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delulusionwl · 2 days ago

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♡ I Can't Keep You Off My Diary

Pairing ── Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Reader! | Apollo!Daughter Word ── 2k Synopsis ── In wich Clarisse see drawings of herself in reader's diary. Warnings ── Nothing much? (I hope), Clarisse and her group being annoying as usual, Reader being the target of their teasing? A bit of low self-steem? Insults of reader's apparence? (nothing related by weight, high or strong facial features or body limbs) Please help me with this, I'm new lol A/n ── English is not my native language, forgive any mistakes! Please alert me if any of the nicknames might be offensive to any racial group. I would hate for that to happen, and it’s not my intention. However, since my native language is not English, some of the nicknames may not have racial connotations in my language – which might happen in English. I appreciate your help with this! Please, let me know if it's good hehe :) maybe I'll do an part II, stay tunned!

Y/n wasn’t like any other child of Apollo. She stood out from the more predominant characteristics of all her siblings. The truth was that she often felt like an ugly duckling, with no hope of turning into a beautiful swan.

Amidst her siblings—blond, red-haired, or light-brown, with eyes ranging from honey to the brightest green—Y/n stood out, but not because she radiated more light than the others. Her beauty was cold. While the others resembled a beautiful morning sunbeam, Y/n kept her rays hidden behind layers of clouds—enough to light the day, but not enough to make it vibrant.

Her dark eyes and hair, along with her lightly tanned skin—barely touched by the sun—set her apart from the other children of Apollo, who seemed to be lovingly kissed by sunlight, vibrant, vivid, golden. These features enhanced Y/n’s cold beauty, making her impossible to go unnoticed. Some even claimed she couldn’t be a child of Apollo if the god himself hadn’t claimed her.

Despite her strong and contrasting characteristics in her cabin, Y/n’s abilities proved her to be a legitimate child of the sun god. In training and combat, her bow was her strongest point, always hitting its mark regardless of whether the target was stationary or in motion. She was also a good healer, like most of her siblings, and helped in the infirmary during tough times—especially after Capture the Flag.

What truly made her stand out, however, were her artistic talents: writing, singing, and drawing. Y/n excelled at everything related to art but insisted on keeping it to herself, even among her talented siblings. This was another distinctive trait: unlike most children of Apollo, she wasn’t a social butterfly. She didn’t flaunt her talents or surround herself with friends like her siblings. Y/n was more introspective but could be a great friend when she wanted to.

Y/n’s cold beauty set her apart from all the other children of Apollo. She didn’t go unnoticed—least of all by Clarisse.

The daughter of Ares had seen Y/n’s arrival at camp, skittish like a scalded black cat. Like everyone else at camp, Clarisse had initially thought, So Hades had a daughter? But the truth came out shortly after the rumors spread. Y/n was a daughter of the sun.

Clarisse, already a standout in her cabin, with her group well-established, “welcomed” the new daughter of Apollo to camp. From then on, whenever Clarisse saw Y/n, it was impossible not to make jokes about her appearance.

“Oh my gods, are you sure you’re Apollo’s kid?”

“If the sun had a cold, dull version, that’d be you.”

“Hey, Winter Apollo, ready to brighten our day? On second thought, don’t—the day might get even worse.”

“I always thought Apollo’s kids were lively and full of energy. But you? You seem to be on night mode all the time.”

Many such remarks were made by Clarisse and her group over the years. Sometimes, Y/n even laughed along—not to appease the children of Ares or ingratiate herself, but because the jokes were genuinely creative. The first time Y/n laughed, it only fueled sharper, slightly more biting remarks.

Clarisse vividly remembered the day. The sun was setting, giving way to night, and Y/n was returning to her cabin after a long day helping in the infirmary. Clarisse and her group were heading to their own cabin, inevitably crossing paths with Y/n.

Y/n looked at the group ahead, her expression neutral. As she moved to step aside and let them pass—hopefully without interaction—she was stopped.

“Well, well, the daughter of Apollo. If that’s really who you are. What’s this? Stole the essence of the sun but forgot to bring it to camp?” Clarisse teased, stopping briefly in her path, scanning Y/n from head to toe with an amused grin as her siblings laughed at her comment.

To the children of Ares’ surprise—especially Clarisse’s—Y/n let out a small laugh. The sound echoed in Clarisse’s ears, her eyes locked onto Y/n. “There’s the glow,” Clarisse thought, captivated by Y/n’s smile.

When Clarisse finally shook off the thoughts and the sound of Y/n’s laugh, her siblings were already piling on more jokes, sharper than before. She quickly snapped back to the present, slipping her hands into her pockets.

“Gods, with the way you are, Apollo might be rethinking his parenthood,” one of Clarisse’s brothers said, gesturing dismissively toward Y/n. This time, the comment didn’t amuse her as much, though the other children of Ares—Clarisse excluded—found it funny.

“Come on, leave our little sunblocked alone. Or she might start crying,” Clarisse said with a playful grin, eliciting more laughter from her brothers as they moved on toward their cabin.

As they walked away, Clarisse’s gaze briefly returned to Y/n, who took a deep breath and resumed her own path, glancing back at the Ares group and briefly meeting Clarisse’s eyes.

From that point on, Y/n wasn’t often seen near the Ares children. Camp was full of demigods, and Y/n would inevitably cross paths with others—or so Clarisse thought. But Y/n mainly appeared in training, the dining pavilion, occasionally in the infirmary, and during Capture the Flag.

Wherever Y/n was, if Clarisse was nearby, her eyes seemed magnetically drawn to the daughter of Apollo. Whether it was a crowded space or an open field, Clarisse couldn’t help but look, even if just for a few moments.

The first time Clarisse’s eyes were locked for more than a few seconds and she couldn’t look away from Y/n was in the dining hall at night, where the daughter of Apollo was talking with her siblings, wearing a beautiful smile and laughing softly with them.

The embers of the flames from the dining hall’s pyre made her dark hair shimmer with red and golden highlights, and her skin reflected the flames almost like a mirror, becoming subtly flushed from the heat and glow of the firelight. Her dark eyes and a smile just a bit wider than usual seemed to brighten the surroundings. Clarisse swallowed hard upon noticing all this and forced her attention back to her own group.

The daughter of Ares tried not to think about the daughter of Apollo over the years, but Y/n had already carved out a place in Clarisse’s curly-haired head. So, every time she spotted Y/n from a distance, Clarisse allowed herself a few seconds to look at her, just enough to take her in, before quickly turning her attention back to her group, pushing thoughts of the daughter of Apollo away.

Those thoughts, however, were about how Clarisse would like to see Y/n more often, how she hoped to talk to her more often... maybe without the sarcastic remarks. But Clarisse’s brain had already made a list of jokes, each one less rude and intimidating than the last, but a little funnier, unconsciously hoping to make Y/n laugh at one of them again.

Until one day, Clarisse, accompanied by two of her group members, was on her way to Hephaestus’s forge. Alec, one of Clarisse’s brothers, had left his sword there to refine its blade since the Capture-the-Flag game was at the end of the month. As they walked across the open lawn where a path led to the forge, Clarisse’s eyes fell on someone sitting in the grass with a notebook and pencil in hand, facing a bird perched on a rock.

The daughter of Ares chuckled through her nose, catching the attention of her brothers, who were casually chatting about a few strategies and how they hoped to defeat the children of Athena in the upcoming Capture-the-Flag. Alec and Darius smiled, amused, as they followed Clarisse across the lawn.

“Look at that, it’s ‘Apollo on mute,’” Clarisse said as they got close enough, causing the bird on the rock to quickly fly away and Y/n to look up at her, squinting slightly against the brightness of the day. Alec and Darius’s laughter was audible. Clarisse glanced at the open notebook in Y/n’s hands, which contained a few sketches: on one page was the landscape of the field, and on the other, the startled bird. “What do we have here?” Clarisse said, snatching the notebook from the other girl, who jumped up immediately.

“Clarisse, give it back!” Y/n said loudly, nervous, stepping closer, but Alec and Darius were quicker, positioning themselves in front of her to prevent her from reaching Clarisse, who held the notebook in her hands.

"Ah, what’s the matter?" Clarisse said with an amused laugh, and Y/n looked at her nervously, casting the same uneasy glances at Alec and Darius, who were thoroughly enjoying the daughter of Apollo’s reaction. "You’re not half bad at drawing, Ray-less." The daughter of Ares turned her attention back to the notebook, flipping a page and finding a drawing of a rose with many thorns curling across both sheets, along with some scattered phrases, some in Ancient Greek and others in English. Fragments of what seemed to be thoughts. "Oh... look what we have here... is this a diary?" Clarisse said, laughing, as she turned another page to see what else was inside.

"Clarisse, this isn’t funny. Give it back. Now!" Y/n said in a louder tone, reaching her hand out quickly, demanding that the daughter of Ares return her notebook.

"Chill, girl," Clarisse said nonchalantly, looking at the page she had turned to. "Why the rush, Y/n? Did you write down who your crush is in here?" The daughter of Ares laughed, and that was enough for Y/n to try pushing past Alec and Darius, who were standing right in front of her, to snatch the notebook from Clarisse herself.

"Hold it, overcast sky," Alec said with a sarcastic smirk, stopping Y/n from getting any closer.

"Clarisse!" Y/n called out loudly, her eyes fixed on the girl, who had just flipped another page in the notebook.

As soon as Y/n saw Clarisse’s eyes widen slightly and her lips part softly, her heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed hard. "Shit." The daughter of Apollo thought, swallowing again.

"C-Clarisse. Give it back!" Y/n pleaded, her voice trembling, her face starting to turn red, but Clarisse’s eyes remained fixed on the notebook as she turned more pages.

The daughter of Ares’s brothers grew curious, and that was enough for them to move closer to their sister, one on each shoulder, peering at the pages in the hands of a practically frozen Clarisse.

"IT’S YOU!" Darius shouted in delight, and Alec burst into laughter while the two girls stood there, almost like statues.

Some drawings were heroic, worthy of one of those paintings of the Greek gods: Clarisse with her spear, battle clothes, hair and parts of her attire flowing in the wind, claiming her victory over faceless enemy bodies. Clarisse shouting and warring, accompanied by her own army of faceless people.

Other drawings? Something simpler, calm… gentle, perhaps a side of Clarisse she didn’t let many see: Clarisse smiling with her siblings—not a sarcastic or amused smile, the one she always gives after tormenting another poor soul at camp. No, not that one. It was an open, carefree, and relaxed smile. Clarisse with her piercing eyes and long lashes, looking straight at whoever's eyes were on the page. Clarisse with a small smile, just like she had during one of the past campfires, except this time with a flower in her hair. A real flower, pressed between the pages of the same drawing.

Y/n cleared her throat while Alec and Darius laughed beside a frozen Clarisse, who was staring at the drawings.

"Had your fun?" Y/n said, steadying the tremble in her voice, stepping forward and snatching her notebook back quickly. She closed it and started walking back to her cabin. Even though Y/n tried to appear unshaken, the undertone of her voice betrayed her mortification.

Clarisse finally snapped out of it when she heard the firm steps on the dirt fading away. She turned, watching Y/n moving away as fast as she could, while her brothers still laughed beside her.

"Wow, she did more than just write down who her crush was," Alec said, chuckling.

"Congrats, Clarisse, you’ve got yourself a fan," Darius said, laughing even harder, leaning on his sister’s shoulder.

Clarisse brushed Darius’s hand off her, and although her face was flushed, her brows were furrowed, and the glare she shot Darius was far from friendly.

"Shut up, idiot," Clarisse snapped at Darius, irritated, shoving him hard enough to send him to the ground. When she turned to Alec with the same fiery glare, he shut his lips and raised his hands, trying to compose himself. "I swear to the gods," the daughter of Ares muttered angrily, trying to pull herself together.

"Just one question..." Darius said as he got up, catching his breath. "Why’s your face so red?" He smirked, teasing his sister, while Alec struggled not to laugh.

"It’s the sun, idiot." Clarisse said curtly, blaming something else as she started walking again toward Hephaestus's forge, refusing to think about what had just happened.

Alec and Darius followed a few steps behind her, stifling their laughter, while Clarisse stomped forward, determined to keep her thoughts far from Y/n’s notebook. Far from Y/n.

"'Apollo on mute' has her glow," Alec whispered to Darius, who stifled another laugh as they trailed behind Clarisse. "Clari, wait up!" Alec called out, still laughing.

#delulusional #clarisse la rue #clarisse larue #clarisse la rue x reader #Clarisse La Rue #Clarisse Larue #PJO #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #heroes of olympus #dior goodjohn

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artficlly · 1 day ago

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GIRL i just saw this reblog pop up and holy shit this has made my day. your breakdown of this chapter has me giggling and kicking my feet like A MADWOMAN! oh my god?? i can't thank you enough, literally reading people enjoy my writing makes me so happy?!?!

i'm so glad you like this tender-ish side of bucky <33 i did struggle a bit trying to show him caring but also still being a bit of a menace. ive been writing the next chapter (but also have been so distracted working on my not-so-secret project hehe) and it's gonna be a gruesome one, but also kinda hot.... i hope??? basically, we are goin HEAD FIRST into protective bucky ™ but also bucky barnes has many issues ™

becca will not be a happy girl, but who cares!! feral bucky barnes time lets gooooooo!!!

smog & spirits: the rat king (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hi!! just wanted to say thank you all so much for the love on the last chapter and sticking with me!! i know i hadn't posted in forever with being busy with uni and all so it really made me happy that people still remembered this fic. this chapter (once again) was supposed to cover a lot more but i got carried away lol, so instead i'm posting this half and then the next half soon once i have it properly written up. anyway!! please enjoy!! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Gertrude Crowley was a nervous woman.

It was the first thing you noticed about her; her movements were hesitant, as though she feared drawing too much attention. In the dim light, you noticed her face—worn, yes, but not aged beyond her years. Lines of worry etched her brow and framed her mouth. Her greying hair, streaked with darker remnants of its original chestnut hue, was hastily pinned beneath a weathered black scarf, frazzled tufts poking through the holes strewn throughout the fabric.

“Tea, Ms. Crowley?” You asked the woman. Despite your soft tone, the woman jumped in her seat, hand raising to her bosom as she took in a sharp breath.

“I suppose, Dear.” She squeaked in reply

You gave the older woman a reassuring smile, hoping to calm her fears. Her pale blue eyes darted away quickly, revealing a haunted expression. They glanced at you briefly, then withdrew as if frightened by what they might find. She fidgeted with her hands, the frayed edges of her gloves exposing trembling fingers.

“Tea is good for the soul, don’t you think?” You hummed to her softly, your upper half bent over your kitchen table, and you poured the steaming liquid into two cups. You hoped the woman wouldn’t comment on how the ceramic was chipped; the painted flowers faded from years of use. “Always so cold in The Warrens, it warms you up from the inside.”

Ms Crowley nodded stiffly, teacup rattling against its matching plate as she held it in trembling hands. You took a brief moment to observe her, eyes searching her appearance. Her clothing was plain but serviceable—a dark woollen cloak that hung unevenly over her frame, its hem damp and muddied from the streets. Beneath it, a simple grey dress fitted her modestly, cinched at the waist with a cracked but sturdy belt. A brass locket hung around her neck, glinting faintly when she shifted. Though practical and well-worn, her boots carried scuffs deep enough that you questioned if the dark fabric was her socks beneath.

She took a hesitant sip from her cup and looked up at you with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”

You settled into your seat, dragging your cup across the table's woodgrain. “How can I be of assistance?”

Ms Crowley hesitated, her lips thinning into a line as she contemplated a response. You wisely decided to allow her some space, and the steaming liquid cupped in your palm suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.

The older woman stumbled over her words, once, twice, thrice before finally settling on a simple, “I..I have never met a witch before.”

You smiled down into your cup, elbows resting on the table as you slowly looked up at her through a strand of loose hair that had fallen across your forehead. “I think you will find witches are alike most people you would meet—just like any stranger you would pass on the street.”

She peered across the table—as if testing your own words against you. Her tired, pale blue eyes squinting as she examined you from head to toe. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right. And I suppose I should trust you. I ‘ave been told most witches are trustworthy.”

“We are.” You state simply, only pausing to take a sip from your cup. The warm liquid fills your belly, a soft hum escaping your throat as you tilt you head in thought. “We’re salesmen, in a way, sellin’ our wares. There will always be scam artists, a few among the many, but most of us are just makin’ ends meet.”

The older woman contemplates your words. She takes a sip, a long one, then nods in affirmation. “You’re right. I should have some faith.”

“Now, Ms. Crowley, how can I help you?” You query once again.

“Well… I don’t know how this all works…”

“Just tell me what troubles you. From the start, if possible.”

Before she could speak, the door creaked open behind you, breaking the fragile quiet that had settled over the room. The sound was faint, yet it resonated through the stillness like the tolling of a distant church bell. Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the chipped teacup as a wave of unease swept through you. The air seemed heavier, colder—an unspoken warning curling down your spine.

“Spirit-raiser.”

That voice. Gravelly, familiar. Unwelcome. You sucked in a sharp breath, though it felt as though your ribcage had suddenly shrunk two sizes too small for your organs. The bruises still present across your abdomen ached as every muscle in your body tensed, a tangled knot of shock electrifying your nerves. But beyond that, beyond the anger and disbelief, there was a feeling far more treacherous: relief.

He returned.

Your head whipped around, posture immediately straightening as though your spine was a pole made of steel. There he was—Bucky Barnes, leaning in the doorway like he owned the place, his sharp, stormy eyes swept over you, then flicked briefly to Ms. Crowley, whose face drained of colour. The woman looked ready to bolt, her hands clutching the table's edge as if it might anchor her in place. You couldn’t blame her. A woman already so anxious over the idea of magic she had positively turned green the moment she entered your flat. Now she was face to face with the dreaded Bucky Barnes, the fucking menace of the Sootstone? Many in The Warrens likely hadn’t seen the man in person, maybe at a distance, or knew him through whispered tales. You certainly hadn’t encountered the man until he came crashing into your life, smog and all.

“Bucky,” you said, his name slipping out before you could catch it. A string of curses nearly left your tongue along with it. How bittersweet could it be that despite all the hurt you felt, you still called him by a name so familiar? Too familiar. The taste of it burned on your tongue. Your heart slammed into a furious rhythm as what could only be described as a smirk graced his lips. How could he act like he hadn’t vanished from your life without so much as a goodbye?

How could he turn up here and act like all was well and normal?

It had hurt when he had left; yes, that was to be expected. But these past few days, he had avoided you. At least, it felt like avoidance. You hadn’t heard a word from the Smog Boys since your beating at the hand of the Iron Rats, not even a whisper on the sharp winds that rolled in from the dock. Natasha would have told him. In what world would she not have told Bucky that his pet witch had missed the summons because she was trembling, bloodied and bruised on her own floor?

You had convinced yourself that maybe it was for the better, an escape from Becca’s wrath and escape from the Smog Boys…

“I’m busy.” The words escaped you before you could think.

He raised his brows in disbelief. Your toes curled in their boots, cringing at your own blunt tone. But then again, had he just expected everything to return to normal?

“I need’a favour.” He stepped further into the room, his boots thudding against the floorboards as he surveyed the space with casual indifference. His gait was smooth, gaze unbothered. A morbid part of you wished you could inspect his back and see the damage you caused. It didn’t seem to bother him or impede his movements.

Ms. Crowley made a small, frightened noise, her trembling hands going to her locket as though it might ward off his presence. “I—perhaps I should come back later…”

“What’re you doin’ here?” you demanded, the words sharper than you intended, cutting over Ms. Crowley’s muttering.

“As I said, I need’a favour.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you fought to keep your composure.

“A favour?” you repeated, the words dripping with scepticism. “After everythin’, you show up here and ask for a favour?”

Ms. Crowley flinched at the tone of your voice, but you couldn’t stop now. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest crack in his facade of nonchalance.

“Watch it,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t want to push me.”

“And you don’t want to push me neither, Barnes,” You shot back, planting your hands on the table. “You don’t get to leave without so much as a ‘thank you’ and then show up here, actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”

“You say that, spirit-raiser, but…” He sucked on his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he looked down at you, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets as he sighed through his nose. “I just spent the last four days cleanin’ up your mess.”

Your brows drew inward, confusion slipping through. The entire time you had spent in misery, licking your wounds and nursing your broken heart, he had been out there defending you?

A devilish expression crossed his face. “You really thought you could, what? Walk on over to Grimrow unnoticed while under my protection? Do you realise how long it has taken me to talk the Rat King down from marching over the Sootline and wagin’ war ‘cause of you?”

“They crossed the Sootline. They pursued me.” You rebutted, though even your voice wavered, unsure.

“Yeah.” His head tilted, eyes squinting. “You better be praisin’ whatever fuckin’ witch god you follow, 'cause that little fuck up on their end is the only reason why you’re still here playin’ good little spirit-raiser.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“They hurt me.” You confessed, voice steadying.

“Yeah, I know. Nat told me. Good thing your pretty little face has all healed up. That’s your only fuckin’ worth to me right now after all the trouble you’ve caused.” His words stung; maybe you would’ve believed them true. But you got the sense he was being harsh for the sake of venting frustrations. He wouldn’t even catch your eye as the insults rolled off his tongue.

For a moment, silence filled the room, thick with tension. You could feel Ms. Crowley’s gaze on you. Bucky’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as his eyes finally lifted and bore into yours. His expression was unreadable, a carefully laid mask to cover whatever real emotion raged behind his stormy blue eyes.

Then, to your surprise, Ms. Crowley’s feeble voice cut through the silence.

“I-I-I should go now—”

You whirled around.

“No,” you snapped, cutting her off before she could rise. Ms. Crowley froze, wide-eyed and trembling, her teacup rattling slightly in her unsteady hands. For a brief moment, you thought Bucky might let her stay, that he’d simply loom in the corner, his presence a warning but nothing more.

But then Bucky huffed a sharp breath, irritation flashing across his face as he shrugged out of his jacket.

“Get the fuck out,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument, his eyes sliding to meet the older woman's as you made a noise close to a whimper. “And keep your fuckin’ mouth shut about all this.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, her gaze darting between the two of you. With a frightened nod, she scrambled to her feet, clutching her bag and locket close to her chest.

“Apologies. I ain’t sayin’ a thing. Not a word. I swear.” she stammered, her voice a whisper as she made a beeline for the door.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you turned to Bucky, a glare sharp enough to cut steel fixed on your face.

“You didn’t have to scare her off like that!” you snapped, grabbing the teacups and stalking toward the sink.

“A waste of fuckin’ time is what she was,” Bucky replied casually, his voice dripping with indifference.

“She was a client,” you shot back, setting the cups into the sink with more force than necessary. “A payin’ client. I need clients, Barnes.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you. “You’re actin’ like I don’t pay you triple what they’re offerin’.”

You dipped your hands further into the soapy water, pressing your palms flat against the metal bottom as you sighed, momentarily closing your eyes in exasperation. “You don’t get to decide who’s worth my time. This is my place. My work. You can’t just—”

“I thought Nat was exaggeratin’,” Bucky cut over you, his voice low but carrying an edge that made your stomach churn.

You stiffened, your grip on the cup tightening. “Exaggeratin’ about what?”

“About this.”

Your eyes flew open as his hand caught your chin, tilting your face toward him with an infuriating gentleness. His thumb brushed over your jaw, skimming the faint bruise that lingered there, and his eyes narrowed as they traced the fading split in your lip. A shiver raced down your spine, and you jerked your head away, pulling free of his grasp.

“It’s nothin’,” you muttered, returning to the sink.

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he countered, his tone sharp. “Let me see the rest.”

You froze, your hands hovering over the sink. “No.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped, moving closer. His voice dropped, carrying a dangerous edge. “I need to see what they did to you.”

You shook your head, your pulse roaring in your ears. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

Bucky let out a low growl of frustration, and before you could react, his hand was on your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. His other hand went to your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Bucky, stop,” you protested, grabbing at his wrists. The soapy water made your hands slick, his skin slipping from your grasp. “This isn’t—”

“Quit fightin’ me,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing with something raw and unyielding. “I need to know.”

His words silenced you, leaving you to stare up at him in stunned disbelief. The fight drained out of you, replaced by a reluctant acceptance as you lifted your hands, a trail of water rolling down to your elbows. Your head dipped, staring down at his shoes as droplets dripped onto his boots. With a defeated sigh, you rested your palms on his chest, pressing the wet skin into his buttoned shirt until you could feel the warmth of his body. With a grunt, he tugged your blouse from where it was tucked into your shirt, ripping the fabric upward until it exposed your belly.

The air seemed to leave the room as his gaze fell on the mottled bruises that painted your abdomen, the angry purples and blues. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as his hand hovered over the worst of the damage, his fingers brushing against your side with an uncharacteristic hesitance.

You heard him swallow audibly, adam’s apple bobbing. A shiver ran down your spine as his thumb carefully ran up to your sternum, then across the band of your brassiere.

“How many ribs did you break?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

You sucked in a sharp breath as the hair across your body rose on end. Tingles blossomed across your skull as his hand swept down to the waistband of your skirt, tugging it down to inspect the damage still hidden.

“Three.”

His grunt of acknowledgement was quiet, but the tension dominating his frame was unmistakable. He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his hair, tongue running over his bottom lip.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” The question gave you near vertigo.

“I did.” You lie through your teeth

The gangster shook his head, hands resting on his hips as he looked down at you.

“Bullshit. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’ve felt it, doll.” Your gut clenched as he half motioned towards his back. “If you wanted to fight back, they would’ve been dead long before they touched you.”

You pause. He was right. He was entirely right. You hadn’t fought back because you were what? Dejected and defeated? Too swept up in your own pity? Living in your mother's shadow? Or was it just the shadow you had created for yourself?

“You’re punishin’ yourself, aren’t ya? Hm?”

“I’m not lyin’ Barnes—” You begin to speak, voice raising as hysteria begins to bubble within you. Why was he asking you these things? Why was he pretending to care?

“Why?” He cuts over you,

You turned away, refusing to respond. “I think you should leave now.”

He was silent for a beat. Then you heard the shuffle of clothing as he picked up his coat and swept it over his muscled shoulders. “I still need that favour.”

You sigh, an exaggerated noise as you spin to face him with a scowl. “What now? Can’t it wait?”

“You’re expected. At a meetin’.”

“Meetin’?” You echoed.

“About what happened. With the Iron Rats.”

“I thought you said you dealt with it—” You bite back, irritation flaring.

“Would you just shut your fuckin’ mouth for a second and listen?” Bucky cut over you, voice raised. You clamp your mouth shut in surprise.

“It’s the Rat King.” Bucky meets your gaze. “He wants to meet you.”

—

You would have never described Bucky Barnes as nervous, but the walk to the Sootline almost had you questioning that assumption. Bucky kept his pace steady, though you noticed the subtle clench of his jaw and the occasional twitch of his hand at his side. It wasn’t the demeanour of a nervous man—no, Bucky Barnes didn’t do nervous—but something unexplainable was simmering beneath the surface.

The streets of the Warrens were quieter than usual, the normal hum of life dampened. The sun had grown low in the sky, the usual grey fog warming to a diffused orange and pink glow. The cobblestones were slick beneath your boots, liquids you wouldn’t dare identify, leaving a sheen across the ground that reflected the faint glow of lanterns. You adjusted your coat, tucking it closer against the chill, and cast a sidelong glance at Bucky.

"Barnes, you alright?" you asked cautiously, breaking the silence. You weren’t one to pry, but the energy engulfing the gangster was strange.

“We’re late,” he muttered, his voice clipped.

You frowned, the sharpness of his tone needling at you. “Well, if you’d told me sooner than five minutes ago that I was needed—”

“And you would have come?.” His words were abrupt, cutting through your protest like a blade. “You do ‘ave a habit of ignorin’ my summons.”

Your jaw clamped shut, a heavy silence falling over the both of you. Further down the twisting, wonky street, you could see streetgoers dashing into nearby stores and homes. Above in the stacked homes that towered above the streets, faces cautiously peeked out, watching as Bucky and you marched past. You observed a group of three children ushered away by their mother, her tightly shutting the rickety window with a grim expression.

“It would be best if you kept your mouth shut during this. Only speak when spoken to. Just agree unless I say otherwise.” Bucky finally spoke, voice gruff.

“Why?” You pry, voice unsure.

“‘Cause I can’t help you if you say somethin’ stupid ‘n end up gettin’ yourself in more trouble.”

Your steps faltered, confusion flashing across your face. “Why do you suddenly care?”

His lip twitched, but he continued with his persistent gait. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You’re scarin’ me—”

“I have a reputation to uphold, spirit-raiser. Can’t have these rats thinkin’ I’ve gone weak ’cause of some bird.”

The words landed heavily, and you bit back the sting of their dismissal. “What does your reputation got to do with me?”

His stride didn’t falter, but his gaze flicked toward you, brittle and intense. “If I can’t protect you, then what’s to say I can protect the whole of The Warrens, huh? What’s to stop them from marchin’ over the Sootline?”

“So, what’s this, then? You strikin’ a deal, handin’ me over to them, actin’ like you don’t care so they don’t think you’re weak ‘cause of some bird?”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d have been dead a long time ago.” He huffed out in an empty laugh. He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. The weight of his stare rooted you in place. “No, doll, those rats… they fucked up.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as he continued, his voice low and deliberate, every word laced with venom. “I’m gonna get them to bend the fuckin’ knee. Show them whose the real fuckin’ King around here.”

—

The Sootline River separated the two territories like a jagged scar, its sluggish current carrying the city’s filth toward the sea. On either bank, the Smog Boys and Iron Rats assembled in tense lines, a mix of swagger and unease flickering across their faces. The lanterns they carried swayed, casting fragmented shadows on the water as the sun finally slipped beyond the horizon, coating the land in creeping darkness, its coffin-like suffocation only exaggerated by the smoke and ash from the Smokestacks.

Bucky stood at the river’s edge, his posture deceptively relaxed, his hands buried in his coat pockets. His gaze locked onto the figure across the river: Varlan Crey—The Rat King. Varlan was everything Bucky wasn’t—brash, loud, and lumbering, his bulk swathed in a tattered black coat with yellow stitching. His grin was wide, but his teeth were uneven, lending him the air of a predator more accustomed to snapping than scheming. His gang flanked him, a pack of diseased rats, restless and waiting for a signal.

“Barnes,” Varlan called, his voice carrying easily across the water, gravelly and full of mock cheer. “Shame we ain’t meetin’ unda different circumstances.”

“Varlan,” Bucky replied, his tone steady, almost clipped. He didn’t move a muscle, his stance radiating a nearly unbearable calm.

Varlan cocked his head, his smirk widening. “I’m guessin’ this is the bird in question?” He nodded towards you.

You froze under his scrutiny, your skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. The air seemed colder now, and your chest tightened as though the river’s chill had seeped into your bones.

Bucky gave a single, deliberate nod. “Yes.”

Varlan snorted softly. “A bird from The Warrens, crossing inta my territories ‘n causing a ruckus amongst my boys… you undastand how this looks bad, Barnes?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. His smooth and unhurried tone carried across the water like a blade. “I can. But it weren’t her that was causing the ruckus now, was it? I’m guessin’ these lies you’re tellin’ yourself are why you so recklessly declared war before examinin’ the facts.”

Varlan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. “Facts,” he repeated, shaking his head as though the word itself amused him. “You’re soundin’ more and more like them fancy wankers up in The Flower Districts, Barnes. Especially in those fine tailored suits a yours.”

A chorus of low laughter rumbled from the Iron Rats side of the bridge, the lines of men with their yellow handkerchiefs grinning amongst themselves.

“Oh, I can recommend you a tailor, Crey,” Bucky said lightly, his voice laced with faint amusement. “I know one who gives discounts for friends.”

It was now time for the Smog Boys to stir behind Bucky, muffled chuckles rippling through the crowd. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Bucky’s lips, though his gaze remained fixed on Varlan. With the subtle jab landed, Varlan bristled. His shoulders stiffened, and his smirk turned brittle. He barked a short laugh, more bark than humour.

“Well,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” Bucky replied.

You glanced at him, searching for some clue about his thinking, but his expression gave away nothing. Beside you, the Smog Boys settled, hands tucked into their pockets and chests puffed out as they eyed the Iron Rats across the river. Their stillness wasn’t as practised as Bucky's. He held the type of quiet that preceded violence, the kind that made your stomach churn. As you scanned their faces, you noted how young some men were, barely out of boyhood. It might have been a cause for concern, but you knew many sought out Bucky’s leadership out of desperation. Their energy was much better placed under the guidance of someone like Bucky instead of them turning to the streets where their violence and frustration would run rampant. Regardless of their age or status, you had noticed one common theme among the Smog Boys—none were left unfed, and their clothes were always without holes. The same could not be said for other less fortunate souls who braved The Warrens alone.

“I admit,” Varlan began, dragging out the word with a performative sigh. “That I may ‘ave been… hasty. But ya can’t blame me, not with the information I was told.”

“I guess so,” Bucky replied simply.

Bucky’s lack of reaction agitated the larger man, a cross expression forming on his greasy face. Then his smirk returned, sly and serpentine. “Well, I am impressed by ya…little investigation. Touched a nerve, did it?”

A ripple of unease passed through you as Varlan Crey lifted his brows, head tilted to match his devious, wide-eyed expression. A subtle dig at Bucky’s involvement—or worse, his attachment to you? You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both their gazes shift momentarily to you.

By some miracle, Bucky didn’t react to the provocation. Instead, his voice came low and steady. “I take it you spoke with the witch?”

You felt your face react before you could steel yourself, face scrunching in confusion. Witch? What witch was Bucky referring to? He certainly wasn’t referring to you—you had never met the Rat King before, let alone spoke with him about your misdeeds of crossing into his territories. In retrospect, with the gravity of the situation weighing upon you, it was a foolish assumption to make thinking you could walk into Grimrow unimpeded or unidentified. In recent months, it seemed everyone and anyone knew who you were before you knew them. It was as if you walked your life with a ginormous red hot brand across your forehead that simply said: Bucky Barnes!

“Spoke? Yes,” Varlan said, his voice emerging in a drawl. “Come ‘ere, girl.”

He turned slightly, and a figure emerged from the Iron Rats’ crowd.

Wanda.

Your chest tightened, bruising squeezing painfully. She walked forward with her usual unnerving grace, her head high, her eyes sweeping the scene before her. Her auburn locks bounced across her white dress, sheepskin draped over her shoulders to protect her from the chill. Coven garb. She was calm. Too calm. The shock of seeing her in the Church of Light clothing almost made you physically recoil. You had never seen the attire in the flesh, but you remembered how your mother had described it—white to symbolise the light and the chosen babe, the Light-bringer. Diviner.

The voices of the past echoed those names in your mind.

Light-bringer…

Your mother had always been short in her tales, too afflicted by the trauma and illness that had ruled most of her life away from the Coven. She had only spoken of the cruelty and sickness in those temple walls. The white was purity, the end of times, the rapture… but also a symbol of their devotion. The crimson blood of their self-inflicted or sometimes forced punishments showed up best on a fresh canvas.

How had Wanda inserted herself in your life so quickly? How long had Leofric and his coven of fucking madness been tailing you? And how had Bucky known to bring her? You glanced at him, desperate for a flicker of understanding, but his face remained devoid of emotion.

“It seems my friend, Barnes ‘ere, is obsessed with facts.” The Rat King spoke, pulling you from your confused daze. He wheezed out a laugh, a phlegm-filled cough quickly following as he spat the glob into the filthy churning Sootline.

“Go on then, girl. State the facts.” Varlan instructed with a bark.

Wanda folded her hands in front of her, her voice level and composed. “I invited her to Grimrow.”

A surprised murmur swept over the crowd.

“The Church of Light has been expanding its temple across the Sootline. I was honoured to become the Head Priestess for our new build—”

“Yeah, yeah, cut to the facts, girl.” Varlan cut over Wanda.

The auburn woman's eyes sparked with something that could only be described as irritation, but it was only a flicker as she expertly composed herself. “I invited her over to celebrate with me, as we have been friends since childhood.”

The word friends felt like a slap. Or even better, a well-placed stab to the abdomen. Your throat tightened as you stared at her, horrified by her ease in lying. How could she say it so smoothly? So convincingly? You tried to form words, but they caught in your throat, leaving you in silence.

“You agree,” Varlan pressed, his voice breaking through your haze, “that you were invited?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came, head spinning. Finally, you forced yourself to speak. “Yes.”

Varlan’s sly eyes narrowed, assessing you. “You say you are both friends but… the bartender and my men witnessed a fight between ya both,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “Why?”

Wanda quickly stepped in, her voice carrying a faint trace of sorrow. “I had expressed my concern. I wished she would stop workin’ for the Smog Boys out of fear for her safety.”

Varlan’s amusement flickered across his face, but you caught the subtle way his eyes darted toward Bucky. It was a jab meant to provoke. Bucky didn’t bite. He remained as unmoving as stone.

“And what do you say?” Varlan asked, turning his attention back to you.

Wanda’s eyes burned into your own, her chin lifting. You could’ve sworn you saw the ghost of a smirk across her lips as she watched you squirm. You couldn’t claim she was lying, or this elaborate fabrication would fall apart. You couldn’t gauge her motive. Was it to make you feel you owed her and the Church of Light? Was it to protect you? Plant seeds of doubt within Bucky, and make it seem like you had hidden parts of your life from him?

“She’s tellin’ the truth,” you surrender, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.

“And do you have evidence? Of this letter sent to you to invite you?”

Your stomach dropped further, quickly scrambling to come up with a believable lie. “No… No, I burn all my old mail. I use it as kindlin’.”

“Convenient,” Varlan spat out with a slow shake of his head. “Very convenient.”

“I have evidence,” Wanda interjected smoothly, producing a rolled parchment from somewhere on her person. “It is the reply she sent me, confirmin’ the date.”

Bucky’s shoulders subtly relaxed beside you. Had he known about the lie, or was he being strung along by her games, too? Had the two spoken as well? What lies had she told him? Worst of all was the flare of jealousy in your gut—the thought of him talking with that woman, the idea of him trusting her over you—the weight of betrayal was suffocating. Wanda had gone to unimaginable lengths, forging a note in your handwriting to solidify this ruse.

“You wrote this reply?” Varlan asked, holding the parchment aloft.

“Yes.” Your tongue felt thick in your mouth.

Varlan examined the note for a long moment before nodding. “Well, seems you’re right, Barnes. My men were in the wrong. “

“So, we have an understanding now, Crey?” Bucky asked, his voice steady.

“Believe we do, Barnes,” Varlan replied. “Your woman can walk free.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his hand flexing at his side. For a moment, he didn’t respond; his cold blue eyes locked on Varlan like a wolf sizing up its prey.

“That’s it?” Bucky asked, his voice low, dangerously calm. “She walks free, and we’re supposed to call it even?”

Varlan spread his hands in a gesture of mock generosity. “What more do you want, Barnes? She crossed into my territory. I’ve agreed to let her go, no harm done. This should be the end of it.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He glanced down at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before looking back at Varlan. “No harm done? Is that what ya think?”

“She’s standin’ here, ain’t she?” Varlan said, his tone oily, his confidence growing in the face of no immediate retaliation. “No blood spilt, no lastin’ damage. Consider this a…generous gesture from me.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. Without another word, he stalked toward the bridge.

The movement drew startled murmurs from both sides.

“What’s he doin’?” one of the Iron Rats hissed, his hand twitching toward his weapon.

“Hold!” Varlan snapped. “Let him come if he wants.” There was a cool confidence to his tone, a confidence that was likely misplaced.

“Barnes,” Varlan said, his voice rising as Bucky drew closer with deliberate, measured steps. “There ain’t no need for this. I’ve said the matter is settled.”

Bucky said nothing as he reached the other side. His hand slid into his coat, and when it emerged, he held a knife. The blade gleamed in the lantern light, its sharp edge catching the flickering flames.

The Iron Rats stiffened as if momentarily stunned and unable to make a move.

“Let’s be clear,” Bucky said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension like the edge of his blade. “You think you can cross me, threaten a woman under my protection, and walk away with a few pretty words? Is that what ya think, Crey?”

Varlan stepped back instinctively, his misplaced confidence crumbling as Bucky loomed over him. “Barnes, this is unnecessary—”

Bucky moved faster than anyone expected. His boot struck Varlan’s chest in a brutal kick, sending the Rat King sprawling onto his back. Gasps erupted from the Iron Rats, a few finally thawing out enough to jerk forward, but were quickly off-put their heroism by the crowd of Smog Boys inching across the bridge, blades drawn and faces like jackals.

At some point in the chaos, you had lost sight of Wanda, the witch disappearing into the shadows and fog like a ghost in the night.

Varlan scrambled backwards, his hands raised in a panicked gesture of surrender. “Wait! Barnes, wait!”

Bucky crouched over him, the knife hovering dangerously close to Varlan’s throat. “Ya think this is a game, Crey? Well, let’s fuckin’ play then, huh?” he spat.

“I—I didn’t mean for any of this!” Varlan stammered, his voice high with panic. “I swear, Barnes. Please!”

“Beg,” Bucky said, his voice cold and unrelenting.

Varlan’s face twisted with humiliation, but the knife at his throat left no room for pride. Slowly, he rose to his knees, his hands still outstretched in surrender but his entire form trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I was wrong. Please.”

“Louder,” Bucky demanded.

“I’m sorry!” Varlan cried, his voice cracking. “You can ‘ave the men, do what ya want with ‘em. Is that what you want? Please… just—”

Bucky gripped his balding head with a firm grip, directing Varlan’s watery, terrified eyes to look across the Sootline at you. You had a sudden epiphany, an understanding that Bucky had never been nervous. No. That strange energy, that twitchiness… it had been pure, unfiltered rage.

“Now, say sorry to her.” Bucky instructed, his voice near seething.

“I am sorry! I’m sorry for me actions. And my mens.” The Rat King cried out. Your gaze lifted to meet Bucky’s as he stared back across the Sootline at you. His grip on the man’s head tightened. “Please!”

“Bucky.” You finally spoke up, your voice soft as the breeze as it carried across the river.

As if your brief speech had broken a spell cast across the gangster, Bucky immediately straightened, his expression calm as he sheathed the knife. He reached out and patted Varlan’s head mockingly.

“Good little rat,” he murmured. “You know, I’m hostin’ a party soon. Maybe I’ll invite you, and you can dance and entertain me like the fuckin’ jester you are.”

Varlan’s humiliation was evident, his men exchanging uneasy glances. Bucky grinned wide, showing all his teeth.

“As for the men,” He said, his tone sharp as he turned to face the crowd of Iron Rats head-on. “The ones who crossed the border. Hand them over.”

Varlan hesitated for a moment, his pride still clinging stubbornly. But the weight of Bucky’s gaze, the threat of what he might do, was too much to bear. He nodded quickly, motioning to his men.

As if not wanting to anger the gangster further, the Iron Rats were quick to locate the three culprits and push them ahead, their expressions ashen with terror. Smog Boys emerged from the mist like spectres, grasping the men and dragging them across the bridge before they could escape and bolt back into the depths of Grimrow.

“Take them,” Varlan said hoarsely, his body sunken in defeat. “They’re yours.”

Bucky didn’t even look at them. He turned and crossed the bridge, hand grasping your forearm as he tugged you along. You frantically looked back, watching through the filthy haze as Varlan Crey stumbled back to his feet, cheeks burning, forehead slick with sweat. His men around him looked dejected, their beady eyes following you as you disappeared into the smog.

“Come,” Bucky uttered to you. “We have business to attend to.”

#tysm <3 #smog & spirits

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wukyma · 8 hours ago

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Oh you answered my question ♡ thank u, you fed us so much with all this lore !

First of all, the new poseidon illustration is now my new phone wallpaper, omg his pretty big face with the voluptuous hair .

Second of all, pretty please continue even without pictures ! I'm so interested in your Au! (Ur so right about the not-excuses of Odysseus, I would want Vengeance tho after this bad self-centered justification)

Love the poli/peri/emperor friendship, it's not the first time I see this headcanon and it's such a good idea actually (of course SweetBoyPoli is friend with everyone but the impeccable flavor of a friendship between opposites is still very cool/ complementary) !

But but if I can ask for pictures i would die to see 👀 the moment where they conclude the deal ?

(Also the HAND almost ON Polites FACE??? I have stated at that one for definitely too long. Oh god. Please, its kinda make me feral. )

💫Tatooed Polities ?💫 I must see him with the trident tattoo one day... OR even better : eurylochus/ody reaction to it! Because They know him for almost forever now, so the devastating realitie must be so hard on them (having a deal with a strong and violent god such as the earthshaker and all the implications, ohh good Angst!)

Okay, tell me I read that right too, Poli becoming ✨️friend ✨️ with Circe ?? Fuck your brain is big. Gotta think about the events on circe island with your Polities, that change everything for the better. Of course they can't fight so that rule out Ody and the Moly but maybe Hermes's still here anyway ? Like the little mischievous god he is...

So I have to ask, is Poseidon gonna spy on the fleet -especially Poli since he's beefing with him- ? I kinda have this picture of water spirits reporting to the god every steps ? Tell me if I'm in the wrong ~

(I'm SO ready for mockery tho 🧨 )

Honestly I'm really invested here so every choice is good ♡ would appreciate to read more anyway

(Not very good at detective sorry but hoping someone else will find it!)

FIRST OF ALL receive my massive thanks for writing such a detailed comment on my AU!! These guys are very dear to me, and it makes me extremely happy when someone matches my freak has the same vision <33

And you made it your wallpaper?? I'll bawl fr. Sadlyy i didn't really think through the moment where they concluded the deal, but have an interpretation! (Watch as i struggle drawing without any references except my own face)

The tattoo situation is interesting too because its purpose isn't only to seal the deal ;D hoping that I'll be able to show how that works in the next part— and yes, you're right about Circe; I don't care that it's basically a spoiler because they are just besties material 🫶✨️ can definitely promise a glimpse of Hermes!!

I didn't think of Poseidon using spies, but that's kinda adorable and I'll draw it anyway hehe,, something something water winions lore

(The bottom two are both from water but different species/habitats ig? Whatever, I didn't think too much about it)

#kymanswered #epic the musical #epic the musical fanart #epic polites #polites #epic poseidon #poseidon #epic winions #winions #oa challenge au #yep imma really call it that #lotus eaters #posepoli #polites x posiedon #poseidon x polites #edit: don't be shy anon the city needs to know its heroes #my dms are wide open

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yuzuvrse · 11 hours ago

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Can we have some of ur mouthwashing headcanons for the tulpar crew? (Can be about anything btw) The brain worms are getting hungry again I fear… 😞

-ig ill be 🪷 anon if it’s not taken yet?

HELLOOO BABYYYY sorry this took so long i was dying bc of my finals </3 but anyways welcome 🪷 anon to the family!!!!!! these hcs ended up so unserious LOL

the crew got banned from playing uno after anya nearly flipped the table when daisuke put down like five +4 cards in a row now they just stick to sorry!

swansea hums to himself when he's working, it's usually like old songs but recently daisuke's pop songs have been getting stuck in his head. (i think it would be unbelievably funny if swansea starts singing like the brainrot versions of songs js bc daisuke keeps playing them. yk like the 'oh the weather outside is rizzy, and the fire is so skibidi' LMAOSKJDSK

daisuke doesn't really have a specific music taste, he listens to a mix of everything. doesn't know how to answer when people ask him what his fave genre is so he tries to act cool and says he only listens to rap music.

anya had a wattpad phase. i can't explain further i can just FEEL it.

curly is actually a decent dancer. his mom sent him for dance classes as a kid and he has a good sense of rhythm. jimmy makes fun of him for this though so he doesn't ever mention it.

jimmy has rewatched american psycho probably more than 117 times. he watches it and he's like:

(i am currently watching + reading it for the first time and patrick bateman is literally jimmy to me.) more content utc!

anya is terrible in the kitchen. like seriously do Not let her in there or the house will burn down just from her boiling water or smth. it's okay tho i will be her housewife <3 (i can't cook either) she is also very good at tetris for some reason. she's a little forgetful so she usually writes things that she needs to remember on the back of her hands but by the end of the day they're all smudged smh. but also she always has perfect nails!

curly is one of those guys who's just naturally good at things. yk when people are like 'oh yeah i never practice' and it pisses you off? he's one of those guys. ik ppl say he's british but he's so american to me??? he was definitely the jock in highschool that every girl crushed on but he never even realised.

swansea is a dog person. he's chill w cats but he definitely prefers dogs. he likes how loyal they are, and i can see him having a massive dog like a st bernard at home waiting for him. but if his kids ever brought back a kitten or smth he'd be the one to be all 'you guys better take care of it bc i won't' but then you see him becoming besties with the cat LOL.

daisuke LOVES the beach. literally a water baby. he's very good at surfing, and always ends up with a tan that makes him look even more handsome bc it compliments his dyed hair so nicely. i think that he grew up in a big family w lots of cousins around where he would be one of the older kids, so he's very good w children as well. he somehow knows the best way to entertain them and keep them out of trouble. (primary school art teacher daisuke are you guys seeing my vision?!?!?!)

jimmy gets nightmares and thus has difficulty sleeping. he lies whenever curly asks him about it but those dark circles say otherwise. this might be random but i also think he's good at singing. in another world he could have been a sleazy rockstar but instead he went to space. are u guys seeing the visual of jimmy laying back in bed strumming his banged-up electric guitar... i hate this mf.

anyways that's all for now! i had a lot of fun w these hehe <3 hope you liked them!

#( mouthwashing )#mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #[ into the yuzuvrse ]#[ webmail ]#:: 🪷 anon #jimmy mw #curly mw #anya mw #swansea mw #daisuke mw

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kaontic · 2 days ago

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Sir, we have some questions for you, but first—

(I’m so sorry, you two—)

YES BITCH RAINBOW WIRES SLAAAAAAAY— 💅

NO NOT LIKE THAT—! (　〇□〇)

*Facepalms* Ok.

(It’s time for more thoughts that are all over the place)

So you were just, sittin' on your aft in a cave, in presumably, the American Southwest (are those saguaros? Interesante… 😶🌵), with exposed wires that I just realized share the same colors as the Well of Sparks—

When you broke outta CC’s crib, in the North???

Now it’s just funny thinkin’ about how Megs made his way down there without, ya know, 6 star wanted level antics.

I mean, there’s def gotta be more to this, even if Megs really was just “wandering” around lol.

(Hehe, robots in disguise~🎶 ;D)

Like think of how embarrassing that must be for Cobra(-La), if they couldn’t locate and recapture a giant blind robot.

Unless…this is what CC actually wants, so that when Megs finally reunites with everyone else, Cobra will make their move.

Gotta catch ‘em all, I suppose. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Still doesn’t explain how the actual frag Laserbeak seemingly found him so goddamn fast (unless there was a timeskip), so—

Soundwave, you’ve got some explainin’ to do too boo. 😗

Yeah, especially to Thundercracker. 😑

(Side note: He looked extra despondent these past two issues. Prob cuz of him losin’ Shockwave, but also it’s like findin’ Megs was the last thing he wanted to do lmao

Well, that’s what happens when you can’t find your backbone

*Lower voice* Furthermore, you’re one to call others “brutes” when you send out these cassettes you call “family” to do your dirty work

Just somethin’ to think about in the flood of shame you find yourself in)

(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

(Damn, Star! Save the punches for Megs! 😨)

Some extra questions (cuz what can possibly go wrong with askin’ ‘em, right? *Laughs nervously*)

. Y’all worryin’ about Ultra Magnus, but not Jetfire???

Is he dead for good?

(Please don’t let that be the case. He deserves more attention, and he’s got character potential, I promise

If it is what it is tho, can we at least confirm it, instead of makin’ Optimus look genuinely bad rn for this? Otherwise, it’s just a repeat of G1 writing at this point)

. I’m just gonna assume for now that Star had left the cat and the Cobra M.A.R.S. guy behind for (wow, if he even “cares” in that way) their safety, which would be one of the smarter decisions he’s made

Especially since he’s likely stuck until Astrotrain proves that, once again, he’s an MVP

. *Gasps* And Astrotrain has a love that Megs ended?????????????

Oh, you just keep gettin’ better and better— 🩶💜💛

(And frag Megs for makin’ my train man upset like this! 😤)

. Wait Cliffjumper doesn’t wanna go back—?

(Well I guess this at least means he could run into Springer and Hot Rod in the future)

. So the relationship between Cybertronians and the majority of humanity is officially cooked, right?

And every time Optimus is experiencin’ a crisis there’s gonna be a white background?

I like that. I like white backgrounds :3

. Do you think Roller and the Combat Deck are also experiencin’ the visions and the corruption stuff?

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh to the actual no—

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goldenngt · 12 hours ago

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First Post!

Hi guys this is my first imagine/ blurb ever so pls be kindddd! I hope you like it and lmk any thoughts I would love feedback!!

Here goes…

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Prompt:

He comes home later than he planned and your asleep on the bed in lingerie

Long distance relationship, finally meeting again

You and Jude had planned a night at a really nice hotel for your reunion. You hadn’t seen him for weeks and figured a hotel would be a nice change. His plane was supposed to arrive at 11 and it would take him an hour from the airport. You ordered dessert from room service pre-emptively for the two of you, and had rose petals that you scattered from the door to the bed. The excitement ran through your body, you missed him too much. You kept glancing at the clock tryna gauge how long it would take him to get there, once it hit 11 you put on the lingerie set you bought for this occasion, a lacy hot pink set that made your boobs and ass look crazy. Then you hear a ding from your phone, Jude’s picture popped up, but your heart dropped as he says his flight got delayed and he’s no clue what time he’ll get there. You decide to lay down and watch some tv, trying to stay awake but eventually let your droopy eyes fall and carry you to sleep.

It’s around 3am and Jude finally gets off the plane. He grabs an Uber and is at the hotel within a half hour but he knows you're probably asleep as his texts go unread.

He reaches the hotel and checks in at the desk, grabbing his key and rushing to your room on the 25th floor, he knows you’re asleep but he still can’t keep his excitement in at being able to hold you and lie next to you for the first time in weeks.

He finally gets to your floor and walks to the door trying to open it as quietly as he can. The lights are on but he can hear your slight snore making him chuckle to himself. He drops his bag down and takes off his jacket to get comfortable before he lies down with you. Finally he peaks around the corner to see you sprawled out on the bed, lying face down in nothing but your lingerie, making his eyes bulge out of his head. He was not expecting this, making him even more mad that’s he’s so late.

His eyes land on your ass, and he can feel his bulge growing. He groans to himself “fuck me”, you’re so hot and he missed you so much. His bulge grows painful as he thinks about all the things he wants to do to you. But for now, he’s tired, he’ll take sleep as long as it’s beside you.

He quietly undresses, taking of his shirt and trousers, till he’s only in his boxers. Turning off the lamp, Jude crawls in bed next to you, making sure to cover you with the blanket. You stir in your sleep from the movement and he can’t help but smile from your furrowed brows.

“Baby is that you?” You ask, your voice croaky from sleep, the frown still glued to your face, as you squint your eyes open.

“Yeah baby it’s me” Jude chuckles, shuffling closer to you and placing a gentle kiss to your nose.

Your eyes flutter open, with a tired smile, you shuffle even closer, wrapping your leg and arm around him, stroking up the side of his torso. “I missed you”, you whisper, “what time is it?”

“It’s late, go back to sleep baby, we can catch up in the morning, I missed you too, but now I just wanna hold you yeah?” He pecks your cheek and admires your closed eyes and how soft and sweet you look in your sleep.

You nod, sinking into his embrace and nuzzling your face in his neck

Stay tuned for part two where I will attempt to write smut hehe 😈

#jude bellingham #jude x reader #jude fanfic #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham ff

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thevegandarkelf · 1 day ago

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A Familiar Face: Scud Frohmeyer & Familiar!Fem!Reader

AO3 link

Alternate title: Damaskinos’ Daughter

My first attempt at a Scud x Reader fic! Since I started writing for Daryl, I wanted to take a stab (or a bite hehe (sorry that was a bad joke)) at our favorite little stoner. Please be gentle or I’ll cry, and I’m sure you don’t want the responsibility of that on your shoulders, do you?

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 766

Warnings: Swearing, reader is also a familiar & is Damaskinos’ daughter. I think that’s it!

Scud Frohmeyer was normally the most laid-back of laid-back guys. Whether it was with a joint in his hand or the putting his skills to use for Blade, there were few things that got him worked up. Calm, cool, collected—a perfectly-crafted string of alliteration that accurately captured the inventor’s demeanor.

But when you waltzed into the workshop, arms folded over your chest and a delighted smirk on your face, to say he was caught by surprise would be an understatement. He nearly fell out of his chair at the sound of your voice, your soft but slightly sarcastic “hi there” as Blade introduced you sending his heart straight into his throat.

You worked together for the day, both of you feigning ignorance that you two were already well acquainted. However, when evening came & the dark knight stepped out for a bit, Scud took the opportunity to corner you for an interrogation of sorts.

You were backed against the wall, his piercing blue eyes locked on yours. His arms trapped you on both sides to ensure you wouldn’t escape.

Not that you would have tried to anyway.

As you eyed him up and down, you propped your foot against the wall, arms folded over your chest once again as you leaned back, stifling an amused chuckle. You tapped your other foot, the one with your familiar tattoo on the bottom, on the floor. For a few moments, the only sounds that echoed off the workshop walls were your breathing, your boot, and the faint dripping of water somewhere in the dark.

“The hell are you doin’ here, Y/N?” His tone was a cocktail of flustered and frantic, breaking through the quiet, but not quite echoing to where any prying ears would hear. Even though you two were alone, he still exercised caution with his volume.

“Guess daddy dearest didn’t think you could pull this off all on your own,” you mused, pretending to check over the polish on your nails before meeting his gaze again. That subtle smirk from earlier in the day broke out, bigger this time. “Sent his favorite to help with the job.”

He kept his voice low, leaning in closer, his face merely inches from yours. “You say a word to B—“

“Oh, so you have a nickname for him? It’s almost like you care,” you interjected, your statement booming in comparison to his. The laugh that followed awoke the butterflies in his stomach, sending them into a tizzy.

He’d always been enraptured by your beauty, too nervous to make a move on account of you being the elder’s daughter. Instead, he settled for close proximity, doing his best to make small talk any chance the two of you were occupying the same space.

But it wasn’t just your beauty that captured him. You were feisty, brilliant, and had quite the attitude. And he loved it.

This was different, though. He had a job to do, and as far as he was concerned, you were impeding on it, potentially even a liability, your status as the vampire lord’s daughter be damned.

Little did he know, you shared the same sentiment. On both accounts.  “What makes you think I would say anything?” The sass that laced your words hung heavy in the air as you continued. “We’re on the same side. I won’t say anything if you won’t.” You paused for a brief moment, fluttering your lashes as you dropped your gaze briefly to the floor and back at him. “Josh.”

His stomach nearly fell out of his body, and he unconsciously gripped at his abdomen. It wasn’t the use of his real name that was affecting him. Oh no, it was because you said it. But you didn’t just say it. You spoke it like it was the sweetest thing in the world, the simple name slipping off your lips like honeyed words.

The tension between you was thick enough to be cut with a knife. What type of tension that was…was up for debate.

Pushing himself off the wall, he spun around, his jacket grazing the side of your jeans. You watched as he sauntered off, taking a pack of smokes from his pocket and lighting one. He looked back over his shoulder at you for a split second, long enough to catch you wiggling your fingers in a flirtatious wave.

“This is going to be an eventual few weeks,” you said to yourself, sighing and leaning against the wall again.

There were many words you would use to describe those next few weeks, and eventful was certainly one of them.

General taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie @holdmytesseract @dixons-sunshine

Drop a comment or inbox/DM me to be added to/removed from the taglist 🖤

GIF was made by me, dividers are by @anitalenia

#the dark elf writes #scud frohmeyer #scud frohmeyer x reader #scud x reader #scud x female reader #scud frohmeyer x female reader #scud x you #scud frohmeyer x you #scud x y/n #scud frohmeyer x y/n #scud #josh frohmeyer #joshua fromeyer #scud blade 2 #scud frohmeyer fanfiction #scud frohmeyer fluff #scud fanfiction #blade 2 #blade2

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yamujiburo · 1 year ago

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i frequently get asked what other ships are canon in this au and i haven't really thought about it much tbh?

james is aroace and happy and i think butch and cassidy eventually find each other again. these are the only ones im sure about LOL

the rest of the characters are all kids and wouldn't really be touched on anyways LOL. i feel like most people are curious about ash tho

i think ash and misty would date for a little bit as teens, but misty is a massive romantic and ash is very much NOT (probably where he realizes he's aroace). misty is also set being the gym leader at cerulean while ash wants to continue his travels. i could see them breaking up after finding they're not the most compatible but remain the best of friends.

in my head misty ends up with lana (lana like... clearly has a big crush on her idk). then ash i think would find a life bestie who'd be down to travel with him. i've tossed around the idea of goh and angie (who i think's underrated)

#don't get me wrong i adore pokeshipping #in the same way i adore rocketshipping #they were my first ships hehe #but i also like trying to write different stuff and i've done both a million times over

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seiwas · 3 months ago

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sellllllll it's meeeeee. hehehehehehehehehhehe

so for ur writing exercises.... deku + light? please? pretty please?

:3c

heheh heheh hehe niku. this will be the death of me. me writing izuku for the first time 🥲 i will only do this for you </3

contains: established relationship, spoilers for the end of the manga, aged up deku but sometime in between the final outcome (he doesn't get the h*** s*** from bakugo yet), mentions of sex and scars

deku + light

izuku only sleeps with the lights off.

it isn't uncommon; many people you know can't sleep with even just a sliver of light turned on somewhere in the room. but the difference with izuku, you learn, is not that he's unable to stand the light―it's that he refuses to.

you quickly pick up on it the first few times he sleeps over.

he fidgets in bed, pretty badly, actually. the nightlight you sleep with glows a warm yellow, illuminating the side of your face and coating him in its afterglow. you chalk it up to nerves, how he pulls at his sleeves and adjusts his position constantly; he is, after all, one of the most anxious people you know.

and this relationship―it's new. heck, even you feel a little jittery with his arm wrapped around you.

the rhythmic tapping on your hip only increases pace. you don't think he realizes it, so your hand gently reaches for his, intertwining your fingers as you turn around in his arms.

he's close, nearly touching you nose-to-nose; the proximity leaves you fuzzy, a little ticklish, so you giggle, a soft "oops," as the freckles dusting his face almost glisten under the warm light.

"hi," you whisper, meeting his eyes; they stare back at you wide in surprise, "can't sleep?"

he looks almost guilty at your question, as if you’ve caught him with the one thing he's been trying to keep from you.

"just—" his voice comes out louder than intended, prompting him to chuckle nervously as he readjusts his volume, "just winding down, sorry."

you inch closer, nuzzling his nose lightly, "it's okay."

"did i wake you?" he asks, cheeks flushing pink as his eyebrows furrow in immediate concern. his expression is something caught between stifling a grin and feeling sorry.

you shake your head against the pillow you share, strands of your hair tangling with his. "just winding down," you tease, watching as his gaze turns softer, eyelids drooping heavier.

sometimes, you think, izuku holds the world in his eyes―a deep, dark green, the color of life. most times, they look at you with wonderment, bright and alive; photos from inko tell you they're the eyes of his inner child.

on nights like this one, however, they hide a depth in them weighted by what you can only assume is time, and all that has happened to him in such a short span of it.

you try your best to understand what lies beneath them, knowing full well he'll never tell you outright what truly bothers him.

"is it the light?" you bring up, some time after laying in silence.

"hm?" he clarifies.

"do you have a hard time sleeping with the nightlight?"

his eyes widen briefly once more, as if shocked that you've caught him again. these split second reactions are ones you've learned to be attentive to when it comes to izuku.

"no," he tries to lie, but you know better as you turn to your nightstand and reach for its switch, "you don't–"

"it was hurting my eyes," you quickly make up an excuse, tucking yourself closer under his chin as you cut off his attempt to deny it again.

finding out that the light was the problem was the easy part—

you'd begun to notice much earlier on that izuku was barely rested on the nights he'd spend at your place. it was only when your old nightlight broke that you began to notice him waking up much later than you did, groggily rousing from a deep sleep.

—what was hard, was figuring out why.

at first, you suspected it was his scars.

"s-sorry, it's not—" he'd warned you, right as your hands gripped the hem of his shirt the first time you were about to have sex, "—it's not nice."

you didn't care though; you still don't care, and you've made that abundantly clear to him since. you love izuku and all his parts―all the nicks and jaggedy pieces of skin that make up who he is.

when you eventually ask him about it, with a request that he be honest with you for once, he tells you that it is and it isn't―the reason why he exclusively sleeps with the lights off, that is.

it's an odd, comforting relationship he has with his body—that he is simultaneously grateful and sorry for how its become a canvas, both painted and marred to symbolize japan’s historic last stand.

you find out the real reason when you catch him staring at his hands.

he does it often, when he thinks you aren't looking—his fists bunched up in the same way he used to watch the power of one for all course through his fingertips; the same way he used to prepare them in battle.

there’s a faraway look in his eyes that lingers, you notice—a little wistful if anything.

“do you miss it?” you finally ask. he gives you the same shocked look he does every time, as if he’s been caught with a secret he’s been trying to hide.

he’s learned a fair bit about you now, too, though—lying to you is futile when you’ve perfected reading his truth. he stares at his fists again as you take a seat beside him, moving to give you space. you rest your head on his shoulder gently, waiting.

“sometimes,” he admits, but you know it’s an understatement.

“i think about the vestiges a lot. i miss them the most, i think,” he continues, clenching his fists tightly, “i always try to reach out to them, but i guess it doesn’t work that way.”

“i… i try to replicate the right conditions every night, but…” then he lets go, stretching his fingers out wide. the scars on the surface ripple through his skin, telling its own story.

you hum, acknowledging what he means. silence sits with the two of you as you take his hand in yours, slowly unfurling his fingers until his palm reveals itself to you. it’s rough to the touch, seasoned with hard work and all that he’s been through.

“is that why you prefer the dark?” you ask softly, after some time.

it's not often that you stay up later than izuku does. when you do though, you catch him shifting in bed, moving from side-to-side. you pretend you aren't awake, but you hear him mumble their names, dwindling in volume as he dozes off to sleep.

he stares at his palm for a moment before he admits quietly, "yeah." his brows furrow as if contemplating whether to say more, but he shakes his head, dark green strands swaying to the beat of his embarrassed chuckle, "nevermind, it's silly."

"it's not."

you intertwine your fingers, sandwiching his hand between yours. a slight sheen glosses over his eyes as he tilts his head up to look at you. he draws in a breath, before it spills over.

"it's..." he finds the words, and you squeeze his hand in comfort, "it's easier to believe it was all real when the lights are out, and that maybe it can happen again."

#deku x reader #izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #bnha x reader #shotorus.workbook #it is here ! the first time ive ever written izuku ! i hope u like it niku !#idt i'll ever feel like anything i write of him will be enough but i tried !#SPOILERS FOR MANGA ENDING PLS DONT READ AHEAD #some stuff abt the blurb: i see this happening in the time between him losing ofa and before getting the suit from bakugo #so somewhere between when hes teaching #and i think its a lot of complex feelings ― he's happy he did what he had to do but is also mourning the loss of something he once had #i don't think i can ever convey that feeling fully but i hope i at least managed to touch on it here with him !#i see this as like . the period in his life where he's transitioning out of something he once knew into smth else entirely #i also hc reader to be his colleague (like a teacher or smth) but anyone closely related to the job would work !#really just someone who has a base level understanding of what he went through but doesnt know everything #which is why they're still trying to learn all these things abt him and read him better #and also why he tries to hide a lot of things from them still / is hesitant to share in fear of scaring them away smth like that !#thats all i can think of for now but ill let u know if i have other thoughts on this later on ! hehe #hope u enjoy niku !#ask #rep #ask game answered #most nervewracking experience of my LIFE writing him #stellamancer #niku.🥩

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chiropteracupola · 2 months ago

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"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

#em writes stuff #oc time again hehe #oak savanna vampire #AND LO! AS PROMISED! EM HALLOWEEN STORY 3!#in the tradition of the very first round of em halloween story this is written for benjhawkins and pentecostwaite's spooky season challenge #except that. this took Two Years whoops.#(this was supposed to be last year's but it wasn't Working so I finished rat piper instead)#bit of attribution for the header-image -- 3/4 are from the california academy of sciences #(and public domain as part of the uc berkeley calphotos project! yay!)#and the fourth is of some relatives of mine (my gram's cousins iirc; and to put it as she would) 'standing there like the grapes of wrath'#some of the concepts of the story itself are also based on the experiences of some relatives (not those ones though)#[lying on the floor] CALIFORNIAAAA

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