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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 5 months ago

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In My Civilization You’re the King and the Queen (ao3)

For day 7 of @cassianappreciationweek ❤️ (if you thought Semper Eadem was self-indulgent, this is a whole other level...)

When a favour for Rhys brings historian Cassian up to the special Manuscripts reading room at the British Library, he crosses paths with the formidable - and beautiful - archivist, who isn't at all pleased when this towering and tattooed newcomer badly handles one of her Anglo-Saxon treasures.

Cassian’s eyes hurt.

He didn’t know how it was possible— he’d only been working for two hours but, he supposed, staring grimly at the pile of books still waiting on his borrowed desk, he’d spent every moment of those two hours scanning page after page of printed text, looking up only to type up his notes. Given the fact that his head was spinning and his water bottle remained sealed away in the lockers downstairs, forbidden in any of the library’s reading rooms, it was probably no wonder that the two hours he’d been there was already starting to feel like two years.

How do you get a headache in your fucking eyes, anyway?

God— he needed a break.

The pulsing at his temples was the nudge he needed to push away from his desk with a final, cursory look at the stack of material on twentieth-century warfare, closing his laptop with a gentle snap that seemed to resound through the carefully maintained silence. The single blunt pencil he’d brought with him was left on the desk beside the small notebook he’d scribbled in; a silent I’ll be back soon conveyed in the piece of paper he’d used as a bookmark and tucked between the pages of the book he’d just been rifling through like his career depended on it.

Given the current state of the higher education job market, perhaps his career did depend on it.

He didn’t let loose the derisive snort that bloomed in his throat as that thought crossed his mind. Instead he kept his steps silent as he abandoned his desk, cutting through the expansive, high-ceilinged space filled with sunlight streaming in from the high windows. On all sides he was surrounded by the rustle of pages turning, of wooden seats creaking, of fingers typing rapidly on keyboards— and Cassian breathed it all in, drawing it deep into his lungs in the hope that it might chase away the headache before it could take root.

As a historian, he wouldn’t ever deny the thrill that research gave him.

He slipped out of the first-floor reading room in silence, and only when he was outside, standing in the cool hallway that seemed to echo with a hundred voices drifting up from the foyer below, did he let loose a breath. Already the headache was starting to subside, like all he’d really needed was some fresh air, and in the brief respite he allowed himself before he returned to his desk, he leaned against the wall and pulled his phone from his pocket.

He was only half surprised to find a message waiting from Rhys.

Are you at the BL today?

Cassian rolled his eyes before sending back an affirmative. Yes— he was at the BL, or the British Library. The home of thousands upon thousands of books and historical artefacts, including the journals Cassian needed to write his latest article and the hand-written accounts of some soldiers present at the Somme which would form the basis of a conference paper he planned to give in the spring.

Almost immediately, Rhys responded.

Remember that favour you promised me last year? I’m calling it in.

Against the pale stone wall, Cassian blinked warily at the message chain, wondering what in all seven hells Rhys wanted this time. A senior lecturer at the same university, Rhys was a historian of language and literature, already well on the way to a professorship in some stuffy department that somehow saw twice the amount of funding as Cassian’s modern history department, despite receiving less than half the number of students. Cassian often imagined his brother’s office hours to be little more than him donning a velvet smoking jacket, legs crossed whilst seated in a leather armchair before a roaring fireplace. What are your conferences like, he teased Rhys often, Mr-fucking-Tolkien?

Rhys only ever rolled his eyes and launched into a pre-prepared lecture about the fucking structure and etymology of Beowulf or something.

But before he had chance to ask what, exactly, it was that Rhys wanted, the bastard was already calling.

“Why do you only ever call me when you want something?” Cassian asked as he picked up the call, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he pushed off the wall and made for the spiral staircase that would take him down to his locker.

“I do not,” Rhys insisted, his voice thick with indignation. “You know I love you like a brother.”

Cassian only hummed, and in answer Rhys let out a short laugh that echoed down the line. From that alone, Cassian knew Rhys was in his office on campus. Cassian had to share an office that was roughly the size of a fucking postage stamp with another member of the modern history department, but Rhys— oh, Rhys had a sprawling office on the top floor, with a sash window that looked out over the green, and ceilings so high that his voice tended to echo.

Bastard.

“There’s a manuscript I need you to call up from the stacks for me,” he said, his voice growing distant, like he’d left his phone on speaker on his desk as he paced around his palatial office. “The archivist is dragging her feet and says there’s a ten-day wait for scans of the pages I need. I can’t wait that long, Cass, and I won’t get chance to get down there myself and see the thing in person.”

Cassian sighed. “So?”

“So I need you to request the manuscript and take some photos of it for me.”

“Can’t you just promise a big donation to help speed things along?”

Rhys snorted. “I tried. She wasn’t having it.” A brief pause followed— one where Rhys’ footsteps sounded, growing closer to the phone, and when he next spoke his voice was clearer, louder, like he’d taken it off speaker. “Would it help if I said please?”

Cassian let out a laugh of his own, equally as dry and echoing on the smooth floor of the hallway outside the locker room. “It might be a start, yeah.”

“Look, I’ll send you all the details. All you’ll need to do is take the manuscript out, and take some photos of like, ten pages for me.”

Cassian sighed, pinching his brow as he thought of all the work he had to get through himself, and any hopes he’d had of an early finish dried up like an abandoned well.

“That means I’ll have to go to Manuscripts, Rhys. Fucking Manuscripts.”

It was, truly, Cassian’s worst nightmare.

Manuscripts was the reading room tucked into a corner on the top floor, a mezzanine that stuck out two levels above the ordinary reading room, like the scholars using it quite literally enjoyed looking down upon the rest. Reserved for those consulting the oldest and rarest of texts, it was far smaller than the other reading rooms below it, with a low ceiling that gave the place a feeling of closeness that was ludicrous considering the size of the building. It made him shudder just to think about it. He’d been there only once before, when Rhys had dragged him in as part of a joint research trip, and Cassian had suddenly understood why Rhys was so damned stuffy.

It was like a fucking advertisement for tweed, in there.

He huffed heavily, and Rhys laughed again, his voice distant once more.

Bastard.

“Mhm,” he answered, clearly distracted already. Cassian heard typing, and knew that Rhys had already started working again, his phone likely discarded on his desk as he waited for Cassian to agree. With a scowl, Cassian headed for his locker and punched in the code, slamming the door when he’d fished his water bottle from his bag.

“You owe me,” Cassian hissed. “You won that favour in a bet and this is way beyond—“

“I’ll send you the details,” Rhys cut in breezily, his voice practically fucking melodic with victory. “Oh and Cass? Tell the archivist I said hi.”

***

As soon as Rhys sent over the manuscript’s details, Cassian put in the damned request.

Back at his desk, he didn’t bother to read the brief description of the manuscript on the archive catalogue before submitting, but he glimpsed the words tenth-century and groaned so loudly it earned him a scowl from the library’s patrons on either side of him.

Already he’d begun to pray that the request might be rejected— after all, even though his reader’s card granted him access to the collection - and the letter of introduction he’d provided years ago extended his access even further - there was still no guarantee he’d be cleared to work with a document that old without the archivist asking questions. It was older than anything else he’d ever touched by a solid nine centuries, and even though his account no doubt listed his status as a professional historian, well…

For once, Cassian thought, Rhys might just have to be disappointed.

He flicked his eyes up to the mezzanine jutting out over the reading room, suppressing a sigh before turning back to his own work instead of focusing on Rhys’.

It was three hours before he checked the request status, crossing his fingers beneath the desk as the page loaded. Rejected, he thought. Please be rejected.

He’d have time to kill before his train home. Could swing by a nice cafe, or grab a beer at Coal Drops Yard before catching a train at King’s Cross. Hell, if he walked the other way, he could even call to the British Museum for an hour, given that it was open late on Fridays. He could relax after a day spent reading harrowing accounts of twentieth century battlefields, and—

Ready to collect.

There, right in the status bar; three little words that derailed what had, for a moment, promised to be fucking lovely evening.

Cassian scowled.

Around him the library was entirely silent apart from the soft clacking of keyboards and the rustle of turning pages and as the afternoon neared four-thirty, most of the patrons began to pack up and think about going home. But before Cassian could so much as glare at that mezzanine for a hundredth time—

His phone screen lit up with a text from Rhys.

Don’t forget my manuscript, he’d written.

Prick, Cassian answered.

***

“I have a request,” he said ten minutes later, standing at the desk on that mezzanine floor.

He’d already had to sanitise his hands before entering - once he’d asked Rhys why they didn’t wear gloves like they do on TV, and he’d received a ten-minute lecture about the fragility of vellum and the friction created by gloves - and flash his pass at the security guard sitting by the door, watching like a hawk.

Dragons, Cassian thought. The fucking lot of them— like dragons hoarding treasure up here.

But the woman behind the desk had her arms full with a bound manuscript that was easily two feet long, and for a moment she ignored him entirely as her fingers curled gracefully around the navy-blue binding. She carried it like it was nothing, held it like something precious close to her chest, and for a moment Cassian simply watched her, tilting his head at the way the overhead lights turned her golden-brown hair to muted bronze. It was braided in a coronet that framed her face, and when her eyes flicked up, they were a blue so stunning that for a moment Cassian completely forgot why he was there.

She raised a single eyebrow, placing the tall manuscript down in the pile to be sent back to the stacks, and Cassian had to clear his throat.

Right— Rhys.

A favour for Rhys.

“Name?” she asked, holding out one elegant hand for his readers card.

“Cassian,” he answered, handing it over, wondering if this was the woman who’d given Rhys so much trouble.

God, he hoped it was.

He flashed her a smile. “Just the one manuscript on order.”

She hummed, lifting her eyes to study him. She scanned him head to toe, taking in the tattoos that peeked from the neckline of his shirt, curling at the base of his neck, before tracking her eyes down, over the muscles that corded his arms to the ink on his knuckles. He’d gotten vita and mors tattooed on his knuckles after finishing his PhD— life and death in Latin, a fitting tribute to the fact that he spent his life with the dead.

There was something about the way she looked at him— something that said she was trying to piece him together, puzzle out the man that towered over the collections desk half an hour before closing on a Friday. And when her eyes flicked up to his once more, Cassian let himself smirk just a little, lifting his chin as he watched her slide his card back towards him over the counter.

Maybe he should have said something, asked for her name.

But before he could so much as remember what words were, she turned sharply on her heel and headed for the shelves behind her, where one single, small manuscript sat alone in the collections pile.

“Here,” she said, sliding it slowly across the desk.

It was bound in black leather, with the gilt numbering on the spine its only identifier. A nineteenth-century binding Cassian would guess, though it was far from his area of expertise. He merely took the manuscript in hand, waiting for the questions— waiting for her to ask why on earth he’d turned up and requested this manuscript in particular.

But she had already turned away, tracing a hand along the spine of another manuscript as she tucked a request card beneath the cover. A stray piece of hair from her braid crossed into her eyes, and without breaking her focus she tucked it back behind her ear. Looking down, her eyelashes almost brushed her cheek, and as she began to scribble away at something in pencil, she drew her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration.

Cassian couldn’t stop watching her— was entranced, and only with effort did he pull himself away and turn for the four rows of mostly-empty desks that stretched behind him. It was a world away from the countless rows of desks downstairs, and as he made his way across the muted olive-green carpet and picked a desk at random, he’d honestly forgotten why he’d been so unwilling to come up here in the first place.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

God, he wished he’d gotten her name.

Sighing softly, Cassian plunked the manuscript down on the desk, sinking into the chair and taking a single breath as he stretched his neck, easing the stiffness that had worked its way into his muscles after an entire day spent with his head bent over old books. He plucked at the manuscript’s cover, fingers lingering on the leather.

Not as old as this, he thought dryly.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket, breaking him from his thoughts. It was Rhys— sending yet another text to check that Cassian had actually managed to take out the manuscript with no issues. Rolling his eyes, Cassian snapped a photo of the manuscript, still closed, on the desk.

Happy?

Rhys sent him back a simple thumbs-up.

With an indulgent shake of his head - and a silent promise that he’d make Rhys pay through the fucking nose for this, perhaps in the form of a very expensive bottle of whiskey - Cassian pulled the manuscript towards him, opening the front cover with one hand whilst with the other he pulled up the list of page numbers Rhys had messaged him over.

The leather creaked as he cracked it open, and inside he was met immediately with stiff vellum pages, yellowed with age. It smelled of ink and dust and aged parchment, that curious combination that was musky and thick and far from unpleasant— like somebody had taken the smell of a library and distilled it down to its most concentrated form. He breathed it in, running a hand along the edge of the pages that were soft, worn from centuries of handling.

No, this wasn’t his period, and he’d never call up something like this from the stacks himself but…

The historian in him saw the age of the thing in his hands and couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe.

The ink inside was still a bright black, as if it had been penned yesterday, and each line was straight as an arrow, the script perfectly uniform and precise, meticulous. Cassian inhaled, breathing in the utterly unique scent of age-old craftsmanship, but even as he scanned the first line, trying and failing to find any word or, hell, any letter he could recognise, he felt the frown creasing his brow.

Is this even English? he asked Rhys, thumbs flying over the keys.

Yes, Rhys replied instantly.

Cassian snorted quietly to himself, barely suppressing the roll of his eyes as he glanced up, flicking his attention towards the one other scholar still in Manuscripts at quarter to five— fifteen minutes before closing. How the fuck do you even read this shit?

He could practically hear Rhys’ dry tone when his brother responded. It’s called palaeography, Cass. Those of us interested in real history learn it.

Cassian snorted again.

Rhys was firmly under the impression that anything that had happened less than a hundred years ago barely even counted as history. He’d almost had an aneurism when Cassian told him one of his colleagues had a student writing their dissertation on the pop culture of the 1980s and 1990s. “That’s not history,” Rhys had said as he’d spat out his drink in the pub. “That’s sociology at best, and at worst— it’s our fucking childhood. It doesn’t count.”

With a wry smile, Cassian turned his attention back to the manuscript in his hand, flipping through the pages to find the ones Rhys needed. On each, the script ran edge to edge in flowing black, in a hand Cassian couldn’t even begin to decipher. The initials were grand though, decorated with swirling vines and small figures, as though some monk in the 900s had poured his heart and soul into the writing of this volume. Something about that tugged at Cassian, at the part of him that longed to uncover every version of the past there was to find, and as he brushed a finger over the ink once more, he almost wished he was able to read the text; almost wished he could find out what, exactly, that monk had deemed so important he’d immortalised it with his pen.

There was something wondrous in it— something that called out to him and made him feel like a child again, staring up at the walls of a castle in ruins, embers of insatiable curiosity igniting like a wildfire he’d never been able to extinguish. The manuscript in his hands had survived centuries— war and plague and famine and fire, it had weathered them all. It had witnessed the breadth of human history and arrived here, to sit beneath his fingertips and give Rhys the means to write his article.

Not that he’d ever admit any of that out loud, of course. Rhys would have a field day.

Rolling his eyes, Cassian flipped another page over, finally finding the first of the ones Rhys wanted photographed. Using one hand to splay the pages wide open, he picked up his phone in the other and lifted it up to take the picture—

“What on earth are you doing?”

Cassian startled, and looked up to find the woman from the desk - the archivist, surely - standing behind him, her arms crossed over her chest as disbelief flitted across that beautiful face. Something like horror flared in those magnificent eyes, and her lips were parted in an expression of abject shock. Cassian’s brow furrowed.

“A favour for a friend,” he said slowly, confused. For a moment he wondered if Rhys had gotten it wrong— if this was one of the manuscripts not permitted to be photographed. But the archivist shook her head sharply.

“Are you an imbecile?” she asked bluntly. “Or have you just never been inside an archive before?”

Cassian bristled. “Of course I’ve been inside an archive before.”

Just not to examine documents…. quite this old.

He’d admit that he was perhaps a little bit clueless when it came to this— handling things that predated anything else he’d ever worked with by almost a fucking millennia.

And yet… he wasn’t about to let her know that.

He pushed away from the chair, rising to his feet as the carpet hissed beneath his boots. God— she barely came up to his shoulders, but she didn’t back away. No, instead she lifted her chin to fix him with that encompassing stare, her glare almost enough to melt the flesh from his bones.

“I find that difficult to believe,” she hissed, nodding at the desk. “No book rest. No snake weights. And no historian would ever open a manuscript the way you just did.” She scowled as she nodded to the vellum pages he’d just had his hands all over. “The pages in that manuscript are a thousand years old.”

Suddenly there was a fire rising in his chest, some kind of beckoning interest flaring to life as he looked down into eyes brimming with so much ire they threatened to tear him apart. Every inch of her was lined with hauteur, her jaw tight as he canted his head and looked down at her, folding his arms over his chest in a stubborn gesture that said he wasn’t going to be the one to back down. She met him stroke for stroke, catching his gaze and refusing to step back, standing so close that he could smell her perfume. Something in Cassian relished it, revelled in the way she was forced to tilt her head back as he took a step closer, eliminating the distance between them until barely an inch separated his folded arms from hers.

“I’m a modern historian, sweetheart. I’m just here to take some pictures for a colleague of mine and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Oh— oh,” she said, inhaling sharply, and Cassian saw the moment she made the connection. Her eyes darkened, her brows rising, and if he’d thought she was pissed before… Christ, he hadn’t known the meaning of the word. “You’re here for that prick who somehow found my office phone number and called me to demand that I rush his request through.”

Cassian bit back a grin. He had no idea how Rhys had managed to find her number. Azriel, probably.

“Does the word no mean anything to either of you?”

“No,” he answered easily, letting a feral smile loose across his lips. Indignation flared in her eyes, and Cassian could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat or several. “Look, just let me take these photos and I’ll be gone. You can have your decrepit old book back then.”

Her scowl deepened, those sharp eyes growing somehow - impossibly - sharper. Like she’d taken offence on behalf of the manuscript he’d just called decrepit.

Fucking hell, she was stunning. She reminded him of a blade— shining as bright and as pure as silver, and yet sharp enough to have him bleeding if he so much as breathed wrong in her direction. And that scowl…

It was enough to have him simpering after her like a fucking teenager.

She said nothing, only huffed forcefully before turning on her heel and marching briskly back towards the desk. Cassian nodded once before turning back to the manuscript, but before he could so much as raise his phone for another photo, the archivist had returned, slamming down a thin string of weights onto the desk beside him. With her other hand she reached around him to pull forward the foam book rest that sat at the back of his desk.

“Move,” she said sharply.

Cassian could only hold up his hands in surrender as he backed off.

With perfect and practised care, gently she lifted the manuscript from its spot on the surface of the desk. The thing wasn’t inherently fragile, but still she checked the spine for damage - aiming a pointed glare over her shoulder as she did so - before setting it down on the book rest, letting the foam cradle it.

“You open bound manuscripts from the centre, not the front cover,” she said, like it was the most fundamental thing in the entire world. “Otherwise you’ll strain the binding.”

Slowly, she teased the pages apart, starting right in the middle and working her way back to the page Cassian had been photographing only a handful of minutes ago. Then, she draped the thin string of weights across the pages to keep them spread.

“These are used to keep the pages open— not your hands.”

She took a step back away from the desk, folding her arms back over her chest as she studied the new set up. For a heartbeat, her eyes dropped to his hands, lingering once more on the tattoos decorating his knuckles. Once it might have been considered a professional hindrance, to have so much ink on display, but historians with tattoos were far from rare these days. And he didn’t think that the woman before him looked with disdain, either.

“What would I do without you?” he drawled, tilting his head to the side.

She rolled those devastating eyes of hers, and when she shook her head, Cassian caught a hint of her perfume. It was delicate, something floral with just a hint of spice— like rose and honey, and it had him drawing her deep into his lungs, savouring it and throwing her a wink that he knew might end up with her throwing him off the ledge of the mezzanine altogether.

“Be banned from ever entering my reading room ever again,” she muttered, her voice low and bitter. She shook her head again, sending her small silver earrings glinting beneath the bright white lights. Harsh lights, not flattering for anybody, and yet— she was beautiful. When Rhys had called, Cassian hadn’t really known what to expect, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected the archivist to be… well. Like this.

As he snapped another photo for Rhys and nodded for her to gently turn the page - parchment rustling, binding creaking, weights whispering as she arranged them carefully on the edges of the vellum - his eyes fixed on her hands, elegant and sure.

No ring there, he noticed.

He didn’t know why he’d looked, or why he’d even bothered to note it. Just because she wasn’t married didn’t mean there wasn’t somebody in her life, and besides, whether she did or did not, it didn’t necessarily mean that he had any real interest anyway, did it?

Or perhaps he was just kidding himself— practically tripping over that empty space on her finger in case it meant he might have a chance.

His mind was entirely somewhere else as he took the remaining few photos Rhys had requested, barely seeing the script on the pages anymore and too caught up with the way she stood silent by his side, her eyes occasionally flicking his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. He couldn’t have missed it, though. Her attention was like a match dragged along his skin, setting fire to him with a spark and a hiss and a perfectly lethal glare.

And when he was done, when the last photo was safe in his camera roll, Cassian drew fully away from the desk. Glancing up and taking in his surroundings for the first time since she’d stormed over, he noticed that the last scholar had left, leaving them almost entirely alone save for the security guard by the door.

A breathless kind of anticipation crept up his spine, pricked his skin as he lingered by that desk.

There was only one thing he wanted to ask now— one thing he’d been dying to know ever since he’d walked through that fucking door.

“What’s your name?” he asked, drawing closer as she lifted the weights from the pages and let them pool on the desk.

She paused, not turning to look at him as she lifted the manuscript from its cradle and eased it closed. “Why should I tell you that?”

Cassian shrugged. “Because.” When she glanced over her shoulder, he flashed her a grin that could have been called cocky, could have been called boyish in its charm. “I’m a historian. Curiosity’s part of the job.”

“Historian of what, exactly?” she demanded, turning around sharply, in a tone so much like Rhys’ that Cassian couldn’t help but let his grin spread wider, unfettered. “I’ve never met a historian who can’t handle a manuscript before.”

“I told you. I’m a modernist, sweetheart.”

She ran her eyes up and down, lingering on his chest, his broad shoulders. Then her eyes flicked to his face, his long hair pulled back to reveal the earring studded through one lobe.

“So you really haven’t been in archive before.”

“Of course I have,” he countered.

“Not a real one,” she muttered and God— she sounded so fucking much like Rhys that Cassian thought they might even get along, if ever they met. If they could detach themselves from one another’s throats for more than five seconds.

He let out a laugh that echoed through the vaulting space, something inside him igniting when her eyes widened, the hush breaking like glass beneath his feet. She blinked again, muttering something about how he clearly hadn’t ever been in a library before either, before gathering the manuscript in her hands and turning sharply on her heel, pushing past him to heard towards the collections desk.

And like Theseus following Ariadne’s string, Cassian followed her.

Somewhat more earnest, he leaned against the counter, curling his tattooed knuckles loosely into his palm. “I do appreciate it, you know. You coming over to help.”

“I did it for the manuscript, not you,” she pointed out dryly.

He grinned. “Come on. Give me your name at least— so I know who to address the thank you note to.”

“Only a note?” she fired back, raising her eyebrows.

Cassian felt a thrill skip through him, tripping along his veins until it reached his chest and made him feel slightly breathless. He liked this— the banter, the back and forth that was so remarkably easy it felt like falling into step with someone he’d known all his life. This stranger - this beautiful stranger - glared at him as he leaned over the counter, his chest pressing into the wood as he brought his face hardly an inch from hers, and he’d already figured out that her eyes sparked when she was irritated, that she huffed in exasperation often, and that the small tilt at the corner of her lips was the only outward sign she’d allow that she was entertaining him and his cocksure posturing.

This close, he thought he might have died and gone to heaven. His eyes dropped to her lips again, unable to look away.

“What else would you like, sweetheart?” he murmured, offering her a crooked smile. “Shall I get on my knees and extol your virtues to all of London?”

She hummed. “It might be a start.”

Cassian laughed again, easy and free. She had no idea how willing he already was to get down on his knees. He half thought he might break his kneecaps in the rush to prostrate himself before her, and as he watched her standing there beneath the white lights, precious manuscript in her hands, something stirred in him. A kind of interest he’d not had in someone in, well… years.

The archivist drew back, putting space between them that left Cassian blinking like a fool as she took the manuscript back to the shelves, ready to be returned back down below to the stacks. He could only watch her stride purposefully away, his eyes straying to her hips and down, all the way to her heeled boots, and God, that couldn’t be it, could it? He couldn’t let that be it. Could he?

Suddenly, there was only one thought in his head.

Fuck it.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said suddenly, the words leaving him in a rush that was far too loud in the silence of the reading room.

With a gentle thud, the archivist set the manuscript down. Her silver-blue eyes flicked up so sharply that Cassian honestly wondered if one day she’d manage to cut a man and make him bleed with those eyes alone.

“In what world do you think I’d want to get a drink with you?”

Cassian grinned. “Oh, come on, sweetheart.” He leaned back casually, tilted away from the desk when only a moment before he’d been a breath away from vaulting over it and falling at her feet. “Consider it an apology for Rhys’… stubbornness.”

She straightened, her face turning contemplative as, slowly, she made her way back towards him. Imperious, she lifted one perfect eyebrow. “If I said yes, would you promise never to come into my archive again?”

Cassian let out a low, rumbling laugh as he lifted his shoulders in an idle shrug. He didn’t think he could promise her that. Suddenly he was wondering just how different the first world war and the eleventh-century were really, and whether he could pull off a drastic change in his field of study, just so he had an excuse to see her again. To come up here and have her lecture him some more on how rough he was with some ancient books.

God, if he was lucky - exceptionally lucky - maybe he’d even get the chance someday to show her how rough he could be with other things, too. What else he could do with the hands she kept glancing at.

He cleared his throat again. Now was not the time to be turned on, and yet.

And fucking yet.

“I’ll even throw in dinner,” he said with a wink.

The archivist rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know my name.”

Cassian leaned forwards over the counter again. “So tell me.”

She paused, and the silence grew so weighted that Cassian could feel it. But it wasn’t oppressive or suffocating— it was electric. He could feel the air thrumming between them, dancing with tension that was so thick it was making him dizzy. Her eyes dropped to his lips— his to her neck, that expanse of bare skin that he was fairly sure he’d be begging to taste before the night was out.

“Nesta,” she answered at last. “My name is Nesta.”

Already he wanted to know how it would feel to whisper her name in her ear, to feel it on his tongue. To shape it with his lips until there was nothing else left.

“Well then, Nesta.” He offered up another winning smile, just a breath shy of rakish. “Dinner?”

She paused, assessing him like he was just another one of her manuscripts. He flourished beneath that attention, tilting his chin up like a fucking peacock, and if anyone else were here, he might have reined it in, might have kept himself in check. But apart from the security guard standing at the other end of the room, they were alone, and when Nesta looked at him with nothing but blatant interest in her eyes, Cassian felt his blood begin to hammer through his veins and knew that he had one more card to play— an ace hidden up his sleeve.

“You know,” he began slowly, tracing an idle finger in circles on the desk, “the British Museum is open till half six on a Friday.”

He cast a glance to his watch. 4:55pm. In twenty minutes they could be standing in the sculptures gallery, marvelling at beauty crafted by ancient hands. In the grey light, surrounded by the gleaming white marble, Cassian had no doubt he’d be falling over himself to impress this woman.

“A bottle of wine and a couple of ancient artefacts. You do know how to charm a girl,” Nesta quipped. She laid a hand down, splayed on the desk between them, and as she raised her eyes to his, Cassian swore time stopped altogether.

Her voice was dry, acerbic, but Cassian grinned, damn near feverish.

“I know how to charm you, princess. Aren’t ancient artefacts your thing?”

“Well, they’re certainly not yours. Planning on breaking into a display case and shattering the Sutton Hoo helmet?”

Cassian grinned, feral in his delight as he shrugged. “Who knows what might happen if you’re not there to stop me.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, but she didn’t draw back. With every breath she seemed to shift a half inch closer, and Cassian’s heart was a war-drum in his chest, beating so fast, so loud, it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. He wasn’t breathing— wasn’t sure he even remembered how.

“Is that all I am? Your chaperone?”

He couldn’t think of anything witty, couldn’t find some cutting remark to send her way. She was so maddeningly close, all it would take would be a slight shift on his part to bring him crashing into her, and as his eyes fell to her mouth, all he could think about was her sharp tongue, her soft lips, how much he wanted her.

He wanted to kiss her so badly he thought he might die if he didn’t get the chance.

Nesta said nothing, only stared at him in a way that said she knew exactly how undone he was.

She was close, now. So close, and as his eyes roved across her face, he couldn’t think beyond the desire that was building in his chest, lining his throat and making him desperate to touch her. He wanted to reach out. Wanted to brush a thumb across her cheek, graze his knuckles across her jaw until he reached her lips. All he had to do was lift his hand—

The moment shattered when the security guard slammed a mug down on his desk at the other end of the room, looking pointedly in their direction as he plucked up his coat and prepared to leave.

Cassian reared back, clearing his throat, suppressing the laugh in his chest. A blush stole across Nesta’s cheeks, so perfectly pretty he wanted to reach out and brush it with his fingers.

“Well, sweetheart,” he said as he cleared his throat again. “Is that a yes?”

Nesta took a moment, but when she huffed, there was a small smile at the corner of her lips, a glint in her eyes. She shook her head like she couldn’t quite believe she was about to agree to an immediate date with a total stranger, and Cassian’s grin was feral as she bit back that smile and walked away from the collection’s desk, into the back rooms of the library reserved for staff alone. But she looked back, glanced at him over her shoulder and said,

“Meet me downstairs in ten minutes.”

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome

#cassianweek2024 #nessian #nessian fic #archivist!Nesta #historian!Cassian #modern au

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thephooka · 1 year ago

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How we got here from there

Or, the long journey of a longform long-running webcomic about a long man with long wings.

In the spirit of @feathernotes and @phantomarine who have been talking about just starting your webcomic and not worrying about being "ready", I was inspired to do a post about White Noise's origin! I'm a little limited by the fact that I either left behind or destroyed a lot of the art I have from prior to 2009, so you'll have to take my word for it.

Cringe Truth below the cut!

The Cringe Truth of White Noise is that it has its roots in a Pokemon x Yu Yu Hakusho x self-insert(s) roleplay thread I used to do with an internet friend I made on Neopets guild forums way back in 2002-ish. We would come home from school every day and RP over AIM, and then when we had to get offline, whoever left first would email the other one, and we would continue via email until we were back on AIM at the same time.

Liya was my self insert.

This isn't even remotely the earliest art of her, it's just the earliest I have on hand. I was drawing her for almost a decade by the time I drew this one. Imagine the earlier drawings as being like I traced over Sailor Moon characters that I printed out from deviantART and gave them a brown ponytail.

The funny thing is Liya really hasn't changed much from her original form! I also had loose brown curls that I kept in a ponytail 24/7 to the point that it showed when I had it down (which is why her hair is 'dented' like that). I did it because I was trans and didn't know it; she does it because she hasn't realized she can just cut it off and be butch yet.

Other characters that date back from this time period: Yoshi (originally an InuYasha/Rurouni Kenshin pastiche), Hawk (I don't remember when he got wings but they were white at first), Numair (named after the Tamora Pierce character and filling a Koenma kind of role), Helly (sort of--I had an elf character named Kamui who had the same temperament, and he was eventually transmuted into Helly) and...Kurogane.

I've never named Kurogane but he appears in the background of the comic a few times, as my own personal inside joke.

Vlad came along somewhere between this RP period and planning the comic, but I can't remember when or why. I don't have drawings from that time (~2004?) but he was the first character I drew when I got a tablet for the first time.

Everyone else came along later when I started actually planning out the comic.

All this said: the reason I started White Noise as a weekly webcomic is because I wanted to learn to draw better.

At the time I was in college majoring in animation, but I didn't feel like I was learning very much at all (the program was badly structured; I had more art history classes than anything else. It was a mess.) I was also working nights in order to feed myself, and so had a lot of downtime. I had this story rattling around in my head from my RP days, so I figured, why not just give it a go?

For posterity here's a photo of a chapter 1 panel in progress, back in 2011 with my typical college diet in the bg:

(Chapter 1 was originally pencil on paper, scanned in and colored in PS. I later re-drew it to make it fully digital to match with the rest of the comic.)

There's been a lot of talking about not waiting until you're 'ready' to start a webcomic, and I agree with that sentiment. Try framing it like this: making a comic every week for years and years will improve your art way more than any prep work you can do before starting the comic. It's like learning to swim. You can read about swimming all you want, but you're not going to really figure it out until you do it. If your early comics are bad, well, that's normal. It used to be an expected part of doing webcomics; I blame the shift into expecting webcomics to be polished from start to finish partly on commercialization in the space, but that's an angry rant for another time.

With this background, here's the collage I posted for WN's 10 year anniversary back in 2021:

And now we're here.

So do your webcomic. Put it on ComicFury or make a janky little site for it. Be okay with imperfect pages and be prepared to shout into the void for a while. Even if it's always a hobby, if it never makes you a dime or wins you any awards--that's fine! You'll be a lot happier if you learn not to worry about that stuff, and just make something that will help you grow and make you happy. We could do with a lot more work like that in the world imo.

#webcomics #comics #wn comic #white noise #comix #indie comics #webtoon #comic history #webcomic history #web comic #original comic #also I'm not going to tell you to not destroy your old work but...#it IS nice to have around so you can look at it and feel good about how much you've grown #can't say I regret losing all that stuff but whatever

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illusioncanthurtme--art · 1 year ago

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These have been sitting in my inbox for a while, and I want to apologize, because I am a world champion at procrastination. I actually have quite a few asks that I’ve never responded to, and I feel like such an asshole. If you sent an ask and I never responded, PLEASE don’t think I’m ignoring you or I don’t care; I just have this thing where I get distracted very easily and it turns into procrastination. I really cherish all the love jam packed into those tiny little asks.

But these are the most recent ones, and they’re kind of in the same vein. I really should make a narrated process video of some sort one day. I do have something like that on patreon right now, but it’s over a year old, and my process has changed since then. But for now, I’ll try to answer these as best I can!

First of all, thank you!! This ain’t a question but I’ll go on a spiel anyway. I use a dark pencil for outlining, and I try to emphasize deeper/darker areas with both pressure (pressing down harder on the pencil), and overall size of the line/mark/whatever. These spots are typically the upper eyelid, nostrils, corners of mouth, inner ear, bottom/roots of pieces of hair, spots where clothing wrinkles originate, that sort of thing. Oftentimes I’ll emphasize the “underside” of objects or shapes too.

As for time for a drawing, it varies a lot. The lengthiest thing I work on is commissions. The initial light sketch for a comm can actually take a while, depending on the drawing. 2 full characters together requires a lot of planning for the poses and stuff. So I might spend an hour, 2 hours if I’m really struggling, just making the sketch for a 2 full body character drawing. Then I’ll take maybe 5 or 7 hours to do the rest? That’s a guess, I don’t really keep track. Usually I’ll do the sketch one day, and the next day I’ll spend all or most of the work day just finishing the drawing. I consider one of those “a days work”. Hopefully that made sense!

The images of my drawings are clean because I scan them! After I scan them, I do a levels adjustment in photoshop. (I struggle taking pics with my phone, even though it has a nice camera 🥲I don’t think I could ever get close to the way they look now without a scanner)

As for how I make them look clean on paper, I think it’s a combination of two things: the pencil I do the initial sketch with is substantially lighter than the one I outline with. So when I’m outlining/rendering out the drawing, the sketch lines sort of fall back and aren't as noticeable. Secondly, I use a click eraser to erase the sketch lines as I go. And I take my time and use a lot of patience and prioritize neatness/details. This is especially the case with comms. With those I give 110%. For my own personal doodles, I don’t focus on making them as neat, and instead scribble around with my pencil to get the values I want, without fretting over each individual shape to make sure it makes sense.

I hope this answers your questions okay! I really should make some sort of video but I don’t have a lot of time right now. Thank you for your asks and kind words!!

#ask #answered #anon #art process #drawing process

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pleasantanathema · 4 years ago

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Sinful Hymns

Pairing: Erwin Smith x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Warnings: Hair pulling, some rough sex, sex on a desk, religious allusions, a dash of authority kink, no spoilers past early season 1

Word Count: 4k

A/N: In celebration of Season 4 of Attack on Titan airing today, here’s a fulfilled request for Commander Handsome 💕 Thank you so much to the anon who requested this, I had so much fun writing this!

You couldn’t sleep. There was a nagging in your mind, shadowy visions of titans ascending mountains, climbing walls—the same nightmares that plagued you ever since you joined the scouts all those years ago. You found yourself in the showers, all alone scrubbing away your sins and torments. But even a cleansing couldn’t seem to quell your thoughts, so you roamed.

The meandering halls of the old scout regiment headquarters were cold, musty, unwelcoming even with Levi’s cleaning. Glimmering lamp light under a cracked door caught your attention, the only light you’d seen while on your stroll.

The Commander was still awake.

You weren’t sure what compelled you to stop, to bring your knuckles to rap against the wood of the door. You’d once been quite close with Erwin, back when you were both cadets and working your way up the ranks, but he’d become quite elusive since becoming the Commander. You’d always been interested in him, found your gaze lingering on him a little too long when was around. There was some kind of irresistible, seductive pull towards him, like if you got close enough, he might let you explore the man under the armor. You wondered if he felt it, too, or if your lust was one-sided.

You were just too curious about what would keep him awake at night. Maybe he struggled with the same miseries you did when the nights felt too dark.

Tentatively, you slid past the open door.

Blue eyes caught your movement, his handsome face tilting towards you from where it was seated in his palm.

He whispered your name, smile tugging at his cheeks.

“Commander Smith,” you acknowledged, “you’re up quite late.”

“Seems I’m not the only one.” There was an amusement in his voice that you couldn’t quite place.

He leaned back in his chair as you stayed in your place, a sudden rise of bashfulness making you bite at the inside of your lip. You were sure you were pestering him; you should’ve just wandered back to your room. Your feet were ready to move, heels pressed against the floor to turn and leave at his behest.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“I—no, I just couldn’t sleep. Apologies, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“No, you’re no bother. Rather, you’re quite a pleasant distraction at the moment,” he gestured to his desk, littered with paperwork and books opened to forgotten pages, “come in, shut the door behind you.”

You did as you were so kindly told, clicking the door into place behind you before moving in closer. His office was warm, bathed in dim candlelight from the lamp on his desk, shadows being cast from the bookshelves that lined the walls. You noticed he was in only a white button-down and trousers, his ODM gear placed neatly on a chest behind where he sat.

Your hands came to rest on the chair that was placed in front of his desk for his visitors. You remained standing, not quite ready to be so familiar as to just sit and talk with him. There was humor in his eyes as they scanned your figure, undoubtedly surprised to see you dressed so casually as well, simple pants and shirt being all you brought to wear after taking your late-night shower.

“Tell me, what keeps you awake?”

There were many answers to his question, but you erred on the side of simplicity.

“Nightmares. What about you? What’s kept you awake tonight?”

Erwin sighed, deep and heavy from his chest. You observed how his long fingers gripped at the armrest of his seat, knuckles white.

“Letters. Demands from the Military Police to hand over the boy who turns into a titan, demands from royalty to execute him. But also my own curiosities. I’ve been reading to see if there are any records of anyone else like him.”

“I see,” your tongue clicked behind your lips as you recognized the heaviness bound within his broad shoulders, “anything I can help you with?”

He smiled fully then, white teeth curving against his pretty lips.

“Like I said, you’re a welcome distraction. How have you been?”

Again, there were too many ways to answer his question. But you couldn’t bring yourself to bring your burdens to him, not when he was already carrying the weight of the world upon his back.

“Life isn’t as simple as it used to be,” not that living in this world had ever been easy.

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t.”

You caught an etching of the walls on his desk, details of Sina and Maria partially obscured by a leather-bound book, penciled in lines and notes scribbled around the paper’s edges. Something about it drew you in, had you moving to perch on the edge of his desk, one thigh crinkling pages of ink as your fingers deftly plucked at the drawing.

He watched you with curiosity, eyebrows lifted as he brought a hand to his chin.

Your nail traced against the charcoal lines, gaze scanning the comprehensive sketch of the rounded walls and the cities held within them.

“My father used to think there was some kind of power within the walls; believed there was some unseen magic lingering within the stones to keep us safe…” you trailed off, the rest of your thoughts caught within your throat, “...I’m glad he wasn’t alive when the walls were breached, would’ve ruined the mystery for him.”

“Was he a believer in the Church of the Walls?”

“No,” you hummed softly, “just someone who thought there was more to the story.”

Quite like yourself, you wanted to say, but left the words unspoken. You set the yellowing paper back on his desk, arms crossing.

He rolled his shoulders in a quiet stretch, running a tired hand through his blonde undercut as he looked up at you. You’d always found him overwhelmingly handsome, the kind of man who changed the atmosphere of a room when he walked in. But there was always a warmth to him, like there was always something brewing, churning inside that enticing mind of his.

“I never could understand how people could worship the walls,” he mused, shifting his weight forward, getting a little closer to where you were perched, “not when there are other, more...beautiful things to praise.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck, your too-close proximity to him becoming all too apparent. But he kept getting closer.

His hand found your knee, fingers trailing over the tight threads of your pants.

The act seemed endearing, harmless, but the simple touch had your desire rearing its sordid head again. You felt emboldened, confidence swelling in your chest.

“Then what would you worship, Erwin?”

“I’m a man of too many sins, I doubt there’s any kind of faith that could bring me absolution.”

Your fingers ached to touch him, your hand reaching toward his face before your mind could stop the movement. His cheek was warm, skin soft under the brush of your thumb.

“I don’t believe that. There has to be something beautiful for you to admire…” you felt his fingers tighten against your leg, drifting higher up your thigh, pulling you in, bringing you closer.

“I could start with you.”

The tension snapped, splitting like a tightly strung cord between you. You heeded the call to be nearer, moving your hand to rest against his shoulder for balance as you took the initiative to settle yourself in his lap. For a moment, you worried that you pushed too far, that you’d invaded his personal space and made him uncomfortable. But those fears were battered quickly when eager hands took hold of your waist, palms spread wide as they trailed up your back.

“I’ve always admired you from afar,” he was hushed, breath fanning over your neck, “but you’re much easier to worship up close.”

You kissed him without a second thought. Years of attraction, of adoration, fueled your lips, your hands grasping at his jawline as he met your passion. His mouth slanted against yours ardently, impatient hands slipping under your shirt.

You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose at the feel of his warm fingers ghosting up your skin, now suddenly very aware you hadn’t bothered to wear anything below your clothes—you thought you’d be returning to your room, not wandering into your Commander’s lap. You moaned into his mouth, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to taste you. You were overcome with too much, all your senses now flooding with Erwin, his scent, his touch, his entire being smothering you with all the attentions you had ever craved from him.

His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, a groan leaving his chest when you settled lower into his lap, your thighs draped over his own and your core pressed against his hardening cock.

This wasn’t real—this couldn’t be real, surely you were caught up in one of your dreams again, but his lips against yours felt real, felt hungry, his large hands now cupping and holding the weight of your breasts within his hands. Your fingers carded through his hair, nails delicately raking through the roots to remind yourself that it was him, that this was real.

“You taste like sin,” he praised, peppering kisses down the column of your throat.

Any thought you had of replying disappeared when strong fingers pinched at your nipples, causing a heavy moan to fall out of your mouth as your head tilted back, allowing him more access to your neck. He plucked tenderly at your sensitive flesh, a noticeable smirk growing upon his lips as each tug and roll of your breasts had you gasping, whining. He quite liked that, it seemed, to be able to play you so easily.

You mumbled curses into the air, eyes fluttering closed. You experimentally rolled your hips in his lap, an attempt to get a similar rise from him. He bared his teeth against your throat, canines nipping into your skin before pressing his lips down more forcefully, sucking and lapping at your neck. Heat bloomed from where his mouth met your body, a telling sign that you would have a mark there to remember him by. He was careful, choosing a supple spot below where the collar of your uniform would cover you tomorrow.

Erwin’s hands released your aching breasts, moving down to grasp at the hem of your shirt.

“Take this off,” he demanded, a string of saliva still connecting his lips to your neck.

You dropped your hands from his hair, trailing down his broad chest before meeting his hands and pulling your shirt up over your head. It fell to the floor carelessly, the chill of the room making your skin pebble with gooseflesh.

You took note of how his cheeks were flushed pink, blush faint across his elegant aquiline nose.

His intimidating, icy eyes flickered up to you, making your own flush spread across your body. You felt like he was looking through you, reading your thoughts, hearing your internal screams for more. Then, his gaze fell back to your heaving breasts, hands greedily taking them again, lips wrapping around one of your nipples and making you whimper.

You could feel his cock pressing against you now, harder and thicker than before, the ridge of it nestled against your throbbing cunt. You rolled yourself against it, delighted sounds leaving both of your mouths at the contact. His tongue swirled around your puckered nipple, teeth just barely daring to drag against your flesh. You buried your fingers into his shoulders, feeling his muscles tighten and then relax at your touch.

“Oh-oh fuck, I—,”

“You’re dripping,” he interrupted, one of his hands unclasping from your breast and drifting down your belly to rub at the damp spot between your legs, “I can feel you against me.”

You shivered at the wanton touch, thighs clenching against his legs.

“Did you come here tonight to seduce me?”

He mumbled the words against your breast, tongue flattening against your nipple with a few long, heavy licks as his eyes flashed up to you, waiting for your response.

“No, sir, I promise that wasn’t my,” you moaned as a thick finger slid against your clit through your clothes, “that wasn’t my intention.”

His wet lips left your breast, coy smirk painting his face.

“Shame, that was my plan the moment you stepped into my office.”

You always did fall for his tricks; if only you’d known his hand against your thigh earlier wasn’t so harmless after all.

“And how did this plan of yours end, Commander?”

It still felt strange to call him by that title after so many years of calling him by his name, but there was something sensual about it, something alluring about his newfound authority.

His hands were pushing at your hips, fingers crushing into your skin as he lifted you to move back.

“With you bent over my desk.”

It didn’t take him long to wrangle you into the position he so desired. His hands were unhurried, purposeful as he pushed you to stand, peeling your pants down your legs before pressing your face into the pile of papers on his desk. You felt so exposed, what with him being able to see your pussy on display from behind you while all you could focus on was his touch and the way the flame at the edge of his desk flickered.

Erwin’s fingers spread the folds of your cunt, an appreciative hum sounding from his throat. You mewled at the touch, thighs shaking in your anticipation. The button to his pants popped softly, then you finally felt him, felt his hard, thick cock nudging at your entrance.

Your hands crumpled a few pages as you searched for something to cling to. Your heart was pounding in your ears, suddenly all too aware that the Commander was still fully clothed, while you were laid out across his desk like a naked whore. One of his hands pulled at your hip, the other trailing down the expanse of your back.

There was a boldness coming to life inside you at the realization that he’d wanted you the moment you appeared within his room.

“Worth worshipping, Erwin?”

You ate your words as he shoved himself inside you, stretching you to your limits as your body burned to accommodate his size. You cried out against the mass of papers, eyes blurring as pleasure burst across all of your nerve endings.

He groaned at the feeling himself, both hands now digging into the meat of your hips.

“Fuck,” you heard him breath in deep as he slid is cock out of you before slamming in again, “oh absolutely, darling.”

You hadn’t heard Erwin curse before.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on your thoughts, not with him now moving ruthlessly inside you, hips snapping against your ass with every sharp, deep thrust. Little sounds left your lips with every plunge, blissful tingles stemming from where your bodies were conjoined. You loved how you could feel the head of his fat cock dragging along your walls, thick veins throbbing under silken skin.

You were far past believing this was a dream, now convinced you were actually in the sweet joys of a paradise beyond life.

A coil of pleasure began to tighten within your lower stomach, hot and mean, like it was ready to tear and erupt with a rush of ecstasy. You moaned his name like a prayer, eyes closed tightly as you focused on the intensity of his cock thrusting inside you.

You wouldn’t last long, not with the sinful hymns of his grunts and praises resounding behind you. His sounds were faint, but they were there, little rumbling of “so good, so tight,” kissing at your ears.

God, you could die. You could die and live a happy, full life from this moment alone. You felt so whole with him inside you, felt coated with desire and praise like never before. There were bruises already forming from his grip, you could feel them, skin sore and burning beneath his massive hands.

“You’re beautiful wrapped around my cock,” he voiced, tone deep and praising, brawny arm sweeping up your spine to fist in your hair. Your head jerked with his action, back arching as he pulled at you. You gasped at the discomfort, a dull ache forming from his too-tight grip. But the pain was overshadowed by the rivers of rapture running over your skin. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, your whole body rebounding like snapping elastic from his brutal behavior.

The new angle had his cock slamming against that spot inside you that had your body going almost numb from the pleasure, white hot heat spreading over all your limbs, making your toes curl against the floor. You felt like you were fracturing, that thrilling tendril tightening in your belly to its breaking point. You could feel your walls sucking in his cock, your body pleading on its own.

“Oh fuck, Commander—Erwin,” you were completely lost to the delirium, mind ruined.

“I know,” he grunted, fingers stiffening in your hair, craning your neck back farther, “I feel you, you’re so—you’re so fucking tight.”

You crashed down around him, your cunt clenching and pulsing in waves of euphoria, each crest making your lower muscles spasm. Your chin fell, your head only being held by the might of his hand, your brain so foggy with lust and release that you felt as if you had ascended the walls too quickly and fallen back down again. A fresh, euphoric jolt splintered down your body as he sheathed his cock fully into your depths, making your eyes flutter as your mouth opened in a glorious, blissed out state.

Your body threatened to crumple against the desk, but he held you; the space between his palms and strong fingers was one of the safest places in the world, nothing could touch you if Erwin had you beneath his touch. The fierce tightening of your body sent him over the edge. Hot cum poured inside of you, making you cry out at the captivating feeling of being completely filled by him, the Commander’s seed pooling within your pussy. Your snug walls struggled to flutter around the girth of his cock, prolonging your orgasm and leaving you gasping for breath and basking in every dull thump of his cock inside of you.

He gently let go of your hair, letting your spent body rest against the desk as he caught his breath. He smoothed his hands over your hips, a tinge of regret in his chest as he noticed the dark prints of his fingers etched into your skin. Erwin wasn’t used to letting go, to letting lust overtake him so mercilessly.

You stirred after a few moments, straightening your back and finding your balance between your legs. Erwin enveloped you in his arms, hand against your cheek as he trailed his lips up your neck, capturing the side of your mouth with a fervent kiss.

“Are you alright, darling?” Concern laced his tone, hand smoothing over your belly. You shuttered at the gentle touch, your skin cooling from sweat as you leaned back against his chest, cum sticky and crawling down your thighs.

You still felt lost, like you were waking from the dark depths of slumber, his hands calling you to him. One palm wrapped around your neck, stroking at the column of your throat like he was helping you to find your breath.

“Yes, yes I’m…,” you couldn’t think of the words to describe just how you felt. It was like you’d finally been cleansed, every grievous thought expunged from your mind, but also like you’d fallen back into the past, back into your daydreams of wishing Erwin would press you against the barracks wall and smothering his name from your mouth.

“It is yes sir, to you, don’t forget I’m your superior now,” he teased between nips and kisses, a smile brushing against your skin.

You turned in his arms, pressing your naked chest against his wrinkled shirt, the cotton soft against your breasts. You stood on your toes to try and match his height, molding your lips to his, stealing his grin and making it your own.

“I could never forget, not with such a display of power,” you affirmed, seriousness apparent on your tongue. You knew he could take anything he wanted from you, and you were more than willing to lay yourself bare for him whenever he pleased.

You expected there to be a stillness between you, a moment of reflection after such a callous coupling. But Erwin’s hands were greedy, selfish, cupping and kneading at the soft flesh of your ass, of the side of your breast. You were small in his shadow; a miniscule frame being devoured by a starved predator.

“I want to see just how well you obey orders. Go to my quarters and wait for me, I’m not finished with you yet.”

Your head nodded accordingly, your knees ready to kneel to the floor and gather your forgotten garments. But Erwin kept his fingers in your flesh, preventing you from moving from his hold when you tried.

“Ah, I don’t think you need your clothing, not when you’ll just be shedding it again so soon.”

There was a playful glint in his eyes, his eyebrows thoughtfully pressed together as he tried to gauge your response.

“Erwin,” his hands cinched around your body, an acute reminder, “sir, I can’t...walk to your room naked.”

He patted your backside before he sat back into the chair behind his desk, cock tucked neatly back into his pants. There was still a pretty blush tingeing his cheeks, his lips plump and dark pink from all their time spent sucking at your skin. You almost wanted to cover yourself under his scrutinizing gaze, icy irises roaming your body like a piece of art bought and hung on a wall for his viewing pleasure.

“It’s late, there shouldn’t be anyone to find you,” he relaxed, arms crossing across his chest, “but, if you happen to be unfortunate, remind them that you are under your Commander’s orders.”

Erwin took a sick delight in watching your eyes narrow at him, your lips pursing in slight irritation; but he knew you wouldn’t dare disobey him, you’d always been too good of a soldier for that, and now a promising plaything.

He couldn’t help but survey your body as you walked towards the door, delicious curves and marks from his skin on an alluring display, his cum still flowing down your thighs. You’d be a blessed sight to anyone who got the privilege to see you on your journey to his sleeping quarters, a goddess floating down the corridors.

You looked over your shoulder at him when you opened the door, catching his diligent gaze and matching it. He always thought you’d be amusing to toy with and you’d proven that with how easily you could match his intensity.

“You shouldn’t be up so late, Commander Smith, nothing good happens after midnight.”

He hid the smirk behind his hand as you left his office the same as you entered, only bare-skinned and with a new, more suitable destination.

#erwin x reader #erwin smut #erwin smith #erwin smith x reader #erwin x you #erwin smith x you #erwin #aot x reader #aot erwin #snk #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk erwin #snk erwin smith #aot erwin smith #attack on titan #attack on titan erwin #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan x reader

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pedros-mustache · 3 years ago

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two weddings one breath

summary: she marries whom her love compels / and i marry goodman death – sidney lanier

a/n: i don’t fookin’ know what this is but it’s a lil somethin’ based on this post. still working out my new work schedule and finding time to write. 🤗

edit: likely no sequel; just a writing exercise.

(gif by @barnesdjarin)

He carries the weight of her on his shoulders every day.

Her—that vibrant, alluring siren, wicked in the way she draws him beneath her sea without apology. Her—to whom he committed all—body, mind, and soul—before a congregation of Laredo’s weathered few. Her—the object of his deepest affections, even now, twenty-five hundred miles apart.

Her—his wife. Mi esposa.

His wedding ring lays discarded in his desk. He looks at it blankly each time he goes to grab a stubbed pencil or typewriter ribbon, and the gold band leers back at him from a small plastic drawer organizer. Nestled between gum wrappers and paper clips, the jewelry is out of place, but he cannot bring himself to take it home where it belongs. Somehow shoving his wedding ring in the depths of his sock drawer seems to him the worst thing he could do, his abrupt desertion of the one person who saw him as more be damned.

He is haunted by her (Where are you? What are you doing? Have you cut your hair? Do you sleep in the arms of another?), but the shadows under his eyes are easily explained away by a lack of sleep due to strenuous hours, not the corrosive guilt that bleeds through his stomach. The razor-sharp bite in his voice on his anniversary is best understood as the affects of a hangover, not the way he stayed up all night, pacing in front of the phone (To call or not to call; that is the question). The cringe of his mouth when he sees a kiss shared between lovers on the street corner is best ignored altogether.

He is Javier Peña, and no one need know that he is married. It is his best kept, most regrettable secret.

Today’s cigarette break is stolen between asinine meetings. Productivity and better reporting, as though he doesn’t have the whole of Colombia to save from the vice-like grip of one batshit motherfucker. He stands on the embassy steps, dragging from the cancer stick like it’s his last hope.

Maybe it is.

“Hey! Javi! There you are.”

Steve, his quick footsteps on the stone floor a tell long before he called Javi’s name.

“Whaddya want, Murphy?” Javi withdraws the cigarette from his mouth and flicks a clump of grey ash to the ground. “I’m on my break.”

“Take a look at this, will ya?” Steve shoves a manilla folder in Javi’s eyeline, and a pink slip of paper pokes out, teetering precariously over the lip of the file. “It’s from the guys upstairs. They were listening to—”

Steve’s words fade behind a puff of tobacco smoke as Javi takes the file, staring across the busy embassy parking lot. He likes Steve okay, trusts him enough to put his own ass on the line day in and day out with nothing but a scrawny white boy to cover him, but he talks a lot. More than is strictly necessary.

Shoving the half-gone cigarette between his lips, Javi flips open the file and scans the top page. Nothing earth shattering, nothing completely useless either. Typical day. He stopped hoping a long time ago.

A car door slams, and instinctively, he looks up in the direction of the sound. His eyes fall—and why should they not?—on her as she pays a cab driver then turns to drag her eyes from the ground to the roof of the embassy.

The weight on Javi’s shoulders crashes through the lean line of his spine, and he is without center, floating adrift in a galaxy of terror. He cannot—he must not—run and yet his muscles scream for him to fly. He does not know where he would go: to her? to his desk? to some far remote corner of the world?

He remains rooted in place. The cigarette burns the tip of his tongue.

She sees him at last, and there is nothing on her face to betray any emotion at seeing her long-gone, never-forgotten husband. Three years married, only ten months spent together before he split like a banana peel and rushed for the most dangerous and consuming place he could in order to forget what he’d done to her. What he could not be for her.

Her heels click on the pavement before hitting the marble stairs. Her perfume wafts on a hot afternoon breeze. He longs to crush her to his body. She manages a stiff nod to Steve before turning her sights on him. He finds he can no longer read her like the lines on the back of his hand. It startles him.

“Hello, Javi,” she says.

And she smiles.

#javier peña #javier peña x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pm writes

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chalkrevelations · 3 years ago

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Ok ok ok – Bad Buddy Ep 3, Part 1/4, and I am LOSING MY MIND. Some really interesting stuff in this one, only it’s things that aren’t thrown into sharp relief until you’ve seen later eps, so this one really rewards re-watching.

Of course, that definitely means due diligence: This will absolutely contain spoilers for later episodes, if not through the end of the show. If you haven’t seen the show yet and want to watch it unspoiled, drive on by for now and come back when you’ve finished watching.

SO. We OPEN ON … No, wait. First, we have our disclaimer, telling us not to try this at home, kids, because depiction is not endorsement, so I guess maybe we’re going to be double-fisting at the bar again at some point? There’s a Previously On: Pat and Pran discover their living situation hasn’t changed at ALL, despite being in the dorm; Wai gets harassed on the job by a bunch of drunk assholes Pat and the Engineering secondary backup hobbits a bunch of drunk assholes; flashback to the root of Pran’s worst nightmare of getting caught with Pat; and Korn and Wai punch the shit out of each other and the bus stop under the unflinching eye of a security camera, so that’s going to go GREAT for everyone.

OPEN ON … OK, no. I have to pause again, because our timeline is a little fucky here. At the end of Ep 2, we cut from Pat and Pran arguing about who’s moving out directly to the bus-stop fight. Then we open Ep 3, and one would presume this is the next morning, after both the moving-out argument and the bus-stop fight, but one would be INCORRECT. It is maybe the morning after the moving-out argument, but the bus-stop fight hasn’t happened yet (we find this out later), which is why, when Wai sidles up behind Pran in the Architecture workspace, Pran is the one who looks like he went 10 rounds the night before, while Wai doesn’t seem any the worse for wear.

SO, OPEN ON: Pran doodling in his sketchbook, and I’m presuming the little dude he’s scribbling, with the angry eyebrows (fierce eyes?) is supposed to be Pat. He could use a little bit more hair, if you’re taking constructive criticism, Pran. Also, what’s next, hearts in the margins? You have it bad, my dude, and I bet you could not be more irritated by that fact. Wai sidles up behind him to take a peek, and then there’s some discussion about how hard songwriting is, because I guess Pran is supposed to be using study-hall time to write their song for the competition? Pran namedrops Fongbeer Pativate, and Wai namedrops Pat Klear, and then Wai gives Pran some advice to stop using his head because sometimes you have to use your heart and bring out your inner feelings, which is advice that Pran probably needs tattooed on his forehead at this point of the show, so he can see it every single time he looks in the mirror. We know this is true and good advice because Pran looks like Wai is telling him to eat a raw slug, not just talk about his feelings, and I know, my dude, I feel you on this, because you remind me a little too much of me, and I have also been subjected to this conversation. More than once. Pran insists that his life isn’t interesting enough for a song, and Wai … Wai grabs one of Pran’s pencils and sits down with a piece of paper and asks him if he’s ever had a secret crush on anyone before, and this is where I have to pause this episode and scan forward through the later eps, because I’ve seen this scene before, where have I seen this scene? OH, RIGHT. This is the flashback scene from Ep 5 when high-school Pran is explaining to high-school Pat how to write a song, and he’s asking Pat if HE’S EVER HAD A SECRET CRUSH ON SOMEONE, and he’s TAKING NOTES ON FEELINGS while DRAWING OUT PAT’S RESPONSES, and now I’M LOSING MY MIND. They’ve literally taken high-school Pran’s words and put them in Wai’s mouth in a pair of scenes that explicitly mirror each other, and there’s a couple of things going on. No. 1, I’m becoming convinced that one of Wai’s functions in the narrative is to represent a part of Pran that does what Pran wants to do but is too afraid/repressed to actually do. This is as small as the fact that Pran no longer writes songs or plays the guitar but Wai convinces him to participate in the band competition, and as large as the fact that Pran lies to Wai like Pran lies to himself about his feelings/relationship with Pat. Wai gets super pissed off about the lies and lashes out the way Pran gets angry about growing up in an entire web of lies and deceit – including his own subterfuge that’s the only way he can manage to be friends with Pat – but that we don’t see come out as anger until he confronts Dissaya (and then runs away from home to be a pirate fisherman) in Ep 10. Wai drops that curtain and exposes the relationship between Pat and Pran after Pran has just finished fighting with Pat about how Pat is going to expose them with the way he keeps posting suspicious stuff on his IG, but god, ok, fine, Pat doesn’t have to stop doing it, it’s alright, and Wai has made his peace with the relationship between Pat and Pran by the time he escorts Pat to the bottom of the staircase to allow him to make his proclamation of love out in the open in front of the entire Architecture faculty. ALSO. No. 2, Wai is giving Pran a do-over. This is Pran’s permission – whether he still needs it from an outside source, or Wai is again functioning as part of Pran’s own psychological make-up here – to pursue this thing with Pat, if he decides he wants it. Wai has been the human-to-Pran interpreter in terms of relationship stuff previously, and he handed out what was – let’s be honest – the most mature, reasonable advice re: interpersonal interaction that we’ve heard from anyone on this show so far, and I’m including the adults. And now, here he is, sitting in the exact position that high-school Pran sat in, advising Pran to do exactly what he did when he was younger, what Pran ended up being punished for, what Pran repressed and lost. Wai is validating Pran’s high-school emotional/relationship experiences re: Pat – he’s showing Pran that what he felt and experienced and talked to Pat about back in high school wasn’t wrong, that it was normal and something to be celebrated, something to be commemorated in song, that Pran’s high-school instincts to do that were correct, that it wasn’t something to be ashamed of the way his mom made him feel, that Pran should trust those feelings, that they’re important.

I AM LOSING MY MIND, y’all. And people want to talk about how Pran and Wai were never really that close, or how their relationship was never really developed? Also, yes, I see what you did with the queerness metaphor there, P’Aof.

Anyway, what’s happening plot-wise is that we get a shot of Pran looking wide-eyed at Wai, then a flashback to the high-school music room, where Pran is trying to play his guitar but hurting his fingers. When Pat wanders in, Pran’s kind of shifty, but Pat is immediately like, what’s the matter? Which is interesting – was Pat actually that immediately attentive, or is that how Pran remembers him? Do we get any unreliable narrator stuff in these flashbacks, or should we take them as given? Anyway anyway, Pran says he forgot his guitar pick and when he refuses to let Pat cut up his student ID to make a pick, Pat cuts up his own student ID and presents Pran with a guitar pick that now has Pat’s FACE on it and is going to hang over the mantel like an unused gun for the next nine episodes. I’m serious, I kept wondering when this pick was going to make another appearance, and it turns out to be a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it in 20 seconds in the last four minutes of the show, which is kind of disappointing. Nevertheless, high-school Pran picks up the pick and studies it, and he can’t help smiling, and high-school Pat looks back at over his shoulder to watch him, also smiling, and I want to throttle both sets of parents for the opportunities these kids lost, growing up. (Although, also, there’s a little gremlin part of me that now wants to read the AU where they were allowed to grow up as friends and now, they actually can’t stand each other, because familiarity breeds contempt. Ha.) Pat tells Pran to stop looking at it and play, and as Pran starts playing the guitar (with Pat’s FACE), we get Wai’s voiceover pulling us back to present-day, telling Pran that when you fall for someone, your heart flutters, because apparently, just like Pa, Wai’s got a set of tells that he uses to gauge attraction. It also includes that when you think about them you can’t help smiling, and at this point present-day Pran looks up, kind of soft and starry-eyed, completely giving away just how fucking gone he is over SOMEBODY, before he makes a face at Wai and insists that wasn’t a smile, then shoves his stuff in his bag and leaves in a rush that is not suspicious at all, no way, nuh-huh, as Wai is clearly amused by him.

Insert opening credits. Yeah, we’re only like seven minutes in, and all this has happened already. I don’t know if I can take 3.5 more parts of this. I might die.

Cut to night, Pran ordering food at the noodle truck – three wontons, we come in on – and then he wanders over to a table and asks a random dude in a Tim Horton’s T-shirt if he’ll share his table, and the guy turns around and surprise! Is Pat. We learn that Pran’s order is specifically Red Pork Noodle Soup With Three Wontons And No Garlic, as the server delivers the bowl to this table, so there’s no backing out, now. Pran sits down, grimacing. Pat is amused. Pran is looking around like he’s expecting to be under surveillance (hypervigilance! always a fun time!), and Pat tells him to just eat, that no one’s going to see them (they’re not going to get caught). Pran tells Pat to finish chewing before talking, and I’m immediately flung back to the Cloud Recesses. If Pran could make “No talking while eating” a rule, he probably would. (If Pran could institute all 3000 of Gusu Lan’s rules, at this point, he probably would. I … kind of want some kind of crossover fic where Lan Qiren and Dissaya get stuck in a small room with each other, now. NOBODY would stand a chance against their combined Them-ness, not even Wen Ruohan.) Pat wants to know, why three wontons, and Pran’s face is super unimpressed by this small talk, but he does offer the explanation that two isn’t enough and four is too many. Pran measures his chopsticks, and Pat gives him a look before raising his bowl to tug on Pran’s pigtails slurp up some of his own soup. There’s more bickering, and Pran’s still irritated, and Pat’s still amused, and this all culminates in Pat stealing one of Pran’s wontons, putting it in his mouth, then letting it fall out of his mouth back into his own bowl and challenging Pran to take it back. Pran, instead of jamming his chopsticks into Pat’s eye like he has every right to do after that little stunt, actually does make a break for the wonton in the bowl. Pat counters, and they have a chopstick fight before Pat cheats by using his other hand to pull Pran’s chopsticks out of the way, and he finally slurps down the wonton. Pran is SO DONE with this childish behavior, and he’s also done with the way Pat continues to just sit there and stare at him eating, but his attempts to make Pat go the fuck away not only don’t work, but Pat pays for both their dinners. Does that make this a date? What is the protocol here? Pran begrudgingly thanks Pat, and then there’s this split-second when Pat’s face does A Thing while Pran’s looking down into his bowl and can’t see him, something softer and less confrontational, maybe a little bit contemplative, before he’s back to being an ass again.

Back at the dorm, they discover the elevators are out of service, and Pat doesn’t know how to deal with whatever feelings this wonton battle has awakened in him other than to challenge Pran to a race up the stairs, because OF COURSE competition is the only way he knows to interact with Pran, and he clearly doesn’t want tonight’s interaction to end yet. Bro, you need to get there faster, alright, and I don’t mean up the stairs. Pran’s a delightful little fucking cheater who acts like he’s not interested right up until the second he takes off without warning, and then after he loses, insists that he never really accepted the challenge in the first place. In between, there is a lot of horseplay and flinging each other around as they take advantage of this intricately constructed ritual to touch each other. Afterward, they both hang on their respective doorjambs, panting, and we get some more product placement that continues to be not as charming as Wolong’s Famous Nuts, but then, what is? There’s another scuffle that allows Pat to kind of slam Pran up against a door before Pran elbows him away. When they finally break, Pat tells Pran that if he wants a rematch to come knock on his door any time, but if Pran misses him … don’t knock, just come in. You would think he’d never met Pran, if he thinks Pran is going to blink at gay chicken. Pran holds out a fist to bump, but then gives Pat the finger at the last minute (which, for those of us keeping score, like me, let me just point out was the thing that Wai did that all of Engineering was so exercised about that they decided he deserved a seven-on-one beatdown). Pat gives him the finger back before they both retreat into their respective rooms. How very Your Dads of you both. Safely inside his room, Pran leans against the door, and it’s a good thing Wai’s not around, my dude, because he would ABSOLUTELY call you on that smile on your face. Also, yes, Pat was playing gay chicken with you, but don’t assume he’s smart enough to realize what he was doing. I’m just sayin’. Anyway, Pran kind of shakes his head ruefully as he moves off-camera, and we’re left looking at the big smiley face poster taped to the inside of his door. This is probably supposed to tell us something about his mood right now, but what it actually does is make me sad as I realize that he’s got the big lighted frowny face over by his computer, in his inner sanctum where it’s safe to express those feelings, but he’s got the big smiley face taped up where it’s the last thing he sees before he leaves his safe haven to go out into the world every day, reminding him of how he should project himself to the world. UGH. My HEART.

Cut to Pat in his own room, when there’s a knock on the door. He clearly expects it to be Pran, but it’s Korn and the other Engineering secondary backup hobbits, and THIS is apparently when the bus-stop fight happened, because they’ve had the shit kicked out of them. Hmm. Looks like maybe someone’s mouth was writing checks their body can’t cash. Inside the room, Korn says that they tried to hold back, like Pat suggested, but Architecture started it. So, here’s MY question, bro: Do I believe you or not? I’m not sure I do, given your track record, but also, what do you consider “starting” it? Because it’s a common bully tactic to verbally torment someone until they throw the first punch, and then accuse them of “starting” it, and I’ve seen the way you instigate. Mo insists that they didn’t start it this time, and he sounds so sad, like he can’t believe someone would beat them up rather than the other way around. Poor fucking baby. Anyway, cut to the next day, with Pat and the other three standing around nervously outside an office as an admin meeting goes on. Pat tells them to prepare for what’s coming, Korn tells him not to rub it in, and I roll my eyes, because frankly, you need your nose rubbed in it, from what I’ve seen. Pat’s worried that he’ll be banned from the music competition (and then how will he compete with Pran?!?!), and Korn’s response is probably the first thing he’s said so far in the show that I agree with.

Cut to Architecture, with the seniors asking the Arch secondary backup hobbits how they are. They don’t look great, either, although I think it’s a little hyperbolic when someone tells them they look TERRIBLE. An instructor shows up and kicks out anyone not involved with the incident. Pran stays, even though he wasn’t there for the fight. They’ve avoided academic probation, but they have to rebuild the bus stop. Wai protests that Engineering were the ones messing with them in the first place. The instructor tells them it’s because they started it, and I literally throw up my hands again, because yes, that actually is the unfortunate response too many times when someone finally takes a swing at the bully who’s been harassing them and gets hauled off to the principal’s office. ANYWAY, they look at the projected expenses, and everyone is dismayed. They have to have it done by the end of the month. Pran thinks he can get some materials discounted from his parents. Wai is super irritated by all this and kicks a chair and basically calls it all bullshit and tells Pran that he shouldn’t have to be involved; he adds that Engineering should have to take responsibility, too. Pran gets his thinky face on and blatantly, deliberately ignores a phone call from Pat. Cut to a scene where Pran does go talk to Pa about some materials from her family’s business that are out of stock at his family’s business, and she promises to give him a discount. She asks if he needs them for his faculty event, and Pran gets this weird soft look on his face like he’s going to cry at any minute, and Pat, you are in for it now. Laundry privileges are ‘bouta get REVOKED.

Cut to Pat in his room at home, still trying to get Pran to respond to his calls. He’s watching through their bedroom windows into Pran’s room as Pran checks his phone, and NOPE, not answering that call, either. Pa comes in reminding Pat that he promised to leave Pran alone. Pat protests that he had nothing to do with it, blames it on Korn, and asks how Pa knows about it, anyway. I find this … a contrast to Pran’s insistence on remaining at the table (lit. and fig.) with Wai, Louis and Safe for their punishment. It is … a contrast that makes Pran look better than Pat, I’m just going to say. Pat insists Architecture started the fight, and anyway, the punishment was decided by the university board, not him. Pa, much like Pran, is DONE at this point. Laundry privileges are revoked. After she leaves, Pat goes to a drawer and pulls out one of those contraptions where kids make a telephone out of two tin cans and a string. He’s kept it in a drawer all this time because both of these morose motherfuckers are hopeless. Anyway, he tosses one of the tin cans over through Pran’s open window, because he figures this way, Pran has to answer. Pran is clearly pissed off but puts the can to his ear. Pat tells him not to be unreasonable, and Pran’s a better person than I am, because I’d drop that can and come over that windowsill at you if you condescended to me like that, at this point, bro. Pran is understandably incredulous (IKR, baby?). Pat goes on about how Pran’s friends started the fight, and it wasn’t his friends’ fault. Pran tells him that if Pat’s friends hadn’t put that video online, Pran’s friends wouldn’t have lost their heads. Pat looks puzzled and wants to know what video, at which point I throw my hands up again and literally exclaim “Oh, FUCK you,” at the screen, because the video you’ve been wanting to get since Ep 1 as revenge for someone uploading the initial video of Wai flipping you off, Pat. You remember that? The video that you insisted you needed of Wai having the shit kicked out of him, to salve your manly pride? Pran is almost as pissed as I am, which is viscerally gratifying to watch, and he tells Pat that it was the video of Pat’s friends in the bar, picking on Wai, that they posted online (like you planned in Ep 1, Pat). And now Pat has the temerity to look all puzzled and say that he didn’t know about the video, which is big news to Pran, because as he points out, Pat’s is literally in the video. “You looked so happy,” Pran tells him, then throws his tin can onto the ground before shutting his window and turning his back on Pat. Mmmm. Tasty, tasty catharsis. Pat continues to act baffled, I don’t feel sorry for him, and scene.

Next on PART 2: Pat’s trying to be a good boy, and maybe I’ll have a little more sympathy, but Pran continues to be SO. DONE.

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pseudonympls · 3 years ago

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Love Blooms - Part 5 - From Trauma

!Teaser!

“Mile End in London are looking for nurses, it must be awful down there” Bessie mused, leafing through the raft of letters asking for medical staff of all skill and rank to up roots and move down to London - while the thirst to help with the war effort was often strong, I felt like I had sacrificed enough, what a far cry our town was from the smog and blitz of London, how I had intended to keep it that way.

“How awful” I absentmindedly agreed, tying my apron behind my waist in a neat bow.

“Bed and board,” she continued “How often do you consider just leaving everything behind and starting a new life?” She chewed the end of the pencil in her mouth, appearing more like a rabbit than a young woman at that moment.

“Hmm?” I asked, her words filtering through to my consciousness “A new life?”

“Yeah, there’s something about London, about the danger, don’t you think?” She placed the letters down on the desk and gazed out the window.

I suppose I had had three lives in my time thus far, the one where I dove headlong into my career as a nurse; my life with Tommy, laden with love and sorrow, and now a new chapter, Bo as my muse - I supposed I had the pieces to put together a semblance of a happy life, all the while craving what I used to have, wishing I could be plonked down in the spring of Tommy and I’s first year together, be spared all the heartache, the potentials of a disaster laying in wait.

How I had tried to find the similarities, mirrored the men back to back - two soldiers, both alike in their sacrifices, yet so vastly different, how I hoped and prayed that history was not about to repeat itself, the love of a man torn from my grip as soon as I got hooked, before I had managed my fill of him.

“I-I suppose there is” I agreed, I slid the papers across the desk and scanned them, absentmindedly I folded the letter and pocketed it, somehow knowing how I would follow that path, meander from my set course, no matter how much I tried not to. An invisible rope tied at my navel, drawing me closer to my fate.

I said my goodbyes to Bessie and the morning staff, bidding them farewell after an arduous day at the hospital - wherein mine was just beginning.

I sat at my desk that evening - drawn out against the window framing a clear sky, pinpricks of the stars winking down at me - teasing me of the freedoms they had - while I was stuck in the hospital - the graveyard shift.

While it was often rewarding work, the night shifts drew on the longest - save for emergencies, the night was quiet: keeping an eye on resting patients, making sure everyone was asleep, and even more dreaded than the boredom was the paperwork. Reams and reams of the stuff, piled on top of one another, leaning like a collapsing tower - a gift from the morning staff.

I had just walked around the ward, ensuring everyone was asleep, the peaceful atmosphere offset by the unwavering feeling that I was being watched - a creeping dread tickling my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, as I settled in my uncomfortable desk chair, sure that I would need to collect another pot of tea from the pantry soon - the only surefire way I could make it through the night without falling asleep.

My mind was drifting back to the other night, the tears we had both shed - how I had whispered to God himself to help me heal him - the man that had piled the building blocks of me into his hands, moulding the clay of my being back into something resembling a woman, when I heard an unsettling sound - the scuffling of shoes on linoleum, a presence. Nothing like the sounds a sleeping person could make.

I stood up, my knees knocking together as I made my way through the near silent ward - pushing open the door and hushing it quietly behind me, careful not to wake the sleeping half dozen patients on the other side.

“H-hello?” I said decisively down the corridor, but I was met by my own slow echo that reverberated through the empty, draughty halls.

Shadows were playing their mischievous game on my eyes, straining against the dark, and my stomach flipped as the fear began to set in.

“Please, whoever’s there, if you need medical attention you need to sign in at the reception, and I’m afraid that’s on the other side of the building, I-”

A low sound, something dark, met me where I stood, made me worry the pencil I was still holding, almost snap it in half.

#love blooms

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celeste-clearwater-06 · 4 years ago

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A warm spring day in Neville's 5th year was a perfect day to go out and find productivity by examining some greenery near the Black Lake. He had brought fresh parchment and a quill outside with him, and he scribbled down perfectly literate handwriting, observing a blade of gold and olive-colored grass.

And coincidentally, he was not the only student who needed a breath of fresh air and to break away from the horrid witch, called Umbridge.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her small, hand-knit bag that she slung over her shoulder.

She found a seat underneath a willow tree, sat close to the edge of the lake, and tucked herself close to the trunk, which made the perfect makeshift seat between its large and knotted roots.

Y/N sat cross-legged, and carefully emptied the contents of her bag.

A well-used sketchbook and pencil, and a few snacks that she had been gifted from the generous house-elves after she had skipped lunch.

A fluttering of wings drew her attention away from the beautiful landscape and watched with a smile as her sand-colored tawny owl perched himself on a gangly root close to her.

"Hello, Percy. " she smiled, and gently stroked the top of his feathery head with two fingers. He closed his eyes with a content chirp, making Y/N chuckle.

"I brought you a little snack. Are you hungry?"

She held out a small piece of bread, and let the owl happily snatch it from between her fingers.

Y/N then looked down at her sketchbook, feeling the urge to let her creativity discharge onto the paper. She scanned her surroundings longingly, trying to unearth any spark of inspiration. Her eyes scanned over large trees, and the captivating lake, watching as a few mermaid tails skimmed the water's surface and delved back down below. A small whip Scorpion scuttled along the ground near Y/N's feet. And when she grew frustrated that no inspiration had come to her, she saw him.

Neville Longbottom, her long time crush, seated on the lush terrain with his legs sprawled out, as he scratched words onto a piece of parchment, and gently biting down on his lower lip in concentration.

Perfect.

A sight for her sore eyes, and for a moment, Y/N can't tear her memorized stare away from the flawless presence about 20 feet away from her.

And when she could finally look away, it was straight down to her hands, watching as they mindlessly duplicated the stunning image not far from her.

Neville felt… strange. He felt the piercing stare of eyes on the side of his head. Nevertheless, he didn't draw his attention away from the violet petals of a beautiful flower. He figured that it was just his subconscious and panicked mind. It always felt that way, since he was known as the fool, the klutz, the screw-up of Hogwarts. He felt like people were always there to judge him.

But if only they were in his shoes. Then they'd know how hard it is to be him. To be Neville. For a moment, the feeling went away, and relief washed over him, but that feeling was short-lived, and the pressure began again.

Neville shifted uncomfortably and furrowed his brows just a bit more. He suspected it was just Draco and his obnoxious goons and decided to just let them stare and conjure up a plan to tease him.

He knew it would never change, and he would just have to live with that.

But, still, his conscience was persistent, and he found his attention pulled away from the delicate flower between his soft fingers, and surveyed his surroundings. And his heart skipped a beat.

Y/N had her beautiful eyes locked down in some sort of book, hand moving in gentle strokes across one of the pages, and her eyebrows knitted together, completely lost in her little world. Next to her, sat a small owl with unusually large eyes. It stared intently at Neville, and then let out a loud chirp.

Y/N smiled, looking up from the book, and up at her owl, speaking to it in a delicately inaudible voice, before realizing that it was staring at something. Neville's face flared as red as his house color, seeing her gentle smile and wave in his direction, and he could hardly lift his hand to wave back.

He watched as Y/N chuckled, then turned back to her book continuing to scribble with eagerness.

He tried to continue looking down at the fragile plant in his hand, but his infatuation with the girl nearby was all too much for his timid heart to handle.

Y/N sighed with relief, seeing him turn back to his original position, permitting the opportunity for her to finish the black and white sketch of Neville. She added finalizing touches, like the golden sun reflecting off of his chocolate-colored hair, and his beautiful long eyelashes that fluttered when he blinked.

She looked up one last time to confirm that she'd made the art perfect, but Neville was gone.

Her heart sank, knowing she had missed another opportunity to talk to him, but jumped out of her skin when she heard a cough on her opposite side.

Y/N quickly turned her head, to find Neville standing above her, wringing his clammy hands together.

"M-may I sit here?" He inquired politely, and immediately averted his eyes when hers widened.

"Absolutely."

Y/N's answer surprised Neville, but he thanked her quietly and accepted the offer of her hand patting the ground. As he lowered himself in between Y/N and a tree root, Neville caught a glimpse of the drawing in her hand and his eyes widened in astonishment.

"That's amazing!" He gaped with perplexity, referring to the art with a nod of his head. Y/N flushed and choked on her own words.

"Ooh, uh yeah…I-I mean thank you! Thank you." She stuttered, internally hexing herself for doing so.

"How in Merlin's Beard did you do that?!" Neville asked, reaching his hand out, and stroking the pencil marks on the well-used paper.

"Just practice I guess. Takes a lot of work, but it pays off in the end." Y/N so badly wanted to place her hand on top of his.

"What spell did you use to do this?"

"Sorry, what?"

"What spell?" Neville repeated, "I had no clue there was a charm for art."

"There's not…"

And Y/N thought Neville's eyes couldn't get any wider.

"REALLY?!"

The loud noise startled Percy, causing him to screech loudly, and flap his wings. Neville gasped.

"Shh, shh it's okay Percy!" Y/N soothed the owl, with a marvelously lulling voice, and Neville just stared in bewilderment as she was able to Instantly calm him, stroking the top of his head.

"I-I'm so sorry!" Neville whispered guiltily, "I didn't mean to scare him."

Y/N laughed sweetly, making Neville's heart skip a beat.

"It's alright. You don't have to whisper."

"R-right. Sorry." His attention was drawn back to the sketchbook. "So you really drew that yourself?"

"I did…"

"You're incredible…" Neville muttered and quickly realized that those words were not meant to leave his mouth.

"I-I mean, the drawing is incredible! A-and you are too! AGh… Merlin, I'm pathetic, aren't I?" He hid his bright red face in his hands

He heard Y/N laugh again, and found that her face was just as red.

"I don't think you're pathetic, Neville."

He looked at her with a deep marvel.

"Y-you know my name?"

She nodded, looking back down at her book with rosy cheeks.

"C-Can I ask you a question?" Neville spoke very quietly, turning to admire the lake a few feet away from them.

"Sure."

"Why did you draw me? There are plenty more interesting things to draw, than me."

Y/N was quiet for a moment, and Neville instantly regretted asking the question, afraid it made her uncomfortable, but before he could speak up, Y/N answered.

"I like to sketch things that I think are pretty."

She answered simply, closing her eyes as the spring air blew gently against her face, and leaned her head back on the trunk of the tree.

Y/N didn't see Neville's face burn an intense shade of red, or how he grinned from ear to ear, mimicking the way she leaned against the willow.

"You think I'm pretty?" He muttered.

"Well, yeah I guess. I think you're very interesting. You seem very nice." She opened her eyes, looking over at Neville, anxious with the sound of his silence.

He was still grinning like a fool as he stared out at the captivating body of water. Y/N found herself starting. He was even more handsome close-up, with the reflection of the water creating beautiful moving patterns that danced across his complexion. He blinked his ivy green eyes a few times.

"Nobody's ever found me interesting unless I'm making a fool of myself." Neville's smile quickly vanished, and he looked back down at his fidgeting hands and picked at a loose string on his cable-knit sweater.

"I can assure you, I think you're more than just a fool. Not everyone can see that, though I'm not sure why."

"Well, I'm not the bravest Gryffindor, for starters. Not as great as Harry Potter. I'm the only one who can't cast his Patronus for Merlin's sake."

"You're brave for trying at least. There's a reason I'm in Hufflepuff, you know. I couldn't do half of the things you Gryffindors could."

"Well sure you can. Hufflepuffs are amazing!"

"Yeah… really though, I think you're incredible Neville."

Neville had nothing else to say. This girl was not one to let him talk down on himself.

After a few moments of stillness, Y/N coughed.

"I think we should get back before Umbridge sicks her evil quill on us."

This made Neville chuckle, a deep, butterfly inducing sound that made goosebumps crawl up and down Y/N's skin.

"You're right. T-thank you by the way."

Y/N looked over at him, realizing she was practically the same height.

"For?"

"Being so kind. It's not every day that someone wants to draw me."

Y/N blushed, and then got an idea, the thought evident on her face as her eyes lit up.

"Here." She ripped the page, and Neville stared in horror at the sound of tearing paper filling his ears.

"What are you doing?"

She pulled out a cleanly torn page, with the picture of Neville, and then held it out to him with a bright smile.

"A parting gift."

"You don't have to do this. Y-you worked so hard and-"

"It's fine, really. I always find the time to make more."

"Thank you. So much. Really, I mean it." Neville's face hurt from smiling so much, as he stared down at the beautiful artwork.

"You're very welcome." Y/N grinned and dusted off her clothes before standing up on her feet.

Percy fluttered from this perch and up onto her shoulder. Neville still hadn't looked away from his gift, and hardly noticed the girl holding her hand out.

"Need some help?"

He froze, locking eyes with Y/N, and unable to form even half of a syllable, with his bright burning expression.

Finally, he could move his head just enough to replicate a nod, and lifted a trembling hand to place in hers. And he would have melted into a puddle of happy-Neville right then and there if it weren't for the fact that he needed to get back to herbology class.

Her hands were warm and soft, and immediately he grew anxious that she would notice the sweat on his as she helped pull him from the ground.

When Neville was back on two feet, he had nearly forgotten how to walk, being so close to this beautiful angel.

He tumbled forwards a little bit, almost knocking Y/N over, and she laughed, helping him stand up straight.

"Oops!"

He quickly pulled his hand away and started to stutter, but Y/N cut him off.

"Hey, you dropped something."

She pointed down at the grass, and Neville noticed it as well. It was the same purple flower that he had been studying earlier. An idea of his own came to mind, and he stooped to pick it up, before holding it out to Y/N.

She gratefully accepted the beautiful plant and tucked it in the front pocket of her black school robe.

"Thank you, Neville! It's beautiful!"

"Y-you're welcome." He smiled shyly.

The two acquaintances walked up towards where they had originally come from, having a deeply intriguing conversation about this so-called "Dumbledor's Army" that Neville had spoken of earlier, and though both of them had been very shy and hesitant at first, they walked away with one thing in mind; they were happy that something good had changed.

A/N- I hope you enjoyed this little one shot!! I know, im not super experienced with the entire set up of this format, but I'll get used to it eventually!! Thank you!! ❤❤

#neville longbottom x reader #neville longbottom #harry potter #x reader #hufflepuff

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thephantomofthe-internet · 5 years ago

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Chapter 6: A Room with a View

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 3,359

Warnings: Swearing, slut shaming, death mention, crying

Author’s Note: So, I already answered this, but just in case anyone missed it: I update this series weekly and I am still editing the vast majority of chapters! Sorry if it’s coming out slower than expected!

Tags: @divinity-deos @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @thecaptainsgingersnap @herre-gud-nej @clockworkballerina @maddie1504 @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary @buckysarge @wildcvltre @stanleyyelnatsiii @n3wtscaseofniffler5 @peterparxour @linkispink1995 @a-big-ball-of-idk @used-avocado @mochminnie @sledgy14 @the-creative-lie @yall-wildin-like-siriusly @ggclarissa @voidnarnia @anonymousonion23

Steve had no idea what he’d done wrong. Not a clue. But you were ignoring him. You sat farther away from him in English the past two days, and you’d been blowing off plans with him. You’d say that you had other plans, but he’d see you sat on the bleachers after school, watching the girls soccer practise or drawing in that book again. He still didn’t know what you were doing in that book and he was irritated by the fact that he could see you sat in your room some days, caught in a lie without knowing it, your nose caught in the pages in front of you, pencil in between your teeth, focused but unaware of an audience. Steve could see right into your room from his when your curtains were open and you often sat at your desk, working in your pads.

On the day that Mr. Lawrence announced the start for the final essay, Steve had had enough. It had been a week of this behaviour and he felt as though he deserved an answer. And he was sick of watching through the window. Tommy and Carol were busy every damn day chasing Billy Hargrove, Vicki had gone back after him too after their awful date, and Tina wasn’t his friend. Sure, he could bug Dustin, but that made him feel like such a loser. His only friends were a rag tag group of preteens and a weird girl who wouldn’t even talk to him! This was getting pathetic.

The bell rang before Steve could make his move and you were out the door before he could even open his mouth. Tina rolled her eyes as she passed him by, grabbing Tina’s arm to whisper loudly “God, how tragic.” making Vicki cackle loudly.

Steve booked it out the door, scanning the halls for you, but you’d already disappeared from sight. He spotted Samantha, but she was on the retreat. He chose not to chase her down, they’d never even had a conversation before and using her to try to get her to spill on her friend felt a bit shitty. So he decided to just take a walk, no harm in a walk, it was a nice day anyway, out by the field. He wandered out the gym doors by the car park. He shoved his hands into his blue workman’s jacket. The weather was still a bit too chilly to go without a coat, but the sunshine made it easier.

He spotted you and Samantha at the top of the bleachers. You had your hair up that day and your lavender bomber jacket draped around your shoulders. Carol had something similar, or maybe it was Tina, he couldn’t remember which one the pair blurred into one being in his mind.

Samantha caught Steve’s eye before you did. She leaned over to you with a smirk “Lover boy’s watching.” She whispered cheekily, pointing slyly at him.

You turned immediately. Steve was standing in the car park, a few smattering of folks on car hoods, eating packed lunches and watching the scene go down. He waved, taking a step towards you. You turned your attention away.

Samantha was baffled. A week ago, you were telling her all about the weird fun you were having with him, all smiles and laughter, and now you wouldn’t even look at him for more than a second. You wouldn’t admit it, but Samantha knew that he was something more than a friend to you. Nobody was this upset when someone cancelled plans.

Steve turned away without a word. He wanted to scream at you, his mind demanding to know what he had done wrong. He made a plan that afternoon, one he was certain might ruin everything for him.

As soon as the three o’clock bell rang, Steve made a mad dash for his car. He didn’t leave immediately; instead he waited to see an expected sight. Once he saw you huddled and headed for the bleachers, he was sure that the girl’s team was practising. Then he drove off towards home, parking in his own driveway. His mother was home, a shock to him, but he still headed upstairs. The next part was tricky. He’d time out that practise ended at four thirty, but that you usually left at four since the walk was so long. At four twenty, he headed across the street. As always, the yellow Volkswagen sat in the driveway. He’d rarely ever seen it leave the driveway, but it gave him hope that someone was inside the house. You couldn’t be living alone as a senior. He bounded up the front steps, knocking on the door twice. He was nervous, switching his weight from his toes to his heels in a rocking motion forward and back, forward and back.

An older man opened the door. He had to be in his eighties, with age spots speckling him around his eyes like a second pair of wide frames behind his tortoise shell glasses. He seemed suspicious of Steve, although that was probably because he was staring.

“Hello,” he stuck out his hand for the man to shake “I’m Steve Harrington, I’m a friend of Y/N.” the man didn’t take his hand, staying silent as he looked him over.

Steve pressed on “I was wondering if she was home, we were supposed to study together today and she said that she’d call when she got home but I haven’t heard from her.” He chuckled awkwardly.

From behind the old man, a woman’s voice called “Harold, who’s there?”

“One of Y/N’s friends, she home yet?” he called back, opening the door wider. Steve could see the pale yellow walls, sun stained from the large three panel window at the front of their house.

Steve watched as an older woman hobbled into the scene, back hunched and skin thin. She looked frail, her hair dyed to what Steve assumed was its original shade, her grey roots visible from the top of her head. She greeted Steve with a warm smile. Steve was quick to offer his hand to shake, which she took carefully. “Hi, Steve Harrington, it’s nice to meet you both.” He said quickly, smiling brightly at the pair.

“Well hello there, I’m Maude and this is Y/N’s grandfather Harold, it’s lovely to meet you.” She said sweetly. “Why don’t you come inside, Y/N should be home any minute.”

Maude hit Harold’s arm roughly and he let go of the door, letting Steve into the house. He quickly kicked off his shoes, noting the pair’s socked feet. He looked around the house. Every house on the street was one of three standard box deals, with specified details. His parents hadn’t paid for the window seat like your family had, but you didn’t have the open kitchen that his did; an extra yellow wall separated the space. He looked to the fireplace, an exact copy of his family’s before their renovation last august. He missed the grey brick they used to have. You had a large family portrait on the mantle. You were sat in the centre in your Sunday best, your grandparents flanking the outside, two other adults stood closest to you. Steve assumed they were your parents. You looked like your father.

“You have a lovely home,” he said, turning his attention to the pair who were watching him intently.

“Thank you.” Maude smiled “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Sure.” Steve wasn’t much for tea, but he was taught not to refuse something offered by his host. Maude hurried off, leaving him and grumpy old Harold alone.

“Y/N doesn’t bring boys around.” Harold announced when his wife was out of the room. Steve didn’t really know what to say to that, luckily he continued “So what’re you trying to do with my girl?”

“Study,” Steve said with a shrug. The man scoffed, but Steve pressed on. “She’s my partner for our English final, we’re supposed to be working on it today, it’s due soon.”

Harold nodded gruffly “Alright…” he took a seat on the couch, turning the volume back on. The Love Boat was on, a rerun of the episode with guest stars the Captain and Tennille, and Steve was certain that they’d both seen it before.

Maude came in with a tray, handing her husband a mug. It was hand painted, thick script reading ‘Happy Father’s Day’ on the front, the year 1974 written in smaller script underneath in blue paint. She handed him a plain white mug.

“Well, Steve, you’re free to go and wait for Y/N upstairs, her room is two doors to the right of the stairs, you can’t miss it.” She said, gesturing to the stairwell. Steve bid his thanks and headed up the wide carpeted stairwell.

Harold mumbled something to his wife that Steve couldn’t hear, only catching her response. “He’s young, he doesn’t want to sit with us old folks.” She laughed at her own joke and Steve smiled at their friendly banter. They reminded him of his aunt and uncle, they always joked in that sort of way, laughing at themselves before anyone else. It made him feel as if he were at home in the house; he was comforted by the casualness of existence.

Maude was right that the room was impossible to miss. The door was covered in childlike butterflies painted in purple puffy paint. When he opened the bedroom door, he was transported into a small, private art gallery. The room was covered wall to wall in fabric canvases, canvas boards, and paper sketches. Your desk was covered in paint splotches and doodles carved into the wood, there were glow in the dark stars and moons on the blades of your ceiling fan. You’d painted your ceiling into a buttery sunset. It was as if for the first time, Steve was seeing all of you. And you were absolutely incandescent.

His hands went to roam your shelves, filled with sketchbooks and art books and worn copies of the classics. Greedily, he grabbed the first black sketchbook he found its pages heavy and curled. A piece of masking tape on the cover read ‘Still Life, 1980’ in black Sharpie. He flipped over the cover. Every page was the same bowl of fruit, some plain sketches, some painted in acrylics or water colours, but the fruit changed in shape and structure with every flip, rotting more with each sketch until the image switched to a vase of sunflowers, a prim and proper version of the Van Gogh he’d seen a print of in his freshman year art class. He wondered if you’d been there, silently making your own master pieces. He wondered how many masterpieces you had hidden away in your big black book.

The door opened behind him before he could put the sketch book away. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” you snapped, bounding towards him. When your grandmother told you that your friend from school was upstairs waiting for you, you had a sinking feeling that you knew who it was. And seeing him rifling through your things made your blood boil.

Steve turned slowly, unsure what to say. You snatched the pad out of his hands “And who the fuck gave you permission to look at my stuff, you pervert!” You knew that he hadn’t done anything actually perverted, but you still felt violated.

“I can’t get you to talk to me, I figured coming here would at least make you see me.” Steve laughed a bit, unable to even process what was happening. In the back of his mind, he thought that this would be an effortlessly cool way to go about a solution. Like you’d see him in your room and think ‘wow…what an effort that was…’ Instead, you were furious.

“So, you thought that coming into my house without telling me, lying to my grandparents, and touching my stuff would make it better.” You raised an eyebrow, shoving your sketchbook onto the shelf.

“What was I supposed to do? You won’t answer my calls, you won’t talk to me, I can’t get you to look at me for more than a second and all I want to know is what I did wrong so I can fix it!” Steve cried, words tumbling out of his mouth. You both stared at each other for a moment, surprised by each other, your mouth hanging silently ajar.

You closed it fast, swallowing before speaking “You…you hurt my feelings.” You said softly, pushing past him to put distance between you, standing next to your desk and the window.

“How did I hurt your feelings?” Steve asked quietly, watching you carefully even as you stared defiantly out the window.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest “You cancelled our plans. For Vicki.”

“So?” Steve asked.

“So, I don’t cancel on you. I never cancel on you, especially not the day of. It hurt my feelings.” You explained, picking at a bit of lint on your sweater.

“Yeah, but I…” he tried to catch himself before he said something terrible, but you already knew what filled in the blank.

“What? You have more friends than me? Is that it?” you snapped. It was Steve’s turn to look away, but you pressed on. “You’re right, you do have more friends than me. But don’t act like I don’t have a social life without you. I do. Do you know how many games of Samantha’s I’ve skipped out on to help you study? How many practises she’s asked me to come and watch that I’ve said no to because I already had plans with you?”

“I don’t know…” Steve muttered. Embarrassment crept up his face. He felt like such a dick. In truth he had forgotten about your plans that day in the excitement of a date with Vicki. With hindsight in full effect he could see that he would’ve had twice as much fun with you eating greasy burgers then he did with Vicki driving around Hawkins.

“Well, it’s been a lot. And it’s not the fact that you went out with Vicki that upset me, you are free to date whoever you want. But can you please at least tell me if you’re cancelling a little sooner than mere minutes before?” you asked, your voice cracking on the end.

“Sure, yeah of course. I should’ve been doing that before.” Steve stumbled over his words to apologize.

“Okay.” You nodded “Now, why are you going through my shit?”

“I wanted to see more. This whole room is incredible.” Steve breathed, plopping down on your mattress.

“You think?” you asked quietly. In truth, you didn’t think that you were that good of an artist. You loved art, but you didn’t think you were exactly talented.

“It’s so cool!” you couldn’t help but laugh, or else you’d cry. Nobody ever talked about your art with such enthusiasm. Teachers only criticized mistakes and your mother and grandparents saw it as clutter. Samantha liked some stuff but she didn’t talk about it much. Even a simple compliment from Steve made you want to cry. You covered your mouth to avoid the tears.

Steve didn’t seem to notice, wandering the room to point out pieces he thought were interesting. He pointed to a canvas depicting the quarry. You’d camped out there one night in the summer; drawing until the sun fades out of the sky and then painting it out once you had it exactly right. “This one is just insane I mean it looks like it’s going to eat you whole, like it has teeth or something.” He exclaimed.

“You can have it.” You replied quickly.

Steve shook his head “No, I couldn’t I mean don’t you want it? For college apps or something?” he couldn’t take it, he’d feel too guilty.

You shrugged “I have enough stuff for at least three portfolios, you should have that one if you like it so much. It’ll make your room cooler.”

“Hey, my room is cool.” Steve pouted, making you laugh harder. He liked your laugh, it split your whole face open into a smile. And your smile looked as if it sat on a bed of clouds. He wanted to float along with it forever.

“Oh yeah, your pee wee t-ball participation trophy is real slick, it gets you all the chicks.” You drawling, bouncing on your mattress.

“Hey, you didn’t run when you saw it.” Steve shrugged, sitting down next to you.

“Eh, your baby sports escapades don’t frighten me. It adds character to know that you suck at something.” You replied. Steve thought briefly of the bat in his trunk and the weight of it mid-swing, connecting with a heavy skull. Better with a bat now then he was as an elementary schooler.

You both lay back on the mattress, staring up at the slowly turning fan. Steve turned to you “What’d you think of Vicki anyway?” he asked.

“Honestly?” Steve nodded “I think she’s a bitch.” Steve laughed loudly but you pressed on “She is! She’s so mean for no reason!”

“Yeah, she’s not cool. She spent our whole date bitching about people, saying a lot of shit about you.” Steve murmured.

“What’d you…” you didn’t know if you could ask how he responded. You bit your tongue before finishing the sentence.

Steve understood anyway “I told her the truth. That you’re a really cool chick and that she shouldn’t be such a bitch about people she doesn’t know.” He said simply, turning his attention back to the slowly moving stars.

You didn’t necessarily believe that he actually defended you. Still, you didn’t feel like arguing. Steve continued on in your silence. “So, do you live with your grandparents’ full time? Or do your parents just work?” he asked.

“Both,” you sighed softly “My mom’s not home very much so they take care of me. She’s a fashion photographer, travels all over the world for different magazines.”

“What about your dad?” Steve asked. He’d seen a younger man in the photo; he assumed that it was some kind of father figure.

“He died.” You muttered.

“Oh…” Steve didn’t know how to react to that. He wasn’t sure if he should apologize.

“She killed him.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying that. Anger still stewed into your bones whenever you thought about your parents.

“What?” Steve to fully look at you, flabbergasted.

“She worked him to death. She always wanted more and farther away from us. Trips to Europe, designer things, this stupid house. She killed him.” You wiped hard at your face, trying to keep the hot tears from streaming down your face. Steve didn’t say anything, he simply pulled you into his chest, holding you tightly into him and letting you cry. He patted your hair gently, trying to soothe you as best he could. He didn’t think he was very good at helping people in their pain. But you grabbed onto his middle and clung to him like a life raft.

“My parents aren’t that great either.” He muttered, unsure if he was helping at all. “They ignore me.”

“I-I’m sorry they do that…” you muttered, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes. Steve melted. He absolutely melted. He was filled with the sudden urge to kiss you, which surprised him. He didn’t follow through with the urge; he didn’t know how you’d take it.

“I’m sorry he’s not here for you…” he replied, petting your hair softly. He stayed with you like that for what felt like hours, letting you cling to him and ruin his shirt with tears. He didn’t care. He needed to be there for you. He promised himself that he wouldn’t hurt you again. That he’d be more careful and pay more attention. He couldn’t bear to see you in this much pain again. He knew that you weren’t crying because of him, but if he could keep you from feeling even an ounce of this sort of pain again, he would.

He cared about you too much to ever let you suffer alone again.

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kayteewritessteve · 5 years ago

Text

Beautifully Unfinished - 5/8

Description: One foolish outburst, one moment of weakness at the worst possible time, and everything goes up in smoke. Who knew finally voicing your true, deep-rooted feelings, would lead to the complete destruction of your most cherished friendship?

Masterlist HERE.

Word Count: 4,580 ish.

Pairing: Modern!Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Curse words. Lots of angst. But if you’ve read my stories before, then you know how this will end.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors and this story, so there’s that.

First Careers.

You quickly make your way down the busy sidewalk, trying to make up for the few extra minutes it took to get out of work. You’d been working for Avengers Publishing House for 3 weeks now, and were loving it so far. Though it was a lot of work and you didn’t really have much free time anymore. You barely got to see your best friends lately, you all just starting on your career paths and slowly figuring out your own lives and new jobs.

Bucky had just passed his bar exam, and had started at a prestigious law firm about 2 weeks ago. You hadn’t seen much of him lately, but you kept each other informed on your day to day lives via text. He was enjoying the new job, but made it very clear that it was a learning curve and very draining work. Going from school life, to the working force was a shell shock for sure. Yes, you had all the book knowledge, but none of the real word experience, so new jobs were a lot to take in at first. You all figured they would be, but not to this extent. But he was happy, and thriving in his career choice, so that’s what truly mattered.

Steve had gotten a paid intern position at the MoMA, it was a once in a lifetime experience and he was over the moon for being chosen for the spot. But he had busted his ass to get it and you couldn’t have been prouder of him or his accomplishments. This was a huge stepping stone for him and his career, and from here more doors would be opened for him, and he’d have many more exciting and fulfilling opportunities in the future. He’d been there for 3 weeks now, having started damn near directly after leaving school.

And you, we’ll you’d been offered a Junior Editors position with Avengers, a very well known and reputable publishing house in Manhattan. It was the first stop on the climb to your dream job, and you were overjoyed with the opportunity to join their team. You’d always loved reading, and at a young age you’d figured out that being a publisher was right up your alley. And now that you had your foot in the door, you’d been entirely right on that thought. But it was a lot of work, late hours and spending your weekends at home and making your way through the stack of manuscripts you’d been given on a deadline.

So you had barely seen the guys over the last few weeks, you’d have the odd small coffee meets on rushed lunch breaks. Or the odd night you’d get together for your traditional weekly BFMMN™ (Best Friend Movie and Munchie Night.) But lately it was less of a tradition, and definitely not weekly. And when you did manage to come together, you’d all usually be out of it and exhausted, so the conversation was non-existent or minimal, at best. You all just being happy in the presence of your best friends, even in utter silence. It was better than nothing.

But today, you were all meeting for dinner, going out to finally celebrate your new jobs and your introductions to the working force. And in Classic You form, you’d lost track of time and were now running late. As per usual.

The restaurants sign finally comes into view and you pick up the pace a little, maneuvering through the swarms of people that always seemed to crowd the city sidewalks. But especially directly after working hours, all the people moving to and from their jobs, their homes and various businesses along the streets. Going to meet friends, to grab coffee or just take a leisurely stroll.

You weren’t taking a leisurely stroll currently though, you were damn near throwing elbows to get to the restaurant in a timely manner. You weren’t super late, by any means, but late was late, and awarded you less time with your best friends. Which wasn’t okay, at all. Not lately at least, not with how little you’d seen either of them the last few weeks.

You’d planned this dinner with them a few weeks ago, to make sure you all were free and clear, and wouldn’t miss it for anything else. You’d made the guys swear to set reminders in their phones so no one forgot or made other conflicting plans tonight. Come hell or high water, you were having dinner with your friends, and then the three of you were returning to your place after, for a few drinks and a movie. There was no getting out of it this time, you needed a fun, relaxing night with your guys, desperately.

You reach the entrance to the restaurant and quickly pull open the door, finding a beautiful young woman standing behind a podium. She asks for the reservation name, and you give her yours as you’d set it up. She smiles, informing you that only one other person has arrived so far and then leads you to the back where the table is.

As your eyes scan the room quickly, they land on a glorious head of blonde hair and a large involuntary smile takes over your face. Stevie, you should have guessed he’d be here first, he was always on time, or in most cases, early.

You also shouldn’t have been so worried about being a few minutes late, as Bucky always showed up last. You were positive that the guy treated being fashionably late like it was a dang character trait. He took it seriously, and never showed up on time, not even remotely.

He ran on his own clock and you’d actually lied to him a few times over the years, giving him incorrect early start times for important things, so that he’d end up late for the fake start time, but right on time for the real one. He’d always chuckle the second he arrived and saw the smug and satisfied expressions on yours and Steve's faces at him accidentally, yet strategically, arriving on time. Though you couldn’t pull that trick too often, or it would cease to work, so you had to pick your battles, and only use it in important or dire situations.

You make your way towards the table, and Steve, admiring the unfairly beautiful angle, even if it was the back of his head. But that wasn’t a shock, the guy was gorgeous and looked outstanding from all sides. It was wholly unfair and a rather large piss off, if you were honest, the guy didn’t have a bad angle anywhere. All hard lines, muscles and taut tanned skin. Then his perfect blonde hair and mesmerizing deep blue eyes, he was the walking embodiment of perfection in your eyes, and probably in many other people's eyes as well.

As you get closer to the table, you notice he is hunched forward a little and looking down, and it doesn’t take a rocket doctor to guess that he probably has his illusive sketchbook out. You have always known, from early on, that Steve loved to draw. He took his sketchbook everywhere with him and pulled it out whenever he was waiting, or no one was watching. But you’d only ever seen a few of his sketches, he was very secretive about his artwork. He didn’t like to show it off and the odd time he did, he was always humble yet embarrassed by it. Saying that it either wasn’t finished yet, or wasn’t that good.

You’d praise the artwork every time though, and not because you were his best friend, but because it was genuinely always amazing. He had a real talent, if he could just get over his insecurities and actually show his work off to the world, he’d see just how honest your praises really were.

But he’d always shrink away at the mention of showing people, saying he didn’t draw for recognition, but instead just for him. It was his stress relief and he only drew whatever caught his eye or inspired him that day. Like little snapshots of his life that were just for his eyes, and his eyes only.

You gave up trying to persuade him to share his art with the world, hell, to even just share it with you and Buck. And instead you’d just leave the topic entirely alone, it wasn’t your place to demand anything from him, especially if it made him uncomfortable. Or felt like you were pulling teeth. So you’d dropped the whole art thing completely, and instead just left it up to him to decide what, and when, he shared it with you. And each time he’d show you a little something, you lapped it up with eager enjoyment and locked away the mental snapshot forever. Taking any little morsel he offered and loving it as brightly as you could.

The fact he even showed you anything, spoke volumes to you. Made you feel so immensely special to be one of the select few who got to actually set eyes on his artwork.

“Whatcha drawing, Stevie?” You asked abruptly as you reached the table, pointedly not looking at his sketchbook out of respect for his art privacy. You quickly took your jacket off, hanging it on the back of your chair before taking the seat across from him.

Steve calmly, but promptly, shut the book and glanced up at you, no matter how many times you tried to startle him, it never worked. The guy had eyes on the back of his head, you swear. He smiled at you, before tucking the book and pencils away in his messenger bag. “Just the things around me. Ya know, the usual,” he shrugged.

You just nodded, averting your eyes to the menu in front of you, as you picked it up and glanced over the options. “Sorry I’m late, got tied up at work,” you pause, glancing around the table playfully before locking eyes with Steve and smirking. “But I see the Jerk is keeping up his personally appointed job of making me always feel on time,” you chuckled, and Steve did as well.

“Well, you know him, he always has to arrive last so we can all fully appreciate his outfit choice,” he grins and shakes his head, picking up his own menu also.

You both fall into a silence, it’s not exactly awkward, but it’s not exactly comfortable either. You and Steve have sort of drifted since he started dating Hailey, not so much physically but more mentally. You still hang out as a group, but no longer just the two of you. And you still talk, but no longer as deeply, it’s mainly surface stuff now. Your jobs, your families, your day to day lives.

He doesn’t talk about Hailey with you often, if at all, he keeps pretty mum about her actually. Barely even saying her name in your presence unless he absolutely has to. No lie, you're thankful for that, but also not at the same time, especially since their third date they’ve been damn near inseparable. Spending almost all their free time together, but he still makes the effort to join in on the group stuff. And luckily for you, he’s never once brought Hailey along, he’s never even asked, not once. He seems to understand and respect that your group time is just for your little circle of 3.

But it’s not that she wouldn’t be welcome to join, every once and awhile. You’d suck up your stupid jealous bullshit here and there, if you had to. She made Steve happy, from the small things you’d heard, and could perceive in your childhood best friend. So having her around the odd time, you could deal with, you weren’t a complete asshole. But yet you liked that he never brought her around, for the sake of your heart, but not that he did it for that reason. God no, he still had no clue of your feelings, and to this day, you’d still never voiced them aloud.

You guessed he never invited her more for the sake that you and Bucky were his friends, his best friends, and sometimes he just needed time away from Hailey. Time to just be a party of one, with people who truly knew him. He had his separate friends that he shared with Hailey, and she had her own friends that were entirely her own. It was a mutual thing for them, their own ways to escape and get the time they needed away from each other, so that the relationship didn’t feel smothering or overbearing. Little spaces here and there are so important, and needed to keep a relationship healthy and thriving. To keep it from turning toxic and becoming too codependent, because that was never a good thing.

Plus you figured he kept her separated because the three of you had so much history, that Hailey may have felt left out or like an outsider to, as she wasn’t around for most of your friendship. Nor was she present for many of the big, and memorable moments that you all reminisced about or brought up often.

Whatever his true reasonings were, you were just secretly thankful for them. And for the fact you had your guys entirely to yourself, whenever you got together. Yes, it was selfish, but most humans hate change, and with certain things, you weren’t any different. You were entirely human, after all.

“Works going okay?”

“Hmm?” You hum, lifting your eyes to find Steve studying you now, his focus no longer on his menu. How long was he staring at you? You have no clue. Are you positive that your slightly disheartened thoughts were clear as day on your face, and that he probably saw them all? Oh 100%, judging by the concerned look on his face currently. You clearly really needed to work on your poker face, it had obviously deteriorated in the last few weeks, what with your lack of needing to use it. “Oh, yeah,” you plaster on your signature fake smile. “Work is going great. How about you? How’s the prestigious MoMA treating you?”

His eyes light up, like they always do when he is excited about something. “It’s amazing, Y/N. Everyone has been so helpful and very knowledgeable. I’ve learned more in the last 4 weeks than I did in my entire time at school.” He chuckles, “or at least it feels like I have.”

“That’s wonderful to hear, Steve. I’m so happy you are enjoying it so much,” you smile fondly at him. This one a real smile for once. “No one deserves this experience as much as you, as you busted your ass in school.” You grin cheekily at him, “and I’d know, I was the one who had to drag you out of the library weekly, to force you to eat a real meal.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” He laughs at that, “did I ever properly thank you for single handedly keeping me alive back then?”

You place a finger on your chin as you hum, in feigned deep thought then shake your head. “Not that I can remember. But I take praise and apologizes in the form of baked goods, if you forgot.”

He smirks and shakes his head, “oh, I didn’t forget. Not for a damn second, not when a dozen cookies saved my ass more than a few times with you, throughout the years.”

“That they did,” you laugh, nodding in agreement to his words. “How’s Hailey?” The words slip from your mouth unfiltered and you want to kick yourself. Yet, you are curious how things are with them, you just should have waited till Bucky was here to act as a buffer. Because your conflicting thoughts on the topic of Steve's relationship caused you to do and say the dumbest things when she was occasionally brought up.

You were happy that he was, you truly wanted the best for him. But you still carried this ridiculous torch for him, and it hurt a little every time she was brought up. You were selfishly jealous of her, or maybe less of her, and more of the man she got to call her own. The one man you always wanted that privilege with, but would never get. You knew that, but just couldn’t fully come to terms with it. Maybe one day you would, maybe one day she could be brought up and you wouldn’t cringe internally and feel your heart crack a little more each time.

“Ah, good. She’s good,” he nods, focusing back on his menu. “What looks good here?”

You take a silent deep breath in, your abrupt question luckily not sullying the mood. “I was thinking the Cordon Bleu Chicken Burger sounds fantastic,” you hum, glancing over the options, “but then the Teriyaki Chicken Rice Bowl looks amazing as well.” You groan, “ugh, why can I never just pick one? Why do I always get stuck between two choices, and then literally have to decide when the waitress appears and asks what I want?”

Steve chuckles, “and then you instantly regret your choice the second the waitress walks away.”

You are just about to refute that, but a new voice joins the mix. “But then once the food arrives, she goes on and on about how good of a choice she made. And how great the food is.”

You snap your eyes over and see a grinning Bucky walking towards your table. He takes his jacket off and hangs it on the back of his chair before taking a seat in the spot beside Steve.

“Okay, I’m not that bad,” you defend and playfully roll your eyes at the guys chuckling and shaking their head in disagreement of your words.

“Oh, you totally are,” Bucky reaffirms for good measure.

Which causes you to laugh, “okay, fine, maybe I am. But just a little.”

“Try a lot,” Steve corrects and you sigh deeply, jokingly. Which causes you all to laugh before exchanging your fond hello’s, and asking Bucky the basic life update questions, before you all focus on the menu to make your selections before the waitress appears.

Once the food is ordered, you having once again left the choice to the last minute and then just threw your pick at the waitress like always, the three of you fall into a comfortable and familiar conversation. Taking about the ‘good old days’ and the more in-depth topics.

The food arrives and you all enjoy it, immensely. And once again, you are completely happy with your choice, like the guys mentioned, and your momentary panic for possibly ordering the wrong thing, also like they mentioned, flies out the window. Like every other time, which is so Classically You—as Bucky had pointed out directly after you’d all finished eating. Causing Steve to laugh and you to glare fondly at the large brunette.

Dinner goes well but just as the three of you are paying your separate bills, Steve’s phone rings and he pulls it from his bag, apologizing for forgetting to put it on silent. As was the Rule for group night, that being put in place back in high school when Bucky’s phone had gone off damn near the entire night and he’d ended up essentially ignoring you and Steve to reply to all his ‘fans’ as you’d dubbed them. So you’d implemented a silent phone policy, which basically meant no phones allowed on BFMMN™.

He steps away for a moment, saying it’s Hailey and promising to be quick. You sigh quietly to yourself and stand with Bucky, waiting for Steve to return.

“Hopefully everything’s okay,” you comment softly, slightly irked for the interruption to group night, but also a little worried as Hailey is usually super respectful of your group time. She normally never bothers Steve while he is with you, another thing you are really thankful for. You’re happy he found someone who isn’t overly intrusive or overbearing, she is good for him, as much as you hate to admit it, it’s the truth.

“I’m sure it is, she probably just can’t find the TV remote again,” Bucky shakes his head and his words cause you to furrow your brows and glance up at him.

“What?” You ask confused. Why would she call for something like that? “What do you mean?”

Bucky purses his lips, looking like he just realized he said too much. But why would he feel like that? “Ah, it’s nothing, really. She does it all the time,” he shrugs it off.

What the hell? “Does what all the time? Loses the TV remote?”

“No,” he sighs, scratching the side of his head, it’s a nervous tick of his, he does it whenever he is trying to find the right words. Which only intrigues you more. “Constantly calls him for silly little pointless things. I think she does it to ‘check in’ on him. Make sure he is where he says he is. I’ve mentioned my thoughts about it to Steve, but he just waves them off and says she is just forgetful.”

“Wait, wait,” you put up a hand as if to pause the conversation. “What are you going on about? She doesn’t call all the time. She’s never called him on group nights in the past.”

Bucky gives you a weird assessing look, “yes, she has. Every time, and multiple times per night. But Steve is usually really good with shutting his phone off before he joins us, so that it doesn’t go off constantly while we are all together.” He grins and in Classic Bucky form, he tries to fix the strange awkward atmosphere with humour. “I think you scared the Jesus out of him—or into him, whichever, when you snapped at me that one time for my phone going off all night. Since that night, he’s made it his life’s mission to never be on the receiving end of your cranky outbursts about phone etiquette during group time,” he chuckles. Then jokingly cringes, “You’re scary as hell when you're mad.”

“I had no idea,” you say quietly. Here you’d just finished praising the woman in your mind for her ‘respect’ for group night. When really, that clearly isn’t the case. How did you never know about this?

“I think that was kind of the point.”

“Why does she check in on him so much?” You ask curiously.

“I don’t know. I suspect it might have something to do with you, though.”

“Me?” You quickly ask, “what the hell? Why?”

“She has always had this weird fixation on you, for some reason she thinks there is something more between Steve and you.”

Leave it to Bucky to always give you the real tea, he may not come out and say it right away, but if it ever comes up and you ask him about it, he never lies or avoids the truth. He always tells you how he sees it, how it is, and you’ve always adored that about him. There’s no sugarcoating, and no bullshit, it’s just his own honest opinions on things.

“But we are just friends?” You asked confused, though it’s less a question and more a statement. “What could she possibly be worried about? There are no feelings like that between us.” Which is partially true, from Steve’s side at least. However it’s a complete and blatant lie from yours, but no one knows that—for sure—aside from you. Bucky raises a disbelieving brow at you, but doesn’t comment on your words.

“She seems to think otherwise.” He shakes his head, “But don’t worry too much about it, it’s always been this way and her insecurities are her own. Ya know, since both you and Steve have always been so adamant that you’re just friends.” He pauses, giving you a little side eye before continuing, once again making you aware that he probably does know of your true feelings for Steve. “She’ll either come to realize that, eventually, or she won’t, but that’s on her. Not you. And at the end of the day, it’s between her and Steve, they have to work it out themselves. Don’t stress too much about the things you can’t control.”

You nod, feeling a little guilty for possibly causing an issue in Steve’s relationship. But also slightly irked at the fact you’re just finding out about this now. And at the new realization that she doesn’t come around because she most likely doesn’t like you, when you’ve never done a damn thing to her. Or to warrant her disliking you that much. How fucking rude is that? You may not exactly like her either, but at least you’d suck it up and be civil, you do respect her and Steve’s relationship, and would never interfere with it. Ever. In any form.

Yet, she doesn’t seem to hold those same sentiments, as it turns out, and she tries to interfere with your friend time often. Go figure, you’d have never known that, if it weren’t for Steve forgetting to turn his phone off this time. Before you can think any further on this all, Steve returns looking for a split second like he is exhausted.

But the second his drained eyes meet yours, a light flickers in them and he smiles at you. It almost looks fake at first to your knowledgeable eyes, but you shake your head and ignore that thought as he approaches you both.

“Sorry about that, Hailey just had a quick question.”

Bucky scoffs quietly and you elbow him, giving him a warning look to zip it. “All good, Steve,” you smile at him. Deciding to not pull on this proverbial string for once, because you may not like where it ends up, and you fear that bringing this up to him will only stand to put more of a riff between you two.

“Should we head out?” You ask, glancing between the two guys, receiving nods then the three of you exit the restaurant and head towards your apartment.

Throughout the night, you keep your mouth shut on the topic of Hailey, Steve is never really forthcoming with you about her, and you’re realizing that it’s probably because of her insecurities about you. About your friendship with him, and you can’t be sure of this, but you're willing to bet that anytime you’re brought up, she probably has something to say about it. Or maybe he doesn’t bring you up at all, he’s never been dumb by any means, and he is probably aware of her feelings towards you. And maybe because he filters you out of his conversations with her, he just unconsciously does the same in reverse. Filtering out her from his conversations with you.

Shit, but who honestly knows? You’re so sick of overthinking every little thing in your friendship with Steve, solely because you refuse to ask him about it. You refuse to bring any of it up. But also mainly because you refuse to add anymore stress onto him. Especially this sort of unnecessary and pointless stress.

The last thing you want to do, is to drive him away, or push him away, because he can’t handle the questions and issues from both sides. Do you deserve more answers? Of course. Are you going to press Steve for them? Fuck no. So instead, you’ll just harass Bucky about it later, privately. But Steve will never know any of it, he’ll never know that you know about any of this.

Cause he’s the one that you can't lose. But he’s the one that you can't win.

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

@caps-lockdown @boxofteenageideas @giggleberts @strawberry-gothchild @theonelittleone @agentbadbitch @ratwrites @bandsandanimefreak @rockyroadthepastryarchy @lovvliies @cuffski @icesoccerer @steeeeverogers @zombiepotterfour @ledandan1244 @straightforwardly @denzmallows @xremember-me-notx @gwynethjodie @lollipopdomination @capstopavenger @jemimah-b99 @rcvenqers @justkending @alagalaska @silent-loucidity @sabertooth-potato @pies-wands-and-more @interstellarmess @gabriella69816 @phantom-soilder @viarogers @kaithezaftig @the-kinkiest-goblin @hysterically-original @badassbeckettswan @heyiamthatbitch @zlixlle @givemehopenfandoms @pretendingandpreposterous @frozen-phoenix17 @emotionallysalty @saturngirlz @atomicsludgedonutbiscuit @bohemian-barbie @marvelous-capsicle @ivoryhazlewood @cjhorseback @jessiedaeum @capricornprince118 @pinkleopardss @drayshadow @wiserebelpartypie @dark-night-sky-99 @patzammit @cs-please @troublermalik @anika-ann @wxstedhexrt @rynabarnesrogers

#au fanfiction #fanfiction #long post #long read #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #modern!steve rogers x reader #modern!steve rogers #modern!steve #modern au #steve rogers au #Beautifully Unfinished #Part 5

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leverage-ot3 · 4 years ago

Text

notable moments from The Beantown Bailout Job

leverage 2.01

(see link for a video on this episode that captured literally all of my reactions and will undoubtedly capture yours too)

Manager: You found that stolen Monet in Florence, saved your company a $25 million payout. That identity-theft case, you saved $15 million.

nate sees .00005 seconds of normal life and yeets the hell out

- - - - -

(The lobby is teaming with people when Nate walks in. A sign shows that Sophie is starring in The Sound of Music. He sees Parker at the ticket counter)

Parker: Picking up for one.

Ticket Agent: Last name?

Parker: Parker.

Ticket Agent: First name?

Parker: No. Just one name.

Ticket Agent: Great. I hope you enjoy it.

(Parker turns to see Nate across the room and smiles)

Hardison: Parker?

(Parker looks to her right to see Hardison. The sound of Eliot’s laughter from across the lobby draws Hardison’s attention)

Eliot (to women): All right. After the show, then. I'll see you.

(Eliot turns and sees the others. The all meet in the center of the lobby)

Nate: Eliot.

Parker: Nate.

Hardison: Parker.

Eliot: Hardison.

Eliot: So, how have you...

Nate: Good. Good. Great. You?

Eliot: Fantastic. Six months of traveling. Did a couple of big jobs.

Hardison: eah. Me, too. Great off time. Well, I bought an oxygen tank. Cool, nice.

Parker: Yeah, super. I've been really super, too.

Nate: Yeah, she didn't tell me that you guys would..

this is that dinner scene from shrek 2 right???

also, parker’s lil smile when she sees nate, hardison’s big smile when he sees parker + hardison says parker and eliot says hardison = ot3 acknowledging each other

- - - - -

Hardison: I didn't know you could sing.

Sophie: You know. Not as well as I act, but, yeah.

Hardison: Oh

- - - - -

Sophie: Uhhgh…

Hardison: Yeah, you know, I'm sure the reviews will be...

(Sophie hands Hardison her phone)

Hardison: …on the news website already.

Parker (grabs the phone): Really? Wow. "Never before has a production of 'The Sound Of Music' made me root for the Nazis. (Hardison gestures something like ‘WHY’ to Parker and she gestures something like ‘JDJSJSJ SORRY’ back)

POOR SOPHIE LMFAO

- - - - -

Sophie: No. No, no, no. Stop it. There is nothing you can say that's gonna make me feel better.

Parker: I know what could make you feel better. We should steal something.

Nate: No, no.

Sophie: Yes! We could do it together.

Eliot: I like this. Get right back up on the bike.

Parker: Bike of crime.

Nate: Didn't you earlier tell me how great your new lives were?

Parker: Yeah, well, I stole the Hope Diamond.

Nate: What?

Parker: (Everyone looks surprised. Eliot looks like he is going to say something.) And then I put it back. Yeah, 'cause I was bored. Didn't care.

Hardison: I spent three days hacking the white house e-mail. No buzz.

Nate: See?

Hardison: But we are doing some pretty hinky stuff in Pakistan. Hinky.

Sophie: Look, I'm miserable. They're miserable. (to Eliot) Okay, what have you been doing the last six months?

Eliot: I was in Pakistan. (Parker grins)

Hardison: You see what you did? You took the world's best criminals, hitter, hacker, grifter, thief, you took us, and you broke us.

Nate: No, no. I-I, what I did, I taught you how to help people. That's all.

Parker: Exactly.

Sophie: Yeah.

Eliot: This is the problem, with being the good guy. It gets under your skin.

Sophie: Look, Nate. You have to have some poor, little lost soul somewhere who needs a little extra-legal aid.

Nate: Look, we all agreed that we'd just move on.

Sophie: Yeah, but we're... We're thieves.

Nate: Not me. Look, it was great. It was fun. It was wonderful while it lasted, but I was drunk most of the time, to be honest with you. And I… A little crazy.

Eliot: Yeah, but you were good.

Parker: You were the best.

Hardison: We were the best.

Parker: Yeah.

Nate: Listen, really, I owe all of you. And I'm very proud of what we did. I-I really am. But I got my life back, and I intend to keep it that way. And I am not a thief. (stands up) It was great to see all of you. Good night. (leaves)

BIKE OF CRIME + also bruh let them have their found family, nate

- - - - -

(Nate enters the dim room and looks around. Behind him, the Thug opens the door and comes at him with a knife. Nate sees the reflection in a pot lid and turns to block the blow. Sophie comes in behind the Thug)

Sophie: Oi! Does your mother sew? (headbutts Thug) Stitch that.

(Thug runs out of the condo. Nate runs out after him, but Thug gets away. As he reenters the condo, Sophie hits him in the head with a cookie sheet and Nate falls to the floor)

Sophie: Ah! Bugger

she tried, your honor + her tough talk and then AH BUGGER

- - - - -

(the next morning, Nate wakes up on the couch to the sound of Parker eating. Parker is wearing a Nun’s habit, smiles and moves away. Sophie comes downstairs wearing Nate’s shirt)

Nate: That's my shirt.

Sophie: Yeah. I stayed the night to make sure you were okay. You what? But don't worry. I didn't look under your bed. I know that's where guys keep weird, kinky stuff.

Nate: There's nothing under my bed.

Parker (opens cupboard): This is all coffee.

Nate: Get out of there! (sees Hardison and Eliot at the table) What are you guys doing? (gets up) Come on, get out of here. Get all this stuff out of here. You're planning something. I know it. Come on. Get out of my house.

...

Hardison: Look, nobody else is gonna help that guy and his little girl. Okay, that's what we do. We help people. By the way, I compared Sophie's description of your attacker to the accident footage from the security camera.

(Hardison pushes a few buttons on the laptop and zooms in on the Thug’s face to begin a facial recognition search through various cameras in the area)

Hardison: Do you realize, on average, people are caught on security cameras 13 times a day? ATM cameras, traffic cameras. It's crazy, man, but we can track him. We can. Well, I lost him in this.

Eliot: Yeah, well, I found this empty briefcase belonging to a Matt Kerrigan at that intersection.

...

Eliot: Yeah, well, the problem is, these two cats went down to the safety deposit boxes.

Parker: Which is the only room in every bank, with absolutely no cameras.

Hardison: Which means we up, baby. (puts on a priest’s collar) They tried to kill Kerrigan for what was in the briefcase. We're gonna steal it back.

Eliot (laughs): She was dressed that way 'cause she's doing a con.

Nate: What, you thought she was dressed like a nun for no reason?

Eliot: It's Parker.

...

(Nate walks away)

Sophie (to Eliot): So, you going?

Eliot: I'm not going anywhere. The man has 700 sports channels.

Sophie: You want to see what he's got under his bed?

Eliot: N-no, I do not.

Sophie: Icky

- - - - -

(Parker opens her Bible to reveal a lock duplication kit with a depression in the plastic of the master key)

[Flashback]

(Parker takes the key from the Bank Manager’s pocket as Hardison talks, pressing the key into the form before replacing it into the Bank Manager’s pocket)

Hardison: And the children... The children thank you. They will send you a card just as soon as we buy them tiny pencils. And teach them how to spell. It's a two-step process, you see.

[Bank Vault]

Parker: Superglue and a heat-activated polymer to set it. Seven seconds, instant plastic key. (hands Hardison the Bible) Shake it.

Hardison: What?

Parker: Shake the bible.

Hardison: This is even more wrong.

(Hardison: takes the Bible and begins shaking it while Parker picks box 5076)

they’re so competent ugh

- - - - -

Hardison: I did look for you. For six months.

HE LOOKED FOR HER FOR SIX MONTHS

- - - - -

Parker: I think people are like locks. Really complicated and frustrating. But you can't force them. You have to take time and be fiddly.

Hardison: Fiddly?

Parker: You learn to be patient, and just wait until you hear the...

(the lock opens and the door swings wide)

- - - - -

(Hardison is sitting on the couch going through some paperwork and working on a laptop. Several boards have been set up with information about the case)

Nate: Now, this is not "gone." This is "more."

Hardison: Yeah, I, uh, I scanned the documents in Leary's box, but I wanted to print out a few pages.

Nate: I asked—I asked Eliot to get rid of this stuff. Now there's more stuff.

Hardison: Did you? Oh, we-we crossed, but didn't see each other. He didn't tell me.

Nate: Oh, that's how you're gonna play this?

Hardison: Oh, man. Look... (stands up and sniffs)

Nate: What?

Hardison: Is that... What is that aroma? That's that apple shampoo that's open.

Nate: You've been up in my shower, rummaging around?

Hardison: Man's in a strange bathroom, he's got a lot of time to kill... Nate, Nate, Nat-

I CANNOT

- - - - -

Nate: Grew up in the same neighborhood. The O'Hares are mobbed up. These are all mob businesses you're talking about here.

Hardison: Mob?

Nate: Where's Eliot?

Hardison: Oops.

Nate: What?

[Warehouse]

(Eliot is going through boxes when his phone rings. He answers)

Eliot: Yeah, Hardison. This is the third place I checked. It's all the same. What do you mean mob?

Thug: Hey!

(three men approach, one of them the Thug, who has his nose bandaged and is carrying a baseball bat)

Eliot: Oh, that mob. (hangs up)

hardison’s “whoops” followed by I HAVE TO WARN MY BOYFRIEND + in this episode we have eliot using a baseball bat as a weapon which is yet another piece in the continuation of eliot using things as weapons that are not supposed to be used as weapons

+ he apologizes to the guy that just had a nose job for beating him up and punching him in the nose he’s baby

- - - - -

(Nate opens the refrigerator to find it full of Hardison’s orange soda)

Nate: Seriously?

(Nate turns to see the island covered in food and dishes)

Nate: You know, guys, there is a dishwasher here.

Eliot: You're out of ice.

he literally can’t get rid of them + also I WONDER whose orange soda that is

- - - - -

parker robot dancing in the 80s jacket and looking DIRECTLY at eliot lmfao

- - - - -

Nate: What? Sophie, how do you catch mob guys?

Sophie: Ah, two glasses of Chianti and a story about my grandma in Sicily

- - - - -

Nate: Well, yeah. I mean, if you have a body in the trunk of your car, you're gonna drive under the speed limit, aren't you?

Parker: You know, when you're sober, your metaphors get creepier

- - - - -

eliot and parker sitting next to each other? cute

- - - - -

Hardison: Mr. Leary, I'm Detective Costello, with the Massachusetts State Police. This is Detective Costigan. I believe you met with our chief, Lieutenant Bonanno

more aliases to keep track of

- - - - -

Parker: We're investigating your colleague Matt Kerrigan's (air quotes) "car accident."

Leary: So you don't think it was an accident?

Hardison: Of course not. She did the finger thing. You got that. Everybody gets that.

Parker: Did I do it right?

Hardison: No. No. This guy just... (pulls picture from his pocket)

~ a few moments later ~

Parker: I did it right, didn't I?

Hardison: It was perfect.

Parker: I knew I did it right.

Hardison: It was beautiful execution. Absolutely.

Parker: Just like you taught me. I did it. (she smiles brightly)

Hardison: Yeah. Yeah, you did it. I like it. Yeah. (gives her a thumbs up)

SHES LEARNING IM SO PROUD OF HER

- - - - -

Eliot: Hey, this detonator - If I'm around the corner, is it still gonna be in range?

Hardison: Should be. I haven't worked out all the kinks yet. Sometimes the things just go off.

Eliot: Whoa, whoa, wait. Hey. I thought you said this thing was safe.

Hardison: Mostly. Mostly safe. I was very specific. Sometimes the frequencies get messed up.

Eliot: What frequencies, man? Huh? I got these things in my pants.

Hardison: Like, you know, a garage-door opener, a car alarm.

(a car alarm chirps then goes off, making Eliot jump. He moves away angrily)

Parker: What are the odds that Eliot's crotch will actually explode?

Eliot: Damn it, Hardison! (stalks off)

chaotic ot3

- - - - -

Sophie (shows passport): Annie Kroy.

O’Hare (grabs passport): Name's familiar.

Sophie: My family does business in North London with Terry Adams, and a couple of other organizations. We handle the money.

Nate (getting up): Yeah, see, what they do is they clean the money.

some people think that annie kroy is sophie’s true identity. I think, if anything, it would be her duchess alias but can you IMAGINE mob child sophie??? also, hi. im jackie and I wholeheartedly believe annie kroy has killed a man.

- - - - -

(Eliot is parked outside of the bank when Leary comes out, looking at files. Eliot hits a remote and the sound of gunfire fills the street as the squibs go off. People scream and Leary dives for cover. Eliot laughs and closes his window.)

chaotic eliot

- - - - -

Leary: And for that, the government hunts them down like dogs. People like me, we took billions from the banks. Billions. And what did the government do when they finally caught us? They wrote us a giant check and begged us to make it all better.

that’s disturbing

- - - - -

(Parker uses a taser on O’Hare and Hardison pulls up a recorder)

I think that was the first time parker tasered someone and we love to see it

- - - - -

Nate: So, how did you do it?

Eliot (gets up): Detonator, (holds up remote, reaches into his shirt and pulls out ketchup wrapper) ketchup.

Nate: Ah, the classics.

Sophie: Oh (hops happily), I love a good death scene

- - - - -

parker in a nun costume smelling money and saying “ahhhh” is certainly a mood

- - - - -

Leary: I was tricked. I was tricked. It wasn't me, you understand?

Bonanno: Somebody tricked you into bringing a briefcase full of evidence of your own crimes straight to the police? Come on, Mr. Leary. Nobody's that smart. Get him out of here

THEY ARE T H A T SMART

- - - - -

Zoe: Thank you. There are wolves in the world. But sometimes they're the good guys, I guess.

I didn’t like that whole metaphor because it felt kinda cliche but whatever, they ARE the good guys

+ bruh why is hardison wearing glasses??? him and eliot will sometimes wear them and honestly I don’t know who actually needs them and for what at this point ???

- - - - -

(Nate enters the condo to find that Hardison has installed five of six large monitors on the wall and is working on the last one)

Nate: Whoa, whoa. What are you doing there?

Hardison: I'm running this cat 5 cable to the--

Nate: Oh, no, no, no, no. You don't understand. No, I don't want to have these monitors in my apartment. No.

(Parker opens the door and walks in carrying a large painting)

Parker: Coming through!

Nate: No, these must go. What? No! Parker, no! Not that paint--I don't ever want to see that painting.

Parker: (shaking the painting as she talks in a funny voice) “Hi, I'm old Nate, and I live here, too."

Nate: You can't just break in here and start hanging--

Hardison: Oh, yeah, yeah. For repairs or renovation, your landlord has full access to your dwelling. It's in the lease.

Nate: What are you doing reading my lease?

Hardison: I bought the building.

Nate: You bought the... You're my landlord?

Hardison: Yeah. (holds his hand out for a fistbump) Yeah.

(Nate looks away, then hears the sound of a chain saw. He turns to see the end of a chain saw come through the wall)

Nate: No, no! No! No!

(Part of the wall falls to reveal Eliot holding the chainsaw and grinning. Nate coughs and both Parker and Hardison put their arms around him)

CHAOTIC OT3 + THEIR TIRED DAD

#leverage #leverage 2.01 #leverage 2x01 #the beantown bailout job #leverage season 2 #season 2 #notable moments #mine

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xmalereader · 5 years ago

Text

Newt Scamander X Male Reader

|| Masterlist ||

Summary: Reader is a muggle that saves and befriends a thunderbird. Later that thunderbird does the same.

Warnings: fluff, language, MxM, muggle, wizard.

It was storming outside as y/n tried to rush back home from work, it’s been a week since it’s been raining and he was slowly starting to hate it. Don’t get him wrong, he opens the rain but this past week it’s been storming with strong weather and it just didn’t want to stop.

Reaching the large apartment building he stumbled inside and breaths heavily as he removed his hat and hangs it up. “Ah, Mr. L/n! I seen that the rain has gotten you again.” His landlord lady says as she came out from her room.

Y/n chuckled with a small smile on his lips. “It’s not the first time.” He tells her as he removed his coat and hangs it up as well. “Did I get any mail?” He asks, walking Over to her, still covered in water. His landlord rolled her eyes, “You a few letters from family and your rent.” Y/n takes the envelopes and chuckled,

“I’ll get you your money by the end of the week.” He tells her as he heads upstairs and bids her a Goodnight. Heading up stairs to his own room, unlocking it He steps inside and tossed his mail on the coffee table. He’s been getting letters from his family and he’s been ignoring them. Ever since he’s told them about his dreams and drawings of him seeing weird like creatures, they all thought of him crazy!

He kept his artwork hidden from everyone that he knew, Including friends. He didn’t want people telling him that he was crazy about seeing such creatures that aren’t real. So, he decided to remain everything hidden and pretend like everything is normal in this world.

Stripping off his clothes he sets them down by the fire and heads to the bathroom to take a warm shower to keep himself from getting a cold. He lets the warm water trail down his body as he leans against the wall, lying his forehead on the wall as he thinks. He’s been working harder now and days, trying to keep himself busy and to forget about his dreams but each night was the same. He would wake up in a sweat and go straight to his desk to draw out what he dreamed about, it was mostly about mythical creatures.

Finishing up his shower he heads out and grabs some clothes, changing into them after he dried off, he kept the towel around his neck as he walks around the apartment. Making himself something to eat and some tea. “Let’s see what’s new...” he whispered to hisemlf as he held his drawing book and a pencil in hand, sitting down on the couch. Opening up the notebook, he flips through the many pages of different creatures that he’s dreamed of. Last night he had another one, it was about a small like leaf creature, it had a set of root arms and legs that would form out a small body. He began to sketch it out, getting every detail that he could Rememeber.

It didn’t take long for him to finish up, finishing his masterpiece he smiled at himself. “Good job.” He praised as he closed it up and sets it down, reaching over for his cup of tea he gasps as he noticed how the lights in his apartment shut off and a loud thud was heard above. “The power must’ve gone out.” He stands up and searched for the candles that he stored away close by the window. Finding one he lights it up and looks outside the window to see the other side of the street without light. “Guess it’s not Just us.”

Grabbing a blanket he wraps it around himself to keep himself warm from the cold weather, heading downstairs he sees the other owners out as well. “What happened?” He asks.

“A black out apparently, all of this rain is blocking us out.” The old man that lived just below him says as he huffs and grumbled. Y/n rolled his eyes, “it should be back soon.”

“It’s not just us! Half the city block lights are out as well.” Mrs. Gomez says as she held her blanket close to her body. “Ah, Stop freaking out it’ll come back on.” The landlord says as she crossed her arms. “Just return back to to your rooms and you’ll see that it’ll be back on soon.”

Y/n turns around and heads back up to the top floor where he lives.

“So much for help...” he whispered to himself, passing by the stairway that led up the roof, he was stopped by a Chirp. Loud enough for him to hear it.

Looking up the stairs he glanced over his shoulders to make sure that no one was watching him. Heading up the stairs he reached the main door to the rooftop, slowly opening it he noticed that it was raining softly now. Stepping outside In only his socks (which he regrets) he looks around the roof and sighs. “Must’ve been my imagination.” He turns around to head back inside only to freeze in spot when he sees a giant like bird standing right in front of him.

His breath is caught in between his throat as he tried to say something, but nothing would come out.

The giant bird tilts its head in questioning as it watched y/n carefully. Wondering if this person is a threat or not. Y/n slowly steps back, “Nice Little? Birdy...” he breaths out as he continued to move backwards to avoid the birds attention. Before he could take another step he noticed the bird shift around, trying to walk over to the edge. It spreads its left wing out but it’s Right was tucked away.

Y/n tilts his head as he stared at it. He noticed the way it looked, it looked broken.

The first thing that came to y/n’s Mind was to help this creature. He slowly approached and gets the birds attention, “Hey buddy...listen I’m not gonna yet you, I noticed your broken wing.” He says as he reached out slowly. “Would you mind-?”

The bird flinched and glared down at him trying to move away from the other male. “Shh it’s okay...” he pulls his hand away when he heard the large bird hiss back in anger. Y/n bites his lip as he lets out a sigh of frustration. “Alright I won’t force you.” He tells the golden like bird.

The giant bird tilts its head, slowly it lowers its head down to sniff at y/n’s face. He stayed still in spot as he lets the large bird sniff him out, letting him know that he wasn’t going to hurt him. The large thunderbird moves away, slowly it lied down and slowed y/n to look at his wing.

Y/n smiled weakly as he approached again, he placed his hand on the large wing and gasps. “Whoa, it’s soft.” He cooed out as he quickly examines the broken wing. He lifts it up carefully and nods, “You must’ve hit it against something to get a large mark like that.” He tells the thunderbird and smirks. “I’ll be right back, stay here!” He rushed towards the door. “Stay!” He turns around to see the thunderbird watching him.

Smiling softly he quickly heads inside to grab the things he needs. He just really hopes that this isn’t all a dream, he didn’t want to end up on the roof again only to notice that it was his imagination. Getting to his apartment he quickly grabs the things he needed like: bandages, food, blankets, and maybe some books in Case he got bored.

It didn’t take long for him to return back to the roof only to see the giant thunderbird still sitting there and waiting. “Good to know that it wasn’t my imagination.” He says as he smiled. Walking over he sets everything down, “Alright let me check your wing again.”

The thunderbird chirps and slowly lifts its broken wing up, doing as y/n Said as he let him inspect the broken wing. The older male frowns softly as he sees a few scratch marks under the feathers, his curiosity hits him as he reached up to touch them with a gentle hand and to stroke down the lines. The thunderbird tilts its head in confusion, looking under its wing to see y/n He cooed.

Y/n looks up to face the thunderbird and chuckled. “Sorry, I’ll fix this up quickly.” He grabs some bandages and began to fix up his wing. It was a very large wing but the birds Injuries were small so not much work is needed. It takes y/n awhile to fix up everything before finishing up. “All done.” He allows the giant bird to inspect the wrapping, it tilted its head in different directions. A confused expression was noticeable on the birds features.

“It’ll heal soon, it just takes time...so In the mean time you have to stay up here where it’s safe.” He spoke to the mysterious creature. He didn’t know why he felt so comfortable around such a strange creature, he should be freaking out and telling his neighbors!

But deep down he knows that he shouldn’t be telling anyone about this, he should keep it a secret. Just like how he keeps secrets about everything.

Y/n spent the rest of the night on the roof, he couldn’t really leave the thunderbirds side without causing trouble. He sat down across from the creature, leaving a bit of space. He didn’t want to piss off the bird, I mean he did help the bird but he didn’t know if that meant thag they were in good terms. Y/n was reading one of his books, the book lied on his lap as he scans each sentence as he read.

The thunderbird was watching the human male. He expected the human to immediately expose him to the human world, but instead all he got was patiences and silence.

Before y/n could read the next chapter he caught a glimpse of the sun rise. “Shit!” Standing up quickly he groans. “I can’t believe that I lost track of time! What time is it? Am I gonna be late?” He rushed around the roof collecting his things and hiding them behind pots and inside a shed. Before he could head inside he quickly remembered about the thunderbird. “Um...” he began to think and groans. “Just hide.” He grabs the blanket he had and placed it on top of the thunderbirds head to keep him “hidden”, y/n said a quick goodbye as he heads to his room to get ready.

The thunderbird was able to pull the blanket off its head only to see y/n gone. The giant thunderbird stands up in surprise, where did the human go? He did a quick 360 around him only to see no one. He lied back back down in his spot and chirps softly, waiting for the human to return back.

• • •

“Your late.”

“This is my first time coming late.”

Y/n was panting softly. He ended up running to work after finding out how late he was. Y/n worked as a regular Artist, he would usually work at home with his projects but he liked working at a building with more people to socialize with. His manager stood in front of him with crossed arms, “I don’t care if it’s your first time. You have work that has to be finished by today.”

Y/n rolled his eyes, placing his things on his desk and taking out his notebook. He grabs a blank canvas from the equipment room. “I’ll have it done at the end of the day, promise.” He answers to his manager.

He began to draw the outline of his new project, it didn’t take long for him to sketch it all out before adding the color. Y/n spent half of the day at work, he was actually able to finish up early and was aloud to leave home early, (which he was glad too after not sleeping at all) .

The weather was better in the afternoon. It was no longer raining and the sun was shinning down at them, slowly setting to end the day. He walked back to his apartment, spiting the veg large building he looks up to see if he was able to spot the golden bird but to his luck he couldn’t. Smiling, he steps off the curve only to hear a loud thundering and strong lighting. “What the hell.” He breaths out as he ran to his building, trying to avoid the rain from ruining his clothes. Right as he stepped foot Inside it started pouring, hard.

Y/n quickly takes the stairs to the roof, he wanted to make sure that the thunderbird was alright. Dropping his things by his doorway he doesn’t hesitate to head straight up the ladder. He exits the building and onto the roof only to see several men trying to hurt the thunderbird.

“Get away from him!!” Y/n shouts as he glared.

The five strange men turned to see y/n. “A no-maj!”

“Obliviate him!”

One of them stepped up and held out their wand, pointing towards y/n.

The thunderbird sees this and gets angry, he lets out a loud screech as he knocks down the wizards using his tail. He stood in front of y/n in a protective way. “Get that damn thing under control and that no-maj!” One man shouts as they began to throw hexes as the thunderbird. “Stop it! Your hurting him!!” Y/n shouted as he backs up from the chaos.

Everything was moving so fast, the thunderbird was flapping it’s now healed wing at the wizards. Trying to back them off, y/n pants as he takes another step back only to gasp, he noticed how close to the edge he was. The men were stepping closer, the more steps they take the further they had to go back.

One of the wizards kept throwing hexes, not stopping. It was trying to tire out the thunderbird from fighting back. Y/n glared at him, he ignored the other four wizards that were trying to stop the thunderbird from doing anything else.

“Hey!” Y/n shouts. “Leave the damn thunderbird alone.” He says as he gently grips the creatures feathers. The thunderbird flaps its wings harshly and picks up y/n by the shirt. Y/n gasps as he gets lifted up into the air.

“Oh my god!! Oh god!” He shouts in panic as he groans. “I think I’m gonna faint...or throw up.” He moans out. The thunderbird used his beak to place y/n on his back as they flew through the sky.

Y/n grips the thunderbirds feathers as he kept his head ducked down. He hated heights and flying just made things worse for him, “where exactly are we going?!” He shouts as he feels the wind against his cheeks.

The thunderbird only chirped in response as he continued to fly through the clear sky. Y/n sighs as he pressed his forehead against the back of the birds head, he closed his eyes and contained to breath slowly. “It’s all gonna be over...” he whispered to himself as he slowly drift off to sleep.

The flight only took a few hours before the thunderbird arrives at their locations. Landing in a large clear grass field, the thunderbird began to cry out in a singing kind of rhythm. This caused y/n to jolt awake and to fall off the birds back, “Ow...” he groans out as he gets up from the grass and grunts. “Where are we?” He asks as he stands up to see the open ocean as he stood on top of the mountain edge. “Holy shit where are we?!” He asks again.

“Frank?”

Y/n turns around to see a man in a blue coat. “Where did you come from? And who are you!” He ran over to Frank to keep him protected. (Even though he was a Tiny human being) Frank rolled his eyes as he chirps towards the British man. “It’s been a while Frank. I thought you went home.” The British man asks as he walks over carefully and stretched out his hand to stroke the thunderbirds feathers.

Y/n watched the Two and raised a brow in confusion. “Okay...” he says. “Hate to ruin the moment but where am I? And who are you? And what is going on?!” He began to repeat everything again as he panics.

The British man smiled shyly. “I’m Newt. Newt Scamander. And this is Frank he’s a thunderbird and a very rare species.” Y/n stared up at Frank and glared. “That doesn’t quiet answer my question...” he grumbled out. Newt nods softly. “Your in England, out in the country actually...” he says softly as he avoids eye contact.

Y/n’s eyes widen. “I’m in what?!” He shouts as he walks over to Frank. “You! Take me back home right now!” He points up at Frank, the thunderbird tilts its head and chirps.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you-“

“Shush!” Y/n says as he turns back to Frank. “Frank, take me back to New York this instint.”

Frank turns his back towards y/n, ignoring him.

“Frank!” Y/n shouts again as he tried to get the birds attention but the creature kept ignoring him. Newt could only watch and chuckle softly as he noticed the two bonding with each other.

“What are you laughing at?!” Y/n shouts at newt in frustration. This caused the Brit to look away shyly. “It’s weird seeing frank bonding with someone else, he’s usually cautious...”

“Well that because I saved his life, his wing was all messed up and I helped him out, then these guys appeared and began to hurt him.” Y/n explains as he gently stroked franks beak and smiled softly before frank nuzzled his hand.

Newt fiddled with his hand and cleared his throat. “If you’ll like I can help you out. Frank won’t seem to listen to me but he does to you.”

Y/n glanced up at the thunderbird who only stared back before he Male nods. “Alright.” He says as he crosse dhis arms, newt nods in response and began to walk towards his hidden place where he kept his case safe.

“Oh, you never told me your name.” Said newt as he turns back around to face y/n.

Y/n bites his lip. “Y/n. Y/n L/n.” He answers and only gets a smile from newt.

“Welcome to the wizarding world, looks like you and frank will get along quiet well.” He Said before leaving towards his case.

Y/n raised a brow and sighs. “This is gonna be a long day isn’t?” He looks up to frank who only squeaks and began to follow newt.

“Yep, it is.” He grumbled out as he followed the other two.

#male reader #newt scamander #theseus scamander #theseus x male reader #fantastic beats and where to find them #newt x male reader #Fantastic beasts and the crimes of grindelwald #thunderbird #magical creatures

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bitchardhendricks · 5 years ago

Text

Well I’ve Never Been to Heaven (But I’ve Been to Oklahoma) Pt 10

So. The last couple weeks have been...A Lot. Both personally and y’know from an entire racial equity uprising perspective, and I’ve felt very much that my responsibility was to read, learn, understand, listen, and be quiet. No one needs to hear a white girl writing about white nerd boy problems right now. But I realized after a couple weeks that when I got overwhelmed, or when I needed to relieve the pressure valve on my emotions, I turned to the same form of comfort I always have - stories. Stories about characters I love, whether they’re in tv, movies, fic, whatever. The comfort of those stories allowed me to rest just enough that I could wake up the next day and keep reading, learning, listening. So it may seem silly, this meandering tale of these two flawed men confronting the past and the future together, but reading stories like this helps me feel sane enough that I have the energy to keep trying to do better. I hope this one helps you, too. Catch up on previous entries here, and come say hi in my inbox and let me know what you think.

***

After lunch, they head 1 mile east until they reach an unremarkable long, squat building with a faded green roof hanging down nearly halfway to the ground and obscuring the store front, held up by a series of flared white cinderblock columns. This elongated hut takes up the better part of a city block, and as they pull into the cracked parking lot, Richard spies Jared’s face lighting up as he reads the sign.

“Gardner’s Used Books, CDs, Videos, DVDs, Toys, Comics, Records, Collectibles, Gifts...my goodness, that’s quite a treasure trove!”

“You have no idea,” Richard says, bounding out of the car and up to the front door in quick strides. The tables set up under the roof’s overhang hold boxes and boxes of books, lining the entire front of the building, but Richard doesn’t stop to look at these. “Bargain books,” he explains as Jared pauses to scan some of the titles. “You find some great stuff, but you can pay outside so I usually do that last.” He points to an old Folgers coffee jug with a slit cut in its plastic lid. A sign above it says 50 CENTS OR 3/$1, but Richard’s attention is now focused on entering the front door, the familiar jingle causing a rush of nostalgia that works its way into his guts.

He’s 16 again, acne-riddled and knock-kneed, and his new driver’s license is burning a hole in his velcro wallet. The dusty scent of old paper and ancient carpeting is commingling with the aroma of hot oil, onions, and sizzling meat from the bookstore’s attached Mexican restaurant. He has $37 in his pocket, and a whole day of summer vacation to burn.

As present-day Richard takes in the familiar organized chaos, Jared nearly walks into a gargantuan statue of the Hulk because he’s looking around at the stacks of books piled everywhere, muttering a sheepish, “Excuse me!” to the statue. A bubble of warmth seems to rise from deep within Richard’s belly, and he grabs at Jared’s wrist to redirect him - that thin, elegant wrist, so delicate, almost like a bird, maybe that’s why Jared likes birds so much, because he feels a kinship with them? - and tugs gently. “C’mon. I wanna show you around.”

Richard leads them to the left, past rows and rows of new arrivals and fiction. A coffee shop has been added on; all the decor is aggressively Parisian in a very bland Hobby Lobby-type way. There are wire shelves hanging off the walls holding the top 20 best selling mysteries of all time. Tall wooden shelves in the middle of the room stretch from floor to ceiling, arranged in small mazes that take up their respective corners, crammed with colorful paperbacks. Jared pauses at the Mary Higgins Clarks for a moment, but Richard urges him on by saying, “Wait, there’s more!”

Another archway, this one opening up into a cavernous beige room with a little more natural light. Small rolling footstools are perched in every aisle so customers can reach the tops of the towering shelves, and with each new shelf, Jared’s eyes seem to grow wider. “Does it just go on forever?” he asks, and Richard nods, steering him past Romance and Horror to the seemingly endless Nonfiction shelves. Cookbooks, humor, foreign language - the section names are taped to wooden beams that extend between the tops of the rows of bookshelves until finally they reach the Computer Science section, which Richard presents with a grand flourish.

“This is where I got my very first coding manual. Python, it was--” he scans the shelves, squints, but, “oh, um well they don’t have it now. Duh, why would they, that was, anyway, this is where it all started!”

Jared takes in the shelves with a look of absolute wonder lighting up his face. He looks young and carefree in a way Richard isn’t sure he’s ever seen before, like he’s about to burst into song in a musical or something. Before he can say anything, Jared has his phone out, the sound of the camera shutter in his face making Richard jump. “Aw, c’mon Jared, don’t,” he says, but his voice is teasing, soft, and there’s a pleasant whispering at the back of his mind at the idea of this place meaning something to history maybe. Where the first seeds of Pied Piper took hold, and the genius coder Richard Hendricks took his first step toward...toward having everything taken away from him by Hooli and Gavin Fucking Belson. His insides are suddenly doused in ice-cold water and he shakes his head, scowling.

He’s just about to tell Jared to browse by himself for awhile when he’s stopped short by Jared gasping loudly, “Oh my goodness!”

He’s turned to look at the shelf opposite the Computer Science section and is now holding a light green cloth-bound book in his hands as if it were something made of exquisite, delicate glass. The cover has what looks like colored pencil drawings of two yellow birds sitting together on some branches, and Richard leans closer to read the title out loud - “Birds That Every Child Should Know. By,” he pauses, looking up at Jared for confirmation, “Nelt-yah Blanchan?”

Jared nods, dumbstruck. He looks positively bowled over, and all thoughts of Gavin have fled Richard’s mind completely because he wants to know what could possibly have made Jared so flabbergasted. “So...what is this book? I mean, why’s it - what’s so special about it? Is it rare or something?”

“It is rare, yes; this book was published in 1907. But, that’s not exactly...” he swallows, then looks at Richard with those terrifyingly blue eyes, the ones that root Richard to the spot and peer inside him and refuse to let him squirm away. “My mother had a copy exactly like this. We would go birding together, you see. Just in the woods behind our apartment complex, nothing too exotic. I would spot robins, orioles, blue jays, but ah - “ his smile grows shaky, like it’s trying unsuccessfully to hold up the weight of all those memories, and he says, “I just never thought I’d see this book again, that’s all.”

“Wow,” Richard says, his upper lip caught in his teeth at his own awkwardness. He never knows what to say when Jared mentions his past. Real helpful, Richard, Jesus fuck. “You should um, you should definitely buy it. Right?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly afford, it’s an antique--”

“Jared, come on. You have to. It’s - look, I’ll buy it for you, ok? As like. A thank you present. For coming with me. You have to deal with my parents, deal with me, and it’s just...it’s the least I can do.”

Jared splays one enormous hand over his chest, aghast. “Richard, you don’t have to--”

“Bup bup bup!” Richard says, easing the book out of Jared’s grip and peeking inside the front cover at the price. $26 is penciled in the top right corner of the title page, which seems more than fair for how happy Jared is to have discovered it, so he snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm to carry. “Done and done. No arguments, Jared. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jared says quietly, his cheeks pink and his eyes shining, looking at Richard like he’s some sort of miracle, some unexpected wondrous hero, come to slay dragons and save the kingdom from wreck and ruin. It takes longer than strictly necessary for Richard to wrench his gaze away.

“Come on, there’s a lot more of this place to see.”

#jarrich #silicon valley hbo #sv squad #richard hendricks #jared dunn #sv fic #my sv fic #Well I've never been to Heaven

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notyetneedcoffee · 5 years ago

Text

Not Exactly A Classic Dame (1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC (platonic friendship between Steve x OFC)

Warnings: None this Chapter, but later

Bucky Master List / Main Master List

* * *

CHAPTER 1

“Stop growling.” Steve Rogers chuckled at his friend as the crowd of technicians parted like the Red Sea as they passed.

“I ain’t growling.” Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier and newest resident at the Avenger Compound, muttered beside him. Granted, his nerves coiled his hands into fists and his head ached from the scowl he’d been sporting since the jet arrived three hours ago.

“Uh-huh.” Came the light-hearted laugh.

“I don’t like all the attention, okay.” Bucky leaned closer. So far, he’d been hauled into a meeting room and briefed on all the rules of the compound, ran through a mind-blowingly fast course on all the technology, been swept into a lab to be thoroughly examined and scanned, had all of his meager belonging searched, and treated more like a potential threat than a possible member of the team.

Steve stopped, resting a steady hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s a lot. I get it.” He sighed, looking at it from the other man’s perspective. “It probably doesn’t feel all that friendly either. We’ve all been here so long, that we’re hit with the changes a little a time. Having to submit to it all at once has got to be weird. Really, though, all this tech – F.R.I.D.A.Y., and all – it's not bad.”

“Fine.” Bucky pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Just so long a Stark’s fucking nerds keep out of my way and allow me some privacy.”

“Don’t worry.” Steve grinned, pulling his friend along to their last appointment. “And they’re not all bad.”

“Are we getting lunch soon? How much more orientation crap can there possibly be?” Bucky grumbled.

“After this. I want to get you hooked up with Harper so you have everything you need for outside the compound.” At his friend’s raised eyebrow, he clarified. “You know, personnel stuff - alternate IDs, funded credit cards, make sure you don’t trigger facial recognition software on some security network if you’re out and about. I don’t think we can do much about metal detectors, though.” He joked.

Buck stopped walking, mouth dropping open a little. Steve gave him a distinct ’what’ look. “Isn’t that all a little on the wrong side of legal?”

“Depends on what country you’re in.” Steve smirked and continued down the hall.

Bucky smiled for the first time. “The spies are rubbing off on you.”

“No, I’m just realizing what needs to be done in order to do the right thing. I have more trust in the people I’m around than the governments running the show. And Harper is good people.”

Music drifted towards them. Bucky didn’t recognize it, but that didn’t mean much. It had a good tempo and lots of guitar. When Steve swung the office door open, the volume of music quadrupled making Bucky wonder how someone could work amongst the distraction. Banks of monitors took up one wall and in front sat Harper.

“Hey Cas!” Steve shouted over the music, grinning like an idiot over the stunned look on Bucky’s face.

Cassidy Harper spun around on her stool, one leg tucked under her, and a brilliant smile on her full red lips. Bucky found himself smiling back at this beautiful woman, curved in all the right places, wearing blue jeans and no shoes. From beneath her dark blue t-shirt a tattoo covered her left arm from shoulder to elbow. It was her shiny black hair, held back in a red handkerchief and victory curls that did him in. Actual victory curls.

She hit a button, killing the music before hopping down onto her bare feet and giving Steve a hug. The top of her head only come to his chin, still Cas rose up on tip toes and threw her arms around his neck. Bucky noticed the red of her toe nails matched the red on her lips. “Steve!”

“Hey, Cas. Thanks for making time.” He hugged her back, lifting her off her feet a little before turning back to Bucky. “This is him. Buck, this is Cassidy Harper.”

“I’ve heard so much about you.” Cas opened her arms. “I’m a hugger. May I?”

He chuckled and stepped forward. She warmly wrapped her arms around his neck and he tentatively placed his hands on her waist. It’d been a long while since anyone just wanted such casual contact. Usually, he didn’t like strangers touching him, but this felt good. She smelled of mint and something slightly citrus. Fresh.

“So,” Cas hopped back onto her stool, flashing a devilish grin. “Stevie says I’m to hook you up with whatever you want. What’s it going to be?”

“Um?” Bucky looked back and forth between the two, not quite understanding.

“Were you able to scrub him from the watch dog systems?” Steve leaned against a bank of cabinets.

“Yeah, it was easy actually. Nothing at all like you - Steve 'My Face Is On Boxes Of Corn Flakes' Rogers.” She swung her foot around in circles, the momentum bringing her to face Bucky. “You’ve taken ghosting to an art form, sweetheart.”

He just shrugged.

“What about IDs?” Steve continued.

Cas reached around and handed Bucky a manila envelope. “There’s two to start. One in your real name, and one under Edward Porter. Both have bogus birth records, passports, New York driver’s licenses, concealed weapons permits, bank accounts, and couple credit cards. There’s a 100k limit on them. Let me know if you need more.”

Bucky cocked his head. “That was my granddad’s name.”

“I asked Steve some questions. It’s best to keep lies easy to remember.” She shrugged.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Not to Stark.” She waved a hand.

“So,” She turned back to her computer. “I assume they’re going to have you staying here for a while, so no get-away pad. What about wheels? Do you intend to just borrow from the fleet, or do you want something of your own? You into something sporty? Or you want a truck like our friend here? Maybe a motorcycle?”

“A bike.” Came his fast answer.

“Yay.” Cas gave a little cheer. “What kind? Cruiser? Crotch-rocket? Or -”

“Harley Panhead.”

“Nice.” Her fingers started flying over the keyboard as she searched for the classic motorcycle, images flashed across multiple screens faster than the men could follow. She stopped, settling on a shiny black updated and rebuilt model for an exorbitant price. “How about that? Is she sexy or what?”

“Sure is, Doll.” Bucky drawled. Completely, taken by more than just the bike.

“Kinda pricey.” Steve commented. “Stark going to question you on this one?”

“Tony can kiss my round right ass cheek.” Cas rolled her eyes. “I just rooted out a Taiwanese ring that was plagiarizing one of his applications and saved him fifty times that amount – last Tuesday – on my lunch break. I’m in good graces right now, so I’m sharing the spoils.”

“Okay.” Steve laughed raising both hands in surrender. “Just asking”

“Now, we’ve covered identification, cash, transportation. It’s not my official job, but are you all set up in your apartment? Please don’t let Steve help you. He’s got all the taste of an army barracks in a black and white movie.”

“Hey!” Steve exclaimed while Cas giggled. “You liked the Christmas gift I gave you, and that was for your apartment.”

“Yes. I love it.” Cas beamed. “But it’s color pencil of my old dog – that you drew yourself �� and it’s beautiful. That does not make you Martha Stuart.”

“I don’t need much. What’s there is fine.” Bucky suddenly felt uncomfortable. He realized Steve must really care for her if he’d given her a piece of his art. Back in the war, he didn’t show many people how well he could draw. He almost never gave it away, even a tiny sketch. A surprising flood of disappointment washed over him.

“Bullshit.” Cas scoffed.

“Language.” Steve rolled his eyes, but she stuck out her tongue at him.

“Really. It's fine.” Bucky buried his hands in his pockets. “I appreciate the offer, but there’s no need.”

Steve saw the swing in his friend’s mood, not understanding why, but attributing it to hunger. He wanted lunch even before they arrived. “Okay, what do you say we head out and let Cas get back to work. We’ll go get lunch.” Bucky nodded.

Cas felt the change too. She hopped from her workstation and threw an arm sideways around Steve’s waist for a brief moment. “Thanks for the visit and the introduction.” Turning back to Bucky, she bumped his shoulder with her own. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear when the bike is supposed to arrive. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Thanks. Me too.” He smiled back at her, but this time it didn’t brighten his eyes.

#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes x original female character #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x oc

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