Summary: You reconsider your casual arrangement with Rhett.
Word Count: 2,345 words
Warnings: Angst, intimacy
Note: This is the first part of a three-part fic that is inspired by Chappell Roan's song, "Casual." I have not felt inclined to write for a long time, but this piece has renewed my passion for writing, so I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for supporting my work!
The harsh glow from your alarm clock is the sole source of light in your bedroom. You’ve desperately been trying to fall asleep for the last hour, but you’re the furthest thing from tired as your eyes continually land on the clock’s changing red digits. You alternate positions, returning to your back with your eyes latched on the ceiling.
Don’t do it. That’s what your mind is imploring you. It will never be different.
You squeeze your eyes shut as if the action alone can eradicate these thoughts, but you know better because you’ve been here many times before.
Rhett Abbott captivated you from the day you met him. His striking blue eyes. The curly strands of hair that reside beside his forehead. His charming, yet mischievous grin. The smooth texture of his voice. He was and still is simply irresistible.
Rhett made it clear he wasn’t interested in commitment. He was merely in search of a good time and you were an intriguing prospect. After a memorable night together, you were convinced he’d forever be in your veins, which is why you agreed to his proposed arrangement: a casual, no strings attached “relationship.” You would be available for each other when needed and if you weren’t available, there were no questions asked. No emotion involved.
It was enough for a while. Frenzied, roaming hands, sensual kisses, and hushed sounds of pleasure filled your once lonely nights. And on the nights when you didn’t see Rhett, you replayed the memories to carry you until the next time you were together.
You were constantly in Rhett’s bed and yet, he remained unattainable because he wasn’t yours. At least never for longer than one night at a time. What started out as a thrilling endeavor morphed into an insatiable high, one that eventually proved it had a limit.
What once excited you left you feeling disappointed. What once led to satisfaction led to emptiness. What you once craved no longer felt fulfilling. Despite your current feelings about the situation that was unraveling at the seams, you couldn’t remove yourself from it. You wanted to prove to Rhett as well as yourself that you, too, only desired something casual, but the more you engaged in these activities, the more you yearned for something…meaningful.
There were instances that made you wonder whether Rhett was beginning to change his mind. These moments seldom occurred, but when they did, hope brewed deep within your chest.
You recalled one of these instances from a little over a month ago. The two of you lay beside each other, chests rapidly rising and falling with sweat creating a sheen on your heated skin. Rhett turned his head to face you, his intense gaze holding questions you couldn’t quite identify. You waited there, your eyes pleading a man of very few words to say something. He slowly extended his hand towards you, his slender fingers tucking a couple strands of hair behind your ear. Your body tingled in response just as it did any time you were the recipient of Rhett’s affection.
“I like bein’ with you,” he shared in his signature sexy voice.
You swallowed before replying, “I like being with you, too.”
There was a part of you that wanted to prompt him for more, but you ultimately decided against it. No other words were exchanged for the remainder of the night, but as you laid there, enveloped in Rhett’s arms while he slept soundly, you felt his admission marked a shift between the two of you.
Now, you huff out an exasperated sigh as you reach for your phone on your nightstand and reread Rhett’s text: I wanna see you. Come over tonight?
You chew on your bottom lip, conflicted between what you should do and want to do. Denying him would be the right thing. Or, at the very least, pretending you were already asleep when you received his text. But you had been lying to him as well as yourself for long enough and right now, nothing sounded as appealing as being truthful. You wanted to see Rhett and, most of all, wanted him to know that you longed for more. Maybe he did, too, and he just needed you to be the one to initiate this next step.
Swinging your legs over the side of your bed, you stand up, albeit somewhat unsteadily, and grab your coziest sweatshirt along with your sneakers. Rhett’s house is only about twenty minutes away, but the drive feels endless and only exacerbates your anxiety. By the time your tires scratch against the gravel littering the driveway, your heart is hammering against your chest and you find yourself questioning whether it’s possible for Rhett to hear it. You would be mortified.
You notify him of your presence with a text because that’s part of your arrangement. You wouldn’t dare knock on the front door this late at night even though you suspect his parents are cognizant of his nocturnal activities. After all, it’s a small town and Rhett’s never been one to be discreet.
When the front door opens, Rhett’s standing there in a gray t-shirt and jeans that hug him in all the right places, causing your knees to practically give out at the sight of him. That grin you’ve grown to adore spreads across his face and you derive a bit of glee from knowing you’re the one who put it there.
“Hey,” he says in a low voice.
“Hey.”
Once you’re inside, he immediately takes your hand and leads you up the familiar wooden staircase. You’ve ascended these steps so many times that you know which spots creak and subsequently avoid them. Rhett’s back is to you, his defined muscles from countless hours of working on the ranch peeking through his t-shirt. You wince internally because your resolve is already crumbling, your heart eclipsing the logic flashing in your head.
His bedroom looks the same. A slightly rumpled plaid comforter on his bed, the framed photo on his nightstand with him holding his first-place trophy for bull riding while his parents beam on either side, and his cowboy boots leaning against his wooden closet door greet you in a comforting way.
Your back is still facing him when you hear the distinctive click of his bedroom door and you sense his presence behind you. When you turn around, Rhett’s eyes drink you in, his pupils tracing your entire body. His fingers lightly tug at the bottom of your sweatshirt, intending to remove it, but you find your own interrupting the action.
“Can we just…pause for a second?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. When you meet Rhett’s eyes, he looks perplexed.
“Pause?” he clarifies.
“Yeah.” You shrug. “It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen you.”
“Can we talk after? I really need you, darlin’.” He slowly lifts up your sweatshirt, leaving you in a lace trim tank top and yoga pants.
“You always look so good,” he muses, his husky voice awakening that deep need within you.
Before you can say anything else, he lowers himself, attaching his lips to your neck and singeing your skin in the process. You know you should stop this or protest in some way, but the words that need to come out are lodged in your throat. All you can do is gasp at the pleasure his touch ignites within you and revel in the contact.
When he lifts his head up, his hands glide down your arms, taking the straps of your tank top with him, but when he realizes you’re not wearing a bra, his self-control falters.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re not…wearin’ anything underneath?” He sounds incredulous.
You shake your head slowly because you knew exactly what you were doing and the response it would elicit from the man in front of you.
Rhett surges forward, eager to cater to your breasts, but you move simultaneously and kiss him. His possessive, strong hands grip your waist and pull you to him, your chest crushed against his own. Your tongues collide and your hands travel through his curly locks. Nothing compares to the closeness you two share right now and you wish you could relive this fleeting moment over and over again.
Rhett swiftly picks you up and takes you to his bed, refusing to break the kiss as he positions you beneath him. Your kisses become more fervent, making it so easy for you to lose yourself in this with him. However, when you feel his fingers teasing the waistband of your pants, panic sets in because as tempting as it is to abandon your original plan, you can no longer bear this.
“Rhett!” you practically shout and jolt up. The intensity of your voice startles Rhett and even you.
His eyes transform into a look of concern as he instantly pulls back. “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”
“No, not at all,” you rush out.
“Then what is it?” he asks in a curious, yet slightly worried tone.
You avert his gaze momentarily, clutching the comforter as you collect your thoughts, and awkwardly return your straps to their previous position. “I can’t do this,” you whisper.
“What are you talking about?”
Your cheeks feel as if they’re on fire and your mouth is dry. “This…arrangement.”
Your words cause Rhett to recoil. “I don’t understand.”
“I can’t be casual with you, Rhett. It’s too…” You trail off, the words tasting like acid as they leave your mouth and hang in the air between you. “Hard.” That’s certainly an understatement.
“What’s changed?” His tone is one of genuine confusion as his eyes scan yours, searching for answers that you’re struggling to give him.
He’s waiting for you to fill the silence and the air is thick with tension as you prolong it. Closing your eyes, you muster the courage that’s been absent for far too long and force yourself to look directly at him when you finally reply, “My feelings for you.”
Rhett is frozen for several seconds as he processes your sobering words. He’s blinking rapidly and shaking his head as if your revelation is unreasonable. Scratching at his forehead wrinkled in confusion, he says, “This doesn’t make any sense. You…you can’t…no.” He shakes his head vehemently this time and stands up so that he’s in front of you. “This thing between us is casual. We agreed it’s what we both wanted. Want ”, he hastily corrects.
“Rhett-,” you begin, but aren’t given the opportunity to finish your sentence because he interjects.
“You know I’m not a relationship kind of guy. I can’t be that guy. I’m not capable.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but his tone is caustic now, his frustration flaring in a way you haven’t witnessed.
“I know.” You hang your head in defeat because you couldn’t fault Rhett for any of this. He had been transparent all along; he never did anything to mislead you. It’s your own fault for reading into things that were never there. Your misplaced optimism evidently affected your ability to discern the information that’s been right in front of you this entire time, information that would be obvious to anyone else. “I initially wanted something casual with you, but over time, I developed feelings for you and those feelings are really…strong. They’re not going away.”
Rhett closes his eyes in disappointment and places his hands on his hips. “Do you think…” He hesitates and sighs as an unsure expression crosses his face. “Do you think you can just ignore those feelins’?”
Now you stand up and the motion is so sudden that you inadvertently cause Rhett to stumble backwards. “Ignore them? I’ve been trying to ignore the feelings I have for you for almost three months now! Do you have any idea what that’s been like for me? It’s been agonizing, Rhett. Pretending that seeing and being with you doesn’t impact me is torturous because the effect you have on me is undeniable. As much as I try to be that girl for you, the kind who’s devoid of feelings, I fail. And when it comes to denying my feelings for you, I’ll fail every single time.” A tear trickles down your cheek, but you’re not embarrassed because you’re not willing to hide who you are anymore.
“You know what’s the worst part?” you ask with a chuckle, although there’s not a trace of humor that accompanies it. “I actually thought you might have changed your mind because you were having feelings for me, too.” Looking at the ceiling, you swipe at your damp eyes. “Silly me.”
When your gaze returns to Rhett, he’s looking at you closely, but his expression is different than you anticipated. It’s one of pity, but it’s mixed with something else that you can’t quite pinpoint in your emotional state. He doesn’t attempt to say anything; instead, he continues to stare. You realize you’re experiencing déjà vu as you’re caught in another moment in which you long for this man who has little to say to say something…anything.
“I need to go,” you tell him as you quickly retrieve your sweatshirt and throw it on. You somehow feel less vulnerable while wearing it and after you exposed yourself entirely mere moments ago, it feels good to have this protection. Rhett’s doesn’t make any efforts to convince you to stay and you’re uncertain as to whether this makes the entire situation more or less painful. As you move past him towards his door, his hand brushes your waistline, halting you from going any further.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you, but doesn’t elaborate as to what he’s apologizing for and you don’t have the heart to ask him. Does it even matter?
Instead of acknowledging his apology, you wordlessly exit his bedroom and make your way downstairs without bothering to check if he’s watching from behind. Once you’re back in the safety of your own home, you land on your bed soundlessly and cry without restraint. You can’t recall the last time your entire body ached this much.
Summary: Freshly out of mourning, Lady Barlow, née (Y/L/N), makes her re-debut in society. If only she could simply ignore a certain viscount...
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings: none. enemies to lovers!!
A/N: I didn't expect this lil requested fic to turn into such an event, let alone a multi-part story! so, you're welcome or I'm sorry?
next part
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She was perfectly happy.
Well, supposedly right now she wasn’t.
Her husband, Lord Barlow, had passed away ten months ago, leaving her with an empty estate, a shiny title and more money than she knew what to do with. Lord Barlow was an old viscount, desperate for an heir and willing to do anything to get one.
In came Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).
Young, beautiful and well-bred, she was the perfect choice for any man of the ton. If only her father hadn’t a penchant for gambling. Perhaps she’d be married to a man more suited for her rather than the oaf of a dustbin she was forced to be with. She was no fool in believing in a love match for herself, rare and far between as they were, no, but she did have half a mind to imagine a kinder man as her husband. A man who perhaps cared even a little bit for her wellbeing.
No matter.
A dead man cannot care for her wellbeing either.
“Lady Barlow,” a maid knocked, entering the ornate drawing room.
“Yes?” (Y/N) did not look up from her reading—the newest edition of Whistledown had just been delivered. While she herself was never one to gossip terribly, it was quite fun to keep up with the circus of the season.
“Do you plan on attending the Danbury ball this eve?”
“I do not see the point,” she scoffed playfully, “after all, Meg, I am but a widow in mourning.”
“Perhaps her ladyship should reconsider?” Meg asked gently, placing a new pot of tea next to her lady. “I rather think it has been a socially acceptable amount of time since your husband’s passing.”
“If I am not to enjoy the perks of being a widow,” (Y/N) sighed, finally looking up at her favorite lady’s maid, “whatever is the point?”
“Perks that Viscount Barlow has graciously allowed you to use during your time of mourning—”
“The current viscount is all but twelve,” (Y/N) reminded. “He has no use for this estate in Mayfair until he himself becomes an adult, in which, I am sure he and his mother will come to make use of it. I believe if my maths are correct, that leaves me all of six years or so to use this home.”
“Forgive me my lady, but should you not be looking for a new husband, then?”
(Y/N) smiled at Meg. She enjoyed their friendship, her maid being only a handful of years older than herself, it made for a likely pair. “No one wishes to marry a widow,” she said simply, “widows are damaged goods. Every sensible man of the ton will be wanting a pretty little virgin instead.”
“My lady!”
“What?” She barked a laugh. “You know it to be true.”
“Regardless,” Meg said, clearing her throat. “Lord Barlow passed nearly a year ago, the period of mourning is rightfully over. You are expected to rejoin society.”
“Dreadful.”
“It is expected,” Meg repeated.
“It does not make it any less dreadful,” (Y/N) said. “Very well. Pull a dress and prepare a bath, it seems the ton gets to see my dreary face once again.”
—
Anthony Bridgerton was a man scorned.
Particularly by his own mother in this very instance. How foolish he had been to share his intentions of marriage this season with her—for now she spread the news like a wildfire. Every desperate mama and her equally desperate daughter came flocking to him like bees to honey.
It was only now, in the dark corner of the ballroom, that he found a respite.
“Looking a bit green, Lord Bridgerton,” a voice beside him called out.
“I am not—” Anthony had huffed a reply before even knowing whom he was speaking to. “Lady Barlow.”
“I am shocked you can recall my name,” (Y/N) laughed over her champagne flute. “Considering how many new ones you’ve had thrown at you this eve.”
“You are out of mourning.”
“Is that a question?”
“It was an observation,” Anthony corrected.
“What gave it away? My bright dress? No tear stains left on my cheeks?”
“You are here, out and about,” Anthony said. “And, forgive me for not playing along with your delusions, but I do not think you cried much at all for Lord Barlow’s passing.”
“How dare you assume such a thing,” (Y/N) faux gasped. She had intended on pressing a hand to her chest. Intended, anyway. Somehow she forgot all about the champagne currently residing it her grasp. “Damn… this was a new dress too.”
“Good God,” he laughed. “First you are spilling all over yourself like a child and now you are cursing—tell me, do all married ladies act like you?”
“I am a widow,” (Y/N) had found a cloth and begun dabbing up the spill. It had only dribbled at most, but still, it was a new dress. “I rather think I can act the way I please.”
“Like a drunkard?”
“Like a free woman,” she said, fighting every childish urge to stick her tongue out at the viscount. “I am only here to show my face, prove I am still alive and I shall go about my merry way.”
“Lady Danbury is a widow,” Anthony noted. “Yet she still mingles with society.”
“I am not Lady Danbury.”
“You are not.”
“Do you not have young misses to go and woo?” (Y/N)’s eyes hardened. “Take your pick from the litter, Lord Bridgerton, any of them would be pleased to spend such valuable time with you.”
“Are you insinuating you are not?”
“I rather thought it was a statement, yes,” (Y/N) said.
Anthony’s eyes went only a fraction wider, nostrils flaring. “Well, if that is what you wish—”
“It is not a mean of wishing,” she laughed, “but really a necessity.”
“Good evening, Lady Barlow,” Anthony sneered, smoke practically coming out of his ears. If (Y/N) had half a mind she’d call for the authorities to put that fire out, instead, she simply finished her drink and smiled wistfully at the dancing ballroom, feeling fulfilled.
—
Dearest Gentle Reader,
The season is in full swing thanks to the mark of Lady Agatha Danbury’s ball, a notable and traditional first event of the London scene. Eligible young ladies now on the Marriage Mart were enjoying their first taste at what fine society has to offer, however taxing or daunting it may be.
Our resident Capital ‘R’ Rake, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is finally deciding on a wife, surely making him the finest catch of the season. Matchmaking mamas and their young ladies alike were seen flocking to him like petulant children asking their parents for pin money, thanks to his own mother, Lady Bridgerton’s declaration of such an idea last night. The viscount seemingly had enough of the attention, taking like a wallflower and hiding away in the back of the ballroom near the end of the evening.
His company? None other than Lady Barlow, evidently out of mourning as of last night. While the this Author is under good authority that the match between Lady Barlow and the late Lord Barlow was not a love match, given their fourty or fifty year age difference, it has taken the new dowager viscountess longer than most anticipated for her to get back into the season. A woman as young as Lady Barlow would be eager to find another husband to support her, but something tells me that she is quite enjoying her time as a widow and will not easily give that up.
While this Author has very little idea of the actual nature of the relationship between Lord Bridgerton and Lady Barlow, it is only to be assumed that it is simply not a favorable one. The two were seen making a scene by the refreshment table, a scene that went unnoticed by many prying eyes of the ton, leaving Lord Bridgerton storming away and Lady Barlow with the winning hand.
Good show, Lady Barlow.
Lady Whistledown Society Papers
—
“Brother! You are in Whistledown!” Eloise sang to no one in particular.
“I have no care that I am in that gossip rag,” Anthony ground out, rustling his newspaper. “I can only imagine it is just another advertisement of my search for a wife this season.”
“Er, yes, however—”
“However?” Anthony’s attention immediately shot up to his sister, newspaper be damned.
“Who is Lady Barlow?” Eloise asked.
“No one of importance,” Anthony could feel his temperature rising.
“Lady Barlow?” Benedict laughed. “Is that who you were talking to last night dear Brother? Is she not still in mourning?”
“No.”
“No it is not who you were talking to, or no she is not still in mourning?” Benedict gave his brother an amusing glance.
“Oh, according to Whistledown—”
“Sister—”
“Eloise, you may not recall Lady Barlow, given you only just came out this season,” Benedict began, deciding that this conversation was very much worth his time this morning. “But she used to go by Miss (Y/L/N) before her marriage to the late viscount.”
“(Y/L/N)…” Eloise looked to the ceiling, finding nothing in particular. “Oh! Is she not the woman who—”
“I am taking my leave,” Anthony said abruptly, newspaper all but forgotten.
“Escaping, Brother?” Benedict asked.
“I have calls to make,” Anthony sneered, ignoring the pleased face his brother was making. “Excuse me.”
“It seems Lady Barlow is a touchy subject,” Eloise noted as her eldest brother left the drawing room. Benedict snorted. “What?”
“You do not even know the half of it, dear Sister.”
Anthony Bridgerton, did not in fact, have any calls to make. He had no impressionable interactions last night to warrant such a visit to anyone—the Queen was still in need of naming her diamond, after all—but he had no desire to stay and be berated by his family this morning. He truly had no plan, no thought in his head on where he was going, he just simply was.
Apparently he was going to the park.
It was still early in the day, few people graced the park at such an hour. The few who did, however, were too busy reading the latest Whistledown to even notice him. Anthony saw a handful of post boys running opposite of his direction on his way here, it was only natural they scoped out this location. He knew it was going to be a problem the minute they finished reading—if Lady Whistledown truly wrote about him, which he had no reason to believe his sister was lying about, all eyes would be on him.
“Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet for now,” Anthony exhaled. He took a quick glance at his watch—half past eight. Hardly could he recall a time he took a turn about the park on his own, usually he was in the company of his family or holed away in his study worrying about expenses and the like, never did he take a moment to actually enjoy the grand weather such as the kind today. Determined to enjoy it, he sat down on a favorable bench and watched the birds swim across the pond.
“Unbelievable.”
He turned his head, only to find Lady Barlow dressed in a rather pleasantly pink dress and matching hat, a look of distaste on her face.
“I didn’t take you as the park-going type, Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded, folding her hands. She had been carrying a small red book in one of them. “Especially at such an early hour, too.”
“Lady Barlow,” he nearly sneered. “Can a man not enjoy the park?”
“Oh surely a man can,” (Y/N) agreed. “But you? You are no man.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It seems to me that you’re sitting in my spot,” she ignored his quip, readjusting her stance in annoyance. “This is where I come to read.”
“Can you not read elsewhere?” Anthony asked. “There is an entire park at your disposal.”
“No,” she hummed. “Afraid not.”
“No?” He laughed. “Surely out of the entire park you can find a suitable spot to read your—let me guess—romantically inclined fodder?”
“Poetry,” she corrected, “and no, I cannot simply read elsewhere. The shade is just right under this tree and I rather like overlooking the pond between my chapters.”
“Shame I got here first, then,” Anthony clicked.
“You…!” (Y/N) scoffed, fighting every urge in her body to stomp her foot. “You are an impossible man, surely you know that?”
“I thought you said I was no man?” Anthony’s brow quirked. “Or perhaps I misheard?”
She scowled. “You are not amusing.”
“On the contrary,” Anthony leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms and taking his claim. “I find myself very amusing.”
A duck quacked from the pond, either laughing at the viscount or agreeing with him—it was hard to tell.
“You leave me no choice,” (Y/N) said sternly, taking a seat on the other end of the bench—feeling worlds apart from the man on the far side. In actuality, it couldn’t have been more than two feet, three at most.
“Truly?” Anthony laughed humorlessly. “You cannot be serious.”
“Hush,” (Y/N) said, opening her book in earnest. “I am trying to read.”
While there had been no guns drawn, this was a duel, in every sense of the word. Both parties sitting still as statues, Anthony’s gaze trained on the pond, (Y/N)’s on her book. Occasionally, she’d flip her page to the next, huffing every time Anthony still did not get up and move on.
Stubborn. Both of them.
“Will you be quiet?” Anthony said, growing exasperated. “I cannot think when you are breathing so loud—”
“You wish for me not to breathe?” She shut her book. “I never anticipated you’d wish me dead—”
“Please,” Anthony said. “You know that is not what I mean at all.”
“I never know with you. You, Anthony Bridgerton, are an enigma and I hope I never have the pleasure of truly understanding you,” (Y/N) said, fingers whiting from her grip on her book.
“So you admit it would be pleasurable?”
She wanted to wipe that grin off of his face, how, she was unsure. Idly, she thought about how a good smack to his cheek would feel. Painful in the moment but oh-so wonderful after, cathartic, probably. “I am not getting up.”
“Neither am I.”
“I am willing to die on this bench,” (Y/N) spat.
“Funnily enough,” Anthony’s voice dropped, “so am I.”
“How are you to find your viscountess on this bench?” She asked, angling her body towards the torturous man. “Surely you do not expect her to just walk past?”
“I am sure I can manage,” Anthony said calmly. “Many young ladies will walk this way when they see me sitting here."
“Even with another woman sitting beside you?”
“I rather think they’ll find you easy to ignore, I know I do.”
“Ha! You are truly something else, Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) sat straighter. “Insulting a polite woman in public?”
“You are the furthest thing from polite,” Anthony leaned in. “Rude, ostentatious, quite full of herself—”
“Might I offer you a mirror?” The grip on her book tightened, cover bending from the force. “Or are you afraid you’ll see horns?”
“Oh, do they match yours?” He nearly sang.
“Funny,” she clicked, finally setting her book down, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “You should run a comedy act at the circus, seeing as you are a right clown.”
Anthony stood up, whether by the force of his breath or sheer spite he will never know. “You are the most ridiculous woman I have ever met.”
(Y/N) met his height, now standing as well. “And you are the most irritating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”
“I am going to walk this way,” Anthony said, forcefully pointing to his right, eyes not leaving hers. She did have the most remarkable eyes.
“And I will walk this way,” she pointed to her left, less force in her action but seething all the same. “Have the day you deserve, Lord Bridgerton.”
“Why you little…!”
She had already turned and stomped away, a fuming smudge of pink against the greenery of the park, growing further away with every step.
“What a wretched woman,” he mumbled, looking down at his watch again—nine on-the-dot. In the corner of his eye, something bright red caught his attention. Her book. She had left it behind.
Perhaps he would burn it.
Perhaps he would just put it in his pocket and carry about his day.
A/N: Right, this might get a little confusing, but you know how we (English speakers) kind of went from Latin, to old English, to Now English? I’m substituting those for the Old Language, ‘Middle Language’ (the transitional phase—completely made up), and whatever the common tongue is for Prythian? Yeah, sorry about that!
Warnings: none…? I don’t think…?
Word Count: 5,587
-Part 6- -🌌🌠- -Part 8-
You stare at the page, heart in your throat.
Stare at the page, and reach for a pen.
Who is this?
Ink stains the white paper, and stupidity heats your features. He probably left it as a taunt. It’s not like he’s going to respond. You groan, setting the pen down, covering your face with your hands. Mother above. Definitely not your smartest moment. Reach to flip the paper over—not wanting to be reminded of your naïveté.
More ink has appeared, just below your scribbled question.
You may hide your intelligence around your family, but that won’t work with me. Smarten up.
The words burn your features. Scowl at the paper.
Forgive me for not anticipating the paper to talk back, Eris.
It vanishes the second you’ve written the sentence, leaving you blinking at the empty space on your desk. Winnowing isn’t possible within the House of Wind—you’ve heard both Rhysand and Feyre say it before. Yet note passing seems completely acceptable, for some reason. You suppose no harm can derive from simple exchanges.
You’ve been surrounded by magic for nearly two years. It’s shameful to still be taken aback by its multi-faceted ways.
A reluctant smile gilds your mouth. That’s Eris alright. Readjust your hold on the pen.
And it’s embarrassing to rely on stupidly long words in attempt to prove your intellect. Just say it’s versatile.
The parchment disappears, then returns. Nothing’s been added.
Amusement brightens your mouth, raising the writing instrument, poising it to attack. The words dance on your tongue, weapons to provocation: You have a bad attitude to being spoken back to. But you shake your head, instead choosing compromise for your next reply.
Did you want something? I doubt you simply dropped in to say hi. Unless this is your way of making sure I got the book?
Perhaps it was my way of seeing where you fall in this alliance.
Brow draws together. He obviously means the alliance between the Night Court and him, but where do you fit into it all? How does this show your placement? What does he even mean, where you fall? Take a deep breath, release it. It will do you no good to fall for his own provocation.
I hope you were satisfying enlightened, then, you write back.
Quite.
Stare at the neatly scripted response. He’s leaving the conversation for you to direct. First thoughts go to where he acquired the book, but somehow you feel that’s not the direction he wants you to take this in. So, sighing, you stumble straight into the trap he’s laid out.
Why haven’t you told anyone?
Paper vanishes again. Takes a minute to reappear.
It’s pretty blackmailing material. Why waste it in common conversation?
Lips purse together as you read his reply. Manipulative indeed.
Whatever you think you’ll be able to extort from me, I can guarantee you’ll end up disappointed.
Not the family favourite?
Blink at the speed of the response. Like quicksilver. Vague amusement warms your chest—how clear the mockery is. Disconcertingly comforting to know he doesn’t change. The same in every form. Precious constancy. Lower the pen to parchment.
I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?
And I suppose you’ll hide beneath the guise of observation, now?
It certainly isn’t warfare. I’d think you’d be practiced at spotting pretty, bladed words.
Again, the parchment vanishes, leaving you in the silence of your own room. Feet tap anxiously upon the clear wood, leg vibrating as you wait on him. Realisation smacks you upside your jaw—you refuse to sit here wasting precious seconds for whatever nihilistic response he carves out for you. Instead, you turn to the anthology, flicking to the index, peering at titles. Searching for one that will catch your eye.
I’m flattered—you’ve sharpened your tongue since we last sparred.
Roll your eyes. Lips quirking at the inherent Eris-ness of the response.
Wooden swords will only serve me for so long. Why not experiment with steel in a controlled environment?
The parchment vanishes, and takes its time to reappear. Time you spend scanning titles, pondering their contents. Maybe you should ask why he gave it to you in the first place. Certainly not out of the kindness of his heart.
Paper reappears.
You think merely because there are entire courts between us that makes you safe?
Peer at his reply—try studying it. Does he want you to be wary of him? It seems unlikely, somehow. He wouldn’t be able to get anything from you if you’re afraid of him. He should be encouraging you to feel at ease speaking with him if he wants something.
Do you make a habit of being as unpleasant as possible to every person you encounter, or am I just lucky?
A smile warms your mouth as the paper vanishes, fantasising how irritated he might become. From your words! Exhilarating!
Eyes land on a title that piques your interest: Movement of Light. Brow narrows with interest, flipping to the registered page number eagerly. Upon the parchment, beside the tightly knitted words, lays a neat diagram. It appears to be of a rectangle with two small holes punctured through its thin mass. Interesting…
Do you make a habit of keeping secrets from your family?
Lips purse. Cutting to the core, again. Manipulative as he may be, he’s certainly skilled at finding the right bruises to target. You wonder if it’s a skill he’d been taught through books or word of mouth, or if, perhaps, it was a nastier kind of education. Shake your head free of thoughts, pulling away from the book.
Having no secrets at all is stupidly idilic. Are there any other misconceptions you would like me to clear up?
You’re surprisingly cynical for your age.
Strange how having one’s mortality ripped away will do that to a woman.
Even you can hear the bitterness bleeding through. But the words have been written, and the paper has disappeared, so there’s no use trying to take them back. Even if you’re mentally cursing yourself for allowing that kind of opening. Surprised at how easy it is to be caught up in conversation with him. Or sparring, as he so eloquently puts it.
Wonderful immortality not treating you well?
Again, with the taunting. Amusement and something else prickles beneath your fingertips. Irked.
I’ll admit, it’s not quite as spectacular as I might’ve thought once upon a time.
That seems measured enough.
I thought humans were raised to hate us.
Observe the words—how they sit on the parchment. The contrast between your short scribbles and his elegant font.
Might a deer not wish for a wolf’s strength?
Parchment again vanishes. Once you’ve counted to three, you turn your attention back to the book, scanning the passage of writing. Brows narrow at the leap in language—words you’re unfamiliar with. A photon? Maybe it would be better to start from the beginning. Where’s a damn glossary when you need one?
Paper reappears—you take a moment to pull away from the volume.
Have you always been in pursuit of grandeur?
Brow narrows at the question.
I’d say I’ve always been rather passionate about not starving. So I suppose I did once think having three hot meals a day would be utter luxury.
I would have rather rotted away than be forced to live amongst vermin.
A surprised laugh flutters from your chest, amusement sparking within you again.
You’re much too stubborn for such a miserable end, Eris; too bitter to resign yourself to such a fate, either.
Parchment vanishes. One. Two. Three. Return to the volume, start at the beginning. Where your eyes were intended to land. Sighing, you scan the title: The Foundations of our World—Stuff. Brow narrows, lips quirking upward at the vagueness of it. Stuff. Such a lack of precise articulation, yet here it is, in an anthology of noteworthy discoveries. Somehow, this piece had been selected as important; important enough to be the base for the entire book. Strange…
Eye roll across the tightly stacked letters, mind pulsing as words soak into your brain, thumping dully as blood rushes through your ears. Take everything at it’s basest nature, reduce it down to the fundamentals, and what sort of building blocks are you left with? What makes up the world as we see it?
‘Take the prefix a- from the middle language, and combine it with the Old Language verb to cut, creating the name for the indivisible: atom. The smallest bits of matter that can exist independently.’
Intrigue returns with crushing force, making it near impossible to tear your eyes from the volume when the parchment reappears. How long has he been writing? Maybe he was preoccupied.
And yet I understand it was the youngest of you who took up her weapons and headed out into the wild. For how adamantly you protested against my lack of action regarding something I could easily correct, you seem to appear quite the hypocrite. Why didn’t you go out into those woods?
Blink away the memories of frost. Of sweat-stained clothes, and matted, knotted hair.
Getting a little personal with the questions, don’t you think?
Writing to me at all is much more personal than you should ever be getting—I’m sure your friends would agree. Yet there you are, pen in hand, thinking up your next counterattack.
The reply comes with surprising swiftness, allowing you only a brief glimpse of the following passage. Just as you’re beginning to grasp the core of what the essay is talking on.
You write with the confidence sight, you reply, eager to return. Yet he seems to have put his own distractions aside, as the response follows promptly.
Magic is a wonderful thing.
Blood ices in your veins, limbs stiffening, tongue turning leaden.
You’re lying. The House is fortified with wards; practically impregnable.
Yet here we are, corresponding. Does your High Lord know what you get up to behind closed doors?
Heart spikes in your chest, fingers trembling just a little as you lower pen to paper.
You clearly want something; you’re not going to get it if you spook me away, so quit the games.
Very well, but I’ll admit I indulged in the thought of your discomfort.
Release a heavy sigh—he doesn’t somehow have a window into your room, able to watch every move you make. Surely that would be too far, even for his manipulative ways. Skin prickles at how easily he slid beneath it—fingertips brighten.
You share that delightful, sharp-written humour with your youngest brother, you know that?
The parchment vanishes, then reappears in a matter of seconds. You laugh to yourself.
Touchy subject, Eris?
The second you dot the question mark, the door swings open; you yelp, jumping in your chair, shoving the parchment away. Vanishes again a blink later, slightly crumpled from the violent rejection.
“I knocked…” Feyre supplies, features tightening with concern. “Did you not… Oh.” She blinks, peering at the door frame; the threshold. “I suppose it must have been set up to block out exterior noise, too.” Sighs. “I’ll get that fixed at some point. Seems a waste to have a sound barrier up if you’re unable to hear what’s going on outside.”
Swallow heavily, trying to look normal. Like you weren’t knowingly communicating with the heir to the Autumn Court throne. Blue-grey settles upon you, fingers fidgeting in your lap, shifting in your seat to get comfortable. Everything feels unsettled. Her brows arrow, “you’re… What were you doing?”
“Nothing.” You reply, quickly. Far too quickly to be normal.
Lips quirk. “Writing to Bas?” She teases.
Heavy sigh whooshes from your chest, deflating a little. “How do you know about him? I haven’t even mentioned him to ‘Lain,” you say lightly. Something flashes through her eyes, too quickly for you to decipher. “Az mentioned you had someone after you,” she laughs, stepping into the room, door closing behind her. “I had no idea it was so serious,” she smiles, the happiness so inappropriate with the context you have.
Shake your head in denial, “he’s just a friend. There’s nothing else going on.” She gives you a look to say she doesn’t believe you. “I’m serious,” you insist. “There’s nothing romantic going on.” That part’s true, at least.
Feyre laughs again, then shifts on her feet. A strange quest seems to overtake her. “You know things are different here,” she begins softly, “to how we lived as humans.”
Heat flushes your features, making you groan. “Oh my gods, Fey. I am not having this conversation with you.”
“I’m just saying, if you want to get out there…see the world…maybe a few males, too… That’s fine. That’s stuff we can do, now. Well, you can do.” She amends the last part. After all, she’s the youngest, and already has a mate, a husband, and a child. An entire family. The epitome of womanhood.
Shake your head adamantly, “please, stop.” You grimace. Her lips quirk, mischief in here blue-grey eyes. She’s so lively…spirited. Bubbly? But calm, too. When did she become so adult? She seems to have aged in the blink of an eye.
(Why didn’t you go out into those woods?)
She shifts again, peers around the room—it’s a superficial move. She’s buying time, building up to something. “Your floor’s clear,” she notes, nodding to the clear wooden boards. Nod in response, trying not to wring your fingers. You were doing nothing wrong. He had spoken first. Nothing to be guilty about; no one got hurt. It’s fine.
“About our last interaction…” she begins, quietly. Spine stiffens, heart spikes. “I wasn’t trying to find something wrong with you; I’m sorry it came out that way.”
Exhale softly, shoulders lose their tension. Smile easily, waving her off. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” you laugh. “I understand. I’m sorry for lashing out at you, it was unfair on my part to act that way.” Her eyes narrow on you. Keep up the smile. “Is this your way of saying you just don’t want to talk about it?” She asks, softly. Blue-grey shimmers with sincerity.
Lips begin to ache with the stretch. “What are you talking about? We’ve made peace, there’s no need to exacerbate this.”
“Do you not want to talk about it?” She reiterates, keeping calm and quiet.
“What is it?” You laugh, turning to face the desk, eyes flitting to the volume. Scan the page; absorb nothing. “What you said last time. About being a burden.”
Body stiffens, breath catches.
“Fey, I’m getting tired,” you excuse, voice steady.
“You’re tired a lot,” she replies, quietly. Still watching. “Maybe Madja should take a look at you.” Sigh. Lean back in your chair. Tilt your face back, peering at the ceiling. “I’ve had a long life,” you murmur up to the white wallpaper, “I’m allowed to be tired.”
“You’re barely twenty-two.”
“And a lot has happened. I’m allowed to be tired.” You repeat, not looking at her.
Silence stretches between you. Gentle, but taut.
“How about you?” You ask, shifting the conversation over. Turning to peer at her. Your younger sister. Feyre blinks, then nods her head. “Good. Wonderful.” Watch her silently. Mark the lowness of her lids. “Nyx still waking you up?”
Nods again, smiling faintly, traveling somewhere distant. Somewhere foreign to you. “Eight days a week,” she laughs quietly. “Rhys and I are taking turns looking after him during the nights. Despite his work-load.” Sighs, pushes hair from her cheek, tucks it over a pointed ear. “He’s been great. Supportive, attentive, perfect. I keep trying to get him to let me handle Nyx, but he’s insisting it’s a joint effort. Wants to be there in a way his father…” she trails off, eyes misting.
Nod your head slowly. “And I suppose you want to be there in a way our mother…?”
“Yeah,” she replies thickly. “I guess that’s part of it.” The quiet turns viscous, coagulating into something almost translucent.
“I read some things…” you begin gently, “about the turbulence of motherhood.”
Her features lift into a smile, “oh, don’t worry about me. Rhys and I are working through it. It’s difficult, but everyone’s there when the strain starts to set in.” You blink away subtle surprise. “Mor’s always up for taking him off our hands for a day or two. It’s the same with Cass and Nesta,” she laughs fondly. “Amren…well, she’s Amren. And Elain’s great at making little treats here and there. Smiley faces out of his breakfast and things like that—he loves it.”
You nod slowly. Blink. “That’s great.” Again the silence creeps in.
Then she’s shifting on her feet, and. You just know—
“What kind of person is Bas?” She inquiries, not at all subtly. Nosey.
“He’s my friend, and nothing else.” He’s much more than a friend, but there’s no way to explain that without an entire Court’s worth of misunderstandings and uncomfortable questions. Still, she nods, but remains in your room. “And he… His intentions?”
“Feyre,” you scold, incredulously.
Your younger sister doesn’t flinch. Keeps her gaze straight. “Okay. Okay,” she sighs, holding up her hands in defence. “I’m wary of him.”
“Please, you can trust me he’s harmless. To me, at least. I’m sure if someone swung at him he’d be the type to swing back, but that’s besides the point.” You leave out the part that you’re fairly certain he would be the one to also somehow provoke a fight. He can be pretty provocative when he wants to. Not always in a bad way…
(…a hot, male body that’s pressing you into the wall.)
“I just want you to be careful,” she says quietly, eyes misting, going somewhere far away. “Males…people can be unkind. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Amarantha, Tamlin… You nod your head, “I understand. But Bas…I can trust him. So please don’t doubt him; please don’t doubt me either, in this decision.”
Feyre nods again. Silence stretches, then she straightens. Pats the doorframe. “Well, I’ll have this fixed as soon as possible. It’ll need to be disabled, than I can remake it—so you’ll be able to hear people coming. It’d be awful if you got yourself hurt from being startled by one of us.” She gives you a sweet smile, then disappears out into the hall, door clicking shut behind her.
Unsure if it’s her silent feet or the sound barrier that prevents you from hearing her disappearing footfalls.
————
Skin is itching, fingers burning. Heart spiking.
Burning, burning, burning. Hands on fire.
Vision blurs, floor spinning. She’s on the ceiling.
Crash into a wall, bone crunching. Stumble to the kitchen.
Liquid drips down cheeks, splashing onto knuckles.
Scraped raw, searing pain. Bone splintering, nails peeling.
Cool water fills the sink, drown her hands.
Sweet strangulation, dulcet deprivation.
Lovely oblivion.
————
Breath eases in and out, soothing your lungs. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out.
Chest deflates, keeping your body straight but relaxed—imagine sinking into the mattress. Cheeks puff up with the exhale, calm and quiet. Sit silently. Allow the world to fade. Tension seeps from your shoulders, muscles relaxing the way you’ve practiced. Now to make sure you don’t drop off instead.
Empty out thoughts, settle into the silence. Float away on a breeze. Imagine hands being set aglow. No. They are aglow.
Eyes remain shut, tight. Picture the radiant green seeping onto your skin, setting it alight.
Fingers twitch, bones itch. Teeth grind. Nails heat.
Eyes open in time to catch the glow as it fades, sinking back into your skin. A flicker of Starfall, then nothing. Sigh heavily, back slumping, shoulders sloping. It’s something; most importantly, it’s progress. Day three of fourteen. Slow movements, slower response. Gently stoking the flames.
Remove the light from your world, lids closing, return to the darkness. Seeking solace. Breath eases in and out, soothing your lungs. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out. In. And out. Fingertips warm, but eyes remain closed. Don’t acknowledge it. Can’t look or feel for it. Allow it to grow in the back of your mind, allow into latch into your blood; flourish. Swirling and billowing, gaining momentum until it can move on its own, until it can function without nurture.
Keep your back turned to the power, allow it to remain unseen. Pull it upward; hear as it cracks and fizzles in your head. Rapidly dividing…splitting at high-speed…multiplying until it boils and bubbles. One cleaves another in two…into three…nine…
Heat burns your fingertips, flashing pain blaring so rapidly, sparking like lightening across your palms, splintering phalanges…down into the carpal bones, nearing your wrists.
Vision blasts into view, pupils contract to tiny dots, shrinking away from the pale green light that’s blazing from your hands, barreling up your forearms, crackling past elbows, bolting up, up, up… Muscles seize, contracting against the hot itch scrambling your flesh, twisting at sinew. The blinding light dims, eyes peeking open as it dulls to a quiet luminosity, tinting your skin. Feels like poison ivy…the nettles by your old estate.
Swallow, staring at the radiance. Almost mesmerising enough to block out the burn. Throat itches, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deep breaths. Ease in. And out. Deep and easy. Calm and quiet. Collected.
Slowly, warily, you rise from your bed, door swinging open on the house’s command. Silently pad down the hallway, arms and torso concealed well by your dress, cardigan hiding the faint incandescence of your wrists. Hands—no way to hide them. Ignore it for now, you need a drink. Deep and easy. In. And out. Calm. Quiet and collected.
A glass waits for you on the table, walk steadily forward, fingers tremble as they clutch the cup. Water vibrates inside, tiny ripples fluttering across the surface. Effervescent bubbles shimmer at the base. Grow larger, swelling into compact air, fizzing up. Simmering in your hands. Tension coils your shoulders, brow dampening. Liquid heats up, boiling into a volatile mess. Bubbles pop at the surface, scalding water splashing onto your knuckles.
Scream as glass shatters, burning your bare feet as the liquid sprays.
Heart spikes, glowing brighter, inching up your arms, over your shoulders. Crawling across your collar bones. Muscles knot, tangling over themselves as they seize in terror. Power coils closer, snaking toward your throat, slowly…slowly…
“What—”
Hazel pierces into you, flicking over your hands, marking the shards of glass. He appeared in a flurry of darkness, shadows pulling back once he’s materialised in the doorway. Eyes already scanning for the source of distress. Fix on the slow spread of toxic green as it tip-toes higher. Hits a barrier. It’s a small hesitation—but it’s enough. Magic flickers, recoiling from your clavicle, enough hesitation to be quashed. Like a weight sinking down, an avalanche of rock crushing vermin, bones crunching beneath the pressure. Incandescence shoved away, dripping down your arms, cut back to your fingertips.
Sweet relief washes over you, waves of coolness cresting from your forehead to your toes. Lovely reprieve. Exhale heavily, spine nearly collapsing beneath the strain, leaving a slight glimmer to your fingertips, nails curved and warped from heat. Stagger back as he silently moves toward you. Scarred hands reach out, wanting to touch; wanting to steady.
“Are you—”
“Don’t,” you bark, snapping your arms closer to your body. Feel their unnatural heat as it singes the fabric of your dress. His nostrils flare, scenting the charred material, shadows flicker.
Call breath into your lungs, soothing. Deep and easy. In and out. Calm and quiet. In. And out. Calm and collected. A familiar scent has hairs raising at the back of your neck, eyes flicking up to lock with hazel. Closer than before. Despite the heat.
“What was that?” He asks, the deep roughness of his voice curling across your breastbone, soothing the heated skin like a balm. Swallow heavily, keeping your hands tight to your torso. Turn away; move to the sink. The tap turns on independently, cool water sizzling as it washes over trembling hands. Cold metal mollifies your skin, a comfy weight around your neck. The tiny barrier your magic had hit. Tripped up on.
Azriel doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel him nearby, standing at your side. Watching silently as the water fizzles and hisses, the last of the glow dimming from your fingertips. How close he’d come to touching the blisteringly hot skin. Slowly, the cold begins to souse into your digits, running smoothly over your hands, no longer bubbling or evaporating on impact.
The house has already cleared away the shards of glass; dried the pool of scalding water by the time you’ve dried your hands. Flaky, and ashen. The smooth, creamy texture seemingly been ravished by the heat. Yet all you felt was a slight itch to begin with. You don’t make any attempts to conceal how quickly you want to escape the room, but you’re kept where you are. Waiting…waiting for him to change his mind about keeping your secret. After what he’s just seen…
Feet are pinned to the boards, muscles unwilling to obey your mind as you explore them to turn and leave. Arms feel leaden, stiff and immovable. Wait for the compromise to be retracted. Hands tremble, teeth faintly bite onto your tongue. Wait for the condemnation. For being so foolish; stubborn.
“Are you hurt?” Words thud dully against your ears, keeping your hands as out of sight as possible, hidden beneath the sleeves of your cardigan. Nod dutifully. “I’m okay,” you murmur. Lips are numb, mind buzzing faintly. Floorboards spin ever so slightly, blurring in and out of focus. Deep breaths. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out. Calm and collected. In. And. Out.
Boots appear at the top of your sight, just a little way from your own. Far enough not to be intimate. He holds out a scarred hand, palm facing upward. Almost expectant.
Blink away the dizziness. Flesh tingling…wriggling beneath your skin. Nails itching.
Wait silently to see what he’ll do.
Continues holding out his hand, waiting patiently to see if you’ll offer up your own. Remain rooted to the spot, numbness crawling beneath your sleeves. Mind buzzing with confusion at the outstretched palm.
Slowly, he begins reaching for your wrist, as if to inspect the results of the experiment. Analyse the consequence. Examine.
It topples you into motion.
Turn on your feet; quietly scamper off down the corridor. Behind the safety on your door.
With the wooden barrier in place, plus the sound block on your room, you can truly feel forgotten for a while. Like time’s stopped.
————
The shower had your blood moving again, temperature cooling to a regular heat. Mind working again, mentally cataloguing every thought you had, every twinge of unusualness that could have been the signposting you should have noticed to prevent that rapid surge of…burning.
Peer down at your hands, almost absently. Aside from the slight roughness to your skin; the chapped dryness to your knuckles, there’s nothing to show for the bone deep itch that had manifested within your flesh. Just the texture becoming sandpapery. Flaky.
A dark blue towel is draped over your shoulders like a shawl, preventing the damp ends of your hair from saturating the changed dress.
(What was that?)
It stopped almost out of nowhere. One moment, steadily spreading throughout your body, the next, it seemed to stumble. Like hitting a bump of some kind. Something that disturbed its momentum. Peer down at the necklace that’s sitting comfortably around your throat, resting just above your collar bones. In the dip of their joining point.
The small, glass pendant hanging from the bronze chain sits innocently on your person. Fingers brush over the map in wonder, curiously feeling. Cool metal contains the accessory, lead encapsulated within a gleaming polish. Even the underside has a pretty finish. Lead, bronze, and glass. Maybe some ink, but that’s all it is. No secrets carved to its base, no hidden compartment. Just a simple ornament, yet something about it disagreed with you. Thank the Mother.
Fingers play with the charm as you take a seat at your desk, reopening the volume. Rusty red leather creaks as you turn to your page, more than willing to submerge yourself in learning. The candles flicker as you ease out a breath, taking in the familiar scent of parchment and something pleasantly spiced. Maybe it’s an Autumn Court scent.
Crumpled paper lands on your desk, settling comfortably between the two large pages of the anthology.
It may surprise you to learn I have better things to do than spend all my hours writing to you.
Stare at the neat, elegant script. Debate the merits of responding willingly. Returning to this strange sparring match would be acknowledging your interest. There’d be no way to talk your way back to innocence. Putting pen to paper will mean…
And yet here you are, Vanserra, writing back to me.
Oh, you hope that irritates him. Hope he sends back something vicious. Something to make you spark awake again. To light up the numbness that’s turning your world monotone.
Would you like to tell me where these wrinkles came from?
Lips tug at the edges, but remain set in a dull line. Lower your pen to the roughed-up parchment. Fingers dry and somewhat cracked in the low light.
Nonsense, Eris. You don’t look a day over thirty.
Picture the way his sharp caramel eyes blaze with ire at the brazenness. Maybe his palms also heat when he’s in a mood. It’s a little comforting to remember power probably didn’t come naturally to him. Maybe. You’re making assumptions, though.
And you don’t dress a day over fifty. Considering Rhys’ wealth is at your fingertips, you have the fashion sense of someone who’s still destitute.
Mouth parts as you read the response. Brows flicking up your forehead. Harsh…
A smile quirks the corners of your lips.
I’ll have you know I dress for comfort. You’re the one who cares so much about prettification. Maybe I could visit your personal beauty parlour sometime, Eris?
Parchment vanishes, allowing you time to peer down at the diagram before you: a small rectangular table. There are various squares left blank, while others are filled in with one or two letters. The boxes that do contain letters attached are numbered, correlating with asterisks further down the page, displaying a full title.
Who would ever accompany you? It’s bad etiquette to visit a tonsorium on one’s own.
The smile fades after a few moments. Who would go with you if you wanted to visit somewhere? Elain? Feyre? …Mor? Shake your head, pushing away the dismal thoughts he’s brought to your attention. Divert elsewhere.
It’s worst to not entertain your guests. What a miserable (and sour) host you would be. I think I’m actually quite glad to not be visiting anytime soon.
Try to return to the anthology; find yourself awaiting his reply. Leg tapping against the floorboards. Minutes pass while you attempt to absorb more of the text, but nothing’s sticking. Like there’s a fog passing through your brain, stopping you from taking in the wonder of the world. More minutes tick by—the sky a solid dark blue the other side of your window. A few other candles gleam alight, and you murmur your thanks to the House. Flame flickers in response. Oddly comforting.
Eyelids start to feel heavy, weighing into your vision.
You don’t realise you nodded off until you wake from your nap. The desk is still void of a reply; you wearily peer around your room, attempting to orient yourself. Knuckles itch to be scratched, still rough to the touch. Gaze settles on your door. Perhaps it’s a little scary that you wouldn’t know if something was lurking directly the other side. Wouldn’t be able to hear any heavy breathing, or the scrape of steel. Deep breath, because there’s nothing there.
Stand to draw the curtains, but hairs stand on end. Remain still for a few seconds, centring on the feeling. Is it fear? Is it loneliness? Brow knits in concentration, absently drawing the curtains, turning back to face the entrance to your room.
(The only exit.)
Sigh in frustration. It’s not good to give into your…however you’re feeling. It will only encourage your mind to exacerbate whatever problem its fabricated. Still, you find yourself opening the door, peering down the well-lit corridor. Nothing there, no strange feeling, no lurking presences. Just your mind finding something to react to, creating a madness to subject you to. Deep breaths. The House of Wind is secure. Safe, and secure. You’re safe here. Nothing bad will happen; you won’t get hurt.
Deep breaths, heart lowering its pace.
Move to bring the door to; notice something on the ground, beside the frame.
Crouch down to pick up the small tin. Bring it inside, door swinging shut as you hold it up to the light.
Peer at the neat label. Pop open the lid; look inside.
It’s a small pot of hand cream.
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All For A Good Cause (Professor Layton X Reader) Part 1
Summary: The day of the Charity Gala is finally upon you both. Having agreed to meet up to go together, you make your way to his, wondering where the night will take you both.
☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆
A week later after walking home with the professor and arranging to meet up before the charity gala, you’re on your way to the Layton household. And the weather was not on your side to make this a night to remember for the professor. In true British fashion, the heavens decided to open their doors and rain quite heavily on the city of London. But nothing was going to stop you from making this a night to remember. After all, you had made a promise to your friend to help him relax tonight.
“A little rain never hurt anyone really,” You told yourself as you finally made it to the awning of the Professor’s home, making sure to close your trusty umbrella before knocking on the familiar door. Soon enough, the door creaked open to reveal a familiar head of light brown hair.
“Hello Luke! How are you? May I come in?”
“Oh! Hi (Y/N)! Of course! Please come in!” Luke offered, stepping aside to let you into the professor’s apartment.
Once inside, you quickly took a look around the hallway. You had been in the apartment only a handful of times in the past. Mostly to wait on the professor and Luke on days when you all went out together. Normally to a museum exhibit you all wanted to see or to spend the day with Luke when the professor had important meetings to attend, so you hadn’t fully taken in what his home looked like. Looking around now, you could see it was easily a full extension of what his office looked like; a coat hanger and umbrella holder by the front door with a mirror to the side, a shelf with miscellaneous trinkets from his travels underneath. Bookshelves stuffed to the brim with archaeology textbooks, loose sheaf paper, and research journals. From your angle at the front door, you could just about peer into the living room too; a plush green sofa you could imagine sinking into with a good book, a roaring fire warming the house, and a coffee table scattered with tests he was scoring. “Untidy and yet feels like home.” you chuckled to yourself as you waited on the front door mat, not wanting to drip water into your friend's home.
“Is that you (Y/N)? I’ll just be a moment, and then we can go. We will just have to make a detour to Luke’s parent's house so they can look after him while we’re out. I hope that is ok?” A voice drifted from upstairs, seeming to have heard you and not wanting to leave you hanging.
“That’s quite alright Hershel, take your time! We’re ahead of schedule anyway!”
“You look nice (Y/N)! The professor said that you are going to a charity gala. What’s that like?” Luke asked, admiring your outfit as she did so. A glitzy affair you had in the back of your closet for special events like this.
“Well Luke, while it’s still at the university, it’ll be a slightly more posh affair. With all the school board attending to raise money for charity.”
“Oh yes, I saw that on the invitation the professor showed me. I hope the people of Haiti are ok! I can’t imagine what they must be going through!”
“I’m sure they will with the help from this event. But anyway, it’s a bit like a big party everyone’s donated to attend, filled with events and dancing.”
“Well, I hope you and the professor have a nice time! I hope one day I’ll be able to go to a charity gala too!” Luke exclaimed, trying to stand on his tip-toes and bow like a proper gentleman, causing you to giggle and check he was ok when he accidentally hit his head on the wall he was facing.
“I’m sure you will one day Luke. Apologies for making you wait dear. Shall we head off?” A familiar voice appeared out of nowhere. Turning around, you saw Hershel in all his glory; A finely tailored black tie suit with his signature hat and a silk tie to match. “Oh wow, he looks good. Really good!”
“Of course! Ready when you are! C’mon Luke!” You replied, turning around and heading out first, holding out your umbrella for the pair to join you under as you walked to the trusted Laytonmobile, hoping to hide your face in case he saw just how affected you were by his change from his usual attire.
With that, the three of you got into the Laytonmobile and drove off to the Trition Household, greeted by Luke as you dropped Flora off to be looked after while at the event. Some small talk was had with the Triton family for a while, Brenda complimenting you on your outfit and Clark teasing Hershel that he should be going to the Ritz instead of a university gala with what fine clothes he’s in this evening. Eventually, Brenda turned the Triton brood inside, allowing you and the professor to finally head off to Gressenheller.
“Hmm, traffic’s a little heavy with the latecomers going home from work, but we should still make it in time,” Hershel muttered, watching the road as we passed over London Bridge, the streetlights blurring with the heavy patter of the rain and the blinds working hard to maintain visual of the street. “But still, this should be an event to remember I believe, from what I’ve heard about the auction.”
“Oh yes, from what I heard the school board went above and beyond in donating items for the auction. I even heard that there’s a first edition of Homer’s Odyssey up for grabs tonight! If I can’t win anything tonight, I sure hope I can bid on that!”
“Hahaha! I thought that particular item might catch your fancy! Mrs Sinclair is a mythology lover too from the small handful of meetings I've had with her, and always up for sharing her love of it.”
“Oh dear, have I become that predictable already? I may have to shake things up and take an interest in something completely out of my usual scope to keep you on your toes… like flower-arranging.”
“Now now, there is nothing wrong with predictability. After all, if you're passionate about something you love, why would you not indulge in that and share your fascinations with the world.” He said, turning his head my way for a split second to show a kind smile before returning his eyes to the road.
“That's true. Besides, I'm not the only one who is predictable about what items on tonight's auction people would be interested in. After all, I can imagine you’re interested in the Azran tablet Dr Schrader has donated to the auction tonight. Must be a blast from the past from your previous adventures right?
“Hmm, it seems I too may have to branch out into different avenues if I have become this predictable to you too.”
“Oh hush Hershel. You and I both know that I wouldn’t have you any other way apart from how you are now.”
“Well, thank you (Y/N). It’s always nice to see
“But all seriousness aside, if you did pick another hobby to take up what would it be?”
“...Football.”
“Seriously!?!” You asked, turning in your seat to look at the man head-on, a hand covering the growing grin at the image of Hershel in a proper footballer’s kit, kicking a football up a pitch with the other team chasing him.
“Well, it does take good coordination and skill to be able to master those strategies the team manager creates. And it’s a great way to keep your cardio up. Why, don’t you think I’d make a great footballer?”
“You know what Hershel, I think you’d be a fantastic footballer. You already have the athleticism to keep up with the other players. Should be a cinch for you to pick up.”
“Well thank you (Y/N). Should I ever decide to switch careers in the future, I’ll make sure you’ll be the first one I send tickets to come see me. Anyway, we’ve arrived now.” He finishes, leaving you chuckling as he slides the Laytonmobile perfectly into a spare parking space.
Having entered the university five out of seven days a week for months now, you’re normally so used to the grounds that you don’t notice the finer details anymore. But looking at the building in the evening light, you can’t help but think of how magical it all looks tonight. String lights dangle across streetlights to entice visitors into the main doors. The windows filled with warm light and silhouettes of attendees, already having a great time mingling inside. The lawns are manicured to perfection and the trees sway in the breeze to produce a melodic sound to the chatter inside, just as the rain lets up from a downpour to a drizzle.
“Well, what luck! We won’t be drenched by the time we make it inside.” Hershel commented, getting out of the car and joining you on your side of the vehicle. “And (Y/N)...”
“Yes, Hershel?”
“You look wonderful tonight. Shall we?” He asked, smiling at you as he offered his hand out to you.
“We shall.” You responded, smiling up at him as you put your hand in his as he helped you out of the car. Holding the umbrella for the pair of you, you both made your way inside the building to see where this auction takes you both.
- The legacy of Lumia’s influence is scarred eternally into the lands of Elvendale. Burdened by a prophecy foretelling her demise and need for a successor, she watches for one capable of such power. Yet her enemies are working steadily to undo all she’s labored so long for, and it is millenia too late to make peace.
Emily Jones, heir to Eimileen, is a bold girl dedicated to protecting Elvendale, but the world she has grown so fond of is not so black and white as it seems, and the titles of Guardian of Portal and Guardian of Light may hold darker legacies some ancient elves have worked tirelessly to hide.
In conjunction with the extended version of the Guardian of Light prophecy I wrote previously
Basically a rewrite of all of the Lego Elves & Secrets of Elvendale storylines with an additional arc beyond the Season 4: Into the Shadows. There will be a varying degree of deviation from canon.
Technically a crossover with Lord of the Rings/Hobbit/Silmarillion in terms of worldbuidling, as I set Elvendale as being north of Middle-Earth, cause this is fanfic and I can. So there will be mentions of the Noldor, Sindar, Silvan, and some Tolkien characters, but they will be mostly background. Definitely not an issue if you aren’t familiar with the Middle-Earth fandom; everything will still be easy to understand.
Book 1: The Azure Sky
Grieving over the unexpected death of her grandmother, Emily Jones is accidentally trapped in another world. Befriending a few young elves in an attempt to find her way home, Emily discovers many secrets about her grandmother’s past, but for every truth she learns two more questions take its place, leaving her vulnerable to darker force inhabiting this realm.
A rewrite of Unite the Magic
____________________________________
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
____________________________________
Empty-handed, Naida and Emily trudge back to the hollow’s entrance. “Do you think anyone else will have been successful?” the human ponders.
“Most likely Farran. He has the strongest connection to the trees, and while the ones here don’t have the most friendly of dispositions, they still have a fondness for earth and silvan elves.”
“Trees have dispositions?”
Naida smiles, “Yes, but on most worlds they perpetually sleep, living their lives in the dream world. In this realm, when the elves were first created, they started to wake them up.”
“Why did they want to wake them up?”
Naida shrugs. “It’s just in the elven nature. Curiosity, and a deep love for the elements of nature, desiring to be nearer to it. Some travelers even say that elves have a greater love of language compared to other species.”
Emily smiles. “My parents always said I got my green thumb from the grandmother. My little sister can’t stand the racks of plants I keep in my bedroom.”
“Maybe that’s why Eimileen chose you to inherit the key,” Naida suggests gently, “because she saw more of elvenkind in you than human.”
“You really think so?”
“I’m not wholy certain, but ever since I’ve met you, you’ve seemed comfortable in our land, almost connected to it in the way we are.”
A blush spreads across Emily’s face, “I don’t know that I’m…” but she is, if she thinks about it, peeling away the layers of the fear and anxiety she’s experienced since coming here, she realizes how much more alive she’s felt in this world, far more than she ever has on earth. Suddenly, the prospect of going home seems almost devastating.
Naida stills.
“What is it?”
The water elf doesn’t respond, turning her head to watch the woods behind them. “There’s someone here.”
“You think one of the others came looking for us, since we were late?”
Naida frowns, staring deep into the trees.
That’s when Emily feels it, a presence, lurking beyond where they can see. Elusive, oppressive like a vivid surreal dream. Her amulet weighs heavier upon her neck, threatening to cut through her skin. The clear blue surface of the stone turns dark, cloudy.
“Aira? Azari? Farran...” Naida calls softly, though it is clear from her face that she does not expect and answer.
There is none. Just the deep silence.
“That’s not them,” Emily stutters out, “It’s something else…”
Naida grabs her hand, turning them around to walk briskly. “We’re not far from the entrance.”
“We should go faster.”
“We don’t need to panic. Whoever’s back there is probably just another elf minding their own business.”
“They were watching us.”
“That doesn’t mean they would try to hurt us. There are very few people and creatures to fear in Elvendale. It would be unlikely we would come across one of them.”
“But possible.”
Naida sighs quietly. “Just keep ahold of my hand.”
They continue on a few steps, and Emily can feel herself calming down. “Didn’t Azari say this place was haunted?”
“I very much doubt what we felt was a ghost.”
“Do ghosts even exist, like for real, in Elvendale?”
“There are rumors, and one cannot discount the abundant bizarre events that have occurred here…but I doubt it.”
Nuala had always said the images that haunted the hollow weren’t spirits, but rather vengeful memories. Of course no other elf could speculate where the second sister had come across such an eccentric idea, but Nuala held to it all the same. She once told Naida that it wasn’t the memories themselves she should fear, no matter how frightening the apparitions were. It was the people who could make those memories come alive. Those were who she should fear. Naida asked ‘who possessed such power?’ but that her grandmother never answered.
Spotting Aira and Azari ahead, the water elf is pulled from her thoughts. “Any luck?” she calls. The fire and air elves shake their heads.
Farran then emerges from his path, grinning from ear to ear. His face is riddled with bloody scratches, and he holds a key that glistens as if it had been carved from an emerald.
“You found it!” Aira exclaims.
“Yep, wasn’t an easy task though. It took an incredible amount of discipline and skilled magic to unearth it from a block of solid crystal. Halfway through, with sweat dripping down my brow, lungs burning, I…”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Azari interjects. “What happened to your face?”
Farran shrugs, sheepish. “The block of cyrstal may have been located underneath a squirrel’s acorn stash. Said squirrel was not particularly happy.”
“Here, let me help.” Aira kneels down and pulls some salve and a cloth from her back. She gently cleans the cuts.
“I wish I could have seen it,” Emily muses. “Anyways, two keys down, two to go. What does the map say?”
Azari snatches it out of Farran’s hand.
“Here at the birthplace of the changing world
Fire reforms that which is old and worn
Trials of flame perfect their sacred jewel
Concealed behind a falling curtain of gold.”
The fire elf frowns. “No clue what that means, but it looks like the next key is located somewhere in the Lava Fields.”
“That sounds…dangerous,” Emily comments.
Azari grins devishly. “Trust me, it’s one of the coolest places in all of Elvendale.”
“When you’re on a golden sea,
You don’t need no memory,
Just a place to call your own,
As we drift into the zone...”
-Island in the Sun by Weezer
Hello, and welcome to part one of M&BC! She’s split up into parts, a day late, and a bit rusty... but she’s here! It’ll be my first new piece of writing since I rejoined tumblr, so it’s a bit nerve-wracking. Thank you to Kate @andwhenshesays, Anne @oh-honey-styles, and Anna @for-fucks-sake-h for organizing this entire challenge, you’ve brought so much joy to our little tumblr community. We love you all dearly ♥️ (4.5k words)
xoxoxox Tile
Warnings: mild drinking, mild drug use (just weed)
You and Harry would never be friends. You were up and down, night and day, oil and water. You just didn’t mesh. He was your roommate’s insufferable older brother, and that is all he would ever be. Well, at least that’s what you thought before….
or
the one with campfire conversations, cabin getaways, and enemies that were never really enemies after all.
MONDAY
Pine trees and cornfields flew by in a blur as you stared out the window of your roommate’s minivan. Every once in a while, there’d be a pasture of cows or a horse ranch. It had been exciting at first, but now you were just bored.
“How much longer?” You called over the music, trying to keep the whine from your voice. It had been hours since you left your apartment this morning, and you’d only stopped once to stretch your legs and take a bathroom break.
“The GPS says we still have an hour and a half to go,” Callie groaned, stepping a bit harder on the gas pedal.
Normally, you loved road trips, but this particular drive was more cramped than you’d bargained for. There were seven girls packed into the van, and you’d been unfortunate enough to get squished into the backseat with your twin sister and her girlfriend, who hadn’t stopped with the obnoxious PDA since the car got on the freeway.
You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, trying to will away your nauseating carsickness. This week had been marked into your calendar for months, and you’d be damned if you let this god-awful car ride ruin it for you.
Callie, your college roommate, had a cabin in northern Wisconsin that she’d been raving about for years. She’d been going there with her family for decades, every summer since pre-school, she’d said. According to her, it was a beautiful property, equipped with a private lakeside beach, fire pit, and a full bar.
It was going to be the perfect getaway. You and Callie had rounded up all of your girlfriends, packed all of the essentials for a spa night, junk food, board games, movies. You’d packed four swimsuits just in case; the weather forecast looked fantastic, high seventies and low eighties all week long.
It was going to be the perfect vacation. Well, almost perfect.
Harry was going to be there.
Harry, the constant thorn in your side. Harry, Callie’s older brother. Harry, the one who eats all of your food whenever he visits. Harry, the one who constantly picked fights with you. You and him had never gotten along, not even for a second.
There wasn’t a single person alive who got on your nerves more than he did. Generally, you got along with most people, but Harry was the exception to the rule. You couldn’t seem to shake him off.
You weren’t about to let him ruin this trip, though. There were going to be fourteen people staying at the cabin, so it should be a piece of cake to avoid him for a week; there were plenty of other people to interact with. And even if you couldn’t avoid him, you were going to let his inevitable snarky comments roll off of your back. Well, you’d try to, at least.
Perhaps that’s what annoyed you most about him, the reaction you’d have from the smallest fight. With anyone else, it was water under the bridge… with Harry, you thought about it for days afterwards, thinking of better comebacks you should’ve said or ways you could have changed your schedule to steer clear of him altogether. He made your skin prickle with irritation, and turned you into somebody you didn’t like very much.
It had been months since you’d seen him, not that you’d been keeping track. He typically visits Callie a few times a semester, but his senior year was more intense than he had anticipated, according to his sister. He just couldn’t spare the two hour drive from his university to yours.
But now it was summertime. Gone were the papers, projects, and responsibilities… it was finally time to relax and have fun. You only had one year of college left before graduation, so you and your friends wanted to make the most of it. Harry and his friends had just graduated, so they were at the cabin for their last hurrah before real life kicked in.
If you were being honest with yourself, you were excited that Harry was bringing some of his frat brothers along. You and your ex had just ended things recently, and you were finally feeling ready to get back into the dating game. Being trapped in a cabin with a handful of cute guys felt like a dream.
Finally, after what felt like centuries, Callie slowed the car down and turned onto a dirt road. The other girls in the car started desperately peering out the window to get a glimpse of the lake and surrounding forest.
The moment the cabin came into view, your jaw dropped. You knew Callie’s parents were loaded, but this hardly looked like the rustic getaway you were expecting. There were three buildings, each labelled with a birch bark sign. Two speedboats and a pontoon were docked at the beach, inflatable tubes and paddleboards littered around the sand nearby.
It wasn’t until Callie parked and shut off the engine that you heard a heavy bass thrum coming from the building marked MAIN CABIN. The other two buildings were labelled GUEST CABIN and SHOWER HOUSE. You were snapped out of it when Olivia and Jane, who had been sitting in the middle bucket seats, swung their sliding doors open and practically fell onto the ground.
“I don’t think I remember how to walk normally,” Charlie, a girl from your art history class, groaned, “like, we were sitting in that car for so long….”
“Oh, shush,” your sister, Morgan, scoffed, “at least you got to sit up front. I was crammed into the back between these two.”
Both you and her girlfriend, Isobel, huffed in protest, but it wasn’t worth picking a fight over. You’d have plenty of time to bicker later. For now, the fresh air and cool breeze were like heaven after a long road trip.
“The boys beat us here,” Callie remarked.
Sure enough, there were two other cars already parked in the driveway. Back behind the main cabin, a plume of smoke rose into the air. You could hear loud laughter, loud enough to drown out the trap music they had playing.
“They’ve started a bonfire!” Olivia squealed, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “I’m ready to get partying… it’s four in the afternoon and I’ve spent all day in a car. I need a drink.”
A few others were laughing and nodding in agreement, already making their way towards the boys, but you hung back. You’d party later, but after spending an entire day stuck with six other people, you just wanted to be alone. Plus, you wanted to drink tonight, and you’d never get around to unpacking your bag if you were wasted.
You managed to dig your duffel bag out from the pile of luggage in the trunk, letting it fall to the ground with a thump. Callie had just been finishing up with a phone call when you looked up.
“Hey, you’re not joining the others?” She asked. “I was about to head over, they’ve got a fire going. Just had to call my mum to let her know we made it.”
“I’ll join in a bit,” you promised “but I want to unpack my things first… where are we all staying?”
“You’re in the main cabin, I have you sharing a room with Charlie, is that okay?” She questioned. You nodded quickly, relief flooding over you. You liked all of the girls who came on the trip, but Charlie was by far the easiest to get along with. “Harry and I each have our own room in the main cabin, too, so you won’t be alone. Everyone else is in the guest cabin, though.”
“The guest cabin,” you giggled, slinging your bag over your shoulder as Callie lead you into the main building, “this place is swanky, Cal.”
“We host all of our family reunions here,” she shrugged, “we need lots of space. Plus it’s fun for occasions like this… we’re just lucky my dad is letting us use the boats. He treats those things like they’re his own children, only Harry is allowed to drive them this week.”
You made a face at the mention of her brother. “I’ll be staying far away from the boats, then.”
“Oh god,” Callie groaned, “I know you two don’t get along very well, but please try to be civil… we’re here for a whole week, after all.”
“I’m always civil,” you protested innocently, “it’s him you need to worry about.”
“Always civil,” she scoffed, “we both know that’s not true, but I’ll let it slide.”
Okay, so maybe you had a slight temper when it came to Harry, but nine times out of ten, he was the one who started the argument. You were never the type to actively seek out conflict, but Harry seemed to thrive off of it. Whether it was eating all the food from your half of the fridge, throwing his dark blue t-shirt in with your load of whites, or playing his guitar in your living room until three in the morning when you had a test the next day… it felt like he was out to get you.
And he was never apologetic. Of course not. He probably got off on watching steam blow from your ears.
You took a deep breath as Callie led you up a wooden staircase, trying not to let yourself get worked up. The cabin was gorgeous from what you’d seen on the main floor. Though you hadn’t lingered, you’d noticed that there was a bookshelf that took up an entire wall, packed to the brim with books with faded spines, vinyl records with worn edges, and an assortment of candles and bookends sprinkled throughout randomly. You couldn’t wait to explore the entire property.
Photographs lined the walls of every hallway, snapshots of Harry and Callie running around as kids. There was a hilarious picture of a young Harry crying as he held a fishing pole, a bare hook dangling from the line. The Styles family clearly had a great sense of humor. You made a mental note to take a photo of it on your phone later; it would be perfect ammo for the next fight that Harry would inevitably start.
“This is the bathroom…” she drawled, “no shower though. We all just use the shower house, which isn’t really as bad as it sounds. Just make sure you bring clothes with you, otherwise you’ll have to walk across the lawn in just your towel.”
You grimaced at the thought. As she continued to lead you down the hall, you saw two doors, one with CALLIE’S ROOM written in bright pink bubble letters, and the second with a wooden plaque, the word HARRY written in what was clearly a child’s handwriting.
“This is technically my parents’ room, but we use it as a guest room if it’s just us kids,” Callie explained, stopping at the last door in the hallway, “they have a king bed, so I figured you and Charlie could just share.”
“That’s fine,” you assured her, not hesitating to drop your heavy duffel onto the side of the bed closest to the window, “this place is awesome, Callie.”
“Right?” She grinned. “I’m stoked for the week, it’s gonna be so fun.”
“You should go down to the bonfire,” you told her, placing a hand on your bag, “I’ll come join as soon as I’m done.”
Luckily, your roommate of two years understood that you needed alone time sometimes, so she left you without protest.
This was exactly the recharge time that you needed. You were the kind of person who loved being around friends, but there was only so much socializing you could handle before you needed a break to be on your own. Even though you hadn’t spoken much on the ride to the cabin, being squished into a mini-van with six other girls drained your social battery. Giving yourself a moment to breathe and relax was necessary if you were going to rejoin the group.
Pressing the shuffle play button on your spotify, you smiled when the soft melody of your favorite folk song thrummed through your headphones. You swayed from side-to-side as you unzipped your bag, which had been packed to perfection.
Four swimsuits, a different outfit for each day (plus a few extra items… overpacking is better than underpacking), sunscreen, bug spray, all of your toiletries. It was fun to organize everything into the empty wardrobe by the window; looking at all of your stuff just made you more excited to be here.
Time flew by as you danced around the room. Most of your things were put away, and you’d stashed your empty bag under the bed. The one thing you hadn’t put away yet was your assortment of swimsuits. It had been difficult picking out which ones you wanted to bring, but you’d settled on three bikinis and a one-piece with the sides cut out. You were itching to change out of your leggings and t-shirt; they felt gross against your skin after sitting in the van all day.
Just as you went to pick up your navy blue sequined bikini top, a hand abruptly clamped down on your shoulder.
“Holy shit!” You spun around on your heels, hand flying to cover your beating heart. You were less than pleased to find Harry standing there, wide-eyed and trying to mask his amusement by biting down on his lip.
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he chuckled, “forgot how jumpy you are.”
“I’m not jumpy,” you frowned, pulling your headphones out of your ears and crossing your arms over your stomach, “what are you doing in here?”
“Nice to see you too,” he scoffed, dimple indenting into his cheek, “I was just using the loo, then I was gonna go back to the party, where we’re having fun. Foreign concept to you, I’m sure.”
You rolled your eyes, turning around so he couldn’t see how hard you were scowling. He always knew just what to say to get your blood boiling.
“Are you implying that I don’t know how to have fun, Harry?” You asked sarcastically.
“Ah, I knew you were smarter than you looked,” he grinned. “Cute swim top.”
It was only then that you noticed his attire. Well, lack of attire. He was wearing the smallest swimming shorts you’d ever seen, his chest tanned from the sun and completely bare apart from a single cross necklace that hung over his sternum. His hair had grown out since the last time you saw him, and it looked a bit ridiculous with his sunglasses on top of his head.
He looked good, not that you’d ever admit it. Luckily, you were fantastic at masking your wandering eyes; he had a tendency of walking around your apartment in his boxers during visits, so you’d had plenty of practice.
“Shut up,” you groaned, throwing the bikini top back onto the bed. You’d been planning on wearing that one, but Harry ruined it with his gross comment, just like he ruins most things for you.
“I’m quite incapable of shutting up,” he mused, throwing himself down onto your side of the bed, “you should know this by now.”
“Trust me,” you were completely unamused, still standing with your arms crossed over your stomach, “I’m well aware.”
“You should come join the party,” he continued speaking as if you hadn’t said anything, seemingly unfazed by how visibly irritated you were, “it’s the first day and you’re already being a buzzkill. Maybe you should try like… try stepping out of your comfort zone, just for the week.”
“Thank you so much for that lovely unsolicited advice,” you said sarcastically, “now if we’re talking about comfort zones, you laying on my bed is definitely out of mine.”
“Please, you love me on your bed,” he smirked, closing his eyes, “this is a dream come true for you.”
“Are you delusional?” You were running out of patience. “Did you hit your head?”
“Why?” He said innocently. “Are you thinking about playing nurse? Because I hate to break your heart, but I’m not into wet blankets. Maybe if you loosened up a bit.”
If he wasn’t gone in thirty seconds, you were going to scream. He seemed to be enjoying himself, arms crossed behind his head with a twinkle in his eye as you stared daggers at him.
“Are you quite done?” You spit. “I can feel my IQ dropping every time you speak. Plus, I need to change before I come down.”
“Ooh, can I watch?” He waggled his eyebrows.
That was it. “Harry, get out, okay?”
“Jeez, okay, fine,” he grumbled, rolling clumsily off of the bed, “so bossy, you are.”
You pointed a finger towards the door, leveling him with the steeliest glare you could muster. “Out,” you repeated.
“You should come down sooner rather than later,” he said, completely unbothered, “I’m sure you’ll be much nicer once you’ve had a drink or two.”
He was gone before you could think of a response. The annoyance bubbling inside you was so intense, you felt like you wanted to break something. Instead, you punched your pillow a few times to release some tension, taking a deep breath to compose yourself after.
You wrinkled your nose at the blue bikini top, choosing to wear an orange floral patterned one instead. You’d never give Harry the satisfaction.
~~~
The fire was absolutely roaring.
It was perfect. The fire pit was lined with wooden logs, the tops shaved off to make benches. There was hardly enough space for all fourteen of you, but you managed to squeeze in as you all roasted corn and hot dogs over the fire. It wasn’t too windy, so you didn’t have to worry about smoke blowing into your eyes, but the bugs were relentless.
The air around you smelled of smoke, bug spray, and good food. There were a few different conversations happening, and every once in a while, a few people would break out into loud, contagious laughter.
Harry had tried to talk to you when you came down, but you’d avoided him like the plague. You had absolutely nothing nice to say to him after his snarky comments in your room, and any further interaction with him at this point would just end in disaster. Thankfully, he was quickly distracted by some of his frat brothers, and he hadn’t tried to approach you again all night.
Now, you were chatting with Olivia and one of the boys, Luke. By the time you’d gone down to the bonfire, everyone was several drinks in. You’d been forced to play catch-up by way of tequila shots, so you had a pleasant buzz running through your veins.
“This is a perfect summer night,” you sighed happily, pulling your skewer from the flames to keep your corn from burning.
“Almost perfect,” a boy named Archie corrected, “we haven’t been out on the lake yet.”
Harry and three of the other boys had arrived a night early to get the boats ready, and now that Archie mentioned it, the pontoon was looking mighty tempting. The sun hadn’t fully set, but dusk was beginning to settle in, blanketing the forest with pink and orange hues, a gorgeous reflection of the sunset above you. It was the perfect time to go out on the water.
“How do we feel about the pontoon?” You wondered out loud. There was no way you’d all fit, but you could go in groups.
“It’s too buggy to be on the water,” Callie wrinkled her nose, “I’m getting eaten alive as it is.”
“I’m down, as long as I can smoke a spliff while we’re out there,” James, one of the other boys, shrugged, “obviously I’ll share, I brought tons.”
A few others around the circle chimed in with their interest, and before you knew it, people were standing up to make their way over to the docks. You weren’t the best with names, but much to your relief, you’d introduced yourself to everyone going on the boat. Obviously, you already knew Morgan and Isobel, and were somewhat friendly with Jane, Archie, and James.
“I’ll come along, too,” a voice behind you yawned. When you turned around, you immediately felt yourself melt. Ryan, a boy you’d had a single class with freshman year, was stretching his arms out as he stood up, and he was looking directly at you with a flirtatious smile.
You’d had a major crush on him for the entirety of your class together, but you’d been too shy to say anything to him. He was a whole year older, after all, and that had been intimidating when you were eighteen.
You returned his smile, biting down on your bottom lip shyly.
“I guess I’m going too, then,” Harry sighed, shoving the last of his hot dog into his mouth before dusting his hands off.
Immediately, your face dropped. Harry snorted when he saw your expression, digging around the pocket in his swimsuit to retrieve a key.
“I’m the only one allowed to drive the boats, remember? Dad made me promise.”
Your shoulders slumped. You’d completely forgotten that Callie had mentioned it to you earlier. You weren’t about to turn down a sunset boat ride though, especially now that Ryan was coming along as well.
Everyone scarfed down the rest of their food in a rush as Harry went over to untie the boat and make sure it was good to go. You watched as he leaned far over the edge of the dock, so far that nearly fell face-first into the water before righting himself and trying again..
“Hey,” Ryan had walked next to you, following your line of sight, “he’s gonna fall in, isn’t he?”
“I hope so,” you giggled.
“You were in my History 204 class, weren’t you? Sophomore year?” He asked.
Your entire body flushed. You didn’t think he’d noticed you at all, let alone enough to remember you years later. Having Ryan up at the cabin, talking to you, felt like a dream come true.
“I was a freshman, but yeah, I think so,” you nodded nonchalantly, “I hated that professor.”
“Oh god, same!” He laughed, shaking his head, “such a drag, just constant pop quizzes!”
“Ugh, yes!” You turned your body towards him fully. “And that midterm assignment….”
“Don’t even get me started,” Ryan pretended to shiver in fear.
You laughed loudly, and from the corner of your eye you saw Harry turn to glance in your direction. Upon a closer look, he’d managed to wrangle the boat so it was right up against the dock.
“All aboard!” He shouted.
You rolled your eyes at his ridiculous antics. He always thought he was so funny, especially when you were the butt of his jokes. You hoped he’d be too busy driving to bother you.
Luckily, Ryan seemed keen to stay by your side, even helping you step into the boat by taking your hand to keep you balanced, so Harry didn’t have much of a chance to say anything. By the time the boat was moving, everyone was sitting in a circle on the floor, clipping in the life jackets that Callie had forced us all to wear.
As soon as the wind blew through your hair, you tilted your head up and closed your eyes. Lakes didn’t smell great, but you’d always loved it. It was classic, nostalgic. You’d spent every summer of your life swimming in Midwest lakes, so it felt just like summer.
James was true to his word, and pulled out four fatly rolled joints, passing them around with a lighter. You didn’t do this often, but it felt like the perfect moment. The sun was disappearing fast, and soon enough you’d be able to see the stars.
At some point, Harry slowed the engine down to a gentle hum when the boat reached the middle of the lake, getting a couple of the others to help him throw the anchor over the edge. Afterwards, he moved back over to the driving console and fiddled with a few buttons until quiet, staticky music sounded out. He then sat down across the circle from you, immediately accepting one of the joints from Archie.
You stood up on your knees, and looked around. Water lapped lightly against the sides of the boat, so it took you a moment to find your equilibrium. The silhouette of the tall pines surrounding the lake were awe-striking.
Nobody wanted to break the silence, so you didn’t. The weed was starting to take effect, making your body feel heavy and your head feel light. You started to lay down, unclipping your life jacket to use as a pillow. Slowly, your friends followed your lead, the sounds of shuffling and buckles popping open momentarily interrupting the tranquil silence.
You watched the sky change from pink to a deep blue, only turning your head away when the first stars became visible. Morgan was laying next to you, staring straight up at the sky. To anyone else, she looked like she was lost in thought, but you knew her better than that. There was a slight frown, watery eyes, a little crinkle across her forehead... she was worried about something.
“What are you thinking about?” You asked, trailing a hand down her arm. She let out a long exhale.
“This is gonna sound so soppy,” Morgan sighed, “but I can’t stop thinking about like… how different I would be if I could just, change things about myself.”
“I like you the way you are,” Isobel frowned, sitting up slightly to look at her, “plus, you can change things about yourself. People do it all the time. New hairstyles, piercings, clothes. You could completely rebrand yourself anytime you want.”
“She’s not talking about her appearance,” you said softly, squeezing Morgan’s hand, “she means… like, changing who you are, at your very core. Things you can’t help.”
“I get that,” Ryan chimed in, “I think about that, too. If I could change one thing about myself, I would make myself more motivated. My life would be so different if I could just… alter one tiny thing.”
“Exactly!” Morgan nodded. “I would… make myself less impulsive, I think. I have so many regrets, and it’s all because I never properly think before I act. I’d be so much better off if I could just learn to be more careful.”
“I like how spontaneous you are,” Isobel hummed, “but I think I know what you mean. If I could change anything about myself, I’d make myself less anxious. Anxiety has always held me back so much… I mean, fuck… I haven’t even come out to my family yet, even though I know they’d support me. I’d be so much happier if I could appreciate the good things in life, rather than stress about how to keep them.”
“I’m with Isobel,” Harry spoke. He’d just taken a rather large pull from the joint, so his voice came out rougher than gravel. “Anxiety is such a bitch, and it’s like, out of our control. It’s kept me from talking about my feelings so many times, and I feel like I’ve missed out on some really good friendships because of it.”
Despite the heaviness of the conversation, you felt happier than you had in a long time. You’d smoked just enough to feel numb, and the waves were rocking against the boat so gently that it felt like you were floating. You took a deep breath in through your nose, feeling the crisp forest air fill your lungs before exhaling. The stars were shining in the cloudless sky, crickets were chirping along the shore, and soft music was filtering through the cheap boat stereo. It was peaceful, listening to your friends pour their hearts out.
Each person took a turn sharing what they would change about themselves. Archie would get rid of his bad temper, James would become a better listener, and Jane would be less self-conscious.
“What would you change?” Morgan turned to look at you.
You and your twin sister were very different people. So different, in fact, that you sometimes forgot that you were identical. In moments like this, when her eyes were watery and hooded, voice thick with sadness and hope, that you were reminded of how similar you could be.
“If I could change anything about myself….” you mused, closing your eyes. “I think I would… let things go.”
“Let things go?” Archie echoed.
“Yeah,” you nodded, “like, let go of the past. Whenever something bad happens to me, I let it really get to me. Negative memories and feelings just… constantly eat away at me. I wish I could just wake up in the morning and think about the future… because thinking about the past is exhausting.”
Nobody spoke after your confession. Nobody tried to assure anyone that they would be okay, or convince anyone that they didn’t need to change. There was something comforting about lying in a circle with your friends, your sister… even Harry, because you were all flawed, and none of you knew what the future would bring. You all found solace in the fact that you were here, right now, laying in a circle on a boat, with an old jazz song ringing through the air.
And who knows… maybe someday, you’ll all find a way to change the parts of yourselves that bother you. Maybe you’ll learn to appreciate them. Maybe your flaws will end up helping you in the long run.
But for now, none of you were alone. And that was enough.
~~~
Thank you for reading! I love getting feedback, so let me know what you thought! xoxoxoxoxoooooxxxxxxooooooxxxoooo Tile
♡ hollow words and misunderstandings ♡ (on hiatus)
Summary: (y/n) is a first-year manager for the Karasuno vbc who has feelings for a certain salty middle blocker. Little does she know that Tsukishima feels the same way, he just has an...interesting way of showing it. Teasing that was taken too far causes (y/n) to leave the gym in tears and into the arms of Nekoma’s captain and leaving Tsukishima confused. Was he wrong? Did you not like him at all? The misunderstanding causes a rift between her and Tsukishima.
warnings: there’s a couple of mild curse words here and there, gets a little suggestive too
This is a tsukishima kei x reader fic with like two seconds of kuroo tetsuro x reader uhhh yeah, I hope you enjoy
Sam couldn’t help himself as he turned to grab the passing young woman’s arm.
“Excuse me,” He said as their eyes met for the first time. Her soft blue eyes met his in shock recognition. “Where did you get this mark?” His thumb caressed a scar that resembled the letter A.
“I’ve had it since I was born.” She whispered looking down at his hand as he continued to touch her gently.
“I’m Sam.” He said looking back at her questioning face.
“Julie.” She mutters numbly, her face backlit from the sunset, making Sam think about her in the dim light of a candle. He could see her clear as she stood in front of him, her head thrown back in the rapture of climax.
Julie pulled her arm away from him breaking the connection, and Sam stood there dumbfounded hand outstretched as she ran off.
“What the hell was that about?” Dean asked seeming to only then realize that Sam had not been following him.
“I need to find her,” Sam said, before finding his feet on the ground and looking around to verify his setting.
“Who was that?” Dean asked taking in the expression on Sam’s face.
“I’m not sure.” Sam looked down some as he tried to connect the dots. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” Sam started walking off to their room with Dean in tow.
“Dean, Samuel, this is Lady Julie.” Sam could hardly breathe as he saw the lovely lady being introduced. Her blond hair tied up, her blue eyes downcast graciously.
“My lady,” Dean said taking her hand and bowing slightly. Sam echoed the greeting.
“Milady, these men are Sir Winchester’s sons, and soon to be knights in their own rights.” The herald spoke.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. Your father’s deeds are renowned here, your lives must be the stuff of grand adventure.” Julie said sounding almost awestruck.
“The pleasure is ours, and truly, it’s not that exciting. Mostly a lot of horseback travel.” Sam realized he was still holding her hand as Dean shot him a look, and he released it.
“I see,” She whispered breathlessly before one of the court dandies came up beside her.
“May I have this dance, Lady Julie?” He asked. Dean snorted rudely at how high pitched his voice was.
“Oh, Theodore,” Julie was barely able to contain her disinterest.
“Actual, Lady Julie has graciously accepted my offer for a dance.” Sam cut in, proffering his arm to Julie. Dean’s look of confusion and surprise nearly gave away the lie, but Julie covered grandly.
“Yes,” She took his arm. “I apologize, Theodore, perhaps next time.” And she stepped out to the floor with Sam.
The orchestra played the sweeping waltz, and the dresses of the fine ladies at court fluttered like butterfly wings across the stone floors.
“You look lovely, Lady Julie,” Sam said admiring the way the pale green material cascaded across her body.
“Thank you,” She blushed brilliantly. “I didn’t realize that knights were taught the waltz.” She said questioningly as he twirled her in a grand manner.
“Normally we’re not. But this was never the life I wanted.” He said when she returned to him.
“Really?” she asked as he pulled her close.
“I always wanted to live here, be at court. Debating and advising the king.” Sam said wistfully.
“It’s truly dreadful,” Julie said in mock despair. They laughed and the song ended.
“I’d like to see you again,” Sam said, not ready to let go of the fair maiden.
“I’d like that too.” She whispered taking a ribbon from her dress and placing it in his hand.
Julie’s expression became forlorn as Dean came up behind Sam, and quickly led him out of the main hall by the elbow.
“Sam, you have to be careful with her. Her father is the Count.” Dean said in a hushed tone looking very seriously at Sam.
