign overhead tells you that Baekhyun’s flight has just landed and you begin to pace up and down the waiting room, your eyes glued to the arrivals gate.

The waiting room is quite busy already, there is an old lady waiting there with two small children holding a glittery sign that reads ‘WELCOME HOME DADDY!’ with sparkly love hearts surrounding it. There is a middle-aged man there in a smart brown suit, there is a huge bouquet of yellow flowers in his arms and he hops nervously from foot to foot. There are half a dozen chauffeurs standing against the back wall holding sheets of paper and Ipads with names that have important looking initials in front of them. They are the standard family welcome party there too, the ones that look like they have come out for an outing rather than to pick someone up.

That’s when you see him, it’s a quick blur of khaki and then his face. He’s lost weight, that’s plain to see, the bones in his cheeks are more prominent and the clothes that were tight fitted and smart when he left are baggy around his shoulders and thighs. But his eyes are the same, though, a little more tired than they used to be, they still light up the room when he sees you.

A sound that sounds like a whimper leaves your lips and before you can think a rational thought, you are speeding towards him with your arms open wide.

The bag that was straining the muscles in his arms is discarded on the floor as he catches your figure, you almost bowl him over you are so forceful. You are finally back in his arms and the feeling is better than you had imagined it would be. You hold him and he holds you, your bodies fitting together like two pieces of a broken vase and your yearning for each other is the glue.

“I missed you so much.” Baekhyun whispers in your ear and in that moment, you are the happiest you have ever been. His hands have become coarse in the weeks of his absence and the tough skin scratches your soft cheek as he cups your face. “So, so, so much.” He whispers these words like they’re a dangerous secret in between peppering your lips with soft kisses.

You pull away to study his face, inspecting it like an artist would before painting a masterpiece. There are subtle things that have changed that you didn’t notice at first, some of his features are sharper than they used to be, there are scrapes and scratches along his cheekbones, a fresh looking one along the bridge of his nose and a nasty scar on his forehead. His body is different too, he doesn’t stand as tall as he used too, his posture is slightly slumped and he’s standing with his weight more on his left foot than his right, like the right side can’t support him enough. You decide you won’t ask him about what happened, whatever it was it wasn’t good but if he needs to talk to someone, you promise to always be there.

“Let’s go home.” You whisper.

Baekhyun nods, kissing your cheek one last time, “Let’s.”

#a shoddy ending tbh #but hey #HE'S NOT DEAD #(try to be surprised)#byun baekhyun #baekhyun #baekhyun scenario #EXO baekhyun #exo scenarios #exo angst #baekhyun angst

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talesofmundanemagic · 7 years

Text

Bridget takes the wheel

“What’s the first thing you do?” Gertie asked, sitting in the passenger seat of Vivien’s minivan in the student parking lot of Flories Boarding School.

Bridget reached to push the ignition button.

Gertie caught her wrist. “No. Now you fail.”

“For trying to start the car?” Bridget said.

“Yep. Try again.”

Bridget looked around the car for a sign of what to do. She noticed Gertie not wearing her seatbelt.

“Let me guess. Buckle up for safety?” she asked.

Gertie smiled and nodded and clicked her seatbelt in place.

“People actually fail for that?” Bridget asked.

“Yep.” Vivien leaned forward, against the back of Gertie’s seat. “One of my best friends back home ranted about it for ages.”

“That just seems like a trick,” Bridget said.

“You are responsible for the safety of your passengers,” Gertie said, in full teacher mode. “Now, pull out of the parking lot before Vivien changes her mind.”

Bridget pushed the green “start” button and the car rumbled to life. She took a deep breath to calm herself, clicked her blinker on, and pulled out of the parking spot while looking behind the car the whole time.

Vivien’s minivan was purple, which made it painfully conspicuous as they drove past the school. One of the doors and the back had been painted so it acted like a chalkboard. As if the color wasn’t attention-grabbing enough, Vivien had written STUDENT DRIVER in big, block letters across the side and back.

Bridget tried to ignore the unfounded nerves that people were laughing and pointing. It was much too early for anyone to be out and about.

They pulled out of the student lot, made their way along the seldom used school roads and headed out into the city. The car drove past the subway station they normally took, the coffee shop Mentos they would hang out at, and their favorite nearby restaurants. The road was eerily devoid of company, with the exception of a bus or the occasional jogger.

“Turn left,” Gertie said, and at the next light Bridget complied.

Bridget had had some lessons already, both with a professional driving instructor and with her and Gertie’s dad. But she needed to get experience driving the roads she would be taking the test on, and the city of Wespire was notorious for crabby drivers and extreme traffic. The only reasonable way to have driving lessons was in the wee hours of the morning, when the roads were all but abandoned.

Bridget’s eye glanced down to the speedometer and back to the road as she drove. Gertie checked, and wasn’t surprised to see her sister was keeping the car exactly at the speed limit. Bridget constantly flicked her eye to her left mirror, having to turn her head a bit, to compensate for the lack of peripheral vision on that side, thanks to her ruined eye.

“Try to relax your shoulders,” Vivien said, noticing Bridget’s back was stiff and her knuckles white.

“I will never relax anything while driving,” Bridget retorted.

“Then how are you going to get anywhere?” Gertie asked teasingly.

“Please.” Bridget wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Like licenses are necessary in this day and age. How much am I actually going to have to drive, once I get my license? Even if we ignore buses and bikes and-”

“Change into the left lane,” Gertie said.

Bridget sighed, clicked the turn signal up with her ring finger and craned her neck to get a good view.

Out of nowhere, one of the tires rumbled. Bridget gasped, unsure what to do.

Gertie’s hand reached out and pressed the “self-driving” button on the dashboard. It lit up green and the car began to control itself. It put on its hazards and started pulling into the bike lane. Bridget let go of the wheel, glaring as she saw it light up with magic. She crossed her arms in defeat, and the car slowed to a stop next to the sidewalk.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Bridget said as Gertie opened her door.

“What do you mean?” Gertie asked, looking back to try to figure out what had happened.

“Why does the law require a licensed driver in the car!” Bridget exclaimed. “The magic driver handles emergencies much better than I ever could!”

“A car can’t change it’s own tire,” Vivien said, her voice sounding a bit lost. She pulled the minivan’s handle and her door slid open.

“Well maybe it should,” Bridget grumbled, turning off the car and getting out.

“Oh no,” Gertie whispered, just out enough into the road to see what had happened.

Bridget had hit a cat.

“No!” Bridget ran and kneeled next to the poor thing. Its eyes were closed and it wasn’t moving. “No! No no no.”

“It’s not your fault,” Gertie said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Of course it is!” Bridget started crying, her tears falling next to the black and orange cat.

“Bridget, there was nothing you could do,” Gertie said, crouching to try to meet her gaze. “None of us saw it. The same thing would have happened if either of us had been driving-”

“But you weren’t!” Bridget shouted and hiccupped a sob. “I...I killed it!”

“No, you didn’t,” Vivien murmured, as if she was listening very intently for something no one else could hear. She kneeled next to Bridget. “It’s not dead. It’s dying.”

“Is that any better?” Bridget asked.

“Yes.” Vivien touched the cat’s head. Smoke sizzled from between her fingers.

The cat’s eyes opened and it started to yowl in pain.

“What?” Bridget picked the cat up gingerly, afraid of making the situation worse. It was still badly hurt, but at least it was alive. “Viv-?”

Their friend had collapsed in the middle of the bike lane.

Gertie was frozen in place. What had Vivien just done?

“Gertie?” Bridget asked, looking up at her sister.

“It’s overexertion,” Gertie said, finally finding her voice. She kneeled and lifted the much taller girl up, heaving her arm over her shoulder. “She’ll be fine after a rest.”

Bridget took the cat back to the car and cuddled the pained creature in her lap as Gertie all but dragged Vivien along behind. It groaned and hissed but allowed Bridget to fuss over it.

“Let’s get the cat to Faye,” Bridget said, her jaw locked in determination. “She’ll be able to heal him.”

Gertie buckled Vivien into the back seat and got in the driver’s chair. She turned the car back on and clicked the magical driver button. It waited for instructions.

“We need to get back to Flories Boarding School,” she told it. “It’s an emergency.”

The car turned its blinker on and pulled out into the road, tires wailing. It made it to the left lane by the next light and executed a speedy, but perfectly safe, U-turn.

Vivien stirred at the motion and opened her eyes.

“I’m starving,” she mumbled, reaching into her backpack. She had some freshly baked cornbread in a tupperware container and started tearing into it. The smell wafted through the car, making Bridget’s mouth water.

“Of course you are,” Gertie scolded. “You nearly killed yourself.”

“No I didn’t, I just haven’t done much spirit work lately,” Vivien said.

“And never with real spirits,” Gertie retorted. “What were you thinking, stitching the cat’s spirit back into it’s body? You could have really hurt yourself.”

Vivien glared. “I’m fine, aren’t I?”

The cat yowled, annoyed at the arguing.

“Will you two be quiet?” Bridget said. The car pulled up next to the school, its hazards on.

“Go park,” Vivien told it once they had all unloaded. The car drove away, legally allowed to control itself while empty inside a parking lot.

The three rushed to Faye Nessing’s room. In the few weeks she had been at Flories, she had become known as a prodigy when it came to healing animals.

They banged on the door and Faye answered, her roommates looking annoyed behind her at being woken so early.

“What?” she snapped. She saw the cat in Bridget’s arms and gasped. “Hi there,” she said, crooning now. She checked his collar. “Erwin. Hi Erwin, what happened to you?”

The cat yowled, sounding almost like speech.

Faye’s mouth dropped open. “They hit you with a car?”

Bridget had known that one of the Nessing girl’s necklaces allowed her to speak to dogs. It seemed she had another that worked on cats.

“It was an accident,” Bridget mumbled, wiping away the tears that formed again. “Can you tell him I’m sorry?”

Faye pulled supplies down from her little dorm closet, mumbling about idiot humans, while Bridget watched on forlornly.

Nervously, Faye’s roommates picked up their purses and backpacks and shuffled out, leaving the healer to her business. They had been on the wrong end of distracting Faye from her work enough in her limited time at Flories, and weren’t excited for another lecture.

Vivien, meanwhile, was sitting against the wall outside the open door, chewing absentmindedly on her cornbread and deep in thought.

Gertie sat next to her. “You want to talk about it?” she asked, trying to be gentle.

Vivien took a deep breath and sighed. “What I did was beginning necromancy,” she said. “And it was so easy. I didn’t even think about it.”

Gertie nodded.

Vivien shifted, letting her head rest on Gertie’s shoulder. “I know that it’s...so incredibly dangerous,” Vivien said. “And...scary. And bad.”

“It’s not always bad,” Gertie granted her. “It just...has a history of being used for bad things.”

Vivien nodded, thinking of the wars against evil necromancers who had raised armies of the dead that she had been taught about in history classes. She took a deep breath. “The thing is...I just find spirit magic fascinating, you know? Even when it comes to necromancy.”

“Yeah, I do.” Gertie smiled. “I just don’t feel the same way.”

“I mean, I don’t want to spend all my time raising the dead,” Vivien assured her. “There’s lots of other magic we can still do.” Vivien offered Gertie a piece of the cornbread. Gertie took a bite. Vivien made the most tempting baked goods.

“Hand me that brush?” Faye asked Bridget, and Gertie turned to watch.

Bridget reached for one from a cup on Faye’s desk.

“No.”

Bridget pointed to another one.

“No.”

Bridget reached for the last one in the cup.

Faye gestured impatiently. “No! The one with the blue bristles.”

Vivien breathed in deep and let it out in a frustrated huff. “What do I do?”

Gertie tried to focus on their conversation again. “Hm?”

“About the...necromancy?”

Gertie thought about what she would do if there was something she really wanted to study, despite her misgivings about what Vivien wanted to learn. “Ask Headmistress Clearwater if she can arrange a class for next year,” she said. “Or sign up for a summer course at one of the colleges in the city. Or an online class. Or-”

“Okay, I get it.” Vivien smiled.

Gertie hesitated, staring down at the bread in her hand.

Vivien nudged her with her arm. “Hey, I’ll be ok. I won’t go skipping rules and regulations. I’ll do it right this time.”

Gertie tried to clamp down on the nerves bubbling in her chest at the thought of everything that could go wrong for Vivien if she went down this path. “Yeah, you will.”

“Okay, it took everything I’ve got, but he’s good as new,” Faye said, handing Erwin back to Bridget. “You owe me one favor.”

“I can pay in your favorite baked good,” Vivien said as she and Gertie stood.

Faye scoffed. “I don’t think you understand how much energy and material this-”

Vivien offered her a piece of the cornbread.

Faye picked it up, sniffed it, and took a bite. Her eyes opened wide. Gertie and Bridget knew Vivien’s baking; it was likely the best cornbread Faye had ever eaten.

“Yeah, okay, alright.” Faye nodded. “Two dozen apricot turnovers sound fair?”

Vivien nodded. “Expect them next weekend.”

The girls found Vivien’s car again, parked in the back of the lot. Erwin purred in Bridget’s arms, having apparently forgiven her for almost killing him. Faye must have passed along a sufficiently persuasive apology after all.

Gertie read the address from Erwin’s collar to the car, and it rumbled to life, taking them to a small house near the campus.

They rang the doorbell and waited nervously.

A pleasant-looking woman answered the door.

“Erwin!” she said, accepting the cat without a word from the girls. “Where did you get off to?”

The cat began yowling to her in the same way he had spoken to Faye. Bridget bit her lip from her nerves, trying to figure out the excuse she would give to Erwin’s owner as the cat ratted her out.

“Oh, you little fluffer, let’s get you inside,” the woman said, placing the cat on the floor. He sniffed and stalked off into the house. His owner turned back to the girls. “Thank you for bringing him back. Did you find him on campus? He loves the flowers there.”

“Yes,” Bridget said, letting out a sigh of relief. “Erwin sure does love flowers.”

Vivien offered the tupperware to the woman. “Cornbread?”

#writing #gertie and bridget #magic #cat #driving #tales of mundane magic #modern fantasy

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little-writings · 7 years

Text

Wake-Up Call (Jumin x MC)

ZombieApocalypse!AU: You get a call from Zen and begin to try how to figure what to do next.

Word Count: 1298

I haven’t got much to say other than I hope you enjoy and have a lovely day! Thank you!

This is an ongoing storyline, if you haven’t already, I highly suggest reading the previous parts before reading this

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Despite how much the world had shifted, the passing of time did not.

Night came along with the wails of the undead, clouds overtaking what would be a starry night sky with a downpour of rain, the droplets thumping against the windows.

Jumin had been bandaged along his arm, the blood wiped from his hands, his suit replaced with a simple button-up and pants.

Jahee had locked nearly every door leading to the penthouse floor, worry drenching every inch of her.

Not that you could blame her.

Elizbeth 3rd seemed to be the only one calm and relaxed, resting on the bed with steady breaths and a soft purring.

You had somehow found yourself on the balcony before it rained, peering downwards at the mass of living corpses as they dragged themselves across the street.

Occasionally you'd notice survivors along the roofs of smaller buildings, some frantic and some prepared.

Even if they saw you and began to yell, you'd hardly be able to hear with the symphony and shrieks beneath you.

But one thing you did notice was your phone buzzing.

You had just stepped inside as the rain began to dot your skin when the frantic buzzing began in your pocket.

And as you took it you understood.

Zen.

You raised the phone to your ear, a lump growing in your throat by the second.

"MC? Are you okay?" Zen's voice was hushed yet still paranoid.

"I-I am. I'm with Jumin and Jahee."

"You guys...you have to help-me-please." He shifted. "I-I can't l-leave."

"Where are you?"

You peered up as Jumin approached you, his brow furrowed confusedly as he mouthed to you.

"Who is it?"

"Zen."

Jumin's eyes widened as if surprised.

"I-I'm at the theater w-we were practicing when all this happened!" He shushed himself, whispering once again. "A-All our noise attracted a horde of them! T-They haven't left yet. I-I can still hear them. T-They won't stop..."

His words became more clustered and cramped, as though desperate for silence, even if just for a moment.

"Is there anyone else with you?"

"N-No, I don't know if any of my co-workers are even alive...! I-I'm the only one who went into the maintenance closet! I-I can't even tell if anyone tried to because of all of their begging...i-it sounds the same." He scoffed. "I-I can't even tell who's human anymore MC!"

"C-Calm down. It's going to be fine. I-Is there any other way you can move out of there? Get to food or water?"

You listened to Zen moving around, quietly cursing when things began to fall.

"U-Uh there's...there's an air vent here. I could try but I don't know if it'd really work. I'd need a screwdriver or something..."

"Y-You're in a maintenance closet it'll probably be there somewhere. But you can't stay there if there's no food or water. Try to get to the breakroom or something," You exclaimed, pulling your husband closer. "Call me back when you're in them. We'll try to figure out what to do."

"A-Alright. Thanks."

You hung up promptly looking to Jumin with worry drenching your expression. "We have to get to the theater. Z-Zen needs our help."

Jumin sighed, folding his lips. "I know, Jahee told me earlier of his situation."

"T-Then you think we should go too right?"

"If we can. But we need to think of our own stability as well, and how we would survive on the way to the theater as well as what we'd even do afterward." He pointed out. "That can take time."

"We can't just let him die in there." You puffed out your cheeks indignantly. "He needs us-"

"And I need you MC. I can't let you die out there," Jumin held your face in his hand, locking eyes with you. "You're the very reason I'm even still bothering to breathe at all. I won't recklessly throw ourselves out there if it means any of us will get hurt-let alone killed."

"I...I know." You let out a deep breath, leaning against him, burying your head in the crook of his neck. "But we to help him. I know you two haven't ever really gotten along but he's still important to everyone."

"I'm not wanting to leave him either. We'll do what we can to help him. But only once we know we'll remain safe in the process."

Jumin cleared his throat, entwining an arm around you as he called out. "Jahee could you come here please?"

She quickly hurried into the living room, tipping her head curiously. "Yes?"

"Zen called," You stated, lifting your head. "He needs our help."

"Then we're going aren't we?"

"No, not yet at least," Jumin said. "We can't do anything until we're prepared. We need a steady supply of food, weapons, and medicine. And that's enough for the four of us, five counting Zen if we reach him."

"Four?"

"Elizabeth 3rd."

"Of course." Jahee huffed, folding her arms across his chest. "And what're we going to do after we have Zen?"

"Preferably we come back here."

"Why's that?"

"It's the most stable place we know of. There's electricity, water, heating, and has the advantage of high ground that only we can reach."

Jahee leaned against the back of the sofa drawing her hands against her face thoughtfully. "Speaking of which, we may not have that for long."

"What do you mean?"

"The city has been evacuated for the most part. The military is going to be running through here and handling the undead population since we're the first recorded area. They have no reason to keep any power running through here since as far as they know, there are no people here."

"They can't seriously think that everyone evacuated, can they?" You asked, scrunching up your nose.

"They have to go with that assumption." She shrugged. "They're setting up safe camps all around the world. Those are our best bets of continuous electricity, plumbing, and heating."

"Is there one near us?"

"No...no there isn't. Buses and military personnel took citizens there hours ago. It's an undisclosed location. So, we don't even really know."

"Sounds kind of like 707," You almost laughed, smirking just a tad.

"Luciel..." Jumin muttered, seemingly a light going off in his head. "Luciel!"

"What about him?"

"His home is perfect."

"Running water, heating, and he has his own generator. If we could get to him, we'd be able to survive."

"The undisclosed location makes things a bit difficult though doesn't it?"

You frowned. "I think in this situation he'd help us. Wouldn't he?"

"Well even as he may not be my favorite person, it's true..." Jahee agreed. "He'd help us."

"Then I suppose we should-"

And as though your luck was catching up with you the electricity began to flicker and waver with dying gasps.

And the churning of metal and booming yells grew nearer.

As the military only drew closer.

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obclus · 7 years

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FOR ADALINDA THIS TRIP WAS ABOUT THE CLOSEST THING to letting a child roam around a candy store freely. Politics was their domain, a game where words are used for arsenal. And it’s no secret that American representatives rarely present the concerns of the people they govern accurately but, on the issue of the future of mutant kind, the general consensus seems to agree, save for a few progressive areas. It’s the same hate speech humans have been spewing out against each other for years, long before they were even away mutants existed, even when they viewed a specific mutant as a god. History serves it’s testaments, Hitler in Germany, America during the Vietnam and Cold Wars, Syria in 1496, Turkey in what began in 1914 and took nearly ten years to put to an end. Now however, they were going to sit part in the debate. An actual witness to what one day be recorded as history, and although she isn’t worried about the fate of mutants in the slightest, she questions Charles’ decision on attending. Surely he, Erik, and a good portion of the other staff would be recognized amongst the crowd — at least Erik didn’t seem to be wearing his damned tin can hat. But, at the end of the day they were watching over a group of kids, some who feel targeted, afraid, victimized. Others who want to upset the established order, to prove to humans they are not anything they’ve ever encountered — and so what security precautions had been taken for this trip ? THAT’S WHEN SHE FEELS IT. Something comes across their senses, where the light hums and the shadows flicker. It’s a movement so quick and violent like a foreshadowing omen. A VEIL SOMEWHERE HAS SHIFTED.

The only thing she has time to do is spare a glance outside the window and try to phase their body into what looks like a ghost of black air. In the few seconds that follow the sound metal tearing apart and the wailing of everyone else on the bus pierces through their ear drums. She’s too focused on trying to hear what’s going on to actually feel the bus turning over into the grass. Once her gray eyes flutter open they reveal a world of black and white, there’s a sharp pain that aches across her body. The world slowly comes back to colour as she notices the blood seeping out of her. ❝ Bokkelul ! ❞ she hisses through her white teeth. At best their collarbone is just bruised at and at worst well, she never really did think much of pain, not after what her father did to her all those years ago. ❝ Eriadon ! ❞ The sound of their voice is raspier — if she hadn’t gone back for the damned notebook . . . Adrenaline pushes aside whatever feelings of pain their body makes reference to and they begin to assess the chaos around them. Farther away from them everyone else is strewn about here and there, while the scattered remains of what once were buses lie across the road. At the moment she’s lying under the shade of a tree. The tree she saw before the bus was ripped apart, with a large amount of shade to take cover under — it dawns on her that she's teleported again. It's a fairly new power Adalinda has developed, they're no where near adept with it as they are the other applications of their powers. It's a lot more trickier too, there has to already be a shadow in existence to teleport, with enough space for her own frame to fit. But it seems sometime within the crash Adalinda was able to make it out of there before it’s final collision. Whoever did this was going to have to try a lot harder than that to kill them all. There's a shift in their essence just as there was in the balance. It’s tipped and darker now, laced with viperous ferocity. Their bloodstream ready and singing for a fight. It’s been a while since they’ve felt this way, so willing to through away the docile facade they camouflage themselves behind. Now every atom of their existence screamed to wreak utter havoc. ❝ Only COWARDS hide behind trees and fight. ❞ The statement isn’t directed at anyone specifically partly because they can’t tell who is who at the moment. But whomever is listening would have been able to hear the sheet acidity in their tone of voice. She faces the trees in front of her, to the side there are mutants scattered across the field without any distinction if a person was a victim or assailant. Because the school was always always getting new students, it was next to impossible to get to know every single person quick enough. Whoever attacked them could easily sneak their way back to the school if they wanted to. Light begins to flicker explosively at the tips of her fingers. ❛ I hope the people behind this have faith in a God or whatever divinity because today, right now, if Eriadon is hurt in anyway, their petty systems of belief will fail them all — TELL ME . . . ARE YOUR GODS MERCIFUL ? BECAUSE I AM NOT. ❜ She projects the last part loudest in her mind just in the very likely case a telepath is listening. Her feet are quick to hit the ground, gaining momentum with each step. Like a dart through the air she conceals herself in the natural darkness of the trees. The moss that feeds off the bark of it, the termites that eat it from the inside out. In the trees ahead they can spot the auras of people running and she continues to make way deeper into the dense forest after them, not bothering to check if anyone is following the same idea. From what she saw they all personnel was caught up with making sure everyone is safe, and it makes her heart ping a little at not searching for Eriadon idea, but he of all people would understand why she’s doing this. It was obvious that this wasn’t just some random attack, this was planned. Someone within the school walls was conspiring against them all. They had an obligation to Eriadon, themself, to every other mutant in those buses. She had to catch at least one of the assailants for interrogation, or make them pay. And Adalinda sure as hell wasn't going to wait around for other's to come to the same conclusion. The scent of oak trees takes the air and she notices that some are running on the ground a few yards ahead of her. They shoot off sharp bolts of light in the direction they seem to be running and at the tree branches above. A couple fall but are quick to gather themselves back up and run again. Another makes a sickening snap sound as their body hits the ground. Adalinda begins to sneer and feels a distinct kind of savagery crawl all over their skin, it sends away whatever last bit of pain her collarbone gives of. The trees continue to whip by as she continues to chase after the remaining few. Her mind drifts to one of the last thoughts they had before the attack. Charles should have seen this coming ! Did he think that every person in his was was as innocent as he thought, or did he just believe he could change them all ? He appears seemingly willing to let his capacity for empathy to cost for the lives of innocents, but in reality Adalinda knows if he knew such a thing would have happened, the Professor would have done anything to stop it. However, right now she couldn’t care less about whatever emotional feelings he had right now. Her hand sends out an array of light beams trying to cover more ground, catching one of them in the ankles. Something, or rather, someone collides at her side making her yell out in pain, their eyes quick to seal shut in pain and a blinding ray of light rips out their center. The wail of her known attacker sounds in the distance, she can't tell if they're dead or badly injured as spots of blackness reemerge to cloud their vision. Adalinda brings herself up on her elbows to see no one around her. Quickly she brings a palm up to her wound and begins to cauterize it with her own light, adding another scar to match the one on her back, this time of their own volition. She picks up her body again and renders herself invisible from anyone that might be lurking by. Faintly the voices of the group can be heard a ways away. ❝ Go now ! ❞ One of them screamed, they seemed to be carrying the boy she’d injured. ❝ YOU'RE ALL COWARDS ! You seek to murder your own people ! Have you forgotten that the humans already seek to rid themselves of us as well, including you ? ❞ Her statement is a challenge at their cause, which to them seems hollow and a waste of time. Xavier already housed both sides of the argument, peace and war with humans under one campus. Of what belief were these people that they didn't fall under either one of those two categories ? The charge seems to have given a few of them pause, and that's all she needs. In that split second of shadows rip out of the ground below and grab the three opposers and she carves the X-Men symbol on their necks before dropping two from a height that knocks them unconscious. The last one, a teleporter she witnessed jumping in and out of space above in the trees, she brings them in closer to relay a message ❝ Tell whomever sent you here that next time it will be them, and that they won't walk out of it alive. Let the bodies mark that this is NOT an empty threat and I deal only in ABSOLUTES. ❞ Then they drop them too to the ground and make their way back to the school bus. The full extent of their wound slowly washing over them. She phases out of invisibility and slowly makes her way into the crowd, face bloodied and battered.

#me:*crying*#u know when you picture something so much better in your head #and then when you try and write it down it's #bippity boppity flOP #i meant for this to be a starter but then i got carried away #i'm gonna still put it in the event tag....#i mean if people wanna reply u def can no need to match the length but idK #im a noob #xmevent1 #xmevent #( self para. * )#i'm gonna reply to some starters now!

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iamcarriesoom · 7 years

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5ast 5ive

I watched this directly after Fast & 4ious and honestly it was one of the best choices I’ve made in my life. Also these movies are starting to get good so it’s harder to make fun of them.

This one picks up literally the very moment that the last movie left off: Brian is driving in with Mia and the gang to hijack the bus taking Dom to prison. I was in the middle of typing “I am so excited to see how they do this” when the bus swerved and then just started rolling down the street.

Obviously Dom or Letty must’ve been in charge of making their other schemes stealthy and graceful, because this was some clumsy shit. Enter PERD HAPLEY to say there are miraculously no fatalities. Do those buses even have seatbelts?? Also obviously Dom is missing after the crash because he’s run away to live his best life.

Apparently the gang splits up, because the next thing we see is Brian and Mia (who is FINALLY being styled like a Hot Girl) being almost shot by a bunch of people in Rio. They get saved by Vince, who now looks more like Frank from How to Get Away With Murder than Jamie Dornan. Vince has a girlfriend and a kid now, and from the way Mia looks at that kid she is very obviously pregnant.

Vince asks them for their help with a “straightforward” heist, and since Dom isn’t there to do it, they agree, kicking off an insanely badass stunt. Sincere sidenote, Justin Lin’s commitment to practical effects is probably the best thing to happen to this franchise, as one of the things I laughed out loud at in the first movie was how terrible the effects were.

They CUT A HOLE in the side of a train, pull cars out, then drop them off the back of a truck to drive away. It’s honestly very impressive, as unrealistic schemes go. Brian notices they’re seized property, which I don’t understand the significance of at the time, and somehow in there they figure out they’re going to be betrayed or something and they all start punching/shooting each other.

Brian leaps onto the truck, punches some more guys, crashes the truck into the train, and Dom gets away in the last of the cars. The guy they’re fighting also murdered a bunch of DEA agents. This all ends with Brian leaping off the truck onto Dom’s car before he hits a bridge, then they drive off the cliff like Beyonce and Lady Gaga and leap from the car into the beautiful water that is the same color as Paul Walker’s eyes. It’s so ridiculous that I literally laughed out loud.

Vince disappears, and then comes back, and then gets sent away for attempting to betray everyone? I think? The Rock finally shows up as some sort of cop who has the type of jurisdiction that allows him to just snap peoples’ necks, apparently. He’s trying to catch Dom and Brian, but the drug cartel who they were working with on the heist also want to catch/kill Dom and Brian. There’s a lot of gunfire (I mean A LOT) and all the main people escape unscathed but I can only assume about 100 henchmen are killed. The Rock’s partner is Elsa Pataky, who is troubled in some way based on the death of her husband I think? I’m extremely unclear on her character motivations, to be honest.

Dom wants to split up and run, still carrying the chip they stole out of the car that the drug cartel wants back. Mia tells them she’s pregnant (CALLED IT) and that she doesn’t want to lose her family, so they figure they’ll just steal all the drug cartel’s money and disappear to somewhere without extradition. Then they say the 5 words I’d been waiting for: “We’re gonna need a team.”

Since this is the Ocean’s Eleven of F&F movies, we bring in all the best & brightest from the previous films. Tyrese is retconned into being a charming fast-talker instead of a hot-tempered violent misogynist. Ludacris is basically a one-man CSI. Wonder Woman is back, which surprised me a little because I didn’t think she was all that interesting in the last movie and also she was working for the bad guy there. Han is back, being a cutie pie as usual.

Those two guys who helped hijack the gas tanker in the last movie are also back, exploding bathrooms and stuff (my notes literally just say “shitsplosion” with the wailing emoji.)

They go through all the standard heist-planning plot points. Surveillance, putting trackers on the cop cars so they can move without getting caught by The Rock (who was able to find them via facial recognition even though they had masks on, which is a stretch even for fictional law enforcement.) The drug lord moves all his money into a safe inside the police station.

One of the last things they need is a handprint from Reyes, the drug lord. Wonder Woman goes to the beach with Han and flirts with Reyes, and they PULL THE HANDPRINT OFF THE ASS OF HER BATHING SUIT. I’m going to pretend that this is a thing that’s possible because it’s just too funny.

It’s finally heist day, but uh oh, The Rock shows up to arrest everyone. I feel like this movie is like one of those nature specials where a polar bear is trying to eat a baby seal and I can’t decide who to root for.

Can’t Hobbs and Dom just get along? No[t yet]. Hobbs is finally a reasonable foe for Dom, who’s been beating people up in really easy fights for the last few movies. Eventually they get arrested and the whole gang gets carted off in armored SUVs (including Vince, who’d disappeared for most of the movie but was allowed to come back because, say it with me, he’s family).

The drug henchmen fire some sort of bazooka at the armored vehicles (honestly it’s weird that they care that much about getting the stolen chip back considering they’ve already moved all the money?) and a firefight even bigger than the one in the first part of the movie starts. As all the drug henchmen close in on Hobbs, the gang comes out of nowhere with a bunch of guns they must’ve stolen off of dead bodies and save his life. Poor Vince gets a bullet to the gut in the process and eventually dies.

Somehow, Hobbs is totally cool with them being like “We still need to complete our mission,” and even helps them by crashing through some police station walls in that armored truck. In a twist I didn’t see coming (though I later found out it’s in the trailer, which kinda sucks) they pull the entire safe out of the wall and drag it behind two cars for the final chase of the movie.

Now, I know that most of the stunts in these movies aren’t “plausible” by most definitions, but this one really takes the cake. They pull the safe behind them for SO LONG and for a lot of the time it’s not even throwing sparks. I also feel like speeding around a turn with the safe would mean that it would yank them backwards as it kept trying to go straight. Statistically there must also be a ton of civilian casualties.

In the end they use the safe to clobber basically everyone to death, Dom tries to play solo hero but Brian comes back to shoot Reyes (my notes say “of fucking course”) and save Dom’s life. Hobbs is like “You get a 24 hour head start but then it’s back to jail, and also you can’t have this money.” Well if they can’t have the money why the hell did you just help them steal it, HOBBS??

Double twist: they swapped the safe at some point so the gang DOES get the money. Dom gives a sack of cash to Vince’s lady, RIP Vince. Luda uses his loot to open his own garage so he can do what he loves (didn’t he already have his own garage? It’s unclear.) It’s very endearing. Dom, Brian and Mia escape to somewhere beachy and beautiful and Mia is pregnant AF. I’m normally very cynical about most tv/movie relationships but damn they’re cute together. Elsa Pataky is also there for some reason. I still don’t understand her deal.

(epilogue: TRIPLE TWIST- Eva Mendes shows up to bring Hobbs a file, and it’s got a picture of Letty in it. She’s FINALLY coming back from the dead!)

Unrelatedly, a thing I learned from this movie that I forgot about until right now is that drug dealers measure money by the pound? That’s can’t possibly be a real thing, can it?

Previously:

Vol 4: Fast & Fourious

Vol 3: What’s even the point of driftng?

Vol 2: 2 Furious 2 Quit

Vol 1: The Fast & the Curious

#the fast and the furious #fast five

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glittership · 7 years

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Episode #36 — "How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War" by R.B. Lemberg

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How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War

by R.B. Lemberg

for Bogi Takács

At the budget committee meeting this morning, the pen in my hand turns into the remote control of a subsonic detonator. It is familiar—heavy, smooth, the metal warm to the touch. The pain of recognition cruises through my fingers and up my arm, engorges my veins with unbearable sweetness. The detonator is gunmetal gray. My finger twitches, poised on the button.

I shake my head, and it is gone. Only it is still here, the taste of blood in my mouth, and underneath it, unnamed acidic bitterness. Around the conference table, the faces of faculty and staff darken in my vision. I see them—aging hippies polished by their long academic careers into a reluctant kind of respectability; accountants neat in bargain-bin clothes for office professionals; the dean, overdressed but defiant in his suit and dark blue tie with a class pin. They’ve traveled, I am sure, and some had protested on the streets back in the day and thought themselves radicals, but there’s none here who would not recoil in horror if I confessed my visions.

[Full transcript after the cut]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 36 for April 13, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story for you. Today we have a return of R.B. Lemberg, whose story “Stalemate” was published in episode 7. This is the last story for the Winter 2017 issue, and Spring 2017 is right around the corner! We also have a guest reader, Rose Fox, for this episode.

R.B. Lemberg is a queer, bigender immigrant from Eastern Europe and Israel. R.B.’s work has appeared in Lightspeed’s Queers Destroy Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Unlikely Story, Uncanny, and other venues. Their Birdverse novelette “Grandmother-nai-Leylit’s Cloth of Winds” has been nominated for the Nebula Award, and longlisted for the Hugo Award and the Tiptree Award. R.B.’s debut poetry collection, Marginalia to Stone Bird, is available from Aqueduct Press (2016). R.B. can be found on Twitter as @RB_Lemberg, on Patreon at http://patreon.com/rblemberg, and on http://roselemberg.net.

Rose Fox is a senior reviews editor at Publishers Weekly and the co-editor (with Daniel José Older) of Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History. They also write Story Hospital, a compassionate, practical weekly advice column about writing, and run occasional workshops for blocked and struggling writers. In their copious free time, they write fanfic and queer romance novels. They live in Brooklyn with two partners, three cats, the world’s most adorable baby, and a great many books.

How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War

by R.B. Lemberg

for Bogi Takács

I do not twitch. I want to run away from the uncomplicated, slightly puffy expressions of those people who’d never faced the battlefield, never felt the ground shake, never screamed tumbling facedown into the dirt. But I have more self-control than to flee. When it comes my time to report, I am steady. I concentrate on the numbers. The numbers have never betrayed me.

At five PM sharp I am out of the office. The airy old space is supposed to delight, with its tall cased windows and the afternoon sun streaming through the redwoods, but there’s nothing here I want to see. I walk briskly to the Downtown Berkeley BART station, and catch a train to the city. The train rattles underground, all stale air and musty seats. The people studiously look aside, giving each other the safety of not-noticing, bubbles of imaginary emptiness in the crowd. The mild heat of bodies and the artificially illuminated darkness of the tunnel take the edge off.

When I disembark at Montgomery, the sky is already beginning to darken, the edges of pink and orange drawn in by the night. I could have gotten off at Embarcadero, but every time I decide against it—the walk down Market Street towards the ocean gives me a formality of approach which I crave without understanding why. My good gray jacket protects against the chill coming up from the water. The people on the street—the executives and the baristas, the shoppers and the bankers—all stare past me with unseeing eyes.

They shipped us here, I remember. Damaged goods, just like other states shipped their mentally ill to Berkeley on Greyhound buses: a one-way ticket to nowhere, to a place that is said to be restful and warm in the shadow of the buildings, under the bridges, camouflaged from this life by smells of pot and piss. I am luckier than most. Numbers come easy to me, and I look grave and presentable in my heavy jackets that are not armor. Their long sleeves hide the self-inflicted scars.

I remember little. Slivers. But I still bind my chest and use the pronoun they, and I wear a tight metal bracelet on my left arm. It makes me feel secure, if not safe. It’s only a ploy, this bracelet I have found, a fool’s game at hope. The band is base metal, but without any markings, lights, or familiar pinpricks of the signal. Nothing flows. No way for Tedtemár to call, if ever Tedtemár could come here.

Northern California is where they ship the damaged ones, yes, even interstellars.

Nights are hard. I go out to the back yard, barren from my attempts at do-it-yourself landscaping. Only the redwood tree remains, and at the very edge, a stray rose bush that blooms each spring in spite of my efforts. I smoke because I need it, to invoke and hold at bay the only full memory left to me: the battlefield, earth ravished by heaving and metal, the screech and whoosh of detonations overhead. In front of me I see the short, broad figure of my commanding officer. Tedtemár turns around. In dreams their visor is lifted, and I see their face laughing with the sounds of explosions around us. Tedtemár’s arms are weapons, white and broad and spewing fire. I cannot hear anything for the wailing, but in dreams, Tedtemár’s lips form my name as the ground heaves.

I have broken every wall in my house, put my fist through the thinness of them as if they’re nothing. I could have lived closer to work, but in this El Cerrito neighborhood nobody asks any questions, and the backyard is mine to ravage. I break the walls, then half-heartedly repair them over weekends only to break them again. At work I am composed and civil and do not break anything, though it is a struggle. The beautiful old plaster of the office walls goes gritty gray like barracks, and the overhead lights turn into alarms. Under the table I interlace my fingers into bird’s wings, my unit’s recognition sign, as my eyes focus resolutely on spreadsheets. At home I repair the useless walls and apply popcorn texture, then paint the whole thing bog gray in a shade I mix myself. It is too ugly even for my mood, even though I’ve been told that gray is all the rage with interior designers these days.

I put my fist through the first wall before the paint dries.

Today, there is music on Embarcadero. People in black and colorful clothing whirl around, some skillfully, some with a good-natured clumsiness. Others are there simply to watch. It’s some kind of a celebration, but I have nothing to celebrate and nothing to hope for, except for the music to shriek like a siren. I buy a plate of deep-fried cheese balls and swallow them, taste buds disbelieving the input, eyes disbelieving the revelry even though I know the names of the emotions expressed here. Joy. Pleasure. Anticipation. At the edge of the piers, men cast small nets for crabs to sell to sushi bars, and in the nearby restaurants diners sip wine and shiver surreptitiously with the chill. I went out to dates with women and men and with genderfluid folks, but they have all avoided me after a single meeting. They are afraid to say it to my face, but I can see. Too gloomy. Too intense. Too quiet. Won’t smile or laugh.

There is a person I notice among the revelers. I see them from the back—stooped, aloof. Like me. I don’t know what makes me single them out of the crowd, the shape of the shoulders perhaps. The stranger does not dance, does not move; just stands there. I begin to approach, then veer abruptly away. No sense in bothering a stranger with—with what exactly? Memories?

I cannot remember anything useful.

I wish they’d done a clean job, taken all my memories away so I could start fresh. I wish they’d taken nothing, left my head to rot. I wish they’d shot me. Wish I’d shoot myself, and have no idea why I don’t, what compels me to continue in the conference rooms and in the overly pleasant office and in my now fashionably gray house. Joy or pleasure are words I cannot visualize. But I do want—something. Something.

Wanting itself at least was not taken from me, and numbers still keep me safe. Lucky bastard.

I see the stranger again at night, standing in the corner of my backyard where the redwood used to be. The person has no face, just an empty black oval filled with explosives. Their white artificial arms form an alphabet of deafening fire around my head.

The next day I see them in the shape of the trees outside my office window, feel their movement in the bubbling of Strawberry Creek when I take an unusual lunch walk. I want, I want, I want, I want. The wanting is a gray bog beast that swallows me awake into the world devoid of noise. The suffocating safe coziness of my present environment rattles me, the planes and angles of the day too soft for comfort. I press the metal of my bracelet, but it is not enough. I cut my arms with a knife and hide the scars old and new under sleeves. I break the walls again and repaint them with leftover bog gray, which I dilute with an even uglier army green.

Over and over again I take the BART to Embarcadero, but the person I seek is not there, not there when it’s nearly empty and when it’s full of stalls for the arts and crafts fair. The person I seek might never have existed, an interplay of shadows over plastered walls. A co-worker calls to introduce me to someone; I cut her off, sick of myself and my well-wishers, always taunting me in my mind. In an hour I repent and reconsider, and later spend an evening of coffee and music with someone kind who speaks fast and does not seem to mind my gloom. Under the table, my fingers lace into bird’s wings.

I remember next to nothing, but I know this: I do not want to go back to the old war. I just want—want—

I see the person again at Montgomery, in a long corridor leading from the train to the surface. I recognize the stooped shoulders and run forward, but the cry falls dead on my lips.

It is not Tedtemár. Their face, downturned and worn, betrays no shiver of laughter. They smell unwashed and stale and their arms do not end in metal. The person does not move or react, like the others perhaps-of-ours I’ve seen here over the years, and their lips move, saying nothing. I remember the date from the other day, cheery in the face of my silence. But I know I have nothing to lose. So I cough and I ask.

They say nothing.

I turn away to leave, when out of the corner of my eyes I see their fingers interlock to form the wings of a bird.

Imprudent and invasive for this world, I lay my hand on their shoulder and lead them back underground. I buy them a BART ticket, watch over them as even the resolutely anonymous riders edge away from the smell. I take them to my home in El Cerrito, where broken walls need repair, and where a chipped cup of tea is made to the soundtrack of sirens heard only in my head. The person holds the cup between clenched fists and sips, eyes closed. I cannot dissuade them when they stand in the corner to sleep, silent and unmoving like an empty battle suit.

At night I dream of Tedtemár crying. Rockets fall out of their eyes to splash against my hands and burst there into seeds. I do not understand. I wake to the stranger huddled to sleep in a corner. Stray moonrays whiten their arms to metal.

In the morning I beg my guest to take sustenance, or a bath, but they do not react. I leave them there for work, where the light again makes mockery of everything. Around my wrist the fake bracelet comes to life, blinking, blinking, blinking in a code I cannot decipher, calling to me in a voice that could not quite be Tedtemár’s. It is only a trick of the light.

At home I am again improper. The stranger does not protest or recoil when I peel their dirty clothes away, lead them into the bath. They are listless, moving their limbs along with my motions. The sudsy water covers everything—that which I could safely look at and that which I shouldn’t have seen. I will not switch the pronouns. When names and memories go, these bits of language, translated inadequately into the local vernacular, remain to us. They are slivers, always jagged slivers of us, where lives we lived used to be.

I remember Tedtemár’s hands, dragging me away. The wail of a falling rocket. Their arms around my torso, pressing me back into myself.

I wash my guest’s back. They have a mark above their left shoulder, as if from a once-embedded device. I do not recognize it as my unit’s custom, or as anything.

I wanted so much—I wanted—but all that wanting will not bring the memories back, will not return my life. I do not want it to return, that life that always stings and smarts and smolders at the edge of my consciousness, not enough to hold on to, more than enough to hurt—but there’s an emptiness in me where people have been once, even the ones I don’t remember. Was this stranger a friend? Their arms feel stiff to my touch. For all their fingers interlaced into wings at Montgomery station, since then I had only seen them hold their hands in fists.

Perhaps I’d only imagined the wings.

I wail on my way to work, silent with mouth pressed closed so nobody will notice. In the office I wail, open-mouthed and silent, against the moving shades of redwoods in the window.

For once I don’t want takeaway or minute-meals. I brew strong black tea, and cook stewed red lentils over rice in a newly purchased pot. I repair the broken walls and watch Tedtemár-who-is-not-quite-Tedtemár as they lean against the doorway, eyes vacant. I take them to sleep in my bed, then perch on the very edge of it, wary and waiting. At night they cry out once, their voice undulating with the sirens in my mind. Hope awakens in me with that sound, but then my guest falls silent again.

An older neighbor comes by in the morning and chats at my guest, not caring that they do not answer—like the date whose name I have forgotten. I don’t know if I’d recognize Tedtemár if I met them here. My guest could be anyone, from my unit or another, or a veteran of an entirely different war shipped to Northern California by people I can’t know, because they always ship us here, from everywhere, and do not tell us why.

Work’s lost all taste and color, what of it there ever was. Even numbers feel numb and bland under my tongue. I make mistakes in my spreadsheets and am reprimanded.

At night I perch again in bed beside my guest. I hope for a scream, for anything; fall asleep in the silent darkness, crouched uncomfortably with one leg dangling off to the floor.

I wake up with their fist against my arm. Rigid fingers press and withdraw to the frequency of an old alarm code that hovers on the edge of my remembrance. In darkness I can feel their eyes on me, but am afraid to speak, afraid to move. In less than a minute, when the pressing motion ceases and I no longer feel their gaze, I cannot tell if this has been a dream.

I have taken two vacation days at work. I need the rest, but dread returning home, dread it in all the different ways from before. I have not broken a wall since I brought my guest home.

Once back, I do not find them in any of their usual spots. I think to look out of the kitchen window at last. I see my stranger, Tedtemár, or the person who could be Tedtemár—someone unknown to me, from a different unit, a different culture, a different war. My commanding officer. They are in the back yard, on their knees. There’s a basket by their side, brought perhaps by the neighbor.

For many long minutes I watch them plant crocuses into the ravaged earth of my yard. They are digging with their fists. Their arms, tight and rigid as always, seem to caress this ground into which we’ve been discarded, cast aside when we became too damaged to be needed in the old war. Explosives streak past my eyelids and sink, swallowed by the clumps of the soil around their fists.

I do not know this person. I do not know myself.

This moment is all I can have.

I open the kitchen door, my fingers unwieldy, and step out to join Tedtemár.

END

“How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War” was originally published in Lightspeed’s Queers Destroy Science Fiction issue in June 2015.

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Episode #36 — “How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War” by R.B. Lemberg was originally published on GlitterShip

#GlitterShip #lgbtq fiction #queer fiction #short stories #science fiction and fantasy #podcast

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