#but the mighty pen can fix all
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The more I think about it, the ending the hatchlings had in "How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth", while already pretty brutal, was probably kinder than they faced in canon.
#transformers bayverse#fanfiction#i don't think I'm wrong#i haven't watched TLK as many times as ROTF (as for some reason the first two films are my go to when sick)#so I'm not sure if we see them again in TLK or if DOTM is the last time#primus that's depressing#but the mighty pen can fix all
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The Arcana HCs: M6 when a spell goes wrong and MC is stuck as a toddler for the day
Reverse scenario is here:
~ to set the scene ~
You had just finished breakfast together, and your beloved had stepped out for a few minutes to look at a message that had just arrived for them. You stole the opportunity to open the notebook you'd been developing a complicated spell in and add a rune or two that might help.
Wait, you didn't mean to close that circle yet. Wait - that's a very bright light. Wait. Your hands are way too small, and while you're mentally intact as yourself, you can definitely feel the effects of being a two and a half year old. You're just now feeling the need to scribble on your arms and legs with the pen you dropped when you hear the door open.
Julian
He's a smart guy, he puts two and two together very quickly. He steps out, he notices a bright light under the door while he's out, he comes back in, there is a small child with your eyes drowning in your clothes, it's obvious that that is you
Just because he understands quickly does not mean he isn't surprised. He is very surprised
"Woah! Someone miscalculated! Can you speak? Is your brain tiny too?"
As soon as you say yes, he's melting. Your voice is so small! You are so small! You are so cute!! Is this what your kids would look like? Can he pick you up? How long are you going to be like this?
Once you tell him he can pick you up, he'll sit at the table and ask you about what happened. He's listening closely but he's also trying to hide the way he's squealing internally over your tiny voice and baby pronunciation
He grew up with a baby sister and has treated his fair share of small patients, not to mention that he has strong familial instincts
He knows you'll only be like this until the evening, but he has a mighty need to see you in baby clothes
He has a mini heart attack from cuteness when you put on one of his shirts like a dress and he has to roll the sleeves up for you
He's just looking at you, slowly turning red from the effort of not squealing, fixing you with the most delighted grin while you try to get him to pay attention to what you're saying
That's it, that's how the rest of the day goes. Just him alternating between subconsciously demonstrating impeccable parenting skills and zoning out completely because those shoes are so small and they are so cute on your feet he needs to buy them now
He'll take you on a tour of the South End with you balanced on his hip. He's fascinated with how differently you perceive things as a child, and you're capable of communicating that to him
On less busy streets he'll put you down so you can walk, but you have to hold his hand
Cue his 749th internal meltdown of the day because your hands are so small, look at those tiny fingernails
He also has to bend over so you can actually reach his hand, but he'll never let on that it's killing his back because the way you walk with such short legs is heart melting
He'll make sure you're eating and drinking appropriately and he'll have you back home before sundown
When you pop back to your regular size just before dinner he will keep you up for the rest of the night with his questions
He is going to have raging baby fever for the next few weeks
Asra
They knew what had happened before they even opened the door
Faust was at the table with you as you were writing, she was telling him all about it while he was still reading his mail
The first thing they're doing is checking that you really aren't hurt and making sure that you're comfortable
Then he's going over the spell you just cast, lifting you onto the table to talk him through the creative process so he knows exactly what happened and what to expect
The reality of the situation doesn't really hit them until after they know you're okay and will remain okay
The adorableness is not lost on him, you're the most precious thing he's ever seen
They're also picking up on the behavioral changes. They recognize your speech patterns and that you're capable of the same intellect, but they also notice the clumsy grip you've got on a pen you don't need and the way you keep almost scribbling on your leg
He's going to give you a minute there while he grabs something for you to wear
Sure enough, you're doodling away as soon as their back is turned
That seals your fate. They are going to give you every fun childhood adventure they can think of
He'll get you situated with a toga-like ensemble made up of several intricately tied scarves and take you down to the docks
Now they're getting to play one of Faust's favorite games with you - climbing to the top of the ship's masts when the sailors aren't looking and jumping off
He's slowing your descent with magic, watching your eyes light up, listening to your baby giggles the whole way down
It's a whole new kind of special for them to recreate one of their few positive childhood memories with you, and it's bringing their own inner child so much healing it almost hurts
All the falling works up an appetite, so he'll spend the next few hours wandering the food stalls, trying whatever catches your fancy
They'll take your notebook and grown up clothes with you to their parent's house for the afternoon
He knows they know more about childcare than he does, and their added expertise is a good safeguard in case something goes wrong when you switch back
Seeing their parents with you does make them think that Aisha and Salim wouldn't be terrible grandparents
He does notice that he misses napping with a small human snuggled into his side and now he's having strange dreams of a child with you
Nadia
She is mildly shocked. She could sense the spike in magic but she didn't expect it to result in this
She is already the type of person to treat all children like small adults, and that certainly translates into this situation
"Oh my, MC. I'll send for some clothes immediately. Do you know how long this might last? Have you eaten your fill? Is there anything you require?"
She'll make sure your needs are met, but she is a Countess and she has things to do and she can't cancel everything
You'll just have to accompany her for the day
She'll slow her pace so you can keep up with her, your chubby little legs moving briskly while you hold onto the trailing end of one of her sleeves
She'll set you up on a high chair with extra cushions for her meetings and will ask you for your input like it's business as usual
You do get some very strange looks from everyone else in the room. Who is this toddler? Why are they with the Countess? And why on earth is the Countess engaging them as part of these very important discussions?
She feels no need to explain herself. If it is clear when you speak that you have good thoughts, then that qualifies you to take part
Nobody questions her
As much as it may seem like she's unaffected, nothing could be farther from the truth
She's just very good at hiding it
The way your "r"s keeping turning into "w"s? The way your eye catches on every colorful thing that moves? Your not-fully-developed motor skills? Consider her charmed
She has lunch with you outside in the garden, and that's where she can really see the toddler affecting you
A bird lands nearby and you startle. Your eyes are wide open, taking in every breeze in the tree branches. When she sees you reach out and pluck a pretty wildflower to look at closer she caves
"Tell me MC, what are some of your favorite games to play outside?"
Hide-and-go-seek has never been so enchanting. Your giggles are the sweetest music she's ever heard
At one point, when she picks you up and feels the way you instinctively nuzzle into her arms, she'll think that maybe her parents were onto something with all the kids they had
When you turn back that evening, the relief she feels is unmatched. You were an adorable child, but she adores the you that stands next to her
Muriel
He's not surprised that you were trying a spell and it backfired. He's just surprised that there is a toddler in his hut
Why are you a toddler, MC. You could have turned into anything else. You could have turned into a wolf, or a chicken, or even a goat (ugh), at least then he'd know how to take care of you
Of course he's not saying any of this out loud, in reality he's slowly walking towards you with sweat rolling down his temples
Since when were toddlers this small?
He's relieved when you take the initiative of crawling to your notebook and explaining what you were doing and how it went wrong
Now that he knows it's still you in there, his insides are rapidly dissolving into mush. Babies = humans before they've learned to be mean + size of a chicken + the most adorable traits
Also it's you, he loves you, look at how small you are next to Inanna, look at you sinking your little chubby fists into her fur, look at her trying to give you a ride around the hut, look at the two of you heading out the door for an adventure
WAIT YOU'RE TOO SMALL THERE IS NO WAY THAT IS SAFE COME BACK
He's going to deny it later, but after you see his nurturing nature up close you know he'd be a fantastic father
He figures it'll be easier to just take you with him instead of leaving you up to your antics
Cue you spending the day perched on his massive shoulder, one small hand keeping you balanced with a death grip on his braids and the other grabbing leaves off of every tree branch you pass under
You keep forgetting how vulnerable you are in this form. Muriel has had to snatch you off the ground multiple times now because chickens and wild animals are so much bigger than you're used to
He keeps getting stressed until he's got you on his shoulder again, but all it takes is you swinging your tiny legs and humming a nursery rhyme under your breath to make him smile
It's weird, but one of the best parts of the day was lunch. The two of you sat down on a sun-warmed rock in a clearing for some bread and berries
After his own turbulent childhood, being able to provide enough food to watch you eat your fill and then help you feel safe enough to take an afternoon nap on his chest makes him feel like there's a part of his heart that has blood pumping through it again
When you bounce back that evening his knees buckle with relief
Portia
It takes her a second or two to figure it out, this is definitely not what she expected to see at the breakfast table
As soon as you look up and say "it's me, Powsha" she's squealing
She already loves babies, and you are by far the cutest one she's ever laid eyes on
She doesn't need to ask you any questions, she's already sending a message in calling off of work for the day and ransacking the cottage for material to make you an outfit with
You're only able to explain things to her once she's got you settled and wants to make plans for your impromptu day together
It's immediately obvious to her the way being a toddler is affecting your interests and attention span and she is here for it
Childcare expert. She's packing a bag with a change of clothes, snacks, water, handkerchiefs, small blanket, lunch, etc
She's taking you on an adventure!
No worries if walking is hard, she's got the bag on one shoulder and you on the opposite hip
The first thing she wants to do is show everybody else how cute you are. Her first stop is the palace kitchen, where the staff can coo over you while you stuff yourself with treats
Then it's down to the South End to drop in on Ilya and Mazelinka. Of course she feels the need to prank them by pretending that you are her newly adopted child, making them an uncle and great-grandmother respectively
Mazelinka sees right through it immediately but Ilya falls for it hook, line, and sinker
"I'm an uncle?! Pasha, when? Why did you wait this long? They look so much like MC, is there something you aren't telling me??"
She's cackling when she finally disillusions him (he's so embarrassed - he was so enthusiastic when he offered to toss you up in the air and you're never going to let him live that down)
Deep down though it's feeding a need she's had for a while to have kids of her own. Knowing what you're like as a toddler is lighting a fire under her to be the mother she grew up without
She'll spend the afternoon romping with you in her garden, playing tag and hide-and-seek and building little fairy houses
Watching you play with Pepi leaves her fit to burst from the adorableness, it's cuteness squared and she does not have enough physical space in her chest for this much love
Lowkey disappointed when you poof back to your normal size
She desperately hopes you want kids with her because now she knows what it's like it's all she'll be thinking about for months
Lucio
Oh boy
It took him a good five minutes to be convinced of the situation. There's no way you're a baby, you're playing a prank, some villager's kid crashed the place, that's not you - is it?
He's a lot more realistic about himself with you in his life, he knows he's not good with kids
It's you though, obviously he's not going anywhere, he's dedicated to taking care of you, he just hopes you're not expecting him to do that without any oopsies
As soon as you start talking he's hanging on your every word. This only lasts until evening? Thank goodness
He's just winging it at this point. You need clothes? uh - just wear one of your grown up shirts, he's got a piece of string to help it stay snug
You need shoes? he'll tie some socks onto your legs
You're hungry? Toddlers can have bread, right? Here's some bread
He keeps forgetting that you aren't as capable in this form as you usually are. Could you start that fire for him for lunch? Oh yeah
Don't worry, your dashing ex-Count knows his way around a flint and steel
After he accidentally leaves you behind a few times because you're slower than he's used to he just plops you on one of the dog's backs
Mercedes and Melchior are living for the chaos, but are also being unusually docile. And protective
They take turns, one of them giving you a ride while the other patrols and growls at every moving thing in a twenty-foot radius
You're also much easier to lick like this, by evening time your face and arms are sticky with dog slobber
As initially freaked as Lucio is, he's more and more charmed by your cuteness as the day rolls by
The first time he hears you giggle when one of the dogs nuzzles you he feels his heart stop
He only remembers babies as annoying things that cry during parties that should only have adults at them, since when were they so cute? Or is that just you?
He caves at lunch time, sitting you in his lap so he can feed you
For the first time he's having to be so careful with his gauntlet, normally he likes the spikes but now he's thinking of ways to cushion them
He's carrying you against his chest for the afternoon, tickling you and making funny faces just to hear those giggles again
Now that he thinks about it, maybe the two of you should have one of these for your own
When you poof back that evening he will feel the need to tell you all about his day with you, regardless of the fact that you're the one who spent it with him
#the arcana headcanons#the arcana hc#the arcana#asra the arcana#julian the arcana#nadia the arcana#muriel the arcana#portia the arcana#lucio the arcana#the arcana game#the arcana shitpost#asra alnazar#julian devorak#nadia satrinava#muriel of the kokhuri#portia devorak#lucio morgasson
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❝𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭❞
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞!𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 x 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞!𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 — my gaze lingered, waiting for you to notice me; how far would bucky barnes go to get the attention of his favorite tutor?
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 — 3.5K
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈, 𝟏𝟖+, strong language, thigh riding, oral (fem receiving), idiots in love
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — my old page did not deserve the fics i had written for it, lol. because this was fucking cute
“…hello? James?”
Fingers snapped in front of his line of sight. He blinked and saw your brown eyes in front of him, your full lips fixed into a frown.
“You asked me here, remember? I have my own midterms to study for.”
Bucky smiled, broad and smug. “You know you love bein’ around me, Y/N/N.”
“Please stop calling me that. Only people from home call me that.”
Bucky leaned back in his chair. “Can I call you sugar?”
You gave him a flat look. “You can pay attention to this study guide I spent all night drawing up for you.”
Bucky blew out a breath, turned to the notes in front of him, and studied. For ten minutes. He looked over at you. The tip of your tongue peeked from between your plush lips as you scrawled out notes with one hand and flipped through your textbook with the other.
When had he ever been so entranced by someone before?
“Looking at me isn’t going to help you pass your Calculus II midterm,” you chided.
“I’m hungry. You?”
You set down your pen, a thick brow arched. “If we break for food, will you let me study?”
A wolfish grin stretched across his face. “Among other things.”
“Fine.” You slammed your textbook shut and gathered your things. “Meet me at Daly’s in fifteen.”
Bucky nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. “See you in fifteen.”
Fridays at Daly’s were your least favorite nights.
The small pub couldn’t have held more than one hundred people but everyone seemed to want to pack in like sardines. Whiffs of cologne, floral perfume, and body odor intermingled with the smell of bar food and alcohol.
You sat at the bar, nursing a glass of pear and apple cider, eyeing the door for signs of Bucky. You raised your phone and surveyed the screen: half past eight.
He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!
You sighed and took a sip of your drink.
“Hey, Y/N/N.”
Your childhood friend, Steve Rogers, took the stool beside you, his blue eyes bright.
“Hey, Stevie,” you said, smiling. “What brings you here? I thought you had a study group tonight.”
He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “We’re taking a break to get some food and then heading back to my dorm. What about you? You not tutoring tonight?”
“I was. But my student wanted food and now he’s late.” You rolled your eyes. “I don’t even know why I agreed to this.”
“You even got dressed up,” the blond remarked.
Your face warmed. “No, I didn’t!” Compared to what you normally wore, your fitted black jeans and lacy crop top were dressier. And maybe you dusted your favorite highlighter along the apples of your cheeks and swiped some of your trusty lipgloss on your lips.
You didn’t do it for James Barnes. Far from it.
“I just felt like getting a little cute, Rogers! Is that so bad?”
He put his palms up, a smirk on his lips. “I’m just saying you look mighty fine for someone you view as just a student.”
You took another sip of your cider. “I don’t think anything of James.”
Steve’s brows furrowed. “James? As in Bucky Barnes?”
“Why does everyone call him Bucky? That’s such an odd nickname.”
“It’s short for Buchanan,” a voice answered.
You and Steve turned and saw the man in question standing behind them. His brown eyes were hard as they looked between the two of you. “It’s my middle name. Everybody calls me Bucky.” He tipped his chin to Steve. “‘Sup, Rogers?”
“Yo,” Steve said, throwing him a two finger salute. He stood up from his barstool and turned to face Jo. “Text me later, okay? Let me know you got home okay.”
“I can get her home just fine.”
You shot Bucky a glare. “Yeah, okay, Stevie. Have fun with your study group.��
Steve pressed a kiss to your temple and gave a short nod to Bucky before disappearing into the crowd of coeds.
“You and Rogers, huh? Didn’t peg you for the type,” Bucky said.
You narrowed your eyes. “And what type is that, James?”
“The girl that falls for the blond-haired, blue-eyed, all-American type.”
“Not that it’s any of your business who I spend my time with, Steve and I have been friends since grade school. He’s practically my brother.”
His face softened. “I’m sorry, sugar. I didn’t know.”
You shrugged. “You never asked.” You knocked back the rest of your drink and slammed a ten dollar note on the bar. “Good night, James.” You slid off of the barstool and pushed past him.
A hand gripped your wrist. “Y/M, wait. I’m sorry. I know I’m late but I can explain.”
You didn’t need an explanation, you didn’t care. Why should you? You weren’t even really friends. Glorified acquaintances at best. But despite yourself, you turned to face him, a dark brow raised. “Well? Spit it out.”
“I was nervous.” Under the dimmed lights, you saw his cheeks turn red. “Can I be totally honest with you? I don’t need your tutoring.”
You frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I signed up for your study sessions to get closer to you.” He took hold of your hand and threaded his fingers between yours. “I’ve been trying to find a way to get you to notice me and I figured that getting your help with a class was a good way.”
“Why go through all of that trouble, though?”
“Y/N.” Bucky looked you up and down. “I like you.”
Your jaw went slack. Did you hear him right? “You…like me?”
He tugged your arm and pulled you into his chest. His right thumb skimmed along the curve of your bottom lip. “I was pissed when I saw Rogers talking to you. Looked like you two were close.”
“We are,” you said, your voice hoarse.
“Closer.”
You shook your head, your earrings hitting your cheeks. “Steve’s like a brother to me and I’m a sister to him. He’s dating a girl named Sharon from back home. She’s a Sociology major.”
“Good to know.”
Bucky’s touch scorched your skin. When did his his free hand go to the small of your back? You couldn’t remember the last time a guy’s touch made you feel this way, if ever. But here you were, in James Buchanan Barnes’ arms in the middle of a dingy pub.
“James, I — ”
“Have I ever told you I love when you call me James?” A slow smirk made its way onto his lips. “You make it sound so sensual. Sexy.” Your mouth dried. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” you asked, dazed.
“You’ll see.”
You had never put much thought to how Bucky’s dorm would look but you were surprised to see that he and his roommate were clean and organized.
Before you could say anything, his mouth slanted over yours. He buried his fingers in your curls and lightly tugged. The moan that left you was swallowed by the kiss. You fisted his shirt collar and yanked him forward. His kiss was sloppy, teeth and skin and tongues clashing together.
“James.” His name was breathy as it left your lips. Your eyes flicked between his eyes and his mouth and that turned him on. Your chest rose and fell in exaggerated breaths. “What are we doing?”
“Something we should’ve done a long time ago.” Bucky kissed you again, harder than the first time. You moaned into the kiss and wrapped your arms around his neck as he pulled you onto his lap. Your clothed pussy ground against his thigh, your wetness dampening his pant leg.
“You all wet for me, baby?”
“Yes, sir,” you teased, your voice husky.
Bucky groaned and scooped your up into his arms and carried you to the bed. “Call me sir again and you won’t be able to walk for a week.”
Your jaw went slack. You’d never heard him talk to you like that. So rough and authoritative. You put a hand on his chest. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?”
Your brown eyes searched his. “If we do this, we can’t be just friends. You know that, right? Everything changes.”
“Oh, Y/N/N.” Bucky stroked the side of your face. “I’ve never wanted to be just friends with you.” He kissed you again. Both pairs of hands fumbled to remove their clothing as you ground your wet mound against his clothed thigh. “Gettin’ eager, huh, sugar?”
You pulled back, a half smile on your lips. “Are you even Southern?”
“I’m an army brat,” Bucky answered, “But I spent more time in Kentucky.”
“Huh.” You smiled. “You should tell me more about your childhood sometime.”
“Sure. But right now, I’m fuckin’ desperate to be inside of you.” His eyes lingered on your plush mouth. “And I’m curious to know how many times I can make you cum.”
You made a guttural sound in the back of your throat. Your head was spinning; no one had ever spoken to you like this before. From your few sexual encounters in university, you found that most men advertised themselves opposite of how they were. You’d find yourself left unsatisfied and had sworn off of flings in lieu of tutoring and classes.
You’d been sitting on Bucky’s lap for mere minutes and you were ready to give yourself over to him tenfold.
“Well?”
You blinked. “What?”
“How many times do you want to cum?”
You rested your head into the curve of his shoulder. “You can’t just ask me questions like that, James.”
A shudder rippled through Bucky. “Why not? I want you to feel good.”
You nipped at the skin peeking out from beneath his shirt collar. “I want you to feel good, too.”
He groaned and flexed his thigh. The friction made you throw your head back and a loud moan to spill from your mouth. “Fuck, baby, you sound like sin.” He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to the column of her neck. He nipped and licked at the satin skin, chuckling when you hissed in pleasure.
“Fuck.”
You ground your wet cunt against his hard thigh, your grip on his shoulders tightening. Bucky’s hands found your hips and helped your build up a rhythm. Your breasts bounced as you rode his thigh and soft grunts and groans jumped from your honeyed mouth. You started moving faster, signaling you were close. “Fuck, James, I’m going to cum.”
Bucky tightened his hold on your hips. “You gonna cum from ridin’ my thigh? I haven’t even been inside yet.” He held you still and you whined, your brown eyes glaring and blown out. “I want to taste you.”
You eyes widened some. “What?”
He flipped them over and made quick work of your skin-tight jeans. His rough hands trailed along your hipbones and pelvis, tracing light circles in her skin. Your eyes screwed shut and you tucked your bottom lip between your teeth. His lips replaced his fingers and you sucked in a sharp breath. You fisted tufts of his hair when you felt his warm breath on your cunt.
Bucky kitten-licked your sensitive bud and you arched your back off of the bed. He loved how responsive you were. He looked up at your writhing form and chuckled.
“Your pussy’s weeping for me, sugar.”
“Stop teasing me,” you whined. He licked a stripe up your slit and you yelped. “James!”
“Keep saying my name like that, sugar. Let the neighbors hear.”
Neighbors? You were so far gone you didn’t care if the whole campus heard you. You just needed his mouth. Your head was spinning and your body tingled.
“I swear to God, Bucky, if you don’t fuck me — ”
Your words left on a moan as his tongue dove into your creamy center. You’d never gotten head like this, fast and hard. Bucky pinched and rolled your clit between two fingers and you gasped, squeezing his head between your thighs. “Oh, fuck! Fuck, yes!”
His laughter vibrated against your pussy. He’d been dreaming about what you’d taste like. His fantasies did you no justice. You were sweet like honey and he couldn’t get enough. He threw your legs over his shoulders and took hold of your hips to still you. Your moans were frenzied and throaty, echoing off of his dorm room walls. He felt your belly tighten and added two fingers as he sucked and lapped at your cunt.
“Fuck, Bucky, I’m cumming!” A broken mix between a sob and a moan left your mouth and you went limp.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to catch your breath,” he said, smug.
You threw an arm over your face. “I can’t. No more.”
Bucky moved up your body. “Oh, baby. We’re going all night.”
Bucky had woken alone many times in his life. But waking up beside the imprint of what was your body burned something hellish in his chest.
“Yo, Barnes!” His roommate, Sam Wilson, pounded his fist against the door. “I need to get changed for my next class! Tell your guest to find her own room!”
Bucky groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Come in, you idiot! ’S just me.”
The door opened with Sam’s head creeping around it. His brown eyes gave a tentative scan of the room before pushing the door and striding into the room. He looked his roommate up and down. “What’s that on your face?”
“What?”
“That look. Like somebody just kicked your damn dog in front of you.” Sam threw his shirt over his head and went to rifle through his wardrobe. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Bucky said on a sigh.
“Bullshit. I’ve never seen you so hurt.” Sam draped a towel over his shoulder. “What, your little flavor not like you in the daylight?”
Bucky threw a pillow at him. “Shut the fuck up.”
“What! I’m just askin’ a question!” Sam turned to face him, shower caddy in hand. “Whatever that girl did to you last night wasn’t what you needed.” He rolled his eyes and left Bucky alone in their room.
“It’s what she did this morning,” Bucky said to himself.
After not hearing from you for two weeks, Bucky had gone to the tutoring center to question you. Why were you ignoring him? Was the sex too far? Why did she leave him that morning?
He knocked on the glass window and saw Maria Hill, the librarian and director of the tutoring center, sitting at her desk. Her bespectacled blue eyes found his, a wide smile stretched along her lips. “James! I haven’t seen your name on the sign-in sheet in a while. What’s up?”
“Hey, Ms. Hill.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Have you heard from Y/N? I don’t have her number but she’s been ignoring my messages and I was getting worried.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought she put the bulletin on Blackboard.” Bucky raised a brow. “She’s been sick the past two weeks. Her roommate, Wanda, has been getting her coursework for her.”
“Oh.”
Ms. Hill gave him a small smile. “If you want to check on her, go talk to Wanda.”
Bucky nodded. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find her, would you?”
“I’m sorry, no.” She pursed her lips in thought. “But I think her friend Steve would.”
“Hey, Bucky.”
There was no plausible reason for Bucky to have disliked Steve Rogers as much as he did. Well, he knew the reason. From what little Bucky knew about him from you and Sam, he was a nice guy. He was the football team’s running back, he tutored like you did, and vice president of Lambda Kappa Tau. Though he was too boy next door for Bucky’s taste, they could be great friends if they’d spent a night at Daly’s together.
The local diner, Rusty’s, was quiet this afternoon. Bucky had seen Steve on shift a few times he’d come in with you for breaks but they rarely spoke. “Hey, R — Steve. I’m sorry to interrupt you while you’re at work.”
Steve waved him off, a broad smile on his face. “No problem. What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask if you’ve heard from Y/N lately.”
Steve sighed and shook his head. “Last I heard about her was a Snapchat message from Wanda last week. Said that she was banning contact to Y/N until she got better.” He lifted a shoulder. “We’ve texted a few times since when she’s awake but I haven’t seen her, no.”
Bucky hummed. “Well, at least I know she’s not ignoring me.”
“Ignoring you? What’d you do?”
“Nothing!” Steve raised a brow. “We just — we had a thing. A moment, really, last Friday.”
“After that night at the bar.”
“Yeah. I mean, I thought we were fine. But thinking back, maybe I came on too strong.” Bucky put his face in his hands and groaned. “I fucked up.”
“Look,” Steve sighed, “I can’t speak for Y/N but I’ve known her since fourth grade. She’s not someone that runs away from issues or people.” He chuckled. “Besides, she never fakes being sick. She’s too much of a workaholic.”
Bucky snorted. “Tell me about it.”
Steve chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve heard from some of the guys on the team that she was worse than some of their hardest professors. Though I don’t know why you were one of her tutees.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re in my buddy, Piet’s, STAT301 class. From what I’ve heard, Biostatistics is no walk in the park.”
“If you’re talking about Maximoff, tell him he owes me coffee and a new notebook.”
“I will,” Steve said, laughing. A blonde came up beside Steve and motioned to the table across from where both men stood. “Let me finish up here. Thanks, Nadine.” He turned back to Bucky. “I’m going to give you Wanda’s number. Text her to see if Y/N willing to have visitors.”
“Thanks.” The right side of Bucky’s mouth quirked up. “You’re an all right guy, Steve.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Bucky. Maybe after you and Y/N figure your thing out, we can all hang. Me, you, Y/N, and my girlfriend, Sharon. It’d be nice.”
Bucky clapped a hand onto his shoulder. “I’d really like that.”
“Y/N/N?”
From beneath your duvet, you poked your head out. “Yeah?”
“You’ve got a visitor. One of your students.”
You groaned. “Tell whoever it is that I’m indisposed, Wanda. Give them the number of my replacement.”
“You hiding from me, Y/L/N?”
Despite the pounding in your head, you jolted forward at the voice. Leaning against your doorway stood James Buchanan Barnes in all of his sexy glory. Suddenly, you were aware of your own state of dress: bloodshot eyes, oversized bonnet atop your head, and a low cut tank top with no bra.
You squared your shoulders and narrowed your eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to go through three people to find you,” he said. “You had me worried.”
Your face softened. “You don’t need to worry about me, James.” You gave a weak chuckle. “I’m just a little tired, is all.”
“Your roommate said that you overworked yourself.” He crossed the room and turned on your bedside lamp. In the soft glow, his brown eyes were soft as they took you in. His large hand cupped your forehead. “You still have a bit of a fever. Have you eaten today?”
“I just woke up,” you admitted.
“Have you been drinking water?”
“There’s a water bottle in front of my side dresser.” You put your hand over his and moved it to your cheek. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”
Bucky smiled. “’S fine. I like taking care of you.”
You chuckled. “Don’t count me out just yet. Before you came, I was awake for three hours.”
“Bravo.” He moved his hand away from you face. “I want to talk about last Saturday. If that’s okay.”
You pulled your brows down. “What about it?”
“You left. No note, no text. You just left me alone.”
Your eyes flicked to your bedroom door. “Can you shut the door, please? This sounds like a private conversation.”
He nodded and strode across the room, closing the door. When he turned to face you, you’d pushed your duvet off of your body and moved to the middle of your bed.
“Come sit down.”
“Sugar — ”
“Please, Bucky.” He sighed and moved to sit beside you. “You told me that you liked me and I never answered.”
“You didn’t.”
“Well, I do. Like you, I mean. I don’t know why I never said anything.” You smiled at him. “Though the sex solidified it for me.”
“So to clarify: you like me, too, and you weren’t avoiding me?”
“Why would I avoid you? You’ve literally seen me naked!”
Bucky threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know! I thought that I did something or that you didn’t feel the same way.”
“Of course I like you, you clown.” You rested your head against his shoulder. “So much.”
Bucky pressed a kiss to your temple. “Enough to go on a real date with me?”
“Are you going to be on time?”
“For you, I’ll be early.”
𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — i'll say it once, i'll say it again: brown 👏🏽 eyed 👏🏽 bucky 👏🏽 supremacy 👏🏽
#galatially#stay the night#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x black!reader#college!bucky barnes#college!black!reader#college!bucky barnes x college!black!reader#college au
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for the angst ask (thanks for opening them btw) vlad and illness? he waited so long for his mc (gn) just to watch them slowly dying in front of him, their last moments and what that entails? I want to be crushed haha
A/N: Hello anon! I took a little bit of artistic liberty here because I had an idea so its not illness, but rather an accident. The rest of the request is still honored.
CW: death, loss
Vlad x gn reader
Word Count: 1783
A Pureblood vampire has nothing but time. It becomes their only constant, the one fixed thing they can depend on as the world around them evolves and changes. The flow of time brings mighty mountains to their knees and changes the course of rivers. It has seen man crawl, then walk and now, in the late 19th century, begin to run as technology makes leaps and bounds within shorter and shorter time spans. And one sure thing about time: it never stops.
How does one bear the weight of years and decades and centuries? Vlad has found a way. Something that fascinates him.
People.
He has loved them with a ferocity sharp and deadly. That their lives are so fleeting, rising like sparks from a fire only to blink out of existence and return to darkness within mere decades, is what makes them precious. Worth fighting for. And he has never loved a human, or any other being, as much as he loves you.
You were the one he waited for. The one who imprinted yourself upon him like a brand, your essence burned into his soul with a heat that never subsided as he waited all those long years for you. And when the time came, when you understood who he was and what you meant to him, when you returned those extraordinary feelings of love and desire, he understood the words Shakespeare had penned when writing his greatest love story:
“My bounty is as boundless as the sea
My love as deep.
The more I give to thee,
The more I have,
for both are infinite.”
You gave his world a beauty far beyond that field of roses he holds so dear. Vlad’s heart holds entire universes of love only for you.
Which is why, when you told him you did not want to be turned, despite the consequence of death, he never once questioned it. He had simply raised your hands to his lips, his claret eyes closing as he pressed a kiss into your skin, accepting your decision.
And decided then and there he would dedicate every moment you had together to bringing you joy. He would show you the world and in return, give the world the gift of your smile.
Which is why you were in London, exploring the world’s largest city and breathtaking capital of the British Empire. You were staying at Claridge’s, one of the grandest hotels London had to offer, and swept up in the whirlwind of pleasures Vlad had arranged: an outfit tailored just for you at London’s most exclusive boutique, high tea at one of the oldest tea houses in the city, a boat ride on the Thames. As you disembarked, hand in hand, a young boy was waiting with a message for Vlad. A mystery item he had commissioned was finished and would he care to come pick it up or have it delivered to the hotel? His rose-colored eyes had gleamed, his excitement dancing within their depths and along the curve of his lips. He would come right away. When you had asked what this mysterious item was, he had simply smiled softly. You would see soon, beloved. Go, the carriage that would take you back to the hotel was waiting just across the street. He would meet you in the hotel’s salon for supper.
You parted, his smile still warming your heart against the misty London air and you took the time to watch his tall figure grow smaller and smaller as he walked with the young boy down the street, eventually disappearing from view as they rounded a corner. Your heart could not be any fuller, your soul could not be more content. Vlad was the key that unlocked the truth about love: it mattered, more than anything. He mattered more than anything. Loving him had transformed your world into something so perfect it could be called heaven. You were so lost in your starry-eyed thoughts, your mind floating in the clouds on a breeze of affection and anticipation, you did not pay attention as you stepped onto the street.
You did not see the carriage with its spooked horse barreling towards you.
You did not hear the shout of warning.
You stepped out into the street.
And your world went black.
It’s tucked safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, carefully wrapped in the softest black velvet. One look at the pin, a detailed red rose made from the purest rubies with its emerald leaves and curving stem, made by one of the finest jewelers in Europe, and he knew it was worth every cent. It was a work of art and he was proud of the design he had created. He wanted something unique, something custom-made that no one else the world over could have, a symbol of his feelings for you and a sign to all who saw it that you, like the rose, are a rarity worth remembering, a beautiful spirit worth marveling at.
He turns the corner onto the street where you had gone ashore after your boat tour, his mind running through the way he imagines you will smile when he presents his gift, a smile that rivals the sun in all its brightness. All thought however screeches to a halt as he notices the crowd gathered, blocking most of the way. There are police wagons and officers doing their best to keep people away from something on the road. Vlad passes an elderly man sitting on the filthy flat pavement meant for pedestrians, his dirt-streaked face blanched with shock, hands shaking as he tries to drink from a flask. He hears the mumbled words, repeated over and over to no one in particular:
“The horse stepped on a nail. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t stop it. It stepped on a nail. I couldn’t stop it. They came out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop it-”
Uneasiness begins to slowly creep down Vlad’s spine like a spider descending on its silken thread. He was planning to walk around the crowd, his long legs swiftly taking him away from the buzzing and gawking of the crowd so he could get to you, his light, his love, and make sure you were ok. He will never be able to answer why he didn’t stick with this. Why instead of walking around the crowd, his feet begin taking him through it.
Each step feels like the earth is trying to stop him, gravity is desperately pulling at his legs, trying to slow him. His feet feel like they are made of granite, dragging along as he shoulders his way through the dense, foul-smelling mass. Each beat of his heart becomes louder, the crowd’s murmuring becomes distorted. Fate has wrapped his heartstrings around her cruel fingers and pulls, forcing him to shamble his way toward a truth that will sunder his very soul.
He breaks through the throng.
And sees you lying there, your soft hair touching the filth of the street, your head pillowed by hard, uneven cobblestones.
Someone has thrown what looks like a shabby picnic blanket over your body, but Vlad can smell the blood through the fibers, through the grime of a London street. Your eyes are open, blinking rapidly, your lips trembling as you mouth one word. He recognizes the shape of his name.
“I’m here, beloved.” How he manages to speak through a throat full of thorns is a miracle, another question with no answer. He sinks to his knees beside you, feeling the dampness soak through his trousers, the hard stone biting at him. “I’m here.” You turn your head and the effort that costs you is evident in the flickering light of your beautiful eyes. He reaches out with a shaking hand, the movement slow as if underwater, and manages to brush your hair off of your forehead with infinite tenderness. His fingers are stained red with the blood trickling down your temple. He repeats the motion anyway.
Your breathing is labored and erratic but you refuse to look away, holding his gaze for as long as you can.
“I’m…..sorry.” Your voice wheezes, rough with strain.
His heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Tiny shards that embed themselves into his own lungs, that twist his stomach into a Gordian knot, that pierce his very soul and cling, barb-like and heavy.
“No, my love. My dearest one. No.” He smiles. It is a reflex, a gesture of comfort. His lips shift without him even conscious of it. Words continue to find a way through his blocked throat. Because he knows you need them. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His hand, still trembling lightly, slides down, cupping your face, the one he has loved for ages, the one white as bone and red with blood. “I love you.”
A shudder wracks your body and your eyes close. For a moment you don’t breathe and panic seizes him, gripping his mind with hands of steel. No, no. Just another moment. No.
And then you manage another breath. Your eyes open again, seeking his. Your lips part and he leans down to catch your labored, whispered words.
“I’m….scared.”
The truth of it bears down on him. He has seen death so often that it had become as innocuous as the changing of the seasons. Spring follows winter, autumn follows summer. People are born, live out the time they are given, and then die.
And yet your words have turned the world upside down. Death is no longer an abstract, cyclical idea. It is real. It is on that grimy cobblestone street, leaning over you, reaching down, seconds away from taking you away from him forever. Stealing every place you never went. Every kiss you haven’t shared. Every declaration of love yet to be spoken.
Vlad presses his lips to your cold forehead, his hand still cupping your face.
“I’m here, beloved. I promise, it will be okay. I’m with you.”
Your eyes are on him, but they are no longer focused. The flame of life inside of them is sputtering as the curtains slowly close on your mortality. Your breathing becomes rapid, uneven, louder. The sound forever burns itself into his memory.
You draw one breath.
His soul quakes. Don’t go, beloved.
And then another.
Beloved……I’m scared.
And then you are still, sightless eyes gazing into nothingness.
……..beloved?......
And his world goes black.
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly
#ikemen series#ikemen vampire#ikemen vamp#ikevamp vlad#cw death#cw loss#vlad x reader#broken heartstrings#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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Dungeons & Daddies fic 1/∞ (season 1&2 spoilers)
While I'm thinking if I'd like to keep posting fanfic and where I'd like to post it I might as well share it here. The idea is to write a story about how Grant and Marco met between seasons 1 and 2 of the podcast Dungeons & Daddies. This is Grant's POV. Here goes nothing!
---
It feels like I’m waiting for something. As to what that something is, I have no clue. There’s not much to get excited about nowadays. The red glare of the day is turning into a darker burgundy hue, and all around me, people are getting ready to go home. To families, hobbies, to all kinds of happy sappy mundane things. In theory, that sounds nice, something to go home to. Then again that’s another thing that I would turn to ash just by touching it.
I pay no mind to the scuffling feet of the other Daddians walking past my office. Not until one pair stops at my door. Tips of sturdy-looking leather boots protrude over the threshold. I bet those are good for running-.
“Hi,” the intruder says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I drag my eyes from the boots to look at the man speaking. He’s wearing dark grey cargo trousers and a black henley shirt. Practical. His hair is wild and all over the place like mine, but it’s black as opposed to my reddish brown.
“You’re making me work for it, huh?” There’s a smile tugging at his lips. I’m surprised when I don’t find it annoying.
“What?” I ask, clearing my throat when my voice comes out a little hoarse.
“I said hi. Aren’t you going to greet me back?” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, seemingly settling in.
“Who are you?” I continue my questioning and marvel at the juxtaposition between his calm features and the way he talks.
His brow raises just a hint before he says, “Oof. Grant that’s cold.” He knows my name. Well of course he knows my name, it’s plastered all around the HQ along with the others. Still, him saying it sounds different.
He pushes off the doorframe. I lean back in my chair and watch his approach.
“My name is Marco. We sat together at lunch on Monday. You had meatballs with a salad which I thought was mighty weird.”
That does ring a bell. I look him over once more, trying to make the connection. Marco stands all calm in front of my desk and lets me do just that. Picking up a pen from my desk, he begins to fiddle with it.
I talk over the clicks of the pen. “Yeah, now I remember.”
Marco stills. His eyes harden for a fraction of a second before he speaks. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking at him so intently.
“Can I take you out? I’d like to get to know you better,” Marco asks.
Based on his reaction it’s safe to assume I’m gawking at him.
“I have the night shift,” I say. It’s easier to hide behind duty than to face reality. Not to say that running D.A.D.D.I.E.S is not a huge responsibility. Because it is. But even I have enough self-awareness in this moment to realize what I’m saying is bullshit.
“Breakfast then? I know a place.” His hands land softly on the desk as he speaks. The pen he’s been clicking rolls over the papers and stills next to my phone. I fix my eyes on it and think what I should do. The issue isn’t that I wouldn’t want to go. The point is I shouldn’t. Too much is happening with the projected incursion points and I can’t be distracted.
“It would be my treat,” Marco continues.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say honestly.
“Why is that?”
That catches me off guard. I thought he would take the rejection and back off. That’s how it often goes, this dance. They come and say I have pretty eyes or they ask about my beard. Betting me they can make me smile is a classic too. It’s usually my cue to finish my drink and get out of the bar my dad runs as a hobby with Uncle Ron.
“I’m not very good company.” There, that should scare him off.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Marco circles the desk and wipes away the reports I was planning to file next. He sits on the desk, bumping his ankles against the wooden side.
“What are you doing?” I ask. With him this close I can see his cargo trousers are well worn, and something is peeking out of the thigh pocket. A book, possibly. He smells comforting somehow, and I hate how much I like that.
“Are you saying no because you’re not interested?” He makes a show looking me up and down like I did to him. My clothes are the same day in and day out, one decision I’m glad I don’t have to make. At my condo, I have a pile of blue jeans, next to a heap of black t-shirts. I’m like Donald Duck in that sense, but at least I wear pants. My uncle is rich though and he has a weird history with trousers, so I guess the connections don’t end with the lack of variety in my outfits.
“No,” I find myself admitting. “I am. Interested.”
“Good,” Marco muses. “Then it’s settled. I’ll come pick you up in the morning and we’ll go get pancakes.”
He stands up but doesn’t make a move to leave. He’s waiting for me to respond. There’s no urgency in his posture, and I wonder what that must feel like. To be that chill. I am so tightly wound that most of the time it feels like I could burst. I want to study this man and see what he’s made of. See if he really is like the true sunshine we’ve not seen for years, or if all of this is a clever front.
“Fine. But I have a feeling you’ll regret it,” I finally get out.
Marco chuckles, then walks backwards to the door.
“Good night, Grant,” he murmurs before he disappears to the flow of people going home. It takes me a while to remember what I was doing before he came in. The reports are a mess across my desk, confidential documents I shouldn’t have let him see.
The thing I find most confusing is why Marco came to me. I’m not going to humour myself and think I have a good reputation at the company. Everyone knows I’ll bite if they get too close. My temper is like a badly trained chihuahua crammed into the body of a tibetan mastiff. Way too much firepower wrapped into something that can do a lot of damage. And damage I have done, enough to know there’s no going back.
I take my gun and holster from the drawer and fasten it to my hip. Next comes the bulletproof vest. It’s hung under my desk like this is an aeroplane, and putting it on will save my life if we crash. It will not. I pile the handwritten papers messily on top of each other and cram them into the safe. Analog is the only safe way to go about this mission.
I close the door behind me and go see the whale.
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WWII Top Gun anon: I'd love to see Phoenix and Bob getting to know each other in this context. Or just the younger pilots going out and trying to one up each other swing dancing. Or what the backstory with Mav and Goose is here.
I love ALL of these options but the backstory one really stuck with me, so that's what we're going with.
Bob Floyd had a lot of questions.
He hadn't ever been what you might call precocious, as a child, though curious might not have been too shy off the mark - the kind of kid who flipped over rocks to see what was underneath, and didn't much mind running experiments on things, and subscribed to Popular Mechanics so he could see what was going on in the world, reading the advertisements in the back for airplane kits and wondering just how many postholes he'd have to dig to get that kind of money. But there were so many questions, now that he was here in San Diego, about…everything, where people were from and where they'd learned this or that. His world out in Decorah suddenly seemed…mighty small, next to everyone else's, and it got a man thinking about how everyone else had…got here.
"The answer's barnstorming, Iowa."
Bob tried to look back down at his potato, like he hadn't just been staring at Tasha and working up the courage to say something. Everyone else had a weekend pass to the city, but they'd fluffed two of thier landings today and Mav wasn't having it, so now the two of them were on KP for the night while everyone else drove out to the USO club. "Beg your pardon?"
"You were going to ask how I started flying," she accused, her gaze long and level for a moment. "Barnstorming, up near Sacramento. Local fair circuit, mainly. I worked a diner near the airfield to save money for flying lessons and then taught for a few years to save up and buy my own plane. I was damn close to opening my own school when the war broke out." She returned to her potato. "My guess for you is crop dusting, by the way."
He felt himself blush clear up to his ears. "Is it that obvious?"
She shrugged. "Flying a straight line's good for it. I did some of that for a while, too. But it's not just the way you fly - you've got farm kid written all over you in red pen." She took another long curl of peel off the potato in her hand. "You're careful with your equipment, for starters. I can respect that." The potato dropped into the bowl at her feet and she reached for another. "Guys like Seresin aren't ever going to know how great they had it - using daddy's money to get a plane. They'll always fly like there's another coming if they crash it. We know what it's like to lose things and have 'em stay gone."
"And who'd you lose?" He could ask questions, too, when the mood was on him, and you couldn't watch Tasha Trace and not know that someone, somewhere, was missing. It was the way she hung back from the group, stayed aloof even from Laura and Callie. His ma would say that she was fixing to forget something, the way she worked, the way she flew.
She scoffed quietly. "You don't miss much, Iowa." It was an accusation, a little, but there was respect, too. "And I don't think I'm ready to talk about it just yet."
"Fair enough." He returned his gaze back down to his potato, feeling, in some small way, that he'd won. "So, you got a favorite place to fly?"
At least she smiled at that.
#i have written a thing#1940s au#robert bob floyd#natasha phoenix trace#top gun maverick fanfiction#mercurygraypresents
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Welcome to our weekly round-up! We do these every week to provide plot drops, highlight starters posted that week, and share other information about the setting. Anyone is welcome to use these bullet points in starters, plots, anons etc. Also let us know if you want us to include one of your setting-related plots in here for next week by sending us a bullet point!
What’s new in town?:
After a mining accident, the town is left with cracks oozing strange black sludge that is suspected to be related to Serpent’s Flat. Check out our ongoing plot of the week for ways to interact!
Morrigan has welcomed special guest chef Gerard Buttons the III to The Raven through the end of the May. The ever-changing menu will feature a variety of meals, many made with magical ingredients. Most of theses dishes are perfectly safe, but the chilled soups seem to bring some bad luck if you don't show the corvid at the entrance its due respect.
It may be spring break for most, but the chill in Seven Peaks has been reported as being especially strong around Shimmering Sky Bar. This probably has nothing to do with the cute family of white dogs hanging around the Ski Lift area.
Local organizers are hosting an "extreme tug-of-war" competition on the Common this coming weekend. The blue team has won four years in a row and is awaiting some mighty new challengers. Unbeknownst to the organizers, the blue team consists of all werewolves, and dirty cheaters. Maybe this year's red team can knock them down a peg.
Starters:
Jonas is looking to learn self-defense and could use some tips on getting started
Leila won't let a little bit of black sludge kill the party vibes and is taking name suggestions for the crack in front of Party Thrifter
Sofie is paying attention to your jukebox choices and needs to know-- are you ok?
Metzli is here to assure us all that no, the sludge isn't art, come inside MuerteArte for the real thing
Cassius thinks we might be stuck in a Lovecraftian horror, anyone else see it?
Meera's got her computer fixed and wants the scoop on volunteering to cleanup the Pile
Anita is wondering if anyone has taught the younger generation how to write with pen and paper in the midst of grading woes
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707 x reader high school au
Hi! This is my first ever fanfic! It has been chilling in my notes for a loooong time but I thought it might be fun to post it! It isn’t proof read so sorry if there are any mistakes. Let me know if you want to read part 2! 🤍
God, I can officially say that I gave up all hope for math this semester, cause, wow, I didn’t understand shit.
I was reading the explanation text over and over again while I fiddled with my pen. I already asked the teacher for help, but I didn’t understand a thing, plus she was in a bad mood so I didn’t really wanted to ask again.
I sighed, I was more of a English and history person.The logic math thinking isn’t really my thing. I drew some circles on my paper,and let my head rest in the palm of my hand. I will later ask my mom for help or something.
Then a hand grabbed mine.
My eyes widened in suprise.
The hand grabbed my pencil while still holding my hand, another hand placed gently on my sheet of paper, holding it down so it won’t slip away. He was basically hanging over me.
I turned my head up to see who this person was. It was Seven, a boy with bright red hair and funny glasses. He was loud in class, but really smart. I heard that he was doing some programming thing.
He is a total geek, but I couldn’t deny that he’s really handsome, and to be honest, I liked those nerdy types.
He was focused on the math problem, and he was biting his lip and furrowed his brows in concentration. I turned back to what was happening on the paper on my desk, my cheeks a bit flushed.
“Tada! And that’s how you fix that!” He held his face close to mine so I could see his proud grin.
I looked at the paper. He had fixed the math problem and left little notes that explained what to do.
I turned around. “ thanks so much, you’re a genius!” I smiled at him.
“ I know I know, no thanks, just call me God Seven, savior of those in need.” He jokingly said, while he made a dramatic pose, implying he was some sort of God.
“thank you, oh mighty God Seven.” I grinned. I like this kind of joking.
“Haha, you’re the first one with my humor!” He laughed.
“Hey! I hope this seven guy isn’t bothering you y/n?”
A white haired boy made his way to us. Zen. You could describe him as the “class prince” with his porcelain skin
, and beautiful long hair and (as you could probably guess) al lthe girls were fawning over him. He was really nice and pretty ofcourse, but i wasn’t really attracted to him like the other girls were. Not that I’m that y/n girl who wants to be quirky, but he was just a bit too much, I see him more as a brother! Plus, my dear friend jeahee already is a big fan of him.
“ oh no! He’s just helping with math, he’s really good at it” you waved your hands, implying that he wasn’t annoying you or something.
“What she’s saying” seven agreed.
“Okay okay, well if he does, just call me”
“ yeah yeah, go back to your fan club, they miss you.” Seven joked, winking at him.
Zen made a “mhm” sound and waved us goodbye.
“Well, if you ever need help again, just text me. Or call me, whatever u like.” Seven backed up, giving some sort salut with his fingers.
“But-“ i didn’t even got his phone number.
“The sheet” he mouthed, pointing at the piece of paper on your table”
There was a number written on it, along with a cat doodle.
Huh
Oh this man has to be joking.
#mystic messenger#mysme 707#mysme#mystic messenger jumin#mysme saeyoung#mysme luciel#mysme zen#seayoung choi
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Review: Lupe Dragon’s newest alternative single ‘Unsaid’ carries personal but brilliantly catchy lyricism amidst a minimal soundscape
Alternative singer-songwriter Lupe Dragon hails out of Northern New Jersey, bearing nods towards artists like Ed Sheeran in her poignant lyricism and Billie Eilish in her charisma whilst carrying a completely unique flair of her own that leaves her music sure to stay stuck in your head long after listening. Since releasing her debut EP ‘Can’t Even Stand It’ in 2018, Lupe has released a mass of singles, remixes and a further acoustic EP, all met with a positive response that we can only be certain will continue for her newest offering ‘Unsaid.’
Twisting the modern pop sound into something more fluid and alternative, ‘Unsaid’ shows a creative approach to the genre that channels stylistic influence across the board. As melancholic acoustic guitar strums lead things in, there’s immediately set to be a more delicate and personal resonance to the sound of ‘Unsaid’ than Lupe’s previous releases captured simply in the tender instrument and its unfiltered rawness. A downright addictive beat is the only accompanying counterpart in the duration of the soundscape, feeling more filtered and electronically fused, evoking a bridge between sounds that are contrastingly sensitive and energetic to really urge you get on your feet and dance away the pain of the more heart-wrenching songwriting. With such minimal instrumentals, Lupe’s vocals are truly the centre of everything, commandeering the sound with a self-assurance in delivery whilst moments evidently linger with more weight and emotion. As she takes on a more hip-hop approach, lines are sung with a quick pacing that’ll easily burn them into your brain, leaving you to swiftly find yourself singing along after a mere few listens. Minimal in its elements but dominant in its performance, ‘Unsaid’ is a mighty single with a lot to give, and you surely won’t disagree after pressing play.
There’s a real rawness that lingers within the lyricism of ‘Unsaid’ , capturing emotions at their highest after the loss of an important figure within the protagonist’s life, whether that be a friend or a lover or anything in-between. Inspired by the end of Euphoria’s first season, Lupe pulled herself from a writer’s block and penned down a narrative in ‘Unsaid’ that’s sure to relate to the masses with its down-to-the-bone, truthful depiction of losing someone that was holding you together. With a void of emptiness left behind by their missing piece that Lupe’s lines attempt to smother, snippets like ‘I been drinking all this alcohol thinking it’ll fix my problems for sure, but the next morning I remember it all’ carry a harsh reality to them, resentful to quick fixes for a pain that cannot be buried in blurry nights and temporarily blocked out thoughts. The chorus adds perhaps the most poignant line of the release, ‘been addicted to the noise inside my head ever since you went around and […] left’ , feeling a little untraditionally complex and powerful in the best way possible for a moment that most would use to show off a more watered down ear-worm of a lyrical hook. In her honesty, Lupe captures the bitter numbness behind heartbreak, feeling trapped within the internal monologue of our minds and the static silence that becomes the only company tolerable in our weakest of moments. Filled with lyricism you won’t be able to stop lingering on, ‘Unsaid’ is a hauntingly vivid exploration of how much it can hurt to be human, as well as nudges towards mental health struggles that seep through Lupe’s authentic writing.
Check out ‘Unsaid’ for yourself here to appreciate Lupe Dragon’s truly striking lyrical storytelling and a beat you just won’t be able to get out your mind!
Written by: Tatiana Whybrow
Photo Credits: Adelmo Natilla
// This coverage was created via Musosoup, #SustainableCurator.
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Bruce Wayne has a few tattoos, and the one on his middle finger is his favorite by far but also the worst done
Jason had asked Bruce if he could give him a stick-n-poke 6 months after moving in, and Bruce agreed. Jason decided Bruce’s middle finger was the best place to do so, and that a ‘J’ was going to be one Bruce’s skin forever.
Jason: “you can’t back out”
Bruce: [not caring] “why’s that?”
Jason: [using a regular pen to draw a ‘J’] “because punks back out”
Bruce: “why we can’t have that, can we?”
Jason: “nope”
Jason was concentrated on his work, trying his best to give a somewhat solid outline around his initial. That on its own took almost 40 minutes, and when Bruce would let a comment slide Jason would just reply, “you can’t rush art”
When Jason finally got to shading Bruce wanted to fall asleep at the table as Jason went pick by prick. He stopped himself from stealing a nap due to not trusting the child to not tattoo his face, or just putting a dick somewhere. So he waited.
Jason: “all done, do you like it?”
The J was wobbly, it’s looked a bit like it was done in sharpie, and the shading wasn’t consistent. Honest too god looked like Jason has taken a sharpie that needed to be thrown away and drew a J.
Bruce: “I love it.”
And he did.
The rich and mighty did not, often commenting in distaste for not only the location, but the poor execution. Bruce never let Jason hear the following. So in order to stop the unwanted attention Bruce decided to always wear a ring over his ink during formal events.
After Jason had died Bruce didn’t wear a ring over the artwork anymore, it reminded him that Jason was real, it gave him something that connected him to his child. He often found himself tracing the artwork whenever he let his mind drift. It was a painful reminder of what he lost, that it was Jason’s work. And that was enough.
Finger tattoos don’t last well, so over the course of a few years it out faded significantly, and the fact the tattoos wasn’t exactly high standards to start with didn’t help. But Bruce could never bring himself to get it filled in, could never get it touched up, or even redone like many had suggested. He couldn’t.
After Jason came back the tattoo mocked him, became a constant burning reminder of his failure, but it also served as a reminder of the unconditional love he held for Jason. Jason was his child, he trusted Jason with his life when he served as robin, Jason was strong willed, Jason was talented, Jason had loved Bruce at one point.
And Bruce loved Jason.
Bruce worked and worked at trying to fix his relationship with his lost son, with many set backs. Bruce may have been trying but he definitely wasn’t going to win any awards for compassion. After what seemed like war after war between the two finally started to settle, but on Jason’s terms not Bruce’s. They slowly became civil enough to stand in the same rooftop, and that evolved to today, both sitting at the kitchen table as Jason laid out everything he needed to give a tattoo
Jason: “it looks like shit now”
Bruce: “didn’t exactly look any better when I first got it either”
Jason: [snorts] “I can’t believe you let a kid tattoo you”
Bruce: “I haven’t exactly made any good decisions with kids according to my track record”
Jason: “you got that right. Lucky for you I’ve had a lot more practice, now hold still “
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I'm bored and I just wanted to write some thoughts I have had about the boys down. So enjoy!
Moments with the Brothers
Navigation List
💙 Lucifer -
MC had just gotten home from their terribly busy day running around RAD and offering their help to just about everyone. They fell onto their plush bed, about to let sleep consume them when they heard a stern, deep voice, "MC I need to see you in my office."
The human glanced up only to see Lucifer staring back at them before turning on his heel and walking away. They sighed and followed after him.
He held the door open for them and motioned for them to sit across from him. MC began to ponder which of the many things they did did they get in trouble for. Their last test grade? Helping Mammon run away from Lucifer? Helping Satan with a prank?
As their thoughts wondered, only the noise of Lucifer's pen was heard. They waited a few seconds longer to no avail.
He was just doing his work before them, not scolding, or saying anything. Was this the silent treatment?
They decided to try to get some answers out of him, "So, why did you need to see me?" Lucifer looked up at them slightly confused.
"Do I need a reason to want you in my presence?"
💛 Mammon -
Mammon watched as MC came out of the bathroom, and even though he had been staring at the them for an hour he still can't get over how radiant they look tonight.
"Ready too lose all your money?" Their voice brought him back to reality.
"You obviously don't know, that the Great Mammon doesn't loose money. He only wins it."
The pair walked over to one of the many roulette tables in the massive casino. Mammon began his bet and the two watched as the ball began to roll.
As the two cheered at their win, a woman slowly creeper closer, "Hey, hot stuff. How about you let go of his arm and hold onto mine. I am sure I can show you a good time."
MC ignore the call as they continued to watch Mammon make his next bet.
As the ball came to a stop, another comment was heard, "Hey! I'm talking to you. Can't you tell a good thing when you see one?"
The woman now grabbed for MC's arm, and that when Mammon had enough.
"Don't talk to them like that. They are my date. If I see you, so much as looking at them again, your night will be over."
Mammon didn't want to take the chance of then grabbing MC again. So he grabbed MC's hand andbegan to walk away as he spoke, "Let's go. I've had enough fun for tonight anyway."
🧡 Leviathan -
Levi bounced next to MC as the two waited in line for the next panel. The pair had planned a convention day trip to the human world for months and the day had finally arrived. Along with all the mundane planning that MC took care of (hotel room, tickets etc.), Levi got to plan their costumes and of course they were matching.
MC watched the demon's smile grow with every step closer to the door, but all the bouncing was josting his tie, "Levi, let me fix your tie. Hold still."
A blush spread across his face as he watched MC squeeze in front of him and adjust his tie. This moment was quickly interrupted by someone passing by.
"You two are so cute! Can I take a picture?"
MC replied with a yes before he even had time to process the question. In one quick moment, MC's lips were on his cheek and he was frozen.
The stranger left with a giggle and a thank you before MC finally noticed something was wrong, "Levi are you okay?"
All he could do was nod with his head in his hands.
💚 Satan -
Satan watched MC giggle as a cat marched across their lap. A new cat Cafe had opened in Devildom and MC made him promise to take them. The pair had been sitting and playing with the felines for nearly and hour when a rowdy demon entered.
"Ohhh, so the mighty and wrathful Satan enjoys spending his free time with a human. How adorable! I can't believe anybody would be afraid of a pushover like you."
Satan's smile quickly faded into a frown, but before he could speak another voice chimed in, "Don't talk to him that way."
"Oh? So the little human has a voice?" The fourth born watched in amusement as MC stomped over to this other demon.
"Yeah. And you better believe that if one more foul thing comes out of your mouth, I'll start summoning every angel and demon I know to come here and beat your ass."
Satan chuckles at their words before standing and taking charge of the situation, "Alright, I think that is enough. Go wait outside, MC"
MC tried to protest to no avail. As they waited, they watched the rowdy demon run out of the Cafe in fear before Satan walked out coolly behind them.
"I was handling it!" Satan chuckled again at their words.
"I know, by the way, have I ever told you, you're hot when you're angry?"
💖 Asmodeus -
Asmo and MC sat in the back of the mandatory student council meeting as Barbatos droned on. MC had almost fallen asleep before they were nudged by Asmo and heard him whisper, "Pink or Blue?"
They looked over to see him holding nail polish bottles. After pondering the question for a moment they chose blue.
They watch as Asmo put away the pink bottle and began to shake the blue one. All at once he grabbed MC's hand and began to paint and talk, all the while ignoring the meeting going on before him.
"I saw your perfect nails were barren and I can't let that happen. So you will be getting sky blue. I have a lot more colors at home, but I only brought the ones I am wearing to touch up. So I guess we'll be matching, not that I mind."
He smiled and focused on making perfect lines across the nails. It was near perfection, but it was over just as quickly as it began.
"Now, if you ever find yourself in a boring meeting, just let me know. I always have extra nail polish."
❤ Beelzebub -
MC sat across from Beel on their bed, books scattered around them as they studied for a test they were going to take in the morning.
"How do you call a familiar again?"
Beel sat in silence for a moment as he pondered MC's questions. Slowly his fingers flipped through the pages of the book at the human watched him.
"I don't know. I thought this was a alchemy test."
When they hear his reply, MC falls over in desperation, "How are we supposed to pass tomorrow? This is so frustrating. "
Beel watched as they rubbed their face and sighed, "Do you know what always helps me when I am frustrated?"
MC glances to the gentle giant and the pair stare deeply into each other's eyes before replying in unison, "A snack break!"
💜 Belphegor -
MC had decided to leave their room and venture the House of Lamentations for a late night snack. On their way to the kitchen they found Belphie sitting in front of the TV.
"What are you doing up so late? Shouldn't you be sleeping? Isn't that your thing?" He glanced up at their questions before turning his gaze back to the TV.
"Well if you must know, my body makes me stay awake for a minimum amount of time, and it chose tonight at," He pressed a button and the time popped up, "2:54 AM to stay awake. Who am I to tell it no?"
MC shrugged silently understanding before sitting next to him watching the program. It was quite a boring show. One where they run around doing nothing, yet a laugh track still played behind them.
The human struggled to focus on the show as their head began to lull onto Belphie's shoulder. Slowly, their eyelids began to droop making their vision black as their breaths evened out. Before finally falling back into a deep slumber, MC heard a faint whisper in their ear.
"Why do you have to look so adorable and comfy when you sleep?"
#obey me#obeyme#obey me fluff#fluff#obey me mammon#obey me lucifer#obey me blurbs#blurbs#obey me leviathan#obey me satan#obey me asmodeus#obey me beelzebub#obey me belphegor#lucifer x reader#mammon x reader#leviathan x reader#satan x reader#asmodeus x reader#beelzebub x read#belphegor x reader
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*shows up to @essek-week 6 days late with all the prompts shoved into one fic*
based on this post by @slayerscake
___________________________________________________________
Essek, for all his magical skill, had very little experience being a fighter. But you pick things up when you travel with a group that gets in as many scrapes per day as the Mighty Nein—you don’t necessarily learn how to fight well, but you certainly learn how to fight alongside the Mighty Nein.
While Jester is a cleric, try to go unconscious near Caduceus.
“It’s not that she refuses to heal,” Fjord explained gently as he inspected the gash across Essek’s sternum for signs of poison. They were all a bit paranoid now since discovering that their previous monster encounter had, unbeknownst to them, injected a slow-acting venom into every bite. “She just prefers to take the enemy out first. It’s a strategy thing, you know. Save the healing for after the fight, once the danger’s gone.”
Essek turned his gaze over to Jester. In their post-battle huddle, while Caduceus hummed a healing prayer for the group and Fjord dressed Essek’s wound, she was several yards away helping Veth saw off one of the beast’s talons as a trophy.
Fjord continued, “Of course, if you’re like, actually dying in front of her, she’ll heal you. I mean…” he trailed off. Sure, Essek hadn’t exactly been dead-dead when he’d collapsed next to Jester during the fight, but he wasn’t far from it. The last, ironic thought he’d registered before consciousness slipped away was how fortunate it was to fall in battle right next to a cleric. As his eyes fell shut, it was with anticipation that he would be up again in a second to rejoin the fray.
When he had finally awoken, it was Caduceus’ face smiling over him, not Jester’s, and the ferocious monster had long since been turned into a carcass.
“Mm-hmm.”
Fjord sighed and sat back on his heels. “Just, maybe next time, if you have to go down, try to go down closer to Caduceus.”
“Noted,” Essek grumbled, watching with nauseated fascination as his skin knit itself back together in time with the melody of Caduceus’ spell.
When in doubt, polymorph.
“I am a bit surprised you don’t already have this in your repertoire. I have found it to be incredibly useful.”
Essek shrugged, shoving off the automatic sting of embarrassment that came with admitting ignorance. He didn’t need to feel that way around Caleb.
“Well, I have rarely found myself in a position to fly over rough terrain or transform a terrifying monster into a sloth. Until now, that is.”
Caleb laughed lightly. “Such is the adventuring life, I suppose.” He smiled, taking a break from flipping through his spellbook to look up at Essek. Even this brief moment of eye-contact felt so charged with energy that Essek had to avert his gaze, the sense-memory of guilt welling up in his throat threatening to choke him. The intensity of Caleb’s undivided attention was still difficult for him to bear. His fingers twitched to rub at the burning spot on his forehead. Instead, he gripped his pen tighter.
“Here.” Caleb flipped his book around to show Essek the page dedicated to the Polymorph spell, covered in transmutation runes. Essek recognized a few of the symbols in passing. “This should be easy for you to copy down. Then we can practice a bit. I think you’ll find casting it on yourself makes for a rather enjoyable pastime.”
Buff the lesbians.
Essek’s eyes darted between Caleb and Caduceus, unsure how to interpret this piece of advice. “Um, can you be more specific?”
Caduceus blinked at him, seeming confused. “Specific how? You mean like, which spells you should use on them?”
“No, I meant specific as in to whom you were referring. I just…” Essek glanced awkwardly around the table. Most of the group was distracted, digging into the enormous feast provided by Caleb’s clowder of feline servants. They were all worn out from a long day of hard travel and enjoying the warm reprieve of the tower.
Essek cleared his throat, trying to discreetly lower his voice without making it obvious that he was being secretive. “I have not exactly been given a briefing on all of your individual sexual preferences.”
“Oh, I can fix that!” Jester cut in. Apparently Essek’s attempts to be clandestine had failed, as they always seemed to with this group. “Caleb is—”
“That is alright, thank you,” Essek swiftly cut her off. His cheeks were already burning red-hot. “Can you please just tell me who ‘the lesbians’ are in this circumstance?”
He could feel Beau’s glare boring through him all the way from the other end of the table as she stared incredulously over her magical flask of whiskey. “You should really be able to figure that out yourself, man.”
Squishy wizards stay away from fights.
“Stay. Here.” Yasha’s growl was twice as terrifying as the insectoid beast screaming over their heads, and Essek was pretty sure the force from her shoving him behind the rocks was going to leave just as big a bruise as getting smacked by the creature’s tail, if not bigger. “Hide.”
“I was trying to help,” Essek muttered, a mixture of shame and indignation pushing him to defend himself to her.
“I know. You can help by staying alive.” A hint of softness entered Yasha’s gruff voice, although its effect was mitigated when she hefted up her massive sword. Essek instinctually slunk away from the arc of the blade. “Fighters get close, wizards hang back. That’s how we do things in this family.” She smiled at him, and another layer of the ice around Essek’s heart melted. “That’s how we keep you and Caleb from snapping like twigs. Save the close-range spells for when things are really desperate.”
Essek nodded his affirmation. Yasha turned and began running back into the melee, letting out an almighty roar. Just before she went out of range, Essek reached out his hands, whispering the incantation and twisting his fingers around the fabric of time that surrounded her large frame. Yasha paused for a moment as the effects of the Haste spell hit her, then turned to flash Essek another smile and a thumbs up.
That’s how we do things in this family.
You have to look sexy when using spells.
“I really do not understand the purpose of this.”
“We’re just trying to help you out!” Veth grinned at him mischievously. Somehow, the ghost of a goblin’s snarl showed through her straight halfling teeth. “Every good adventurer knows aesthetics are crucial to effective spellcasting.”
“That’s not—”
“Plus, we’re not fighting in the cold anymore,” Jester added. “We don’t want you to get overheated in the middle of battle.”
“That… really isn’t an issue.” But he knew resistance was useless when it came to these two. Resigned to his fate, Essek dutifully lifted the mantle over his head and began undoing the fastenings of his cloak.
Outer layer discarded, he lifted his arms up half heartedly to show his self-appointed image consultants the results. “Is this satisfactory?”
“Hmmmm,” Jester tilted her head to the side, considering him. “Can you try rolling up your sleeves?”
“I’m not taking off my shirt!”
“No one asked you to!” Veth hopped off her chair to circle around Essek, studying him with an intensity she usually reserved for things she was about to shoot. “Now, show us your stance.”
“My what?”
“You know, your sexy fighting stance.” Veth stopped in place, whipping out her crossbow and striking a dramatic pose.
“Um…” Essek attempted to mimic her, one hand on the meteorite pendant that served as his arcane focus, the other reaching out as if he were about to cast a spell. “Like this?”
Jester tapped a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, that tank top did look really good on you, Essek.”
Essek put his head in his hands.
If you get charmed there is going to be a very high chance of Beau punching you to snap you out of it.
A constellation's worth of stars swam in Essek’s vision, pain bursting through his head like a reverberating drum; he could feel the nasty bruise blooming at his temple where Beauregard had struck him. Blinking away the stars, he turned just in time to see Beau’s fist heading towards him once again, this time making expert contact with his jaw. The force of this second blow sent him hurtling toward the ground, knocking the wind out of him.
Amid the pain, a sense of clarity slowly came over him, cutting through the pleasant, misty haze that had overtaken his faculties. It gave him just enough presence of mind to scream an indignant, accusatory, “Ow!” at Beau.
She flashed him a cocky grin, seemingly amused by his tone. “Look man, this is what happens. Get charmed, get hit. Now square up.”
Essek held up one hand in an attempt to stave her off, gasping for breath. The buzz in his brain was receding; somehow, Beau had punched the spell’s effect right out of him. “No really, I’m fine now, it worked—”
But she was already going in for another punch. Helpless to stop her, Essek braced himself for the hit, thinking that if nothing else, he had to admire her thoroughness.
#critical role#critrole#essek thelyss#essek week#my writing#what is a timeline but a miserable little pile of scenes?
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The few times Cas spoke about his true form, Dean had always imagined some terrifying robed creature with a bazillion heads and rotating rings and fifty giant wings from different animals. He imagined mighty beings that embodied the idea of God’s warriors. Cas once said his true form was size of the Chrysler building, and Dean had had to hide just how impressive the angel was despite looking and acting like a total dork. Cas as Cas was intimidating enough, but Castiel—the Chrysler-sized warrior of divinity—sounded terrifying and majestic all at the same time.
But apparently, Cas had omitted a few details. He had neglected to tell Dean that little bits of his true form lingered with him while he was in human form, some additions that couldn’t be seen but existed with him in another plane of reality.
So imagine Dean’s shock when he’s on a case and accidentally uses the holy fire glasses in his insurance company disguise. He didn’t even realize the difference until Cas joined him and Sam to help.
They were dealing with a Shifter who had been killing old people in a wealthy neighborhood in upstate New York. Cas, a fully functioning angel again, had offered to help when Sam and Dean realized they were up against a Shifter duo instead of a loner.
Sam was out getting grub when Cas appeared in the motel room with a whoosh of wings. Dean knew how much Cas had missed flying, and even he had missed hearing him announce his presence with that characteristic whoosh.
“Hey Cas.” Dean greeted without looking up from the laptop.
“Hello, Dean.” Was the usual response. He flicked his gaze up to Cas briefly, peering over the rim of the glasses he hadn’t bothered taking off. Dean did a double take when he caught a flash of black within the glasses’ lens. Frowning, he pushed the frames up his nose until he could squint through them properly. A sharp intake of breath caught in his throat.
“Dean?”
Cas’ voice floated through his mind but he couldn’t process it. He stared at the Castiel revealed through the lens, abso-fucking-lutely floored.
A pair of black wings, ones Dean had only ever seen the shadow or scorched remains of before, were folded neatly against Cas’ back. As the afternoon sunlight hit the feathers, Dean could see them shimmering and reflecting all the colors of the rainbow subtly. The feathers looked spun of night sky and stardust, light as clouds but dense and powerful was cooling lava. Dean had a really, really strong urge to run his fingers through them. They looked like they’d make his fingers tingle with lightning.
Alongside the wings, the other newly revealed part of Cas was his halo. He had never mentioned one before, so Dean had just assumed halos were just another one of those things crazy Christians made up. But apparently, angels did had halos, because there was a thin ring of glowing light surrounding Cas’ head like a circlet, hovering above his ears and just a few inches away from his hair and forehead. It gleamed an ethereal pale gold, almost white, light. As he looked at it closer, he noticed a few gaps in the ring, like jagged cracks where pieces had fallen away. Were they supposed to be like that?
Dean was so shocked that he wondered how the hell he was even seeing these parts of Cas now. It took him a moment for his sluggish brain to piece together that he must had accidentally taken the holy fire glasses instead of another fake pair.
“Dean? Are you alright?”
He blinked, still taking in the halo and wings, and cleared his throat. Cas was frowning at him in concern, his head tilted adorably to the side. The halo drifted and followed a half second behind his movement.
“Uh—“ a strangled noise escapes Dean’s throat. His fingers itched to dig themselves into those feathers, to trace that halo and try to feel the warmth of light. He swallowed thickly, his throat clicking. The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Are there supposed to be cracks in that thing?”
Cas blinked at him, thoroughly confused. A split second later, his face both flushed and paled at the same time. Dean worried the sudden blood flow would make him pass out, but then he remembered Cas was an angel.
“Those glasses have been burned in holy fire, haven’t they?” He asked, his wings tucking more firmly against his back like he was trying to hide them.
“Uh, uh yeah.” He stammered, wondering if he should say something to ease Cas’ obvious insecurity. “Grabbed ‘em by accident.”
Cas shuffled his feet awkwardly, the light of his halo dimming shyly. He obviously wasn’t going to offer any information unless Dean pressed a little more.
“So?” He managed to sound somewhat casual, even though his heart was beating loudly in his ears. “What’s with the missing pieces?”
“Ah.” Cas rumbled in his low voice. He avoided Dean’s eyes, his chipped halo floating after every movement of his head. “Well, to angels, the halo represents purity and devotion to God. It is the manifestation of each angel’s divinity. When Lucifer rebelled against Heaven, his halo was shattered as a sign of disgrace and he was banished to Hell. Other angels like Gabriel and Anna had a chip broken off because they rejected Heaven and their loyalties were to their own well-being. Angels cannot exist fully if their halos are damaged, but because Gabriel was an archangel and Anna became human, they were exceptions.”
Dean frowned. But Cas had way more than one piece missing and he was still alive and still an angel.
“So how come you’re still around?” He asked, waving a hand at Cas’ cracked halo.
“Because I was created already broken.” The words, delivered in a flat, emotionless tone, still cut through Dean’s heart. That wasn’t true. Cas wasn’t broken. He was just Cas. Perfectly fine the way he was. “As you have heard from many angels and Chuck himself, I came off the line with a crack in my chassis. I was created to be flawed.”
“Cas…” Dean began, trying to find the words to tell him that it wasn’t true, that everything Naomi and Chuck had told him was a lie.
“It’s alright, Dean.” Cas said gently, glancing at him for the first time since the conversation started. “When Jack restored me to my full power I asked to keep the cracks I bear. Not as an punishment.” he added, somehow interpreting the frown flashing across Dean’s face. “but as proof that angels can exist with their flaws and still do good things. That they can still protect humanity, as was their reason for existence.”
Well, when he put it that way, Dean really couldn’t protest. It was very Cas-like of him to not give a single fuck about being perfect and defying everything anyone has ever known by doing it his way.
“But I am sorry.”
That made Dean snap his head up sharply, looking at Cas in surprise.
“For what?” He asked incredulously.
“For forcing you to see me like this.” Cas’ wings spread out momentarily before being tucked tightly against his back again, hiding their magnificence from Dean. He hated that. He hated that Cas thought Dean wouldn’t want to see him like this, one step closer to his true form, to the real Castiel. “I understand it was undoubtedly shocking and unsettling, but if I could hide these parts of myself from those glasses, I would for your sake.”
“No.” Dean snapped vehemently, jumping to his feet and jabbing a finger at Cas. He hated that Cas believed the things he was saying. How could he not be awestruck by him, by his beautiful wings and perfectly flawed halo? “Shut the fuck up, Cas.”
Cas’ face fell even further than before, the corners of his mouth ticking down and his eyes falling downcast. He looked so…rejected. It cut right through Dean’s heart again, and he scrambled to fix it before they fell victim to miscommunication again.
“Cas.” Dean said firmly, ducking down to catch his gaze. Like a moth to light, that piercing blue gaze fixed on green and followed them up. “I ain’t unsettled. Shocked, but in a really good way.”
Cas looked frowned, confused. Dean plowed on.
“Dude, don’t be ashamed of who you are. Your wings and halo…they look awesome, man. Seriously. You look badass.”
Cas’ lips parted in shock. Dean nervously fidgeted with a pen he had forgotten was in his hands, tapping it against his palm as he struggled to find the right words.
“You ain’t broken or flawed—you’re just Cas. My—“
Best friend didn’t cut it anymore. They had gone through too much together to be best friends. Brothers didn’t sit right either. Dean didn’t feel the same things for Cas as he did Sam (it made him shudder in disgust just thinking about his little brother like that). Dean knew what it was like to lose Cas and Sam—Sam, he had lost his family, his blood. Cas, Dean had lost a part of his soul.
“—you’re my—“
Dean wanted—needed—to say the words. But nothing fit, nothing felt right. No word could describe just what Cas was to him.
“—you’re my angel, Cas. And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
Cas just stared at him with another one of those soul searching gazes. Even when he was human, Dean felt he could still see straight through him, searching for deception or lies and every time never finding one.
There was a small, awed smile on Cas’ face, and before Dean could register what was happening, Cas gently cupped the back of his neck and pulled Dean down. Soft, chapped lips pressed briefly against his forehead, warm and sweet and grateful. They were gone a moment later, and so was Cas’ hand.
“Thank you, Dean.” He said softly after a while. “I appreciate it.”
Dean blinked and nodded stiffly. His entire body was shaking, aching to feel that warmth again. “Don’t…yeah, don’t mention it, Cas. I just…you gotta know the truth.”
Cas’ wings were fluffed up a bit, and they twitched against his back like they were itching to spread out. His halo was glowing much brighter than before, matching his smile.
“I have always been honored to be by your side, Dean, but it is nice to hear that you consider me yours.”
There was a lump in his throat that muted his voice. He nodded, shivering when he felt the cool, electrified tingling brush of a feather run down his arm and the warmth of light as Cas’ halo grew brighter.
“Always have. Cas.” He murmured, staring down at the pen clutched between his trembling fingers. He could feel Cas’ smile grow, and the primary feather of his wings brushed against his arm with a little more intent.
“As have I.” His response was so quiet that Dean almost didn’t hear it. But a shiver ran down his spine nonetheless. There was something different in the air, now that there were these confessions in the open. It wasn’t quite like a straightforward declaration that Dean was Cas’ and Cas was Dean’s, but it was pretty damn close. It was just a soft, gentle confirmation of how they had felt about each other since Cas pulled Dean from Hell all those years ago.
The quiet, peaceful moment between them was effectively shattered when they both heard the motel door open and Sam come barging through. They both jumped apart. They might have confessed…something between them…but that didn’t mean they were at all comfortable letting Sam see them in such an intimate moment.
“Uhhh…” Sam came to an abrupt halt as he took in Dean and Cas all but throwing themselves in opposite directions. “did I…?”
“No.” both Dean and Cas said quickly. They faltered and fell silent. Sam glanced between them hesitantly, like they were a bomb about to go off. Dean peeked over at Cas, noticing how his wings were fluffed up almost twice their size, his cheeks burning when he noticed Dean had noticed.
“Riiiight.” Sam said. “Well…there’s uh…been another body. I was gonna grab you and go…?”
“Yeah.” Dean said immediately, straightening up. “Let’s go.”
Cas looked like he wanted to protest—or force Sam to leave so they could deal with twelve years of tension—but Dean pointedly sent a prayer his way.
Tonight. Promise.
Cas’ wings fluffed up even more, his halo’s light shone so brightly it poked Dean’s eyes, and his face was redder than a tomato.
Dean grinned before grabbing his keys.
“See ya at the crime scene, angel.” He said before ducking out of the motel room.
“Is Cas okay?” Sam asked when they were in Baby.
“Oh yeah.” Dean grinned smugly, already looking forward to tonight. “He’s definitely okay.”
He’s got a chipped halo and beautiful wings that had once been burned to bone.
He’s Dean’s angel. He’s perfect.
#this was a lot longer than i thought it would be#but i’m a sucker for cas with a halo and wings#dean would be so floored to see cas like that#supernatural#cas#castiel#destiel#spn#casdean#dean is bi#dean winchester#deancas#love confessions#destiel confession#destiel fandom#destiel fanfic
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Random Avengers Headcanons Pt1
Natasha and Bucky - after fighting with each other for some time - eventually bond due to their mutual love of motorcycles. They talk regularly, giving each other tips and tricks on how to perform certain stunts. Natasha pays Bucky to wash her motorcycle every weekend, and Bucky can always rely on Nat to fix his in return. Steve finds it strange, but also kind of amusing.
Still on the subject of Bucky: he’s an incredible cook. In civil war, a lot of people pointed out his cooking utensils. I like to believe that Steve could NOT cook for shit in the 40’s so Bucky learnt how to from the elderly neighbours next door. His favourite thing to cook - though very basic - is scrambled eggs. He used to serve them up as breakfast the morning after Steve had another attempt at being recruited rejected. Now, Steve insists he makes them for the entire team whenever he’s around.
Not a personal one but I just love it. Sam began sticking notes onto Bucky’s arm as a joke to piss him off. Normally the notes were playfully insulting. But after they become an item, Sam continues to stick the notes onto Bucky’s arm, this time with nice little messages and reminders to take care of himself.
Peter Parker realised one day that the avengers are just really fucking sad. So he organises a weekly movie marathon that showcases at least two of everyone’s favourite movies each week. So far, the most diverse and funny selection was Scott Lang’s (Mean Girls because he enjoys the drama and Polar because he gets all giddy over the weapons)
Steve likes photography. Like, really likes it. He’s weirdly good at it as well. One day he notices Wanda looking a little down, so he takes her around the nearby woods to teach her to take photographs. She ends up with a new hobby, and she in turn becomes almost as good as Steve.
Strange and Tony have been permanently banned by both the avengers and Pepper from talking to each other before midday.
Tony was so petrified when he found out he was going to be a dad. It’s not that he didn’t want it, because of course he did. It was more to do with the fact that Howard and the affect it had had on his life still lingered in his mind, and he didn’t want to be that kind of father towards his kid. When Morgan came along, he completely proved to himself that he was the opposite of his dad. He put in the hours and gave up time to spend with Morgan so he didn’t immerse himself in his work like his father had. Tony is a great dad.
Bruce constantly fiddles with things in meetings. He’s always taking pens apart and putting them back together again or running his hands through his hair or staring out of windows. He gets distracted easily, unless he’s working on a project he cares about.
Natasha has devised multiple ways to kill everyone in her spare time. Each way was crafted around their flaws so if would bring about a satisfying end, should they betray her. The only people she hasn’t imagined killing are Clint and Maria.
Peter Parker taught Shuri deez nuts jokes. She made T’Challa fall for one and he tried to have her taken back to New York. It was all jokes, but the Queen wasn’t very happy.
Sam cannot go a day without singing ‘what a man, what a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man’ under his breath.
#mcu headcanons#steve rogers#sam wilson#bucky barnes#sambucky#peter parker#tony stark#dr stephen strange#natasha romanoff#mcu#the avengers#tchalla#peter and shuri#avengers headcanon#wanda maximoff
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Temporary Home: Chapter 17
Guardians of the Galaxy fanfic | Reader x Guardians (With Yondu and Kraglin!)
Summary: Peter, grasping for straws to remain 'The Prank Master,' thinks he's found a way to annoy you into conceding. Unfortunately, and unbeknownst to him, what he's found is something much worse.
Previous Chapter here | Next Chapter Here
Or click here to: Start From Beginning
Author’s Note: Content Warning for descriptions/mentions of PTSD and flashbacks. Also, for my records this chapter ends on day 34 of the Guardians living with reader. Enjoy!
Word Count: 6,761
Red covered your mouth and nose, all over your hand, and a bit on your sheets. You blearily tried to gather your senses, tried to open your eyes against the unforgiving light that blinded you.
Peter stood over you, laughing. Telling you that you got what was coming to you as you groaned.
That fecker had put ketchup in your hand while you slept and then tickled your nose with one of the fuzzy-tipped novelty pens on your desk. The dickhead.
"Ugh! Gross! Dude!?" you complain, sitting up and reaching over to grab the tissues off your desk so you could clean yourself up.
"Serves you right for what you did to me!" Peter countered, gesturing to the blue staining his body. He began to walk out of your room, making sure to let you know that you shouldn't expect the two of you were even.
You roll your eyes and continue wiping the ketchup-y mess off of you. You glance down at your sheets and realized you'd need to wash them today too. Great. Guess this is what you got for sleeping-in.
Once you had finally cleaned yourself up you gathered your sheets to take them downstairs to wash them, but not before making a pit-stop to Peter's room. Wanting to make the trip quick you grabbed the first thing you could find- his comb- and pocketed it. It was about to have a date with some jelly.
As you turned to leave his room you saw Rocket standing in the hall just outside the door.
With a knowing grin he asked, "Whatcha doin' there?"
"Nothing," you answer flatly, gathering your sheets back up.
He let you pass but said, "So I guess I didn't just see you steal Quill's comb, then?" There was amusement in his voice.
"He'll get it back," you answer, not pausing in your walk towards the stairs.
"What do you plan on doing to it?" he asked, intrigued. He had no intents to squeal on you. This prank-y-ness was a side of you he had been pleasantly surprised to see. Much better the the stiff agent-type you usually liked to display. Had he maybe misjudged you?
"The less you know the better," you answered, continuing down the stairs.
No witnesses. Rocket liked your style. Maybe you didn't have such a stick up your butt after all.
***
You threw your sheets in the washer and put the kettle on. It was time to make some jelly.
While waiting for the kettle you grabbed the packet of jelly from the pantry and something quick for breakfast. Deciding on a granola bar, you go to pull one from the box when you also notice that all your spices had been flipped upside down. Obviously Peter's doing. That's also when you remember that you had hidden the rest of the food dye behind the spices, prompting you to give a quick peek to see that the box was still there.
It wasn't.
Peter must have found it while setting up his prank and took them, intent on making the two of you "even."
Crap.
The kettle began to whistle and you pulled yourself out of your thoughts of doom to start fixing the jelly. You could think about the dye later. Right now you had mischief to make.
You mix up the jelly in a glass bowl, adding in an extra packet of gelatin to make sure the shape would hold later. Then, looking around to make sure no one was around, you take Peter's comb out of your pocket and drop it in. The bowl was just big enough for the comb to catch on the sides roughly about halfway deep in the jelly water, so that when you turned it out it would be nicely suspended in the green jelly. You then quickly take the bowl to the fridge to set, burying it in the back on the bottom shelf so it hopefully wouldn't be seen.
Then you simply went about your day as normal.
***
Other than several bad puns, Peter surprisingly didn't attempt much to annoy you that day, and you had no doubts that it was because he was confident that he'd be able to return the favor in dyeing you an odd color when you showered tonight.
Not if you had anything to say about it.
Too bad for him he had no way to know that you knew, and you were confident that you could deal with it when that time came if you paid enough attention. For now you were just going to act none-the-wiser, and accept his invitation to watch a show with the others.
You settled in on the couch and the episode starts. It's a title you haven't heard of before.
Watching it you gathered it was a type of mystery/detective/thriller type that was somehow also a comedy. A detective was accused of killing this old lady, and he was on the run to try and prove his innocence. Lots of action, a bunch of red-herrings, overall not a bad show so far if you had to judge by this episode.
Then there was the end-scene.
The detective finally found the actual murderer, the mayor, and after tricking him into broadcasting his confession over the radio in this abandoned radio station- where he somehow had managed to make a broadcast work- the two fight. Only the mayor has a gun, and the detective's fell into a storm drain two scenes ago.
Through his cunning the detective manages to escape alive, but not unharmed. He's got a compound fracture to his leg. Cops are on the scene and arresting the mayor after surrounding him at gunpoint, and ambulances can be heard in the background.
You feel the hair on your arms stand up.
The sound of the sirens just keeps getting louder.
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.
They get louder. You look away from the screen into your lap.
All you can hear now is sirens. You don't realize they've already stopped on the screen. There's now instead dialogue, a conversation between characters, but you are unaware of it.
Your hands clench into fists, nails digging into your palms. You fight the images in your head. You don't want to see them. You hear sounds of tearing metal. Sirens. Screaming. Beeping. Your breathing gets shallow and you work to keep it quiet. You had to fight it back. Sirens. Bright lights. Glass shattering. Screaming. Sirens. You keep saying to yourself inside your mind that it's ok. You're ok. But what about-
Kraglin makes a comment to Yondu about something said on screen. You don't hear him. You only hear the sirens. God, why won't they stop? Screeching. Sirens. Blinding lights. Sirens.
Yondu turns to reply to Kraglin, but sees you looking strange. He raises an eyebrow, which Kraglin notices. He follows Yondu's gaze and sees you staring into your lap, body rigid, hands balled tightly into fists. Your eyes are wide, but unseeing. Your jaw is set.
Before either of them can say a word the buzzer on the washer goes off and you seem to jolt out of it, quickly hopping up and making your way out of the room.
Yondu and Kraglin share a look. What was that about?
***
You didn't return for another episode. Instead, you decided it was a nice enough day to hang your washing on the line. It hardly took you any time at all to finish, but you decide to stay outside for a bit anyways. Fresh air and all that.
Everything was fine. You were ok.
When you finally come back in it's well after a suitable lunchtime, and realizing that the only thing you had today was a granola bar, you decide to cut up an apple and sit at the table, scrolling on your phone as you eat.
Yondu comes into the kitchen for a drink and joins you at the table. "Where'd you go runnin' off to?" he asks, "Decide you didn't like the show?" What he really wanted to ask was what had prompted that look in your eyes earlier, but he knew better than to just come out an ask. You'd just deny anything had happened.
"Had laundry to dry," you answer, not looking up from your phone.
"Ya were gone an awful long time for laundry." Yondu said, not missing that you completely ignored his question about the show. But the question still bugged him. He recognized the look in your eyes back then. He remembered sometimes catching it in the eyes of some of the older battle slaves in the barracks when he was younger. It was the look one had when they were flashing back to something horrific they had been through. He and the other younger battle slaves were always told by other elders to leave those be when they were "stuck in it", as they would say. Don't disturb them. They'll come out of it. Nothing for it but to let it pass.
That never did sit right with him.
"It's a nice day. Thought I'd enjoy it," you answered.
Yondu hummed shortly. You weren't giving him anything, and he knew you wouldn't.
He decided not to press it for now, but he could tell something had triggered that response from you, he just didn't know what. He suspected it had something to do with whatever it was that you kept locked away inside. He had clues and suspicions as to what, but of course he couldn't be sure, though he was more determined now than he had previously been to figure you out. Only one thing was certain. You had pain inside you. A lot of it. No one should have to go through that alone.
***
Kraglin, unlike Yondu, wasn't nearly as subtle when he saw you next. However, he wouldn't get any further.
"Mind if I help?" he asked, joining you in the garden where you were pulling a few weeds.
"Go for it," you reply, barely looking up. There weren't many to pull, as it was starting to get cooler lately. You mostly just came out for something to do. Soon it'd be time to harvest the whole garden.
The two of you work in silence for a bit. Then, Kraglin asks, "So, um, was you alright earlier? I mean, saw that ya looked mighty shaken when we was watching that show."
"Don't know what you're talking about," you answer, standing up and tossing the weeds you picked over to the compost bucket.
Kraglin looked up to meet your gaze, frowning. He was about to say something along the lines that you were full of shit, but he stopped himself when he saw your stern expression. You weren't just denying it. With just those few words, combined with the subtly hard look on your face, you were outright telling him that he didn't see whatever it was that he thought he saw.
He exhaled out his nose and just gave you a look that said that he didn't believe you, but he wouldn't push it. He could see that you would just shut him out, and he felt like it wasn't his place to press it.
Suddenly a gunshot rang out, breaking the awkward silence and causing you both to jump.
You sigh, not appreciating the jolt, and said, "Damn hunters."
Kraglin nodded and tried to take this distraction as an opportunity to change the subject. If you wouldn't open up, maybe he could try and make you smile instead. "So... nice job on dyeing Pete blue last night. Real funny."
"I certainly thought so," you said.
He almost thought he saw you crack a smile. Wanting to bring about a full grin he decided to tell a story. "Yeah, it was just like this time Pete rigged a dye pack up in one of Yondu's drawers, I think he mentioned it last night. Anyway, so somehow Pete rigs it up, I think he got mad at Cap'n for making him scrub the grease traps or somethin', but anyway then Yondu goes to open his drawer one mornin,' yeah? And he's blasted in the face with this red dye. Ohhh boy! He was madder than a muzzled Flerken!!"
The mental image was enough to make your lips curl up involuntarily.
Kraglin noted this and continued, "What's worse is he had to meet with some lady client the next day about a job, and he couldn't get it off. He was this funny shade of purple for over a week!"
A short laugh suddenly breaks through your throat and you look at him. "Really?" you ask, mirth in your eyes. The mental image of the blue man looking quite cross and splattered purple while trying to commit space pirate business dealings was a humorous one.
"Yeah. He grounded Pete for so long after that." Kraglin replied, chuckling.
"I'll bet," you say as you stand up and brush yourself off, now finished with weeding and prepared to go inside. "Thanks. For helping in the garden, I mean." you say.
Kraglin also stands. "Not a problem, ma'am."
You wince and shake you head as you turn back to the house. You thought of telling him to knock it off with the 'ma'am' stuff, but you were concerned with what might replace it. So you left it alone for now.
***
You were on alert when you got ready for your shower that evening. You knew Peter had plenty of opportunity to have tampered with your bath products, but you played it cool. Acted unaware.
The plan? Beat him at his own game.
First you turned on the shower and let it run. You cupped your hands beneath the stream to make sure the water wasn't an odd color.
All clear.
You get into the shower, deciding to inspect your shampoo and conditioner bottles first. You felt it was unlikely he'd put it in those, as it would be unlikely to have a decent enough payoff for him, but you still checked just in case. Your shampoo bottle was see-through and the liquid inside clear, so it was obvious it had gone untampered. You went ahead and used it.
Time for conditioner. Unscrewing the top you look inside the conditioner. Completely white. Untampered. Good.
Finally you checked your body wash. It was a rose scented type and was already colored pink. If he was was going to strike anywhere, it would likely be there with the red dye. You squirted a little into a rag to test it on your hip, an inconspicuous area. You didn't even need to use it before you realized you were right. The body wash came out much darker than usual. It was like he hadn't even mixed it. Actually, that's likely exactly what he did. He probably wanted to make sure as much dye got on you as possible and so just squirted it right on top. Just out of curiosity, however, you still tested it.
Yep. It left a red steak right on your hip. You catch a glance at Peter's bottle on the shower shelf, and grin.
Silly Peter. He shouldn't have forgotten his bottle in the shower. Again.
You reach out of the shower for a new washcloth, and use some of his body wash instead. Of course, not before testing it on the first rag to make sure it wasn't left behind on purpose as a trap. It wasn't. The test proved it free of dye and safe to use.
For now.
Once you finished washing you then unscrewed the top off of Peter's bottle and carefully poured in as much of the dye from the top of your tampered bottle as you could without getting it on your hands. You had to sacrifice a little of the soap down the drain just to make sure it would come out clean the next time you used it.
Was he sure to notice? Probably, but you didn't care. You'd be just as happy with the message it would deliver if nothing else.
He was going to see that you were the Prank Master here.
***
Once finished with your shower you retreated to your bedroom. On the way you could hear Peter in his room asking Gamora if she had seen his comb, and you grinned. You sure knew where his comb was.
Mantis is gathering her own stuff together to take a shower when you enter the room. You glance at what she's carrying to make sure she has enough soap. God forbid she might run out and then use Peter's instead of yours. You actually would feel bad if the prank accidentally hit her instead of Peter. Satisfied that she does you shut your door behind her and wait, unable to keep a grin from splitting your face.
Perhaps half an hour later, a good bit after Mantis had returned from her shower, you can hear Peter shouting.
"Are you KIDDING me!?"
Mantis looks towards the sound in shock before turning to see you covering your giggles with your hand.
Now you can hear Peter cursing your name.
"What did you do?" Mantis asks, both intrigued and alarmed.
"He tried to get me back for turning him blue by putting red dye in my soap. I found out and turned it back on him," you answered, nearly stuttering over your giggles.
"How?"
"I just poured the tainted soap into his bottle. Now he'll have been dyed twice." You grinned, but it fell shortly when you heard the bathroom door slam open and heard his footsteps coming in the direction of your room. You jumped up and quickly flicked the lock just before he reached the door.
The knob jiggled and then he started to pound on the door, cursing your name and demanding you come out.
Feeling cheeky, you answered, "Nobody's home!"
From the other side Peter said loudly, "Come out here, you coward!"
"Do you need something?" you ask, your grin wide.
"You. Out here. Now."
"Whatever for?" You're have a real hard time biting back your laughter. Mantis is sitting on her bed, hugging her bear and openly giggling.
"You know exactly what for!"
You look to Mantis. "Should I?" you chuckle.
"YES! You should!" answered Peter from the other side of the door.
"Didn't ask you!" you retort. You look back to Mantis and she nods excitedly. She wanted to see what had happened to Peter.
"Alright," you answer, loud enough for Peter to hear as well. You unlock the door and slowly open it.
You tried to hold it in. Honestly, you did. But the sight of Peter standing there in his pajama bottoms, and now purple where he had previously been blue, and a pinkish-red just about everywhere else you could see, you lost it.
Your laughter, combined with seeing that you didn't have a spec of dye on you, made Peter cry out in frustration. "HOW?!"
"It-It's your fault," you laughed. "You left a trail!"
Peter narrowed his eyes. "I did not leave a trail!"
"You did! I-I saw you had taken the rest of the dye and I knew what you'd do with it. Dude, you- you really should have left the box behind. I might not have noticed then." It was all you could do to say the sentence coherently as you tried to hold back your giggles. "How did you not notice I turned it around and poured it back in your bottle? Don't you look??"
As Peter sputtered indignantly for a reply you noticed that you again had an audience. Yondu and Kraglin stood at the bottom of the stairs, grinning up at the scene and shaking their heads. Rocket and Drax were standing by their room, Drax chuckling with a giggling Groot on his shoulder and Rocket almost looking impressed. Almost. Gamora was standing across the landing, shaking her head, though it appeared more out of second-hand embarrassment for Peter rather than disdain for you.
"Don't I- You- I'm- UGH!" Peter sputtered in frustration. He had half a mind to tickle you until you peed your pants for this- Well, not literally, though he wouldn't be above threatening it. He may be an asshole, but he wasn't 100% a dick. Regardless, the other half of his brain was too busy trying to think of any suitable comeback... and failing. He was The Prank Master! How were you beating him at his game? He glared at you. He wanted to wipe that smirk off your face. "You think you're so funny, don't you?! Just wait. You better watch your back. I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."
"You're not going to do anything, Peter." It was Gamora who spoke now, her tone teetering somewhere between warning and exhaustion, with a hint of amusement buried somewhere in there. "She beat you at your own game. Go to bed."
You couldn't stop the grin that split your face if your life depended on it. You took a calculated step back, hand resting on your door. You put on your most innocent voice. "So..." you started. "Does this mean I'm The Prank Master, now?"
The look in Peter's eyes could have vaporized you. "That's it!" he cried, stepping towards you. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he got hold of you. Hold you in a headlock until you apologized? Wet Willie? Both? Neither? Didn't matter. All he knew was you were going to pay for this.
However, he'd never get the chance. You were too fast, slamming the door in his face and flicking the lock just before he could get near.
You and Mantis doubled over laughing and Peter sputtered some more empty threats before Gamora could be heard scolding him and telling him to go to bed.
It was even better the second time.
***
The next morning you were, dare you say, cheerful.
Peter, less so. He was still a bit cranky that not only had he been the victim of the dye prank twice, just one night after the first, but that it had happened because he tried to get you back and you turned the tables on him. Sure, he had cooled down a bit from last night, but he was still an uneven purple/pinkish-red mess and the others kept snickering at him. Even Gamora had been caught hiding a grin behind her hand a couple of times.
It wasn't fair. He was determined to get you back, but how would-
He spotted something on the kitchen table, interrupting his thoughts. Something shiny, and green, and was that...?
Oh you were going to get it.
***
You were minding your own business, walking over to one of the bookcases in the sitting room, when suddenly you were accosted.
Peter had pulled you into a headlock from behind.
"Hey! What the hell! Let me go!" you demanded.
"Tell me you're sorry and I'll think about it!"
You had a feeling what this was about, but you played dumb. "I'm not going to apologize for turning the tables back around on you! It was your own fault for trying."
"That's not what I mean and you know it!"
You started softly laughing despite the moderate chokehold. You couldn't help it. "Did you- Did you ever find your comb?"
Suddenly you feel something wet in your ear. You knew there was only one thing it could be. "Ew! No! Peter!" you squeal, trying to squirm away. "That's disgusting! Stop it!"
Peter was chuckling now, still giving you a wet willie. "Say you're sorry!"
You jerk against him. "Never!" You were laughing despite really only having one hand to fight him with. The limited range on your brace made it so you couldn't bend your elbow enough to grab his arm with that hand, and you were standing too close to the bookcase to throw him over you and get out of the headlock. Well, too close to do it without hurting him, or your books, that is. You were stuck, but you still weren't going to give in.
Turns out you wouldn't need to.
"Alright. Break it up," came Yondu's voice from somewhere off to the side. "What's going on here?"
Peter released you and you rubbed your ear against your shoulder to get the wet feeling out of it. "She put my stuff in Jello!" he complained.
Yondu gave you a weird, albeit amused look. "Don't ya think ya did enough to him already, missy?" He wasn't scolding you, but he actually was surprised you were still on the attack after having seemingly won the war last night.
Fighting a grin you reply, "In my defense, I'd already done that before the dye thing. I only found out he was planning that afterwards," Technically not the full truth- you actually found out during the setup of the jelly prank, not after, but it was close enough, "and what was I supposed to do, not turn the tables back on him when I found out?"
Peter punches you in the shoulder, but there was no anger behind it, just cheekiness. You stick your tongue out at like a child in retaliation.
Yondu grinned and shook his head. It'd been awhile since he'd seen his boy carefree and goofing off like this, even if he was bickering with you like the two of you were kids. Still, he should maybe try to persuade a stop to the prank war again before things escalated any more and you two killed each other. It'd be a shame to save him from Ego just to let him die in a prank war of all things, and bad form to let him kill their host. "Boy, I think ya might need to accept that she won this round." he said, a hint of teasing in his voice.
"I will do no such thing! She just got lucky." Peter replied.
You smirked. "Yeah. Sure. 'Lucky'," you taunt. "Just say it and I'll call us even."
"EVEN?!" Peter exclaimed. He gestured to the stained purple and pinkish red of the areas of skin you could see. "Look at me!"
Trying not to smile you slowly look down to the brace on your arm. Head cocked to the side your eyes look back to Peter. "You were saying?"
Peter bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. You could tell he wanted to retort with something, but he knew he had no leg to stand on. Eventually he settled for, "I'm still not saying it."
Yondu snorted a laugh. "Whatever it is, just be a man and say it, boy. Quit while yer ahead."
Peter looked at him indignantly. "I am not going to declare her The Prank Master."
Unable to suppress your grin any longer you nudge him in the shoulder and say in your sweetest voice, "It's ok, you don't have to say it," taking a few steps away you add, "We already know." You then jogged out of the way when he made a grab for you.
You made your way out the front door, but he didn't follow, instead just stood there pouting.
"Ya finally gonna give it up, boy? Take yer loss like a man?" Yondu chuckled, teasingly.
"Never." Peter responded, too busy plotting revenge to fully catch the "take it like a man" part as he walked out of the room.
Yondu chuckled and rolled his eyes as he went to take a seat on the sofa. It was nice to see that you had a goofy side, though he wondered if it was Peter rubbing off on you, or if you had just had it buried under layers of stubbornness and sass.
Either way, it seemed certain that the boy was gonna have to relinquish his self-proclaimed title of "The Prank Master."
***
Over the next couple days the pranks between you and Peter had slowed down. This was likely in part because of how you made Peter realize that he couldn't complain too much about getting even for the dye prank if he considered that you were still in a brace as a result from one of his previous pranks gone wrong, but also in part because the two of you had pulled so many pranks so far you were seemingly running out of ideas.
Peter moved the furniture in your sitting room 3 inches to the left, likely to get your back for putting his comb in jelly.
You retaliated by setting up some cling film up at head height in the kitchen doorway for him to walk into and then calling him into the kitchen.
He got back at you by swapping your salt and sugar out, thereby ruining what would have been a perfectly good cup of tea.
For this high crime, you decided to get him back by scrapping out a couple Oreos and filling them with toothpaste. He was most definitely not fond of that one. Called it a crime against nature, and he may have been right, but so was what he had done to your tea.
Other than that, nothing really escalated, well apart from the oreos and tea, that is. The two of you kept making little jabs at each other and annoying one another. Really bad puns, petty insults, that sort of thing.
You did assume, however, that Peter was just biding his time, trying to think of something big that he could spring on you that might make you give up the game and declare him The Prank Master, because gods knew he wasn't going to concede.
And you'd be right.
Peter spent a decent amount of time brainstorming ideas for a really good prank, or even just a decent way to annoy you, in between all the smaller ones, but he was coming up with nothing he deemed quite good enough.
He was about to consider throwing in the towel when you inadvertently provided him with the fodder he needed.
***
It was the fourth day since the first dye prank and most of the dye on Peter had worn off by now.
You were reading on the couch, little Groot was playing with the TV and flipping through random videos on the YouTube app with Drax, and Peter and Kraglin were in the middle of a card game at the table on the other side of the room.
In what you would chalk up to a cruel twist of fate, Groot managed to find his way into a video of ambulance calls.
Rudely and immediately torn from your book by the sound, your hand shoots out for the TV remote and you mute the TV, much to the dismay of little Groot, who had found the noise fun and had been cheering the siren on. As calmly as you can despite your rapid heartbeat, you ask Drax, who was confused by your behavior, to please tell Groot to find something else to watch.
Drax looks at you strangely, but translates for Groot anyway, which again, only sounded to you like he was repeating your words verbatim due to his translator. You still didn't know that the translators didn't actually translate into Groot, but rather Groot had just picked up and could understand a bit of Galactic Standard, even if he couldn't speak it.
Groots looks slightly disappointed for a second but agrees and switches videos and you unmute the TV.
You didn't bother checking what new video he had chosen. That had been a mistake.
After the ad finished playing you were jerked back into reality from your book by the sounds of now multiple ambulance calls going at once. You mute the TV once again and say, "I'm sorry. I should have been more clear. Anything else. Anything else except for videos of that sound."
Drax, rightfully confused, asks, "Why?"
"I do not like it." is all you offer, and you don't elaborate when asked.
Peter, of course, overhears all this, and thinks he's found his new way to annoy you. He of course had no way of knowing the reason you couldn't bare the sound wasn't due to annoyance. He had no way of knowing its effect on you.
***
He tested the waters the next day after lunch.
You were washing up the dishes with Gamora when the sound of an ambulance siren makes you freeze in the middle of drying a bowl.
Gamora turns her head towards the noise and wonders aloud what it was.
Without answering you take towards the direction of the sitting room to, gently, scold Groot for playing those videos again.
Of course, when you get there, you only see Peter, who pretended to be surprised to see you.
"Turn that off," you say sharply.
"What?" Peter asked innocently.
You didn't ask him again. You just grabbed the control and exited the video before throwing the control back down into his lap. "Don't play that again," you warn.
"Why? Does it annoy you?" Peter asked with a smirk. He didn't notice your hands shaking.
Your eyes hardened. "Just don't," you say, returning to the kitchen.
Peter grinned. He was going to have fun with this.
***
Peter would play that sound three more times that afternoon, each time eliciting a more irritated response from you until you finally ripped the plug to the TV out of the wall and turn to him to angrily yell, "Stop it!"
"What?" Peter asked, chuckling in surprise at your latest response. You must really hate that noise.
"You know exactly what. I'm seriously, genuinely asking you to knock it off," you reply.
Gamora, who could tell Peter was working your last nerve and who was also becoming irritated by the repeated playing of the sirens, nudged Peter and told him he had his fun.
Peter half smirked and seemed to relent, saying simply, "Okay."
You sigh. "Thank yo-"
"After you declare me The Prank Master."
Gamora rolled her eyes and propped her head up on the hand resting on the arm of the couch, not wanting to get involved, but inches from yelling at her boyfriend that she was ending the prank war herself.
You were seething. "You're a goddamn child!" you scold, leaving the sitting room and considering getting out some of the vodka you had in the freezer just to calm your nerves.
You had only just made it into the kitchen when the sound started up again.
You back against the wall and cover your face, inches from tears. Your breaths came in shallow gasps as flashes of bright lights and the sounds of tearing metal and screaming fill your senses. You tangle your hands in your hair.
"FUCKING STOP IT!" you scream.
Peter and the others in the sitting room, as well as those upstairs, all paused in shock at the sheer volume behind your scream.
They then heard the sound of the back door slamming forcefully.
Yondu, who had been at the table playing cards with Kraglin, had only been present for the second and last incidence of Peter annoying you with the sound, and it wasn't until now that he put the pieces together. That day when you acted strange and walked out on the show- this siren sound had been playing then too.
Shit.
He got up and scolded Peter, who in his shock still hadn't turned the video back off. "Turn that shit off now, boy! If I hear it again I'm gonna shove my arrow up your ass! You hear me?"
Peter, recognizing the tone in Yondu's voice as one that he had encountered many times as a child when he was in trouble, immediately switched the video off. He had to concede that perhaps he went a little too far this time, but of course he didn't actually understand just how true that sentiment was.
Yondu went to go see where you went, and he didn't need to look very far, which surprised him. He was for sure you would have taken off for the forest again, since it was kinda your thing.
Instead, you were sat with your back pressed against the stone of the house about a couple meters from the door, hand clamped over your mouth and eyes in that terrible 'wide yet unseeing' way. In the dim light provided by what shone out the kitchen windows from inside he thought he could almost see the remnants of fallen tears.
He tried to approach you slowly, but you caught him out the corner of your eye and jerked to a standing position.
"Hey, hey-" Yondu said, holding his hands up. "It's alright-" he started, but then found he didn't know what else to say. After a moment he settled on, "Ya wanna talk about what that was about?"
You don't meet his gaze. "Nothing. He just pisses me off. He's a damn child."
"While that may be true, yer still full of shit."
You glare at him.
He continues. "If this was just about Quill gettin' under yer skin ya wouldn't be shakin' like that, and I doubt you'd be crying neither."
"Am not," you mutter. You turn away, wipe your eyes, cross your arms self-consciously, and start walking away. "It's cold."
Yondu rolled his eyes. It was cool out, yes, but it wasn't that cold. "Ya wanna talk about why ya dislike the particular noise so much?" Yondu called after you. "Ya ain't got to, but I can tell somethin's eating ya. I might help to get it off your chest."
"It's nothing." you reply. "Just an annoying sound."
Yondu frowned. "Now listen here. I ain't gonna force ya to tell me, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let anyone just flat out lie to my face, missy."
You turn to him, indignant. "I'm not-"
"Hell if ya ain't. I've seen that look before, I know what it is. Ya can lie to yerself, but ya can't lie to me!"
You glare at him. "Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here acting like you know anything about me!"
"I'm the person telling ya that it ain't healthy to keep that shit bottled up inside ya. It'll eat ya alive."
You don't respond. Just roll your eyes and start walking away again.
Yondu threw up his hands. "To hell with you then!" He starts to walk back inside but stops at the door to speak again, this time his tone a little softer, "I have a feelin' no one's ever told ya, girl, but ya don't have to 'be strong' all the time. Sometimes it's ok to let people in. It don't make ya weak." With that he headed back in the house.
You lean your back against the cool stone and sigh in frustration. What did he know.
***
You head back inside a bit later, not feeling much better.
Peter catches you as you're about to head up the stairs. "Hey, I just wanted to say sorry for-"
"Don't." You cut him off, not stoping in your path. "I don't care. I'm going to bed."
Peter frowns, but lets you go. Maybe he could try again in the morning. He truly was sorry. It was just supposed to be a bit of fun.
***
You stared up at the ceiling from your bed for what felt like hours. You couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about it. You knew Peter had no way of knowing why you couldn't stand that sound, but you still couldn't help but be unhappy with him. He just wouldn't stop.
You can feel your jaw clenching with each flash of horrific memory.
You were annoyed at Yondu too. Acting like he knew anything about you or some shit. What did he know? Not you, that's what. You didn't need someone acting like they cared. You didn't need anyone, really. People come, people go. No one stays forever.
You feel your chest clench. Your throat tightens and you sit up. You didn't want to cry.
A walk. That's what you needed. A walk in the forest would surely help wash the memories away. You could walk until you were too tired to think about it, then sleep it off. It would be better in the morning. You'd be ok.
You quietly slip on some jeans and make your way downstairs to put on your boots and grab a jacket. Choosing your thin leather one because it had been chilly when you were out earlier, you open the back door and head out into the cool night air.
You'd find out soon enough that you should have stayed in bed.
#gotg#guardians of the galaxy#gotg fanfic#gotg fanfiction#marvel fanfic#x reader#yondu udonta#peter quill#starlord#kraglin obfonteri
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1923, Pt. II - The Week
PAIRING: Harry x Reader
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: 8.4k
REQUESTED: perhaps? idek anymore
hey yall, here’s PART 2 of the historical/groundskeeper!AU :) i really hope u guys like it, i spent the past two weeks trying to make it the best that i could. anywayyyy im sure everyone knows the drill by now: support content creators by reblogging their work and/or offering feedback! happy reading 💚💚💚
warning: parts of this fic will contain mature language and nsfw content. if it makes you uncomfortable, you absolutely do not have to read! take care of urselves <3
PART I: The Day
~*~
July 7th, 1923
It’s hot.
You set your glass of water back onto the little table to your left. Excess condensation coats your fingertips; you wipe them against your forehead, hoping that it will be enough to cool you down. No such luck—the droplets provide a momentarily chill before sinking into your skin, leaving you feeling just as scorched as before.
You recline against the cushy yellow lounger, closing your eyes and tilting your face up to the sky. The sun beats down against your cheeks. The thin, cottony material of your dress is pasted to your thighs; you flex your legs slightly, hoping that the fabric will unstick.
In the distance, Apollo and Artemis—no longer confined to their pens—roam around the small, girded pasture adjacent to the stables. The fountain in the middle of the back lawn is about one hundred feet away. Skinny streams of water shoot out from the stone hands of a carved angel, spilling picturesquely into the upwelling below.
You crack one eye open slowly, letting your focus drift over to where Harry is crouched on the cobbled staircase of the porch. Sweat glistens on the nape of his neck as he furiously scrubs the steps clean.
Your thoughts retreat to the night before, when he’d kissed the back of your hand whilst standing in that very same spot. As though triggered by the memory, your knuckles begin to tingle.
Harry sits back on his haunches and drags his forearm across his face, wiping away the excess perspiration on his skin. His white shirt is soaked through with moisture. When he lifts his attention from the ground, your gazes lock for a brief moment. Immediately, your open eye snaps shut.
And you can’t be entirely sure, but you think that he may have smiled.
You lay in silence for another five minutes or so, indulging in the occasional sip of water as the heat of the summer envelopes your body. You only sit up when someone clears their throat from behind you, pulling you from your tranquil daze.
“Good afternoon,” Martin says. He’s standing a bit too close for comfort, casting a looming shadow over your torso.
“Hello,” you reply. You try to mask the disappointment that threatens to seep into your tone. A small part of you—a tiny, microscopic part—had been hoping that he was someone else.
“Thought you could use something to drink,” he says, plopping onto the recliner to your right. Your attention falls lower—two glasses are nestled comfortably in his hands. The caramel-coloured liquid inside each cup glints alluringly, sloshing over a trio of ice cubes that have already begun to melt.
“Is that…scotch?” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly.
“Yes,” he says. He extends an arm, offering you one of the glasses. “Fancy a taste?”
“I’ve had it before,” you say smoothly, shaking your head. “Truthfully, it’s not my favourite. Besides—” You gesture to the little table on your left. There’s still a bit of water residing in your cup. “—I already have a drink.”
Martin’s face falls.
“Thank you, though,” you add, not wanting to sound rude. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
That seems to bolster him a bit, you think, because his shoulders straighten as he shoots you a satisfied smile.
You clear your throat, gazing pointedly up at the sky. “Where’s Andrew?”
“Hmm? Oh.” Martin taps one foot against the floor. He’s wearing a pair of shiny black loafers—they’re new, you guess, and extremely expensive. “He’s in the middle of a call. Private business pertaining to Markham Motors, I believe. It doesn’t concern me—not yet, anyway.”
“Not yet,” you echo.
He chuckles, nodding proudly. “Your brother is remarkably ambitious. Once our two companies merge, I reckon that we’ll be unstoppable.”
“How exciting,” you murmur, reaching over for your water. You raise the cup to your mouth, expelling a soft sigh. “You must be thrilled, I’d imagine.”
“All in a day’s work,” he grunts, setting one glass of scotch down onto the ground. He lifts the other to his lips, taking a delicate sip.
You sit there awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. Martin’s eyes roam the wide expanse of your backyard, jumping from the stables to the fountain and back again. He pauses, then, humming pensively when he spots Harry polishing the stairs less than fifteen feet away.
“It’s a bit…unconventional to be dining with the help, is it not?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow nonchalantly.
You stiffen and glance over your shoulder—Harry is on all fours, scowling as he scrubs a particularly stubborn stain from the bottom step. His chestnut hair tumbles onto his forehead, twisted into pretty ringlets. A spark of heat blazes up your spine.
You turn your attention back to Martin, only to find that he’s also watching the other man work. It’s different, however—his look is judgmental, austere. His thin upper lip curls in disdain and his eyebrows cinch together, radiating condescension.
“We are…” You choose your words carefully. “…a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose so,” he acquiesces, tilting his head to the side. “But does it not distress you, somewhat? Inviting them into your home, making yourself and your possessions vulnerable?”
Something gross festers in the pit of your stomach. You bite back the sound of disgust that threatens to spill from your mouth.
“No,” you state curtly. “Not at all.”
Silence falls over the two of you, thick and poignant and tremendously uncomfortable. After a long, tense moment, you sit up, dusting off the skirt of your dress and releasing a faint groan. “I think I’ll be heading in, now.”
“As will I,” Martin replies, jumping to pursue you.
You stand, clutching your glass of water in one hand. He quickly reaches out with extended fingers, trying to take it from you. Though chivalrous, the action is weak, and you both know it.
“Here, let me—”
“No, it’s quite alright—,” you start, but he cuts you off.
“I insist—”
“Mister Russell, really, it’s fine—”
The cup, slick with condensation, slips from your grasp and shatters loudly against the floor. You gasp when a jagged shard slices against your ankle. Pain flares up your shin; abruptly, you fall back onto the lounger. You angle your leg to the side, surveying the damage with wide eyes. The cut is about an inch long; blood drips from the injury, seeping down toward the sole of your bare foot. Bile gathers on your tongue.
“Good God!” Martin exclaims unhelpfully. “You’re bleeding!”
“I can see that,” you snap, bending down and pressing your fingertips against the laceration.
Heavy footsteps approach. When you cast a glance over your shoulder, you find Harry stalking toward you, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment.
“What happened?” he asks, but when you hold up one hand, he freezes in his tracks.
“Be careful!” you warn, your voice strained. “There’s glass everywhere.”
“What happened?” he repeats. His gaze lands on Martin, and his nostrils flare unnervingly. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” the other man protests, retreating a few steps away. “It just fell!”
“Go back inside,” Harry commands. “Check all the lavatories—there may be spare bandages in one of the cupboards.”
Martin frowns—you get the feeling that he’s not exactly used to being ordered around. “Now, you listen here—”
“Mister Russell!” you interrupt shrilly, fixing him with a stern glare. “Do as he says. Please.”
Martin closes his mouth and purses his lips, nodding tersely. He nearly trips over himself as he stumbles back into the house.
“He’s useless,” you mutter, bloody fingers slipping against your skin.
Harry doesn’t reply; instead, he situates himself on the opposite edge of the recliner, beckoning you closer with a quick flick of his hand.
“Face this way,” he instructs. “There’s no glass on this side.”
You obey him wordlessly. He gets you settled back into the chair, guiding your right leg over his thigh so that your foot lays comfortably in his lap. With no hesitation whatsoever, he grasps the white fabric covering the jut of his shoulder and gives a mighty tug. The sleeve rips cleanly at the seam. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head.
“We’ll use this,” Harry says, pulling the material down to his wrist. “Just until he returns with proper bindings.”
“Alright,” you whisper. It takes every ounce of willpower in your body to avoid staring at his naked arm—golden, sweat-slicked skin stretched over smooth, corded muscle. A frighteningly large part of you wants to lean forward and sink your teeth into his bicep. You swiftly curb the urge, swallowing heavily and trying to focus your attention on something—anything—else.
“How did this happen?” Harry asks.
He balls the fabric up and dabs cautiously at the blood dripping from your wound.
“He was—well, I don’t even know, really,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “He was trying to be gallant, I suppose.”
“‘Gallant’?” he parrots, gazing down at your leg. “He fancies you, then?”
“Yes.” You pause, rethinking your answer. “No.” You sigh. “Perhaps; I’m not sure.”
He smirks. Despite the pain pulsating up your leg, you wiggle your toes and nudge him with your knee.
“What’s so amusing?” you ask, puzzled.
He simply chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s just that…you’re a bit oblivious, that’s all.”
And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, you balk and say, “I beg your pardon?”
Harry laughs. Gingerly, he wraps his torn sleeve around your ankle, applying a gentle pressure to your skin. You wince, curling your fingers into fists. His hands—though rough and calloused—are surprisingly tender with their movements. He’s slow and practiced, treating you as though you’re made of porcelain. Your heartbeat quickens; you hope that he can’t hear the way it thunders beneath your ribs.
“You’re rather clueless when it comes to gauging a man’s affections for you,” he explains. He makes it sound as though it’s a phenomenon of which you should already be aware.
You narrow your eyes and purse your lips.
“Tread carefully,” you tell him, though you can’t hide the sardonic undertone in your voice. “You’re wading through dangerous waters, here.”
“What I mean to say is—” Harry clears his throat, shrugging coolly. “—since yesterday’s arrival, that fool’s chattering hasn’t ceased. Building oneself up with words…that’s the sign of a boy aiming to impress a girl.”
“You don’t sound too keen on that method,” you note.
He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Excellent observation. I am not.”
“And why is that?” you ask, cocking one eyebrow challengingly. “How exactly would you attempt to make your affections known?”
Harry places one of his palms on the skin just below your knee. You jump at the contact, shocked by his brazen move. Having his hands on your ankle is one thing—but your knee? It’s risky, bold, nearly scandalous…and with the way he’s looking at you, it’s clear that he knows it, too.
“Building oneself up with words is a boy’s game,” he tells you. “But building oneself up with actions…that’s the sign of a man aiming to impress a woman. It may be a bit unconventional, but—” He pins you with a deliberate stare. “I work for a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”
You say nothing. Harry’s green eyes pierce your face, peeling you open layer by layer. You’ve stopped breathing, your chest completely still. Goosebumps erupt across your arms. Instinctively, your concentration falls to his lips: twin pink petals, sinful and alluring and so incredibly—
“I’ve got the bandages!”
And just like that, the spell is broken. You drag your gaze away from the man in front of you, turning to the side and watching as Martin jogs back over with a thick spool of gauze clutched tightly to his chest.
“Here,” he pants. He passes the roll to Harry, who clears his throat loudly and begins to unwind the bindings with swift, proficient fingers.
Martin then fixes his attention on you, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
“Are you alright?” he asks, shooting you an expectant look.
“Fine,” you croak out, though the blood roaring in your ears sincerely begs to differ.
You blink yourself out of your stupor, running your tongue over the roof of your mouth and exhaling shakily. Harry has turned back to your ankle, replacing the makeshift bandages with proper ones. You glance up at Martin and nod your head, praying that he can’t see the flustered agitation brewing in your eyes.
“Yes, Mister Russell, I’m fine. Thank you.”
July 9th, 1923
The library is your favourite room in the house.
It’s quiet, peaceful, and is accompanied only by the rarest of disturbances. Lydia’s never really enjoyed reading—she can’t sit still long enough to do so. Andrew hasn’t stepped past the threshold in years—he’s been too busy running Markham Motors. So, that just leaves you, along with the freedom to choose from the hundreds of books lining the shelves. You’ve dabbled in fiction and non-fiction alike, soaking up the words from the page just as the ground soaks up rain from a storm.
The library has become your safe haven. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
You trod over to your favourite spot to read: a small alcove in the wall, decked out with fluffy cushions and tucked right up against a wide window. It gives you a perfect view of the driveway and the front lawn down below. You’ve spent hours in this little nook, absorbed in novels and poems and biographies. You’ve passed entire nights curled up next to the windowpane, having dozed off in the middle of a story. It’s become a tradition of sorts, despite the dull ache in your neck that always ensues when you stir the next morning.
The book in your hands is heavy as you sink into the mess of pillows. Bright, natural light streams in from the window to your left. You release a soft sigh as your fingers flip to where you’d last left off during your previous visit.
She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me—
You scoff and roll your eyes. You’ve read this story a dozen times; you already know how it ends.
For the next twenty minutes, nothing matters save for the adventures of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. You allow yourself to get lost in the world of Pride and Prejudice, eyes hungrily raking over every printed detail. You’re only pulled out of your reverie when a shrill, jubilant cry pierces through the silence.
Instinctively, your head snaps toward the direction of the noise. Through the spotless windowpane, you spy Harry and Lydia standing on the lawn. Harry is holding a brown hose, angling it downward and watering the grass beneath his feet. Your sister is next to him, babbling and gesturing animatedly with her hands. You smile at the sight.
You slip your thumb between the pages of the book to mark your place. The novel is forgotten as you study the scene playing out below.
Harry is wearing an ashen blue button-up and a pair of black trousers. A thin white undershirt peeks out from beneath his collar. He smirks at something that Lydia says, ducking his head and trying to conceal the fond expression on his face. She throws her hands up in the air and twirls around—when she staggers slightly, Harry holds out his arm. Her fingers dig into his elbow to regain balance, and the two of them dissolve into giggles. Warmth unfurls in your chest.
Harry tilts his head back, surveying the cloudless sky with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. His attention turns to the house, then, sweeping absentmindedly over the fair bricks and stone accents.
Suddenly, his gaze darts forward. You freeze when his green irises lock squarely on you.
Hot humiliation creeps up your neck, because of course. Staring at him and remaining undetected is a luxury that few can afford.
Your lips part with a soft gasp, and your shoulders stiffen. The corners of Harry’s mouth curl up slightly—so faint, you think it may just be a figment of your imagination. The gilded copy of Pride and Prejudice rests in your lap, abandoned. It mocks you and your preoccupation—your fascination—with the man on the ground.
Harry shoots you a small, mysterious smile, and lifts his chin. You sit up straight, processing his request.
“I shouldn’t—,” you start to say before remembering that he can’t actually hear you. You clench your jaw and shake your head, hoping that he’ll be able to register the movement through the glass.
But his teasing expression only deepens as he beckons you again. A ragged exhale falls from your lips, and a tepid swell of adrenaline floods your veins. You snap your book shut, tucking it against your chest and pushing yourself away from the window. You swear that your heart skips a beat when your feet hit the floor.
Don’t rush, don’t rush, don’t rush.
It’s hard to maintain a measured pace, especially when such a big part of you just wants to take off and sprint down the spiral staircase. You force yourself to dawdle, to smooth your fingers over the bannister and descend slowly. Your palms are clammy as you make your way across the foyer, eyes glued to the large double doors on the opposite wall.
And then you’re outside, the sun beating down against your face and the breeze blowing gently through your hair. You saunter toward the edge of the large portico, leaning against the stone railing with your novel still clutched tightly to your sternum.
“Dee!”
Lydia whips around, taken aback by the call of her name. Upon recognising you, her features morph into a mask of quizzical mockery.
“Where have you been?” she asks, jogging over.
“I was reading,” you say, shrugging indifferently. After a short moment, you add, “Beth’s looking for you.”
“Me? What for?”
In the periphery of your vision, you spy Harry approaching. Water leaks from the nozzle of the hose; he gathers a few droplets onto his knuckles before smearing them across his sweaty forehead. You bite your tongue to suppress a snort.
“Dinner, I believe,” you lie, turning back to your sister. “It’s your turn to choose, is it not?”
Lydia’s eyes light up. “You’re right! It’s Monday, isn’t it?”
Her feet smack loudly against the cobbled steps as she races toward the door. Before disappearing inside, however, she skids to a stop, spinning around and raising one arm high above her head. “Goodbye, Harry!”
Harry smiles, lifting two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “Goodbye, little bug.”
A moment later, she’s gone.
And a moment after that, you find yourself sincerely regretting your decision to send her away. Harry observes you with raised brows and a knowing smirk on his face. You gnaw anxiously on your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes. A long beat of silence ensues.
“Hello,” he finally says.
You exhale quietly, relieved. “Hello.”
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“It is,” you agree.
You lean against the stone bannister, peering down at him. The breeze picks up, gusting through your thin skirt and blouse. A small part of you notes the theatrical romanticism of it all: his being on the ground, the butterflies flapping around in your stomach—
“Do you always spend the majority of a nice day locked away in the library?” Harry asks. His pretty irises twinkle alluringly when your gazes meet.
“I—no,” you stammer. “I was just…reading.”
“As one does in a room full of books, I’d expect.”
Embarrassment blooms in your chest.
“Yes,” you say softly. “Precisely.”
He grins.
“How is your ankle?” he asks, motioning toward the bottom of your leg.
“Oh.” You look down, flexing your foot. “It’s healing. I should be fully rehabilitated in a few days.”
Harry chuckles, nodding. You purse your lips and try for a smile, but you’re afraid that it resembles more of a grimace.
“What’ve you got, there?” He lifts his chin, gesturing to the novel tucked between your forearm and your chest. You’re grasping it so tightly that you’re surprised the skin of your knuckles hasn’t split.
You clear your throat, revealing the embroidered inscription on the front cover. “Er—Pride and Prejudice. It’s my favourite.”
Harry hums. “Mine, too.”
And though it is extremely impolite, you can’t stop the look of shock that makes its way onto your face.
“You’ve read it?”
He chuckles sheepishly, dropping his chin. “You have bewitched me, body and soul,” he suddenly says, lifting his eyes from the ground and fixing his unwavering gaze on you, “and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you—”
“—from this day on,” you finish, breathless.
He smiles. Zaps of electricity surge down your spine. The two of you are silent, tripping over unspoken murmurs of indulgence. You scrape your tongue over your teeth, clueless.
Harry is the first one to break.
“I should get back to work,” he announces gently. He gestures to the hose hanging limply from his hand and gives a perfunctory shrug.
“Of course.” You nod, inhaling deeply. “I should get back to…”
He smirks when you trail off. “Reading?” he supplies.
“Yes,” you blurt. “Yes. Exactly.” You hesitate, drumming your fingers against the auburn cover of your book. “Good day, Harry.”
“Good day, miss!” he calls as you begin to walk away. You pause and cast a glance over your shoulder, an admonishment dancing on the tip of your tongue.
For the hundredth time, Harry, you mustn’t feel obligated to address me in such a formal—
But then you register the mischief on his face, and the realisation sinks in.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” you ask.
Crinkles dig into the corners of his eyes.
“I’m afraid that I don’t understand,” he says, tilting his head to the side in faux-confusion. You wipe a clammy palm against the waistband of your skirt and bite back a small smile. Harry’s playful expression deepens, poking a cavernous dimple into his left cheek.
“Have a little compassion on my nerves,” you say, pulling another quote from the novel clasped against your body. “You tear them to pieces.”
His lips twitch, impressed and amused.
“What a shame,” he counters, snickering quietly, “for I dearly love to laugh.”
July 13th, 1923
The past hour of your life has been spent rolling around in bed and resenting your glaring inability to fall asleep. You’re not really sure why you’re still awake after midnight, but you’ve long since given up on trying to solve the mystery that is your body’s biological clock. Smooth satin sheets tickle your bare legs. You groan into your pillow and push yourself up from the mattress, tossing your feet over the edge and shivering softly when they land on the cold hardwood floor.
You wrap yourself up in a thin silk robe; the hem falls only an inch or two above your knees. The rest of the house is silent as you quietly exit your room and pad across the hall. You tiptoe down the spiral staircase; a brief moment later (during which you slip on some comfortable footwear), you’re stepping out into the backyard, greeted by gentle zephyrs and temperate summer air.
As you hop down the porch steps and begin the familiar trek toward the stables, you note the blanket of stars dotting the clear night sky. They twinkle happily, winking at you as though they know something that you don’t.
You shake your head at the thought. They’re stars. Big, flaming balls of gas floating in space, stationed millions of miles away. They know nothing.
Your ears perk up as you approach your destination, struck by the low stream of words carried by the breeze.
“…lilies, and dahlias, too. They tend to bloom during the summer…”
You freeze, feet stalling in the dirt. Leaning in closer, you catch deep murmurs of a faceless voice. The stranger continues to list off different types of flowers; when a soft chuckle laces through the air, your eyes widen in disbelief.
Is that…?
Sure enough, when you creep into the stables, you find Harry standing in front of Artemis’ pen, running his fingers through her shiny mane. His back is to you, shoulder blades flexing beneath the dark button-up adorning his torso. The sleeves reach his biceps, stretching slightly whenever he lifts his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he’s saying as you inch closer, hopelessly engrossed in the pseudo-conversation. “Sugar cubes are a bit of a rarity in my home. I haven’t any others.”
A twig snaps beneath your foot. You wince.
Harry whips around, startled. Upon recognising you, he blows out a heavy breath. Tension leaks from his body, and twin pink spots form on his cheeks. You stare at the blush colouring his face, mesmerized—you’ve never seen him look so dumbfounded.
“Er—,” you say. You raise your hand in an awkward, half-hearted wave. “Hello.”
“Hello,” he replies.
A beat of silence ensues.
“What are you…?” you trail off, trying to keep your voice level. “Were you just—?”
“Yes,” he says quickly. A sheepish chuckle tumbles off his tongue. “I....I understand it, now. Talking to one’s horse is rather soothing.”
“She’s not yours, though.” Your response is blunt, unfeeling.
Harry’s nostrils flare, and his feet scuff against the ground. Now that he’s facing you, you’re able to get a better look at him. A white undershirt peeks out from beneath his button-up, leaving his collarbones exposed. A gold chain glints around his neck, illuminated under the dim light. He’s wearing brown trousers and those same black boots, but you think that he may have polished them, finally, because they’re considerably tidier than before.
“She’s not,” Harry agrees, swallowing nervously. “My sincerest apologies. I can see that I’ve crossed a line—”
You can’t stifle the giggle that bubbles up in your throat. Harry hesitates, fixing you with a bewildered expression. At last, you shoot him a small smile, shaking your head and waving away his regrets.
“I’m only teasing,” you say, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Breathe, Harry.”
He exhales raggedly, ruffling the curls at the back of his head. “Jesus. You frightened me.”
“Good. Perhaps you’ve finally learned your lesson, then.”
“My lesson?” he echoes, cocking his head to the side. “And what exactly would that be?”
“To avoid sneaking up on others at night,” you say. “Especially if they’re in the midst of conversing with their horse. It’s a very private exchange, you know—endless confessions have been made under this roof.”
Harry laughs.
“I think I’ve supplied my fair share of confessions, tonight,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly. “I can leave you to do the same.”
“No,” you blurt out. “Wait.”
He pauses, shocked by your immediate refutation. You purse your lips as hot shame unfurls in your chest.
“I just meant,” you start, hastening to make amends, “you can stay, if you’d like. Besides—” You shrug. “It’s far more pleasant talking to someone who can actually talk back.”
~*~
“Harry. No.”
“Yes.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. And I’ll be right next to you. I won’t leave your side.”
You gnaw apprehensively on your bottom lip as he frees Artemis from her pen. She trots out and whinnies softly, tossing her head to the side. He shushes her, dragging a comforting palm over her back. You step closer, mirroring his movements and glaring at him with terse, squinted eyes.
“We’ll go slowly,” he says, fixing you with an earnest look. “A few steps at a time. That doesn’t sound too daunting, does it?”
After a long, overwrought moment, you surrender.
“Very well,” you say. You point at him accusatorily, extending your arm over Artemis’ body. “But as soon as I want to stop, we stop. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Harry leans forward, bumping the pad of your finger with the tip of his nose. The contact makes you gasp. He pauses as well, having realised the implications of the thoughtless action. You swallow heavily; he clears his throat and averts his gaze.
“I’ll get the saddle,” he says.
His heel scrapes loudly against the dry dirt when he turns; you watch as he marches toward the pair of brown saddles hanging on the wooden wall. With a mighty groan, he heaves one from its rusted, metal hook, gathering the leather in his arms before making his way back over to you.
“Thank you,” you murmur shyly.
“You’re very welcome.”
You migrate to the side, petting Artemis’ mane as Harry slips the saddle onto her back. She huffs; you coo at her, holding her face in your hands to keep her calm. Harry spends the next several seconds strapping everything in place. After he’s finished, he gives a gentle tug, ensuring that you won’t slide and fall to the ground once you’re ready to mount.
“All set,” he says, squaring his shoulders.
You glance over at him with wide, frightened eyes. When he meets your gaze, his stoic expression melts into a pool of concern.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says, stepping closer to you.
“I—” Your throat burns. “I haven’t ridden in three years, Harry.”
“I know,” he says solemnly. He offers you his left hand. “Do you trust me?”
Your response is immediate. “I do.”
“Good.” The corners of his lips curl upward. His tone is unreservedly honest when he speaks again. “I won’t let anything happen to you, miss; I swear it.”
You slide your palm against his. A sharp tingle races up your arm, sending your heartbeat into a frenzy. You fight to keep your breathing even as Harry pulls you closer, positioning you in front of him and placing his fingers on your waist.
“Ready?” he murmurs. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear.
You nod.
He grunts as he lifts you. You kick out one leg, slinging it over Artemis’ back and pulling yourself up. Once you’ve settled into a comfortable position, you peer down at him, shoulders taut and ankles locked.
“Breathe,” Harry reminds you. He leads by example, inhaling deeply; you imitate him, trying to ignore the thin sheen of sweat gathered at the nape of your neck.
“What do I do, now?” you ask after a thin stretch of silence.
He chuckles good-naturedly, cocking one eyebrow. “You’ve forgotten?”
“No,” you say indignantly, frowning. “I just—”
You break off when he takes your hands and guides them forward. Your fingers wrap around the reins dangling from Artemis’ neck. You fist the leather firmly, swallowing down the hard lump in your throat. Harry’s nostrils flare as he retracts his arms. You’re fascinated by the way his tongue darts out of his mouth, swiping over his sunburnt lips.
“A few steps at a time,” he says, repeating his former words.
You nod, blowing out a shaky exhale. Gently, you dig your heels into Artemis’ belly and click your teeth. She snorts and takes a step forward; the air is swiftly knocked from your lungs.
“I’m right here,” Harry pipes up. He lays one palm against the back of the saddle, keeping pace. “I won’t let you fall.”
Gradually, you make it out of the stables. The distance can’t be more than fifteen or twenty feet, but it’s a start. You tug softly on the reins, and Artemis stops abruptly. The sudden pause has you lurching forward in your seat. You squeak; quicker than a lightning strike, Harry is there. His hand settles on the small of your back, keeping you steady.
You look down at him, and your gazes lock. Jade eyes gleam beneath the lustrous night sky. His attention falls lower, and only then do you realise that the hem of your robe has ridden up your leg. Most of your thigh is exposed—smooth skin on total display, mere inches from his face. You release an inaudible gasp, shifting your hips to the side so that the silk slips back down.
A muscle in Harry’s jaw twitches enticingly. He removes his touch from your back and turns away.
“Beautiful evening,” he says stiffly, peering up at the stars. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” you whisper. You clear your throat. “I’d like to dismount, now. Would you mind?”
He shakes his head and hums. “Not at all. Hold onto me.”
You place your hands on his shoulders, and he curls his fingertips into your waist. Wordlessly, he lifts you from Artemis’ back. You yelp when your ankle snags on one of the saddle’s leather straps. He stumbles backward, wrapping his arms tightly around your midsection and grunting in surprise. When you eventually regain your footing, your eyes widen at the compromising nature of your position.
Harry is clutching you against his torso, his face buried in your neck. Warm puffs of air leave his lips and coat the column of your throat; the sensation sends shivers down your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, chest heaving with difficult, onerous breaths.
It’s a stance that should only be shared between lovers, you think. Between a husband and his wife.
Harry is not your husband.
And you are not his wife.
The two of you break apart almost immediately, choking on hasty, half-formed sentences.
“My apologies, miss—”
“No, you needn’t—I should have been more cautious—”
“It’s late; you must be spent—”
“I’m not ready to leave.”
Harry freezes, his jaw agape. Several seconds elapse before he can find it in himself to muster a reply.
“I beg your pardon?” He’s breathless, swept away by your confession.
You shift awkwardly.
“I’m not ready to leave,” you repeat. You clasp your hands behind your back and fix him with an even stare. You hope that he can’t hear the slight quiver at the base of your declaration. “I—I wish to spend more time with you.”
He blinks. “With me?”
You nod. “With you.”
“What…?” He hesitates. “What would you like to do?”
You shrug. “Anything.”
Harry puckers his lips, lost in thought. After a prolonged moment of deliberation, his features light up. “I know a place.”
“‘A place’?” you parrot, brows knitting together.
“A place,” he confirms. “You trust me, do you not?”
“You already know the answer to that question,” you say, scoffing quietly. “I believe I’ve made myself abundantly clear.”
He chuckles. You tug on the sleeves of your robe and grate your slippers into the dirt. Harry watches you with careful eyes.
“Do it now, then,” he says, nodding encouragingly. He holds out his hand once more, beckoning you closer. “Trust me, now.”
You chew on your bottom lip, gracing him with a curt bob of your head. Artemis huffs as you wrap her reins around your wrist and slide your fingers against Harry’s palm. He pats your knuckles gently, guiding them to the crook of his elbow.
“Shall we?” he asks. It’s impossible to read the emotion in his voice.
Your response of endorsement is meek. Gone is the confident woman from a minute ago: the one who stated what she wanted without a second thought. She slips through your grasp easily, disintegrating into a pile of dust and leaving nothing behind.
“We shall,” you choke out.
Harry’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile, and Artemis’ hooves clunk against the ground as he leads you off into the night.
~*~
“This is so…”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“‘Nice’?” You spin on your heel slowly, taking in your surroundings. “It’s incredible.”
The water trickling through the creek is crystal clear. A few shiny rocks peek out from the shallow stream, gleaming in the moonlight. You peer up at the stars—hundreds of diamonds, perfectly visible thanks to the large gap of the clearing. Crickets chirp along the edges of the bushes, and yellow-green fireflies ride the breeze.
“How did you find this place?” you breathe.
“It may sound foolish—,” Harry begins. He holds one hand out; you transfer Artemis’ reins into his palm. “—but I can’t remember.”
“Really?” you ask, stunned. You trail after him as he leads your horse to a nearby tree. He loops her leather harnesses around a thick branch, tying a proficient knot and giving it a few experimental tugs. Your gaze remains glued to his hands: the way his fingers work deftly, the way his knuckles flex with each pull—
“Really,” he says. A soft sigh tumbles from his mouth as he steps back. “Come with me.”
You follow him to the middle of the clearing, trying to anticipate his next move. What you don’t expect, however, is for him to drop to his knees. He falls backward, spine meeting the grass with a faint thump. You gasp, staring down at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
“Don’t be afraid,” Harry hums, shooting you a playful smirk. He crosses his arms behind his head—you try to avoid staring at the prominent bulge of his biceps. “The weeds won’t bite.”
“O—Oh,” you stammer, nodding quickly. “Alright, then.”
Daintily, you lower yourself to the ground. He watches you with an amused expression on his face.
“What?” you say, pouting.
“Nothing.” He snickers quietly. You tuck your ankles beneath your thighs as he turns to the side, propping his head up with one hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, miss, but…I presume that you don’t often make it a point to lay in the grass.”
“That would be an accurate presumption,” you say, laughing softly. Harry smiles.
“You should spend more time outside,” he says absentmindedly. “You’re always cooped up in the house.”
You cock one eyebrow teasingly. “Do you wish to see more of me, Harry?”
“Absolutely not,” he replies, humour evident in his tone. “I am simply trying to instill some sense of adventure into your life.”
The corners of your lips kink upward. In a matter of seconds, however, your delight melts away, replaced by a somberness that you can’t seem to shake.
“I was far more adventurous before the accident,” you murmur, dropping your gaze. You reach out, fiddling with a few blades of grass in an attempt to avoid Harry’s doleful eyes. “Now, I…I’m afraid of everything, it seems.”
Silence hangs in the air between you, filled only by the steady symphony of chirping crickets.
“If I may ask—,” Harry starts, shifting closer. “—what happened?”
You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Artemis shoved me off.”
“She did?”
“It wasn’t her fault!” you say quickly, holding up one hand. “She got spooked, I suppose. And I wasn’t expecting it, so…I fell.”
“What frightened her?” he asks, anxious creases digging into his forehead.
You shrug. “I don’t know. But since then, I’ve been uneasy about riding. If I’m oblivious to what alarmed her the first time, who’s to say that it won’t happen again?”
He nods. “I understand.”
You sigh, plucking a piece of grass from the dirt and twirling it between your fingers. “I wish I could be more like Drew,” you hum distantly. “Someone who throws themselves into their trauma instead of shying away from it.”
Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”
You frown. “He—he never told you?”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t a clue. What is it exactly that you’re referring—?”
“Our parents,” you say softly.
Harry’s mouth clamps shut. He inhales deeply, gracing you with a curt nod. You take his silence as an invitation to elaborate.
“They perished in a car accident,” you murmur, looking away. “My father was head of Markham Motors, at the time. He had overlooked a flaw in the latest model, and when they finally took the vehicle out for a drive, it—”
You break off, unable to continue.
Harry reaches forward, covering one of your hands with his. A puff of stale air catches in your throat. You glance down at him timidly, hoping that he can’t identify the flustered distress on your face.
“I’m so sorry,” he tells you, squeezing your fingers tenderly. “That must’ve been awful.”
You exhale shakily. “It was.”
For the next few minutes, the two of you say nothing else. Instead, you melt into your surroundings—the grass brushing your legs, the slow trickle of water in the creek, the dim buzz of fireflies drifting in the wind. At the edge of the clearing, Artemis snorts, lowers her head, and begins to graze.
At last, you decide to break through the stillness.
“Enough about my family,” you say. You recoil, subtly pulling your hand away. Harry is far too distracting. You’re afraid that if he touches you one more time, tonight, your poor heart will give out. “What about you?”
“What about me?” he replies. He settles back into his previous position: spine pressed flush against the ground, arms tucked coolly beneath his head.
“How are you?” you say. “How is your sister, in Paris?”
He peers up at you with raised eyebrows, impressed. “You remembered?”
“Is there a particular reason as to why I shouldn’t?”
Harry chuckles. “No, I suppose not.”
“Well, go on, then.” You rest your chin on your palm. “What is she like?”
“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
You scowl. “Harry.”
“Right, right.” He sighs, smiling fondly up at the sky. “She’s…she’s lovely, really. She just got engaged, as a matter of fact. I haven’t met her fiancé, but he’s stellar, based on how she describes him in her letters.”
“That’s wonderful,” you say. Your gaze drifts longingly over the bridge of his nose. “Send her my blessings, will you?”
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, mouth twisting in a roguish smirk. “I reckon she’d find that a bit odd—the two of you have never met.”
“Oh.” You purse your lips, bashful. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Harry laughs; you’re captivated by the dimples embossed into his cheeks.
“I’m only joking,” he tells you, waving away your concerns. “She’ll appreciate that very much. I’m sure of it.”
You don’t reply. Silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, until his next words slice through the tension like a knife.
“She and I used to do this almost every night,” he murmurs.
“Do what?”
“Come outside,” he says, shrugging. “Lay on the ground. Stare up at the stars.” His irises glaze over with a forlorn look. “We always raced to see who could find the greatest number of constellations.”
“Really?” You don’t know why you’re so taken aback by his confession.
He nods. “Really.”
“Have you found any, tonight?”
He smiles. “Why don’t you come down here and see for yourself?”
The soil is surprisingly comfortable. You join him, resting your back against the grass and gazing up at the night sky. It’s an endless tapestry of diamonds—sparkling, infinite, beautiful. Your chest swells with a deep, relaxed breath as it all sinks in.
“Anything?” Harry asks expectantly.
You squint. After a long moment, a dejected sigh falls from your lips. “No. I’m not very good at this.”
He laughs. You watch, enthralled, as he lifts one hand and points to your left, singling out a curved cluster of stars.
“See these ones, over here? Shaped a bit like a hook? That’s Scorpius.”
“‘Scorpius’?”
“It means ‘scorpion’ in Latin,” Harry explains. “Scorpius was sent by the gods to kill Orion. He was then placed in the sky to advise mortals against the perils of vanity and pride.”
Vanity and pride.
Vanity and pride.
You bite your lip and turn to the side, tucking a palm under your cheek. The action draws Harry’s attention; he does a double take, stunned by the sudden, close proximity of your bodies. His mouth quirks up into a coy smile as he mimics your position, brows furrowed in diluted mystification.
“What is it?” he asks.
You shift, swallowing heavily.
“I’m afraid that I’ve been unfair to you,” you say softly, gazing straight into his eyes. “I—I’ve misjudged you terribly, and for that, I must apologise. I was a fool.”
“You needn’t—,” he starts, but you press on.
“You are kind,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “You are intelligent, and clever, and you have more class in a single finger than most men have in their entire bodies.”
“Miss—”
“I was wrong about you, and I regret allowing my biases to blind me in such an atrocious manner. Can you ever forgive—oomph!”
Harry’s kiss is passionate, bruising. You stiffen, muscles locking in astonishment. One of his hands rests on the ground, providing balance; the other is on your arm, calloused thumb stroking your skin through the thin silk of your robe. You’re frozen, unable to react, because his lips are on yours, and he’s touching your body, and you’re nearly certain that you’ve died and entered the afterlife.
When Harry pulls away after a few short seconds, he’s stupidly sheepish. His eyelashes flutter open, and his stare immediately floods with remorse.
“I—forgive me,” he stammers, tripping over the words. “That was deplorable. I should have asked—”
Roughly, you grab his face between your palms. His cheeks are soft and smooth, jawline dotted with the faintest hint of stubble. The two of you exchange a look—electric, charged, thrilling. A single, critical moment ensues, during which a distinct quote emerges from the deep recesses of your mind.
A girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of.
The words echo in your head as you abandon all semblance of common sense, yanking Harry in by the collar of his shirt and kissing him again.
July 14th, 1923
“Quickly! We haven’t got all day!”
“Patience!” you call from the top of the stairs. You guide one last strand of hair into place before hurrying down the flight.
Lydia is waiting for you on the main floor. You set your hands on your hips and fix her with a stern glare, huffing at her eagerness. She sticks her tongue out at you. When you open your mouth to admonish her, she whips around and scurries through the large double doors, disappearing into the backyard.
Upon stepping outside, you find Martin and Andrew already sat on the patio. Lydia settles into one of the chairs around the table, smiling brightly and beckoning you over.
“There you are,” Drew says as you approach. “Beth should be out with dinner any minute now.”
“Do you know what she’s prepared?” you ask, tucking yourself into your seat.
Andrew shrugs and emits a noncommittal sound, clueless.
“Very well,” you sigh, casting a shallow glance across the table. “Good evening, Mister Russell,” you say, tipping your chin in Martin’s direction.
“Good evening.” He beams, tugging on the lapels of his yellow blazer. “Haven’t seen you all day—where have you been hiding?”
You cluck your tongue, tugging nervously at the hem of your dress. “I hardly think it fair for a woman to disclose her spaces of refuge.”
“Stop being so cryptic!” Lydia laughs. She turns to Martin, declaring matter-of-factly, “She was locked up in the library. It’s her favourite room in the entire house.”
Martin hums, diverting his gaze back to you. The expression on his face is indecipherable. “You read?”
You nod. “I do.”
A subtle movement in the periphery of your vision catches your attention. You turn your head to the side, and your heart nearly stops when you spot Harry making his way across the lawn. It appears as though he’s done for the evening, hands caked in grime and shirt speckled with dirt. He steps onto the dusty trail leading into the woods, beginning his journey home.
You haven’t spoken to him since last night—since he kissed you, and then you kissed him, and then the two of you kissed each other until you ran out of air to breathe. He led Artemis to the stables and walked you back to the house just as dawn broke, lighting up the sky with faint hues of pink and blue. You remember sharing a final embrace at the base of the steps before bidding him goodbye, flashing a smile and disappearing inside without another word.
“Would you excuse me?” you say, pushing away from the table and scrambling up out of your seat. “I just—I need to ask Harry about the lilies that he planted yesterday—I’ll only be a moment.”
You scamper off without waiting for a response.
“Harry? Harry!”
He pauses at the call of his name, turning around gingerly. When he spies you hurrying over, his eyes immediately drop to the ground.
You stop in front of him, tilting your head to the side. “Hello.”
“Hello, miss.” He doesn’t lift his gaze. The realisation makes you frown.
“How—how are you?” you ask, licking your lips and clasping your hands behind your back.
“I’m well, thank you. And yourself?”
“I—” Your nostrils flare. “I’m alright. I saw you walking home, and I just wanted to—”
“Forgive me.” Harry cuts you off swiftly. He refuses to look at you, still. “I’m weary. It’s been a long day.”
You recoil slightly, stunned by his candour.
“Of course,” you splutter, nodding. “We were both up quite late last night; time evaded us, I suppose—”
“So, you understand,” he says, stepping back. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”
You open your mouth to stop him, but your voice betrays you. Your chest grows tight when he lifts two fingers to his temple, offering up a half-hearted salute.
“Harry—”
He finally meets your gaze, and something inside of you breaks. His eyes are dull and gloomy, revealing nothing. You want to rush forward, to take his face in your hands and hold him close. To run your nails through his hair and smother him in a flurry of hard, worried kisses. To ask him why he’s acting this way. He had been so happy last night—what changed?
But the others are watching from the patio, and you’re a goddamned coward, and you can’t, you can’t, you can’t.
“Enjoy your dinner, miss,” Harry says. His tone is emotionless—it makes you want to cry. “Take care.”
~*~
PART III: The Month
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#harry styles one shot#harry styles imagine#harry styles smut#harry styles fanfiction#ok idk what else to tag it as lol#gentle reminder to rb the fics you like :) hope yall enjoy#harry writing#farmhandrry
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