#green lacquered nightstand

[jamiegardner]

Contemporary Bedroom in New York Bedroom: large contemporary guest bedroom idea with light wood floors, white walls, and no fireplace

[jaynewton]

Contemporary Bedroom in New York Bedroom: large contemporary guest bedroom idea with light wood floors, white walls, and no fireplace

[literallyfrist]

New York Guest

[fragileoracle]

Ⅰ - Somebody For Everybody

August 1890 - Saint Denis

Fireweed. Pink petals that are spicy on the tongue, stirred into a thick nectar of deep gold in a jar labeled "butterfly food". Violet snowdrops with unfurling purple petals reaching into the cold dawn of spring. A sprig of wild oregano, its scent rich and floral as its released from dark green leaves. Crushed between two callused fingertips.

The smell of coffee; rich, dark, and inviting brewed before the mountain sun has risen. The caffeinated lifeblood of the honest worker. Fresh hay, earthy and dry for the horses rising with the morning dew, earnest hooves breaking soil in anticipation.

Memories of a life before this one filtered through Mercy's mind more vividly than any magic lantern show. With enough focus she knew she could trick her mind into retrieving those scents. A talent that on mornings like this one, was a balm to sore nerves.

If she knew one thing about the city, it was that the scent was inescapable. A heady mix of horse dung, piss, and the inescapable presence of ever-drunken low lives that clung to Saint Denis like flies to shit. A smell that would only worsen the higher the sun climbed. She was grateful that come noon she would be safe behind the glass doors of the Bastille, more than likely soaked from wrist to elbow in water and lye if luck was any indicator.

Yet in the moment, Mercy tried desperately to think pleasanter thoughts as the Saint Denis smell slowly crept in through the open window of her modest room. The bayou's looming presence was barely masked by the threadbare, faded blue curtain she'd hung all those months ago. It was still too dark to make out the faded details of the room she kept, yet even with her eyes closed she'd still be able to place every nook and cranny exactly.

Nearest the door was a wooden stool that rocked precariously if you sat in the very center of the seat, its old legs creaking in protest as if it had something better to do than the very job it was created to do. A nightstand sat closest to the bed that some time ago may have been respectable, but now was nothing more than a method to get an infection if reached for it too carelessly in the dark.

A simple candlestick sitting in an even simpler holder along with her father's silver pocket watch sat on the old table, along with a pack of cigarettes that Mercy had hidden in its only drawer a few weeks ago. The pack wrapped tightly in a spare piece of cotton she nicked from the saloon, along with a few sprigs of thyme to cover the smell. That aunt of hers had a nose like a bloodhound and would smoke through her meager savings if Mercy let her.

Then there was the simple chest of drawers at the foot of her bed. The finest piece of furniture in the room, and of course off limits to Mercy. Its body and drawers were made of sturdy, lacquered mahogany. Supposedly Myra had received it as a wedding gift from the family of her first husband, but couldn't bear to look at it or part with so it was left unused. Filled with the late Mr. Willis' belongings and a small cyanotype of the mustachioed man sitting on top.

Admittedly, Mercy had quietly rifled through the drawers once or twice, careful not to noticeably disturb the meticulously stored articles of clothing. In the top drawer were shirts that smelled of soap and dust, a comforting scent, especially on long summer nights. The second drawer with faded slacks, most with mended holes and the many stains of a working man. The last drawer was far more exciting, as in the very back of the drawer were a stack of Penny Dreadfuls, a collection of cigarette cards, and a box of jewelry all hidden beneath two folded jackets that had been pressed stiff with starch years ago. It was an odd presence, the chest of drawers, as if her aunt was still expecting Mr. Willis to return from the grave itself making the room feel more occupied than it truly was.

 "Well, this is it." Myra had said when Mercy first arrived in Saint-Denis two years ago.

"Since no one else'll have you, this is where you'll be staying for the time being. Now you remember, I am welcoming you into my home outta the goodness of my heart. You're lucky your mother was my sister otherwise you'd be on your lonesome as I expect you are already aware."

There had been a cruel, greedy glint in her pale green eyes when she said those words. Almost as if she enjoyed belittling her niece by marriage, reminding her of the cruel hand she'd been dealt.

"There's you a clean bed and a chest underneath it you can use for your belongings, you only get one set of bedding and I expect you to launder it yourself. You're a full grown woman and I expect you to keep this room as tidy as you found it as well as help around the rest of the house you understand me? I won't board a layabout, no sir. If I so much as see you rummaging through a drawer I will have you on the street before you can so much as blink. I expect your monthly payments on time at the first of the month, every month. No exceptions."

And with that, two years had passed in the blink of an eye. Not once had young Miss Graves missed her rent, or incurred the wrath of the stern Mrs. Sutton or her mild-mannered husband. Since she'd moved from West Elizabeth, Mercy had grown to appreciate her circumstances somewhat. At least one hot meal a day, a dry bed to sleep in, and the comfort of the late Mr. Willis' cotton shirts. It wasn't all too bad for a woman with no prospects. Life in Saint-Denis was peaceful, unassuming, and routine.

Yet Mercy was restless, with each passing season she could feel something in her chest stirring. Memories of the mountains haunted her as often as she invoked them during the hot Lemoyne afternoons, an ebb and flow of both misery and nostalgia that kept her on edge. As much as she tried to dismiss the sense of longing that seemed to take root in her, it only acted as fuel to this unknown fire that unsettled her.

Mercy knew she should be grateful.

Grateful for her life. Grateful that she had been spared when her family had not. Grateful for the routine when it could have just as easily been a life of needless turmoil. Her's had become a simple life by the grace of what she felt could only be sheer luck. Surely there was no higher being smiling down on her, and for that, she was grateful as she seemed to slip by unnoticed. Unfavored and blessedly normal.

Still, in the moments before the sun warmed the sky Mercy was left to the disquiet of her mind. That gnawing ache had become a yearning so sharp that she could feel it pulling at invisible strings within her. A pull so strong that there were times as of late she seemed to move without noticing. Straying from routine. Rebelling against her good sense in small ways just to sate these unnameable desires within herself. It manifested imperceptibly; wandering down an alleyway she'd never noticed before, leaving the Bastille before her shift was over, giving into Remedy when he offered a shot of rum before she made her way home. The most minute of variations to the monotony her life had become. The pattern she had been all too eager to settle into was now the bane of her very existence.

Silvery rays of sunlight began to stretch across the dusty wooden floor of her room as she lay in her bed, mind traveling beyond the bayou back to Little Creek. The familiar sounds of a baying herd of cows dragged her back to the present as she sat up, fidgeting with the strings of her thin, white chemise. She couldn't remember the last time she had risen earlier than the damn cows. Yet another small rebellion of her wandering mind.

Pushing herself to her feet, Mercy turned to quietly pull out one of the two trunks that she kept neatly tucked under the bed. Even after two years in Saint-Denis, she still had very few personal effects aside from a couple blouses, skirts, undergarments, and a few other necessities she'd accumulated. As she rifled through her garments, her eyes wandered to the still-unworn pair of tan riding boots that had been gifted to her by a man she hadn't seen since.

According to the stranger, she'd left quite an impression on him. Though in hindsight, he had probably been expecting quite a bit more than she was willing to offer. Yet there they sat, the nicest thing she owned aside from her father's pocket watch, a trinket that she battled about on the regular with herself.

I'd be better off selling that old thing.

Mercy thought to herself bitterly, glancing at the boots again. Just looking at the boots evoked such an overwhelming lust in her, a feeling so intense she could almost smell the clean mountain air. The expanding ribcage of a fine horse breathing beneath her, the playful fingers of the wind against her skin, in her hair.

"Come on Graves, get moving." Mercy grumbled to herself, blindly pulling a few garments from the trunk before it was returned to its place under her bed astride those lonely, lovely boots of hers and the impossible visions they dazzled her with. Instead, she yanked her faded leather button-up shoes from the foot post of her bed as she set herself to stay to her routine today. Perhaps if she tried hard enough, those feelings would simply fade with time and enough distraction.

At the very least, Mercy had to believe they would as the alternative was a spiral of insanity or as her aunt often called it, "female hysterics".

Adequately dressed, Mercy watched as the sun rose over the Lanahechee and now bathed Saint-Denis in a rich gold that could blind if looked dead-on. In the summer, however, the sunlight could only glow from behind a dense veil of mist. The larger windows of the Sutton house looked into the backroad of Saint-Denis from the fringes. Glimpses of the bayou to the North flickered in parts through the sugarcane stalks and in between the other modest homes that dotted the perimeter of the city. At daybreak, the den and kitchen were swathed in a cool darkness with spare rays of sunlight, a characteristic that made for cold, wet winters.

Judging by the faint sounds of snoring, a trait of Mrs. Sutton's, Mercy knew her guardians were still sound asleep and would be for yet another hour at best. The makings of a peaceful morning made her dreaded routine far more palatable. With shoes in one hand, as to make her way through the house quietly, Mercy approached the kitchen washing bowl. The chipped porcelain basin filled with clean, cool water. A small, rusted mirror sat on the wooden counter near the bowl along with Mr. Sutton's pomade. Enough light filtered from the small window for Mercy to catch a glimpse of her reflection.

Two round brown eyes blinked at her framed by long, straight black lashes along with thick, well-shaped brows that arched over them with a resting, disdainful expression. Her father's nose, round and straight suited her facial features giving her a rather pleasant look considering the severity of her expression. Healthy, full cheeks and rosebud lips that seemed to pout in perpetuity gave Mercy a softness that always irritated her. In many ways, she felt as though her appearance made others underestimate her as simply "precious" or "darling". Nothing more than a pretty woman. Perhaps they were right in some sense. After all, if she could only keep her mouth shut and her expressiveness in check, she could more than likely get away with a hell of a lot more.

Oh to be a woman humbled.

Leaning over the wash basin, Mercy splashed the cool water against her pale face as she relished in the sharp, refreshing feeling of a washed face. The heat of the morning chased away as the air gelled the water on her neck, sending a chill down her spine. Returning her gaze back to the small mirror, she gently pinched her cheeks, rubbing the faintest bit of rosiness into them as she pondered what to do with her unruly mess of brown hair. Locks of cedar curled and krimped from having slept with it loose.

"A braid'll have to do," Mercy whispered, her fingers weaving her tresses into a semi-neat plait before tying it off with a leather cord. There was no use in fussing over her appearance so early in the day when Loretta would just undo it all in favor of something more "French" and "appealing" come evening. No, Mercy would leave her a clean canvas to work with.

"Good mornin' Miss Graves." A sleepy, thin voice whispered from the other side of the room, "You up early."

Turning to face Mr. Sutton, Mercy smiled plaintively at her aunt's husband. A clod of a man, his face tanned and lined by the sun with kind dark eyes and silvering black hair sticking up in all manner of directions. He was thin and wiry, with a faded tattoo of an anchor he received from his time in the Navy. Normally, she would have been spooked by the man's sudden presence during a quiet moment, but she had long learnt that between him and his wife, she much preferred Mr. Sutton. All he knew how to do was work and drink. Mercy wasn't entirely sure the man could even read but she knew him to be harmless.

"Good morning Mr. Sutton," Mercy whispered back "Should I put on some coffee?"

"Naw, you go 'head. Myra'll be waking soon." He urged her through a yawn, scratching the side of his chin before he padded across the floor to the kitchen cupboard. He reached in and grabbed one of two fresh peaches.

"Here, you should eat something." He whispered conspiratorially, placing the fruit in Mercy's hand.

Before she could protest, he meandered back into the room he shared with his wife, closing the door behind him. In that moment it struck her as odd, what a pairing her aunt and the man made. Where he was slow and meandering like an old bull, Myra was mean as a rattlesnake. She wondered what that engagement must've looked like.

Had it been Mr. Sutton's idea to wed? Perhaps with a none-too-subtle nudge from dear old Aunt Myra. As her mother used to say, there truly was somebody for everybody, and for a moment Mercy felt a twinge in her chest when remembering her mother's words even after a decade of being apart.

The full weight of the August heat washed over Mercy as she opened the door to Saint-Denis. The ever-present scent that she couldn't get used to no matter how hard she tried followed. It was an assault on the senses. Holding her breath, she made her way down the steps and onto the main road into town, she gave a friendly wave to a pair of boys on their way to their shift at the docks. Dressed in their overalls and caps with their ruddy faces and glassy eyes still waking from the land of nod.

"Mornin' Miss Graves, why I don't think I've ever seen you up this early!" The cheeky younger boy, called out to her while the older boy, gave her a stern nod. Still acting tough that one. The tallest of the lanky pair was Clyde Shannon, while his ginger younger brother was Ian Shannon. First time she met them they'd nearly ran her down after stealing a couple oranges from the market. Ever since then, they'd been sweet on her and if Mercy was honest, she found the two of them endearing.

"Good morning, boys." Mercy flashed that smile of hers that could melt even the coldest of steel, as much was clear from the blush that spread over Clyde's cheeks. "Don't forget to come by the Bastille tonight, I'll get you those scraps I promised your Pa."

"Yes ma'am. We better head on, the foreman'll have our hides if we're late again." Clyde tipped his hat to her before pushing Ian ahead of him, the duo ran on leaving Mercy once again to her thoughts and a short morning walk to work. Her thoughts haunted by the faces of her past as she watched the brothers tease each other.

The Shannons had always been kind to her. Their mother especially who had put in a good word to Mrs. Tremblay when she first arrived looking for work. Clyde was becoming a rather handsome young man, and Mercy knew the boy was enamored. Ian on the other hand was innocent as a lamb but braver than many a man Mercy had the displeasure of knowing. Since Mercy had started working at the Bastille she'd sent the boys home with scraps for their pigs and in return every so often Ian and Clyde would come by with enough pork to feed the Sutton household for a month. Something Mr. Sutton had grown especially accustomed to.

Mercy walked on after watching the brothers disappear in the morning fog.

Aside from the city stench, Saint-Denis was picturesque the closer you got to the city center. As the road turned from muck to cobbled stone, and the houses went from shanties to sprawling manors you were reminded of the hold of civilization. Though in a way the growth of the city didn't sit quite right with Mercy. Just a few weeks ago, some of the neighbors were uprooted from the only home they'd ever known. Apparently bought out by some well-to-do folk from up north who found ole Saint Denis charming enough to settle in, and in less than a week a new two-story beast sprung up like daisies after death. A kind old black woman and her son had relocated to Lagras deeper in the bayou according to the backstreet gossip.

A shameful thing, the price of so-called "civilized" living.

Pausing for a moment in her stride, Mercy glared at the new house in question. Full planters spilling over with fragrant gardenias swung idly in the breeze. Stained glass French windows obscured the view of passersby, and large white pillars held the upper balcony. Wrought iron fencing kept "them" separated from "the others" with hedges taller than her spilling out between the bars.

Pretty as a picture indeed, and from what she'd seen as a neighbor, empty half the year. What had her aunt called it? A vacation home? She imagined that come another year, there wouldn't be many regular homes left in Saint-Denis considering how the rich folk tended to speak about the working class and less fortunate.

Before long, would she be displaced too? Spit back out into the wild? Being rejected by those more "civil" couldn't be the worst way to go, Mercy figured to herself. For a brief moment, she hoped the house would catch fire and burn to ash, only then would the violence of displacement be paid in kind.

With a beleaguered sigh, she continued on her way at a leisurely pace, taking with it her thoughts of arson. Mercy passed the new manors and the old cemetery as the road became cobble and the pleasant scent of Tremblay's Laundry gave her reprieve from the smell of civilization.

Mrs. Tremblay herself stood in the open doors of her establishment as she held a basket of freshly cleaned linens. Two little ones bickered at her feet. The look on the older woman's lined, bronze face made it clear that she wasn't welcoming any idle conversation the woman rushed into the store after one of her children. Not long after a flurry of linens spilled onto the floor followed by very loud, very Creole shouting.

As quiet as the city had been just moments ago, it was now wide awake and bustling. The doors of Café Marchand and LeHavre Bakery revolved as folks went about their daily routines, many of which involved breaking fast with bread or coffee. For once Mercy was reminded of the small joys of her routine. The smells that came from the bakery were hard to ignore as her stomach growled angrily. She could have killed a man for just one of the LeHavre croissants to pair with her peach, but her coin purse wasn't exactly overflowing.

Fighting the hunger pangs for the richness of French delicacies, Mercy soldiered on as she rounded the corner. The conveniently located Bastille saloon came into sight. The usually grand building looked rather sullen in the morning light without the lanterns casting their welcoming glow on the windows. Though it seemed as though the Bastille wasn't the only sullen-looking thing this morning as a couple stood just outside the entrance in a full argument.

"I've done had enough of this foolishness, I quit! Yeah, I said it! I QUIT."

The careening screech of the woman's voice bounced between brick buildings, amplified by the alleyway. Mercy hesitated on the corner and seriously considered giving into that phantom tug that pulled her away from the scene unfolding.

Oh yes, Mama, there sure is somebody for everybody yet in this particular case, it seemed as though there was somebody not anybody could tolerate at all.

[theonewiththefanfics]

Don’t Worry, Darling (one-shot)

Synopsis: Falling in love with a co-star is something that can hurt, especially when it seems like they’re talking to other people behind your back, but falling in love with a co-star and being unable to help when they’re sick, is even worse.

Pairing: Harry Styles x fem!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, SMUT 

Warnings: COVID-19, sickness, swearing, SMUT (fingering, m going down on f, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it))

Word count: 11 968 (yoikes)

Please note I’m not trying to make light of the pandemic or the virus and those impacted by it. It’s a very real and serious thing, which is why I decided to use it. Please stay safe and healthy, follow the local health guidelines and if you have the ability please get vaccinated. Let’s keep ourselves and one another safe, frens :)

When Y/N got the call she’d gotten the role of Jack’s ex-wife who’d disappeared in mysterious circumstances, she was over the moon. As a Marvel alumnus, she was excited to work with Florence, as she’d loved Midsommar, and knowing she was going to be one of the new faces carrying the next Marvel chapter, she wanted to get to know her. Having played Tony Stark’s adopted daughter since the age of six, she was very protective of the franchise but was excited to see where it’d go.

      Then Shia LaBeouf, Chris Pine as well with Dakota Johnson’s announcements coming soon after, Y/N got even more stoked, and with Olivia Wilde leading all of them, she was sure the movie would be a hit.

      Shia and Dakota had to drop out due to scheduling issues (which Y/N couldn’t lie – she was kind of happy Shia couldn’t do it), and that's where Harry Styles took over the role of Jack with Kiki Layne Dakota’s Margaret.

      Now, when Y/N had seen Harry’s picture next to the re-cast e-mail the whole production had been sent out, she might’ve had a little (a massive, like a ginormous) freak-out. As much as she’d grown up listening to classic rock, due to Robert Downey Jr. and Iron Man, she’d been an avid One Direction fan. Like to the point, it might even seem a bit creepy. Y/N had sort of grown out of the obsessive phase of it all, but most definitely admired the solo albums they’d been able to produce, and when Dunkirk came out, she was excited to see Harry join the acting world, with the amount of talent he had.

      The first table read was sort of awkward, and definitely the weirdest one, given how a pandemic had started, and everyone was at their respective homes using Zoom. 

      Y/N and Florence had been the first to join the conversation about half an hour before the official beginning, and by the time everyone else did, they were crying from laughter and had to excuse themselves from their computers to collect whatever remaining composure they had. 

      “You two alright?” Oliva Wilde had raised her eyebrow, as the women re-joined, still chuckling. “Will we have to use body doubles for the scenes you two are in?”

      “No!

      “Nohooo!” both of them yelled through laughter. “We’ll be as professional as professionals are. Which is very professional.”

      Then Y/N made the mistake of glancing at Florence’s square, and the two busted out laughing again, spewing apologies in between, but no one seemed to really mind. In fact, it looked like they appreciated how casual and open everyone was being, hoping the set wouldn’t be stiff either when they moved onto filming.

      And for the two women, it wasn’t really. Actually, they grew closer than ever. The amount of time Florence spent in Y/N’s trailer was to the point that the two started to talk about just moving in together. After scouring the nearby apartments for rent, they settled on a three-bedroom apartment, as two-bedroom ones were non-existent. 

      When Harry grew closer to them as well, given how he spent quite some time with both women, they suggested he move in as well.

      “You know, what? I changed my mind. You’re taking away our closet, and I don't like that,” Y/N pouted, watching as Florence lifted a pile of her clothes and moved it to her room. “That’s not very ‘treat people with kindness’ of you.”

      All he did was flick a finger at her forehead, which Y/N swatted away with a smile. When he’d double-checked about moving in with them (which, mind you was the seventh time, and half his stuff was already there), the two women were ecstatic. They got along amazingly on set and basically having a sleepover with friends every night suited all of them quite well. 

      At that moment, Y/N was sitting on the edge of her bed, knitting while Harry painted all of their toes and Florence put on facemasks.

      “Wine!” Y/N suddenly exclaimed, almost knocking over the light blue nail polish bottle as she jumped up, throwing her needles back on the bed. “We need wine!”

      “Do not ruin my masterpiece!” Harry hollered after her, as she waddled away on her heels, toes separated by foam and hight up in the air. She even had to manoeuvre around the carpet to avoid any hairs and fibres that could get stuck inside the still wet lacquer.

      It took her a second to find a bottle all three of them could enjoy, given their tastes were so different – Y/N preferred sweet and red, and didn’t care if it was a three-dollar bottle from Target, Harry had a bit more of an expensive pallet, giving preference to something with a more of a lingering aftertaste and in the higher ranges of price point, while Florence liked rosé and white wines.  

      Taking two glasses in one hand and the bottle with a third glass between her fingers, she shuffled back to her room when she heard the two muttering something in low voices before Harry whispered harshly, “I’m not telling Y/N that!” 

      “Won’t me what?” Y/N’s question made him and Florence spring back where they’d been engaged in a heated conversation when she re-entered the room, putting the wine bottle and glasses on the nightstand.

      Florence waved her off, giving her a smile, she didn’t believe in. “Nothing. Now come on, Harry will do your fingernails now, and I think it’s about time the mask came off.”

      And that’s when Y/N’s heart dropped. She’d been in the industry long enough to know how fake people could be, how they could put on smiles so inviting and friendly while hiding their true intentions behind them. She just didn’t think two people she’d found so genuine and sweet would be like that.

      And the thing was – it wasn’t the first time she’d heard the two whispering like that and hushing up when they saw her enter the room or even come somewhere near to them. 

In the beginning, Y/N had chalked it up to the two being closer, given they had to spend more time together, so they knew one another better, but this time sort of solidified it wasn’t the fact the two were closer, it had to deal with Y/N specifically.

      So, she started to distance herself. She’d had enough users in her life to last her for the rest of it. Y/N excused herself from the movie nights they had on most Fridays, she no longer joined in on the cooking sessions and mostly spent time in her room, or on work calls.

      When she re-entered the flat, four weeks after their falling out, they watched as she nodded to them, and went inside her room, closing the door, much like she’d been doing for the past thirty days. 

      “Do you think she knows?” Harry asked, brows furrowed and bottom lip between his teeth as he hoped the doors would open, yet, obviously, they didn’t. 

      “Well, I haven’t told her, and unless you did, then I doubt it…”

      Harry stood up, running a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna talk to her.”

      “You think it’s a good idea?”

      “No, but if she’s upset maybe she needs to talk to someone.”

      “Or maybe she wants to be alone.”

      Harry bit his lip thinking over Florence’s words. When he was upset about something, he himself did like to kind of retreat and become a little bit of a recluse, to sort out his emotions before anyone else tried to jump in and help with it, but the thing was – Y/N’s distancing started the night when she’d walked in on the two of them arguing, and it’d been about the girl in question herself, so he shook his head. “I’ll just ask if she’s alright.”

      He took a deep breath and went to enter the room he hadn’t seen in almost a month. “Hey.” Harry poked his head through Y/N’s door, making her swirl around in her chair. She looked adorable to him. She’d changed into a big fluffy nightgown, the hood up, a headband pushing hair away from her face with a green facemask covering her skin. The domestic life flashed through Harry’s head like a freight train, as it was something he craved, but pushed it away. There was no daydreaming before figuring out what was in front of him in reality. “You okay?”

      “ 'M fine.” She shot him a quick smile. “Why? Did Olivia send something new for the script?”

      “Um, no, ‘s just you’ve been, I dunno – detached a bit?”

      “Look, Harry… I may be younger than you, but I’ve been in this industry longer than you or Florence.” Y/N stood and shrugged before crossing her arms. “And the thing is – I don’t care for shit like that. So, you two can gossip and whisper and talk whatever you want about me behind my back. Everyone else is doing that so, you’re not that special. But’ I’d prefer if you did it somewhere else besides my room, my space, and I’ll say this once, but very clearly – we’re not friends. I don’t need friends like you. We’ll be civil and we’ll do our jobs, but…” Harry’s heart broke at her eyes, seeing the pain in them as she nodded and made sure he understood where she stood. “We’re not friends.”

      She didn’t leave any room for argument. When Harry left, Y/N didn’t even look over her shoulder to see him exit.

      The next couple of mornings she didn’t see them leave nor come back, seeing as Y/N had the week off from filming, but the morning of the seventh day was awkward as hell, given how all of them had to go and get tested, and well, they had their allocated time slots one after the other. Usually, they’d take one car together, but this time, Y/N drove off on her own, while Harry and Florence carpooled on their own.

      The tests were always nerve-wracking. If one person went down, the whole production did for at least two weeks. And as much as she hated going in alone, she was glad no one was with her in the car, because as she stepped out, a certain notion swept over her that this would be a lot different than usual.

      A doctor dressed head to toe in protective gear motioned for her to sit down, as another processed her ID and work ID. Her leg was bouncing up and down the whole time, and he eyed her. If she could see his lips, she was sure they’d be pursed. “Anything wrong?” He handed her back the IDs before moving to the table where a set of large q-tips seemed to lay in sterile packs.

      Y/N sighed, biting her lip and nodded. “Woke up with a sore throat and a small cough appeared on my way here as well. I wiped and cleaned everything down at the apartment I’m staying at and wore gloves and a mask the whole time.”

      “Anything else?” the doctor asked, writing down each word as Y/N said. “The feeling of breaking bones, fever, muscle pain, eyes hurting when you look up, lost sense of smell or taste?”

      “No, nothing like that. Just a sore throat and a small cough.”

The doctor let out a large sigh, probably from having to wear a full-on hazmat suit. “Alright. Just for safety reasons, so we know who’s a potential contact person, who are you staying with?”

      “Florence Pugh and Harry Styles. We’re renting an apartment together.”

      “Do you know if they’ve had any symptoms?”

      “No,” Y/N shook her head honestly. “And I haven’t really interacted with them this past week, as they’ve been on set, and I didn’t have any scenes to film, and by the time they get back, I’m already asleep, and I’m still asleep when they leave so there’s been no direct contact. We have our own kitchenware, so there shouldn’t be any direct contact. I think.”

      That last bit was half-true, seeing as she hadn’t been asleep when they came back, but she might as well have been. The second Y/N heard the door click, she’d place her headphones on or leave the room, only glimpsing the two faces falling as she did that.

      The doctor clearing his throat and motioning for Y/N to open her mouth so he could take a swab and then to do the same for both her nostrils, was what brought her out of it. She was so used to it, it was like nothing at that point. “Okay. We’ll need you to stay in the car while the test is being run, and if it comes back positive, you’ll be placed in a separate flat, as to not endanger the rest.”

      Her ‘alright’ was barely audible. Fuck. It just felt like the universe was against her. First, the two people she’d gotten closest to were whispering behind her back and being fake to her face, now she might have a super contagious virus to which there was no medicine really, nor was there a vaccine, let alone the thought she’d have to miss filming for potentially more than two weeks.

      The thirty minutes of wait were agonizing, her leg bouncing up and down. Y/N’s eyes kept watching the line of cars slowly move forward through the tent and then settle behind hers. She knew Harry was about five cars away, and she was glad he wasn’t closer. They weren’t really allowed to get out of their vehicles while the tests were being run, and Y/N didn’t think she’d be able to not look back at him through her review mirror. 

      Two more minutes passed when finally, one of the med students in the full hazmat suit came up and knocked on her car window.

      “Miss Y/L/N?”

      “Yes?” 

      “ID please.” It was standard so that no med info got leaked. The only reason she had to rummage through her stuff was, because she’d bite the little plastic card in half if she didn’t throw it somewhere deep inside her bag.

      “So.” The man sighed, and he didn’t need to elaborate. Y/N understood, but still, he had to confirm it to her. “Your test came back positive for COVID-19. The production has been informed, and for safety reasons, everyone will have to self-isolate for two weeks.”

      Y/N’s head slammed against the back of the seat. “Fuck. Okay.”

      “Because so far, you’re the only positive case, you’ll be placed into quarantine. We’ll need the address you’re staying at, and if you need anything from your apartment, we can send someone over to grab a few things. You’ll have to follow the black SUV right there.” He pointed further down the lot where indeed a black SUV stood. “They’ll take you to where the quarantine apartments are. Is there anything immediate you’ll need?”

      “I – uh – I need my pills, my birth control that is. I take it every evening. Computer, chargers. That’s the most immediate I can think of. Maybe some food? I didn’t get the chance to eat breakfast.”

      Even through the mask, Y/N could see the man smile. “Well arrange that. In the meantime, here’s the number for the coordinators who’ll get you the rest of your things and deliver them to you.”

      “Thank you. I’ll call my assistant, and she’ll drive down to the apartment. She knows where everything is.”

      “Have you been in close contact with her?”

      “Just through the phone. She hasn’t been on set in almost a month, as I told her only to come when it’s an emergency… Guess this is it.” Y/N let out an awkward chuckle.

      And truly that was it. With one last motion as to where the SUV stood, she started back up the engine, reversed out of the spot and followed the car to where the ‘Don’t Worry Darling’ production had set up a few quarantine apartments, specifically for actors and crew, speed-dialling her assistant Anna and letting her know of the situation.

      “Shit, girl,” she’d cursed. “That sucks.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      “Okay,” Anna huffed. “Do you have a spare key for the apartment by any case or do I need to go down to the lot and ask Harry or Florence?”

      “Both of them will be at the apartment, given how everything’s shut down, so they should be able to open the door for you. Hopefully, if both of them are negative. If not, call me, I’ll tell you where we hide the spare. Thank you, Anna.”

      “Of course.”

      As Y/N pulled up behind the SUV, a man and a woman in face guards and masks stepped out. She ended the call and stepped out as well, pulling on a cloth face mask, an envelope in their hands, which they handed to her.

      “Your flat’s on the third floor, 367. When you have the list of things you need, forward them to us, and we’ll gather your things.”

      Y/N nodded and gave them a tight smile. “Thank you. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

      With a sigh, she took her bag and entered the complex. As much as she’d only had a small cough in the morning and a sore throat, walking up those flights of stairs made her winded more than it usually would. Maybe it was the knowledge she had a sickness, or maybe it was stress about missing work and putting everyone on lockdown, or maybe it was the combination of it all with her falling out with Harry and Florence on top.

      She placed the key in the lock and twisted, revealing a studio type apartment, and it was so bare it made her heart clench. As much as she felt awkward being around Florence and Harry, their flat was a bit messy, had little pieces of clothing thrown around, giant knitted blankets on the sofas, a candle always lit whenever someone was home. Harry’s shoes were typically all over the place while Y/N’s make up was scattered around everywhere. Literally. Florence and Harry had gotten back early one morning from a night shoot and found her looking under the sofas for one of her lash glues as she started to get ready for the day. They’d made that flat their home for the time being. This… this was nothing like that.

      She threw the keys on the small kitchen counter and shrugged off her jacket. They was going to be a long two weeks. At best.

 ***

       Back at their place, Florence and Harry were pacing around, having heard the news that someone was positive, and everything had to shut down for the time being, yet Y/N was nowhere to be seen when a knock at the door disrupted them.

      Harry was there and flinging it open in a matter of a second, only to be stopped by Anna instead of Y/N.

      “Hey.” His brows furrowed as she and two people all wearing masks and gloves entered. “What’s going on? Is Y/N alright?”

      Anna sighed, nodding her head for the two strangers to go towards the woman’s room. “She was the one who tested positive for the virus. Gave me a list of the things she’d need while in quarantine. We’re here to pick ‘em up and get them to her.”

      “And she’s not doing that here?”

      “Per the safety instructions, she’s been placed in a separate flat in self-isolation.”

      “She could’ve done that here. We’d be fine with it,” Florence butted in, arms crossed over her chest. “We’re more than willing to take care of her. She’ll need someone to help her.”

      “You both tested negative.” One of the people piped up, carrying a box of books and yarn. “I’m sorry, but she’ll have to quarantine separately until she’s no longer infected. She’s under the supervision of doctors, and she knows if an emergency happens, they’ll be there in ten minutes tops. I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be.”

      Harry sighed, nodding as the people exited their place, but before Anna could leave, he took hold of her bicep. “Hey, can you please tell her to call me? I just wanna talk.”

      “I uh – ” Anna furrowed her brows, showing Harry that Y/N hadn’t said anything to her about the falling out they’d had. “I’ll uh, yeah. I’ll do that.”

      With that he was left to close the door and just wait for… anything.

 ***

       In the two hours Y/N had spent in the apartment, she already felt like going insane, having been left alone with her thoughts, so how she was going to do another two weeks after finally getting back into the rhythm of work was beyond her. She didn’t have any of her knitting supplies, didn’t have any of her books (yet), and most likely there was no reason to look at her script anymore, as she’d made up her mind about a lot of things. 

      There was a knock at the door, and Y/N instantly had a mask on her face and gloves on her hands. She peeped through the peephole and when she saw boxes lined in the hallway, three people in masks and faceguards at least six feet away, only then did she open the door and give them a wave.

      “Everything should be here, but if you need anything else just pop me a message.” Anna then pointed at a bag that sat atop everything. “There are the most important things, so you don’t have to rummage through everything and a pizza is on the way while I do some grocery shopping for you. And umm, there’s a paper you need to sing that you know you need to be in self-isolation and that you understand what happens if you’re not.”

      Y/N hoped all of them understood she was smiling underneath the mask, grateful for having them help her out like that. “Thank you. So much.”

      She rushed inside found a pen and signed it, moving between the boxes to place the papers on the stairs so that they could be safely retrieved. With that, the two assigned people left, leaving Anna to say goodbye.

      “Call me.” She pointed at Y/N. “No matter what, even if you just wanna talk for five seconds.”

      “Will do.” Y/N nodded and gave her a thumbs up. “If I could, I’d hug you.”

      Anna sighed, cocking her head. “Same. And umm, Harry told me to ask you to call him.”

      “Yeah, uh thank you.” She knew he probably wanted to talk, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise, but it still made her stumble on her words. “Take care, Anna.”

      “You too.”

***

       The next two days Y/N spent worrying as to how to present her decisions to the cast and crew. She felt worse with every hour, and with that had come her thought process, but as much as everyone was going to be impacted by what she was going to do, Olivia would be the one dealing with it most, so later that night she hopped on a Zoom call with her director.

      “Hey, girl.” Olivia gave her a warm smile, and Y/N almost melted. God, she loved that woman. She was like the older sister she never had. “How are you doing?”

      “I’m alright. Feelin’ kind of woozy from time to time, throat’s killing me, and I’m fairly certain I’m getting abs from how much I’m coughing.” That made both of them chuckle before Y/N bit her lip and ran a hand through her hair. “Look,” she sighed, looking at Olivia. “The reason I called you is that umm… well, I think it’d be a lot more cost-effective for you to re-cast me. We’ve barely shot one scene with me. I’ll be out of commission for two weeks, as a minimum. It could get worse. And I’m definitely not going to be back before I get two negative consecutive tests.”

      Olivia shook her head, running down her hands over her face and then through her hair. “Y/N, I really don’t want to do this. There’s a reason we cast you. You’re amazing, and yours and Harry’s chemistry is off the charts. We’re all quarantining for two weeks, and I’m sure you’ll be fine in no time, back on set and killing it like you always do.”

      “You don’t know that.”

      “Of course, I do! Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

      “All I’m saying it could take up to a month to get those two negative tests. By that point, you could’ve shot at least a fourth of my scenes. Olivia…” Y/N gave her a small, sad smile. “I know you know I’m right. I hate to pass on this, but I won’t hinder the production. If you want my input, I’ll help with the re-casting, if it takes the guilt away.”

      “I still feel like shit this is an option we even have to consider.”

      “’S not your fault. You didn’t get me sick. We should be happy it’s just me, not someone else or more than one person.”

            ***

      For two more days, it was radio silence from Y/N, and Harry and Florence were anxious messes. If they could distract themselves from the falling out while on set, then now, having to be cooped up inside the apartment with pretty much nothing to do, was so much worse, not to mention Y/N declined all of their calls and left their messages on read, leaving the only option for checking in either through Anna or what she decided to share on her social media, which wasn’t a lot. But the thing was, Harry knew his best bet was to call Y/N in the middle of the night. Disorientated and barely awake, she probably wouldn’t look at the caller ID once. And he was right.

      A bleary face appeared on his screen, eyes squinting as she tried to block out as much of the light as possible. “Hello?” Her voice was scratchy, and Harry’s heart clenched at just how much pain her throat must be in, let alone how she was feeling as a whole.

      “Hey, there, lovie.”

      It took her a second to comprehend the person who was speaking, and she’d be lying if she said hearing Harry’s voice didn’t bring her some sort of joy. “Hey, H. Are you alright? Why are you still up?”

      “I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about you.”

      Y/N hummed, rolling on her side, and immediately regretting it as the action elicited a coughing fit. “Yeah?” she asked hoarsely. “ ’Nd what about me?”

      ‘How shitty I feel about everything’, ‘I miss you’, ‘I’m so fucking terrified’, but instead he asked, “How are you doing?”

      “Alright,” Y/N croaked out before her body was racked with coughs once more. Harry’s own chest hurt just hearing them. “Fever’s finally down, so I’m getting some sort of sleep. Throat’s killing me though, and they’ve hooked me up to an IV. They’ll be coming in two hours or so to change the bag. How are you?” she asked quietly. “How’s Florence?”

      “She’s alright. Upset. Just like I am.”

      Y/N’s brows furrowed. “Why’re you upset?”

      “Are you kidding me? You’re sick, alone in quarantine and… and we can’t help you. I can’t help you.”

      A genuine chuckle escaped her. “Didn’t know you had a medical degree, Styles. Could be my personal nurse. Fetch me my water and shit.”

      “No, but at least I’d like to be there for you.”

      “Harry…” 

      “I like you,” he said after taking a deep breath, hoping that the break he’d heard in Y/N’s voice as she’d said his name wasn’t just because of the sickness, but because her heart thudded just as fast as his when he thought of them together, that her mind reeled with the possibilities of where their futures could take them and that whenever they touched, she could feel the electricity that ran through his fingertips, igniting his whole body. “That’s what Florence and I were whispering about all the time. Is that I’m madly crushing on you, and I couldn’t gather the courage to say it to you.”

      A strong coughing fit made her drop the phone on the bed and lean over, as she gasped for breath, and through it all, all Harry wanted was to be there. Fuck him possibly getting the virus, as long as he could make it easier for her in some way. 

      “ ’M sorry,” Y/N whispered, trying to keep her voice as low as possible as to not aggravate her throat. “Harry, I’m so sorry.”

      “Hey, there’s nothing to apologise. You’re sick, you can’t help –”

      “No,” she shook her head. “I’m sorry I assumed you and Florence were talking bad behind my back. I never should’ve done that. And this is not an excuse, I’m not trying to shift the blame from being in the wrong, but I like you too.” She gave him a shy grin that he thought was as bright as the sun. “I really like you too, Harry. I think that’s why it hurt so much to hear you two whispering ‘bout something. And thinking it was about me, and it was something bad, hurt even more, ‘cause I really connected with Flo, and I kinda, well I kind of fell for you. Hard.”

      “You did?” His tone was like he didn’t believe what his ears were hearing.

      “Yeah. A lot actually… I – I really like you, Harry.”

      He couldn’t explain how his heart expanded in his chest while simultaneously was being crushed by his inability to help, by the distance between them, while the hope that glimmered in his eyes at Y/N’s words made her heart break as much as his was, when he asked, “So you won’t resign?”

“Harry,” Y/N made her voice as tough as it could sound with her condition. “I told them to re-cast me not because of you. I’ve been on enough sets and worked with enough pricks, and still gotten the job done. Genuinely, this is not because of you or Florence. I just – I just don’t want to hold up production. You’ll all be out in what – twelve days or something? I’ll be here for at least twice that, if everything goes the way it’s going right now.”

      “I don’t want anyone else to play Larie. You are my Larie,” he muttered, which made Y/N smile, but in a true Y/N fashion she just wanted to make others feel better. 

      “You do know Jack murders Larie in the middle of the night.”

      Harry’s mouth opened like a fishes’ while Y/N’s mouth pulled up in a grin. “That’s – that’s not what I mean, and you know it!”

      Both of them were laughing now, all tension having evaporated. 

      “I know.” She bit on her lower lip. “But um… we’ve gotta be practical. I sent Olivia my resignation letter already, and she signed.”

      She saw Harry sigh and throw back his head at her words. 

      “ ’M sorry, Haz. I didn’t want to but –”

      “I know.” His smile was gentle, understanding. “You always put everyone before yourself. God, this just sucks major ass.”

      “Trust me,” Y/N started before being interrupted by another major coughing fit. “I –,” she took in a breath. “I know.”

      Her heart cracked seeing Harry’s face and his green eyes, the eyes she’d gotten lost in more times than she’d ever admitted being lined by tears. “I wish I could help you.”

      “But you are. Just by – by talking to me, by keeping my mind off things. You’re helping me more than you’ll ever know.”

      “When you get out, I’m taking you on a date.”

      Y/N couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on her face. For the first time in a while, she felt good, despite being sick. “Is that a threat, Styles?”

      “It’s a fucking promise.”

      That night she fell asleep listening to Harry talking, seeing as it became harder and harder for her to do so, so he just took over, telling her stories that lulled her to dreamland where he was there, and she could touch him. 

      The following days she also had calls with Florence and the rest of her cast to explain the situation, but she wasn’t doing much talking anymore, and one night they’d even seen her almost throw up from coughing so much, which broke everyone’s hearts. They were lucky the only Covid case before Y/N had been a light one, so witnessing just how brutal it could be, made everyone appreciate what they had, but at the same time, feel as helpless as ever.

      A week and a half in, that was when shit really hit the fan. Despite her feeling shitty the previous days, now Y/N woke up from the feeling as if she was drowning. She’d fallen asleep while talking with Harry on FaceTime, his features illuminated on her phone. At first, she thought it was just her dream still lingering and causing that effect, but when after a minute or so her lungs still remained on fire, she knew she had to dial the doctors.

      In five minutes’ time, an ambulance was at her door, and it was a miracle she’d been able to get out of bed to open it because the second she did, her whole body pretty much collapsed into the arms of one of the nurses. 

*** 

      “Come on,” Harry muttered into the phone, pulling on a pair of trousers as quickly as possible and a knitted sweater he took from the floor as he immediately tried to redial her, having heard the call drop. “Come on! Pick up, Y/N!” Her voicemail answered instead.

      “Damn it!”

      It took Harry seven minutes with the way he was driving to get to her assigned isolation place, only to be greeted by red and blue flashing lights, an ambulance right in front of the entrance, and it took Harry five seconds to feel his heart drop as a team of three doctors wheeled out a gurney on which lay Y/N, face covered in a mask, an IV stuck inside her arm while a huge plastic cover domed over her body.

      Without even thinking about himself or his safety, Harry jumped out of his car, rushing towards the ambulance.

      “Sir.” One of the doctors extended a palm towards him, keeping him back as Harry tried to get towards the inside of the car. “Sir, you can’t be here.”

      “Is that Y/N?” Harry felt like he was spinning out of control, and his mind was dizzy from not being able to take in a proper breath. “Is – is that Y/N?” 

      “Are you family?”

      “I –,” Harry so desperately wanted to say yes, to say he was her boyfriend at least, but he couldn’t lie. “No, I’m just her collegue – friend! I’m her friend. Is she alright?”

      “Okay, well is there anyone we can contact from her family?”

      Harry nodded, knowing that her mum and dad were on her emergency contact lists. “But her family is out of the country, and they won’t be able to fly out with all the restrictions in place.”

      “Alright.” The doctor sighed before looking back inside the car. In a way, Harry was happy he couldn’t see Y/N because he was sure if he did, he’d completely break down and crumble to the ground. “We’ll contact her parents, but if you could leave us your number as an emergency contact on place that’d be a lot of help.”

      “Okay, uh…” Harry took in a deep breath, held it for five seconds and then let it out before reciting the number he used while in the USA and his permanent UK number as well, so he could be reachable anywhere and at any point in day or night, no matter the time. 

      “Well keep you up to date.”

      And with that, the ambulance doors shut, and they rushed away, the vailing of sirens echoing in the dark night, leaving Harry with a hand in his hair, tears streaming down his cheeks and without a clue as to what to do.

***

      In the end, Harry had gone back to his car and cried for what felt like ages, but instead, it was just twenty minutes. He pulled himself together but was still shaking as he made his way back to the flat where Florence basically ripped open the door. Seeing his face told her everything she needed to know.

      “She’ll be alright,” the woman muttered as she soothed Harry by rubbing a palm up and down his back, letting him hide his face in her shoulder. “It’s Y/N. She’d pull through an atomic bomb.”

      They spent the rest of the night and the following day on the couch, glued to Harry’s phone waiting for any sort of updates. From time to time a text message came from the hospital letting them know what procedures were being done on Y/N, that her parents have been informed, and if necessary, they’d allowed Harry to be the main contact person because of his proximity to their daughter.

      Three days later and the quarantine for the rest of the cast and crew ended, yet when they returned to the set, everyone was in low spirits. Especially, Harry – he was miserable. Every moment spent not reciting lines or acting was occupied with the thoughts of Y/N, how she was doing, was she improving, was she still breathing, how he wanted to just ditch everything and run to her, to help in whatever way he could.

      “This sucks,” Florence grumbled, arms crossed over her chest as they took a break while re-setting already in for the fifth day of filming, eight since Y/N’d been in the hospital. “Can’t believe they won’t allow a phone in with her.”

      “It’s the same policy for everyone, but trust me,” Harry sighed and looked up at the bright blue sunny sky above. “The number of times I got out of my bed in the middle of the night and had the car keys in hand is ridiculous. And the number of times I’ve thought about breaking into that hospital is even more concerning.”     

      Florence let out a small chuckle and nudged his shoulder. “I’d cover for you if you did. As long as she doesn’t have to be there alone.” She hung her head, blond strands falling down to curtain her face. “Can’t imagine how scared she must be.”

      Harry just sighed. There really wasn’t anything he could say. 

      Something vibrated in his pocket, but he no longer furrowed his brows when unknown numbers called, knowing it was from the hospital. It was nerve-wracking though to pick up the call each time because he had to mentally prepare himself for the possibility of bad news, even though he always hoped for good ones. 

      “Yes, hi. Hello. I – oh,” he put a hand over his mouth and sagged down onto a chair. “Oh, thank god, thank you, doctor. Yeah. Yes, I’ll let her know, and someone will be there to open the flat. Thank you again. For everything.”

      He took away the phone from his ear and stared at the ground for a minute before leaping up and hugging Florence, laughter escaping his mouth.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, it’s the opposite. Y/N’s out of the hospital.”

      “Oh thank god!” Her hands flew to hug him back.

      “She’ll have to stay in self-isolation until the two negative tests and will be monitored by the doctors, but she’s out.”

        Immediately he was dialling her, and Harry had never been as happy for the invention of a video call, because when he saw Y/N’s face light up the screen, as tired as she looked, it was the most beautiful sight that graced his eyes.

      “Hey, lovie.” His voice was soft and low as if anything louder would worsen her state.

      Her ‘hey’ was barely audible, but he heard it, and it made the weight of a boulder drop off his shoulders.

      “I’m so – I mean we all are so happy you’re back home.”

      Y/N smiled, shaking her head. “I’m happy too,” she whispered. “I missed you. Missed everyone, but most of all I missed you.”

      Harry was happy they were separated by a screen because if she was anywhere in a five-mile radius, he was sure she would be able to hear his heart beat out of his ribcage at her words. “How are you feeling?”

      “ ‘M alright,” Y/N tried to let him know. “Very tired.”

      “Then get back to sleep, lovie.”

      Y/N shook her head. “Wanna talk to you.”

      “I’ll keep talking,” Harry promised. “Like we did before, okay.”

      “Okay…”

      And so, he did. He kept talking as Y/N listened, and he watched as her eyes slowly closed before she drifted off to sleep. Even though Harry had to go back to filming, he didn’t dare end the call. He’d never end the call. 

***

      It took a month and a half for Y/N to get those two consecutive negative tests, to feel somewhat human again and when she did, she probably garnered at least seven speeding tickets with how fast she was driving down to the set.

      It was the most inconspicuous outfit she could scramble together, consisting of a hoodie and baseball cap, as she watched Harry as Jack lean down to peck the actress’s lips, then step into the vintage car and rev out in the driveway, while a dishevelled Florence started the scene from the side, eyes racking over Jack’s first wife, who was dressed the exact same way, hair styled like hers and even nails painted the same, her character putting all the puzzle pieces together. 

      “And cut!” Olivia yelled across the lot, nudging Y/N’s side and giving her a smirk. “He’s gonna freak. You’re all he’s been talking about on set. We almost had to put a ban on you as a topic,” she muttered that part so only the woman could hear while telling everyone to re-set, so they could do the scene from another angle, but not before asking the three actors to come and look at the monitors so they could understand how to move in order to keep the continuity.

      Y/N moved to the side, ducking her head down as Harry, Florence and Mandy, the actress that took over her role, all leaned closer to watch the monitors. Y/N had to bite on her lip to keep the grin away, as all of them analysed their movements and the scene, nodding along to what Olivia was saying.

      “Y/L/N, what do you think?” Olivia asked, grinning. 

      Y/N stepped forward a bit, seeing all of their shocked faces through her peripheral, as she pointed to the screen, lifting her head so that everyone could see her face fully. “I think it’s great, you might want to step to the side a bit more, Harry, when –” but she was unable to finish the sentence as he swooped her in his arms, lifting her basically off the ground, and burying his face in her neck.

      “Watch the hair! Daniele will have a fit if you ruin her masterpiece!” Y/N laughed, holding one of her hands on the base of his neck, the other tightly wrapped around his shoulders, but he just shook his head, and she could feel tears splash her skin.

      “Fuck the hair!” He let out a small chuckle, and she could hear the lump in his throat. “I’ve missed you so much. I was so scared.”

      “Same,” Y/N whispered. “Missed you like crazy. And your stupid, unfunny dad jokes.”

      “ ‘M hilarious, lovie, what are you talking about?”

      He finally set her down but didn’t let go of her waist, and she smiled cupping his cheeks. “A true comedian, that’s what you are.”

      “I know. Why’dya think I got that SNL slot?”

      But his eyes, as he gazed into hers once more glassed over.

      “Hey,” Y/N cooed wiping away the tears running down his cheeks. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, cause then I’ll cry, and we’re both gonna be crying messes, and then these guys will have to deal with that.”

      Harry sighed, leaning into her touch. “Happy tears, lovie. All happy tears.”

      The two looked at one another as if there was no one else in the universe. And for the two of them, there really wasn’t. Neither had to say what was on their minds, they already knew.

      His face was inching closer to Y/N’s, and heart started to beat erratically, not that Harry minded, as his palm rested in the middle of her back. In fact, his own heart mimicked the rhythm, but it stuttered when someone behind him cleared their throat and interrupted their moment.

      Y/N hid her face in Harry’s chest as he sighed at Olivia’s raised eyebrow. 

      “You’ll be able to smooch as much as you want, but we need him in hair and make-up.”

      “Oli-“

      “Now,” she let out a small laugh. “Before Daniele removes my head from my shoulders.”

      “Go,” Y/N patted his side. “I’ll still be here.”

      “Is that a threat?”

      She grinned up at him. “A fucking promise.”

      Harry dashed away like lightning, hoping that the quicker he was done, the sooner he could have Y/N back in his arms even if it was for a second, but her attention was taken by a woman with long blond curls, a flowing green slip on her figure; her steps unsure as was the wave she gave her, but Y/N’s heart melted at the sight of her.

      “Hey, Flo,” she whispered and brought the girl in a bone-crushing hug, holding onto her, trying to convey how much she regretted her words and actions, especially because they were unwarranted.

      “I’m so sorry,” Y/N said, and she nodded.

      “Me too.”

      Y/N shook her head. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

      “And I should’ve made sure Harry pulled his head out of his ass.”

      That made both of them laugh, and it was nice to do it not only without having to cough up her insides, but to do it with someone she’d connected with and had become great friends with.

      “He did that. I just hope if he wants to make another move, it won’t take me dying to push him to.”

      Florence pointed at her, a serious look on her face. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands if he does.”

      A small noise of someone clearing their throat from behind Y/N took both of their attentions for them to go onto the actress who’d been cast as her replacement, the woman coming forward and extending her hand for a handshake with a nervous smile. “Hi. I’m Mandy.”

      “ ‘S very nice to meet you.” Y/N tried to give off as open and accepting of a vibe as much as possible, because she genuinely wanted Mandy to feel respected and that she wasn’t a threat. “Before you think anything if you’re worried about me taking the role, don’t. It’s all yours, so don’t worry about that. I just stopped by ‘cause I hadn’t seen anyone in almost two months. Never thought I’d say this, but fuck did I missed people.”

      Mandy shook her head, her smile a lot lighter and brighter now. “I – uh thank you for that actually. I’m a huge fan of yours, and well, can only try and live up to what you would’ve portrayed.”

      “Well, I’m sure you’ll absolutely kill it, and I can’t wait for the movie.”

      It was great to see Mandy’s shoulders drop in relief. “Would it be too much if I asked for advice on the role?”

      “No,” Y/N laughed. “But I would say that you should make this role your own. It is yours. You are Larie now. And Harry’s Jack. Make it yours.”

      As she said that, she turned to watch Harry who was practically bouncing on his feet, green eyes flitting back to where she was standing, and when their gazes met, neither could help the smiles blooming on their faces.

       “You know he messed up a scene once and said your name?”    

      Y/N’s brows furrowed as she looked over at Mandy. “What do you mean ‘said my name’?”

      “It was a kissing scene. The wedding bit, actually. As Jack and Larie recited their vows, and he leans down to kiss her, he was supposed to say, ‘I’ll love you Larie, until the very end’. He said your name instead.”

      That hit Y/N more than a semi-truck wheeling a ton of bricks would. Yes, she knew Harry liked her, and he knew she liked him, but love was a big word, and for him to admit that, whether it was a flub or not, was even bigger.

      Harry was a private person. While he openly talked about what he felt, he guarded heart at the same time, much like Y/N did. But she had to wait until Olivia yelled cut for the day, and had to watch him make a mad dash for hair and make-up before running to the dressing trailer as he didn’t want to miss out on a second he could spend with her. Even as they walked up to their shared flat and he opened the door, his fingers stayed intertwined with hers.

      “How does it feel to be back?”

      “Kinda shitty, honestly,” Y/N laughed throwing the keys to the table and shrugging out of the jacket and taking off the cap, Harry immediately helping her and putting it on one of the racks. “I’ll have to move out, now that I’m not part of the movie.”

      “Why? ‘S not like the production is paying our rent, we’re doing it out of our own pocket.”

      “Yes, but now that I don’t have a job, I kinda need to look for one.”

      “And what says that you can’t live here while you do that?”

      “I –,” Y/N’s brows furrowed. “I mean nothing, really… I just… kinda thought because I’m not part of the movie anymore it’d be safer if I found my own place. But um… I think I have something else I’d like to talk about. Mandy,” Y/N dragged out her name a bit, a sly smirk appearing on her face, “told me you had a flub on set.”

      Harry’s heart was pounding underneath her palm where she’d grabbed onto the lapels of his dress shirt, so he couldn’t run away. 

“I’ve uh,” he let out a nervous laugh. “I’ve had a couple of flubs on set. Who hasn’t?”

      “I don’t doubt that. But she said you misspoke a name.”

      She made him look into her eyes and wouldn’t dare let their gaze break. “You said my name during the wedding scene. You said Y/N. Not Larie.”

      Harry looked like a cross between a deer in headlights and a fish out of the water, eyes wide with his mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out, which made Y/N worry a bit.

      She placed a palm against his cheek. “Harry? You alright?”

      “I – I meant it.” He let out a deep sigh and leaned down to press his forehead to hers. “And when I thought back on it, I don’t remember seeing her face or Larie’s face. It was yours. And the lips I was kissing belonged to you too. I was holding your hand, and you were holding mine. And I know it’s way too quick, for a wedding -”

      “Unless you threaten me with it –”

      “I –,” Harry stuttered before laughing, all tension evaporating from his body. “No, that I don’t want to be a threat. That will be a question asked with love and hopefully an answer given to it the same way.”

      Y/N nudged his nose with hers. “Well, we’ll see. I mean if you don’t kiss me what makes you th–,” 

      But she didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence before his lips were on hers, pressing with such gentleness, it made her weak at the knees, and she would’ve crumbled if Harry’s arms handn’t woven around her middle, fingers pressing into the sides, the pressure increasing with each second their mouths were connected. 

      Harry’s hand drifted up Y/N’s back and settled on her neck as if he could pull her any closer, her own palms slipping over his stomach, pecks and grabbing onto his jaw, fingers lightly scratching at the stubble that’d grown throughout the day. He had to shave every morning for the role of Jack, but each evening she’d see a small, darkened shadow across his skin, and Y/N would be lying that when she’d realised her attraction to him, she hadn’t thought about how delicious it would feel to have it leave small burn marks on the inside of her thighs. 

      Unconsciously, she clenched her thighs, trying to create some sort of friction which became more and more unbearable as she felt Harry moan into her mouth, tongue sweeping against her lower lip, asking for permission without words, which Y/N granted without a second to spare. 

      It was heavenly to have him so close to her. She did wonder if the sensation was intensified by the fact, she hadn’t been able to touch anyone properly for almost two months, but that thought vanished when his fingers skimmed underneath her hoodie, brushing against her heated skin. No. It was because it was Harry.

       “I –,” he was breathless as he pulled away, but Y/N didn’t let him get too far, her lips attaching themselves to his neck, making him groan in pleasure. “I don’t want to push this too far.”

      Her brows scrunched up, as she took a look at him. “What do you mean? If you think I don’t want this, then let me be perfectly clear – I do. A lot.”

      Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m so fucking glad you do, but… Y/N you just got out of the hospital, where you were on a ventilator. I don’t want to make anything worse.”

      “Not your choice to make.” A devious smile appeared on her face, as she stepped a few feet away and lifted her hoodie over her head, making Harry inhale sharply. “So here are your two options.” Her hands went behind her back, unclasping her bra and letting it slowly drop to the floor, the green eyes that hadn’t left her now wide as saucers. “Number one.” She toed off her boots and popped open the button of her jeans. “We can stop this, obviously, just say the word, and I get to my room, start packing and looking for a new place. We can have some dinner and just chill. Or number two.” Y/N hooked her jeans behind her thumbs and slowly dragged them down her legs, revealing more and more of herself to Harry. “We can go inside your room and make up for the lost time. In every position imaginable, for as long as you want. But.” Y/N’s eyes glimmered with mischief as she made her way to Harry’s room. “I don’t think you wanna take the first option.”

      Harry ran a hand through his hair, turning it from the meticulously gelled hairstyle into a mop of messy strands. “You know you’re making it really hard for me to be a gentleman.”

      Y/N swayed her hips a bit more as she took another step closer to his room, the door meeting her back, and one of her hands went to the doorknob, pressing down on it. “Well, a gentleman doesn’t kiss before the first date, and definitely not like that.”

      He stood there, hands on his hips, eyes not leaving her body, as she cocked her head. “So, what’s it gonna be?”

      They were ten torturous seconds for both, hearts beating out of their chests, but it only took three steps for Harry to cross the hallway, his hand sneaking behind Y/N’s back and pressing down on the doorknob as well, revealing the inside of his room. It was messy, much like her own, but it wouldn’t take too much to rip all off the tossed around bedding leaving a whole bed to themselves. 

      “You. Are. The. Devil.”

      Her smile was nothing short of wicked. “I mean you can listen to the angel on your shoulder.”

      “I’d rather listen to you.”

      Together they stepped inside, and Y/N nodded. “Making good choices already.”

      “Can’t get on your bad side, can I now?”

      “I mean you can.” Her legs hit the back of his bed and she fell down on it, Harry leaning over, resting his elbows next to her head. “But bad boys get punished.”

      His nose skimmed over hers. Now he was the one smiling like a devil. “I’ll hold you to your word. For future reference, that is.”

      That kiss was nothing like their first. This was messy, and passionate, all tongue and teeth, hands grabbing everywhere possible to get the other unclothed. Or at least that’s what Y/N was trying to do, seeing as she was pretty much naked already, and Harry was the one still wearing too much.

      Her hands pretty much ripped open the shirt. It one of his expensive Gucci ones, she was quite certain of it, but it didn’t seem like he cared, as he shrugged it off, throwing it to land somewhere on the floor.

      Y/N sighed into his mouth as her hands were now freely allowed to run over his chest, over the ink embedded into his skin, over taut muscles that relaxed under her touch, and dig into his sides in an attempt to leave her own marks on him, much like he was going to do to her. 

      “Think you can take your pants off? It’s only fair.” Y/N muttered into his mouth and his own travelled down to her cheek, then neck and to her chest.

      “You mean my trousers?”

      Her lips quirked up and she shrugged her shoulders. “No, in this case, I meant pants the British way.”

      “And if I’m going commando?”

      Y/N pressed her hand against his chest and pushed him away from her. “You had nothing underneath all day on set?”

      “No! I wouldn’t subject the dressing department to that. But underneath this.” He looked down at his jeans and smiled at her. “I do have nothing.”

      “Well then? Get on with it!”

      Both of them were giggling, as Y/N tried to unbuckle Harry’s belt, his own fingers mixing with hers as he went for the zipper and the button. He nudged his head towards her. “Your socks and pants come off as well. Or we’ll be unevenly matched.”

      Y/N lifted her eyebrow, as she went for her own remaining pieces of clothing. “No socks during sex?”

      “No, what kind of a weirdo do you think I am?”

      “And if my feet get cold?” She threw them away somewhere.

      “We have a blanket.”

      As Harry removed his jeans and his own socks, Y/N slipped off the dampened piece of clothing that’d been on her, now both of them completely naked. 

      “Alright.” He leaned over her again, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling them chest to chest. “Happy now?”

      Y/N deeply kissed him. “Very. But I think we can make each other even happier.”

      “Agreed,” Harry hummed. “Wanna get a taste first.” He attached his lips to her collarbones sucking a bruise there. “Can I?”

      She groaned at the feeling, knowing there be a pleasant ache that accompanied mark. “You can. Don’t have to, if you don’t want. No need to do this for me.”

      “And if it’s for me?” Harry was moving lower and lower with each word, wet tongue flicking against a perked bud, and making Y/N gasp. “What if I wanna feel you cum on my tongue, and what if I wanna do something I’ve dreamed about for months now?”

      His hands were kneading her breasts, mouth having left a trail of kisses down the middle of her stomach as it was moving towards where an ache that’d been left untreated made itself more and more prominent. 

“Then please, please, please do something, Harry.”

      “With pleasure.”

      Luckily for Y/N, she didn’t have to beg any more, as his mouth attached itself to where she wanted him most, tongue sweeping past her lower lips and licking up a broad, steady stripe.

      One of her hands went to fist into her hair and the other into Harry’s. “Shit,” she moaned. “Fuck, that feels good.”

      “Guide me.” He licked a circle around her clit. “Tell me how you like it.”

      “Mhgm, fuck, okay,” Y/N breathed out. “I – I mean you’re doing great on your own.” Her chest was heaving as if she was running a marathon, and Harry shifted her legs so that they lay over his shoulders. “But umm, like if you lick around my clit, but like really press down li – oh, fuuuuck, just like that.”

      The coil in her stomach tightened with each pass he did, just like Y/N had instructed, small tight circles just how she did with her fingers, only what took her sometimes half an hour, Harry managed to do in less than ten minutes, to have her toes curling and hands grasping anywhere they could find purchase to just keep onto something real.

      The vibrations from Harry humming sent shivers straight to her core. “What else, lovie? What else, do you like?”

      “If – if –,” Y/N panted, “if you suck on it, but like – fuck – shit! If you kinda keep a seal around my clit, that fuck! Yes!”

      The way Harry was eating her out was almost sensational, but what made it even better wasn’t that he just decided to do something and assumed, she’d like it, he asked, he wanted to learn and discover what made her tick and turn, or in this case – cum. 

      “Harry, ‘m close,” Y/N warned him, feeling the warmth slowly start to spread all throughout her body. 

      “I’ll get you there.”

      He let his lips go for a moment before slipping two of his fingers so that they pinched her clit and moved them slowly but tightly up and down it, while his tongue went to slip inside her hole, and that did it for her.

      With a gasp of air, Y/N’s eyes rolled to be back of her head, hips lifting up as euphoria exploded through her veins. Her mind went completely dizzy, and she was quite sure some drool also dribbled down the side of her mouth because she’d lost all ability to function.

      “ -o me, love,” Y/N heard as if through a fog, and then felt two soothing palms running up and down her legs. “Come back, love. There you go.”

      A drunken smile bloomed on her face, and she ran a hand down it, the same hand that’d grabbed Harry’s hair like a vice. “Fuck. You’re good, you know what you’re doing.”

      “Well, I’m certainly glad you enjoyed yourself because I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

      She watched as he straightened out to sit on his knees, her legs still over his shoulders, cock slapping against his stomach, and when she looked down there was a wet patch on his side of the sheets, a sly grin morphing on her face. “You liked eating me out so much you came yourself?”

      “What can I say – bringing pleasure, gives me pleasure. And your cunt’s probably the sweetest I’ve ever eaten. But… do you think you’re ready for me?” Harry asked, kissing the inside of Y/N’s thighs and watching as she vigorously nodded her head, but he just smirked. “I think I need to test it out. Just to make sure.”

       “Harry,” Y/N whined as she felt his fingers skim the apex of her thighs, teasing her. 

      “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

      With that, he used one of his hands to open up her lips, his thumb pressing down on her already sensitive clit, eliciting a gasp before he allowed two fingers to skim her entrance and then slipped in.

      “Still so tight,” he said, watching as Y/N sighed and her mouth fell open, his fingers curling in a come-hither motion. “Told you needed to check if you were ready. What kind of a gentleman would I be now, if I didn’t make sure you could take it?”

      Y/N gritted her teeth. “I can take you.”

      “Don’t doubt it.” Harry left kisses along her leg, as he continued on with his movements, noting how her hips slowly started to grind down on his palm, so he pushed his fingers in deeper so that the heel of his hand could rest against her clit, making the pleasure intensify. “But I’d never forgive myself if I hurt you when all I wanna do is give you pleasure. And you weren’t stretched out enough. Not yet at least.”

      “Oh, god, Harry,” Y/N groaned, one arm thrown over her eyes as his fingers hit just the right spot.

      “That’s it? Right there?”

      “Yes, right there,” she moaned. “Just. Fuck! Just don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

      “Gonna cum again?”

      “Yes, just – just curl your fingers and twist them a bit more.”

      And much like the first time, a couple more times was all it took. Her orgasm was even more powerful than the previous and fully knocked her breath out of her lungs. Her legs fell open around his shoulders, stomach and chest spasming from the intensity. 

      Gentle fingers skimmed up and down Y/N’s arms and featherlight kisses fluttered over her breasts, then chest, neck and finally were peppered across her cheeks.

      “Kinda spaced out on me there. You alright? Not too much?”

      “ ’M – I’m good. But I’m pretty sure you’ve killed me.”

      Harry chuckled, and Y/N leaned her head to the side so she could press a kiss against the closest of the swallow tattoos. “Hopefully not. I still wanna take you out on that date.”

      Her eyes landed on Harry’s left hand’s ring finger, where a golden band still laid. 

      “Oh, yeah.” He lifted the digits, still covered in her cum before pushing them past his lips and licking them clean. “Forgot to remove it. Hope the prop guys don’t kill me.”

      She hated how his eyes sparkled, absolutely knowing what that sight did to her, how it made her stomach flutter and heart thunder against her ribs. Y/N was sure with the force it was pounding, they’d crack. 

      “Well, if they don’t, I will.” She pulled him down, nails raking on his skin, dragging to rest on his ass as they bit into it. “Now get inside me.”

      “Condom.”

      “No, ‘m on the pill.”

      “I’m clean, I swear, but it’s still not a hundred per cent safe.”

      Y/N shook her head. “I’ll buy the morning-after pill. Just need you inside.”

      “You sure?” Harry placed a strand of hair behind her ear. 

      “Yeah. I mean I’m clean, and uh… I just wanna feel you.”

      He’d cum once already, and Harry would be dammed if he did it again before having the chance to know how heaven feels like. As gently as possible, he took himself, giving a few strokes before nudging the tip against Y/N’s clit, her sharp inhale stalling him until she nodded. 

      Her nails dug into his biceps, as he finally slipped inside her, making both of them moan at the feeling. Even with all of the stretching out he’d done with his fingers, and the two orgasms he’d drawn from her, the slickness helping everything to be easy and smooth, Y/N still felt a little sting.

      Harry’s head dropped to Y/N’s shoulders and even from under him, she could feel his thighs and stomach shaking, as he tried to hold his composure and give her a little bit of time to adjust.

      A couple of deep breaths later, she tapped his ribs. “You can move now.”

      “ ‘ya sure?”

      “Mhm,” Y/N nodded her head and pecked his lips reassuringly. “Please.”

      His dishevelled and sweaty hair shook as he nodded and slowly drew back his hips so that just the tip of his cock remained in her before gliding back inside. The sight alone was more than enough to make both of them explode, but they wanted to last longer than thirty seconds, especially for their first time together. There’d be quickies for later, now they wanted to have a proper shag.

      Bit by bit, Harry’s pace quickened, pearls of sweat gliding down his skin and dampening the sheets below them, much like it was with Y/N. Her leg slid up to rest around his hips, giving him a better angle and more leverage for him to strike the right spot, as he pushed her knee to rest against her chest, Y/N’s head falling back to the pillow.

      Her insides were shaking from the pleasure, and it was like an invisible force was pushing down on her chest, as she struggled for a proper breath. “Harry,” she dragged out his name, the word turning into a high-pitched whine.

      “I know,” he responded in the same breathless voice. He could feel her tighten around him and wasn’t sure just how much longer he’d be able to keep up the pace. “Touch yourself ‘f me, lovie. C’mon, use those fingers.”

      Y/N did as she was told. It didn’t give her that butterfly feeling like it’d happened when they’d been Harry’s, but it did make her cum faster, and the sensation of her gushing around his cock made him lose all self-control and he spilled inside.

      It wasn’t enough for Y/N, but she guessed she needed to settle for it. She knew that nothing really ever touched in the universe, that the closest atoms ever come to touching one another is when their wave packets overlap, much like she and Harry were now overlapping, his body lying on top of hers, skin sweaty and frame trembling as he came down from his own high.

      “I uh,” Y/N cleared her throat, finger tracing the outline of one of the butterfly in the middle of Harry’s chest. “When the people came to get my stuff, I umm, asked them to take your rainbow cardigan. Wanted something that smelled like you, so I didn’t feel so alone. Was the first thing I put on when I got out of my hospital gown.”

      She felt his body rumble with laughter and a kiss being pressed to her forehead. “I know. Saw Anna stash it inside the suitcase. I uh, I was the one who also put in one of my sweaters. Know how cold you always get.”

      She hid her smile against his collarbones. “Thank you. For thinking of me.”

      “ 'M always thinking of you… Will you knit me one though?”

      Y/N raised her eyebrow. “Knit you one?”

      “Yes. I know you knit –“

      “Everyone knits nowadays.”

      Harry drew himself back a bit, and she pushed away the matted down strands from his forehead, wiping away the sweat from underneath his green eyes as well. “Yes, but the point is – there’ll be a million other Gucci shirts and sweaters and cardigans. But I’d like to have one-of-a-kind made by you. So, I have something to sleep next to when you’re not next to me.”

      Y/N ran a finger along his jawline, biting away her grin. “It’ll probably have mistakes. I’m not that good at it. ‘M not a professional.”

      “Exactly.” Harry tilted her head up with a finger and their eyes met. “Which is why it’ll be perfect.”

      “The arms will most likely be different lengths in the end.”

      “Don’t worry, darling.” He pecked her lips before hugging her and not letting go. “It’s flawless for me.”

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take):

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A/N: My tags are always open :)

P.S. please don’t repost my work without specific written permission onto other platforms :)

[charincharge]

Cruel Summer, Part 21

cruel summer masterlist

AN: Welp. We finally got to the scene that inspired this fic. Vaguely NSFW and uhh... yeah. Okay, love you all. 

Rowan feels nauseous, and it’s not just because of the vibrations of the coach bus they’ve chartered to take them deep into the Seaghorn mountains for the weekend. Or the swaying of the tall vehicle as it makes its way through the small winding roads as they climb into higher altitudes. No. There’s a general anxiety, a real nervousness that’s settled over him in the last week. Each day that ticks down renders him more stressed. The summer is almost at an end.

This weekend marks the beginning of the final week of summer – of his job at Playland and Aelin’s summer vacation – and he still hasn’t thought about what happens next yet. He’s not ready.

Luckily, the crowds at Playland have only become worse with each passing day, so he’s barely had time to think about it. But now, with a four-hour bus ride, climbing up into the mountains, he has no more excuses. He needs to think about what he’s going to say to her. He can’t let her go back to Adarlan without saying anything. He just can’t. And if her behavior has been any indication, he’s hoping his thoughts are going to be well-received.

He looks over at the girl sitting across the aisle from him. Aelin’s golden hair falls over her shoulder, blocking her face from him, as she whispers things into Elide’s ear that color her pale cheeks pink. Rowan can only imagine what’s being said between them.

On Rowan’s other side, a different blonde head rests on his shoulder. Fenrys’s eyes closed about five minutes into their journey, and he hasn’t stirred since. Rowan hasn’t had the heart to move him; it’s been a long week, and it’s going to be a long weekend.

The excited chatter on the bus is enough to inform Rowan of how much this weekend is anticipated by the staff. He’s unsurprised to learn the overnight is less of a camp out and more a mountain resort vacation. The Ashryvers spare no expense when it comes to thanking their employees – treating them to a bonding weekend in a luxury lodge with a lakefront view. He’s heard about the upscale catered meals, the extravagant views, the midnight bonfire, all followed by a day hiking to the peak of Mount Terrasen, and going through a team building ropes course to make their way back down.

Rowan is ecstatic; he’s going to be with Aelin for forty-eight uninterrupted hours, and he doesn’t plan on wasting a single second.

He reaches across the aisle and runs his finger up Aelin’s arm. She turns to him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wild.

“You didn’t hear that, did you?” she breathes heavily, and Rowan stares past her at a flustered Elide.

“…no…”  he answers. “Should I be concerned?”

Aelin smirks. “Absolutely.” Rowan furrows his brow in silent question. “I was just… giving Elide some last-minute tips.” She bites her lip. “About some new things. I learned I enjoyed. Physically. This summer.”

Rowan’s ears burn as he thinks about what Aelin could have possibly said, and he feels the need to apologize to the tiny brunette. “Aelin…” His voice is a low whisper.

Elide fans herself and laughs. “Please, it’s all old news. Remember I saw the hand-shaped bruises on your hips?” she asks Aelin, and Rowan’s eyes practically bug out of his head.

“Can’t you two talk about anything else?” he practically begs. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy that Aelin is clearly pleased by the things they do together in bed. He loves nothing more than bringing her to that precipice over and over again, honestly. But… he’s stressed enough as it is. He doesn’t need Elide talking about his sexual prowess on top of everything else.

Aelin pats his arm and smiles. “Sure. Like what?”

“Like, what happens at Playland today?” Rowan finally asks, curious as to how the place is able to shut down for a full weekend.

“Oh. They rent it out for weddings.”  Aelin explains that the overnight was actually born out of guilt for shutting down the park the last weekend of summer, and not wanting to deprive their staff of any pay.

Elide then waxes poetic about her favorite parts of the overnight. She gives a wistful sigh as she remembers the summer they all went skinny dipping in the middle of the night.

“That was the first time she ever saw Lorcan’s butt,” Aelin says, her eyes crinkling with her wide smile, and Rowan brings his hand to his face to cover his pained smile.

“I don’t need to hear about Lorcan’s butt.”

“Why not, Whitethorn?” Lorcan quips as he walks down the aisle between their seats. “It’s a good butt.” He winks at Elide, who leans over Aelin to watch his backside as he saunters to the front of the bus.

Rowan looks out the window as he barks out a loud laugh, spotting the sign that tells him they’ve arrived at the resort. His stomach grumbles, right on cue. It’s been a long day of sitting, and he’s ready to enjoy the catered meal he’s been promised. Unfortunately, fate has other plans.

Instead of the bus continuing up the narrow driveway, it pauses at the entrance, idling.

Rowan tries to move to get a better look, and a loud snore escapes Fenrys’s mouth, startling him awake.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, groggy. Rowan is about to tell him he missed the entire ride when Lorcan whistles to get everyone’s attention.

“Listen up!” Lorcan shouts, and the bus quiets down appropriately. “I’ve just been informed that we aren’t going to be able to make it up to the lodge.”

Upset murmurs start to rise in pitch as Lorcan explains that they experienced heavy rainfall this morning, and that the driveway has been completely blocked by a mudslide. Rocks, felled trees and an electric line need to be cleared before the bus can safely make it to its destination.

“How long’s that going to take?” Gavriel calls from the back of the bus.

Lorcan tugs at his ponytail and sighs. “We’re going to need to come back tomorrow.”

A chorus of angered “No!” and “What?!” and “Why???” can be heard throughout the bus, and Rowan’s stomach sinks. He can’t believe they drove four hours, just to drive four hours back to Terrasen. What a nightmare.

“We’re not going to drive all the way back home, are we?” Connall asks, voicing Rowan’s internal conflict.  Lorcan holds up a finger, asking everyone to wait as he listens to someone on the other end of a call.

Lorcan hangs up finally and pulls at his hair nervously. He sighs, clearly upset with the situation himself, but he’s trying to keep it together for everyone else. Rowan doesn’t envy his position.

“There’s a motel about forty-five minutes back down the mountain, and a local diner we can have dinner at.” The chorus of grumbles rises again, and Lorcan silences them with a loud whistle. “I know it’s not what you all imagined for this weekend, but it’s better than nothing, right? And the path should be cleared by morning, so tomorrow will be just as good as you remembered.”

Everyone nods sadly, and Lorcan begins to read room assignments as the bus makes a large turn and heads back down, away from the luxury vacation of their dreams as the sun begins to set.

The bus groans as it comes to a stop in front of the faded sign of the motel. This place has definitely seen better days. In fact, Rowan thinks it looks like the scene of several thousand gruesome crimes. He’d imagined making love to Aelin in a plush bed with down comforters or in a brightly lit tiled shower with marble counters and a jacuzzi tub, not… this.

He pushes the door open to room number 17 and feels his chest tighten uncomfortably. His appetite disappears as he takes in the queen-sized bed, which sits at the center of the room, covered in a maroon floral comforter, contrasting with the dark teak walls. A sad brown lamp sits on a rickety nightstand, and as Rowan takes his first step across the threshold, the dark green carpet crunches beneath his shoe. It makes him cringe.

He drops his bag down on the bed and immediately closes the thick curtains. He ignores a spotty dark stain on the hem, and sighs deeply. The musty smell of decaying wood and old cigarette smoke invades his senses, giving him an immediate headache.

Aelin drops her bag behind him and kisses his shoulder. “I’m so glad neither of us have a black light with us,” she says with a laugh.

“This is so not funny,” Rowan whines, but he’s momentarily appeased when Aelin wraps her arms around his stomach and tugs him closer, spinning him in her arms, so he’s looking down into her amused blue-gold eyes.

“It’s kind of funny,” she says with a small smile, and he can’t resist leaning down and kissing her curled lips. He intends for the kiss to be soft and sweet, but Aelin deepens the kiss immediately, knotting her hands in his hair and twining her tongue with his. She pulls away, panting, and smiles again as she pats his chest lightly. “Now, let’s go get food. I’m starving.”

“Me too,” he groans, meaning something incredibly different. How she’s able to get him so worked up over one little kiss, he’ll never ever know. But he wants to strip her down and be inside her immediately.

Aelin understands and gives him a saucy wink, tossing a “Later” over her shoulder as she makes her way out of the room. She opens the door and stumbles into someone.

Fenrys gapes as Rowan appears behind Aelin, his steadying hand placed on her lower back. Fenrys begins apologizing profusely, but then snaps his mouth shut.  

“Oh!” he exclaims, his dark eyes flicking between Aelin and Rowan at a rapid-fire pace. “You… Uh… Cool…”

Aelin holds up her index finger to her lips and whispers a long conspiratorial, “Shhh.”

Fenrys nods, his flicking eyes never stopping moving between the pair, and zips his lips with his own finger.

Aelin links her arm with Fenrys’s and walks to the front of the hotel where the large group is heading over to the diner down the street. Rowan enjoys watching her in front of him. Her hips swaying with the promise of “later.”

The diner is something out of Twin Peaks, with lacquered vinyl booths and waitresses in dark green uniforms and delicious smelling pie and burnt coffee.

Rowan slides in, and Fenrys makes room for Aelin to squeeze between them. Elide and Lorcan sit across from them, and Rowan notices how deflated they look. He knows for sure this is not what they envisioned for their own weekend, and he feels oddly comforted that he’s not alone in his disappointment.

Aelin orders coffee and a large stack of pancakes with extra crispy bacon, and Rowan shakes his head as she digs into her plate.

“How do you look like you and eat like that,” he asks as he shoves part of his veggie omelet into his mouth.

“I find creative ways to burn off the calories,” Aelin quips, turning both Rowan and Fenrys’s faces a dark shade of red. Aelin delights in their discomfort, her innuendo becoming progressively more blatant with each bite of her food, until Gavriel stops by their table to ask if they want any alcohol.

He spotted a nearby gas station, and is going to create his own party – shitty circumstances be damned. They might not have their fancy catered dinner or midnight bonfire, but the motel has a pool and a hot tub, and they have all night to celebrate. Fenrys jumps at the occasion to party and begins rounding people up.

“Should we join the pool party?” Rowan asks as they begin their walk back to the motel, but Aelin shakes her head.

“We don’t have to interact with anyone else for ten whole hours,” she says, leaning into his side. “And I want to make the most of it.” Her eyes twinkle with devious promises, and Rowan increases his pace, anxious to get her alone as quickly as possible.

Aelin heads to the bed as soon as they’re behind closed doors. She strips the dirty comforter off the bed and tosses it into the corner of the room. She examines the thin pink blanket below it and pulls it off as well, throwing it on top of the comforter, leaving just the starched white sheets on the thin mattress.

“Better,” she states. And as if to mock them, loud cheering comes from the pool, voices of their friends sporadically piping up to yell obscenities as they crash through the water.

“Music?” Rowan suggests, and Aelin nods. Rowan scrolls through his phone, pulling up a playlist he’s covertly named – AA.  All songs that remind him of Aelin Ashryver. All sappy love songs that he needed to put in one pathetic place. The music quickly drowns out the outdoor noise, leaving them in a magical world, just the two of them.

Aelin tosses him a shy smile as Leon Bridge’s “Coming Home” starts playing. She walks to Rowan slowly, and the look in her eyes renders him speechless. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he grins as she begins swaying her hips back and forth, dancing to the slow beat of the song.

Baby baby baby. I’m coming home to your tender sweet loving.

You’re my one and only woman.

The world leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, girl.

You’re the only one that I want.

His arms reach around her waist, pulling her close against him, and he sighs. She leans her head against his chest, and he’s sure she can hear the heavy beat of his heart pounding at her proximity. He loves how perfectly she fits against him. Always.

They stand there, swaying, dancing, pressed against one another until the song shifts. The music courses through Rowan as he leans down and tilts Aelin’s chin up to meet his lips. She never stops swaying as they kiss. The sultry rhythm pulls at them both, their tongues sliding against each other lazily and softly until their bodies start to warm.

Aelin’s hands tug at the collar of Rowan’s t-shirt, and they struggle to remove it together without separating their mouths until the very last second possible and reuniting immediately. Her hands skim his naked chest, and he groans into her mouth.  

He doesn’t know if the party is still raging outside, he can’t hear it; he’s completely immersed in Aelin. Drowning in her.

Delicate fingers unbutton his shorts, palming him through his boxer briefs. And Rowan pulls her closer, his own hands skimming under the hem of her short dress. They both step out of the remainder of their clothes, and a soft laugh escapes Aelin’s lips as she falls backwards onto the   bed, making them both bounce. It creaks loudly, but Rowan ignores it, letting his mouth explore every inch of her exposed skin.

Her laughter disappears quickly, much to Rowan’s delight. She whimpers softly as his tongue and teeth and lips trail down her stomach, coming to rest between her thighs. Rowan moans against her, his tongue lapping and sucking and worshipping at the altar of her hips. Her fingers play with his hair, tugging him closer and scratching at his scalp. He barely has time to insert his fingers into her before she’s clenching and shaking around him. It seems like he wasn’t the only one incredibly wound up.

She breathes his name between gasps as he guides her through her orgasm. As her legs fall open, Rowan kisses back up her body, and she’s already waiting with a condom in her hand. He lets his nose skim against her neck as she rolls it on, moving against her gentle touch.

Rowan’s entire body feels on fire as he enters her. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him further inside her. As far as he can possibly go. He’s never been closer to her. Ever. He cradles her head in his hands, leaning down to brush his lips against hers with every deep thrust of his hips. He pulls back and stares at her. Her turquoise eyes are trained on his, staring into his deeply as the chords of some song from his playlist swirl around them.

It’s never been like this before. He sees his feelings returned so clearly in her gaze, and as he moves inside her again, he can’t stop himself.

“I love you,” he moans and moves again. His eyes unwittingly close, so relieved to finally have said the words, to have released them into the world, that he almost doesn’t hear Aelin’s soft reply.

“What?” she pants, and Rowan flexes his hips, feeling on top of the world as he repeats himself.

“I l—”

Aelin’s hands press against his shoulders as she releases her legs. He can feel her pulse quicken below him. “No, I heard you… I just…”

Rowan finally opens his eyes as he thrusts again, and he feels Aelin push against his chest again as her eyes widen in panic. “Rowan, get off me.”

Now it’s Rowan’s turn to ask, “What?”

“Get off of me. Please.” Her voice raises in pitch, breaking at her final word, sounding nearly hysterical, and Rowan immediately rolls off of her.

She’s breathing hard as she sits up and covers herself with the sparse sheet from the bed. Rowan stares at her heaving back and his stomach twists. He reaches out to touch her shoulder, and she jumps, startled. She springs off the bed and reaches for her dress, pulling it on quickly.

Rowan sits on the bed, stunned, in silence. He wants to ask her if she’s okay, but it’s so clear that she’s not. And he’s finding it hard to say anything with his heart shattering into a million pieces.

“Why would you say that?” she asks, pained.

“Because I do?” he whispers into his hands. This wasn’t what he wanted to happen. Not at all. He didn’t think this through, but it’s too late now. Rowan deflates as she starts pacing around the room, like a caged animal.

“You’re not supposed to say that,” Aelin whispers back, horrified, and Rowan swallows the pain in his chest as he stands and faces her.

“Why are you looking at me like this is the worst thing I’ve ever said to you?”

“Because it is!” she shouts, and Rowan is shocked when he sees the beginnings of tears start to trickle down her cheeks. “Just take it back,” she pleads, and Rowan staggers backward with the force of her plea. “We only have one week left. Rowan, this has been the best summer, but it’s almost over. There’s no future for us. Love just doesn’t make sense. Let’s just pretend you didn’t say it and go back to normal.”

“No.” Rowan’s heart breaks as he continues, knowing he’s ruined everything, but he reached his capacity for pretending. He doesn’t want to do it anymore. More than that, he can’t do it anymore.

“Everything about this—” he motions between them “—has been on your terms. The secrecy, the sneaking around, when we meet, where we meet. Who is allowed to know, who we’re allowed to spend time with… I haven’t even been allowed to take you on a date. And I’ve gone along with all of it. Because I respected your feelings.”  He takes a deep breath. “But you can’t control how I feel. I fucking love you, Aelin.”

Aelin cries in earnest now. “Don’t,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

The words are a knife to Rowan’s chest, but he takes comfort in the fact that he knows they’re completely false. But it doesn’t matter. Aelin has made up her mind. He put himself out there, and she rejected him. She doesn’t want him around past this summer, that much is clear. A temporary distraction is all he’ll ever be to her. He feels like he can’t breathe, the room suddenly much too small for the both of them. He needs to get out of there immediately. He can’t face her pity eyes.

He finally pulls on his clothes and heads to the door. When his hand wraps around the doorknob, he hears Aelin’s panicked voice speak up again.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Why does it matter to you?” he asks, chuckling humorlessly. He slams the door behind him, leaving her behind.

Rowan walks down the dark street, his heart pounding and anger coursing through him. His skin prickles with it. He didn’t think she’d really deny her feelings like this. He refuses to accept her words at face value. He’s seen her lie to herself and to everyone around her all summer, and he knows now he’s just another person she’s passing falsities to. That doesn’t make it hurt less, though. He feels as if he’s just ripped a limb off, and he’s slowly bleeding out.

His feet take him deeper into town and Rowan finds himself back at the diner with a cup of burning coffee in front of him. Head in his hands, he slumps over the table and feels the dejection take over. He’s disappointed. No, he’s more than that – he’s defeated. He’s been deemed nothing more than a plaything for a girl he gave his entire heart to. He doesn’t think he’s ever done that before.

He sits in the diner until his coffee turns cold and finally makes his way back to the motel. The party still rages by the pool, and Rowan finds a seat to watch his coworkers knock back bottle after bottle of booze. He cracks open his own beer and joins in the fun. He doesn’t bother plastering a smile on his face. He scowls as he drinks, realizing he made zero friends this summer. He was too involved in whatever was going on with Aelin. A wasted summer, he thinks to himself, as he sees the groups of friends splashing and laughing in the chlorinated water.

Rowan waits until most of the party has cleared out to head back to his room. He’s hoping to avoid talking to Aelin, hoping she’s asleep. But as he walks up the stairs, he spots her in front of the motel vending machine. Her face glows eerily in the fluorescent light of the machine, making her eyes look sunken in and sallow. He can see tear tracks on her cheeks and wants nothing more than to comfort her, but he knows he can’t. Not anymore.

Instead, he walks past her and heads into their room alone. He gets under the sheets, which still smell like the remnants of their sex, and closes his eyes, needing this day to end. He doesn’t know how long he waits with his eyes closed for her to return to the room, but he knows it’s late. The bed dips and creaks as she gets in with him. She smells like peanut butter and chocolate, her comfort foods.

She perches herself on the far edge of the bed, as far away from him as possible, and Rowan’s body vibrates with the sensation of her being so near and not touching her.

Tension radiates between them as their harsh breaths fill the small room. Rowan is still so wired, he’s still up when the sun starts peeking through their curtains, unable to shake the pained expression of her rejection from his mind. He feels like an idiot. So wrappe up in his own hurt, he doesn’t even notice that Aelin is still awake, too, her breath strained and tears pooling beneath her cheek.

~*~*~*~

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[kisutothestars]

Day 3: Scale

this time i actually used the word itself in the fic.

(slight f au ra WoL x Aymeric)

She hopped out of bed extra early. So early, in fact, that the sun had not yet peeked out over the horizon. There was much to do today but that had very little to do with why she was awake.

The early morning for her meant that there wasn't really anything urgent to be done, not until her comrades rose out of bed. And so after brushing her teeth she downed a cold (too cold) glass of water, and sat down at her desk, turning on the small lamp sitting on its surface.

The newest addition to her desk was a round aquarium, the glass supported by a lacquered frame. The interior was decorated with pink sand, scattered pebbles, and a handful of aquatic plants of various types. She also placed a miniature of a house with a mossy roof, something that reminded her of the flower topped houses of Gridania.

Most important was the small fish that now resided in the aquarium. Its scales were a shimmering blue, a different shade depending on where the light was hitting it. Its slender flattened body reminded people all across the First of a pendant, like one attached to a necklace, or an ear clasp, perhaps.

Not paying her any mind, the fish drifted between the swaying fronds near the bottom of the tank. When it reached the end of the patch of vegetation it simply turned itself around and drifted back the way it came. All the while the glints of brilliant blue would flash between the dark green.

She could sit here and watch the fish swim around for hours, but as pleasing as it was, it made her miss a certain someone. The glittering blue much like the blade of his sword as he swung it forward with conviction, the graceful ripple of its dorsal fin like the wind against his coat. She giggled to herself, wondering what he might say if he knew he was being likened to a fish.

The link pearl tossed haphazardly on her nightstand began to beep, no doubt one of the Scions ready to brief her on today's activities. And so her alone time came to an end, a sigh escaping her lips as she pushed back her chair to fetch the damned thing.

[theshopislocal]

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter five

Baby rumbles against Dean’s back, purring as she idles at the roadside.

He’s been sat here, hands on the wheel in a stiff 10 and 2, languishing in indecision for a good while now. Though the windows are down and the visor out, he’s still sweating a wet spot onto the back of his henley, hair damp at the base of his skull.

He glances at the passenger seat, empty but for his phone lying face down.

The phone was something of a turn up. It had appeared at his bedside sometime during his first night in Heaven. He’d awoken to the sound of it buzzing against the tabletop, a message from Sam - You good? - flashing on the screen. He’d picked it up and fiddled with it, running his fingers over the burnished metal and smooth glass. If he’d never seen any of the crazy shit Charlie’d cobbled together, he would’ve said the thing looked Space Age - all sleek lines and sharp angles, no buttons to speak of.

As it stood, he’d shrugged and tapped on the message from Sam. He’d typed out a brief response - Peachy - and chucked it back onto the nightstand, pulling the covers over his head. He’d slept until the sun went down.

Dean winces as a bead of sweat drips into his eye and cranes his neck to wipe his face on his shoulder. He looks back at the phone and rolls his eyes.

It’s in his hand a moment later, his thumb hovering over the screen. There are no icons, no home screen, just a blank black surface. Like most things in Heaven, it seems to just... operate as expected - to do whatever it is he wants it to.

Trouble is, Dean doesn’t know what he’s expecting. And he certainly doesn’t know what he wants.

He peers through the windshield, eyes squinting against the light, and observes the sparse spring clouds drifting over the pass. If he looks hard enough, he can probably find Sam and Eileen’s place - a little white dot on the mountainside. Instead, his eyes cut to the lowest point between the peaks, though he can see neither hide nor hair of what lies beyond.

His thumb brushes against the phone’s screen, and he glances down when it illuminates.

On first glance, it looks no different from any other satellite map - a blinking blue dot with his name hovering over it, little broccoli trees and crosshatch roads. But as he looks closer, he sees movement: the trees seem to sway, the shadows shift, and there’s a dancing white speck where a bird flies figure eights.

On a whim, Dean double taps his location, zooming in tight. He sticks his other hand out the window, waving skyward. On the screen, he sees himself, flailing his arm like an idiot, crystal clear and moving precisely in time.

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he snorts. “We have the technology,” he mutters, pinching the screen to zoom out again. “We can make it better, stronger—”

He stops short at the sight of another little dot, this one in a soft, glowing white. It’s across the bridge on the other side of the forest, in what looks like a sprawling botanical garden.

The Library, reads the text.

Dean frowns and lowers the phone, staring blankly at the steering wheel. He’s got that feeling again, like he’s a damn open book - though he’s not sure why anyone would bother to read.

He shakes his head and huffs a dry laugh, chucking the phone onto the dash. He flicks on the radio, Zeppelin IV blaring from the speakers, and throws Baby into gear.

“Over the river and through the woods,” he murmurs, and he pulls onto the road in a cloud of gravel dust.

~*~

Though stately and finely architectured with pillars and white stone, the building that houses the Library is surprisingly small.

He’s driven past it a few times, but never gotten too close; there’s something mildly forbidding in the way it juts out of the earth, its stamped concrete walkways a jarring foil to the surrounding flora. From his perch on the front steps, it looks like any other city library - modern and well-maintained, if a bit oddly placed.

Dean presses his phone closer to his ear, eyes fixed on the tall, imposing doors at the top landing. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Charlie’s voice comes through, clear and a little echoey. “Well, it was your idea, so… No, not at all.”

Dean’s eyes roll skyward at her chipper tone, and he fiddles with the odd little trinket in his other hand. “I mean, is it gonna work,” he grunts out.

Charlie makes an offended noise, and there’s a low thud that sounds like a book snapping shut. “Of course it’s gonna work,” she says, tone sharp with a nerdy bluster that has Dean cracking a smile. “I poured my flesh and blood and a tiny bit of weapons grade plutonium into that amulet.”

Dean feels his smile slip, and he peers down at the little talisman. It’s a rusted iron triquetra with shining gemstones inlaid, the whole thing no bigger than his palm.

He’d called Charlie just as he pulled up to the garden. After a brief back-and-forth, she’d given a disgruntled “you owe me one,” and - through some sort of Heaven-magic that he doubts anyone besides Charlie could pull off - the amulet had appeared in his glovebox.

She definitely hadn’t mentioned any fucking plutonium. “Did you say—”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Winchester.”

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and briefly presses the back of his hand into his eye socket. He nods to no one in particular, pulling his lips through his teeth. Sure, plutonium. Why not.

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “Yeah, okay.” He holds up the amulet, extending his arm as far from his body as possible; he’s pretty sure nothing can kill him now, but he’s not particularly interested in testing the theory. “So how do I use this thing?”

Charlie clears her throat. “Push on the gems - red first, blue last. Plop it on the door, and it’ll automagically—” Dean frowns, automagically? “—open. Badabing...”

“Badaboom, right.” Dean nods around a grimace and casts his eyes about the courtyard. It’s quiet and empty, the last rays of the evening sun glinting on the white stepping stones. “And if someone from the Arch sees me?”

“Well,” she begins, lofty and facetious. Dean gives a preemptive sigh. “They can’t kill you, can they. They’re angels, not juggalos with rusty barn nails.”

Forty years. He’s been dead forty years, and he still hasn’t lived down the juggalo thing. “Alright, first off,” he says, gesturing wildly with the nuclear weapon in his hand, “it was rebar. Not a nail. Rebar. And second,” he ticks two fingers up, “they were vampires,” he complains. “Big, scary vampires.”

Charlie snorts indelicately. “Yeah, well, I got gutted in a motel bathtub by a frickin’ Frankenstein. So, I win.”

“You—” Dean pauses for a moment to consider his argument. But toeing up against Charlie is a bit of a nonstarter, and, well... Frankenstein is pretty badass.

He sighs, resigned, and gives a shrugging nod. “Yeah.”

There’s a crack and hiss in the background - a beer can opening, Dean thinks - and he can hear the snarky smile in Charlie’s voice. “Tell Kevin I say hi.”

Dean blanches. “I—”

“Toodles!” Charlie says, and the line clicks dead.

Dean pulls the phone from his ear, glaring at the black screen. “Toodles,” he sneers, and slips it into his back pocket.

Dean peers around the plaza again, though there’s not a soul (he snorts) in sight. He squares his shoulders and straightens his spine, giving himself a little shake.

The steps are short and shallow; he takes them two at a time until he comes to the landing. Up close, the building looks bigger, the door a huge, imperial thing towering several feet over his head. It’s a smooth, dark wood, its wide panels inlaid.

Dean grasps at the amulet, sucking in a deep breath. “Here goes,” he murmurs.

He ghosts his fingertips over the gemstones. Red first, blue last. He pushes his forefinger against the red stone, face screwing up in a wince. It depresses and clicks into place.

After a tense moment, during which his entire body clenches like a vise, he opens his eyes. He peers down at himself, patting a hand around his chest. He’s still— well, not alive, per se, but at least he’s not a smear on the stone floor. He breathes out a relieved sigh and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

He runs his tongue over his chapped lips and clicks in the green stone, then the blue one.

For a moment, nothing happens. He frowns down at the amulet, turning it between his hands. Then there’s a soft pop and a little sizzle, and the metal begins to glow, warming against his palm.

“Uh...” His eyes go wide as it glows brighter, nearly scalding him now. “Shit, shit—” He approaches the door in two long strides and smacks the amulet against the lacquered wood.

He draws back his hand, blowing out another sigh when the damned thing stays put. It’s glowing almost painfully bright now, the light leaving red spots on his retina. He peers around the landing, wondering belatedly if he should take cover.

There’s a soft click and a groaning creak. Dean turns toward the sound just as the amulet winks out and falls, clinking as it lands. He stoops down to pick it up; it’s cool to the touch now, and Dean shakes his head. As he slides it into his pocket, a musty draft hits his face - the scent of old paper and tanned leather tickling his nose.

The door is open.

~*~

Dean gets the sense, as he steps over the threshold, that he’s walking through several doors - all of which, he presumes, are marked ‘staff only’. Confirmation comes when he steps fully into the room - not a foyer or a lobby, but a sprawling study, densely packed with overstuffed bookshelves.

He turns around to shut the door - quite a different door than the one he opened, knotty pine and regular sized. Dean feels the weight of the amulet in his pocket and gives an involuntary shiver; this magic shit always gives him the willies.

He steps further into the study proper. There are two rows of bookshelves to his left, one directly before him, and several more a little ways down on his right. The books are all bound the same, in a deep beige leather with some sort of gold insignia etched into the spines. He doesn’t recognize the symbols, or any of the books themselves. He doubts any of them are Vonnegut.

He peeks around the nearest shelf and finds a central area with several long oak tables. He glances left, then right, then down at his feet.

It occurs to him, of a sudden, that he’s got no damn idea what he’s doing here.

“You’re late.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and whirls around, hands going for the gun he no longer carries.

The door he came through is gone, and the wall along with it. Instead, there’s a raised platform with short stone steps before it, and what appears to be an exact replica of the Resolute desk at center stage.

Seated behind it, slightly frazzle-haired and scribbling away, is Kevin Tran.

Dean feels his jaw go slack, and his eyes get a little misty. Kevin is in Heaven, and he’s sitting at a giant desk with a frickin’ eagle carved on the front, and he’s running what Dean imagines is the celestial Library of Congress, and Kevin is finally - finally - in Heaven.

Dean gets a sudden, painful urge to hug the kid. He takes a faltering step forward to do just that, and the amulet jostles in his pocket.

Oh, right. This is a B&E.

Dean’s arms flop down to his sides, and he feels his face warm.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and tries for nonchalant. “Heeey, Kevin,” he says, wincing at the slight crack in his voice. “How ya doin’, bud?”

Kevin glances at the little clock on the desk, then turns back to the tome he’s scribbling in. “Your appointment was ten minutes ago.”

Dean frowns and takes a cautious step forward. “I... didn’t make an appointment.”

“I made it for you,” Kevin sniffs. He turns a page, unperturbed.

Dean frowns harder. “How’d you know I was—” He bites down on his tongue, swallowing down the stupid question with a snap of his fingers. “Right,” he nods. “Prophet.”

Kevin gives a hum of confirmation and continues his writing. Dean clenches his jaw against the sudden awkwardness; he feels out of place (which he is, it’s a frickin’ library), like an interloper (which he also is, in an almost too literal sense). He sucks his teeth and saunters over to one of the long tables, running his fingers over the polished surface.

He glances up at Kevin, still scrawling away. He looks different than Dean remembers - broader in the shoulder, stronger around the jaw. There’s a dusting of stubble across his chin and a line etched into his forehead. He’s gone a little grey at the temples.

Dean squints, perplexed. While he himself looks almost exactly as he did when he bit the bullet, nearly everyone else in Heaven looks younger than he remembers them; Charlie looks about the same as when he first met her, and his mom looks almost as she did in his childhood memories. Kevin, on the other hand, looks quite a bit older. Certainly older than he was when—

...when he died.

Dean curls his fingers into a fist, pressing his knuckles into the table until zinging pain shoots up his arm. Dean’s not a complete idiot; he gets Heaven’s schtick. It gives people what they want - what they couldn’t have during their lives. Charlie wanted a 64K TV. Mary wanted a house with a white picket fence. Apparently everybody wanted endless spring days.

And Kevin wanted to grow old.

Dean swallows dryly, and his teeth grind together.

“So,” Kevin says, setting his pen down finally. “You’re here.” He looks up at Dean, and his eyes are dark, lined with crow’s feet. “Did you...” He pauses for a moment, head tilted in mild expectation, “...need something?”

Dean stares for a second, jaw working soundlessly. Then he bites down on the inside of his cheek, giving Kevin a tight, crooked smile. “Oh, just,” he gives a twitchy shrug. “Thought I’d stop by.”

Kevin watches him for a short, taut moment, eyes flicking across Dean’s face. Dean swallows again, shoulders coming up.

Finally, Kevin gives a solemn nod and picks up his pen. He turns back to his notebook and jots something down. Dean thinks he sees a tiny smile around his mouth.

Kevin turns another page. “If you’re looking for Lady Death in Lingerie, it’s been checked out.”

Dean frowns for half a second, then his chin drops to his chest. Right. Cartoon porn.

Dean nods his head, pursing his lips. “Funny,” he murmurs, and Kevin’s eyes flick to his for an instant, squinted and wry.

Kevin goes back to his scribbling, and Dean inches closer, curious, but a low harrumph from Kevin has him taking a step back.

He sits down on the end of the nearest table, twiddling his thumbs. From this distance, he can barely hear the pen scratching over the paper, and the interminable silence grows oppressive.

Dean clears his throat. “So,” he says, and waves a hand in a broad gesture. “What, uh. What all you got in this place?”

Kevin turns another page and doesn’t look up. “Everything ever written, said, or done by everyone in the universe.”

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and his head tips in a bemused nod. “Oh, is that all.”

Kevin sniffs. “And the Ark of the Covenant.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, brow furrowing. “Wh-. Seriously?”

Kevin gives him a flat, baleful look that clarifies precisely zero, then turns back to his giant book.

Dean nods at nothing in particular and chews his lip. “How do you keep it all organized?”

A muscle in Kevin’s jaw twitches. “Automagically.”

Dean blows out a sigh, making a note in his head to inform Charlie that he’ll be cheesing Scorpion for the rest of eternity, thanks. Presuming Kevin doesn’t send him off to Heaven jail.

Dean winces. “So you heard all that, did ya.”

Kevin hums, scribbling away.

Lost for words, Dean casts his eyes about the study. Now that the door through which he entered is gone, there don’t seem to be any doors at all. He sighs and peers around at the walls; maybe there’s a window he can throw himself out of.

His eyes catch on something high up on the far wall - not a window, but a block of text in a language Dean doesn’t recognize. It looks to be handwritten in some sort of deep gold paint. It glows faintly against the eggshell wall.

Once he sees that first scribble, he begins to notice several others. There’s one nearly at the ceiling kitty-corner to Kevin’s desk that looks like it might be in Japanese. Another on the wall opposite him that’s comprised of funny little hieroglyphs in a spiral pattern that he thinks might be Linear A.

Dean points a finger toward the script and glances at Kevin. “These wards?”

Kevin looks up briefly, eyes flicking to the symbols on the wall. He shakes his head, going back to his notebook. “Inspirational quotes.”

Dean gives a rumbling snort of laughter, and Kevin peers up at him, one eyebrow arched. He gestures with his pen towards the far corner of the room. Dean frowns and looks over.

Smooshed up against one wall is a rudimentary drawing of what looks like a fluffy kitten clinging to a tree branch. Underneath, scrawled in plain English: Hang in there!

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he nearly laughs before wrestling his face into a bland smile. “Oh,” he says, glancing back at Kevin. “Uh. Cool.”

Kevin huffs a dry laugh and leans back in his seat. “It’s not really,” he says, and points a finger toward another quote Dean hadn’t noticed. “That one’s a proto-Germanic joke about a walrus. And that one—” he points towards the circular one done in hieroglyphics, “—is in a pre-Sumerian language. No one has any idea what it says.”

Dean’s lips turn down, and he nods. “Huh.” He cuts his eyes sidelong to Kevin. “Who wrote them?”

Kevin shrugs and hunches forward, eyes settling again on his book. “Senior members of the Arch. Angels mostly.” He breathes out a little sound that might be a laugh. “Pretty sure a couple of them are just graffiti.”

Dean nods and stands up. He spins in a slow circle, looking for any that he’d missed, and finds one directly to his right. It’s one of the only ones written at eye level, but its lettering - Latin, Dean notes - is pale, almost translucent. As he stares at it, it appears to grow darker, bolder against the wall.

Si ego loqui, it reads, lingua angeli, autem ego sine amare, ego modo sum turpi strepitu.

Dean’s face scrunches up in a frown. He wouldn’t have called himself fluent in Latin, even on a good day, but now that he hasn’t read any in forty odd years, he can barely suss out any meaning at all. Lingua angeli, he thinks. Angelic mouth? He smirks a little bit. Kinky.

He stares at it for another few moments. It’s eerily familiar, though he can’t place why. There’s something manifest, nearly recognizable about the handwriting.

“I’ve read this one before,” he surmises, nodding towards the text.

Kevin glances up, following Dean’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says, matter of fact. “Most people have. First Corinthians thirteen.”

Dean frowns for a moment. Corinthians. Corinthians. Corinth—

“The Bible?” he says, incredulous.

Kevin gives him a bland, slit-eyed look. “This is Heaven, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw snaps shut, lips pursing, and... yeah, that tracks. “Right,” Dean murmurs, tipping his head back in a nod.

Kevin’s eyes roll, softened by the tiny smile around his mouth, and he goes back to his writing.

Dismissed, Dean turns back to the latin inscription. He wracks his brain for Corinthians, but comes up empty; generally, everything he remembers from the Bible is out of Revelations, since he’d essentially lived his entire life in a state of on-again-off-again apocalypse.

He eyes the script, following its neat, angled lines. He recognizes a few of the words - ego, loqui - but can’t quite attach them to their meanings. He squints his eyes tight, as if by looking hard enough he might divine a translation.

There’s a deep sigh from behind him, and he turns to see Kevin, weary-eyed and grumpy, peering past him to the inscription.

Kevin taps his pen against his open book. “If I speak,” he recites, “in the tongue of angels, but have not love...” he squints his eyes in a frown, “...I am only a vile noise.”

Dean stares blankly at him for a moment, then turns back to the wall. He remembers the verse now, and the bit that follows: love is patient, love is kind. He recalls seeing it printed on greeting cards, boxes of chocolate, Valentine’s bouquets - the sort of shit normal people busied themselves with.

That first bit, though. If I speak in the tongue of—

Dean sniffs and hunches his shoulders against the swelling pressure in his chest. Kevin said these were written by Arch members - angels. He clenches his jaw, grunting, “Funny sort of thing for an angel to say.”

Kevin hums. “It’s also mistranslated.”

Dean frowns and cranes his neck to glance at Kevin. “Oh?”

Kevin peers up at the verse again. “Amare should be caritate.”

“Caritate,” Dean intones. He rolls the word around in his mouth, and it’s coming back to him now. “Charity?” he guesses.

Kevin tips his head side to side with a little shrug. “Literally, yes. But it’s usually used to connote a—” he frowns, chewing his lip, “—a general kind of love. Caritate would mean love for all humankind.” He tips his head toward the inscription. “Amare is love for one person.”

Kevin holds Dean’s gaze for a split second, face inscrutable, before hunkering back down over his work.

Dean’s face goes hot then cold - the thing growing in his chest reaching some sort of critical mass - and the words resound in his head:

Love for one person.

Love for one person.

Love for—

Dean sucks in a breath like he’s breaking the surface.

Because you cared, I cared.

His hands clench up tight, fingernails digging into his palms. The whispering voice speaks full volume now, coming from somewhere near his heart, echoing through the hollows inside.

I cared about you.

No. Shut up. Just—

I cared about the whole world because of y—

Dean’s fist comes down on the table - harder than he’d intended - with a dull thud and a sharp, throbbing pain.

He looks over at Kevin scribbling away, oblivious. Dean calls his name, but it comes out in a cracked, stammering whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. “Kevin.”

Kevin’s head tilts, but he doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

Dean licks his lips, dry tongue sticking to the skin. “Who wrote this,” he whispers.

It’s a stupid question. He already knows the answer - knew the second he saw the sharp, looping script. The instant he read the word amare.

It’s almost funny, really. Turns out living in the Happiest Place Not on Earth hasn’t changed Dean much; he still divides his time evenly between knowing he’s wrong and hoping he’s wrong.

Trouble is, with the thrum of a headache pulsing at his temples and the ache in his eyes from the overbright sun, he’s not sure he’s even got it in him to hope.

“Couldn’t say,” Kevin says, voice cutting through Dean’s wayward thoughts. “It was there before I got here.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and he nods to himself. Kevin scribbles on for another few seconds, then stops and glances up, face bemused. “Kinda weird though,” he says, squinting, “the mistranslation.” He shrugs mildly and turns back to his book. “Guess even angels make mistakes.”

Dean frowns and curls forward, chin dropping to his chest. The whisper in his head makes a short utterance, and Dean sees himself, greyscale in his memory. Face blank in the aftermath, bones numb from the onslaught, and all he can think, can feel, can say is—

Why does this sound like a goodbye?

“Yeah,” Dean says, and his voice is gruff and too loud. He thinks one of his fingernails might have pierced the skin of his palm. “Yeah, they do.”

Kevin looks up at him - face blank, eyes opaque. He stares at Dean for a long moment, and whatever he sees on Dean’s face has his eyebrows rising.

Dean holds his gaze for barely a second, then looks down at his feet. His boots are scuffed, layered in fine dust. He glances at the floor - pristine white marble shot through with gold rivulets - and wonders if he’s tracked dirt onto it. He figures he must’ve done. It’s sort of his M.O., after all. Messing things up.

“Look, Dean,” Kevin says, sotto voce. “It’s...” he shakes his head, thumping his pen against his palm. “It’s nice to see you and all—”

Dean snorts a bitter laugh, and sucks in his lips. He peers up at Kevin with sharp, squinted eyes.

Kevin sighs, and his face softens, mouth forming a flat line. He gives Dean a look - admonishing, with the barest hint of pity. “It is good to see you, Dean,” he reiterates, and the sincerity in his tone nearly makes Dean believe it. “But...”

Kevin sucks in a breath and gestures to his open book, then to the stack of several more at his elbow.

Dean’s spine stiffens, and he nods. Right. Some people do more in Heaven than just drive around in circles, listening to the same six cassettes on an endless loop.

“Yeah,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, no, I- sorry, I just, uh...”

He just... what? Broke into Heaven’s Library? With a frickin’ plutonium bomb? Drove a hundred miles (or maybe a thousand, he didn’t check the odometer) because, what, his SpacePhone™ told him to? What is he doing here?

What is he doing here?

“There’s a- a place,” Dean blurts, then scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Just past the mountain. A little forest in a field. Apparently there’s rain and lightning, and I. I’m just—” paranoid. Terrified. Losing my goddamn m— “It’s pretty close to Sam’s place,” he posits, which is ostensibly true. “And I—”

Dean’s not sure what more to say - what more he could say without making him sound crazier than he rightfully is. Fortunately, Kevin is already pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. He comes around the desk at a trot and descends the stairs.

He arrives at the head of the table, nearly abreast of Dean, and smoothes a finger over the pale wood surface in an intricate pattern.

Instantly, the tabletop is transformed. From the tight woodgrain rise sweeping swathes of squiggly lines, odd little symbols and soft, muted colors. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and he leans closer.

The whole thing is a sprawling map. Not the sort he’d seen on his phone, but the sort at the beginning of a fantasy novel, with little hand-drawn forests and ink-flowing rivers. Dean stares for a moment, dumbfounded, his eyes running over the fine details and cross-hatching.

A soft harrumph draws his eyes to Kevin, staring at Dean with mild amusement and open expectancy.

Dean frowns, face warming. “Sorry, what?”

Kevin gives a crooked half smile and nods toward the map. “Your little forest,” he says. “Where is it?”

Dean sucks in a short breath and nods. He steps forward, thighs nudging the table edge, his shoulder nearly butting against Kevin’s. He does a quick double-take when he realizes that the kid - that Kevin - is nearly as tall as he is.

He shakes himself and peers down at the map. His eyes follow the mountain range, inked in broad jagged lines, to the river - a flowing swirl in a dull, washed blue. North of the mountain is a colorless expanse, marred only by a cluster of tiny dots.

Dean points. “There. I think.”

Kevin notes the location, tapping the spot with his finger. A tiny block of text appears next to the cluster, its symbols strange and unfamiliar.

Kevin gives a little hum, then extends his other arm, hand outstretched. A book - identical to all the others lining the shelves - materializes on Kevin’s palm, as Dean watches with wide eyes.

Kevin lays the book on the table, rifling through the pages. Dean peeks over his shoulder, but the text is inscrutable, Greek to Dean.

Apparently not to Kevin, though. He stops on a page about halfway through, tapping his finger near the top.

“It’s a domicile,” he murmurs, squinting at the little symbols.

“A—” Dean starts, then shakes his head. “Someone lives there?”

Kevin gives a humming nod, inching his finger across the crinkly page. “An Arch member, it looks like.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, molars grinding together. An Arch member.

That could be any number of people. Eileen, Jo, Ellen. His parents, Bobby. Even Charlie has offered a hand here and there.

But it isn’t any of them.

Dean bites the inside of his lip, pressing his palms - clammy and tense - against his thighs. “Who lives there,” Dean asks, and it’s a stupid question again, barely a question at all. Dean’s heart beats in his ears.

Sine amare.

Kevin shakes his head. “No name listed.”

Sine amare.

Dean’s fingernails scratch against his pants, hangnails catching on the denim. “How would I find out?”

It’s another stupid question, and Kevin clocks it quick. He sighs a dry laugh and snaps the book shut.

“Well,” he begins, making a swift volte face toward his desk. “You could do it in some—” another soft chuckle as he climbs the short stairs, “—convoluted Winchester way.” Dean rolls his eyes, head tipping forward, but he doesn’t offer a counter.

Kevin moves around the desk and settles himself in his chair, grabbing his pen. He clicks it once, twice, three times, and presses it to the page, jotting something down in quick, spare movements.

“Personally,” he murmurs, as he inks a full stop, “I’d just knock on their door.”

chapter four | chapter six

table of contents

[mileycyprus-hill]

Feliz Navidad! A RDR2 Secret Santa Fic.

A @rdrsecretsanta​ fic for @chaoticneautral​ I hope I did your OC Ruth justice with this. I had a lot of fun writing this for you! Merry Christmas and I hope you like it!

Summary: The gang celebrates Christmas (Pre-Blackwater) and new member Ruth feels left out until a special someone comes by to give her a present. 

Word count: 1610

December 24th, the day before Christmas. Ruth had barely known the holiday, let alone celebrate it. She only slightly recalls her nanny telling her the story of some baby born to be the savior of humanity, or something like that. The other gangs Ruth rode with? Well, they took no part in such a humbling ceremony that is Christmas, let alone speak about it.

Sitting quietly from her spot on the log, Ruth tries to avoid the awkwardness of taking part in such a celebration that she’s ignorant of. The warm fire in front of her roars and crackles as more logs are heaped onto the flames. The dry desert air is crisp and cool, as the warmth of the desert sun has dropped below the horizon hours ago.

Lyrics sung in broken melodies carry through the air by the cheerful members of the Van der Linde gang, who surround the bonfire with their joyful songs. Their words slur from the relaxing taste of whiskey and beer.

Ruth holds her bottle in her cold hands, still nearly full of the malty beer. Watching them quietly from her lonely spot, she meekly taps the glass bottle with her fingertips. The soft tapping clinks in time with their drunken songs.

O come, all ye faithful

Joyful and triumphant

O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem

Come and behold Him

Born the King of Angels!

O come, let us adore Him

O come, let us adore Him

O come, let us adore Him

Christ the Lord

The night drags on and so do the festivities. Reverend Swanson gives a short sermon and a prayer before stumbling to his tent, most likely to pass out from the combination of liquor and morphine, Ruth guesses. Shortly after the reverend’s drunken sermon, Dutch speaks. The patriarchal leader thanks the reverend and continues on with his regular poem of faith, love, and family. In his rich voice, Dutch speaks proudly of how thankful he is to have such loyal followers.

Ruth’s heart grows warm with pride and immense joy at Dutch’s words. Never before has she had a leader so open, so loving. From her first impression, he would seem cold and careless, but in just a short amount of time, Ruth found out there’s much more to the man named Dutch van der Linde.

In fact, there’s much more than what meets the eye when it comes to all of the members of camp, including one who caught Ruth’s eye.

She looks around her, sitting on the dry log just at the edge of the circle and resting her elbows on her knees. Nearly everyone encircles the fire in front of her; their cheeks red from beer and whisky and rum. They all seem to be having a good time, enjoying each other’s company, but Ruth still feels empty.

Mary-Beth stands from her spot to sing a beautiful Christmas carol, to which the gang shortly join in. Her sweet voice carries across the campground while Ruth takes her cue to step out quietly into the shadows.

Her footsteps back to her tent are muffled by the arid dirt and the loud voices of the party. As Ruth steps closer to her private tent, she’s reminded of how grateful she is to have one all to her own—no one barging in to use her for their own selfish pleasure. For once, she’s safe and can finally be alone.

But it indeed saddens her. For someone so used to the life of a lone wolf, the effects of loneliness can still wear on their spirit.

Christmas is a fairly new concept to her, at least the gang’s version of it. If only she could bring herself to celebrate it with them. She can’t help it. Ruth’s used to being so alone that celebrating in a party makes her feel out of place.

Standing at the open entrance of her tent for what felt like minutes, Ruth shakes her thoughts and steps forward to shut herself out from the rest.

Until she feels a soft, yet firm tap on her shoulder. It nearly startles her as she gasps softly and turns to see who’s behind her.

Johnny Marston, the handsome devil who caught her eye months ago after she joined. His black hair blends into the surrounding darkness behind him, while the distant amber fire glows in his eyes.

He greets her delicately with a smile and asks in his scratchy voice, “Turnin’ in already?”

Nervously biting her lower lip, she answers, “Yeah, ahem. I’m just, uh...tired. Thought I’d call it a night.”

“You ain’t gonna stay up with us?” John asks her. “I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t singing with all of us.”

Ruth fidgets with her hands, feeling put on the spot by him. Sensing her nervousness, John quickly grabs into his back pocket and pulls out a small box.

“Here,” John nearly whispers. “I got this for you.”

The small, red wooden box gleams in his hand. It looks brand new, with its freshly lacquered wood and golden inscription.

“Feliz Navidad,” John says.

Ruth looks to him in surprise. He had never bothered to learn Spanish before, let alone speak it. To hear such a thoughtful greeting in a familiar tongue, it lit a spark in her heart.

John notices her confusion and shrugs sheepishly, hoping he pronounced the words right.

“Javier taught me it...thought you’d like it.” He says. He raises his arm out to her to offer her this small token of holiday affection.

Ruth’s eyes dart down to the box and back up to John, her mouth agape and speechless.

“Shit, did I say it wrong? I’m sorry.” John mutters in shame, now cursing himself. He wonders if Javier taught him a dirty phrase instead of ‘merry Christmas’. Boy, does he feel foolish now. He thinks to himself how he’s going to strangle Javier the next time he sees him.

Smiling at his slight humiliation, Ruth takes the gift from his hand. Her own palms are sweating.

“No, it’s right,” Ruth consoles him. “Feliz Navidad, John.”

She cracks open the cherry wooden box to find a spectacular, sparkling brooch. A bright ruby gemstone sits in the center, surrounded by leaves made of silver and diamonds.

Her heart stops and her knees lock into place. It’s perhaps the most beautiful jewel she’s ever seen. And it’s for her, she wonders?

Ruth stumbles upon her words, trying to thank John for such a wonderful gift, but her tongue is numb and fat and her thoughts are wavering.

Staring at him in surprise, she sees him smiling and wheezing a scratchy chuckle.

“I knew you’d like it,” John gleams. “Cause of ‘Ruby Ruth’, you know? I thought it’d be kinda funny.”

“How did you manage to afford this?” Ruth finally manages to speak and think coherently.

John simply smiles and looks to her. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, “It’s Christmas.”

Suddenly Ruth doesn’t know how she mustered the bravery, but she finds herself wrapping her arms around John’s shoulders. The box still in her hand, she hugs him tightly. Her heartbeat races while John returns the hug with his arms wrapped around her waist and his face nuzzled in her silky hair.

“Thank you,” Ruth whispers.

“You’re welcome,” John responds with his voice muffled in her hair, relishing the tight embrace.

He breaks the hug for a moment to pull out a tall bottle from his satchel.

“I also got this,” he says, holding a bottle of red wine in his hand. “I’d like to share it with you, if you’d like.” His cheeks flush to match the dark red wine inside the bottle.

“I would,” Ruth answers, accepting John’s hand and allowing him to lead her to his tent across the way.

With the gang still singing at the fire at the far edge of camp, the two of them slip inside John’s tent unnoticed. The sound of a match strike is soon followed by the soft glow of the oil lamp on the nightstand.

“Can I...see it on you?” John asks sheepishly, pointing to the gift box in her hand.

Ruth nods her head and gathers her hair behind her, turning her back to John while he plucks the brooch out of the box.

She feels a gentle tug of the brooch against her hair as John places it in the notch of her simple updo. Her scalp feels flushed with heat at the touch of John’s fingertips against her head. Strands of hair hang down near the front of her face, framing her with their flattering black ink.

“Beautiful,” John whispers, taking in the beautiful sight before him.

The twilight of dawn approaches as the early morning sun announces its arrival. The dark blue horizon glows in subtle pinks and violets, like brushstrokes on a canvas. The once boisterous noises of camp are now silenced, with only soft snores and drunken hiccups left behind.

But there is still one faint sound coming from the tent of John Marston.

An empty wine bottle lays abandoned in front of the entrance, tossed onto the dirt with not a drop left. A muted song sung by two contrasting voices barely pass through the thick, green canvas. The song is lead by John’s voice and memory, guiding Ruth’s sweet, angelic air through the melody and lyrics.

It came upon the midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth,

To touch their harps of gold:

"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,

From heaven's all-gracious King."

The world in solemn stillness lay,

To hear the angels sing.

————————-

Merry Christmas!

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Selflessly golden

Genre: Fluff, Idol AU

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x Reader

Warning: No warnings apply.

Author’s note: Happy twenty-first birthday to the golden maknae, our beloved cinnamon roll whose sweet character is too good for this world: Jungkook!

Even though this shall never be read by the actual lad himself, I nevertheless hope he has a day filled with love and friends. 

Here’s to more years with you.

Masterlist

The scent of burned out candles hangs in the air, the barely noticed homely atmosphere mellowly illuminated by the former Christmas lights now functioning as fairy lights draped over the shedua beams, the tranquillity disturbed by the occasional sniffle or soft snore coming from the man who has finally come home to the palm green sheets after months of touring, just in time for the birthday today: his.

Arms pull the body back once the other presence resting on the collection of pillows in shades of ink black, snow white, stone grey and a forest tone matching the duvet, further igniting the wanting to simply lie down once more and curl up against the figure whose ghost has provided comfort in the period the real persona was away. Fingers clamp around the restriction and endeavour to pry it loose, but the attempt fails as the hold strengthens and arm veins, created over many intense hours in the gym and practice room, pop out. A nose presses itself into the fabric of the stolen shirt smelling of passionfruit with a bitter orange tang that now functions as a sleeping top, drowsily mumbling against the covered skin with the slightest hint of neediness. ‘Y/N, don’t... go. Stay... here. Wanna... cuddle.’

Though the temptation to give in is great, it is nevertheless resisted, even as a second attempt fails and the muzzling of already messy ebony locks whilst smiling affectionately at the barely awake boy clinging on like a koala does not much more in the way of escaping the bed. ‘Kookie, let me go. It’s time for breakfast.’

Evidently felt through the clothing, lips pout and despite not seeing it directly, the hesitant frown portraying being caught in the battle between food and a few more minutes of sleep is undoubtedly formed on the young man’s handsome face. In spite of not being mentally prepared for any sort of meal as of yet, the stomach rumbles with the wish for nourishment, but it does not seem to faze the current company. ‘Come on, I’m hungry.’

A lie, but otherwise, there will not be enough time to set up the first surprise of the day, which will only be beneficial to the both of us.

‘I just... back. Missed... you. Few... min-‘ the rest of the ungrammatical sentence is left unspoken as Jungkook has slipped into unconsciousness again, the aftermath of giving concerts night after night with very little time to rest in the meantime, the precious days off which were, as per usual, spent with phone and Skype calls to home at sometimes foolish hours when not being with the rest of BTS, reclaiming the artist.

The hold weakens enough to achieve the set goal of fleeing the bed for a few moments to quietly slip away to the hallway of which the floor is made of oak, gleaming after yesterday’s bi-daily clean-up session, and an alabaster and grey-striped wallpaper adorning the walls before heading down the white-lacquered stairs and arrive in the small kitchen, furniture and appliances tinted in matte shades of dusk, set against bleak walls on top of a cypress linoleum floor.

Soon the narrow space is filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, that truly stems from the reheated multigrain buns bought at the local bakery, and the clamor of a meal consisting of the dreamer’s favourites in the process of preparation against a backdrop of the playlist composed by him during this tour and sent the moment it was finished. Since it was received, it has been constantly put on replay, so much so that now even the unknown songs are known by heart. It was the only thing directly connecting us beside the contact through screens via texts or calls by blue light.

It is a piece of home continuously away travelling to bring amazing music to those deaf to it and to those who have heard it before and follow it like the Pied Piper.

It is the exclusive loving part of him meant solely for one pair of ears, the way through which to say the three simple words that have ever only been said out loud by myself: “I love you”.

It has never been easy, especially in the beginning when management wanted all boys to focus on their careers as idols, even more so after debut, romantic interests being seen as mere unnecessary interference and a potential distraction from reaching the set goals. After all, the fans would have to be given a chance to explore the personalities of seven handsome young men, maybe even have a shot with them, unlikely as it is. Flirt a bit on stage and during fanmeets, show aegyo that captures the hearts of ARMYs around the globe and never give off the message of being in an established relationship.

The fights with agents and even their own manager have always been inevitable once the subject comes up, Jungkook fiercely refusing to give up on the one thing that feels like a home outside the dorm shared with his best friends, who have tried to talk him into surrender in the past with clenched jaws and heavy hearts, ashamed to be asking the maknae to abandon what gives at least some sense of normalcy in a reality that is constantly getting busier as fame grows. During those days, the phone calls were stained with a hint of sorrow on the end of the man who was a mere boy at the beginning of the journey that has been going on for the past five years, sobs desperately trying to be contained since the gravity of the situation did not have to affect the other party as it did him.

But it did, since a break-up in best interest was frequently thought about as copious factors seemed to be against us, so many people just waiting for the opportunity they pushed to appear and be taken advantage of. Once, the idea was brought to the table during a quiet gaming night in, Jungkook going silent at the inquiry at first only to burst out into an uncharacteristic passionate argumentation without room for commentary as to why the very concept of going our separate ways just so others could gain their right was absurd. Tears began to well at the suggestion of living without one another when the well-reasoned rage had subsided, the memory of the shivering shattered composure of the beloved still imprinted in the arms that held him tight throughout the night with the promise to be there when morning came and all the mornings thereafter.

And that promise has never been broken.

From a small Tupperware box in the lacquered cupboard overhead, is the small cupcake retrieved that was left over from the batch made a week ago, all others given to friends coming randomly over to fill the silent apartment for a few hours when the one it is actually shared with is not around, and specially saved for this occasion, this being emphasized by the silver wrapper and golden-sprayed buttercream on top.

It is placed on the large serving tray fished from the drawer beneath the gas plate on a small saucer beside the two winter white red-rimmed dishes of multigrain buns - one displaying two stuffed with a bacon omelette cut in half to fit the tiny breads and the other plating two filled with a natural omelette on a bed of lettuce - beneath the medium-sized bowl from which two forks protrude filled with a fruit salad and two glasses of banana milk.

Our favourites, unfortunately not showcased in unison enough in the years spent together, but each time they are, the mere sight provides an indescribable comfort that can only be endeavoured to be described as a safe haven in a world that is ruled by the madness of the public eye and even this description does not come anywhere close to the actual feeling.

Upstairs the bed seems to be empty aside from the sleeping blanket burrito that rolls instinctively over at the sound of footsteps heading up the stairs, their creaking loud in the morning hush and making the nose scrunch up in the hope the noise does not wake the dreamer, bare back exposed to the cool September air blowing through the window of which the curtains softly sway on the breeze betraying there is still someone occupying the sheets.

Gently the tray is set down on the basswood nightstand that was formerly a crate used for the transport of goods in the harbour, reticent steps made around the bed to sit down on the edge of the other side and let fingers glide over smooth muscled skin, writing the message that still is showing in everything we do: I love you. Jungkook has never said the three words out loud, but rather shows it by texts checking up on well-being or just to wish a good night or good morning, and if there is time, the conversations held deep into the night, some resulting in dozing off together whilst the Skype call keeps going only to see the “call ended” screen come morn because the internet connection has fallen away during the night. However, there have been fortunate days when the sleepy face of the sweet singer displayed on the screen is the first thing seen at the beginning of the day.

Notwithstanding, it never beats this: being in the same room, able to touch each other instead of endeavouring to do so by holding our hands to the electronic wall separating us, hearing the softest of sniffles and snores which turn into appreciating hums when digits run through silky onyx locks, the colour he always returns to even when the more crazier ventures befit the young man quite well too.

A wavering hand wanders the air for a bit before clamping down on the forearm, giving it a powerful jerk which makes the body fall on the mattress, head resting on the collection of pillows once more. The sleeper turns on his side and wraps strong arms around the waist, pulling us together in a tight embrace, wherein I instinctively curl up into him. A chaste kiss on the forehead is followed by the drowsily mumbled uncharacteristic words that were thought never to be heard directly. ‘I love you too.’ From beneath full lashes of hooded eyes, the dark friendly orbs light up with a slight hint of mischief at the view of surprise etched into my features, a grin reminiscent of a bunny forming on the lips. ‘Good morning, by the way.’

‘It’s your birthday, not mine.’ Once there had been a joke about how it would be a splendid present for growing yet another year older to hear the reciprocated confession out loud instead of it being shown through gestures and although it was laughed off, the serious hint of contemplation in Jungkook’s gaze could not be denied.

‘Not important, doesn’t make me want to say it less because I should do so more often. You always tell me you love me and I never confirm it.’ Long fingers caress the left cheek, push a strand of hair gone astray aside and trace every detail of the face. ‘I really should.’

‘You’re too sweet, but I know you rather show than tell and that’s perfectly alright. Nonetheless, do you know what you really should do now?’ An eyebrow rises in confusion, forehead slightly creasing in wonder as to what requires to be done, making the corners of the mouth curl up in delight at the prepared surprise waiting to be seen. ‘Turn around.’

The warm protection fades, the temperature seeming to drop with a few degrees immediately when the hug is broken off to turn to the bedside table from which the comforting scent of freshly baked, reheated, bread permeates the air. With clear glee, Jungkook hoists himself up and picks up the tray filled with food to place it on our laps after me following suit, back resting against the cushions and nestled into his side, sheets covering our legs. ‘You did this?’

‘Of course, silly. It’s your birthday.’ Briefly, there is a silence as an unsure gaze drifts off to the sheets, staring deeply into the palm green at the sudden realization of a privilege that has been had all this time yet the meaning of it has never fully dawned until now. ‘And I’m glad you share it with me even though the guys can come over to celebrate.’

Every year if the singer is home, even during tour when thousands of ARMY sing “Happy birthday” and organize amazing projects, it is simply us two truly celebrating his birthday either via Skype after the show to talk the night away or in this way with the whole day to ourselves to play “Overwatch” and binge watch anime. The day after is preserved to hold a kind of after-party with the rest of the band and even then, I am there. That is pure happiness for the maknae: having all the ones who are held dear get along and coming together to rejoice in the growing older of one who is loved in return just as much.

The reverie is halted by the swipe of a finger over the nose, leaving behind a dollop of golden buttercream. Surprised by this sudden act, eyes dart to the side where a teasing lopsided grin challenges me to do something in return, before it turns soft and the frosting is nipped off with a tender kiss that changes into a sugary trail of pecks to the lips. 

‘Tomorrow’s another day fit for festivities, but we’re all still knackered from the tour so I don’t think they’d be up for it. Today, I just want to lie in bed with you, relax and eat this. Once a year I can be selfish, so you bet I’ll make use of that chance.’

A shake of the head, denying the statement laced with what can be mistaken for egotism via a reassuring voice nuancing it. ‘You’re still being selfless. I mean, you can easily rest up by finally catching up on all those hours without sleep like the others, energize the way we introverts do by simply being alone and yet you want to spend the day with someone, with me. I can’t call that being selfish because that would entail doing what I just said, even though we would be alone together.’

The singer’s head resting on top of mine, fingers entwine in the temporary hush in which the denial is contemplated whilst stares fix on the bundle of digits, his thumb softly caressing mine, until Jungkook breaks the silence. ‘Is it selfish to want to spend the day with the one I want to keep to myself since you’re a source of energy aside from solitude and I get jealous whenever I notice other men giving you attention, even my own friends, or is it indeed generous to, tired as I still am, spend the little energy I have regained with the girl I always feel like is being neglected during touring despite all that we do to keep in contact?’ A loving kiss on the back of the lifted hand, followed by one on the left temple, a soft chuckle once the joyful grin is noticed and formed by his doing. ‘I don’t know, but what I do know is that I find happiness either way.’

Nevertheless, it is evident the former applies since the young man is all but egocentric.

The maknae is charitable in the colour the artist has made his own, has formed into a title.

He is selflessly golden.

[dorthyanndrarry]

Seven Steps -54-

tags: eighth year, drarry, fluff, swearing, drama, melodrama, angst, potion theory, magic theory, slow burn, sexual content, drinking

suggested rating: 18+, for heavy themes and sexual content

Seven Steps on AO3 || Seven Steps on Wattpad

- Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20 - 21 - 22 - 23 - 24 - 25 - 26 - 27 - 28 - 29 - 30 - 31 - 32 - 33 - 34  - 35 - 36 - 37- 38 - 39 - 40 - 41 - 42 - 43 - 44 - 45 - 46 - 47 - 48 - 49 - 50 - 51 - 52 - 53 - 54 - 55 -

`~*~’

“This is the sitting room,” Draco pointed flippantly, “bedroom to the left, bathroom and dressing room to the right.”

“Is this… your room?” Harry asked, wandering around and looking through the open doorway into his bedroom.

“Yes? Who else do imagine it belonged to?” Draco said, crossing the table in front of the crackling fireplace. He put down his plate and picked up the abandoned bottle of champagne.

Harry shrugged, “Anyone? Or no one. It looks like a hotel room, a really fancy one but still.” He walked around and looked into the bathroom, “I thought there would be more…you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Draco asked filling his glass.

“There are no-” Harry gestured around, “Posters or knick-knacks or even books, you’ve got to have books.”

Draco followed Harry gaze to the muted blue walls, the rugs were blue, white and grey, the drapes were a soft grey as well. The walls were blank, the tables were all empty aside from his nightstand, there was nothing on the floor or on the furniture. It looked almost exactly as is had the day he took the room as his own.

“I have a personal study for all my books and notes,” Draco said. He tapped the side of the glass anxiously. “...This isn’t the room I grew up in,” he said, taking a bracing swallow of champagne.

Harry’s brow furrowed.

Draco held out the glass and Harry took it without thinking and then frowned at his hand. “It’s champagne,” Draco said.

“It’s a nice room, I suppose. You must have moved in recently,” Harry said, sitting next to him and sipping the champagne, “Oh. This is good.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged, “They’ve always got champagne at ministry things, and it’s usually crap.”

“There’s hope for you yet, Harry Potter,” Draco said, finishing off his bun.

“I like your nails.”

Draco twitched in surprise, turning his hands over to look at them, “I forgot. Pansy did them as a christmas gift.”

Harry took one of his hands, running his thumb over the shiny blue-green lacquer, “It suits you, unsurprisingly.”

“Why?” Draco asked suspiciously

“Because you look good in everything.”

Draco smiled at the praise. “Not true. I look awful in yellow. If you ever buy me anything yellow I will incendio it on sight.”

“Not even as a joke?” Harry asked.

Draco raised an eyebrow, “If that’s what amuses you, feel free to indulge.”

Harry laughed, “Good thing you weren’t sorted into hufflepuff.”

Draco shuddered, “Ugh.”

Harry laughed again.

“Although, the colours are yellow and black so I could have just worn black,” Draco said.

Harry offered Draco the glass of champagne.

“I’ve had enough,” Draco said, shaking his head.

Harry picked up the bottle and poured out the last few swallows, “You can have the rest of that bun if you like.”

“Excellent,” Draco said, helping himself.

“Is your old room still- Could I see it?” Harry asked.

Draco froze, iced bun halfway to his mouth.

“I’d like to see it.”

Draco nibbled on the bun with a frown. He took a deep breath, “Tomorrow then.” He quickly changed the subject, “So, I can show you to a guest room, or you can stay here.”

“No offence but this place it too creepy to be on my own,” Harry said.

Draco said sarcastically, “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You don’t mind?” Harry asked.

“No.”

“It’d probably just be sle-”

“That’s fine,” Draco said.

“On account of the creepy thing,” Harry said.

Draco glared at him, “Yes, thanks so much for bringing it up again.”

Harry grinned briefly, “And there might be nightmares.”

Draco stared at him flatly for a few seconds then said with faux surprise, “Oh, you meant yourself.”

“Ha. Ha.” Harry said.

“Do you need anything?” Draco asked.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

Draco nodded, pulling on a pair of pyjama bottoms while Potter was gone.

Harry leaned out of the door, “Hey, do you have a toothbrush I could use?”

“Have you somehow not learned how to do a mouth cleaning charm?” Draco asked as he walked over.

Harry had stripped out of his jumper and jeans, to the baggy teeshirt and boxers underneath.

Harry sighed, “No I have, but mine tastes odd.”

“Odd,” Draco repeated, “Are you casting it correctly?”

“Yes,” Harry rolled his eyes, “everyone’s charm turns out different. Hermione’s is a strong cinnamon, really strong, and Ron, his charm leaves kind of an orange aftertaste and mine is just strange. None of us could place it.”

Draco frowned.

“You didn’t know that?” Harry said.

Draco said, “….Mothers and mine are both mint.”

“Makes sense, I guess. You are related.”

“I did remember hers being milder. I’d always thought I misremembered.” Draco looked around, “Where’s your wand?”

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Well, now I need to know,” Draco said, taking his own wand out of the waistband of his pyjamas and holding it out to Harry.

Harry hesitated, his fingers curling in nervously.

“Come on,” Draco said impatiently, “You managed to cast with it perfectly well in the past.”

Harry gingerly took Draco’s wand and smiled faintly to himself, “Still friendly.”

“What does-” Draco stopped mid-question as Harry’s charm hit him in the mouth. The lingering taste of iced buns and champagne vanished, leaving a new flavour, mildly sweet and floral.

Harry shrugged with a nervous smile, “See? Strange.”

“It’s not strange at all! It’s violets!” Draco laughed.

“Violets?”

“Candied violets?” Draco said, “Haven’t you had them before?”

Harry’s brow furrowed, “...Maybe once, when Aunt Marge came to visit. I’m not sure I like violets much.”

“Well, I quite like them,” Draco said.

Harry gave Draco his wand back, “Will you do me then?”

“Without a doubt,” Draco said with a sly grin.

“I didn’t mean it like th-!” Harry sucked in a shocked breath as Draco cast the charm, and fell to coughing. “Merlin-!” he gasped, “-that’s as strong as Mione’s!”

Draco started laughing, and Harry grabbed him, pulling him close and peppering him with mint flavoured kisses until he was too busy being kissed to laugh.

“You’re terrible,” Harry said with utter exasperation.

“As if you aren’t awful, you said so yourself,” Draco said with a grin, tracing his fingers over Harry’s back.

Harry shivered and wriggled loose, “We should go to bed.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “I suppose, if you’re done hogging the bathroom.”

Harry disappeared inside and grabbed his wand and discarded clothing, “All done.”

`~*~’

- Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20 - 21 - 22 - 23 - 24 - 25 - 26 - 27 - 28 - 29 - 30 - 31 - 32 - 33 - 34  - 35 - 36 - 37- 38 - 39 - 40 - 41 - 42 - 43 - 44 - 45 - 46 - 47 - 48 - 49 - 50 - 51 - 52 - 53 - 54 - 55 -

♡ Tags below ♡  (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages on the previous part.)

♡ With this part, I’ve hit 100 pages on my word document which is always a little surreal.

♡ @sofiaistheheir thank you so much!!!  ♡ @torithetorito​ ❤ ♡ @dracohasmycat​  ♡yay! ♡ I’m happy to see you again ♡ ♡ ♡  @you-wrote-a-bad-song-petey​ there’s gonna bee so much talking, like soo much ♡ ♡ @maleckawaii​ ❤ ♡ @ladyseidenlocke​ thank you! ♡ @potter-harreh​ THANK YOU ! You’re so sweet ♡ ♡ ♡ @smol0ctopus ♡ @lightsondrarry​ ♡ ♡ @jasmine-tw​ ❤ ♡ ♡ @theonepariah​  ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡! ♡ @trashgirl334​ thank you! I’m so glad you like my precious dramatic asshole ♡ @satanwithapencil​ thank you sooo much!!!! comments get tags, love gets love ♡ ♡ ♡ @mystifyingtakeoff​ ♡ ♡ @unicornsandphoenix​ hellohellohello!!!! It’s been ages ♡ ♡I’m happy to see you again! ♡ @milaimproves ❤ ♡ @iiodeliaii​  ♡ @slightlyrecklessbutgrounded​ thank you♡♡ ♡ @gnarf​ ♡ @hufflepoofcupcake​ ♡ ♡ @love-bookswillbetheendofme​  ♡ ♡ ♡ @rose-grangerweasleyisbae​ thank you!! ♡ @lilyinthebreeze​  ♡v ♡  ♡ @gens-venturia​ with Harry’s track record it’s probs a good idea to be suspicious lol ♡ ♡ ♡ @littleafrodita​ ♡ @dewitty1​  it’s gonna be great, so much talking, so much social intimacy,  like they’re gonna so get to know each other ♡ it’s ma jam!  ♡ ♡ @dixiekoala​ ♡ ♡ @bespectacled-phoenix​ thank you!! ♡ I’m glad you like my Narcissa ♡ ♡ ♡ @octaviathevictoriandragon​ thank you♡♡♡!  I’ll look forward to your return!  ♡ @bennettfantasy​ ❤!   ♡ @drarryismymuse​ ♡ @obsessedfangirlwithissues​ ♡ @prince-ofdragons  ♡♡♡ ♡ @amerritts-chpt1 ♡ @choccy-milk-third-cousin ♡ @idareyoutotakealook holy heck your messaage made my entire day and made me tear up a bit, you’re soo lovely and sweet and thank you ♡♡♡

Also, y’all are so cute thinking something’s gonna happen in Draco’s room, it’s like you don’t know me♡♡♡ dragging things out is my jam!

[lakecityhandicraftsudaipur]

Cleaning wooden furniture , how do you do that?

Do you have a wooden bookshelf, table, sofa, TV cabinet or other oak furniture? You are very happy with it and would like to keep it as nice and tidy as possible. You can then ask yourself how you can keep or clean the wood in a good way. It may also be that you have stains or circles in the wooden that you would like to get out again. In this article, we discuss which cleaning products and tools you need to remove stains from the wood. Also some cleaning tips specifically for oak and how you can prevent stains in your beautiful wooden  furniture the next time.If you are searching for Wooden Furniture Manufacturers in USA then go with.

Which cleaning products to use?

You might think, I'll get a can of methylated spirits to clean those stains from the wood. We can already tell you, this is not recommended if you want to keep the table in its full glory. This damages the wood enormously. But then you already wonder, which cleaning products can I use? The following means are fine to use while cleaning your oak furniture . Might make sense, but don't use them all at once. The resources used to make wood are vinegar, olive oil, soda and green soap. These are ways to clean both processed and unprocessed wood.

Cleaning vinegar is a well-known cleaning agent that is used for many cleaning jobs. It is also a great cleaning agent to use for wooden furniture. Make a bucket of warm water and dissolve a dash of white vinegar in it. Mix it well and wet your cloth or sponge with it. Squeeze the sponge or cloth you are using well and clean the wooden furniture with it. It is important to squeeze the sponge or cloth well so that the water does not damage the wood.

The following products that you can use to clean your wooden furniture are cleaning vinegar in combination with olive oil. I can already hear you thinking, olive oil ?! But then you are cleaning with grease. Yes that's right. The moment you mix a few drops of cleaning vinegar with a little olive oil, this is the mixture that will remove the circles and stains from your oak table . Rub the mixture gently on the stain or circle and let it soak for a while. Then take it off and with a clean cloth and the grease stains or circles have disappeared from your wooden table.

Green soap can be used on many different types of wood to clean it. However, green soap is mainly used with teak. Make another bucket with warm water and a little bit of green soap. Mix the green soap well with the water and then use a sponge or cloth to clean the table with it. With a sponge, remember to use the soft side to clean with. Otherwise you will still have ugly scratches on it. That is precisely not the intention. 

You use soda in the same way as the green soap. Mix it with warm water and then use a sponge or cloth to clean it with this. 

What tools you need

We've already revealed it a bit, but the tools you need to keep the grease stains and circles out of your wooden furniture are a sponge, a cloth and a bucket. We certainly advise against cleaning the wood with large brushes. This can cause the wood to be damaged and this is exactly what we don't want, right? As you can see, you don't need much to keep your wooden furniture clean. You could also consider a dustpan to keep the wood clean. 

Cleaning tips for wood

In addition to the resources and tools you need to keep your wooden furniture properly clean, we also want to give you some tips on how to do this best. Below you will find 4 tips that will help you keep your wooden furniture in a state of full glory. 

 Don't use too much water- The moment you use a lot of water while cleaning your wooden furniture, the wood will absorb this water and expand. This can make the table ugly and you want to prevent this. It is therefore important to wring the cloth or sponge as well as possible and to wipe it with a dry cloth. This way you remove the dirt, but you do not damage the wood further. 

 Let the cloth do the work- The moment you start working with wood and you start scrubbing hard, the wood will be damaged. The grain will fade or you scrub so hard that your wipe will leave streaks on the wood. As they say with saws that the saw should do the job, when cleaning wood we say the cloth should do the job. 

 Dust the wooden table in the direction of the grain- When you are going to dust a wooden table, for example, it is wise to dust in the direction of the grain. This way the grain remains most visible and the most beautiful. 

Prevent stains in your oak furniture- Although you are most likely reading this article when you have a stain or circle in your wooden furniture, you may also wonder how to prevent stains and circles next time.  You can also visit Bone Inlay Nightstand.

Give the wooden furniture a layer of lacquer-  Applying a layer of lacquer to your furniture firstly provides a bit of protection. For example, water is less likely to be absorbed into the wood and the dirt is less likely to be absorbed into the wood. A thick layer of lacquer also helps to clean the furniture.

 Use coasters or other protective layers- This tip may speak for itself, but it is one that really works. Use coasters or, for example, a tablecloth. This way you prevent the dirt or drink from touching the furniture at all. You could possibly think of a glass plate over the wood. This can give a rural piece of furniture a modern look. At the same time, your furniture is protected. What else do you want?

[the-weirder-kind-of-story]

Le Morte D’Ardour: Chapter Three

Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two

The thorns were out in full force. There were days when the pain fell back and was manageable. Never truly gone, the hints of it stirring about her, but manageable.

And there were days when it was like her insides were cut open and all her strength was left to bleed out. For days like those she had the cane.

For nights there was the tincture.

One sip and her thoughts would soften and the world blur and the pain would just go away.

That bottle stood in its place on the nightstand. She couldn’t help but eye it from her seat by the fireplace.

As much as it helped she couldn’t help but hate that bottle just a bit. She was herself, pain and all, and the tincture turned her into nothing but fraying cotton.

She tore her eyes away from it and looked at the book in her lap.

It was some fictionalized history of a hundred years’ dead king and all his conquests. She was nearing the climax of the account, where the king rallied his troops with an obviously embellished speech. Seriously, who would write something like:

“We lay our lives on the line today, we face off against impossible odds with sword in hand, and we must say to ourselves, we will not die easy, no, we will die-“

“Hard luck for ya!” crowed Luca as he brought his white bishop to corner the black king, “That’s checkmate.”

Marie cursed but paled when she caught Reserve’s amused look in her direction, “Excuse my crudeness, your highness! I, um, get quite invested and…”

Reserve could only sigh. Marie was always so nervous around making the wrong move. The princess couldn’t help but blame that on her family and the attention they paid to proper things and proper ways. She, being so improper, could wave it off, “You’re fine, you’re fine, I’d hate to lose to Luca.”

Luca chuckled and leaned back in his stool, taking a swig of his flask. Marie had only allowed him to take his drink into the room only if she let him braid back his shaggy mane. He’d argued mightily against that condition.

He adjusted the woven plait that fell over his shoulder and looked to Reserve, “Do ye now? Want to try and score a victory then? Might cheer ya up!” he asked, patting the edge of the chessboard.

She just shook her head, “My head’s not for tactics tonight, I don’t think. Apologies.”

Luca shrugged and turned to Marie, “Rematch, then?”

Marie began to agree but drew herself up short, “No, no, of course not, I have the princess to attend to.” And she stood up and went over to the fireplace, where she drew out the tub that sat over the fire. The water steamed slightly. Reserve sighed happily at the sight. It was always good to give her feet a long hot soak. She began to slip off her shoes when Marie raised a hand to stop her short, “One moment, your highness.” She looked to Luca and crooked a thumb towards the door, “Out.”

Luca snorted, “What, again, it’s just her feet, why-“

Reserve would have voiced her agreement, but Marie cut in, “It isn’t proper. Out. You have a good seat outside the door, which is where your post actually is.”

Luca got up, cracking out his spine, “Alright, alright. Have a good night, your Highness.”

“You as well, Luca.”

He grumbled a bit at that and stepped out the door, tugging at his braid as he left.

Marie shook her head and began to pull off Reserve’s shoes and socks, “I swear, that man drives me up the wall sometimes.”

“He could have stayed. He was right, it’s just feet,” she said as she brought her feet down into the blissful heat of the water. She exhaled and felt all the tension and pain being tamped down by the relief she felt in her legs.

Marie groaned, “Not you too. You’re twenty, your Highness, and some men will take any opportunity to stare.”

“Luca’s not like that, you know it. He’s practically my grandfather. And again, just feet. I don’t think men desire feet.”

Marie just gave a small sigh, “Men’ll desire anything on a woman.”

“Ladies will too.”

Marie managed not to be taken aback at that, squeaking only a little, “Well yes but-“

The door burst open.

Marie brought her head to yell at Luca and drew up short when she saw that he wasn’t alone. A young man with chestnut hair stood in front of him, red faced and out of breath.

“Your Highness, the nobles have been taken hostage.”

-

Murray, as he’d introduced himself hastily, had tried to say as much as he could with far too little air to say it.  Despite that Reserve got the basic gist. Prince looking to expand his lands, conspiracy of nobles, her family captured, guards taken out.

That last one was a point of more stress for her than she let show. Was she okay? Was she safe? She was careful, Reserve knew, and methodical but what if…

No, she couldn’t let herself think that. And besides, her family was in danger. That was a point of anxiety as well, most definitely. She knew how these situations went. She knew how much their deaths might benefit the usurper. How much her own would too. Never mind the regent who, as she understood it, had been working with the aim of not having his life endangered.

In Luca’s own words, well hard luck for him.

Murray was still talking, she had to listen, “…and the guard, uh, Sam, asked me to come here and get you to the back lot.” That drew Reserve up short. This was Sam’s doing?

Marie was rushing around the room, packing all of the necessities into a satchel and swearing at Luca as he tried, ineffectually, to help.

“No, not that, get the other cloak, the green one-“

Reserve had lifted her feet from the tub and was wiping it dry, so she took the moment to ask, “Sam? Dark and curling hair, tall?”

Murray had stopped rambling, “Oh, yes. Um-“ He seemed to want to say something more when Marie shoved the satchel towards him and ran over to kneel by Reserve, who had moved herself off into a corner to be less of an obstruction.

Clutched in the maid’s hand was a pair of soft cloth slippers, which she bodily shoved onto Reserve’s feet and drew her up roughly, “Greatest apologies, your Highness, but we must be hurrying. No doubt they’ll have sent people.”

Marie rushed into the closet, rifling through it for necessities and travelling clothes.

She was right. It was important they leave as soon as possible. Her life perhaps still had some value to the attackers. The value the lives of Luca, Marie and Murray had to them she feared was too small to risk them being caught.

She took her cane from where it leaned against the wall. It was solid, blue-lacquered wood, with a finecarven handle and a tapered point that didn’t slip or skip when struck into the floor. Hefty too, the handle wide and built to hold her weight if the pain got to be too much and she was at danger of falling to the ground.

Luca was hovering oddly around her, and she just stared him down, “I won’t need your help down the stairs.”

“But, ah, yer pain, Highness, uh,” he mumbled, unsure what to do with his hands as they hovered about him.

“I can manage a brisk descent, even if I’ll resent it tomorrow morning. I do not need to be carried, thank you very much.”

Marie had gotten two travelling cloaks and had thrown one onto Reserve’s shoulders. She then set to commanding Murray and Luca to gather up the satchels she’d packed.

Reserve, not wanting to slow them down, set towards the exit, “I’ll wait for you at the bottom of the stairs.”

She took the stairs two at a time, bracing herself with the cane where the steps got too narrow or whenever the pain flared up.

Upon reaching the bottom, she leaned back against the wall and waited for the others, keeping an ear out for approaching footsteps with murderous intent.

Murray scurried out of the stairwell, hefting a bag, and almost went over to stand by Reserve before he froze up.

She was about to ask him if she was really so intimidating before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter.

“For you, your highness,” he said, proffering it.

It was a cream envelope. It was oddly creased and flattened in places. She was going to ask him just what it was before Marie emerged, Luca following after her, both of them hefting large bags.

“Come on then, we can’t tarry!” Murray set into a half run and Reserve tucked away the letter and moved to follow, before Marie tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned and the woman was holding something out to her. The damned bottle.

The princess sighed and took it, “Thank you.”

And then she set off after Murray, quickly outpacing him, and Luca and Marie could only follow.

-

They ran through the twists and turns of the castle’s innards. Reserve was crossing an intersection, which had left her perhaps too open.

Voices came thundering down the hall.

“There she is, halt! Halt!”

Murray pulled up just short of knocking into Reserve. She just stood there, staring at the men. Then she turned back, “Run! Take the roundabout way, Murray, you’ll know, go!”

The old guard and her maid promptly turned and ran back the way they had come and Murray was making his way after them when he realized, before turning a corner, that he heard a distinct lack of steps behind him.

He looked back, Reserve was half-jogging in the other direction.

He did not call. He simply looked at her, dumbfounded

Reserve glanced back, shouted, “Go! Now!”

She kept on in the opposite direction.

The implication was clear. She’d be pursued. They wouldn’t be.

She went her way.

Murray could only go his.

-

She knew every turn she had to take. When she turned left she was already preparing to turn right, to cut a sharp corner and then sprint through that one hallway with all the armor that was more gild than steel.

She’d kicked off her slippers into a side corridor. The material slipped against the polished floors and they were not made to run in. She took the floor barefoot, thoughts of blisters and Marie’s thoughts on properness far, far away.

She came to the hall’s end and through the door and into a round chamber and would have gone through the door opposite when something in her lower half buckled and her legs gave out.

She lost her grip on the cane and it slipped out of her hand as she fell to the ground. The floor was tile, fucking tile, and the thorns sharpened with the flash of pain as she slammed into it.

The pain turned the world to white and red and silver and yellow. The yellow, she realized when she could open her eyes through the pain, was the harsh light of the candles burning in their sconces. Her cane had clattered across the floor until it came to a stop, still rolling  back and forth and back.

She felt chewed up and hammered and torn into pieces and the pain wasn’t going away.

She was still intact and with all the aches and pains that that entailed.

Reserve got her feet under her and half crawled, half hopped towards the wall.

She pushed herself up and set her back flush with the wall, the knobby balls of her spine aligning with the solid wall. She reached out a toe and dragged the cane to herself, setting it in her lap. Then she looked to the exit. They would have lost her but they had numbers and that meant they could split up. Enough small groups actively searching would eventually happen across her.

But the nobles being occupied with the search would mean that Marie and Luca and Murray would make it. They likely had already. She had to hope they had, that they hadn’t been caught or worse. Otherwise, what was this bold and utterly stupid move of hers worth?

Other than the pain it had incited, which thrashed in her ribcage.

That could be dealt with. She felt around in her pocket. There it was, the tincture in its horrible glass bottle, just sitting there. She could open it, gulp it down, let the nobles find her, be dragged to the ballroom and become a hostage. And the pain would be gone.

But no, she thought, her giving away her senses was giving away too much. She could surrender but she would do it with a clear head.

And the pain she could handle the usual way.

She stabbed the cane into the floor and levered herself up. Her bones creaked and the pain rose up like a tide or a retch. She swayed and let that motion become a step, then a second.

A third.

A fourth.

She was hurting but she was also moving and even if that did nothing for the hurt, it still helped.

She pushed the bottle back into the pocket and felt her hand brush paper. Oh of course. The letter Murray had handed her. She hadn’t even wondered at what it was. Was it from him? That would be odd, since the plan as it was would have had them in proximity for the foreseeable future and anything he wanted to say he could have said, but not out of the question.

She wasn’t entirely sure it would hold anything helpful but the fact of the matter was that it was something to do and she was waiting for what might be her executors and any task was better than mulling over that.

So, she unfolded the note and began to read:

Reserve,

This was already odd, the boy’s countenance hadn’t been the kind to ever omit the title from the name of a noble. And the handwriting was odd, so she stopped below one of the sconces and let the light shine down on the paper.

The words were written in blue ink and that led her to remember.

“Blue?”

“I know, such an odd color choice, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, I like it.”

“Keep it then.”

“Wait, hold on, I shouldn’t-“

“I received far too many gifts of ink, they must think I take after Wisdom which is-“

“Not at all accurate?”

“Well now you didn’t need to agree with my point that quickly but yes-”

And things then made all the sense in the world and none at all and her breath caught and Reserve could only read.

I don’t think it’s likely you’ll ever actually read this. I’m writing this more to make sense of…well a lot of things that I’m feeling. So this letter’s for me foremost and for you second. This’ll be odd if you ever do get your hands on this, especially with what I have to say.

You matter to me. You are a dear friend and I care for you.

And I fear I care for you too much.

I care beyond my station, care beyond the limits of my heart. You burn with fervor and confidence. You act and I have no choice but to react. You’re quick and sharp and you leave me reeling and scrambling to keep up. Since we met, since you ran and I pursued, I feel I’ve been at your heels ever since.

You’re driven and you’re assured and you are so damn pretty. I feel I play at being your equal at times: I teach you to defend yourself and talk about the petty, unimportant crap with you and just act like you’re my friend and I’m yours. And every step of the way you treat me like all I am is worth as much everything you are.

I don’t know if I’m kidding myself, to think a princess would truly hold me close to her heart, but I do love being the fool. It makes me so happy to be your friend and your companion. You show me your strength. You are honest and I feel I just have to be honest back and this letter is me acting on that thought.

We met when I chased you yet and met more properly when I stopped, yet all the time we knew each other, I feel like I’ve been running the entire time.

There is so much I feel for you but at its core is how much I adore you and it all feels like too much and too little to share.

So if you’re reading this, then either I’m an idiot to risk a wonderful friendship or you found it among my personal effects and I am gone. But whatever the reason, I can say you matter to me.

For whatever reason you got to read this, you now have. And there is so much more to say that I can’t because the page is only so big and if I gave myself too much space to write I’d fill it all. That doesn’t make much sense, seeing it written down, but not much does, when it comes to you.

Yours,

Sameera

Oh. Oh this letter was…

This was her writing. This was…

Oh that damn woman.

She didn’t expect to survive.

She expected to die and she intended to begin and end the conversation about her, quite frankly surprising, feelings and this letter would be her final word on the matter?

No.

No doubt Sam was going to do something stupid and brave and heroic.

She would be the hero and by her actions she would either save all the nobles or just Reserve but she was still in such danger

And if the nobles took Reserve, she’d be helpless, guarded and held back and forced to watch as Sam spent everything of herself to save her. Her arriving in chains would only make Sam all the quicker to risk herself.

Never mind that the letter made the princess blush from the roots of her hair to tips of her toes. Never mind that each word had shocked and warmed and soothed her every aching and trembling nerve. Never mind that a door had been opened in her heart and she felt every ounce of feeling she possessed for Sam well up.

She paced the round room. She had run far and she could swear she heard the approaching steps even now. No, she thought, she was actually hearing that, and her troubles grew.

Reserve knew everything that was going to happen and the damned light still gave her a headache. She blew it out, taking her petty vengeance.

The room was a touch darker.

She carried on, still pacing the perimeter perfectly.

After all, she thought wonderingly, she knew it by heart.

It took four more breaths for darkness to claim the room.

-

What most people don’t tell you about the thrill of the hunt is that it fades when you realize you have better things to do than chase something to its inevitable capture. Lord Hartmoor found that after quite a bit of pursuit and failing to immediately catch the damn princess, he found himself missing the refreshment laden trays of the ballroom. And then Richard had had them split up and Hartmoor found himself alongside two other men, surveying corridor after corridor. He was glad he’d worn his good boots. They were of fine leather and soft on his feet with a steady heel.

But then they heard it. A subtle tapping coming from the next room.

They raised their swords. They were told not to harm the princess nor commit any sort of indignities upon her person and they would keep to that command, as they remained gentlemen, but if she tried to run – keyword being on tried, one of his men said through his snickering – then surely just a touch of blood would have to be spilled.

Hartmoor took the lead, ducking through the half open door into a surprisingly dark space.

His companions followed and made similar remarks.

“Would’ve thought that they’d have kept their estate in better shape,” one said, feeling out for the wall.

“Just goes to show,” said the other, “There’s a good reason we’re doing this. A proper ruler keeps his house and servants in order.”

Hartmoor cleared his throat, “Come on out then, princess. We know you’re-“

And then something creaked and the dark deepened.

“Did one of you bastards close the door?” he asked, entirely unamused.

“You could say that.”

That was when something blunt and heavy hit him across the back of the head.

-

The cane connected nicely with the man’s skull, sending him swinging forward. He caught himself only just, rocking on the balls of his feet. Reserve drew her cane back, grabbed it with her other hand and slammed the point right between his shoulder blades.

With his balance thrown off and his senses still reeling from the first blow, that jab sent him stumbling forward.

With each step he tried to catch himself and each time he failed to do anything other than keep going.

He’d whipped his arms forward, conscious enough despite the blow to try and catch himself against some surface.

Unfortunately, said surface ended up being the noble in whose direction he’d been bodily shoved, judging from the clatter and swearing that came from that side of the room.

Reserve knew enough from her training with Sam to keep moving and tarry. She sidled against the wall, keeping an ear sharp.

She heard a rapid series of steps as the one noble still on his feet turned about, trying to figure out what was going on.

“What is going-are you lads alright, where-“

The rough silhouette of him, dark on dark, gave her enough of a target. She brought her knee up and slammed it into his stomach. She’d have aimed lower, but she’d heard from Sam that codpieces were all the rage these days. The jokes had been crude, yet informative.

Reserve brought her knee back down, wincing at the blossom of pain in her hip joint, and side stepped around the man’s side. Holding her cane in a two handed grip, she brought the broad end into the man’s temple, bringing him down.

Heels clicked on floor behind her. She could still hear the groaning of the man she’d first shoved from the other side of the room.

So this must have been the man back on his feet. She thrust the cane’s point through the darkness, aiming for where she judged his neck would be.

But then it stopped in mid-air with a jolt that ran through her arms and shoulders. The damned man had caught it. She felt a sharp tug and couldn’t let go in time before she was sent stumbling in his direction. She could see the shadow of his arm, bringing up the pommel of his sword.

A single strike to the temple and that’d be it for her.

She’d put up a fight for nothing. She should have just stayed on the floor. She should have surrendered.

She should have just taken the….huh, she thought.

She let go of the cane and let herself fall.

She came down on her hands and a single knee, the cracking impact lancing into her bones. It was agony.

She bore it, teeth gritted.

The noble, fortunately, had just as hard a time of it, as his pommel met empty air and he overextended, shifting his weight too far to one side.

And where the cane had once had a counterweight in the form of one princess, the noble was now pulling back on far less weight than he expected.

Combine the two and you had a man wildly swinging about, his balance thrown off entirely.

Reserve pulled herself upright and reached into her dress pocket.

The man turned just as a small something whipped through the air and cracked against his face, a flower of glass and stinging wetness blooming across it.

The sword and cane clattered to the ground. She kicked the first to the side and reached down to get the second.

The man was clawing at his face. Still low to the ground, Reserve swept the length of the cane at his ankles.

The man and the floor were already having some disagreements and this brought them to a clash. He slammed into the tiles and all the air left him.

Reserve stood up and poked him in the head to make sure he was down, “Now. Now you know what’s like.”

All he managed in protest was a grunt.

And she could finally breathe out the air she’d been holding in through the whole melee.

She listened closely. No one was stirring and she had a chance to get a read of the situation.

She reached out and opened the door.

The light of the hallway washed across the room and she could see the melee’s aftermath clear as day.

The first man had a nasty bruise across his face and by his eyes looked entirely out of it.

The second was slumped up against the wall he’d been shoved into face-first, his nose bleeding profusely.

The third was trying to get up but couldn’t quite manage the trick of moving his limbs.

That’s the lesson Reserve’s life had taught her. Impacts with solid surfaces suck.

The nobles had had a quick education and were visibly in quite a bit of pain from their lessons. As was Reserve, her muscles sore from the all the moving about and definitely not helped by the fall, however intentional it might have been.

Unlike them, though, she was on her feet.

She walked the room, cane at the ready if one suddenly got second wind and made a move, and looked over their gera.

They’d brought rope and what they had on them was enough to bind their hands and feet in tight holds. All of Grace’s lessons in hair braiding and Marie’s in dress tying came in handy here.

While she was working on the bindings of the man she had taken out first, he had finally gained enough of his wits back to speak, if only, “Look atcha. You can, urgh, you can put up a fight.”

She was silent, focused on the knot. Did she have to bring over the bridge or under the bridge? What was the bridge even? Was it the first knot or a second loop?

He kept talking, “There’s a good two dozen of us, and the prince ain’t a slouch when it comes to fighting either. Not a chance in hell for you, a broken girl.”

She replied, “Twenty one.”

“Wha?”

“There’s twenty one now. Discounting you.”

He quieted at that.

She straightened up, looking at the men. That’d have to be enough for now. They were as tied up as she could manage.

She looked over what she had taken from them. Swords, which were a touch too heavy and besides, Sam – Sam, who’d always taught her with such fondness and respect and how could she not have realized, no now was not the time – Sam’d never taught her to fight with a sword. She shoved the swords into the hall, out of reach, and did the same with the knives. She kept a dagger though, just in case. A weapon was a weapon.

And one more thing, she thought.

-

She thought of her family as she walked the corridor that led out of that room. Thought of the nobility, trapped and endangered.

The guards.

One guard in particular who thought she could just have off a letter full of honesty and affection passed off and then go spend her life being a great damn hero and that would be the end of it.

No, they were going to talk about that letter.

But there were a lot of things in the way.

So:

Twenty two nobles who at best wanted her chained, at worst dead.

The guards were indisposed.

Her family held hostage, their lives up in the air as well.

Sam, someone…really difficult to classify right now, was probably going to do something stupid.

All that against a princess with a cane and a chest full of thorns and a mighty will.

Not great odds.

But she’d taken something else from one of the nobles. Not a singing sword or a magic suit of armor or, hah, a magic potion. But something she was glad for nevertheless.

The noble’s boots had fit perfectly.

She was already trapped in a castle with enemies on all sides.

Being barefoot through the ordeal to come?

It would have just been unfair.

[monsoonblue]

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[cthulhuofficial]

Mame "Gammie" Bercik

It was all the fault of that gods-damned prophecy, Mame Bercik - Mamie to her friends, Gammie to her family - thought as she threw a pinch of salt into the pot of too-much stew that hung simmering over the hearth. The Bercik family prophecy had passed down from parent to child for so many generations that no one could remember the source. Gammie had heard it dozens of times since she married her husband, Beau Bercik, and she had long since memorized it:

Christened with violence, the chosen one will first be known as a slayer of drakes [TODO: finish this - need one more tell]

It was always a topic of heated discussion at each family gathering: whether anyone had received news of that brother or this cousin that had left last fall, which new baby seemed the most promising candidate, and the young people boasting about how they would be the one to return home with the conquest. One by one, over the decades, the Berciks had packed rucksacks full of salted meat and adventuring gear and left home - her in-laws, her husband, her children, her grandchildren… Nobody returned. And Gammie had still not learned how to cook for one.

She ladled stew into a bowl and seated herself at the head of the table. It could, and once did, seat eight - her, her husband, her daughters, their children. Gone. Gammie didn’t know if they were dead or had simply found more fulfilling lives outside of their small town in gloomy Barovia. Gammie stared at the empty chairs around the table, the toy chest in the corner, thought of the bedrooms upstairs, the empty beds, the favorite books on the nightstands, the clothing, scented with the sprigs of rosemary that Gammie replaced every two weeks to keep away moths, still sitting in the drawers. She lost her appetite.

She was pouring the uneaten stew back into the pot when a shake ran through her hand. Gammie had been well and truly old for at least a decade, yet each quake and tremor in her still-strong body still felt like a betrayal. The bowl fell to the stone floor, shattering, sending globs of stew over the hearth, the fire hissing. Shit, Gammie said, her knees cracking as she bent to gather the pieces. Her oldest daughter had brought that dish back from one or other of her adventures; it was lacquered white, the design of a green dragon coiling around the bowl, each of its vibrant scales picked out with an individual brushstroke. Gone.

Gammie’s tears joined the drops of stew on the floor as she crouched over the mess. They fell as she mopped up the liquid, picked up the large pieces, and swept the floor to catch any shards - the children would sometimes run through barefoot. But her eyes were dry as she mended a dress in her rocking chair until it was too dark to see, readied herself for bed, and laid down. There had been so many tears over the years, she felt that she would never be truly finished crying. But something replaced the grief inside her. Her tears had dried out, hardened, crystallized.

The next day, she packed a rucksack full of salted meat and adventuring gear and her trusty cast-iron skillet. On her belt swung her rolling pin, now hammered through with horseshoe nails she had bought from Hank the ferrier that morning. She was a Bercik only by marriage, not blood, but Gammie always said: If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

[arplis]

Arplis - News: Cheap Dunes And Duchess

Custom lighting and furniture made in the USA by designers Stacy Kunstel and Michael Partenio. Using turned wood as their inspiration they take traditional. Dunes and Duchess products regularly appear on design blogs. Here are some of our favorites. See more ideas about Blog love, Homemade tortillas and. This is us, what we love, how we live. See more ideas about Dune, Our love and Sombreros. 22/08/2012 The combination of old and new as seen at the New York Gift Fair in the collections of At Home with Marieke, Dunes and Duchess and Diane. 22/08/2012 The Gift Fair just has to be experienced in order to have an idea of the . Dunes and Duchess creates these stunning candelabra pieces,. 29.6k Followers, 2220 Following, 4005 Posts See Instagram photos and videos from Dunes & Duchess-Stacy Kunstel (@dunesandduchess) In August of 2010 Dunes and I created the idea of Dunes and Duchess. Starting with a candelabra a piece we thought symbolized our own budding romance. 15/02/2012 American Made Romance Brought to Light by Duchess and Dunes . a table at the recent New York International Gift Fair this past January. . out on the dunes, and it was so joyful to see him trying to stand up and look out. . thinking about Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, and the irony of her.

Chairs, tables, desks, etageres and more designed by Dunes and Duchess and . overlay and those pillows and maybe a big gold wall hanging above the bed. Dining, cocktail, desk or custom, Dunes and Duchess tables come in all shapes and sizes and can be custom . marco console/large side Dimensions 32 X 16 X. Dunes and Duchess Sailors Knot Table Lamp spotted at Hudson in Boston. LOVE the colour options, hardback lampshades, super tall floor lamps and their. Island House Coffee Table. 2,860.00. Quick View. Chappy . Wood Top Drink Drop Large Top. 715.00. Quick View . Captains Compass Oval Table. 2,200.00. 31/01/2018 How to design a custom dining table with Dunes and Duchess. . Bases (second and third from the left) can hold tops as large as 70 round. Custom lighting and furniture made in the USA by designers Stacy Kunstel and Michael Partenio. Using turned wood as their inspiration they take traditional. For the finest homes on land or at sea, this solid wood table is craftsmanship at its finest. Painted Maple. Please contact us about custom colors and sizes As. Finish: Wed Rather Be Royal Blue If it werent so elegant wed try to surf it. Perfect for nightstands and small tables. Small lamp, big design impact. Catch the. Dunes and Duchess: Turn , Turn, Turn . its chandeliers, candelabra, sconces, frames, benches, dining tables, and more. . It was also the start of something big.

These painted pretties are sure to put the stop on boring. They also are good at holding open doors. Or propping books. Or holding papers on your desk when. We are makers. When you order something, we make it. Sometimes that takes time. If you cant wait, check out our In Stock section for pieces ready to ship. Custom lighting and furniture made in the USA by designers Stacy Kunstel and Michael Partenio. Using turned wood as their inspiration they take traditional. Chairs, tables, desks, etageres and more designed by Dunes and Duchess and . Dunes and Duchess customizable Bistro Table. info@dunesandduchess.com From balloons to confetti to piatas, this online store can serve as a one stop . Benjamin Moore Color Trends 2015 Cabinet: antique jade 465 ADVANCE. start/stop electromotive (aess) auto engine . . the duchess of malfi york notes advanced ,the dinosaur alphabet book jerry pallottas . the durable use of consumer products new options for business and consumption ,the . licence ,the drama of scripture finding our place in the biblical story ,the drawing journal 1 ,the dune. 05/05/2015 As youll recall, I made a few predictions about the trends I expected to see . We saw this demonstrated at Market with the introduction of more lightweight, yet durable pieces with narrower profiles. . No one exemplifies Make It Your Own better than Dunes and Duchess! Next Stop: High Point Market! Best known for its iconic candelabras, Dunes and Duchess also offers a full line of made-in-the-USA lighitng, furniture and home accessories in lacquer and. 04/08/2016 Seven ways to work the GREEN trend right now! Published . Green. We cant stop seeing it. . Its stylish, durable, and this green hue is especially eye catching! . Cotton + quill on a Chappy Bench from Dunes and Duchess. It is based on the Mixedwood Plains Ecozone+ Status and Trends . Coastal dunes of the Ontario portion of the Mixedwood Plains Ecozone+. . At the community level the lack of up-to-date land cover data prevents the tracking of examined relative to the size of forest habitat areas in Dutchess County New York State,.

Black, glossy towel bar ready to be bold on your powder room wall. Approximately 13 wide. Made of turned maple with resin backplates. Why not put some color on the walls of that oh-so-white bathroom? Painted Maple. Dimensions: Projection: 4.25 / Height: 4 / Width: 24 Robe Hook Commodore of the Yacht Club Blue. 77.00 . Towel Bar 13 in Razzle Dazzle. 198.00. Robe Hook in Cap Ferrat Bleu. Add a sense of adventure by incorporating a DIY Candelabra into your home decor. Theyre not only timeless and elegant, butthey can add both a classic and.

See more ideas about Dune, Furniture market and High point north carolina. . Dunes and Duchess Vanity Bench Vanity Bench, Furniture Market, Kitchen Chairs, Dune, . Dunes and Duchess- Lakehouse chair Dune, Beautiful Things. Mabley Handler dining room in 2012 Hampton Designer Shophouse and . Beautiful Turquoise Room Ideas for Inspiration Modern Interior Design and Decor. Dunes and Duchess Sailors Knot Table Lamp spotted at Hudson in Boston. Dining, cocktail, desk or custom, Dunes and Duchess tables come in all shapes and sizes and can be custom made for you. See more ideas about Dune,. In August of 2010 Dunes and I created the idea of Dunes and Duchess. Starting with a candelabra a piece we thought symbolized our own budding romance. For the finest homes on land or at sea, this solid wood table is craftsmanship at its finest. Painted Maple. Please contact us about custom colors and sizes As. 09/08/2018 Weve created a niche building custom table and lighting in our Connecticut workshop and shipping them all over the . Kitchen Pendant Love. 31/01/2018 Custom dining tables are one of our specialties. Heres a step-by-step guide on how to go about designing your own one-of-a-kind piece. Dining Tables, Lighting, FurnitureStacy Kunstel August 9, 2018 custom tables, custom lighting, custom pieces, dunes and duchess, chunky captains compass,. Dunes and Duchess: Turn , Turn, Turn . in artful waysgraces every one of its chandeliers, candelabra, sconces, frames, benches, dining tables, and more.

Custom lighting and furniture made in the USA by designers Stacy Kunstel and Michael Partenio. Using turned wood as their inspiration they take traditional. Dunes and Duchess 94 Triangle Street Danbury, CT, 06810 United States (map) . Its the end of the season and were having our first warehouse sale at our. Dunes and Duchess Cart 0 Home Events Duchys Blog Our Products Our Colors . 13 Towel Bar in Black. 198.00. Classic Candelabra in Limed Oak. sold out. 1424, Dubai Dunes (GB) Ch.F. by Nathaniel (IRE) x Amallna (GB) Related Results Consignor: European Sales Management Purchaser: Lot Withdrawn 2459, Caledonia Duchess (GB) B.M. by Dutch Art (GB) x Granuaile OMalley. 10 Dune is best known for its own brand as well as for selling third-party labels . and abroad and was a favourite of fashion influencer the Duchess of Cambridge. . in 2017 and later buying back control for a fraction of the original sale price. Google fined $1.7 billion for search ad blocks in third EU sanction. Naples The Dunes Real Estate Condos for Sale & Recently Sold Properties. . with European over-sized shower, walk-in closet fit for a Duke and Duchess, and. Handmade in England, Duke & Dexter is a British born mens footwear label specialising in luxury slip-on shoes, mens loafers, chelsea boots & chukka boots. Hot Country Singles SALES & AIRPLAY. . six; Screen Gems EMI. six: Maclen. five; Warner-Tamerlane, three; and Duchess, . Brenda Madden, company administrator, says its label clients in elude Bermuda Dunes, Benchmark, AMI, Door Knob, . DixiRaks is also selling some records to accounts in Western Europe moBtlj. 09/10/2016 Monica Vinader, the British jeweller who counts the Duchess of Cambridge as a loyal fan, has toasted sales rising by a third at her eponymous.

29.6k Followers, 2220 Following, 4005 Posts See Instagram photos and videos from Dunes & Duchess-Stacy Kunstel (@dunesandduchess) 26.7k Followers, 2058 Following, 3781 Posts See Instagram photos and videos from Dunes & Duchess-Stacy Kunstel (@dunesandduchess) Dunes and Duchess . All Products Anchor Blocks with Kerri Rosenthal In Stock Custom Made Bars, Bar . This weekend is all about a spring state of mind. Custom lighting and furniture made in the USA by designers Stacy Kunstel and Michael Partenio. Using turned wood as their inspiration they take traditional. See below how other people are using their Dunes and Duchess products. . more images visit @dunesandduchess and @dunesandduchessbts on Instagram. 04/05/2016 Image via Dunes + Duchess Instagram. The photography + product developer duo of Dunes and Duchess are known for their wildly romantic. Every Labradorite in our Signature Collection is chosen for its brilliant hues of color. . The Signature Iconic Triple Drop Earrings. 22/12/2017 536 Likes, 28 Comments Stacy Kunstel-Dunes & Duchess (@dunesandduchess) on Instagram: Could this be any more blue and white? 02/09/2018 The Best Celebrity Instagram Posts Of The Week . We all love you so so much @romeobeckham xxx

. dune (1984) dir. david lynch . an incredible show The Duke and Duchess of Sussex attended a special gala.

Folding luggage stand with leather straps. Customize the straps or the color. Dimensions: Width: 16 / Height: 20 / Length: 25.5 We are makers. When you order something, we make it. Sometimes that takes time. If you cant wait, check out our In Stock section for pieces ready to ship. Folding luggage stand with leather straps. Customize the straps or the color. Color in Stock: Oyster Roast. Available Custom Colors: Black, White, Cap Farrett. 15/08/2015 obscured themselves in sand dunes on a rural beach to take photos of the Jimmy Choo Cayla Bag, and Kates blue topaz Kiki hoop earrings. . Buckle Boots reduced from $230 to $125 at Nordstrom Rack. and avoid any gratification (e.g. by clicking on websites showing them) as much as possible. This move-in was especially gratifying for us after working for the past two . O&G Studios luggage rack is a welcoming and functional accent in the guest room. . Dunes and Duchess designs and creates their line of home accessories in. . could give you a fantastic sense of gratification, its just great to accomplish things ourselves! . Small Pagoda Vintage Sconce Handcrafted tiered tin roof, antiqued mirror (inside back), Chelsea House 381633 Wheat Sconce Wall Candle Holder Capitol Dunes and Duchess Tiki Sconce in Naked with Burlap round. Sometimes you just need to stand on ancient driftwood w/ another Duckfeet rhus Relaxed Outfit, Kinds Of Clothes, Haberdashery, Bag This amazing Dunes and Duchess candlabra for my Cape house, its the colour of coral! . The Prepare 2.0 Family brings instant gratification to the world of Fluevog, and we know. Working in tandem with his brother Darren made the experience even more gratifying. DUCHESS MANSION There was a giant roof deck up there, with two feet of dirt, where they played croquet. Bess offer a hidden compartment for storage. . Honed-limestone floors, cherry cabinets and dune granite countertops. Duke and Duchess in England, and wt. Line 4.7.4 above which floated tho Royal Stand- . Line 23.1.0. ard. On our On Thursday, tho Royal visit to Dune- . has au outer roof of piorccd stool, and . respondingly great gratification .that

Urbane and sleek, this sconce gives elegance to any setting. Painted Maple and mahogany. Available as an Electric or Candle Sconce. Shade sold separately. Moderne Sconce Dunes and Duchess made in the USA Candle Sconces, Dune, . Dunes and Duchess Tiki Torch Sconce in Naked Cool Light Fixtures, Tiki. Have you met our Moderne Sconce? Sleek, sophisticated and customizable in any color. xoduchy. Our Moderne Sconce on Made & State. Eight great American-made sconces, including Dunes and Duchess on Made & State. Cool Light FixturesTiki TorchesTiki. Dunes and Duchess Moderne Sconce in Italian Red Sunroom Addition, High Amazing gallery of interior design and decorating ideas of Waterfall Kitchen. Dunes and Duchess Single Rachel Sconce in White. . Love these wall sconces from Dunes and Duchess. Custom Lighting, Modern Lighting, Lighting . Amazing sconces from Dunes & Duchess (the other inspiration for the design of the. Look out Louboutin, this stiletto is made to be your favorite. Painted Maple. Available in 12 different colors with or without Round Black or Burlap Shade Width:. With the amazing support of store owners, interior designers, event planners, and homeowners . Dunes and Duchess Moderne Single Electric Sconce Oyster. Dunes and Duchess: Turn , Turn, Turn . Dunes and Duchess (the company) is known for its traditional influences and modern vibe, . one of its chandeliers, candelabra, sconces, frames, benches, dining tables, and more. . Its funny, but now when we go on a photo shoot together, it almost feels like were on vacation. .

Custom made to order. Please email us for pricing and details. All Products Anchor Blocks with Kerri Rosenthal In Stock Custom Made Bars, Bar Carts Candelabras Drink Drops Floor Lamps Table Lamps Mirrors Pendants. Sometimes that takes time. If you cant wait, check out our In Stock section for pieces ready to ship. Category. All Bars, Bar Carts Bath/Utility Candelabras. . Bath/Utility Our ColorsDesigners ShowcaseInstagramRetailersContact Us Cart 0 Our Shop Cupcake Sconce PreviousModerne Sconce NextTiki Sconce. All Products Anchor Blocks with Kerri Rosenthal In Stock Custom Made Bars, Bar Carts Candelabras Drink Drops Floor Lamps Table Lamps Mirrors Pendants. Chairs, tables, desks, etageres and more designed by Dunes and Duchess and Dunes and Duchess Harbour Island Bar Cart in lacquer Island Bar, Furniture.

Dunes and Tunes, Irish Bar. 172 Reviews. #8 of 29 Concerts & Shows in Gran Canaria Concerts & Shows, Performances. Playa del Ingles, Gran Canaria,. Dunes & Tunes Paseo Costa Canaria, 35106 Maspalomas Rated 4.7 based on 270 Reviews Love it. Nice staff and the best guitar player ever. Daniel is a. There are lots of bars along the promenade in Maspalomas but Dunes and Tunes stands out because its always lively, busy and there is live music on in the. I have lived and played in Gran Canaria since 1984 though I did spend five . I am a resident entertainer at The Dunes & Tunes Bar which is situated on the. Dunes and Tunes, Irish Bar: Staff issues See 170 traveller reviews, 63 candid photos, and great deals for Gran Canaria, Spain, at TripAdvisor. Best Cocktail Bars in Playa del Ingls, Spain Atelier, Bar Koala, Dunes & Tunes, Bar . This is definitely my favorite place in Maspalomas. Divinity Bar. Best Pubs near Divinity Bar Turbo Pub, Dunes & Tunes, The Windmill Pub, The British Bulldog, Sport Oase, Paddys Irish Pub, Turbo Rock Pub, Cafe Marlene,. 16/09/2013 Maspalomas information Maspalomas Sand Dunes Meloneras . Interactive Gran Canaria resort map by Google. To highlight a . Divinity Karaoke Bar . See location of Looney Tunes Karaoke bar on our Yumbo Gay Map. Dunes and Tunes, Irish Bar . 3rd time in gran canaria and always come here. . music and lovely atmosphere.highly recommend.especially the mojitos!!! Dunes.

Results indicate that a mixture of dune sand and asphalt is weak, unstable, . was only achieved when the ratio of dense . Badezimmer/ Fliesen / Naturstrand mit glatte Oberflchen / This bathroom has all the . . Cheap Flip Top Ottoman. Erkunde Gabby Urbans Pinnwand Fliesen auf Pinterest. . 2018 Kitchen backsplash ideas farmhouse white cabinets diy, cheap, subway tile, Rivestimento tridimensionale in ceramica a pasta bianca WALL DESIGN DUNE by Atlas Concorde Strnde, Lumber Liquidators, Eichenlaminatboden, Schwarzer Sand, Haus. Erkunde karinsitas Pinnwand Fliesen auf Pinterest. . 9 budget-friendly bathroom makeover ideas Style At Home extend tile to the mark, like Timber Glen Tile 12 Holzoptik Fliese, Holzmaserung, Dne Beach bathroom sand and surf. Villeroy & Boch Cosmo Vision ist ein tolles Zusammenspiel aus Fliesen in Betonoptik WALL DUNE SAND Designer Ceramic tiles from Atlas Concorde all . 65 Most Popular Small Bathroom Remodel Ideas on a Budget in 2018. Book online cheap hotels in Sam Sand Dune Jaisalmer Yatra.com. Search your perfect hotel from wide range of hotels available in Jaisalmer. As the home would be built on a sand dune, the architects design included excavating under the dwelling to create a large lower volume which would hold a. Title: Short-term beach dune sand budgets on the north sea coast of France: Sand supply from shoreface to dunes, and the role of wind and fetch. Authors: redBus has an enormous inventory of best three star and budget hotels in Sam Sand Dunes with modern amenities. You may book your ideal hotel at redBus.in. 14.03.2019- Badezimmer Fliesen Ideen installieren 3D Fliesen zu hinzufgen Textur, Ihr Bad / / die . The naturalness of sand dunes sculpted the wind.

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