#fancy British boy adventures

[bluberryfields]

I am unreasonably attached to Phileas Fogg

[captainfantasticalright]

What is Edwin Payne reading? : a closer look.

From the flashback scene in the show, we get this very short shot of Edwin walking down the halls. Now, what he is reading tells you all about the Dead Boy Detectives’ love for detective and adventure stories. He is carrying a penny novel! (also known as dime novel in the US- and the names are due to their cheap prices of, you guessed it! One penny or one dime each) Precisely no. 87 of the “Aldine Tip-Top Tales”.

But, what were the Aldine Tip-Top Tales you might ask yourself. Well, originally the name was:

Tip Top Detective Tales and it was one of the Aldine Publishing Company's many library series produced to capture the fancy of the youth of Great Britain. This particular one ran from 1910 through 1912 when it morphed into just Tip Top Tales, produced to include stories of adventure, as well as those of criminal content. With one exception, all of the novels included in the series were published anonymously. (The exception: Glittering Gold! by Emile Gaboriau -Tip Top Detective Tales #4).

The Aldine Publishing Company was founded by Charles Perry Brown (1834-1916).

Some other titles included:

But, we see Edwin reading something else:

Which happens to be The Strand Magazine! And this very one for this shot.

The Strand Magazine was a British monthly magazine published from january 1891 to march 1950 (711 issues) in its original version (a new version of the magazine has been edited from 1998). George Newnes Ltd. was the publisher of the magazine and it was edited by Herbert Greenhough Smith from 1891 to 1930, then by Douglas Edward Macdonald Hastings.

Arthur Conan Doyle was a huge contributor with novels, short stories, poems and articles.

The Strand Magazine was also published in the United States from february 1891 through february 1916 but with sometimes different content.

Between 1891 and 1930, The Strand Magazine published no less than

• 121 short stories

• 70 articles

• 9 novels

• 2 interviews and 1 poem written by Arthur Conan Doyle.

And just in case you did not know who Arthur Conan Doyle was, well, let me just leave some of his works here as well, originally published in the Strand:

And these are just two of the infinite variety of novels Edwin Payne owns. :)

[martsonmars]

@messofthejess asked: If each member of the Carry On cast was a type of pasta, what type would they be?

[Tumblr killed the ask]

OMG obsessed. Thank you for the question it's so important to me. I'm limiting myself to the main gang but PLEASE (you or anyone else) feel free to send asks or comment with other characters, I'd love to answer but I don't want to feel overwhelmed with choices.

I'm also not letting myself overthink this. There might be better answers but I'm going with gut feelings or I'll never post this. I'm going with shapes.

Baz is definitely long pasta. Reginette, with they're elegant, fancy, sharp edges. I just know the guy doesn't want to fit in the pot. So many people don't know how to handle him. Long and thin. HARD TO KILL BUT NOT TO BREAK. And when he's safe he reveals his true form. Which is still hard to handle. You need practice. You might be tempted to cut into smaller pieces. But the only way to actually savour who he is is to get past all these obstacles and wrap him around your fork and you finally understand. He could be trenette/linguine too but mostly because in my region they're eaten with pesto, and you know. Basil. Etc.

Simon is rigatoni or tortiglioni or any of the similar shapes. He's a sturdy pasta. A fighter. One the people love, but might take for granted. And yet he'll always be ready to save your meal, square shoulders and jaw. He's ready to take any challenge, and when it's finally time to rest he won't let himself go too soft. He'll keep his fierce, solid, thick shape and demand to be loved strongly. He can take it. And we all know that this is the kind of pasta to eat with a nice, rich sauce, just like our boy deserves. A sauce that sticks, that fills up all the spaces. Because we know that holes just want to be filled.

Penny is penne. Of course. The name speaks for itself, but it's also a correct choice. A no bullshit shape. One that thinks she's better than anyone else, but is she? Only trial and error will tell. But she remains a solid choice, reliable and always there for you if you're one of her trusted friends. She'll never let you down. As long as she doesn't start doubting herself. But she won't for too long, because who would doubt penne?

Agatha is difficult. I'm going with farfalle. She's pretty and elegant and sophisticated, but also misjudged and belittled and mistreated. People will see only what's on the outside and take it at face value — seeing her as too good to be true, or instead as childish and not caring about what truly matters — and won't delve deeper to see the truth. Which is that her core — the core of her beauty, of her power — is stronger than one thinks.

Shep is one of my favourite shapes — ruote. I was going to pick lasagne for him (rich and intense and friendly and happy to use their layers to host different kinds of savoury experiences), but this is perfect too. For his truck, his sense of adventure, chasing tornadoes and creatures and friends and never letting anything — danger or unpleasant British mages — stop him from being one of the best guys you'll have the fortune of meeting on your path.

[legally-brief]

MOVIES WITH MEN IN UNDERWEAR

(This is outdated- website shutdown early 2000’s)

#’s thru A

===================

10 to Midnight (1983) Violent thriller with Charles Bronson hunting a serial killer whose modus operandi (in the TV version) is to hunt his victims in just his briefs. (The killer works naked in the non-TV version).

101 Rent Boys (2000) Documentary. Includes, as you might expect, some underwear and nudity.

12:01 (1993) (TV) Sci-fi comedy. Caught in a time loop where he keeps reliving the same day, Jonathan Silverman wakes up each morning with the same hangover, in his shirt and boxer shorts.

1941 (1979) Comedy. Guy knocks out a sailor and steals his uniform to get into a dance. When the sailor comes to, he enters the dance hall, still in his bold red-and-white striped boxers, and a fight ensues.

1969 (1988) Long scene of Robert Downey Jr. stripping to his white jockeys and running around.

2 Days in the Valley (1996) Crime drama. Danny Aiello in boxers as he changes clothes.

29th Street (1991) Great army physical scene - at least a couple guys in white A-shirts and jockeys.

42nd Street (1933) Dick Powell is fixing his sock garters, while clad in only white boxers and A-shirt, as Ruby Keeler walks in on him. Ruby is shocked, but Dick carries on without embarrassment.

8½ Women (1999) Philip and Storey are forced to strip in a casino at gunpoint (we see full frontal and rear nudity of both men) (But do we see the underwear?).

83 Hours 'Til Dawn (1990) (TV) Crime drama based on true story. Sociopathic kidnapper Peter Strauss lying on his bed in light blue boxers.

Abductors, The (1972) Ginger attempts to get information from a bad guy: she cuffs him to a tree, and yanks down his pants and underwear with the threat of castration. When she gets the info she needs she drives off, leaving him struggling with his slick willie flopping around. He's obviously embarrassed to be left half naked like that, but she promises to let the cops know where he's located.

About Last Night... (1986) Rob Lowe in white briefs and nude.

Above the Dust Level (1999) Short film. In a Sydney apartment block, three tenants' lives collide in a story of hypochondria, belligerent neighbours and disappearing underpants.

Above the Law (1988) Action. Steven Segal drives a sexy corrupt cop to the Chicago lakefront, forces him at gunpoint to strip down to his boxers and socks, and squat on the rocks.

Accused, The (1988) Woody Brown pulls up his white jockey briefs after baring his ass in a rape scene.

Ace Ventura II Jim Carey in white boxer briefs.

Across the Tracks (1991) Brad Pitt in his bedroom in his underwear, and several scenes of him wearing really skimpy shorts.

Acting on Impulse (1993) C. Thomas Howell in his black silk boxer shorts - gets them pulled down by Linda Fiorentino.

Adventures of a Private Eye (1977) Typical pointless 70s British smutty farce. At the end of the movie, a guy is fleeing pursuers, covered only by a sheet, and escapes on a bus. When he gets off the bus, the sheet gets caught in the door and he's left on the street in only his shoes and socks. He steals a pair of drawers from a clothesline and continues in them for some minutes.

Adventures of Barry McKenzie, The (1972) Comedy. Man caught in bed with another man's woman is thrown out of the room in his underwear - socks, T-shirt and striped boxers. His trousers are thrown out, too, so he puts them on.

Adventures of Elmo in Grouchland, The (1999) Children's film. Mandy Patinkin embarrassed in his yellow undershirt and fancy polka-dot boxer shorts.

Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, The (1994) Few scenes of hunk wearing Calvin Klein boxers.

Adventures of Sebastian Cole, The (1998) "We see Sebastian (Adrian Grenier) lying on the roof of his old house in the rain and in just his underwear."

Against All Odds (1984) James Woods in black boxers.

Air Bud: Golden Receiver (1998) Family comedy. There is a scene where Kevin Zegers is waking up in the morning in his bedroom and slips on a football on the ground. He is wearing white boxerbriefs with stripes and looks HOT!!!

Alice’s Restaurant (1969) Arlo Guthrie in classic white jockeys. Nice Army physical scene of other guys in undies.

Alien (1979) Sci-fi horror. Unconscious, with an alien attached to his face, John Hurt in a one-piece (if you like that sort of thing).

Aliens (1986) Sci-fi horror action. Marines wakened from hyper-sleep in military green shorts and T-shirts.

All of Me (1984) Comedy. Steve Martin in his undershirt and striped boxers.

All the Kind Strangers (1974) (TV) Two teenage boys standing in the bedroom wearing only white briefs. There was also talk of them getting spankings throughout the movie and one scene where one asks for a switching. This movie stars Robbie Benson and Stacy Keach.

All the Right Moves (1983) Craig T. Nelson in white briefs.

All the Right Moves (1983) In one scene, three groupie girls strip the boy (Patrick Fugit, who was 16 while filming) to his white briefs. The next morning he awakens and walks around a bit in just the briefs before dressing. Very nice scene. The film takes place in 1973, but he wears modern FTLs with the logo all around the waistband.

All Tied Up (1994) Comedy. Two scenes: Zack Galligan in grey briefs and T-shirt when awakened by girl friend who comes to his apartment. Later, black briefs waking up and then working on computer. Picture may be an outtake:

Almost Famous (2000) In one scene, 3 groupie girls strip the boy (Patrick Fugit, who was 16 while filming) to his white briefs. The next morning he awakens and walks around a bit in just the briefs before dressing. Very nice scene. The film takes place in 1973, but he wears modern FTLs with the logo all around the waistband.

Always Leave Them Laughing (1949) Milton Berle - supposedly one of the most 'endowed' men in show business - exhibits himself in wide striped full-cut boxer shorts.

American Anthem (1986) Terribly cheesy movie about a guy’s internal conflict of whether or not to go back to gymnastics. Great shot of former Olympic gymnast Mitch Gaylord lying in what appears to be black bikini briefs or black nylon running shorts after he and the female lead have sex. Nice shot.

American Flyers (1985) David Grant changing clothes.

American Graffiti (1973) Hit comedy. Paul Le Mat pulls down Charles Martin Smith’s trousers, showing his white briefs and embarrassing him in front of the girl he wanted to impress.

American Hero John Ritter

American History X (1998) Drama. Ed Norton in white boxer shorts.

American Me (1992) Two male rape scenes, very graphic, lots of underwear scenes.

American Pie (1999) Teen comedy. Jim (Jason Biggs) in colourful print boxer shorts at the beginning, middle and end of this movie, including being caught by his parents when he's trying to watch a porn station, and stripping for a girl in his room.

American Psycho (2000) Thriller. "We see Bateman in his underwear and later see his bare butt as he showers".

American Summer, An (1991) A young Brian Austin Green plays strip poker with a girl...he ends up laying over her and kissing her. Great shot of package as he leans in for the kiss. Mid-end of movie.

Americanization of Emily, The (1964) James Garner is woken up during an invasion sequence in WW II and bewildered he walks outside in white T-shirt and boxer shorts, only to be told by a passing MP to "Put your pants on, Mac!"

Amityville Horror, The (1979) James Brolin walks down the stairs in bulging white classic briefs - clearly revealing he is one of the biggest stars in Hollywood.

Amityville 1992: It's About Time (1992) Tedious horror sequel. Girl seduces a teen and gets him to strip to his white briefs (but he is consumed by a pool of slime before he can get to her). Another guy in blue briefs and robe, and a third tied face down on a bed in his undershirt and striped boxers.

Anchors Aweigh (1945) Gene Kelly wakes up late in his white sailor boxer shorts and T-shirt because Frank Sinatra double-crossed him. Boy, does Gene get mad!!!

Angie (1994) Comedy-drama. James Gandolfini with girlfriend Geena Davis in purple silk boxers at the start of the movie.

Angus High school locker room scene. Nice rear view of teen in black Speedo.

Any Given Sunday (1999) Drama. Handsome footballer Jamie Foxx standing outdoors, shirtless, pants open and down a bit, revealing his black bikini briefs.

Animal House (1978) Kevin Bacon in WHITE briefs.

Animal Instincts II Two quick shots of Woody Brown in blue bikini briefs. Another scene with a guy in boxers shorts.

Anything Goes (1956) Donald O’Connor undresses before his partner, Bing Crosby. Donald wears socks and full-cut boxer shorts.

Anywhere But Here (1999) Corbin Allred plays a student who may or may not sleep with Ann (she has him strip to his underwear, but the scene ends with them kissing and then hugging).

Apocalypse Now (1979) Martin Sheen

April Fool’s Day (1986) Ken Olandt in white briefs getting into bed.

Apt Pupil (1998) Psychological thriller. Todd Bowden (Brad Renfro) in bed in his boxer shorts. Also, gym locker room sequence in which Brad Renfro strips for the showers. Guys behind him in undershorts; Renfro himself is in white briefs before taking them off.

Arachnophobia (1990) Comedy-thriller. Jeff Daniels, new doctor in a small town, is called out to check the high-school football team. They are lined up in their boxers for the cursory but intimate examination.

Argent Content (1999) (Easy Money) Short French film. Hostage stripped to his boxers in a bank raid.

Armageddon (1998) Sci-fi disaster action. Early scene has Bruce Willis chasing his daughter’s fiancé (is it Ben Affleck?) in his underwear, around an oil rig.

Artemisia (1997) Bigraphical dramatisation. Breaking with tradition in Renaissance Italy, a woman resolves to become a painter. Fortunately, she has a tall, dark and handsome friend to undress and pose for her; he strips to his drawers and she tells him to take them off, too.

As Good As It Gets (1997) Comedy-drama. Greg Kinnear in blue boxers. Skeet Ulrich as a burglar in tight jeans with a fashionable hole revealing his white briefs beneath.

Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997) Bondian spy spoof. Powers (Mike Myers) successfully defeats attacking ‘fem-bots’ by stripping off and dancing around in his Union Jack briefs.

Author! Author! (1982) Al Pacino walks in light blue trim-cut boxer shorts as he readies his children for an opening night performance.

Avanti! (1972) Comedy. Jack Lemmon, chasing Juliet Mills, strips down to his underwear and black socks and swims after her.

Awakenings (1990) Robert De Niro in a diaper (c

[nachoaveragejoe234]

Same with my OCs. I have differentt OCs, some are "strong female characters", some are "damsels", and some are both. Here are a few examples:

"DAMSELS/GIRLY GIRLS"

Rita Connway from Popugirls: She's a stereotypical girly girl: a pretty, blonde, fancy southern belle, who wears poofy dresses, skirts, and tutus, loves fairytales, magic, unicorns, puppies, and is a hopeless romantic. She's the "nice girl" everyone loves, makes friends easily, and likes giving people makeovers. She often finds herself needing to be saved. Sometimes by her female friends, but a lot of the time, by her strong, handsome, brave Australian boyfriend Jett.

Selma Seldom, Beatrice Park, Tammy Panganiban, Margaret Ruoho, and Grace Mayfair from Popugirls: Also girly girls

Marja-Liisa Lahti, Tiina Busters, and Zaiga from Aurora Borealis and Company: Marja-Liisa is the keyboardist of the Finnish girl band Aurora Borealis. She is the most feminine of the group. She loves pink, she's the shortest and thus looks "petite" and "weak", she's an Anglophile, and as a female Anglophile, she loves more "girly" British things like Jane Austen books, Romeo and Juliet, Alice in Wonderland, and has a crush on George Harrison. Tiina is a girly girl who loves fashion pink and purple. Zaiga is the more timid, sweet Afro-Latvian friend of the more brash, sometimes arrogant, and tomboyish Icelander Dagmar Laxness.

Marcella Piccolaro from my HEAD: In my head, I make up scenarios where I make characters that I pair up with real people. I never post them online. Anyway, Marcy is characterized in my AUs as an Italian immigrant to England who always ends up in a relationship with Keith, lead singer of the Yardbirds. Often in these AUs, Marcy is a damsel in distress that Keith needs to rescue.

FEMME FATALES:

Marina "The Duchess" Tang from Carmen Sandiego: My Carmen Sandiego OC (for both the Netflix version and the Earth version, my AUs tend to blend the two together). She's a Singaporean woman who goes by the alias "The Duchess". She doesn't work for Carmen, nor VILE, nor Zack and Ivy, she only works for whatever or whoever benefits her, so she's morally grey. She often uses her looks on men to get what she wants.

Eugenia "Gia" Lombardi from Aurora Borealis and Company: Gia is a friend of AB. She's a fashionable woman from Rome, who also is known for being boy crazy, and flirting with almost every man she sees.

BOTH/NEUTRAL

Lorelai Birdgess from DuckTales: My OC for the 2017 reboot of DT (and ultimately a Disney general character): An Aboriginal female duck from Sydney, Australia, also known by her self-given nickname/alter ego Cavern Girl. She wears whatever she wants. She joins the McDuck team on their adventures, but I made her eventually be a Disney character in general. She's brave and strong, based on the "Crocodile Dundee" stereotype, so she's not glamorous or dainty and is willing to get her hands dirty. But she also has feminine aspects to her. She still wears dresses and skirts, she still at times needs to be saved, most notably from Glomgold, who often makes advances on her, the duck mafia, and even from a forced marriage when the gang get sent back to Ancient Greece. She also is in love with Scrooge, and is a dude magnet.

Patricia Hannington from Popugirls: Born in Manchester, England, Patricia wasn't like everyone else. She grew up and got into the punk rock scene. She and her childhood friend Vicky Rajan, later joined by Courtenay Topaz, formed a band called Chains of Fury. Patricia went by the stage name "Celeste Diamond" and started dating another punk guy named Amos. Patricia/Celeste thought her life was perfect, but she caught Amos cheating on her one day and they split. She continued her band, and started dating Tino, a Finnish man, who treated her way better. She later became a friend of the oher Popugirls, dropped the Celeste Diamond name, and recently the Welsh-born Yvonne Low joined COF. Patty is the most tomboyish, but she's also popular with the guys (she herself said she had a reputation among the punk men back in Manchester), and is willing to wear a dress and get more "fancy" at times.

All women are valid

Kill the mentality that a female character is “weak” if she is in love with a man. Love is not weakness.

Also kill the mentality that a female character is “weak” if she is kind and sweet. Kindness is not weakness either.

[priestessofspiders]

Old Man Stickbones

I grew up in a small town called Pinewood Grove. It’s a tiny little community, its population couldn’t have exceeded more than a couple thousand souls at the most, and it’s surrounded on all sides by untold miles of dense forest. I remember it as a beautiful place, with trees as far as the eye could see, a veritable sea of greenery stretching out to the horizon. The air was cleaner there than it is in the city, and the sun seemed the shine brighter in the clear blue sky. But something has forever tainted that town for me, and I fear that until I die I shall be unable to look back upon my otherwise pleasant childhood without feeling a twinge of horror at the tragedy which ended my time living there.

I was always something of a tomboy as a child, feeling more comfortable playing outside with the boys than spending time with the other girls on the awkward playdates my somewhat anxious mother tried to set up for me. It’s really rather silly looking back on it now, how worried she was that I wasn’t going to get a “normal” childhood, but times were different back then. I had much more fun coming home with torn jeans and dirty hands anyway.

I was lucky enough to have many friends, but chief among them were a pair of boys by the names of Myles and Antonio. We first met by a creek in the woods where we had both been hoping to catch crayfish, and from that day forward we were practically inseparable. Despite the long stretch of years, I can still remember them both quite clearly, though I admit that perhaps this is only because of the terrible thing which occurred at the end of our friendship.

Myles was short and blond, with a freckle covered face that I sometimes (perhaps cruelly) joked looked as though it were covered in mosquito bites. In my defense, given how much time we spent near streams and creeks, it very often was. He fancied himself something of an explorer, and I swear that the khaki safari hat he wore may as well have been permanently glued to his head. He never went anywhere without a Swiss army knife and a compass that had been given to him by his grandfather. I must say I was somewhat jealous of the compass, it was quite the fancy piece of kit, perhaps some military surplus, with a shiny metal lid. He took great joy in closing it one handed with a satisfying snap. He often referred to our little woodland excursions as “expeditions”, and sometimes would put on a faux British accent and pretend to twirl a nonexistent mustache in imitation of the two fisted heroes from the pulp adventure novels he read.

Antonio was a bit taller than Myles, with slightly messy black hair and big round spectacles that led Myles to often refer to him as “the professor”. He seemed to take on the moniker with pride, and carried around a pocket guide to insects and arachnids which he used to identify the various creepy crawlies we found during our sylvan ramblings. He would note them down by their scientific names in a little journal, with surprisingly well-drawn sketches alongside them. I wonder if he ever became an entomologist when he grew up, or perhaps an illustrator. He always seemed a little bit shyer than Myles, but in retrospect I think it’s possible he may have just had a crush on me, something that I would have been utterly oblivious to at the time. I was young, and didn’t have time to think about romance, all that existed to me was the forest, my friends, and long summer days that felt as though they would last forever.

We’d often come up with little objectives for our excursions, and Myles would write them down in a small leather bound notebook he carried in his fanny pack. This would range from simple things like “follow the creek till the end” to elaborate fantasies such as “search for the forgotten temple of the forest gods”. We rarely ever actually achieved any of these goals, but it added to the immersion of being globetrotting adventurers, so we played into it. Out of all of the missions we found ourselves embarking upon, however, the one we most frequently repeated was searching as deep in the woods as we could for a very particular cabin.

You see, there was something of a legend in Pinewood Grove, one passed on for as long as anyone could remember, perhaps from the very founding of the town itself. I heard it from my uncle, Antonio from his grandmother, and Myles was told it by his father. The details changed from telling to telling, but the core of the story always stayed the same. They say that deep, deep in the woods, past any sign of civilization, there lives a very old man. Ancient, in fact, older than the forest itself, from when the world was young and nothing was quite finished yet. They say that when he was born, people didn’t yet know how to die, and in all his long years of existence, he still hasn’t managed to figure it out. He could age though, and the cruel years have warped his body almost beyond recognizability as anything that could have once been considered human. In his impossible decrepitude, every movement makes his joints creak and crack with a sound like branches snapping in half. He lives alone, making strange little shapes out of tied together sticks which he litters near his cabin as a warning to keep away. Antonio told me his grandmother actually showed him one of these objects, a strange little figure, like a doll made by someone who didn’t quite understand what humans were supposed to look like, held together with sinew and bits of hair. He said that just looking at it felt wrong.

Nobody knows the old man’s real name, if he ever had one to begin with, but his creaking joints and gaunt, aged figure have earned him a number of nicknames. The Snapstick Man. Old Stickbug. Grandfather Brittleback.

To me though, he will always be Old Man Stickbones. That’s what Myles, Antonio, and I always called him. We joked sometimes about finding the old man and bringing him back to civilization, putting him on display as the 8th wonder of the world and charging admission to see him at 5 dollars a peek. It wasn’t serious of course. I don’t think we actually believed in Old Man Stickbones, but it was a good enough excuse to pass the time in each other’s company, and frankly the story had an air of authentic woodsy horror about it which made the morbid parts of our imagination run wild with delight.

I remember once that the three of us were having a sleepover at Myles’ house, and I managed to sneak away while the others were watching some scary movie that we were all too young for. I hid just outside the light of the television set and began snapping in half some sticks that I’d smuggled in my jacket pockets. It took only a couple snaps before Antonio and Myles paused the movie and started looking around with absolute terror in their eyes. When I jumped out and yelled “Boo”, I swear to God I thought the two of them were going to wet themselves. Antonio actually started to cry, which made me feel a little bad.

There’s no point in beating around the bush any further. As pleasant as it is to remember those bygone days of my youth, all of my recollections invariably end with the same, terrible memory. Perhaps putting it down in words will provide me with some sort of closure. One can only hope.

It was nearing the end of the summer break, and the three of us knew that fairly soon our woodland romps would be once again limited to weekends and the occasional holiday. So, we decided to try and go deeper into the woods than we had ever gone before. “Right up to Old Man Stickbones’ front door!” as Myles put it, something which made Antonio seem slightly nervous. We left earlier than usual, choosing to head off in the late morning rather than the early afternoon, and made sure to bring enough snacks (or “rations” as Myles insisted upon calling them) to last us till the evening.

I don’t remember exactly which route we were taking, but it was somewhat meandering. Myles had the compass so he was the one who led the way. Antonio and I, as always, followed behind, though frankly with our longer legs it was sometimes a tad bit annoying to deal with Myles’ slower pace. Antonio frequently found himself accidentally kicking the back of Myles’ shoes before sheepishly apologizing. This had always been the case, and usually nothing worse came of it than an annoyed comment, but this time, Antonio’s accidental treading of Myles’ heel caused our fearless leader to trip on an exposed tree root, falling to the ground in a heap.

It feels awful in retrospect, but I did laugh. Myles had been in the middle of singing a marching tune, and the song was cut off with a sudden “Aurgh!” followed by a clattering of metal which was frankly comical.

What was less comical was the realization that the loud clattering sound was that of poor Myles’ compass, the one given to him by his grandfather, being dashed to pieces on a protruding rock as it fell.

Though largely unhurt, Myles’ bravado had been deflated once he realized what had happened, and he was beginning to sniffle a bit. I’ve always felt awkward comforting my friends as they cry. I never know quite what to say. Myles adored that compass, and I felt genuinely terrible for laughing when it broke. Antonio apologized profusely, and in a display of maturity that was frankly uncommon for someone of such a young age, Myles told him it was alright, and that he knew Antonio didn’t mean any harm.

“It’s my fault,” he said, “I know I should’ve been in the back of the group, I’m the slowest. I just like being the leader is all.”

We helped Myles up to his feet and gathered up the broken remnants of the compass. I tried to reassure him that we could maybe get it fixed when we got back to town, and that did seem to cheer Myles up a bit. We realized that it was starting to get a little late in the day for exploring anyway, and that we should probably turn around. It was then that Antonio remarked “Um, sorry, but… which way did we come from?”

It was with dawning horror that we realized we had no idea which direction was the way back to Pinewood Grove. We had been relying on Myles and his compass to get back home, and frankly none of us properly had any real sense of direction. For a moment we all stood in silence, trying desperately to think of some way to navigate. We knew that we had headed South initially, and so we needed to find out which way was North in order to reach town.

“We could use the setting sun to figure out which direction to go, maybe?” suggested Antonio.

“That’s a great idea,” I agreed, “it rises in the East and sets in the West, right?”

“No no, it’s the other way around,” insisted Myles, “that’s why they call Japan ‘the land of the setting sun.’”

“I thought it was the ‘land of the rising sun,'” said Antonio, sounding a little unsure of himself.

The discussion went round and round in circles for what must have been at least half an hour, Myles and I arguing over which way the sun rose and set. Antonio, meanwhile, kept switching sides anxiously, desperate just for someone to decide upon something we could use to get home. In the end, we were so worried about getting back before dark that we just decided to set off in a random direction that we all hoped was North and prayed that we could find some recognizable landmarks.

We had successfully managed at least one thing; we had gone deeper into the forest than ever before. As the light grew dimmer, I’m certain that each of us felt that the surrounding woods were becoming less and less recognizable, but none of us said anything. I think we were all secretly hoping that the others knew where they were going.

The trees were taller, the foliage thicker, and the air seemed almost imperceptibly fouler, like the stale smell you get from opening a long-closed cupboard, but tinged with the musty scent of soil and damp leaves. As the minutes turned to hours, eventually it grew so dark that we had to pull out the flashlights we had brought with us in our backpacks, just in case of emergencies. I didn’t know how long the batteries would last, so I insisted upon keeping mine in reserve, letting the boys use theirs for the time being.

It was Antonio who spotted the first one. He had stopped marching and was simply staring upwards at one of the trees, flashlight shining high up at an angle. His mouth was open slightly, and he was trembling.

“What is it?” I asked, looking up at where the beam pointed. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first, even with the flashlight, as it was difficult to see well in the dark. Antonio pointed with one shaking hand, and I looked closer, squinting slightly. When I saw what he was staring at, I immediately understood why Antonio was afraid.

Dangling from a string of some sort, suspended in the air, was a strange bundle of sticks. It was arranged in some sort of star-like pattern, but with too many points, maybe seven or eight in total. It was small, and blended in well among the leaves, so it wasn’t particularly surprising that I hadn’t been able to see it at first. Frankly it was a miracle that Antonio had.

“Guys, c’mon!” shouted Myles from up ahead. He hadn’t stopped his march while Antonio and I were looking at the strange star.

“Should we, y’know, tell him?” asked Antonio, voice quavering.

“No, it’s probably just, I dunno, some guy doing a prank or something. Trying to scare people. If anything it probably means we’re closer to town,” I said. Antonio nodded, and we hurried to follow Myles, shouting for him to wait up.

As time went on, both Antonio and I began to notice more and more of the strange shapes crafted from sticks hanging from the trees. They came in a wide variety of shapes and sizes; vaguely humanoid outlines, triangles, crosses, stars, jagged spirals, and even stranger designs which we couldn’t quite find the words for, but made us uncomfortable to look at nonetheless. If Myles noticed them, he didn’t show any sign of it. He simply kept marching on, tired and upset to the extent to which he no longer was paying any attention to his surroundings.

Every so often Antonio would get an odd look and slow his pace for a second or two, looking about nervously. After he had done so four or five times, I asked him in a whisper what he was doing.

“Listening,” he said in reply, “I keep thinking I hear something, like, well…” his voice shrunk to a low mutter, “like sticks snapping.”

I was about to try and come up with some sort of rational explanation when we heard Myles call us from up ahead. We hurried towards him and quickly saw what had gotten his attention. Myles was pointing towards a distant light shining through the trees. It was admittedly quite faint, but decidedly a sign of civilization. We could also smell the faint scent of something burning.

“A campfire maybe?” I asked.

“It’s gotta be”, said Myles, picking up the pace as he headed towards the light. Antonio and I followed, but there was a hesitance to our movements. With every step I took, I began to get increasingly uncomfortable, and I could tell that Antonio felt the same.

After a few minutes we were greeted with the source of the light. It was a rough cabin, built from logs and crudely mortared stone, with a faint wisp of smoke emanating out from its chimney. Despite its relatively simple construction, it seemed quite large, at least the size of a typical suburban home. It seemed oddly crooked, all the angles subtly off, like something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Its windows were made from cloudy, cracked glass, very roughly set high in the walls of the building with some sort of rudimentary cement. From behind the translucent glass there came the warm glow of a fire.

“Let’s knock on the door and see if whoever lives here can point us back to Pinewood Grove,” said Myles excitedly.

“I uh, don’t think that’s a good idea Myles,” Antonio whispered, starting to take steps back away from the cabin.

“What are you talking about? This could be our best bet to get out of the forest! Do you want to get eaten by a bear or something? Besides maybe they’ve got a telephone. I’m sure our parents are all worried about us by now, they’ve probably called the police,” replied Myles, a hint of frustration in his voice.

“I think Antonio has a point, Myles, I mean, doesn’t this all seem a little… I don’t know, creepy?” I said, trying to choose my words carefully.

Myles stared at me bleary eyed like I just told him I was from the planet Mars.

“Myles, we didn’t tell you because, y’know, you already seemed kind of upset, but…” Antonio trailed off.

“We’ve been seeing these weird stick sculptures, in the trees. We thought maybe it was someone doing a prank, y’know? But, c’mon, look at this place. Don’t you think it kind of looks like-” I started to say, before Myles cut me off.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me you want to stay out here, in the dark, alone in the woods, because you’re scared of Old Man Stickbones? Come on.” Myles huffed, rolling his eyes.

Antonio and I looked down at the ground, embarrassed a little bit by Myles’ tone. We knew it sounded stupid, being afraid of a campfire story like that, but it didn’t make us any less afraid. Our silence started to make Myles angry.

“Are you serious? Are you both babies? There’s no such thing as Old Man Stickbones, he’s made up, he’s a fairy tale! Are you gonna tell me you believe in Santa Claus next? It’s just a stupid game. Did you think that when we went looking for secret treasure last week that there was actually hidden gold out here too?” Myles was starting to yell, getting angrier and angrier. I understood we were all tired, stressed, and afraid, but I’d never seen him act like this before, and frankly I was starting to get pissed off.

“We wouldn’t even be out here if you didn’t drop your stupid compass,” I muttered, mostly to myself, but just loud enough that Myles could hear.

“Well maybe I wouldn’t have dropped it if this moron,” Myles said, pointing an accusing finger at Antonio, “could watch here he was going! Or maybe, y’know, if you’d just agreed with me about which direction the freaking sun sets.”

Antonio looked like he was about to cry, and my hands tightened into fists. It was then that I said something I will forever regret.

“Well Myles, if you’re so brave, why don’t you go knock on that creepy cabin door yourself.”

To this day, I still cannot forgive myself. I shouldn’t have said it. I don’t know what else I should have said, what I could have done to prevent what happened, but I can’t help but blame myself. I told him to go knock on the door, it’s my fault.

Myles grew slightly pale, and I could tell he was afraid. But he didn’t say anything. He just turned around and started marching towards the front of the cabin. I stood there, watching him go, while Antonio tried to whisper for him to come back, that I didn’t mean it.

Within a few moments, Myles stood before the wooden door of that strange cabin, trembling slightly. I hadn’t been able to tell from a distance earlier, but now with Myles standing next to it the door seemed huge in comparison to his short stature. It was easily 8 or 9 feet tall, and looked heavy. He looked over to us for reassurance, and Antonio kept shaking his head, trying to get him to come back. I just stared. I wish I had done something, but God help me, I just stared.

Myles turned back to the door and raised a shaking fist, before rapping his knuckles against the wood three times.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Everything went quiet. All the faint sounds of chirping crickets, hooting owls, and rustling leaves seemed to die in an instant. For a few seconds, all was terribly, impossibly silent. Then I heard it.

It was a loud, harsh, crack. First just one, as though a single branch being snapped off a dead tree. Then another, and another, a cacophony of cracks as though of a thousand arthritic joints being popped. Myles seemed paralyzed with fear, and Antonio and I gasped as we saw strange shadows move with stuttering, stop-and-start motions behind the clouded glass of the cabin’s high windows. Then the door began to creak open, the hinges rusty and loud. From our vantage point, we couldn’t see inside, we could just see the light from within illuminate Myles when the door was fully ajar.

Myles’ jaw dropped open in horror as he inhaled, preparing to cry out in abject terror at whatever it was he saw inside the cabin. But he didn’t have time to scream before a gaunt, pallid limb reached out from inside, grabbing him by the waist with fingers as thick as broomsticks and pulling him into the cabin, the door slamming shut in an instant.

Antonio and I both ran, screaming and crying as we fled through the woods at top speed. He dropped his flashlight at some point and we both kept tripping through the dark, I was too afraid to stop to pull my own out of my backpack. We couldn’t be sure that the sounds of crunching underfoot came from fallen leaves or the creaking joints of a monstrous pursuer.

Eventually we both collapsed, unable to flee any more with our burning muscles and countless bruises from stumbling about in the dark. As we sat, catching our breath, I could hear the distant sound of cars. We were near the highway. Finally pulling out my flashlight, I led the still crying Antonio by the hand, following the sounds of the automobiles.

Antonio and I made it back alright, mostly unharmed aside from the bruising and shock. Myles had been right; our parents did call the police, and we had to give our statements as to what happened to some rather skeptical officers when we got back to my house before he was allowed to go home and I was able to go to bed. Of course they didn’t believe us, why on Earth would they? They figured we were too scared to properly remember what had really happened, and that maybe some animal or homeless person had frightened us. They sent out search parties the following day.

They didn’t find Myles, nor did they find the cabin that Antonio and I described. Myles’ parents blamed us of course, and accused us of taking their son out into the woods to murder him. Antonio’s family moved away not long after in the wake of Myles’ disappearance, and when school started up again I became a subject of ostracization and bullying, which frankly I felt that I deserved. I blamed myself, and still do, for what happened to poor Myles.

Nevertheless, I tried to persevere, and despite the alternating shunning and taunting from my classmates and teachers alike, I stuck around in Pinewood Grove for about a month after my final expedition into the woods. The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was the object that was left on the front porch of Myles’ parents’ house. After that, my parents became so concerned for our safety at the hands of small town “vigilante justice” that they decided it would be best to move away.

You see, one morning Myles’ father was getting ready to go to work, when he almost tripped upon something left right at the front door. It was roughly pyramidal in structure, with three sides leading up to a point at the top, constructed from sticks and twigs, tied together with leather cords. There was a little gap, a window of sorts, cut into one of the sides. Dangling in the center, strung up with some knotted hair, was Myles’ broken compass.

Forensic analysis revealed that the leather and hair used in the construction of this object was human tissue.

I grew up in a small town called Pinewood Grove. It’s a tiny little community, its population couldn’t have exceeded more than a couple thousand souls at the most, and it’s surrounded on all sides by untold miles of dense forest. I remember it as a beautiful place, with trees as far as the eye could see, a veritable sea of greenery stretching out to the horizon. The air was cleaner there than it is in the city, and the sun seemed the shine brighter in the clear blue sky. But something has forever tainted that town for me, and I fear that until I die I shall be unable to look back upon my otherwise pleasant childhood without feeling a twinge of horror at the tragedy which ended my time living there.

I was always something of a tomboy as a child, feeling more comfortable playing outside with the boys than spending time with the other girls on the awkward playdates my somewhat anxious mother tried to set up for me. It’s really rather silly looking back on it now, how worried she was that I wasn’t going to get a “normal” childhood, but times were different back then. I had much more fun coming home with torn jeans and dirty hands anyway.

I was lucky enough to have many friends, but chief among them were a pair of boys by the names of Myles and Antonio. We first met by a creek in the woods where we had both been hoping to catch crayfish, and from that day forward we were practically inseparable. Despite the long stretch of years, I can still remember them both quite clearly, though I admit that perhaps this is only because of the terrible thing which occurred at the end of our friendship.

Myles was short and blond, with a freckle covered face that I sometimes (perhaps cruelly) joked looked as though it were covered in mosquito bites. In my defense, given how much time we spent near streams and creeks, it very often was. He fancied himself something of an explorer, and I swear that the khaki safari hat he wore may as well have been permanently glued to his head. He never went anywhere without a Swiss army knife and a compass that had been given to him by his grandfather. I must say I was somewhat jealous of the compass, it was quite the fancy piece of kit, perhaps some military surplus, with a shiny metal lid. He took great joy in closing it one handed with a satisfying snap. He often referred to our little woodland excursions as “expeditions”, and sometimes would put on a faux British accent and pretend to twirl a nonexistent mustache in imitation of the two fisted heroes from the pulp adventure novels he read.

Antonio was a bit taller than Myles, with slightly messy black hair and big round spectacles that led Myles to often refer to him as “the professor”. He seemed to take on the moniker with pride, and carried around a pocket guide to insects and arachnids which he used to identify the various creepy crawlies we found during our sylvan ramblings. He would note them down by their scientific names in a little journal, with surprisingly well-drawn sketches alongside them. I wonder if he ever became an entomologist when he grew up, or perhaps an illustrator. He always seemed a little bit shyer than Myles, but in retrospect I think it’s possible he may have just had a crush on me, something that I would have been utterly oblivious to at the time. I was young, and didn’t have time to think about romance, all that existed to me was the forest, my friends, and long summer days that felt as though they would last forever.

We’d often come up with little objectives for our excursions, and Myles would write them down in a small leather bound notebook he carried in his fanny pack. This would range from simple things like “follow the creek till the end” to elaborate fantasies such as “search for the forgotten temple of the forest gods”. We rarely ever actually achieved any of these goals, but it added to the immersion of being globetrotting adventurers, so we played into it. Out of all of the missions we found ourselves embarking upon, however, the one we most frequently repeated was searching as deep in the woods as we could for a very particular cabin.

You see, there was something of a legend in Pinewood Grove, one passed on for as long as anyone could remember, perhaps from the very founding of the town itself. I heard it from my uncle, Antonio from his grandmother, and Myles was told it by his father. The details changed from telling to telling, but the core of the story always stayed the same. They say that deep, deep in the woods, past any sign of civilization, there lives a very old man. Ancient, in fact, older than the forest itself, from when the world was young and nothing was quite finished yet. They say that when he was born, people didn’t yet know how to die, and in all his long years of existence, he still hasn’t managed to figure it out. He could age though, and the cruel years have warped his body almost beyond recognizability as anything that could have once been considered human. In his impossible decrepitude, every movement makes his joints creak and crack with a sound like branches snapping in half. He lives alone, making strange little shapes out of tied together sticks which he litters near his cabin as a warning to keep away. Antonio told me his grandmother actually showed him one of these objects, a strange little figure, like a doll made by someone who didn’t quite understand what humans were supposed to look like, held together with sinew and bits of hair. He said that just looking at it felt wrong.

Nobody knows the old man’s real name, if he ever had one to begin with, but his creaking joints and gaunt, aged figure have earned him a number of nicknames. The Snapstick Man. Old Stickbug. Grandfather Brittleback.

To me though, he will always be Old Man Stickbones. That’s what Myles, Antonio, and I always called him. We joked sometimes about finding the old man and bringing him back to civilization, putting him on display as the 8th wonder of the world and charging admission to see him at 5 dollars a peek. It wasn’t serious of course. I don’t think we actually believed in Old Man Stickbones, but it was a good enough excuse to pass the time in each other’s company, and frankly the story had an air of authentic woodsy horror about it which made the morbid parts of our imagination run wild with delight.

I remember once that the three of us were having a sleepover at Myles’ house, and I managed to sneak away while the others were watching some scary movie that we were all too young for. I hid just outside the light of the television set and began snapping in half some sticks that I’d smuggled in my jacket pockets. It took only a couple snaps before Antonio and Myles paused the movie and started looking around with absolute terror in their eyes. When I jumped out and yelled “Boo”, I swear to God I thought the two of them were going to wet themselves. Antonio actually started to cry, which made me feel a little bad.

There’s no point in beating around the bush any further. As pleasant as it is to remember those bygone days of my youth, all of my recollections invariably end with the same, terrible memory. Perhaps putting it down in words will provide me with some sort of closure. One can only hope.

It was nearing the end of the summer break, and the three of us knew that fairly soon our woodland romps would be once again limited to weekends and the occasional holiday. So, we decided to try and go deeper into the woods than we had ever gone before. “Right up to Old Man Stickbones’ front door!” as Myles put it, something which made Antonio seem slightly nervous. We left earlier than usual, choosing to head off in the late morning rather than the early afternoon, and made sure to bring enough snacks (or “rations” as Myles insisted upon calling them) to last us till the evening.

I don’t remember exactly which route we were taking, but it was somewhat meandering. Myles had the compass so he was the one who led the way. Antonio and I, as always, followed behind, though frankly with our longer legs it was sometimes a tad bit annoying to deal with Myles’ slower pace. Antonio frequently found himself accidentally kicking the back of Myles’ shoes before sheepishly apologizing. This had always been the case, and usually nothing worse came of it than an annoyed comment, but this time, Antonio’s accidental treading of Myles’ heel caused our fearless leader to trip on an exposed tree root, falling to the ground in a heap.

It feels awful in retrospect, but I did laugh. Myles had been in the middle of singing a marching tune, and the song was cut off with a sudden “Aurgh!” followed by a clattering of metal which was frankly comical.

What was less comical was the realization that the loud clattering sound was that of poor Myles’ compass, the one given to him by his grandfather, being dashed to pieces on a protruding rock as it fell.

Though largely unhurt, Myles’ bravado had been deflated once he realized what had happened, and he was beginning to sniffle a bit. I’ve always felt awkward comforting my friends as they cry. I never know quite what to say. Myles adored that compass, and I felt genuinely terrible for laughing when it broke. Antonio apologized profusely, and in a display of maturity that was frankly uncommon for someone of such a young age, Myles told him it was alright, and that he knew Antonio didn’t mean any harm.

“It’s my fault,” he said, “I know I should’ve been in the back of the group, I’m the slowest. I just like being the leader is all.”

We helped Myles up to his feet and gathered up the broken remnants of the compass. I tried to reassure him that we could maybe get it fixed when we got back to town, and that did seem to cheer Myles up a bit. We realized that it was starting to get a little late in the day for exploring anyway, and that we should probably turn around. It was then that Antonio remarked “Um, sorry, but… which way did we come from?”

It was with dawning horror that we realized we had no idea which direction was the way back to Pinewood Grove. We had been relying on Myles and his compass to get back home, and frankly none of us properly had any real sense of direction. For a moment we all stood in silence, trying desperately to think of some way to navigate. We knew that we had headed South initially, and so we needed to find out which way was North in order to reach town.

“We could use the setting sun to figure out which direction to go, maybe?” suggested Antonio.

“That’s a great idea,” I agreed, “it rises in the East and sets in the West, right?”

“No no, it’s the other way around,” insisted Myles, “that’s why they call Japan ‘the land of the setting sun.’”

“I thought it was the ‘land of the rising sun,'” said Antonio, sounding a little unsure of himself.

The discussion went round and round in circles for what must have been at least half an hour, Myles and I arguing over which way the sun rose and set. Antonio, meanwhile, kept switching sides anxiously, desperate just for someone to decide upon something we could use to get home. In the end, we were so worried about getting back before dark that we just decided to set off in a random direction that we all hoped was North and prayed that we could find some recognizable landmarks.

We had successfully managed at least one thing; we had gone deeper into the forest than ever before. As the light grew dimmer, I’m certain that each of us felt that the surrounding woods were becoming less and less recognizable, but none of us said anything. I think we were all secretly hoping that the others knew where they were going.

The trees were taller, the foliage thicker, and the air seemed almost imperceptibly fouler, like the stale smell you get from opening a long-closed cupboard, but tinged with the musty scent of soil and damp leaves. As the minutes turned to hours, eventually it grew so dark that we had to pull out the flashlights we had brought with us in our backpacks, just in case of emergencies. I didn’t know how long the batteries would last, so I insisted upon keeping mine in reserve, letting the boys use theirs for the time being.

It was Antonio who spotted the first one. He had stopped marching and was simply staring upwards at one of the trees, flashlight shining high up at an angle. His mouth was open slightly, and he was trembling.

“What is it?” I asked, looking up at where the beam pointed. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first, even with the flashlight, as it was difficult to see well in the dark. Antonio pointed with one shaking hand, and I looked closer, squinting slightly. When I saw what he was staring at, I immediately understood why Antonio was afraid.

Dangling from a string of some sort, suspended in the air, was a strange bundle of sticks. It was arranged in some sort of star-like pattern, but with too many points, maybe seven or eight in total. It was small, and blended in well among the leaves, so it wasn’t particularly surprising that I hadn’t been able to see it at first. Frankly it was a miracle that Antonio had.

“Guys, c’mon!” shouted Myles from up ahead. He hadn’t stopped his march while Antonio and I were looking at the strange star.

“Should we, y’know, tell him?” asked Antonio, voice quavering.

“No, it’s probably just, I dunno, some guy doing a prank or something. Trying to scare people. If anything it probably means we’re closer to town,” I said. Antonio nodded, and we hurried to follow Myles, shouting for him to wait up.

As time went on, both Antonio and I began to notice more and more of the strange shapes crafted from sticks hanging from the trees. They came in a wide variety of shapes and sizes; vaguely humanoid outlines, triangles, crosses, stars, jagged spirals, and even stranger designs which we couldn’t quite find the words for, but made us uncomfortable to look at nonetheless. If Myles noticed them, he didn’t show any sign of it. He simply kept marching on, tired and upset to the extent to which he no longer was paying any attention to his surroundings.

Every so often Antonio would get an odd look and slow his pace for a second or two, looking about nervously. After he had done so four or five times, I asked him in a whisper what he was doing.

“Listening,” he said in reply, “I keep thinking I hear something, like, well…” his voice shrunk to a low mutter, “like sticks snapping.”

I was about to try and come up with some sort of rational explanation when we heard Myles call us from up ahead. We hurried towards him and quickly saw what had gotten his attention. Myles was pointing towards a distant light shining through the trees. It was admittedly quite faint, but decidedly a sign of civilization. We could also smell the faint scent of something burning.

“A campfire maybe?” I asked.

“It’s gotta be”, said Myles, picking up the pace as he headed towards the light. Antonio and I followed, but there was a hesitance to our movements. With every step I took, I began to get increasingly uncomfortable, and I could tell that Antonio felt the same.

After a few minutes we were greeted with the source of the light. It was a rough cabin, built from logs and crudely mortared stone, with a faint wisp of smoke emanating out from its chimney. Despite its relatively simple construction, it seemed quite large, at least the size of a typical suburban home. It seemed oddly crooked, all the angles subtly off, like something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Its windows were made from cloudy, cracked glass, very roughly set high in the walls of the building with some sort of rudimentary cement. From behind the translucent glass there came the warm glow of a fire.

“Let’s knock on the door and see if whoever lives here can point us back to Pinewood Grove,” said Myles excitedly.

“I uh, don’t think that’s a good idea Myles,” Antonio whispered, starting to take steps back away from the cabin.

“What are you talking about? This could be our best bet to get out of the forest! Do you want to get eaten by a bear or something? Besides maybe they’ve got a telephone. I’m sure our parents are all worried about us by now, they’ve probably called the police,” replied Myles, a hint of frustration in his voice.

“I think Antonio has a point, Myles, I mean, doesn’t this all seem a little… I don’t know, creepy?” I said, trying to choose my words carefully.

Myles stared at me bleary eyed like I just told him I was from the planet Mars.

“Myles, we didn’t tell you because, y’know, you already seemed kind of upset, but…” Antonio trailed off.

“We’ve been seeing these weird stick sculptures, in the trees. We thought maybe it was someone doing a prank, y’know? But, c’mon, look at this place. Don’t you think it kind of looks like-” I started to say, before Myles cut me off.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me you want to stay out here, in the dark, alone in the woods, because you’re scared of Old Man Stickbones? Come on.” Myles huffed, rolling his eyes.

Antonio and I looked down at the ground, embarrassed a little bit by Myles’ tone. We knew it sounded stupid, being afraid of a campfire story like that, but it didn’t make us any less afraid. Our silence started to make Myles angry.

“Are you serious? Are you both babies? There’s no such thing as Old Man Stickbones, he’s made up, he’s a fairy tale! Are you gonna tell me you believe in Santa Claus next? It’s just a stupid game. Did you think that when we went looking for secret treasure last week that there was actually hidden gold out here too?” Myles was starting to yell, getting angrier and angrier. I understood we were all tired, stressed, and afraid, but I’d never seen him act like this before, and frankly I was starting to get pissed off.

“We wouldn’t even be out here if you didn’t drop your stupid compass,” I muttered, mostly to myself, but just loud enough that Myles could hear.

“Well maybe I wouldn’t have dropped it if this moron,” Myles said, pointing an accusing finger at Antonio, “could watch here he was going! Or maybe, y’know, if you’d just agreed with me about which direction the freaking sun sets.”

Antonio looked like he was about to cry, and my hands tightened into fists. It was then that I said something I will forever regret.

“Well Myles, if you’re so brave, why don’t you go knock on that creepy cabin door yourself.”

To this day, I still cannot forgive myself. I shouldn’t have said it. I don’t know what else I should have said, what I could have done to prevent what happened, but I can’t help but blame myself. I told him to go knock on the door, it’s my fault.

Myles grew slightly pale, and I could tell he was afraid. But he didn’t say anything. He just turned around and started marching towards the front of the cabin. I stood there, watching him go, while Antonio tried to whisper for him to come back, that I didn’t mean it.

Within a few moments, Myles stood before the wooden door of that strange cabin, trembling slightly. I hadn’t been able to tell from a distance earlier, but now with Myles standing next to it the door seemed huge in comparison to his short stature. It was easily 8 or 9 feet tall, and looked heavy. He looked over to us for reassurance, and Antonio kept shaking his head, trying to get him to come back. I just stared. I wish I had done something, but God help me, I just stared.

Myles turned back to the door and raised a shaking fist, before rapping his knuckles against the wood three times.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Everything went quiet. All the faint sounds of chirping crickets, hooting owls, and rustling leaves seemed to die in an instant. For a few seconds, all was terribly, impossibly silent. Then I heard it.

It was a loud, harsh, crack. First just one, as though a single branch being snapped off a dead tree. Then another, and another, a cacophony of cracks as though of a thousand arthritic joints being popped. Myles seemed paralyzed with fear, and Antonio and I gasped as we saw strange shadows move with stuttering, stop-and-start motions behind the clouded glass of the cabin’s high windows. Then the door began to creak open, the hinges rusty and loud. From our vantage point, we couldn’t see inside, we could just see the light from within illuminate Myles when the door was fully ajar.

Myles’ jaw dropped open in horror as he inhaled, preparing to cry out in abject terror at whatever it was he saw inside the cabin. But he didn’t have time to scream before a gaunt, pallid limb reached out from inside, grabbing him by the waist with fingers as thick as broomsticks and pulling him into the cabin, the door slamming shut in an instant.

Antonio and I both ran, screaming and crying as we fled through the woods at top speed. He dropped his flashlight at some point and we both kept tripping through the dark, I was too afraid to stop to pull my own out of my backpack. We couldn’t be sure that the sounds of crunching underfoot came from fallen leaves or the creaking joints of a monstrous pursuer.

Eventually we both collapsed, unable to flee any more with our burning muscles and countless bruises from stumbling about in the dark. As we sat, catching our breath, I could hear the distant sound of cars. We were near the highway. Finally pulling out my flashlight, I led the still crying Antonio by the hand, following the sounds of the automobiles.

Antonio and I made it back alright, mostly unharmed aside from the bruising and shock. Myles had been right; our parents did call the police, and we had to give our statements as to what happened to some rather skeptical officers when we got back to my house before he was allowed to go home and I was able to go to bed. Of course they didn’t believe us, why on Earth would they? They figured we were too scared to properly remember what had really happened, and that maybe some animal or homeless person had frightened us. They sent out search parties the following day.

They didn’t find Myles, nor did they find the cabin that Antonio and I described. Myles’ parents blamed us of course, and accused us of taking their son out into the woods to murder him. Antonio’s family moved away not long after in the wake of Myles’ disappearance, and when school started up again I became a subject of ostracization and bullying, which frankly I felt that I deserved. I blamed myself, and still do, for what happened to poor Myles.

Nevertheless, I tried to persevere, and despite the alternating shunning and taunting from my classmates and teachers alike, I stuck around in Pinewood Grove for about a month after my final expedition into the woods. The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was the object that was left on the front porch of Myles’ parents’ house. After that, my parents became so concerned for our safety at the hands of small town “vigilante justice” that they decided it would be best to move away.

You see, one morning Myles’ father was getting ready to go to work, when he almost tripped upon something left right at the front door. It was roughly pyramidal in structure, with three sides leading up to a point at the top, constructed from sticks and twigs, tied together with leather cords. There was a little gap, a window of sorts, cut into one of the sides. Dangling in the center, strung up with some knotted hair, was Myles’ broken compass.

Forensic analysis revealed that the leather and hair used in the construction of this object was human tissue.

[vera-keller]

Hey I saw that your ships are open and was wondering if I could request one?

I have short dark brown hair and brown eyes. I have pearl earrings currently. I am 5'6. I am also ftm and gay. He/him pronouns

I am currently learning German and Ukrainian. I play the cello (I would say that I'm pretty decent at it). I want to join the paratroopers soon and maybe get a doctorate degree in the medical field. I like writing books, reading, and drawing. I am very interested in history, mainly the 20th century. I also know how to cross-country ski and love the winter.

My MBTI type if I remember correctly is INTJ. I love procrastinating and do well under a lot of pressure. I'm also very stubborn and awkward with talking to people so I don't have many close friends. For some reason, I have a sort of knack for doing things well, even if it's the first time I've tried it and that might be because I listen really closely to stuff to make sure I'm doing everything correctly. I need a straightforward path and a list of things I should do to get something done.

I have depression, anxiety and maybe (I say maybe because it's undiagnosed) maladaptive daydreaming, which basically means I daydream too much that it's a problem. Any small words of affection or reassurance sends me through the roof and makes me happy for the rest of the day (idk why). I also get angry very quickly and forget things quickly.

I am converting to Judaism so that’s cool. My sense of clothing style is just me pretending I’m in the military, pleather jackets, heavy jackets that are either camo or dark green, aviator sunglasses, a lot of neutral colours, fancy dress shirts/blouses, combat boots (which I currently do not own so just tennis shoes or winter boots), I have a few BoB pins which I have created on my own :) I like wearing t-shirts in winter under my jacket just because. The t-shirts usually have designs like aeroplanes, space, and museum shirts. I also have a collection of shirts from places I’ve never been cause I think it’s hilarious. I do a lot of things just cuz I think they’re funny.

I keep a lot of stuff in my pockets “just in case”. I impulse buy, which is a big insecurity of mine. People intimidate me easily so I usually wait to get approached to start a conversation. I like watching adventure shows like extinct or alive or expedition unknown.

 I would say that I have a very dark sense of humour and am almost always sarcastic when talking to my friends (also I love irony). I have an interesting music taste, most any song I listen to goes onto my liked songs on Spotify heh. I sometimes slip into a British accent or one that isn’t mine at all. I also tend to get myself injured at least once daily and now it’s a running joke with my friends.

I don’t really know much about romance, but I try. I don’t like that much physical affection but I do like praise, as I said before, and gifts. I love giving gifts to people.

Thank you!!

hey mister anon i was wondering whether you've been introduced to carwood lipton yet?

that's him looking at you up close to make sure you're real because christ on a cracker you're perfect.

this old boy earned his chevrons as first sergeant of easy company for a good reason. he gets into friendly campus tour guide mode every time he hears someone express interest in joining the paratroopers and he's a seasoned nco at this point, so he's pretty good at telling those who are genuinely committed to seeing through their interest apart from those who blouse their trousers over their boots just because they can. you fall into the former category. that's already one point in his books.

being off to a great start already, the other points come soon enough, quicker than he can count them. as genuinely excited as he is for the possibility that one day soon enough you'll be part of easy company, standing in perfect rank and file with the rest of his comrades-in-arms at camp toccoa after warming up for pt, he almost dreads the day you'll have to set your own clothes aside in favour of the paratroopers' standardised uniform because the way you dress is utterly striking to him. the image of you in your clearly military-inspired getup, your silhouette clean-cut and dashing in the way he imagines only gary cooper or errol flynn or someone worlds away from him can pull off, is burned into his mind as though by firebrand. both the initial sight of it and every time he then proceeds to reconstruct it in his mind following your first meeting bring forth a foreign sensation without a name or shape. it comes in like a tide, washes over him, pulls him under.

he knows he can never dress like you. he doesn't think he can pull it off, but by god do you make a good case for every outfit you put together. the aviators? yum. maybe lip does appreciate a man who knows how to dress himself.

your chemistry and compatibility become palpable facts the more time you spend together. lip is a meticulous planner who relies on structure to get things done. he plans down to to the minute. and he's always been a little in awe of the genius types who can seemingly be on hiatus for days and then get all the work accumulated throughout that time done to an incredulously high standard within hours of it all being due. you're a dark horse, a prodigy, who embodies this archetype right down to your bones. he doesn't resent you for it in the slightest, as you might initially suspect someone with his style of work ethic might do. he finds it an absolute phenomenon to watch and will never even think about asking you to change the habits of yours which fascinate him so endlessly. if you pull an all-nighter, he'll almost certainly go boil the kettle and make you a hot drink. he reads your writing with pleasure and often asks if he can help with organising any notes you might take from your historical research. he makes it a point to research judaism on his own when he learns you're converting. every now and then he worries for your wellbeing, worries that you're pushing yourself too much, but along with his worries comes resolve that he'll be there to catch you if you burn out. having figured out your communication style and working habits fairly early on in your acquaintanceship, he's more than happy to provide you with that straightforward past and to-do list that will allow you to exercise your efficiency to the maximum.

and, in recognition of your brilliance, he asks you to teach him german while you study the language yourself, considering it would be a practical second language to know and everything, given the circumstances. ukrainian is a smidge more difficult for him to master. he intends on making a proper start on it later, perhaps when the war is over. when he asks you good-naturedly whether you'll find some time to teach him then, you understand that it's another way of asking you to stay in contact after europe.

lip is the human embodiment of a packet of twinings superblends tea. his very presence is grounding. he reads your body language, memorises it like code, knows it by heart, by instinct. those big arms of his? yeah, he lifts. your fucking spirits up! he's your number one fan and he's not at all obnoxious about it. when you bend down at the table in the mess hall to pick up some dropped item on the floor, his hand – without him even thinking about it – goes to cover the corner of the table so you don't hit your head on your way back up. he calms your moments of acute frustration with that steadiness of his that you find yourself thinking of more and more even when he isn't there. when your mind begins to take you elsewhere into a daydream that threatens to keep you captive, he alone detects the almost imperceptible changes in your face and brings you back to reality with a gentle and non-intrusive touch. he has a soothing way about him that only serves to elevate 1.) his command abilities in the field and 2.) his ability to connect with you. he gets in all the places you don't expect, finding honesty and vulnerability behind the stubbornness. talking to him is easy because he expects nothing of you and does not hold you to judgement. he's familiar with you and accepts you, and you have nothing to prove to him. that's how it always will be. he makes that clear to you.

perhaps it's the way he always tells you "well done" or "good job" or "you did great", the act of acknowledging and praising you coming easy to him. he is reserved but tender this way, gilding each of your days with reassurance without going overboard with declarations of love and devotion that he's never been particularly good at. perhaps it's the way that, despite his occasional awkwardness with verbalising his deeper feelings, he refuses to be vague about the fact that he cares for you. but falling in love with carwood lipton is natural and slow-seeping, like water into sand, like coming home at the end of a long day.

and, to him, falling in love with you does not come as a surprise at all.

if we're going era-appropriate, then heteronormativity and its associated ugly side are rife in the 40s but lip cannot give two hoots about any of that. he loves who he loves, and either way it's nobody else's business but his own (and the beloved in question). perhaps he might put it in the sense that he falls for a soul and not a gender. so who you are now, who you were before, all of that is you, and he loves you, every single iteration of you that has led up to the man standing in front of him today. he never wavers on this. but – just because of the times you and he live in – he knows the importance of discretion and boundaries. there are subjects that he will only broach with you if you let him, information that he will only seek out if you choose to share it with him first. he's also smart enough to know not to let any of this on in public, but he promises you one night when you're lying next to him, your head on his chest, that the two of you will someday live in a world that will look upon your love with clear eyes.

but if we're not going era-appropriate because fuck that angst and fuck homophobia, then lip shows his love for you in the most gentlest of forms, little gestures imbued with his feelings for you. pda as a concept doesn't really exist to him. he's not a touchy person either and his affection never breaches boundaries in public or in private, but it is never withheld for even a moment should you want it.

and, of course, it is no question that your sense of humour just. straight up fucking baffles him. one might call you various things: the "archbishop of banterbury", an "absolute madlad" or a "menace" are just a few of the many different options available to choose from, and lip is honestly just out here smiling uncontrollably in spite of himself at your antics and right about here is when you get presented with a medal for making the mom friend break character in his complete amusement. besides, even he must admit that "clifford" is most fun to say in a british accent.

he keeps the gifts you give him with him, on his person if possible, but if not then in his footlocker, along with other precious mementos from your relationship. he looks at them often but what he sees in his mind's eye is the two of you, after the war, making a home for yourselves together.

first sergeant lipton is very much in love with you and he's a man who loves without reservation. congrats mister anon! this is the good ending. if y'all want to go ahead and adopt me i'm not saying no

[hanyousi]

Chapter 1: Felix Harp

July 1992, London.

In a tall building in the busy West End, people were working hard, chatting and typing away. In a small meeting room, an important conversation was happening.

"Felix, are you sure about this? You've only been here for a year, but everyone recognizes your talent. If you stay, you'll achieve great things!" said a middle-aged British man in a fancy suit, his hair perfectly styled.

Felix, a young man with a handsome face and striking blue eyes, smiled and replied, "Boss, I've made up my mind."

The boss looked at Felix for a moment, seeing his determination, and sighed. "Alright, you win."

Felix smiled gently, stood up, and grabbed his suit from the chair. He shook hands with the boss, who also stood up. The boss leaned in, hugged Felix tightly, and whispered, "Everyone has their own dreams. We're losing a talented newcomer."

Felix blinked and said, "I believe better opportunities will come."

Thirty minutes later, Felix packed his things and left the building. As he walked towards the exit, he looked at the busy street with excitement in his heart.

Carrying a small suitcase, Felix walked down the street, dodging passing cars. He enjoyed looking at the different car brands and styles.

"Vintage cars, cool!"

He walked with light steps, not feeling tired despite the long journey. Instead, he felt excited.

After nearly an hour, Felix finally reached his temporary home in the city.

The street became more familiar, and he greeted a few familiar faces. "Hi, Mrs. Murphy."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Harp."

After exchanging pleasantries, Felix stood in front of his own house.

He took out the keys and opened the door.

Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him.

"Ah!"

Felix exclaimed with joy, closing his eyes and stretching his arms wide. Suddenly, his ordinary house came to life.

His suitcase slipped from his hand, floating and flying towards the cabinet. The cabinet doors opened automatically, making room for the suitcase to settle among the clothes hanging on the rack.

Felix's suit and shirt undressed themselves, and his tie hopped off his neck, hanging neatly on the wardrobe bar. There were three other colorful ties beside it.

His belt loosened, and his trousers separated as he took a step forward. A blue silk dressing gown flew out and draped over him, fastening itself with buttons.

Felix snapped his fingers, and soft music began playing. He conducted with his hands like a maestro while the kitchen filled with clinking sounds. Soon, a cup of hot coffee floated in front of him.

He lifted the cup, taking a sip, and smiled with great satisfaction.

Felix Harp was not only a recent job quitter but also a grown-up wizard.

He graduated from Hogwarts, the finest magical school in Britain.

Ten years had passed since Felix received the letter with the ornate crest from the orphanage. In those ten years, he graduated from Hogwarts and grew from a young boy into a 21-year-old man.

"Time flies. It's been three years since I graduated," Felix reflected as he sat on the sofa, feeling nostalgic.

Then, in a slightly solemn tone, he murmured, "And it's been 21 years since the time travel."

Indeed, apart from being a freelance professional and a hidden wizard, Felix had the deepest secret of all—he was a time traveler.

When he received the invitation from the magical world, he couldn't believe his luck. The world of Harry Potter, the magical adventures of the trio!

But sadly, they were not from the same era. Felix realized he was nine years older than Harry Potter. He wouldn't even have a chance to see him during his entire school life.

Felix admitted he wasn't a die-hard "Potterhead," and his knowledge of the plot was only partial.

Partial knowledge.

After all, he couldn't foresee his journey into the real magical world. If he had known in advance, he would have memorized every detail!

To grasp some understanding of the plot, he relied on short videos and tried to piece together the storyline.

But remembering all the details? That was wishful thinking.

Fortunately, what truly captivated Felix was the captivating magic of the tangible, living magical world. And he had gained access to it all.

As evening approached, Felix sat at his desk, quietly flipping through a magical book. The ticking clock made him feel a bit restless, disrupting his usual calmness.

He was waiting for an important letter.

And finally, he heard it—a tapping sound on the window. A silent owl perched on the windowsill, gently tapping the glass.

"At last!" Felix's heart raced, and he quickly grabbed his wand, waving it lightly. The window opened by itself, allowing the owl to fly inside.

The owl circled overhead twice before dropping an envelope on the desk. It casually settled down, pecking at its feathers.

Felix eagerly picked up the envelope. On the back, there was a wax seal—an emblem with a shield and a big "H" surrounded by an eagle, lion, badger, and serpent.

He opened the envelope and read the letter:

Dear Mr. Felix Harp,

We are happy to inform you that your application for employment (Muggle Studies) has been accepted. The interview will be held on July 21st at 10 o'clock in the morning. Please prepare accordingly.

Note: Please use Floo Powder to enter the school (location: Deputy Headmistress's office at Hogwarts). If you prefer another method, kindly let us know in advance.

Deputy Headmistress (Female) Minerva McGonagall

Felix couldn't contain his excitement. He pumped his fist and finished his cup of tea in one gulp!

[skellinore]

"Family Photo!"

My favourite bois!

I love them so much.

My pride and joy.

>:3

–Trender/Alexander, the fashionable one, who talks so fancy you have to be a millionaire to understand them.

–Trender/Alexander is also twins with Markus, Alexander is older than him by a couple of seconds.

–Alexander gets mistaken for Slender's twin a lot, while Markus and Splendor get mistaken for twins as well.

–Trender is aceflux/gay/aromantic. Goes by they/them pronouns.

–Alexander also has a slight British accent? But not so much, it's light. Either or they use their French accent.

–Trender also runs a huge fashion company up on Earth and Hell, called Sinner's Delight. Alex is so competitive, even killing the opposing competition that dare try to out top their company, nothing is below them, even blackmailing and hiring spies and hitmen.

–Alexander is fine with murder, just as long as the blood doesn't get on their clothes, same as Slender, while Splendor and Markus hate killing people.

–Slender/Wilhelm the 3rd, the serious one, nothing gets past it. Very intelligent and resourceful.

–Slender hates their real name, has had it change, but his brother's use his real name to annoy them.

–Slender is twins with Splendor! Splendor is older by a couple of minutes, but Splendor likes to state that Slender is the oldest.

–Slenderman hates, no loathes humans, so the Slender Mansion does not exist in my AU. (It's also because I don't like the Slender Mansion AU, my Slender would fucking rip and tear Sally apart with no remorse, he just loathes humanity.)

–Slendy has an Italian accent he uses this one the most, rather than its German accent.

–Slender is pansexual/demisexual. Goes by they/them/he/him/it pronouns.

–Spends most of his time protecting forest all around the world, killing anyone who dares cuts down any tree, anyone who dares harm the land.

–Their family doesn't know about its relationship between him and Zalgo, honestly, it's mostly a stupid bet the two of them made, to see who could keep their relationship a secret from both of their families the longest. They're married.

–Splendor/Sonny, the sunshine brother, very optimistic about everything and everyone, likes to act innocent, but is just as knowledgeable as his younger brothers.

–Splendor is actually one without an accent, but whenever his twin, Slender is around, Sonny will try and mimic them.

–Sonny is a pansexual/demisexual. They're genderfluid.

–Sonny works with angels, despite he, himself being a demon, loves humans. Protects them, even if sometimes it almost kills him.

–Splendor travel more frequently than his other three siblings. Mostly because his job demands it.

–When Sonny has spare time, Splendor puts on shows of entainment, not like that, nerds. He's a ring leader, displays shows of great magic, tricks, trained animals, and things you've never seen before.

–Splendor is actually possessive of his brothers, often manipulating his siblings to spend more time with him rather than their friends and dates.

–Markus/Sonnet, the flirty and adventurous one, very respectful and funny, the best one out of all of them who is the best with speaking with humans and demons alike.

–Markus Sinclair is his full real name, while Trender's real name is Alexander DeWitt, then Sonny Summers, and last but not least, Wilhelm Dixon the 3rd. The reason they all have different last names is because Faceless Demons have house symbols and titles that tell other beings what family they belong to.

–Markus and Alexander are the only ones who have normal human jobs. Markus works as a detective/cop and in his "past lives" worked as a mobster, SWAT, and served in the first World War. Markus just likes helping people, don't ask him about his mob days.

–Markus loves writing poems, hence his nickname; Sonnet. A sonnet is a love poem. Oh right, Sonnet is very popular with the Succubus' and Siren's, while Slender is popular with Zalgo's family and other Faceless Demons, Splendor is popular with Angels, and Trender is popular with faeries and mermaids.

–Markus is bisexual/aceflux/polyamorous. Goes by he/him/daddy pronouns.

–Sonnet is a feminist, and believes in equal justice for everybody, he's kinda like Batman, but without the edginess.

–Markus and his siblings are Faceless Demons, and most of their kind don't really have a concept on gender, so most of their kind kinda wear whatever they want, it's mostly him and Sonny that wear "girly" clothing.

–Markus has either a Russian or Italian accent.

Faceless Demons don't have females or males per se, most of their kind only go by they/them/it pronouns, but most species have pronouns, so some of them have alternative pronouns to make it easier for the other species to understand.

Meaning that there's no Faceless Demon that has boobs or hair, only their species can actually tell themselves apart, but to other demons they might mistake their friend for another Faceless Demon.

I also want to add that Markus Sinclair is my own version of Offenderman, if that wasn't obvious already, he downs that respect everyone juice, big fan of consent. >:3c

[lunar-writes-things]

1) New beginnings

"Welp!" Y/n smiled at the tiny stars around their head and at the man in front of them, their wizarding partner in crime, Scar "Are you ready Scar?" 

The man was still in his wizarding robes, same as Y/n, with bright green eyes and a smile that could light up the world. His messy brown hair poked out from under his wizard hat and his cheeks were flushed from excitement. His body was tall and lean, with muscles and scars from moving pounds and pounds of materials and pulling himself up to reach high places on his builds (and many deaths). 

"As I'll ever be!" He gave a goofy grin and looked  "I'm so excited! This season will be great!"

"To the adventures of the future!" Y/n smiled "Let's go!" 

Y/n grabbed his hand and pulled his body close to their body and together they both fell into the new world. As Y/n braced for impact, they felt scar shift and both of them turn. Scar grunted when he hit the paved dirt path and gave a breathless groan when he finally relaxed. Y/n pushed themself up and off of Scar

"You okay?" Y/n asked the male and helped him up. Y/n couldn't help but notice their back hurt and felt off in some semblance but couldn't tell what 

"Yeah, I'm fine- Woah..." Scar took a deep breath as he stared at Y/n in amazement "You look angelic." 

"Huh?" Y/n asked before they took out their communicator and looked at themselves in the camera 

Scar was right, Y/n did quite literally look like an angel. They now wore a pure white suit-dress mixture and had small wings and a golden crown with sharp golden spires. It was weird for Y/n to see such clean and fancy clothes on themselves after spending all their time in wizard robes that ended up getting torn and dirty because no one ever made washing machines in hermitcraft.

at least the washing machine part will be changed.

"You don't look too bad yourself Mr. Scar," Y/n smiled and watched as he dusted the dirt off of his red suit jacket and grey suit pants. Under his suit jacket, he wore a green vest and white button-up shirt with a black ribbon tied loosely around his neck and he had the tiniest top hat on his head "And your top hat is so cute!"

Y/n cooed out their last words and reached up to take his hat but before they could the others began their descent into the world. Some falling rather ungracefully, others mining up from the dirt like potatoes, and the rest just popping in with new looks and old. Everyone was about the same except for two new girls. 

A redhead deer hybrid with the cutest freckles anyone has ever seen and a girl with hazel hair and a navy blue jacket with a moon within it. 

"Y/n!" Grian's voice caught Y/n by surprise and they turned just in time to catch the avian who jumped to tackle them with a feral grin 

His wings were tiny again, as they were at the beginning of every season, and his goggles were perched on his head. Y/n hugged him tightly before setting him down and when he reached his full height again Y/n realized they were much taller (and stronger. Since when were they able to carry grain?) than him and a lot of the other hermits with some exceptions. His black eyes sparkled in the sun as he looked up at them with amazement and Y/n could have sworn they saw his wings flutter with excitement. 

Their smile widened when they heard another familiar British voice and saw Mumbo approaching them and the two other boys. He was still taller than Y/n, being basically 7 feet tall, but he wore a pink Hawaiian shirt and shorts that looked like a reverse tan line but his usually slicked back hair was messy and wavy. Y/n burst out laughing at his outfit and asked "Mumbo, What are you wearing? What happened to your suit?" 

"I- I was on vacation!" He exclaimed before he crossed his arms pouting, "I thought it was a fitting outfit." 

Y/n laughed and Scar and Grian followed along with mumbo following shortly after. Their laughter was cut short whenever Xisuma called them and the other hermits to a circle. Mumbo was forced to explain (without knowing what was going on) that they were all going to be on the same island and that they would be neighbors as well as introduced to the two new hermits who were in the ravine. 

Soon after that, everyone split up, and Y/n was left to their own devices. As Y/n walked, they talked to the stars around their head, telling them about the plans for the season as Y/n punched a tree and soon moved underground to mine out what they needed. It was hours later when Y/n met up with scar again, decked out in iron gear and 16 diamonds to their name.

"Y/n!" Scar exclaimed with a breathy laugh that made Y/n's heart melt 

"Scar!" They reply with a large smile and went to greet him

The two were in a dark oak forest near a plains biome when they found each other again. Scar had some new cuts and bruises and Y/n could only assume that it was from him dying and respawning. It was great that they had a constant respawn mechanism rather than the flimsy one of three lives the DreamSMP,  their allies, had. 

"Oh!" Scar quietly exclaimed and pointed towards the plains "I see Grian and Mumbo!" 

"Let's go join them! They might have found a good spot to settle down in! Maybe we can snatch it from them." Y/n said and began running towards the two brits 

"We're in the northest north," Y/n heard Grian tell mumbo as they walked closer "This would be a good place to settle down." 

"It would!" Y/n exclaimed and their laugh was drowned out when Grian and Mumbo screamed 

Scar's spray bottle squeaky laugh echoed through the air as the two stopped screaming and caught their breaths. They glared at Y/n who only smiled back and said "Got room for two more?" 

"Void Y/n, You terrified us!" Mumbo exclaimed 

"Sorry!" Y/n gave a sheepish laugh "My question still stands though. Got room for two more?" 

"Yeah!" Grian said, "We were planning on going a bit farther back so we can settle down since we're so far north."

Grian led the way towards a random spot and soon stopped. "alright, well this is it! Let's mark this. This is the spot." 

Mumbo put down a crafting table and Scar put down a torch before Mumbo put down a boat and watched as Scar hopped into said boat when Grian pulled out a bed. Y/n watched with soft eyes as the boys started stacking random things and boats into the weird-looking totem and, not wanting to feel left out, Y/n pulled out an Aymethist block and another boat. After every single thing that was put on the boat, they cheered drawing the attention of Impulse who was nearby. 

"Oh! Impulse has joined the village, look at that, He's part of the totem!" Grian joked as y/n moved forward and said Hi to Impulse. Mumbo and Grian continued to stack stuff before finally stopping. As Grian, Mumbo, and Scar got into a random boat, Y/n followed and took out their communicator to take a picture. With everyone in their respective boats the totem went like: Impulse, Grian, Y/n, Mumbo, and Scar. 

The five laughed at their predicaments before grain began insisting that this was a bonding moment and now no one could ever leave. As everyone started getting out of their boats Pearl wandered among them and Grian went into a frenzy, making everyone get back into their boat, and Grian set up Pearl's boat and had her sit in it. Y/n, like before, took a picture on their communicator to remember the silly little moment. 

"Alright, Everyone here is now bound to this land. This is a cult," Y/n muttered under their breath as they got out of their boat with the help of Impulse and Grian as Mumbo, Scar, and Pearl have also gotten out as carefully as possible without disturbing the totem pole, Named the Boatem Pole. Y/n thanked them and helped Grian out. He fluttered his wings to help keep his balance and to keep from faceplanting the floor.

After Impulse was out from under everything they had all agreed to stay in the general area and build their starter bases here. With that the six branched off, Y/n started making a tiny wooden house with a copper roof, making sure it wouldn't oxidize by borrowing some of Grian's wax. Y/n had plans to turn it into a hobbit hole, like how grain and mumbo did last season, except instead of mining out a hole in a cliff, Y/n had plans to terraform a half hill and dig under for their home. 

Just for now.

Masterlist

[jenniferswhor3]

the middle

masterlist obx masterlist

rafe cameron x pogue!reader

summary || many secret adventures were taken during the time you and rafe were together. the both of you had always thought the thrill of running out together, doing fun shit, was exciting. keeping it from your friends though, that was getting more difficult by day.

warnings ||, mentions of drugs/alcohol/sex, makeout sesh, hickies, pet names (doll, sweetheart, baby), swearing

authors note || SORRY FOR SUCH DELAY IVE HAD MAJOR WRITERS BLOCK/BURNOUT anyways enjoy :)

previous | next

god, you loved the thrill of running around with rafe. sneaking off when nobody was looking, making out on the side of the mansion where nobody would look, giving secret glances across the room. it was all too exciting.

you had gone on multiple secret adventures. your favorite being when you snuck off to the mainland for 3 days. oh god, that was the most fun.

you went into fancy clothing shops, ask to try on clothes, and when you got to the dressing room all you would do is fuck in the dressing rooms. you would even go into stores and walk out with a completely different outfit.

when you guys would walk into stores or restaurants you'd use either a posh british accent or a country accent. it was the funniest thing you guys had ever done. you could easily tell employees were mad at you.

you had spent 3 days on the mainland, sleeping in hotels you didn't pay for, stealing clothes and food, and having sex everywhere, without any remorse.

it was the happiest you’ve felt in a while. it was only when you had to come back to the island is when you felt a bit sad. it’s not that you didn’t love sneaking around with rafe, you really did, it just sometimes you wish you could be out in public with him.

you knew your friends would shame you for dating the unstable kook prince living off daddy’s money. in all honesty, none of that mattered to you. all you saw was the boy who would do just about everything to make you happy. the boy who’d buy you a white rose every day because you thought white roses were prettier than red ones. the boy who learned how to cook your favorite meal when you were upset or sick.

your friends had always questioned why you were out so late and coming back disheveled. you always tried your best to cover the hickies on your chest but unbeknownst your friends had already see a couple of them before. today was unlike any other. more and more pestering and frankly, it was starting to get annoying.

you still had to pretend you didn’t like rafe in public, which pained you a bit. but you knew it was all fake, that you would go home and be with each other all night.

you took out your pad and pen and walked up to their table, “what can i get for you boys.”

rafe looked up from his friends, “the usual, doll. you know that.” you loved it when he called you doll but not in this instance, you had to hate it in front of his friends. speaking of them, they had laughed at the pet name he called you.

you rolled your eyes, “alright, anything else?” they shook their heads and you walked off.

20 minutes later, you had returned to their table with their drinks and sandwiches. rafe had a b.l.t on wheat bread, topper had a ham and cheese with lettuce, mayo, and mustard, and kelce had a turkey and cheese with lettuce and onions. you had memorized that order to a T.

“alright, what am i putting this on,” you started. “the usual?” you said in an almost mocking tone. mocking rafe from what he had said earlier.

“no, sweetheart. put in on this.” rafe takes out a small card and stole the pen from your apron pocket. you fake scoffed at him. you knew what he was doing.

he handed you the card. ‘my place when your done ;)’ it read. you hid your smile in front of his friends.

“alright, boys, have a good one.” and you walked away.

the rest of your shift was painstakingly slow. it was two hours of slow service. you hardly had any customers since you worked the closing shift today. you just couldn’t wait to get to rafe’s.

with your last customer exiting and hearing the sound of the bell on the door, you sighed in relief. you were finally done. you headed to the back room and clocked out, saying a quick bye to your coworkers.

you sent rafe a quick text saying you were on the way before pulling out of the restaurant.

after a quick 10 minute drive, you had finally arrived to your boyfriends house. rafe had mentioned that sarah was with john b so you could park close to the house.

“hi baby,” rafe says when he opens the door.

“mm, hi,” you lean in for a kiss.

once your lips met you couldn’t help the butterfly feeling that you always felt when you two kissed. it felt like forever since you had kissed last.

the kiss lasted longer than it probably should’ve. “we should probably stop before sarah sees,” you mumbled against his lips. sarah was now apart of the pogues and she was rafe’s brother. if she found out she would pester you so much about it. although, she would ultimately be supportive because it’s one of her friends and her brother.

the rest of the night went perfect. you cuddled, made cookies, even made out a bit. okay made out a ton.

his lips meshed perfectly with yours. he would gently squeeze your waist to elicit a moan out of you. during the slow moments of your make outs rafe would bite your bottom lip. it was one of your all time favorite things he did.

you would pull at the hair on the nape of his neck slightly and he would moan, causing you to moan in response. he always took his precious time kissing places that weren’t your lips. his favorite spot is a couple inches below your ear. the sweet noises you made whenever he’d kiss there was like music to your ears.

you often never thought about the consequences of your actions when you were with rafe. it was sort of a ‘yolo’ motto you followed. that’s why you had an interesting surprise when you went to the chateau.

rafe had dropped you off at home. you two said your goodbyes, which took longer than it should’ve. he kept asking for one more kiss, but one more turned into thirty more.

john b had given you a call asking if you wanted to come over and hang. of course you said yes. you pulled on a shirt that wasn’t rafe’s because it was obvious you were wearing his.

it was only a short drive from yours to john b so you didn’t bother playing music. jj spotted your car pull into john b’s driveway and shouted out to you. “hey! y/n’s here!” everyone ran up to you as you got out of the car and engulfed you in a group hug.

“it feels like forever since we last saw you!” kie said.

“it’s only been, what, four days? that’s not that long.” you shrugged.

“yeah, but we missed you,” jj dragged out the end of the you while throwing his arms around your neck from behind you.

unbeknownst to you, jj had a small crush on you. he thought he made it oblivious but you hadn't noticed.

today, it was just you and your pogue friends chilling, smoking, and eating pizza. you guys had been talking nonsense about the most random shit. it wasn't until john b asked you a very specific question.

"hey, y/n. what's on your neck?" he knew what it was, he wasn't stupid. as soon as those words left john b's mouth, jj's head perked right up. his eyes immediately darting to the hickey placed on your neck. shit, he thought.

everyone's heads turned in your direction. "what? nothing, i just burned myself this morning on my straightener," you said in a panicky tone.

"y/n," kie started, "you hair is curly." she had a smirk plastered right on her face.

"so who's the lucky guy, or girl, that gave you a hickey?" sarah chimes in with a big grin.

"no one. he's no one." you tried, desperately, to end this conversation.

"oh come on, don't think we haven't seen you with hickies before." sarah said with a smirk.

you didn't mean to blow up in their faces, you just knew if you told them you were seeing rafe they'd blow up in your face. you didn't want to feel judged by your best friends for dating their sworn enemy. "just stop, guys!" you lashed out.

everybody was taken back by your sudden outburst. "we're sorry, y/n. we didn't mean to make you upset." kiara said.

"yeah, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. sorry for bringing it up." john b added.

you sighed, "no, i'm sorry. i didn't mean to lash out."

it was silent for a couple more moments before jj spoke up, "here. you need this." he handed you his blunt, smile slightly visible on his face.

you looked at him and laughed, taking the blunt from your hand. soon everyone joined your laughter. the rest of the day went by smooth. so did the rest of the week, and the month. no one brought up your unexcused absences or the hickies peeking out from your shirt collar. life was finally starting to be perfect.

[helloliriels]

Taken By Surprise

John thinks Sherlock is a virgin, distracted by his work to such a degree ... that he hardly even notices John's existence ... feeling too boring to be seen ...

Sherlock thinks John is only into women, and keeps himself busier with his work than usual ... when he finds he's attracted to his 'not gay' flatmate ...

So when Sherlock disappears on a top secret mission - John goes to Mycroft, to volunteer for a mission himself. Maybe then, Sherlock will see him as potential for more than just shared rent ... ?

What he doesn't expect ... is to be thrown into a world of fancy dress balls, high priced escorts, and high stakes gambling!

Not that he can't handle it.

John goes ... dressed to the nines. Cool as Bond himself ... and willingly does whatever is asked of him over the following weekend. Tracking down an villain who's been threatening Sherlock for years ... and setting his eyes on another he suspects is up to something ... ?

But when he follows his mark to a bedroom, to perform a strip tease - knowing it's a man ...

What he isn't prepared for ...

Is to see Sherlock's face when the mask comes down ...

All this while they've been believing a lie?

And boy are they both taken by surprise!

| True Lies | Spy Thriller | Bond | Sexy AF AU | Johnlocked |

Mine, All Mine

John had been becoming increasingly jealous of late. The green eyed monster practically taking him over - like The Hulk - whenever a woman or man hinted at Sherlock's brilliance or good looks!

Sherlock had started to notice it's signs early on in their rental arrangements ... but had simply chalked it up to insecurity in that department ...

But now ... ? Now that Sherlock had made him an integral part of his work and eased his mind as to his permanent welcome at Baker Street ... Sherlock began to realize ... it was much, much more than that ... John wanted him?

So when John himself would not stop taking on new girlfriends, no matter how many Sherlock chased away - he decided more desperate measures were required.

John awoke the next morning to find a paper at the breakfast table. Headline reading:

Mine, All Mine!

The famous net 'tec has decided to declare to the British public that he and John Watson, confirmed Batchelors, are both officially off the market! 'No longer platonic,' says Sherlock Holmes to raucous cheering and squeals of delight from his gathered crowd. A positive parade of ladies here to see the news announced today. We do so hope the realm will hear of wedding bells soon and wish them both the best on their new adventures!

As John dropped his spoon into his bowl of Wheaties, he saw Sherlock shuffling out of his bedroom ... clad only in a sheet!

"I'm yours am I?" John asked huffily, rising. Waiting to see if it was all a cruel joke???

When Sherlock stepped up and allowed his sheet to drop - John's jaw dropped as well!

"Well in that case!" John replied, grabbing his hand and dragging him off to the bedroom with a growl, "then this ass is mine!"

Sherlock had never before been so pleased,

To call himself a genius.

| Friends to Lovers | Desperate Measures | Love Declarations |

Read the original ask here:

And yes, there is (1) True Lies AU fic already made (i haven't read it), but this idea was rattling around in my brain weeks before I knew it was a thing. :) after all ... two cakes. 🎂 🎂

[1025cherrystreet]

funeral

y/n attends a funeral and feels hopeless after losing her best friend until she meets her late bsf's cousin Harry.

a/n: this is for @harrystylescherry​ Playlist Fic Challenge!!! this is inspired by the song Funeral by Phoebe Bridgers. i used the name Phoebe in the story but i wasn't picturing Phoebe Bridgers when I was writing that character, i just liked the name and decided to go with it! but, y'all can picture her however y'all like lol. i went from loving this story to hating it, but i hope y'all like it! any feedback is appreciated!! <3

**despite it being surrounded by depressing matters, it's actually a cute and fluffy story lol! just wanted to point that out because i, myself, kinda avoid reading sad stories

warnings: a LOT of talk about death and dying and funerals, mentions depression/depressive episode?, mentions drugs and alcohol, swearing. i'm ceo of rushing the ending, soz <3 (also, gave up on proofreading lmao)

word count: 8k+ (this is the longest piece i've ever written lol)

Y/N has this dream. Where she's screaming underwater while her friends are waving at her from the shore. She's desperately calling for them, hoping and waiting for them to help, but, seemingly, her friends can't hear... and can't help. Submerged beneath the thrashing waters, her wails fall silent; her familiars deaf to her pleads. The more she struggles to get to the surface for air, the deeper she sinks. Her friends just waving at her as she drifts to the bottom. Every time she jolts awake from these dreams in a sweat stained bed and sticky clothes, she decides to brush it off. Not wanting to think about the problems she needs to face or what she needs to work on. Always concluding that she doesn't need anyone to tell her what it means or overanalyze her life through misplaced visions. Deciding to not believe assumptions made from vague, painful pictures.

As the familiar sinking feeling in her chest starts yet again, Y/N snaps her eyes up at the casket as the sound of her best friend's mother releasing a heart wrenching sob catches her focus.

The contrast of the white roses that lay on top of Phoebe's mahogany stained casket almost glow in the evening light, seeming like a mock to such a somber evening. The way the living looks so effervescent and bright, casting shadows on the less fortunate. The dead never celebrated in such light but rather mourned in dim grief and sadness.

Y/N doesn't like funerals, and not just because her best friend of 10 years is the recipient of this one. She's never cared for them. Believing they're just an excuse to get over the one they are to be honoring, they carry a stigma that everyone in attendance has to cry or you're seen as heartless, while the people who were never close to the deceased are presumed fake for showing emotion. Y/N thinks they're a big joke... with a cruel, cruel punchline.

The sound of despondent music playing and cries ring throughout the cemetery as Phoebe's casket is lowered six feet into the ground. The unchecked emotions start to boil inside of Y/N. Anger boiling deep inside of her quickly reaching its point, anger that stems from betrayal, that stems from hurt, that stems from...loss. She quietly scoffs, shaking her head with a stone cold look, before quickly getting up and walking away from the ceremony as her late friend's uncle, Bill, wraps up his poor excuse of a eulogy.

Phoebe wouldn't have wanted this. She wouldn't have wanted people to cry over her casket, stuck laying in a padded box while people who don't even know the real her, speak of her existence like they were the best of friends. They weren't. She was. Y/N was her best friend. These people don't... didn't know her like Y/N does. It's all bullshit.

In Y/N's quick pace away from the tent around the damp open ground, she spots a bigger gravestone with a stone bench built into it and takes a seat.

She inhales deeply, taking a moment to herself to look up at the sky. The clouds that overcast part of the blue sky drifting farther away from the graveyard as the sun starts making its way to set. She breathes in, the delightful scent of honeysuckle and dewy grass filling her nose before it's tainted by fumes of petrol from the road just on the other side of the cemetery gates behind her. It's so unfair; why of all people did Phoebe have to-

"It's all a joke," A deep accent says to her left.

She almost jumps out of her seat when she turns to the man who took the empty spot next to her. Jesus Christ, where the fuck did he come from? she thinks to herself. He had brown curly hair and green eyes (well, thinking green from what she can gather staring at the side of his face), wearing a black suit with a black button up shirt underneath. Rings clad his fingers and the sunset gleam shines off his cross necklace. She stares wide-eyed at him for a few moments before shaking her head to get out of her daze.

"Huh?" She says when she realizes he had spoken before.

"It's all a big joke," He repeats himself, the British accent more noticeable this time around. His head faced towards the funeral, having not spared a glance at her once this whole time.

She settles back into her seat, shifting her gaze to match his with the group of mourning people in the distance.

"Yeah." Y/N sighs in agreement.

The two of them sit in silence for a moment before Y/N decides to speak. Thinking to herself that if anyone would listen to her thoughts, a man who's also ditching the shitty eulogy would be her best bet.

"They all talk about her as if she was God." She chuckles humorlessly.

He scoffs with a small smirk, "Far from it."

Another wave of silence crashes over them, before Y/N breaks it once again.

"She would've hated this," She whispers, "People she barely even knows crying over her like they had any significance in her life. She probably only talked to five people here. She didn't even like her uncle." She laughs, referencing the man who gave the half-assed eulogy about how Phoebe being such an innocent, bright young girl.

"They're grieving her loss instead of celebrating her life, it's all fucked," He clears his throat before continuing, "Funerals are for the living."

"I hate funerals..." She says in reply.

Glancing at the boy beside her when she hears him digging through his jacket pocket, pulling out a flask.  He takes a sip, and another, before gesturing it to her. Not overthinking it too much, she takes the cool metal bottle and takes a big gulp. Tasting the burn of vodka in her throat and mint from what she supposes is the mysterious strangers mouth.

Handing the flask back she says, "She would've wanted a party. Something where everyone was having fun in her honor, not some substandard funeral full of random people and careless words."

This time he's the one who chuckles humorlessly, "Yeah, she would've wanted everyone t'take shots and dress up in fancy clothes n' wreak havoc on this fucking town,"

Y/N smiles at this because Phoebe really would. Phoebe was the type of person who everyone wanted to be friends with, but also who everyone was scared of. She was mysterious and intimidating (a bit like the man next to her, Y/N thinks). Phoebe was a master at persuasion and could get almost anyone to go on crazy fucking adventures with her. One of Y/N's favorite memories with Phoebe was when they dressed up in wedding dresses they had gotten from a second-hand store and walked down the street yelling random things at strangers, taking turns drinking tequila from a metal water bottle.

"She really was something else, huh?" Y/N says a bit somberly, reminiscing on her late best friend.

"Definitely, a know-it-all," He laughs, bringing the flask up to his mouth.

"Oh, of course, she always thought she was right." She smirks.

"I mean, most of the time she was." He shrugs.  

"Yeah, how did she always know everything?" The two of you laugh, taking turns drinking from the flask.

He shakes his head in disbelief, silence settling over the pair again.

"How did you know her?" He asks, still staring at the gathering of people in the distance.

"...She was my best friend," Y/N responds quietly, still staring out at the sunset.

He hums in return, "You?" She asks as she hands the flask over.

"Her cousin." His rough voice speaks out.

"You're Harry?" She says, less as a question and more in disbelief. Phoebe always mentioned her cousin Harry from England, always telling Y/N of stories they had together getting into reckless shit.

She turns her head to look at him just as he does, "And you're Y/N."

He offers a soft, knowing smile, both having heard countless stories of one another from Phoebe. He leans back and extends his arm on the top of the bench behind her, feeling the warmth of his body radiate off of him.

"I wonder what she'd say to me now. Sitting on a random gravestone in our hometown, drinking out of her cousin's flask, ditching what's supposed to be her remembrance." Y/N says, leaning back on the bench too.

"She would've said, 'quit y'crying, it's a sign of the times' and then would drag your arse t'the nearest pub." He laughs.

She joins in on the soft laughter, shaking her head because she knows that's exactly what she would've said. Phoebe was such a joy to be around, her presence unmatched.

"You know, she always talked about wanting to leave a legacy behind. Most of the time, I just laughed at her, thinking it was just another bizarre thing to come out of her mouth. But, she was always saying she wanted to be remembered as some enigma when she dies..." Y/N recalls the many memories of her and Phoebe staying up til 4am talking. Chills suddenly covering her body, not only from the cool Winter air but because of how Phoebe had talked about her death and now she's actually...dead.

She turns her head to look at Harry and he has a bittersweet smile on his face.

"I think she's accomplished that quite well, hasn't she?" He replies.

"How?" She questions softly with furrowed brows.

"Well, f'starters, her funeral is full of people who never even knew her, or frankly even cared about her, while two emotionless people just got up and stormed away from it t'drink vodka out of a flask on some random person's gravestone." He laughs before tacking on, "Trust me, the people over there are wondering who the hell she was and who she knew, right about now."

She turns her head from the (quite pretty, she thinks) boy to her left, looking at the wake, only to be met with a few people staring back at them.

"Well, I'll be damned," She scoffs. "Of course, the bitch did it." A smile bright on her face, probably the only real grin she's pulled since Phoebe's passing. Her best friends wishes coming true makes her heart warm just a tad, a relief to how cold losing her best friend made it.

"Always able t'make her life seem like an episode of Pretty Little Liars." He says shaking his head with a knowing smirk.

This comment makes Y/N laugh quite loudly, drawing a few — what she could only think were glares — back at her. Wiping a stray tear from her face that fell due to her laughing. The sweet sound coming from her lips only tacking on Harry to join her.

"Oh my god, she practically lived in an indie movie, always the role of the mysterious main character!" She chuckled out, creases forming at the corners of her eyes that Harry has taken a liking to.

As both of their laughter slowly dies out, another silence comes over them; only this time it's almost deafening. It's like the weight of the matter finally settled in.

Harry lets out a deep sigh, staring out at the never ending field of stone. Flowers accompany very few of the many graves; some wilted, some looking fresh, some long gone by now. Name placards littering the ground, all of these lost and forgotten people just decomposing underneath them. People coming and going to visit, only to be forgotten as time goes by, memories fading from their loved ones' mind. He wonders if he could ever forget Phoebe. No, I could never, he thinks to himself. He could never forget the only person that ever truly believed in him and embraced him for being himself.

Deciding he doesn't want to give anymore thought to the painful insight that one day he might forget Phoebe, he asks Y/N something instead.

"Y'wanna get out of here? M'starvin'."

The quiet girl next to him looks his way, his green eyes meeting her's that shine in the last few minutes of orange sunlight. Her eyes are so pretty, he tries to mentally shake that thought out of his head. He can't be hitting on his late cousin's best friend at her funeral, for fuck's sake.

Y/N only nods in response, gathering her bag and phone before standing from the bench. Harry towers over her when he gets up and the observation of how tall her his makes Y/N feel all giddy inside for some reason. Placing the flask back in his suit jacket pocket, he leads the way to a small restaurant nearby. She walks beside him the whole way there, the two of them just quietly observing everything around them.

***

The crisp, cool air passes through, goosebumps creeping up their arms as they sit in the outside seating of a small restaurant. Comfortable silence wraps them up and spits them out as their minds explore all the vast depths of their troubled minds, giving them time for their treacherous thoughts to eat at their sanity bit by bit.

"Phoebe told me once," Y/N cleared her throat, trying to get rid of the scratchy feeling from not using it. Harry's green eyes moved to her from his observance of the lonely street they're next to as she spoke softly. "She told me the only time she truly felt alive was when she made decisions that were reckless and spontaneous. She said living her life precariously was the only reason for her happiness, claiming that the perfect life is just an illusion. That dreaming of labor should not be the goal, but instead becoming your authentic self and living with no regrets..."

Harry stays quiet, reflection in his eyes as he stares at her from across the table, chewing the food in his mouth. Y/N plays around with the food on her plate with her fork and waits for his acknowledgment (although, she doesn't even know if he would say or do anything -- she doesn't know why she decided to tell him that)

"I mean, she's right, righ'? I never understood when people would ask what your 'dream job' is from a young age. No one's dream is t'work everyday 'til they die. They have to, t'make a living and survive, but what's the point in living if you aren't enjoyin' it. But, if y'workin' all the time, how do you make the time to really live?" He says, furrowing his brows as he talks.

Y/N takes in his words. The moonlight and street lamps casting a soft glow on his face, his carved features looking even more beautiful at night.

"Yeah... I guess, I guess I just envy how she viewed life, ya know?" She states, looking at the cars drive by as she tries to explain how she feels. "Always saying things to make you rethink your existence and purpose..." She looks back at Harry and whispers, "...She talked about life so much like she knew she was going to die."

"Well, we're all gonna die eventually." Harry rests his arms on the table with a quiet sigh, his features passive, but his mind is thinking of how he just wants to hug her and tell her everything is going to be alright.

"Yeah, but she just...she talked about it like she knew all the answers. She knew exactly what to say, when to say it. Sometimes, I feel like she was telling everyone around her how to live in complete happiness because she knew she didn't have much of her own, despite convincing everyone she was carefree and unbothered." Y/N shrugs and watches as they fall into a short silence.

"...I miss her." Harry breathes out after a moment, reaching his hand across the table to hold hers. Her skin is soft against his as he rubs his thumb against her hand in an attempt to comfort both of them.

Her eyes soaking in his softened expression, her cherry tinted lips whispering, "Me too."

They eat the rest of their dinner in silence, the only sounds reverberating from the road with the occasional car or pedestrian. Harry pays for the food, but not without many protests from Y/N.

As the two walk side by side down the street, back to the cemetery to pick up their cars, Y/N suddenly falls anxious. She doesn't want to be alone tonight, scared of being alone with her thoughts when she goes back to stay in her childhood home. Her parents, still living in the house they lived in since her youth, had to drive up to another town for a few nights to stay with her cousins because they planned to go there before the news broke about Phoebe. Leaving Y/N alone in the empty house since there wasn't room for her at her cousins.

The black cemetery gates coming into view, eeriness and gloom becoming more apparent when the sun is down, Y/N and Harry can see their two cars sitting idly on the side of the road. Y/N fidgets with her fingers as they grow close to departure.

"D-do you, maybe, wanna hang out for a little while longer?" She turns to face him, looking up at him nervously. "I just don't want to be alone right now." She rushes out when he doesn't respond.

"Yeah, I didn't really want t'go home alone right now either." He offers a sliver of a smile before unlocking his car, grabbing two brown paper bags that look to hold bottles, and gesturing his head, "C'mon, we'll pick up my car later. Let's go celebrate Pheebz, yeah?" He grins.

She smiles at him, unlocking her own car and waiting for him to get in, putting on a playlist full of Phoebe's favorite songs. She drives through her hometown, memories stirring up of her and her best friend smoking weed in the park the summer before graduation and jumping in the lake naked in the middle of winter. The two end up at her house sitting in her abandoned driveway, both unbuckling but neither making the move to get out of the parked car, the engine still running as they sit listening to the melodies playing from the speaker.

Harry suddenly pulls out two bottles from the brown paper bags at his feet, one of vodka and the other tequila.

"Pick y'poison." He says with a smirk.

She picks the vodka and Harry mutters, "Good choice, tequila is more m'speed."

"Weren't you drinking vodka at the funeral?" She laughs, unscrewing the cap.

"Yeah, figured I'd drink Phoebe's favorite since it was her party." He chuckles.

"To Phoebe." Y/N says, sorrow lacing her voice as she turns in her seat to face Harry.

"To living your life precariously." He says before the two of them take a big gulp of the sharp liquid, starting what will only be the beginning of a long night.

***

Light shines through the white curtains, the room glowing bright in the soft, yellow sunlight. The white comforter tangled up in bodies as birds chirp in the morning tranquility. Y/N's eyes flutter open, immediately feeling sweaty and clammy. The headache that sets in reminds her of the amount of alcohol she consumed last night. Waking up in her childhood bed after blacking out in the backseat of her car the night before doing very little for her sanity.

As she lays in bed, groggy, she needs to pee. She moves to get up and walk to the bathroom connected to her room, only to freeze when an arm wraps around her and pulls her closer. Warm breathes pant at the back of her neck, unintelligible murmurs coming from the person behind her. Her eyes widen, realizing Harry is the one she is snuggling with in the early morning (afternoon?) light. Despite needing to pee really badly, she finds herself only melting into his touch. She can't remember the last time someone held her like this, can't remember the last time she felt this content. In fact, she thinks the last time she cuddled with someone was with Phoebe when she slept over in her room at their apartment... Well, just Y/N's apartment now.

Y/N and Phoebe would have movie nights in Y/N's room and in the midst of the fun, they would grow tired. Phoebe would never want to leave the comfort of Y/N's warm bed, so she always asked, sleepover?, with a wide grin. To which Y/N never refused and the two would put on The Notebook and fall asleep spooning one another. The first time it happened, when they were children having sleepovers, she tensed a bit; thinking it weird for her friend to cuddle her because no one had ever done that. But, as the years went by and their friendship grew stronger, knowing that despite both of them being bisexual it wasn't an act of intimacy, but one of platonic comfort.

So, Y/N figured (in her touch deprived mind) that this was just an act of friendly, platonic intimacy...nothing else. After coming to that conclusion, she let herself relax into his touch, his warm embrace nodding her off to sleep once again.

What wakes her up the second time is the sound of a gravelly voice groaning. The arm around her waist squeezes tightly before the body it's attached to tenses up. Harry tries to take in the position they're in -- his arm snuggling her close to his bare chest and legs intertwined with hers -- but his hangover headache clouds his mind too much to think about it. Only registering that he's never felt this comfortable with someone before, never felt someone so warm and cozy. He's cuddled lots of girls (and guys), has spent many mornings waking up in someones hold or holding someone in his, but they've never been as addicting as her. Never being so relaxing, so soft. He's about to just say, fuck it, and fall back asleep as to spend as much time with her in his clutch, but Y/N had stirred awake from his groaning and she really has to pee!

She slowly turns in his arms, their legs shifting apart, and is met with probably the cutest sight she's ever seen. His eyes are glassy and the green of his irises shine in the soft light. His lips pink and his face holding a hesitant look, like he thinks she might yell at him for accidentally ending up in his arms throughout the night, but she can also sense the underlying feeling of content reading on his face. The way his eyes soften when they meet hers and the way his hand involuntarily squeezes at her side. The serene feeling almost tangible as her childhood room becomes their own little world. All the responsibilities and pain of the outside fall ceased at the door decorated with heights of a growing Y/N.

"G'morning," His gravelly voice going straight to her heart, melting it at the beautiful sound.

"Good morning," She says in a raspy whisper, her throat dry from the alcohol and singing at the top of her lungs the night before.

She takes the quiet moment to look at his body, her gaze drifting from tattoo to tattoo, not realizing how many he has. She knew he had some from the ones on his hands yesterday, but she didn't know he had so many. His long sleeve button up had covered the view of the ones adorning his arms, but she looks at them now in awe, thinking how pretty they are.

She's about to tell him how much she likes the butterfly tattoo on his chest, when her bladder has other plans.

"I'm sorry, but I really have to pee," She bashfully smiles as she looks at him.

"Oh, m'sorry. Probably should've told ya' I'm a cuddler." He gives a small smile with embarrassment soaking his words, thinking he's made her uncomfortable.

"No need to apologize," Her eyes light up at his out of character shyness, "I am too, I just really have to go to the bathroom." The harmonious sound of her giggles soothing every worry in Harry's body.

He playfully sighs, "Fine, I guess I'll let y'go piss."

A smirk pulls at his lips as she rolls her eyes and gets up, but he can see the corners of her lips turn up.

She goes to the bathroom, doing her business and washing her hands. She takes the time to brush her teeth and wash her face, cringing when she looks in the mirror. She feels gross that she looked like this when Harry woke up with the resemblance of an angel.

When she's finished, she walks out back into her room, excited to get back into the warm bed (and hopefully cuddle with Harry some more, but she would never admit that out loud), but she's met with abandoned sheets and panic consumes her. Did he leave? Did I make him uncomfortable by waking up in his arms? He was the one to cuddle me and he joked about it! But maybe he was just trying to be nice so he could escape? Her mind starts to race a mile a minute of anxious thoughts before they're all suddenly wiped away at the smell of coffee wafting in from the open doorway.

She throws on a sweatshirt and socks and makes her way down the stairs of the familiar, yet foreign after spending so long away from home, house. Her sock clad feet pad on the hardwood floors as she walks into the kitchen, spotting Harry silently staring at a spot on the wall with a cup of coffee in his hand (he's using the same pink and green mug with a little ceramic pig sitting on the top of the handle that Phoebe would use every time she'd sleepover in high school).

She walks in quietly, coming up behind him and grabbing a cup of coffee for herself, noticing the two pain killers next to the pot (which made her heart swell if she's honest). He had heard her coming down the stairs, but despite her presence his focus is still on the spot on the wall. Taking a sip of her pick-me-up and swallowing the pills, she takes up space next to Harry, following his eyes that stare intently at a picture frame hanging up and her eyes immediately soften.

"That was freshman year," Y/N spoke delicately, staring at the picture herself, "We had both been asked to prom by these senior guys. I was ecstatic because no one had ever shown any liking to me, but Phoebe had played it cool, of course." Harry lets out a quiet breathy laugh because of course Phoebe didn't care.

"We spent weeks planning out how prom night would be. Imagining how the senior parties would be like and if the boys would kiss us by the end of the night or not. She came over at 9am the morning of the dance and we spent all day getting ready and laughing with each other. She had even done my makeup all pretty and I helped her get into her dress. I remember I laughed when she decided she was going to wear converse under her dress, and she almost convinced me to do it too because she said 'you're not gonna be the one laughing when we're at all the after parties and your feet are killing you'." A genuine smile forms on Y/N's face as she reminisces on the cherished moment.

"But, two hours before the dance, our dates cancelled on us and told us they were going with these senior girls." Harry scoffs bitterly, understanding how cruel teenage boys are.

"I remember I was so upset because the one time I thought someone actually liked me or thought I was pretty enough to go to prom with, had just made me a second choice..." She recalls to Harry, who is now looking at the side of her face as she looks at the picture of Phoebe carrying Y/N on her back, piggy-back style, in long prom dresses, dirty white converse peaking out from under both girls' dresses.

"So, she grabbed me by the arms and looked me in the eyes and said 'Y/N L/N, we are deserving of the love we wish for. No senior boys are going to make us doubt that. We are not little freshmen girls who can be seen as cheap thrills and easy hookups. We are women, who demand respect and complete infatuation.' Then she took the tickets that the boys had pre-purchased for us, took my hand, and dragged me to that dance. We had been each other's date and made prom our bitch. She even got us into a party afterward...And we had one hell of a night."

She smiles fondly at the sweet memory. Harry's eyes flutter between the picture and the beautiful girl next to him. How could she ever think of herself as a second choice?, is all he can wonder to himself.

Letting his gaze fall to the picture one last time, he mumbles, "Well, those boys missed out on the best thing t'ever happen t'them."

He doesn't catch Y/N's blush that creeps up on her cheeks as he turns around, taking a sip from his little pig mug.

She shakes her head as to get out of the crushing haze she falls into, turning and walking to the countertop, leaning against it as Harry stands in front of her on the other side.

"Thank you. F'letting me stay the night, last night." He speaks up.

Y/N notices how he's still lacking a shirt, making her mouth dry up just a little at the sight of how fit he is. The tattoos stretching across his tan skin so perfectly, the black ink creating such a beautiful contrast on his body. He catches onto the not-so-subtle gawking and smirks.

"Uh, yeah. It's really no problem. There's no way I'd have let you drive home intoxicated and it was the least I could do after I made you practically spend the day with me." She blushes.

"Y'didn't make me," He shakes his head gently with a smile.

Y/N doesn't know to feel about how her cheeks heat up at his remark, shyly looking away as the teasing gleam in his eyes might make her combust.

"O-okay. Good to know." She squeaks out, the action only fueling Harry's ego and playful mood.

"I should go get m'car from the cemetery before it gets towed," He says almost disappointedly, like he doesn't want to leave yet. If she's being honest, she doesn't want him to leave yet either.

"Yeah, that wouldn't be good. I'll give you a ride." She says, shaking off the saddened feeling of his departure.

"Oh, you don't have t'do tha'." He shakes his head but Y/N quickly shoots him down.

"Nonsense, I'll take you. It's no big deal."

He smiles at her objection, nodding, and going upstairs to grab the rest of his clothes, feeling uncomfortable in his dress pants from the funeral that he had put back on when he got up this morning, not wanting to make Y/N feel weird by staying in only his boxers.

***

Vodka Lover: hey... are you up?

She chews on the skin around her thumb, a nervous habit that Phoebe had always teased her about, as she sends the text to Harry (having exchanged numbers when she had dropped him off at his car at the cemetery). Phoebe had always said, 'You're not gonna have any thumb left to chew, babes, if you keep at it'. To which Y/N just rolled her eyes, but in the deafening silence of 4am, she wishes she cherished those moments with her best friend more. Wishing she didn't take for granted in those little encounters of Phoebe's care and concern with her well-being. Y/N would give anything to be able to spend one more minute with her.

Butterfly Boy: yeah, everything okay?

Vodka Lover: um, can i call you?

Suddenly, breaking the bitter quiet with a ringtone, her phone she holds in her palm lights up with Harry's contact. A tear falls from her face onto the screen and she has to wipe it away before she presses accept.

"Y/N?" Harry's deep voice rings out, laced in worry, from the other line.

She chokes out a sob, not being able to hold it back anymore. The floodgate of her emotions she has been trying to keep at bay suddenly burst. Salty tears fall onto the blue fluffy blanket from her senior year she's wrapped up in.

"Hey, hey, s'everythin' okay? What's wrong?" Harry says, more alert now that he hears her in such a fragile and frantic state.

Y/N just cries harder, desperately trying to catch her breath, she feels like she's suffocating.

"Hey, love, just breathe. Just breathe, Y/N." He tries to coax her down in a soothing voice.

A raggedy breath is heard on Harry's side, making the worry dissipate just a little now that he knows she's breathing. Harry sits up in his bed, calling out to Y/N, repeatedly telling her to just keep breathing. He can't get to what's wrong if she hyperventilates.

He was laying restless in his bed when she had texted, lost in thoughts of life and replaying memories with his cousin. Trying to grasp everything she's ever told him before, hoping that by watching the moments he spent with her like a film reel in his mind would help him not forget them.

"Love, can y'tell me what's got you so upset? Please," He asks softly when she calms down enough where her breathing is regular and not sporadic inhales gasping for air.

"I-I-I miss her," She cries out into the phone, the thought of embarrassing herself by breaking down to Harry not on her mind; the only thought she has is how empty she feels.

"I know, I know, love. I miss her, too," He sighs out sadly, wishing he could take away her pain, hating the way her voice quivers with every word. "Do you want t'talk about it?"

She wipes the tears that sting her eyes and cascade down her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The one she wore when Harry slept over, smelling a little like him still from the car ride to his car that day, three days ago.

They had been texting each other and talking every day since then, usually about light topics like asking how their day's were or what they were doing. However, tonight (or early morning), everything felt like it was crashing down on her. Y/N's strong front she had put up since the funeral for Phoebe's family finally collapsed, and she's found herself stuck under the rubble. She was trying so hard to keep it in because she shouldn't be feeling sorry for herself when someone's kid is dead.

She had bored herself to tears, not knowing what to do. The only thing that seemed right was to call Harry.

"Talk to me, babe." He begs her, running a hand through his disheveled curls.

"I-" She sniffles, "I feel like I'm fucking drowning,"

He hates how defeated her voice sounds and he wishes he could just be there to hug her and tell her everything's going to be okay, eventually.

"It-it feels like my whole life is in ruins. Harry, I miss her." Her face scrunches up again as she starts to sob, "Sh-She was my best friend, I d-did everything with her. How am I s-supposed to do this without her? How am I supposed t-to live without her?"

"Oh, darling. I know, but you will..and you can." He frowns, racking his brain for the right thing to tell her, "You got t'live so you can experience all those ways of life she always talked about. Y'haven't experienced all those feelings Pheebz would mention when she would live her life precariously. Don't y'want to know how she felt when she would talk of such a beautiful life she lived, yeah?"

He hears a hiccup and a quiet, albeit breathy, yeah, from the other side of the call.

"You are so strong, Y/N. I don't know how y'made it this far without breaking down..." He tells her whole-heartedly.

"D-don't know how you haven't either," She gets out, realizing how selfish she's probably being, bothering Harry with her grief when he has his own to deal with.

"Honestly," He breathes out through a somber smile, "The only reason I haven't is because I have you, love."

Y/N's heart swells tenfold, she thinks. She didn't realize Harry needed her just as much as she needed him.

"...I'm sorry for calling you, I know it's late." She says through sniffles when she notices the time.

"There's no reason to apologize. It's okay, love. It's okay to hurt or be angry or upset. No one expects you to be perfect all the time." He pauses, listening to her breathing.

"Ya know, one day, it won't hurt this much. One day, you'll be able t'look back at this moment and it won't break y'heart as much as it does now. You're just in the thick of it right now, pretty girl. But, the light's coming soon, I promise." He continues and Y/N feels her heart beat faster at the pet name.

"You promise?" Her voice barely above a whisper and Harry thinks his heart just broke at the sound.

"Promise." He says, wiping the stray tears rolling down his cheeks, "Phoebe wouldn't want y'to be this upset. She would want you to keep living your life and find out the ways to how she was so in love with it. If not for yourself, love, then for her...F'me."

She nods, despite knowing he can't see. Silence falls over the pair, only the sound of bated breaths assuring the other one is there.

"One summer," He speaks up, "One summer, my family had come t'visit them, partly because of the lake near her house. It was after we had moved t'the States from Cheshire, and Phoebe and I would go walk to the little pond near the park,"

"The one near Hope?" She asks quietly if they had gone to the park she had always played at as a little girl.

"Mhm. We would walk there in the blistering sun and when we got there she tried to convince me how fairies were real." He said in a calm voice.

He hears an airy puff of breath escape her mouth, which he takes as a small giggle -- making him want to continue his story as it's helping her cheer up, and because he'd probably do anything to hear her that sound from her.

"Yeah, fairies. She told me that they live at the pond and t'see them, I would have to find a pretty flower and then jump in the water with it in only m'underwear." He breathes out a laugh.

Y/N gasps, trying to keep quiet but fails when she lets out a loud laugh.

"Oh my, did you do it?" She asks bewildered, laying down so her head rests against the pillow.

"So, I told Phoebe 'no way', yeah? But, then she said she can't just tell me about them and not follow through with seeing them. Convinced me that it would bring bad luck." He scoffs, remembering the memory vividly.

"Bad luck, indeed." She giggles and it brings the dimple out on Harry's face.

"Yeah, so of course, me being like 8 or sum', I stripped down to m'pants in the middle of the day and jumped in the water." He smiles when he hears her laughing, even if it's at his expense. "Y'laughing, but I think I got ringworm after tha'!"

"I can't believe she got you to do that! I wish I'd been there." Y/N says, out of breath from laughing.

"Scarred me of ponds for the rest of m'life." He chuckles and a pause takes them both over as they settle back down. 

"...Thank you, H." She whispers into the phone, adoration taking up all her features.

“F’what?”

“For being you, for being here. Just...Thank you.” She sighs. 

They get lost in recalling stories of their loved one for the rest of the night, repainting her memories in gold. They laugh with each other until all the pain seems to disappear. The weight, of what felt like the world, lifting off of both their shoulders. Finally being able to breathe after days of endless battles of trying to stay strong for Phoebe's sake.

***

Days pass since the lonely 4am phone call and Y/N and Harry are still talking everyday.

She finds out he lives in her city, only a few blocks from her apartment she shared with Phoebe! She didn't believe him when he first told her, but he said he was always busy with college whenever Phoebe tried to meet up. Y/N's not going to lie, her heart picked up when she found out he'd be so close to her, wondering if he'd want to hang out with her when they leave her hometown.

Almost everyday of the last few days they have visiting, they've spent at Y/N's empty childhood home. Harry asking her to explain pictures and what she was like in high school, whenever he gets the chance. In turn, she's been picking his mind on what Holmes Chapel was like and how his family was growing up. She found out that he lived with his sister, Gemma, and his mom, Anne. They talked about everything, from their favorite things to every pet they've ever had (Y/N, particularly, falling in love with the pictures of his cat, Evie).

Just as the last few days have been spent, they are spending Y/N's last day in her hometown together before she goes back. Harry told her he had to stay a couple more nights with his family before he could leave, assuring her he would've gone back with her if he could've. That comment made her blush and she had to pray the butterflies growing in her tummy to relax.

That's another thing. Y/N had stopped lying to herself and denying the ache in her chest that would form when she was away from Harry, growing very fond of him since their first encounter at the headstone bench.

Harry, also, couldn't deny any longer the way his heart would flutter at every little thing she did. Just wondering to himself how everything about her was just so pretty. He loved the way her eyes would light up every time she saw him and how he would catch her checking him out whenever he took off his shirt.

He especially loved the way she let him sleepover a few times and how they would end up cuddling into the late hours of the morning. Both parties not minding one bit, the comfort and warmth actually preferred than sending Harry home to sleep in his own bed.

"Bet I can reach that branch right there," Harry shouts with a gleeful tone, a bit out of breath as he tries to stretch his legs far enough so his shoe brushes against the leaf on the end of the tree branch.

The two of them decided to go to Hope park, where they both held fond childhood memories at. They settled at the swingset, calm swaying in the seats quickly turning into a competition of who could swing the highest. Harry won of course, his legs being much longer than hers giving him the advantage. Playful giggles and sweet conversations of things occurring in that moment help distract them from both Phoebe and the fact that Y/N is leaving.

Y/N is distracting herself from worrying about if Harry will reach out to her when they get back to the city, if he even wants to talk to her again after this weekend or if this was all just out of politeness.

Harry, on the other hand, is distracting himself from wondering if she fancies him. He wonders if the cuddles and small touches meant as much to her as they did him, if after this weekend she would want to hang out again or if she was just being nice because he knows what she's going through.

"Bet I can reach it before you!" She giggles as her hair whips around in the wind she's created. Pumping her legs back and forth, desperately trying to get higher so she can beat Harry in her made up competition.

"Now, love, not everything has to be a competition," He huffs, really reaching out this time, "But, I wanna win, if we're playing a game, I wanna win." He grins, the cute dimple that Y/N has fallen for making an appearance on his face.

The two try their hardest to be the first ones to touch the tree branch hanging not too far from their swinging feet at their highest point. Harry, however, attempts a little too hard and flies off the swing when he lifted up his leg to make the two inch gap he was short of.

Tumbling to the woodchip covered ground, he ends up laying on his back. Groans spill out of his mouth and Y/N's eyes go wide with concern. She slows herself down just enough to safely jump off the swingset, rushing to Harry's side.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" She asks worriedly, trying to hold back the laugh that's trying to bust out. Crouching down to him, she runs her hand over his arm that's grabbing his leg.

He rubs his knee with a pained smile, "Yeah, just peachy, pet."

"Is anything hurting? Bruised?" She questions with a loving smile.

"Just my ego," He chuckles, looking up at her and admiring her caring nature.

She can't hold it in anymore, she laughs loudly at his comment, her carefree happiness making Harry's ears perk up and his heart warm.

"Yeah, love, just laugh at the crippled man." He jokes, smiling up at her happy face, wishing it could stay that way forever.

She lets out another laugh at his comment, delicately grabbing his arm to help him up, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It wasn't funny," She attempts to calm herself but fails, "Okay, it was a little bit funny!"

Giggles fall out of her mouth as Harry brushes off the mulch from his jeans, "See how much you're laughing when I push you out of the swing."

"I'm soo scared." She mocks fear.

"Oh, just wait, pet. You'll never be safe on another swing set again." He playfully grabs her sides to tickle her, but her fighting his tries just ends up bringing her closer in his hold.

Their laughs quickly die out when they realize he's holding her in his clutch, his hands at her waist, hers around his neck. Harry stares into her eyes as she stares back into his. The empty park is serene, no other noises besides the chirping of birds and the sounds of other animals sprawling about. The sweet moment causes Y/N's breath to hitch and her palms to sweat. They've only been this close when cuddling, she's never been this close to his face before. His features glow in the sunlight, his green irises complimenting the bounce of his skin and dark eyelashes. Her skin is soft and warm against his, and he just wants to lean in and-

Y/N's eyes flutter close as Harry's face comes closer, his lips meet hers in a gentle caress. With the sweet kiss, he takes note of how soft her lips are, how warm and fuzzy her intimate touch is making his head. While one hand is squeezing at her side, the other is brought up to cradle her face and she leans into his touch. Harry sucks on her bottom lip before peeling away so they can catch their breath.

Y/N lets out a whine at the loss of contact, her bottom lip jutting out as he pulls away.

"What are y'pouting for, pet? W-was that not okay? Should I not have done tha'?" The blood almost drains from his face at the pouty look on her beautiful face.

She shakes her head at him, "No, I liked it. I want more," She pants, pulling him by the collar of his shirt to bring him back to her lips.

He chuckles at her cute antics (and in relief of not fucking up his shot with her). He smiles against her lips as he melts back into her, her hand around his neck reaching up to tangle in his curly hair. He groans when her nimble fingers pull tenderly at the curls at the base of his neck, causing him to squeeze her side gently.

She breathlessly kissed him, slotting her lips between his and immediately opening her mouth in acceptance when he brushes his tongue against her bottom lip in a silent ask to take it further. As the kiss deepens, the need for air increases. They naturally separate, Harry sucking her bottom lip as he goes until it pops back.

Taking in her reddened swollen lips and her pretty flushed face, he presses one last chaste kiss on her lips, and one to her cheek and her nose.

A big, genuine grin adorns Y/N's face as she stares up at the man in front of her.

"Thank you f'letting me do tha'." He says with a gravelly voice.

"I've been thinking about you doing that since the first night you stayed at my house." She tells him bashfully.

"Me too, love. And it was better than I ever expected," He says whole-heartedly, leaning in to press one more quick kiss to her lips again.

"So, does this mean we're gonna hang out when we both go back home? Because I really want to do that again." Her glassy eyes blink at him with hope awaiting his answer.

He smiles and shakes his head, bewildered at how she could ever think that he could just ghost her after that, "I think Phoebe would come back just to slap me upside the head if I ever kissed her best friend and just never saw her again."

She chuckles at his comment, shyly looking down to her hand on his chest when he doesn't say anything else.

"Of course, I want to hang out when we get back. I want to take y'out on a real date, if you'd let me."  He looks at her all starry eyed, squeezing her waist.

"I think Phoebe would come back and slap me upside the head if I ever kissed her cousin and just never saw him again," This time he's the one that laughs.

"I'd love that very much, Harry." She beams up at him.

Going back home couldn't come sooner to the both of them.

******************

ahhh i hope y’all liked that, i’d love feedback :) i’m thinking of making a series out of it, but only if that’s something y’all would like! so, pls let me know if you enjoyed it or if i should make a part 2 ?? 

anyways, stay safe and much love <3

[miss-bridgerton]

for real l anthony bridgerton x you l part one

word count: 1,887 words

pairing: anthony bridgerton x you

author’s note: part 1 finally! it’s not much going on, but this is just the beginning. 

taglist: @fact-fictionx @alainabooks143 @michael-loves-chickens @misstonybridgerton

summary: Everyone knew that the Viscount was a rake. Except for, apparently, three young women who clung to his every word. Anthony Bridgerton was in fact charming. But he was absolutely terrible at dating three women at once. Some would call him a dunce for doing so. Others might call him a hero. Adelia Byron called him dead when she found out. Set out on revenge, she and the other two young ladies, Bette DuPont and Siena Rosso, decide to transform a lonely bakers girl into someone who can break the heart of the Viscount.

            PART 1: THE SOCIETY PAPER THAT CAUSED A SCENE

YOU HAD NO IDEA that a gossip column would be the cause of a brawl in your family’s tea shop and bakery: The Fancy Teapot.

Overly priced earl grey tea? Oh, absolutely.

Chairs that pinched the bottoms of debutantes and their mammas? Pinched bottoms surely caused nasty sneers a plenty.

But the latest gossip from the squares’ paper? You certainly didn’t see that coming.

It was all because of the Viscount. Lord Anthony Bridgerton was indeed charming. He had that smile that they all seemed to fawn over. His hair was swept in all the right places. And he was a British nobleman.

What more could a young lady want?

You rolled your eyes at the words that frequented that paper. What more could a young lady want? Well, for starters, you wanted freedom. You wanted to bake. You wanted to explore different cities. Eat exotic foods. Tell stories to your future nieces and nephews of your adventures. You didn’t care about marriage, no matter how many times your sister-in-law pushed it on to you. You just simply wanted to. . .experience life.

Unlike the young women who frequented The Fancy Teapot. They were all scouring for eligible unmarried men. It was what they were taught. It was all that they knew, really. 

And two debutantes who enjoyed sipping tea in The Fancy Teapot had no idea that they were both courting the Viscount. Until it came out on paper, that is.

It was a sunny spring morning and the social season had sprung in London. You loved the social season for the money it brought the tea shop, but you absolutely loathed the social season for the debutantes and their snooty behavior. They were all perfect. Beautiful gowns. Rosy pinched cheeks. The stink of wealth swarmed them like bees attracted to honey.

You had none of those things. You came from a working family. You came from two different countries. Your father had travelled to (a country of your choosing) where he met your mother and they fell in love and married within a week of him being there. Your father had convinced your mother to leave everything behind to be with him in London, but her one condition was to open a tea shop and bakery. 

He clung to his part of the condition. Soon after opening the shop, your older brother Jack was born. Five years later, you were born. For a short while, it was the four of you. Kids running through the tea shop, experimenting with teas, you found the love of baking with your mother, and your parents were still so madly in love it was almost embarrassing. Sadly, your mother became ill and passed away two years ago. 

The death was stricken. And hard on you. But it was your father that you and Jack worried after, for it was almost as if he became a different person. As if he lost a part of himself when your mother died. He tried to drink his sorrows away at the pubs, and fancied spending too much money on gambles and bets. 

That morning, he was nowhere near the tea shop, probably somewhere betting on poker chips, when you had to break apart two debutantes from nearly mauling each other.

Adelia Byron was with her friend, Cressida Cowper, at a small table near the colossal windows. She didn’t say thank you or even acknowledged your existence when you set down her steaming chamomile tea and slice of cornish hevva cake. You rolled your eyes at the way she gloated over the attention she received at the Warwick ball. Adelia was still on a thrill from two nights before, where the touch of the Viscount’s hand on her back as they danced was still on her. She dreamt of his gorgeous eyes. And when she saw the bouquets of roses addressed to her that morning, she was in total bliss.

Her friend, Cressida, was jealous. Adelia knew it. And if there was something Adelia Byron was known for, it was that she enjoyed bragging. Her father was a Baron, which made her quite eligible for marriage to a Viscount. She had elegant features: Dark red hair, stormy eyes, high cheek-bones. She had already received three proposals but Adelia knew what she wanted. Who she wanted.

Simply put, nobody else would do. She was going to marry the Viscount. And God help her and anyone who got in her way. 

On the other side of The Fancy Teapot, situated at a round table underneath an elegant painting by your brother Jack, was Elizabeth DuPont and her overbearing mother, Colette. Elizabeth, often called Bette, was the daughter of The Marquess of DuPont. So her marriage to a man of great wealth and a powerful title was extremely vital. To her mother, at least.

Bette was fond of the Viscount. He swept her away with his words, he was impressed with the way she could speak French and German, and the kiss he laid upon her gloved hand sent a thrill through her body. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother that when she went out to the balcony for a quick breath of fresh air during the Warwick Ball, she was accompanied by Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

Her mother would have been furious. She wanted Bette to charm the Prince - not the Viscount. She wanted her daughter to marry a title higher, not a title lower. 

You had just set down two tea cups of herbal tea at their table when one of the young newsie boys stopped by the Fancy Teapot to drop off the new Society Paper. 

“Hey, Sam,” you greeted the ten year old boy. He often was the one who sauntered in here to deliver the paper and he did it eagerly, knowing fully well that you were going to give him some free wrapped biscuits, like always.

“Y/N!” He greeted with a boyish grin. “What’s on the menu today? I hope it's something drowned in sugar!” He said excitedly.

You laughed and grabbed the box of warm treacle tarts from under the front counter. “It’s not drowned in sugar, but I think you’ll still enjoy them,” you told him.

He grinned widely. “You’re a real magician, Miss Y/L/N!”

You smiled warmly as the little boy went off and you were so busy handing over his desserts that you didn’t even notice, Dorothea, your sister-in-law, completely captivated by the latest Lady Whistledown’s writings.

“Bloody Hell,” she muttered, leaning her back against the counter and reading the paper. A mama and her daughter were standing by the counter, awaiting some assistance and looking very peevish. You sighed at how unobservant Dorothea was.

You took care of the customers and then turned to Dorothea, who looked as if she had acquired the most scandalous news.

“Y/N! Have you read this yet? It’s so scandalous!”

“No,” you replied, though you were a bit curious. “Who is it about?”

“The Viscount.”

“Hard pass,” you replied.

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “You are impossible. It’s not just about him but about the women he’s apparently leading on. And,” she took a moment to look around the tea shop and then in a hushed tone continued, “two of them are in here. Right now. Unaware of all of it!”

Well, surely just a peak at the new Society Paper wouldn’t do any harm. You grabbed the paper and took a look:

At the Warwick ball Thursday evening, Viscount Bridgerton was seen dancing with not one eligible young lady, but two. Now, I assume you dear readers know quite the reputation of our charming Viscount, as this behavior isn’t quite unusual. If you are familiar with the season’s doings, dancing with eligible suitors is normal.

Except Lord Anthony Bridgerton was seen with Miss Bette DuPont awfully close on the brink of the balcony and also seen later that evening with a certain opera singer, Siena Rosso, nuzzling her neck in a dark corner of the opera house.

How will the ladies take this embarrassment? Well, this author predicts that Miss Bette DuPont will turn a rather shade red and Miss Adelia Byron’s eyes will flash with a colour quite similar. Miss Siena Rosso will probably be locked up in a bedroom with the Viscount to even notice.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,16 APRIL 1814

Oh, brother, you thought. This better not cause anything stupid in here -

“HOW DARE YOU!!!!”

You and Dorothea looked up in bewilderment at the sudden outburst. And there it was. Lady Adelia Byron, looking absolutely furious, clutching the society paper, and standing over Lady Bette DuPont who was sitting at her table, looking between a mix of surprise and confusion.

“I beg your pardon?” Bette said to her appalled. 

“You!” Adelia yelled. “You are involved with my suitor! How dare you?! You - you - harlot!”

Bette’s jaw dropped but it was her mother who spoke. “My, I never! That is quite unladylike behavior, young lady. My Elizabeth is not some harlot, clearly you cannot read because you have been thoroughly mistaken.”

Adelia rolled her stormy eyes and handed over the paper. Bette hastily read it before gasping, throwing a pretty gloved hand over her mouth.

“This cannot be true. My Lord would never do such things.” Bette told her.

“My Lord?” Adelia mocked. “He’s not your anything. I am going to marry him. So this little rendezvous is finished.”

Bette raised a brow. “I don’t think so,” she simply replied and took a sip of her tea.

Adelia looked as if she was going to chuck that steaming tea pot at the young lady’s head, so you had no choice - you had to get involved.

“Ladies, please, there is no need to act in such a manner,” you told them. They both looked in your direction, looking at you as if you were just a nobody. As if they were thinking, who the hell are you and who makes you think you have any say in this?

You cleared your throat. “He’s just a man,” you tried to explain.

Adelia snorted. “Idiot,” she said under her breath.

You narrowed your eyes at her. “You know, instead of getting mad at each other for something neither of you two were unaware of, you should be mad at him. Instead you are fighting over the tosser. Now that is an idiot.”

Both girls’ jaws dropped at what you said. But both didn’t say anything in retaliation. Instead, Adelia lifted her head high and walked away with what dignity she possessed and Bette went back to her tea, ignoring her mother’s angry stares.

Dorothea was nearly bursting in astonishment and the tea shop, which went quiet during the whole argument, went back to the bustling noise it always had.

All went back to normal. Until later that evening. 

While you were cleaning up and closing down The Fancy Teapot for the day, you found a folded napkin at the same table that Adelia Byron sat with Cressida Cowper. Inside was a perfectly scrawled note addressed to you.

Not many people can inspire me, but you, Miss Bakery girl, did. Visit my estate as soon as you can manage. We have a lot to discuss.

X Miss Adelia Byron

[natromanxoff]

How prog were Queen?

By Dave Everley

On 9 January, 1971, Kevin Ayers and Genesis played a show together at the Ewell Technical College near Epsom in Surrey. Ayers was 18 months out of Soft Machine, and making a name for himself as a psychedelically-inclined art-folk rake. Genesis had released their second album, Trespass, a few months earlier, and were carving out a place in the vanguard of the burgeoning progressive rock movement.

There was a third band propping up the bill that night, a bunch of transplanted Londoners calling themselves Queen. In contrast to the wilfully artful approach of the headliners, their music was more straightforward: a heavy, if ornate blend of Led Zeppelin’s earthiness and the flights of fancy of Yes.

Not everyone in the small crowd watching them was impressed, but they caught the attention of one person. After the show, Genesis frontman Peter Gabriel pulled Queen’s blond-bombshell drummer Roger Taylor to one side. Gabriel’s band were about to dismiss their own drummer, John Mayhew, and were looking for a replacement. Was Taylor interested in joining Genesis? The reply was instant: thanks but no thanks. Taylor was utterly dedicated to Queen – there were gigs to play, places to go, and many musical adventures to embark on.

Had Taylor accepted the offer, the course of music – and specifically prog – would have been very different. Genesis would have flourished with Gabriel upfront, though whether they would have survived and prospered as they did without a Phil Collins to step into the breach after their talismanic singer’s departure was another matter.

The knock-on effect on Queen would have been greater. Taylor was an essential part of their carefully balanced four-way chemistry; a chemistry that would go on to throw up some of the most ambitious and game-changing music ever recorded. While Queen weren’t a capital ‘P’ prog band, they were infused with the spirit of the movement, combining its forward-looking values with its absolute disregard for the existing rules. Taking their cues from the likes of Yes, Genesis, Van der Graaf Generator and even Pink Floyd, their flamboyantly cavalier approach would go on to inspire such modern masters as Dream Theater, Queensrÿche and Muse. And, in Bohemian Rhapsody, they ensured that one of the biggest-selling singles in history was, at heart, a prog song. Forget the luxuriant moustaches and sawn-off mike-stands that would come to define them: if the prog ethos meant avoiding the expected, then Queen were definitely a prog band.

“Diversity was probably their greatest asset,” says former Dream Theater drummer and confirmed Queen devotee Mike Portnoy. “From song to song, they could be so different. You could have something that was folk followed by something that was rockabilly followed by something that was metal. And that’s one of the biggest things about prog, having that open-mindedness.”

Queen’s schooling in prog came early on. Brian May’s very first band, 1984, played a 4am slot supporting Pink Floyd at the Christmas On Earth Continued all-nighter in 1967. A year later, his next outfit, Smile – also featuring Roger Taylor – played with Floyd again, this time at London’s Imperial College. By the time of their gig opening for Kevin Ayers, Smile had changed their name to Queen and recruited Freddie Mercury. Collectively, they admired Yes, Van der Graaf Generator and especially Genesis. “Foxtrot is a prog rock classic,” Roger Taylor later wrote in the sleevenotes to Genesis box set 1970-1975. “Arrangements were highly complex in these early days, setting a benchmark for the style of the times.”

When it came to finding someone to produce their debut album, Queen’s first choice was John Anthony, who had worked with both Genesis and Van der Graaf. With Anthony and co-producer Roy Thomas Baker behind the desk, the eponymous album trod heavily in Led Zeppelin’s footsteps. But there was another, altogether more visionary band straining to spread their wings: My Fairy King was a filigreed slice of flamboyant rock’n’roll, while Liar metamorphosised through several different time changes and timings.

Those wings were fully unfurled on the follow-up, 1974’s Queen II. The title was the most prosaic thing about the record: the music inside was as fevered and baroque as rock gets, informed equally by Zeppelin, Yes and crazed Victorian artist Richard Dadd, whose 1864 painting The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke inspired one of the album’s most prog-leaning tracks. It may have been rooted in the heavy rock of the times, but its cavalier approach and sheer sense of scale pegged Queen as a defiantly progressive proposition.

“Queen weren’t like Yes, who had a dualistic role of guitar and keyboards, where both shared the terrain,” says Yes guitarist Steve Howe, supported by Queen at Kingston Poly in early 1971. “Brian had the terrain to himself. The remarkable thing was that he was the front and the back man. It required him to come up with more than guitar solos… He had to come up with a semi-thematic approach to play the guitar. And what he did was keep colouring.”

Queen’s prog inclinations would be deeply woven into the fabric of their early albums, from the audacious multi-part theatrics of Queen II’s March Of The Black Queen to the schizophrenic attack of the two-part Lap Of The Gods from 1974’s Sheer Heart Attack. Even in their more commercial moments, they marched to the beat of their own drum. What other band would have dared serve up something so unusual as Killer Queen?

“It was their diversity,” says Mike Portnoy, who first heard Queen as an eight-year-old in the mid-70s and covered many Queen songs while in Dream Theater. “Their albums took the prototype that The Beatles laid down with the White Album, where you had four different artists bringing in very different styles. Every song was so diverse. You get to A Night At The Opera, and you had this giant multi-layered epic like Bohemian Rhapsody next to something like Seaside Rendezvous or Love Of My Life.”

A Night At The Opera was Queen’s grand artistic statement and their most unashamedly prog album. Pitched around the epic twin tentpoles of The Prophet’s Song and Bohemian Rhapsody, it married their far-reaching vision to a distinctly British barminess. Taken on its own, the eight-minute The Prophets Song, with its incredible ornate a cappella middle section, would be enough to grant Queen access to the Prog Hall Of Fame. But even that sits in the inescapable shadow of Bohemian Rhapsody. Time and success might have lessened its impact, but that song remains the most dazzlingly unique piece of music ever to sell five million copies.

“There are epic things that come along every so often,” says Steve Howe. “There’s Sgt Pepper, there’s Bridge Over Troubled Water. And there’s Bohemian Rhapsody. I don’t know when I first heard it, but once it was there, it was such a formidable thing. You’re thinking: ‘How many tracks did they need to do those vocals? How did they write it? Who invented it? It really was astounding.”

Bohemian Rhapsody encapsulated one of the key things that gave Queen such a distinct identity. Like The Beatles and Beach Boys before them, they used the studio as an instrument – not least when it came to their vocals. And Bohemian Rhapsody raised the bar about as high as it could go.

“They sang each of those parts and triple-stacked them,” says Mike Portnoy. “You heard all three of their voices singing in all three vocal ranges. That’s what made the depth of their music so complex. It wasn’t the instrumentation, it was the vocals. That’s unusual for prog music. When I think of my favourite prog music, it’s always the musicianship that draws me. But with Queen, it was the vocals. It was so deep.”

For all its success, A Night At The Opera would be Queen’s grand kiss-off to their prog roots. Later albums streamlined their sound into a more conventional format. Much like Genesis, the 80s found them swapping experimentalism for chart rock.

It wasn’t until the end of their career as an active band that Queen would again sound so adventurous. During 1989 and 1990, the band began work on their penultimate album, Innuendo, in London and Montreux. In the summer of 1990, Yes guitarist Steve Howe paid a flying visit to the Swiss city, where a chance encounter with a former guitar tech found him being invited to Queen’s studio to hear the album as a work-in-progress.

“Inside, there’s Freddie, Brian and Roger all sitting together. They go: ‘Let’s play you the album,’” says Howe. “Of course, I’m hearing it for the first time: I Can’t Live Without You, I’m Going Slightly Mad. And they saved Innuendo itself until last. They played it and I was fucking blown away.”

If that was surprising, then what happened next was utterly out-of-the-blue. The members of Queen asked if Howe wanted to play on the title track. The Yes man politely suggested they’d lost their minds. It took the combined weight of Mercury, May and Taylor to persuade him.

“They all chimed in: ‘We want some crazy Spanish guitar flying around over the top. Improvise!’” recalls Howe. “I started noodling around on the guitar, and it was pretty tough. After a couple of hours, I thought: ‘I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here.’ I had to learn a bit of the structure, work out the chordal roots were, where you had to fall if you did a mad run in the distance; you have to know where you’re going. But it got towards evening, and we’d doodled and I’d noodled, and it turned out to be really good fun. We have this beautiful dinner, we go back to the studio and have a listen. And they go: ‘That’s great. That’s what we wanted.”

Released as a single in January 1991, Innuendo gave Queen their third Number One single. Like Bohemian Rhapsody 25 years before it, it was as unlikely as hit singles get: a six-and-a-half minute musical jigsaw, complete with flamenco runs, classically-inclined orchestral overloads and maverick 5/4 timing. Queensrÿche covered the song on 2007’s Take Cover album, while you can hear its echo in Radiohead’s Paranoid Android and Muse’s more elaborate sci-fi epics.

“In the world of rock, Queen stands out as a good example of the clash between guitar and piano in songwriting,” Muse’s Matt Bellamy has said. “I think that’s where you stumble across those more unusual arrangements and chord structures.”

Today, Queen have left a bi-polar legacy. They’re arguably best known for their pop hits – Radio Gaga, I Want To Break Free and of course, Bohemian Rhapsody, that ultimate prog Trojan Horse. But their spirit of adventure remains unmatched by all but the boldest of their peers.

“There was no rulebook for Queen,” says Mike Portnoy. “They broke most of the rules that existed, and then they wrote a new set.”