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acatpersonapparently · 3 years

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Jemtoria Angel AU: part 3

The scent of freshly cut grass and ripe tomatoes surround Victoria in the sweet soft morning. Her hand gently works the wing of a mourning dove. Over the blade of the scapula and soft coverts. It has been three days since her newest little bird entered her coop.

She doesn’t even know why she did that.

Even after so much time, human still sits in a distorted shape in her throat. The bird in her lap stirs and coos, she’s not sure how to even exist near someone else. A dry breeze ruffles the air, blowing her hair into her eyes. She pushes the sudden blonde curtain away with a sigh, turning her gaze to her garden.

There’s the warm glow of bright red hair hiding behind her vegetables. If Victoria had to guess, the girl got up with the sun and busied herself in the soil before her alarm woke Victoria up. The dove in her lap chirps and fusses. Victoria hushes it and resumes her gentle ministrations.

How best to heal this bird?

ii.

Jemima has lived at the house with the blue door for a week and she already knows how every day will go:

-She will wake up first and head out to the garden.

-At 8:00AM, Victoria’s alarm clock will go off and some time in the next thirty minutes, the scent of bacon will waft out the kitchen window.

-By 9:00AM, her silent benefactor will step outside to greet her birds and tend to them, filling feeders and water bowls, examining hurt wings. That’s when Jemima will tend to flower bushes on the far side of the yard.

-10:45AM is the latest that Victoria leaves for work. Jemima can then head back inside before the sun gets too high and hot. She’ll find some leftover bacon on a plate left for her.

-Most of the time while Victoria is at work, Jemima reads or watches TV. She tried snooping around, looking around the house for anything fun or weird, but there’s nothing. No knick knacks, pictures, paintings. She couldn’t even find a stray ID or a letter.

-Sometime after 11PM, the door will slowly creak open and Victoria will walk through, open one of the beers from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and melt down into one of the wooden chairs at the small dining table. Jemima will lower the volume on the TV and, when she’s feeling brave, says hello. She never gets a response. The first time they spoke is also the only time they’ve spoke. She will get a polite wave or, if she asks a question, a nod or a shake.

-Victoria will wash out her bottle, place it in the bin, and shower at midnight. The soft shuffle of her feet always preceding Victoria before she appears to give Jemima a nightly goodnight wave and following her off as she heads to bed.

(There’s a few unexpected moments during her days. During a sleepy morning, she sees Victoria through the flowers, she sees her smile as a mountain bluebird nuzzles against her cheek. From peeping over a rosebush, the image is ethereal. If her father was half as resplendent, she understands why her mother was drawn in.)

iii.

Victoria didn’t mean to do it.

She didn’t mean to see anything.

There was some lemonade leftover at work so she brought it over and just wanted to know if Jem wanted some. She didn’t find the redhead in the living room so she had to be in her bedroom, so she just opened the door.

(She should not have opened the door.)

Victoria knows what her own back looks like. Catching brief glimpses of it in the mirror before stepping into the shower. Bone and blackened tissue that ached heavily, a rotted shadow of a symbol of Heaven’s glory. If Father’s intention was a mark of shame, he did a pretty damn good job.

Jemima’s was different (worse?)

White feathers molting, red raw patches, tufts of down sprouting up and down her back and across her shoulder blades. The waif was surrounded in a circle of white like fresh fallen snow. Victoria gags. Her stomach in instant upheaval at the sight. The tips of her fingers go numb as the moisture leaves her mouth. Her feet acted before she could think and she ran.

(She should not have ran.)

The birds open their wings and take to the sky when she reaches outside. She breathes deep, her chest aches, she tries to focus her thoughts. Her mind parsing through every microdetail with as much scrutiny in her panicked ability as she can get together. She looks up at the night sky and into the eyes of all the bright twinkling stars and, for the first time, she feels like they’re looking back at her.

Oh God, she’s not alone.

iv.

Jemima knows what happens next. She stuffs her bag with all of her belongings. All she needs to do is find another place to live. It’s fine. She’ll be fine. Her eyes watch the open doorway of her bedroom.

And, eventually, just like she expected, Victoria reappears with red eyes.

She waits for the cruel familiar sting of monster but Victoria just stares at her with these eyes, this cruel pitiful expression.

I- I can just go. I’m sorry. Jemima lowers her eyes and moves to push past the other girl. It’s all too bitterly predictable.

No. Victoria grabs her wrists so fiercely Jemima is sure that she’s about to be dragged into town to be burned at a stake. Please, stay.

And Jemima did not expect that.

Between the two of us, we probably have enough for a set of wings, is the first thing Jemima says to her when Victoria shows her the withered afterimage of her wings. Victoria doesn’t know how to react in any way but laughter and it feels rusty in her throat, but good, really good.

Turns out holiness isn’t a factor in being a good dad and that seems to be a universal truth.

Victoria grabs two beers from the bottom shelf of the fridge and the two of them lay out in the garden, drinking to stories about how the shadow of divinity has taunted them. They yell into the void of the night sky at fathers that have fucked them over and what’s the point of abandoning them with enough holy to bitter the blood? Victoria grabs them another round when they start talking about how humanity is just another set of stone shackled to their ankles.

They’re still wiping away the tears from the last set of ab-aching laughter when Jemima asks Victoria what heaven feels like.Victoria hums to herself, a little tipsy, and sinks into the grass.

It feels a little like this, I guess.

vi.

Jemima has lived at the house with the blue door for three months. Long enough for hot dry summer to roll in and for the summer plants to start blooming. She has no idea how her day is going to go.

Last week, Victoria took her into town to get her new clothes. A few days before that, she came home with a blanket and a tub of ice cream for her. They had stayed up late that night because ice cream is received with enthusiasm, even by former servants of a deity.

(The two other colours are two different flavours? This Neopolitan guy is really smart, Jem)

Jemima finds herself waiting at the dinner table, an open beer at the seat across from her, waiting for someone to fill it. The clock hits 10:30 and the front door bursts open. Victoria rushing in to hug Jemima before helping herself to her beer.

Jemima had no idea that someone being excited to hug you could feel as good as a hug itself

That night, they curl up in front of the artificial glow of the television. Victoria offers to share a blanket with Jemima as the redhead scoots under it with pink-tinged cheeks. Throughout the night, Victoria’s breath warms the side of Jemima’s face as she leans in to whisper the occasional question about the television.

(Jemima is suddenly worried about spontaneous combustion cause that’s what this feels like, right? Right?)

Jemima wakes up before the sun rises like she always does. She doesn’t move an inch, coveting this moment in a never-ending form. The soft babble of the television, Victoria’s warmth snug against her, birds chirping outside. She looks around the small house and she can’t believe how much light its contains

Victoria’s eyes flutter open way too soon but it makes Jemima brighten up with what feels like the goofiest smile. Victoria returns it.

Good morning.

Good morning to you too.

What are you thinking about?

Do you know what happens at 4:30AM? You turn gold.

vii.

Victoria hit the earth crying for heaven. Her halo rests crooked.

Jemima's earliest memory was of the sun. Her mother is tearing fistfuls of feathers from her back again.

The girls are wrist-deep in the warm rich soil, worms dripping from the gaps between their fingers in every handful of dirt. They've managed to turn the air into music, permeated with the singing of birds and bursts of deep chest laughter. There was nothing in any hymnal that could rival it. Victoria sits back on her knees, removing her wide-brimmed hat to push down her sweaty hair. She looks up at the sky, vast and inviting.

(What’s wrong?)

It’s not easy, it hasn’t been easy. Half-angels and monster-girls creeping along the spine of the world made for Adam and Eve. There are dark moments: their bed brimming with nightmares and past memories on darkest nights, flinching and holding each other tighter when they’re in town, fat wet tears running down Jemima’s cheeks the first time Victoria acts on the urge to kiss her.

(I’ve been so lonely and so angry and so angry about being alone. I’ve been angry for so long that I- I’m not sure who I am without it.)

But, those good moments, those good glorious moments. Victoria has gawked at rapidly expanding nebulae, she’s stood with her brothers and sisters as gravity collapsed in on itself in an instant and formed neutron stars and black holes, she’s blown the last wisps of steam from a black star cupped in her palms. None of them are as good as Jemima waiting for her when she gets home, or when Jem reminds her that a proper diet includes more than bacon. The light dripping from those big brown eyes every time she showed Vic another sprout pushing to the sun from under the damp earth was something Victoria could savour until the world tires of spinning.

(I can’t promise you that I know who you are without it either, but I can promise that you’ll never be lonely again. A-and I’ve technically been a part of a hivemind since time began, so maybe we can find out who we are together? If you don’t mind staying here a little longer, that is.)

Alongside a narrow dirt road, fifteen minutes from the edge of town, there is a house with a blue door and a beautiful front garden of newly blossoming life and birds taking flight on recovered wings. The doormat has bright yellow lettering, written by two different hands, together.

Heaven is a place on earth.

#Angel au: the last part #cause of death: the softies #jemima cats #victoria cats #jemtoria #I have rewritten this too many times #i am so very proud of this so please let me know what you think #if it pleases you of course #shhhh no one knows what you're talking about #how sweet a thing to be holy

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ciarawritesmarvel · 6 years

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Pillows and Pocket Knives [2]

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: Language (can’t help myself sorry I'm not)

A/N: Finally, apologies for the wait! This is kind of more introductory stuff to Bucky and Y/N, but the action (in the loosest sense of the word tbh) begins soon. I’ve been tweaking this for days and there’s something off with it but I can’t seem to fix it so I’m just throwing out there now and running away into the shadows.

Prompt: Everyone is the God of something. Unfortunately, it’s usually something mediocre.

ONE // PILLOWS AND POCKET KNIVES MASTERLIST // MASTERLIST

Two - 1892 || Training: Just Beginning

“So what does this do?” Bucky asked, and you wondered exactly how many times he’d asked exactly the same question in the last half an hour.

“That’s just a calendar,” you muttered, trying to continue your work, swiping through some of your favourite insomniacs whose pillows might need a little plump before they were able to nod off. From just how many people were always wide awake in the dead of night, you desperately wanted to have a word with the Goddess of Sleep to see if she’d ever thought about doing her job properly.

“Ohhh, I get it,” he nodded solemnly, as if committing what you’d said to memory, and you realised he probably was. Pushing yourself up from your desk with a small sigh, you walked over to the far wall and pushed a button that hadn’t been there when you left the house that morning. As you did, the cloudy wall of the room parted and revealed a new room, Bucky’s room, brand new and still sparkling. You inhaled sharply.

“Well, this is just fucking fantastic,” you hissed as you took in the room. It was perfect. Walls and floors of wooden panels, beams stretched across the high roof, rustic furniture and a roaring fire in the corner. A room of chestnut and sepia and mahogany with no white in sight. It was your dream room.

Your only comfort came from the fact that his pillows didn’t look quite as comfy as yours. There was no way you were going to plump them for him.

“It’s a bit...beige, don’t you think?” his nose wrinkled and you turned your head to him in surprise, annoyance only seeping further into your bones at his lack of appreciation, “I prefer yours.”

“But mine’s all white. Literally, just white,” you couldn’t hide your confusion.

“At least it’s bright, though.”

“...I give up. I need to work and you don’t start until tomorrow so just make yourself at home,” you tried to smile, really, you did, but it ended up looking more like a grimace. Bucky seemed to like it anyway though, if his grin was anything to go by. It was hard to work out if you liked it or you didn’t.

“Okay, see you in the morning, Pillows!” he strolled into his room and sat down on his bed, but the nickname left his lips just as you were about to press the button and basically force him to leave you alone. Instead, you closed your eyes and leaned the side of your head against the doorframe.

“Don’t call me that-” you said through gritted teeth, opening your eyes to say, “-please.”

“Oh, I was under the impression that’s how people referred to each other in-”

“It is but...not me,” you insisted and you expected Bucky to question you more but the cheeky grin simply returned to his face, his eyes lighting up with mischief.

“In that case I either call you doll-” you shot him a glare, “-or you can finally tell me your real name.”

You paused. A moment of hesitation. Since when had even just telling someone your name felt like giving away too much?

“Y/N.”

With that you pressed the button and watched Bucky’s grin fade away as your view was clouded - literally. Once the wall was back in place, you returned to your desk to continue the work you’d been attempting to do, running your hand over your face as you began the monotonous task of plumping pillows yet again.

Then the noise came. Once. Twice. You strained to work out what it was but then it hit you. A snore.

You tried to ignore it, you were already behind on your quota for the day and it was only a faint sound.

Just as you thought that, the rumbling got louder. You quickly realised it was getting louder with each individual snore. You set your jaw.

Why in all the Realms would the Ultimate God create a God that bloody snores?

Turning off the screen in your desk for good, knowing that there was no way you’d be reaching your quota, you stalked over to the new door, hitting the button with the palm of your hand and walking straight in. There he was, lying under the covers already, lights off and the incessant snoring even more prominent without the clouds to muffle it.

Without hesitation, you walked over, clicked your fingers to turn the lights back on and threw the covers off him.

“Right, you’ve literally just been created, there is absolutely no need for you to have a bloody nap right...right…” you couldn’t quite finish your sentence when you suddenly registered his state as he turned to smile at you. You could have sworn you saw just the hint of a blush adorning his cheeks.

“Don’t you knock?” he asked, but he was teasing as you quickly threw the duvet back over him and turned away.

“Why the fuck did you strip to your boxers for a nap?” you quipped back sharply, your aggression masking your growing embarrassment. Not that Bucky was having any of it.

“Why the fuck didn’t you knock?”

“Why the fuck are you dodging my question?” you whirled back around to face him, grateful that he’d gotten up and at least put some trousers on although he was still lacking a shirt. Your eyes flitted downwards involuntarily and you bit the inside of your cheek, forcing them back upwards. His smirk at your actions was infuriating.

“Why the fuck do you swear all the time?” he asked, clearly caught up in this questioning loop without answers. You jabbed your finger at him.

“You’re swearing too, jackass.”

“Ha! I win!” he taunted and you gawked.

“What do you mean ‘you win’?” you asked incredulously, your finger still pointing at him ominously. One step forward and your finger would have touched his chest. His still bare chest that was just one step away and...and you really needed to stop getting sidetracked by the chest.

“You didn’t ask a question, therefore,” he took the one step and your finger hit his sternum. You gulped as he lowered his voice to a sinful level, “I win.”

You hated that you were having to look up at him because he was too tall. You hated that he was looking at you like he was amused at your anger. You hated that he still hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on. You hated that he was here, living in your house, in a room nicer than your own even though he was only created today.

But the hate coursing through you seemed to be confusing itself with something else, the passionate hate morphing into simple passion. You had a sudden and overwhelming desire to grab the back of his neck and pull him closer.

That thought alone was enough to snap you out of it.

You held your hand out to your side and a shirt flew into it which you shoved into his chest, making him take a few steps backwards, finally giving you the space to breathe.

“Get dressed. We’re going out,” you said calmly, folding your arms and rooting yourself to the spot in which you were standing. He tilted his head in confusion and you rolled your eyes, “I’m not leaving and risking you falling asleep again.”

“Where are we going?” he asked after a few moments, pulling the shirt over his head and finally dissipating the remaining...tension in the air. There was still an angry tension but no more of the other kind of tension that you had no time for whatsoever.

“I’m taking you on a tour, Pocket Knives,” you announced, walking out of his room and then out of the house, hearing his hurried footsteps to try to stay by your side, “So make sure you listen up.”

“Hey, if I can’t call you Pillows, you can’t call me Pocket Knives,” he pouted, looking at you beside him despite your insistence on staring straight ahead of you, “And I’m guarding Swiss Army Knives anyway, so you-”

“Does it look like I give a damn?” you asked, finally looking at him and refusing to smile at the sight of him half-jogging to keep up with your brisk pace. He muttered something incoherent in reply but you didn’t bother to ask what it was. A part of your heart ached for how rude you were being but you’d spent too long building your walls up to let even one brick crumble for the likes of someone you’d just met.

You’d never felt bad about your attitude before, though.

“First up, the fast travel station. This is how we get around in this realm, just stand on a black square, press the right button and the gods in the travel realm will instantly whisk you to wherever you need to be,” you explained and Bucky nodded.

“Like this?” he asked, hopping onto a black square and pressing a button at random. You reached out to stop him but he was gone before you could open your mouth to speak. Sighing heavily, you leaned in to look at just where it was he’d travelled to.

Element Realm. Your eyes widened in panic.

You didn’t have long to worry though as a gust of wind later and Bucky appeared, a wisp of smoke rising from the front of his hair. Upon closer inspection, you could see that it was slightly singed.

“You are so stupid!” you exclaimed, fanning your hand at the smoke to try to dissipate it a little. Bucky grimaced.

“Hard to argue with you when my head’s on fire,” he muttered to himself, trying to swat your hand away from his head, “Why did they throw a fireball at me, anyway? I only just managed to duck in time for it to not hit my face!”

“We aren’t allowed to travel between realms, idiot! Security’s pretty high over there too-” you shrugged before thinking better of your answer, “-which is basically code for they’re just all assholes.”

“Noted,” Bucky nodded, reaching up to comb through his hair which was finally smoke-free, “Let’s continue, shall we?”

“Only if you promise not to touch anything,” you warned and Bucky put a hand to his chest.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you once.”

You continued walking, pointing and naming the occupants of the other houses on your street, although you did slow your pace just slightly so that it was easier for him to stick by you. Just so that he didn’t do anything he shouldn’t, of course.

“...and this is Tony Stark’s house, he has a sports car for no reason and you should never never mention it or him to Goddess Potts otherwise she might just stab you with one of your own knives.”

“Why would-”

“Trust me. Just don’t.”

“If you say so, boss.”

“Next to Tony is Nat, she’s in training like you but she’s more competent than most of the 1000 year old Gods I know. Don’t stare at her too long, she might gut you,” you warned and Bucky gulped.

“Is everyone this violent?”

“Everyone I associate with anyway,” you shrugged.

“Makes sense,” he grinned despite himself and you forced yourself to keep a straight face, but then he seemed to remember something, “Apart from Steve, am I right?”

“Oh Steve can and will hold his own,” you mused and a small smile came to your face as you thought about his first few years, “He used to get into so many fights. But you’re right, not so violent anymore.”

“What changed?”

You scoffed.

“Love changed him, the sappy fool,” you shook your head, but it was fond and Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the realisation that there was an end to your harsh exterior somewhere.

“And what about you? Hasn’t there ever been a love to change you?”

“If there had been, don’t you think I’d be just a tad bit different?” you deadpanned but Bucky didn’t look ready to let it go just yet.

“But you’re basically 10000 years old, surely you must have found-”

“You’re on thin ice already here, Pocket Knives, I kindly suggest you tread carefully about my age.”

This time he seemed to take the hint.

“So who else lives in our street?” he changed the subject deftly and you were grateful.

“I honestly don't know. In case you haven’t realised, I’m not the most social of the Goddesses.”

“I never would have guessed.”

You shot him a warning look but couldn’t help your smirk upon seeing his own.

“A smirk isn’t quite a smile, but I’ll take what I can get.”

if crossed out, i couldn’t tag you for some reason - sorry! all tag lists are open so please just drop me an ask ^-^ these better work i swear

permanent tags: @mightyhemsworthy @aheadfullofsherlock @ign-is @buckysboobear @bibibucky @thefridgeismybestie @avengersbabe13 @mixedupsammy @memyselfandmaddox @ginger-rxchxo @stephie-senpai @hottrashformarvel @queenoftrash97 @buckysmetalgoddamnarm @yknott81 @mell-bell @dolphinpink310 @sgtjbuccky @dreamerinfinity @selenasoftly @spiderlingss @slightlycatdependent @shamelessbookaddict @vintagepigeon @bodhi-black @realgreglestrade @demoncrypt1066 @skeltn @bucky-at-bedtime @hanscait @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @milkywaybarnes @scurtscurt2021 @jitterbuck @slowly-but-shurley @jaamesbbarnes @yesdruidess @dixonsbugaboo @lortise @whiskeybucky @n-lafayette @theassetseyeliner @mylovelymarvel

bucky tags: @residentdemonhunter

pillows and pocket knives: @sebastiansass @marvel-biatch @theglowstickofdestiny @sami-raye @cutiepiemimi13 @thebadassbitchqueen @wisestydia-15 @captainlogolepsy @futuremrsb-r-main @part-time-patronus @vixenoftheocean @justahopingwriter @diinofayce

#diino500 #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky imagine #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #pillows and pocket knives

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