#marge's fic notes

[maganne-bonete]

Thinking about my OC again.

Like I'm trying to build a playlist for Andreas but I find some songs associated with his mom still applicable to him. Like it can't be helped, he still inherited her curse and both sides of the family aside his parents still discriminate him for it. His mother's own family calling her deformed, demonic, or monsterous and disappointed that he also came out like her, a "monster". His father's family being avoidant and cautious around him and his mom, despite not doing anything wrong.

It's a part of him he can't control and it's cruel. And as much as how both his parents try to protect him from all these, it's still a reality he has to live and grow up with. Being called as half-blessed (what they call people who had one cursed parent and one non-cursed parent) does not make things better for him. It still made him feel othered. It's a strange way to call people like him.

And that's not the only thing he has to deal with. He's still burdened by the nobility of his father's family and the insult they'd throw at his father for being illegitimate. So even his father's trauma of trying to compensate and prove himself to be worthy enough to be a part of society is something Andreas had to grow up with. The fact that his father stood out like a sore thumb in the entire family. That it was obvious he was not from grandmother's womb. That he looked nothing like everybody in the country.

Laurent and Ziais worked their hardest to protect Andreas from all the pain and suffering that they themselves had to face constantly from the world and their families but they can't. They are family, but that doesn't mean that they don't hurt. They are family to Zia and Laurent as well, so they refused to abandon them. Illegitimate or not. Cursed or not. Able bodied or not. They are part of their houses and a part of their families. And there is strength in numbers especially in wars. (It's definitely toxic but it is a community/collectivist based society so it's kinda complicated)

And what has Andreas become? But a reflection of the love his parents had for each other while the world looks at them with disdain and disgust. He is his own person and was free to be who he is just as his parents would have wanted, but people would still clip his wings or bruise his legs because of things he can't control.

And even with the freedom he is offered, he is still tied to the houses. He is a prince without a crown. An heir to his grandfather. And how could they choose to reject him when he is the eldest grandson? As time eventually tries healing the wounds his parents had to endure yet the scars don't fade so easily, and Andreas does not forget them either.

But as he turned to his years of adulthood, respect is something they have earned. After overthrowing a king, winning a war protecting Fae sovereignty, and his mother reviving his father from the dead through ritual, they look at them differently. Not out of disgust or disdain from the years of his youth but with respect.

And just WOW WHY DO MY OCS HAVE TO GO THROUGH A LOT. LIKE WHY DID THEY HAVE TO SUFFER THIS MUCH. WHO DID THIS TO THEM? oh wait, I did.

#marge's fic notes #marge's ocs

[blurredcolour]

I. "Do You Trust Me?"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

A slight against one of your dearest friends causes you to act wildly out of character, and Bucky finds himself stepping up to save you as he realizes just what you mean to him after months of seemingly innocuous encounters.

Warnings: Language, Period Typical Sexism, References to Cheating, Reader Knees a Man in the Groin, Perceived Threats of Violence, Plenty of Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author’s Note: Well here we are, watching me write for this show before it's fully aired. Blame/credit to @precious-little-scoundrel and her anon for infecting my brain. Reader has an unnamed brother for sake of plot, no descriptions or y/n used. Events of this fic take place a few days before the horrific Regensburg mission. Also I recognize that WACs did not arrive in the ETO until July of 1943, this fact does not seem to have influenced Hanks/Spielberg so I shan't let it influence me either. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4217

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

The pub was crowded, as usual, and Bucky leaned back in his chair as Curt regaled their table with another one of his stories from Walla Walla. The press of uniform clad bodies, damp from the summer rain outside, created a humid atmosphere. But as he tipped the last few drops of Scotch whisky from his glass into his mouth, he was certain there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Buck had decided to sit this one out, wanting to catch up on his latest letter to Marge. His mouth ticked up at the corners as he reflected once again on how different he and his friend were from one another. Glancing at the bar while he contemplated fetching the next round, Bucky’s eyes widened as they fell on the last person he would ever expect to see in a pub. It took him a moment to recognize you in such an unusual environment, hair perfectly styled. He noted that you were even wearing makeup as your teeth sank into your brightly painted lower lip, wending your way through the crowd, clearly on a mission.

“Bucky are you even listening?” Curt chided with a sharp jab of his elbow into his upper arm.

“Yeah absolutely,” He nodded firmly, unable to take his eyes off you, “every word.” He tacked on as his gaze followed you across the room on your approach to the notorious flirt from 349th squadron, Arthur “Red” Jameson.

He was vaguely aware of the doubtful scoff his reply had earned as his eyes narrowed. Wasn’t your friend Mary rather serious about Red? Not that Red bothered limiting himself to any one woman, local or American – there were few limits that smug redhead put on his relations with the fairer sex. Perhaps that was why Bucky was feeling particularly annoyed with how close you had come to stand next to him at the bar. With the way you were smiling at him. You hardly ever smiled, had to be one of the most serious, reserved women he had ever encountered here in England or back home.

It was when you ducked your head to peer up at Red through your lashes that the realization hit him – you were fucking flirting with him. His fingers clenched tightly on his empty glass, fingertips blanched white as the strength of his grip drove the blood from the flesh there. A slow, knowing smile unfurled across Red’s face as he leaned in, his hand landing on your shoulder making Bucky’s teeth grind together almost painfully as he was flooded with proprietary rage.

The intensity of it startled him, made him take a sharp breath and relax his grip on the glass. Where in the hell had that come from?! The pair of you had spoken no more than a handful of times, simple interactions in the Operations Room of the Control Tower back when he was Air Exec, around the base, or most recently, that afternoon when you had lent him a copy of one of his favorite books, but it wasn’t like you were close. You were quiet, overshadowed by your boisterous friends Mary, Ruth, and that brunette whose name escaped him just then. They were always outgoing at dances while you did an excellent job of decorating the wall. It certainly was not like you were anything more than colleagues. Objectively that was the truth, however, as Bucky sat there watching you grin at that man…

The final straw came as your lips nearly brushed against Red’s ear, making that bastard’s eyes shoot wide, sending Bucky surging to his feet. He narrowly missed one of the low beams overhead as he glared across the crowded room at the cozy pair you and Red presented at the bar.

“Jesus Christ Bucky, did something jump up and bite your ass?!” Curt barked in surprise, the rest of the table laughing loudly in response.

Bucky barely heard them as his new vantage point allowed him a clear view of your knee colliding painfully with the apex of Red’s thighs, causing him to crumple against the bar as you bolted out the back door. Bucky stared after you, just as bewildered as Red’s friends, before they charged out the door in your wake.

“God dammit.” He muttered under his breath before climbing over his friends to make a dash for the front entrance of the pub, his cap clutched in his hand.

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

Your Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp unit had arrived at Thorpe Abbots in late May, part of the first battalion of WAACs sent overseas. Assigned to the Eight Air Force, you had spent roughly a week with your British counterparts of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force observing missions on other bases before it had come time to establish the base for the 100th.

Fast, accurate typing skills and a calm, quiet temperament had seen you promptly assigned as a clerk in the Operations Room, one of the tensest and most chaotic places on the entire base. Upon your arrival at training camp in Fort Des Moines, you had been adopted by a trio of far more outgoing women – Mary from Miami, a sun-kissed blonde who managed to look that way no matter what the weather; Ruth from Pittsburgh, a black-haired beauty who was manufactured from the steel her hometown was known for; and Violet from Savannah, a brunette who elongated every vowel like the southern belle she was.

Why they chose to waste any of their precious time on you was as much as mystery to you in England as it had been in Iowa, and yet any time you tried to convince them you would be perfectly happy sitting out a dance in your barracks with a book instead, they were adamant you attend. Bodily removed you from your cot to join them – not that you were one for dancing, even with the most handsome of airmen. And that title would most certainly have to be bestowed upon Major John Egan. Perhaps a bit of a rogue and more-often-than-not a little too deep into his cups, there was something undeniably charming about him. A magnetism that drew every woman on the base, and from across all of East Anglia, to him. The handsome devil knew it, too. Of course he did, that was, alas, also part of his charm.

Your trio of outgoing friends had gravitated toward him immediately, traded their fair share of coy looks and dances with him while you looked on quietly from the sidelines. He never really seemed to form that deep a connection with any of them, with any woman for that matter, but that did not deter the female population from trying to be the one to catch his eye for a bit of fun. It was during the long hours of the 100th’s first mission, while he was still serving as Air Exec, that you’d had your first occasion to speak to the man directly.

In the middle of one of the tense periods of waiting for news, he had poked his head into the office to see if anything had come across the teletype or wireless and you had looked up, meeting his eye. He was wearing his sheepskin coat, a striking combination of ivory and cognac colored leather that would have honestly looked absurd on anyone else, yet on him just seemed to belong over his dress uniform.

“Can I help you, Major Egan?” You had asked, fingers poised above your typewriter as you paused your progress in typing up a report for Colonel Huglin.

He had looked at you, startled a moment. “I was convinced you might actually be unable to speak. Glad to know I was wrong. It’s Bucky by the way. Just checking if there were any updates?”

“We’ll be sure to get them to you as soon as we have them, sir.” You had replied professionally, trying to ignore the warmth unfurling beneath your breastbone at having his attention directly solely upon you.

“That’s all I can ask then, thank you.” He had winked before slipping out of the room and heading back towards the plotting map.

It had not taken long for a series of updates to arrive, both by radio and over the teletype and being the highest-ranking clerk in the office, third officer, it was your duty to run them out to him. Grabbing both sheets of paper, you had quickly made your way across the room, startled to find him striding towards you, meeting you halfway. “Here you are Major Egan.”

“Touchdown.” He had grinned and taken them over to review with the others as you had hurried back to your office, gnawing on the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.

You had been admittedly saddened when he had been demoted to squadron commander of the 418th after Colonel Harding assumed command of 100th. For selfish reasons, certainly – your interactions had become increasingly limited after this point – but also because it meant he was more frequently put into harm’s way. Every time he went up in a fort, you found focusing on the job at hand more and more difficult. Unlike the ground crews or the brass, it was not looked upon kindly for the WACs to go running outside to see which forts had come back. Which airmen were injured. Sometimes it would take hours for you to confirm that he was all right, and only then by way of hearsay.

You had still run into Major Egan from time to time, while walking with your group of friends to the WAC mess for dinner – by mid-July you were now serving in the Women’s Army Corp as a 2nd Lieutenant, or after meetings in the Operations Room when he was not flying missions. But the longest conversation you ever had was during one of your breaks earlier that very afternoon. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, and with no mission in progress you had decided to take your coffee break outside, behind the control tower, sitting on one of the benches the ground crew had built out of scrap wood.

Before you had enlisted, your brother had bought you a copy of his favorite book, one he had never let you read before because you were ‘just a kid’ but now that you were old enough to sign up for the service yourself, he had decided you could have your own copy. With just two pages left, it seemed the perfect way to break up the morbid tallies you had been typing up in the grim office upstairs, and you had just finished the final sentence when a shadow fell over you.

“Now how did you get a copy of my favorite book?”

You had lifted your eyes quickly, squinting slightly into the bright sun that shone from behind him, to see Major Egan standing there.

“Major Egan. You like Guys and Dolls, sir?” You had asked, startled.

“How many times do I gotta tell you it’s Bucky.” He had stepped out of the sunlight to sit beside you carefully. “I love everything by Damon Runyon. Which story did you like the best?” He had leaned in curiously.

Pursing your lips to think over the collection of stories you had just finished, you smiled briefly as the answer came to you. “’Madame La Gimp.’ Where they pass off the bag lady –”

“As a society matron! Yes!” Major Egan chimed in, laughing as he nodded in agreement.

“What…about yours?” You had swallowed, unable to stop yourself.

“God, I haven’t read this book in forever…” he had reached out for it, and you had set it in his hands easily.

He had sucked his teeth in thought as he turned it over in his broad hands. “It’s gotta be a tie between ‘Blood Pressure’ and ‘Hold ‘Em Yale’…ah but ‘Lemon Drop Kid’ is excellent, too.” As he had spoken, he had begun to gesture with the book to emphasize his words, making you press your lips together fondly.

“You can borrow it if you’d like.” You had blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Give me a definitive answer once you’ve read it again.”

Major Egan had looked to you quickly. “Really? But what if…how will I know to get it back to you?” He had raised an eyebrow.

“My name’s on the front page.” You had nodded reassuringly but swallowed tightly as he opened the cover as if to confirm it for himself.

“‘Hey Sis,’” He had begun to read the inscription he found there, bringing your brother’s words to life, “‘lighten up, would you? You don’t have to be so damned serious all the time. See you on the other side.’” He had paused a moment before his eyes had met yours, caught you watching him, before you quickly looked down at the grass at your feet. “Where is he?” he had asked quietly.

“On a ship in the Pacific, somewhere.” You had replied softly, finding each blade of grass infinitely fascinating.

“Are you sure–” He had begun to ask before the sound of your name being called by your very impatient Captain, a woman even Major Egan knew not to waylay, interrupted the peaceful afternoon.

You had leapt to your feet. “You’ll get it back to me.” You had nodded and rushed back inside, believing every word of it.

You had seriously contemplated sharing your encounter with at least Ruth, the more level-headed of your friends, knowing she was the least likely to conflate the exchange with a marriage proposal. But as you returned to your barracks that night, you frowned deeply to find Mary in tears on her cot. After much soothing and rocking in your arms, she finally managed to open up, sharing what had gotten her so upset.

“It’s Red…I caught him out back necking with one of those doughnut truck girls…” She hiccupped and dabbed at her nose with her hanky.

“Oh Mary, I’m so sorry.” You frowned, smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“Oh god, I can’t believe I let that creep talk me into sleeping with him!” She wailed, fresh tears boiling over onto her cheeks as she sagged onto your shoulder, sobbing anew.

Every muscle in your body tensed as her outburst sunk in, the depth of his betrayal fully registering as Vi and Ruth returned from the end of their shifts in the weather office and Mary launched herself into their arms to fill them in as well. The level of pure fury that seized your body was utterly foreign to you and, unlike the descriptions you had encountered in literature to date, felt utterly icy in your veins. As your friends gently coaxed Mary to the latrines to get herself cleaned up, you hung back, a plan formulating quickly in your mind. Your life without these women would have been lonely, all but intolerable, and this transgression against one of them could not go unanswered. You could not look at yourself in the mirror if you did nothing.

Digging quickly through Mary’s belongings, you found her most alluring shade of lipstick, carefully but efficiently applying it to your lips before unpinning and redoing your hair into a more fashionable shape rather than the more utilitarian style you normally wore. Lastly you added a flick of mascara to your eyelashes and rouge to your cheeks. All this was accomplished using the tiny mirror Vi had set up on the shelf beside her bed. Nodding once in satisfaction, for it was truly the best you could do in a solo effort, you darted out the door, lipstick tube in your pocket for reapplications, if necessary. The cad would never see it coming from you, you just needed to figure out a way to get close enough.

Fortunately, the years you had spent on the sidelines watching the three masters of feminine wiles at work had afforded you quite the education. It was only a matter of finding the perpetrator to enact your revenge. You located him in the second pub you visited, taking a slow breath as your eyes sought him out in the crowded, humid space. The rain had thankfully stopped before your foray out into the night, though the streets remained wet, and you had taken the time to refresh your lipstick and tidy your hair before stepping inside. Your heart began to race as your veins flooded with adrenaline.

‘Easy now. Slow and smooth like Mary, give him that flirty smile she’s famous for.’ You thought to yourself.

As his eyes met yours it was all you could do not to wince back in disgust – you were going to need to hide your dislike better.

‘Pretend he’s someone else. Who would you like him to be?’

You gulped shyly, teeth sinking into your lip at the thought of applying these skills to Major Egan, noting that Red seemed immediately more receptive as you slid up beside him where he stood at the bar.

“Evening, Red.” You smiled at him broadly, swallowing nervously as he echoed the expression warmly.

“Well good evening to you too. You escaped the base.” Red teased you.

You faked a giggle and tilted your head down before flicking your eyes to look up at him through your lashes, something Vi had weaponised to great effect on many an occasion. You tried not to shout in triumph as Red’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, leaning in closer.

“Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”

“Actually…” You smiled coyly before leaning in close to his ear, taking a slow breath before dropping all pretense from your tone. “Mess around with one of my friends again and I’ll cut it off.” You snarled into his ear before driving your knee into his groin as sharply as the straight lines of your uniform skirt would allow, slipping out of his grip as he slouched over the bar with a cry of pain.

You longed to bask in his suffering, in your triumph, but you also recognized you had to get out of there before the consequences of your actions found you. Spying a door propped open to a back alley over Red’s crumpled torso, you made a dash through the stunned corner of the pub and out into the night, pausing a moment before turning to the left, hoping it was the correct direction. You certainly wished you knew your way around town a little better.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were worried it might burst through the front of your WAC jacket as you neared the main street but there was an increasing ruckus behind you – surely Red’s friends in hot pursuit. Suddenly Major Egan appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere, and grabbed your arm, pulling you around a corner and down a smaller alleyway.

“Do you trust me?” He asked quickly, glancing back towards the approaching sound of voices as he shuffled you backward, closer to the brick wall of the building behind you.

You nodded at him, speechless, breathing heavily from your flight. Your uniform cap felt precarious where it was perched on your rapidly falling hairstyle. Major Egan’s aftershave was flooding your senses due to his sheer proximity.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He whispered as his eyes met yours, his own cap at a dangerous angle atop his dark curls, defying gravity.

He shifted forward to crowd your space, your eyes shooting wide as his forearms lifted to press against the wall on either side of your face, body shielding you from view. He bowed his head to press his lips against yours softly, making your eyelids flutter closed, doing nothing to slow the erratic beating of your heart. He tasted a little bit like whiskey, which had reminded you of gasoline the few times you’d had the misfortune of sipping it, but on his plush lips, it was not so bad.

Your hands balled into fists in the olive drab fabric of your skirt, heat painting its way across your cheeks and down your neck as the coarse hair that decorated his upper lip brushed against your skin. It was all too tempting to lose yourself in the feeling of him surrounding you, protecting you, kissing you. Reality reared its ugly head, making you inhale sharply through your nose as you heard the crowd of men stampede right past you muttering angrily.

“That damn cold fish from operations…”

“Who the fuck does she think she is?!”

“No wonder she ain’t got nobody.”

Pulling back from his lips, you frowned down at your brown uniform shoes, still hidden within the cage of his arms.

“Hey…” He murmured, bowing his head to nudge your nose with his, drawing your gaze back up as you swallowed shyly at the tender gesture. “Don’t listen to ‘em.” He urged you, his blue eyes so very dazzling and disarming at this range, even in the dim light of black-out conditions.

“I…It’s ok,” you breathed as you shook your head. “I know I’ll never be…” you furrowed your brow, not even sure what word you were searching for.

“Anything other than perfect, doll?” His lopsided grin was devastating, made it hard to breathe, though that may have also been his continued proximity. He leaned in for another kiss, but you lifted a shaky hand to press against his shoulder.

“Th…they’re gone you don’t have to pretend…” You murmured sadly, shifting to stand, but he did not move an inch, his breath brushing against your cheeks.

“I’m going to kiss you now because I want to, doll.” He murmured, eyes tracing over your face while giving you a moment to respond.

You were, however, frozen, staring at him again and so he pressed his lips firmly to yours, making your fingers curl slightly around the lapel of his uniform jacket. He hummed softly in response, pressing you back against the wall as he slanted his mouth tighter to yours, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. Shivering at the heat of his palms against your skin, you slowly lifted your other hand from your skirt, stretching it towards him, letting it hover between you tentatively.

He dropped his right hand from your cheek to guide your arm around his waist before sliding his own hand to splay against your lower back, drawing a whimper from your throat as you arched slightly.

He pulled back from your lips, chest heaving. “Christ, doll, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“Bucky?” You whispered, confused by his statement, finding it difficult to think clearly.

Bucky groaned and kissed you fiercely, licking at the seam of your lips, sliding his tongue to yours the instant you parted your lips for him. Toes curling in your shoes, you found yourself mewling into his mouth wantonly until he wrenched back suddenly, hand cupping the back of your head as he hugged you tightly into his chest. The sound of voices eventually registered in your addled brain – Red’s friends returning from their failed attempt to find you.

“If I had known all I had to do was kiss you senseless to get you to use my name…” Bucky teased once the coast was clear, panting into your hair.

You giggled against his throat, your own chest heaving as he loosened his hold on you. Your cap tumbled to the ground, fully dislodged by his attentions.

“It’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” He smirked, pressing his lips to your exposed forehead. “Let’s get you back to your barracks. What are you doing out here all dolled up kneeing idiots like Red in the goods anyway?” He asked as he bent to retrieve your cap, dusting it off and placing it in your outstretched hand before turning to slide his arm around your shoulders, leading you toward the main road.

You huffed with a frown as you walked with him, putting your cover back into place snuggly, crushing your once-stylish hair. “I didn’t appreciate the way he treated Mary.”

Bucky smirked at you “Your brother is right you know, you really do need to lighten up…you can just call him a good-for-nothing and be done with it. No need to write a formal treatise on his behavior.”

His lips stretched into a grin as that pulled another laugh from you. You turned to look at him properly and gasped.

“Bucky you have lipstick all over –”

“Perfect” He nodded proudly, cocky grin on his lips, and made no move to clean up his face, while you quickly wiped at yours, knowing you would have to face your barrack-mates. “Next time you go on an attack mission you let me know, alright, doll? I’ll fly on your wing anytime.” He winked at you, and you bit your lip shyly.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You swallowed and stopped walking, leaning in to press your lips to his cheek softly.

As you pulled back, Bucky flexed the arm he still had slung about your shoulders, hauling you in for another heart-stopping kiss, your hands coming to rest against his chest. You had a feeling that the rather lengthy walk back to base was only going to become exponentially longer and found you really did not mind at all.

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

Read Part Two - "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan fic #john egan imagine #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

rich girl 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as bullying, manipulation, cheating, noncon/dubcon, Lloyd being Lloyd, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your long awaited ascension to the Home Owners Association proves more than you bargained for. (Silverfox AU)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, side of Cole Turner

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

Marge plays with the perfect slip of her bleach blond hair. Her lips glisten a shade of pink that reminds you of watermelon and her long lashes perfectly frame her crystal blue eyes. She is the perfect suburban housewife, the leader of the pack. 

The other women look to her as a beacon; they dress like her, speak like her, even try to walk like her. As you look around the tables, the cookie cutter women are almost interchangeable. You don't quite fit the mould but you've contorted yourself as best you can. 

It's your first meeting as part of the Home Owners Association. In your three long years in the suburb, it's been your ultimate goal. Well, it was Cole's. Your husband says you need to keep busy and what better opportunity to make friends. Maybe a great opportunity but not an easy one. 

Your husband just wants the best for you. You know that. Otherwise you wouldn't be living in this gorgeous suburb and your dream house. How could you want anything more? 

Now, you can't. You've done it. You've achieved it all. An HOA member among the privileged and the pretty.  

Caroline clears her throat and you look up. She stares at your french tips tapping on the table. You give a sheepish smile and stop yourself. You can't help it, you're nervous. 

As exciting as it all it, you almost want it to just be over. You want to run home and tell Cole all about it. About how you're one of them.  

You fan yourself with your hand, the sun beating down on the green lawn set with at least half a dozen tables. You're sweating through your foundation and the highlighter and the layers you felt were redundant. Your mascara is starting to stick. You glance over at Mitzy, there is even a trickle of sweat along her dark hairline. How? 

You cross your leg over the other and focus on Marge as she calls attention to the front table. There, her closest allies break bread; Callie who you often mistake for Marge, Olivia and her strawberry blond locks, Eleanor, and older member who kept her hair highlighted and draws her brows on, and Shanice, the youngest of any member, even yourself. 

"Alright, ladies, let's get to business," Marge calls out. You reach for your glass and find the mimosa drained. Right, you drank it all. You set it back and press together your wet fingertips. "Today, we have a new member!" 

Applause rolls through the crowd and you sit up straight, unhooking your leg as you look around meekly. You smile, cheeks tight and your lips tremble. You're so happy but so terrified. 

"And we know how we welcome new members. Honey, please come down," Marge says. 

You take a breath and stand. You gulp and tense your calves as you make a slow progress across the yard, fighting to keep your heels from sinking into the grass. As you reach the front table, your fearless leader welcomes you with a outstretched arm. 

"Our new members get to take on their very own HOA mission," Marge explains as Callie stands, a clipboard in her hands. She comes around beside her longlost twin, "so, Calliope, what do we have?" 

Marge leans over and the two review the clipboard. They hem and haw, muttering. 

"No, Mary is handling that already," Callie says, "these are the new ones." 

They confer then peek back at their table mates, "ladies, please, 14.1b. Do we agree?" 

The women look down at the pink folders and open them, fingertips brushing over paper to find the point in question. The look at each other but something in their expressions is uneasy. Marge clears her throat. 

"Well?" 

"Mm," Eleanor taps her nail on the folder, "yes, I think it will do." 

The others nod, though Shanice does so hesitantly.  

"Marvelous," Marge declares and flips the pages of the clipboard, wiggling free a pristine white envelope with the stamp of the HOA on the sealed flap. She holds it up, presenting it to the audience. 

"By our next meeting, you will report back," Marge declares, "deliver this to the house on the label. Callie," she pushes the clipboard away, "give her the briefing of the issue before she goes. Now we will check in on action items." Marge struts away as Callie pulls loose a sheet of paper and hands it over, "good luck." 

You take it and fold it around the envelope as Marge calls up Erin to present her progress in getting Suzette on Oakfront to remove her Venus statue. You return to your own table, near the back, and sit. Caroline sighs and you glance over at her. 

"What house?" She whispers. 

You let the paper unfold and show her the envelope label. She sniffs and squeezes your elbow, "oh, honey." 

You frown and look down. You stare at the address, you're not sure you're familiar with it. 17 Willow Drive. That's not too far from Elmwood where you live. Should be easy enough. 

💄

You review the directive on the slip of paper. Instead of going straight home, you head a few streets past your house to 17 Willow. You stand across the road in front of 16 and chew your lip. ‘Warning to be delivered to front door. Have occupant sign to acknowledge receipt.’ 

You sigh. You don’t like being the bearer of bad news. You wonder what exactly the homeowner did wrong. Their lawn is tidy and trimmed, the hedges meet the standards of the HOA guidelines, and nothing else sticks out from the row of suburban mansions.  

You cross the street and flick the envelope with your thumb. You hover just outside the gate in your kitten heels. You feel bad already. 

You reach over the white pickets and unclasp the gate. You stroll up the walk, admiring the landscaping. Huh. Paint colour falls within the standard and no unseemly ornaments. You can’t figure out why you’re here. 

You climb the steps and approach the front door. You tap the doorbell and wait, looking around aimlessly. You clutch the paper and envelope tight as your heart races. Maybe all this isn’t for you. You thought the HOA was more a women’s club; they had a book club and social nights and all that stuff, you didn’t really think about the nitty gritty of it all. 

You lean on your left foot, letting your ankle bend.  

“What do you want, toots?” A voice asks from the speaker of the doorbell cam. 

You smile. You didn’t reapply your lipstick. You bend slightly and wave at the lens. 

“Um, hello,” you give your name before you continue, “I’m part of the HOA. I have um, I have something for you.” 

You hear a click. You wait. You check your apple watch as the time stretches on. You peek behind you again then turn back to the front door. You hit the bell again. 

“Leave it in the slot,” the voice growls, “busy.” 

“Oh, right, erm, I do need you to sign--” 

“Christ fuckin’ sakes.” 

The speaker dies out again and you wince at the profanity. Oh, great, he’s already upset. You bounce on your heels and sway. You don’t do well with anger. 

You hear the lock on the inner door twist and you take a breath. You steel yourself and plaster your smile in place. You see a shadow inside then the screen door opens to a naked man with only a hand towel to cover his most intimate spot. He drapes it just in front of his pelvis but you keep your eyes above board. 

“Sorry, I--” 

“I told you, I’m busy,” he snarls, his mustache bristling on his curled lip. 

You swallow and your smile threatens to break. Maybe you should’ve listened and just come back later. You’re speechless as all your mental preparation flutters away. 

“Sir, I, er, I--” 

“Enjoying the view, sweet cheeks?” He scoffs and sends you a wink, “should I lift the towel or what?” 

“Uh, no, please, don’t,” you put your hands up, the envelope nearly slipping from your grasp. “I...” You blink at him. His grey hair droops crookedly, the top longer than the trimmed sides. “Here, er, I just need you to read this and sign--” 

He snatches the letter with one hand and turns it over to look at the HOA stamp. He rolls his eyes. He brings his other hand up, the towel clamped between two fingers and you block out his lower half with your palm and look up. He rips the envelope in two and drops it. 

“You can tell the bimbos to fuck off,” He kicks the remnants towards you, “now if you’ll excuse me, lube’s drying up.” 

He lets the door fall shut and spins around, giving a view of his ass before he slams the inner door. You gasp and bend to gather up the destroyed letter. You quickly retreat, cheeks burning in horror. 

Now you know why Caroline seemed so concerned. 

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #drabble #series #the gray man #au #silverfox au #cole turner #ghosted

[ww2yaoi]

[here's a little taste of a multi-chapter clegan post-war fic I've been working on. note: I've taken creative liberties with the timeline and John and Gale's post-war lives. it's very much intentional]

Winter 1948

Marjorie Cleven dies on a Tuesday in December, two weeks before Christmas Eve.

John gets the call a few days later. Gale’s voice is steady on the other end of the line, but John knows his heart is broken. It’s the first time they’ve spoken since Marge got sick. After the wedding, there had been some letters exchanged, few and far between, but John has always been a crummy pen pal. There were reunions, but those were annual at most, and John rarely stuck around past a couple of drinks and a war story or two. When they got back stateside in ‘45, he thought the distance would be good for Gale, thought it would help put their past far behind them.

Now, in hindsight, it seems futile. John feels it all rushing back, like VE Day was just yesterday and Gale’s boots are still underneath his bed.

It’s warm in southern Florida. The sun beams down on the tarmac, hot enough to fry an egg on the airfield, sunny-side-up. John watches from the control tower as planes taxi below him. His trainees will be on furlough soon, but he won’t be going home for Christmas this year. Any excuse to maintain the two thousand miles between him and Gale.

It doesn’t last. John should’ve known he could never keep away for long.

Spring 1949

The back of the cab smells like menthol cigarettes and cheap cologne. John drums his fingers against his thigh, feeling suddenly restricted by his uniform now that he’s been let loose in the civilian world. Laramie, Wyoming passes by his window, a cluster of shops and banks and schools on a stretch of agricultural land bisected by historical railways and boxed in by mountains on all sides. The air is thinner here than in Manitowoc, and there are no waterfronts to be found. The terra firma is dusty and brown, the sun a sepia pinprick hanging low in the sky.

The cab weaves through neighbourhoods of modest-looking houses. John had handed the driver the address on a slip of yellowy paper, which Gale had relayed over the phone. John doesn’t know how close they are to his destination, but he can feel his anxiety rising like bile in his throat. He makes nervous conversation, the driver mentioning the geology museum, the fact that the town was named after a French fur trapper who disappeared somewhere in the mountains. It doesn’t do much to calm John’s nerves.

“What brings you to Laramie?” the driver asks, glancing up at the rear-view mirror to get a glimpse of John.

He’s young, probably around Gale’s age. Young enough to have served at least, but he doesn’t comment on John’s uniform. He just peers at him curiously, eyes darting back and forth from the road.

“Visiting an old friend,” John says and tries not to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze. “He goes to school here.”

A moment later, the cab slows to a halt outside of a quaint-looking bungalow. John regards it from his window: white siding, yellow door, slate roof. Rose bushes line the walk-up, not yet blooming, and the grass has recently been mowed.

“Thanks,” John says, fishing a few bills from his pocket and handing them to the driver. “Keep the change.”

The driver smiles at him, close-mouthed, and pops the trunk. John slowly gets out of the car, like he’s trying to delay the inevitable, then fetches his suitcase from the back. He rests it on the sidewalk for a moment while the cab speeds away, looking at the house once more. A gaggle of kids darts down the street on bicycles. A few doors down, a lawnmower springs to life. It’s picturesque, like a postcard Gale might’ve sent him a few years back. John immediately feels out of place, still used to Nissen huts and crowded mess halls and military time. If he wants to turn back, now’s his chance, but he picks up his suitcase from the ground and forces his feet forward, climbing up the porch steps.

He thumbs the doorbell and it chimes. A dog barks gruffly inside the house. John removes his cap from his head and smoothes out his hair. He feels ridiculous, like a socially awkward teenager picking up his sweetheart for prom. His heart is in his throat as the door opens gradually, almost startling as a golden retriever pokes its head through the opening. It squeezes outside and dashes into the yard, yelping happily.

“Archie, get back here!”

John recognizes that voice. The door opens all the way, and suddenly, Gale is standing in front of him. Everything John had thought to say on his way over dies on his tongue. Gale looks practically the same, if not a bit filled out in his middle than he was during the war. His cheeks are smooth and shaven, flaxen hair styled off his forehead in a coif. John could never get used to seeing Gale in civilian clothes, but that’s how he appears in front of him now, crisp, white button-down hanging off his shoulders, navy slacks belted around his waist and brown cap-toe shoes on his feet.

They look at each other for a moment, unspeaking, then a smile splits Gale’s face in two. “Hello stranger,” he says.

“Gale.” John can’t help but return his grin. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

He holds out his hand for Gale to shake it, but Gale takes one look at his outstretched palm and instead, pulls John into a hug. It surprises John, so much so that almost all the air shoots out of his lungs at the contact. Gale’s fingers meld into the muscle of John’s back. It takes John a moment, but he eventually returns the gesture, squeezing Gale gently. They part and Gale turns his attention towards the dog, Archie, who’s taken it upon himself to start digging around in the garden.

Gale whistles. “Come here, boy,” he shouts, clapping his hands, and Archie bounds over.

He pauses to sniff John’s shoes. John crouches down and pats the dog, rubbing his ears, and is instantly reminded of Meatball.

“He’s usually not so ill-behaved,” Gale says. “He gets excited around visitors.”

“I don’t mind,” John replies, smiling down at the dog.

Archie pants, long, pink tongue hanging from his mouth, then he retreats back inside the house. Gale reaches down and picks up John’s suitcase from the porch. John straightens. They look at each other again, a bit too long without words to be comfortable, but John knows they’re both adjusting to being in close proximity again after so long.

“Lead the way,” he says, motioning towards the open front door.

Gale seems to snap out of it. “Of course, come on in.”

John steps inside the foyer and closes the door behind him. The interior is small, but well-decorated and tidy. The ocean blue walls are hung with artwork, the hardwood floors carpeted with rugs. John sets his cap down on a table peppered with framed photographs but doesn’t stop to look at any of them. He follows Gale past the dining room, down a hallway, and through the kitchen to another hallway at the back of the house. Gale opens one of the four doors that line the hall and carries the suitcase inside. John peeks his head into the guest bedroom. A double bed sits against the far wall, night tables on either side of it that host brass lamps with cream shades. On the other end of the room is a cherry wood wardrobe and an armchair to its left, upholstered in a muted green. Above it lies a square window, lace curtains pulled together to drown out the harsh afternoon light. The bedroom is sparse and unlived in, like most guest bedrooms are, but John appreciates it just the same.

“Hopefully this suits you alright,” Gale says, setting the suitcase down beside the bed.

John nods. “Suits me just fine,” he says. “Better than what I have back at base. That’s for sure.”

Gale looks at him. An emotion John can’t exactly pinpoint passes over Gale’s face, something like recognition, bordering on wistfulness.

They return to the kitchen, and Gale beckons John to sit down at a round table in the corner. Archie laps water from a bowl as Gale putters around the kitchen, opening cabinets. He appears tense, but not in his usual stiff, reserved way. His energy is almost jittery, nervous, and he taps a rhythm on the countertop. It’s not like him, at least not like the Gale John knew during the war. He pretends not to notice.

“So, how was your flight?” Gale asks eventually.

“Good,” John says and adjusts his uniform, crossing his legs. “Felt strange not being the one flying the plane.”

“I’ll bet,” Gale replies with a suggestion of a smile. “Do you want something to eat? Some coffee?” He reaches into the cabinet and produces a tin of Foldgers.

“Just coffee, thanks,” John says.

He looks around the kitchen as Gale spoons coffee grounds into the machine. His eyes trace the checkered red wallpaper, the white-tiled backsplash, the laminate countertops, the icebox in the corner. He’s never seen Gale in such a domestic setting, not even during the wedding. Maybe that’s why he stayed away for so long, even when he was invited time and time again. Perhaps he didn’t want to experience Gale so far removed from the world they both inhabited for so many years, a world where the only people they could rely on were their men and each other. Now, there’s no avoiding it. It’s all laid out for John to see.

The coffee maker beeps and steams. Gale rests his elbows against the kitchen counter and looks over in John’s general direction, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. John doesn’t know what to say to him. He doesn’t know how to fall back into the easy camaraderie they had at the beginning, before the stalag, before the march, before the end of the war. Seeing Gale has ushered back a slew of emotions John has been distancing himself from since they parted ways four years ago. He feels like an intruder in Gale’s home, looking for Marge in the corners of the room but not finding her. Guilt stirs in his stomach, and he asks himself again what the hell he’s doing here. This isn’t his place. This isn’t his life.

“How’s training?” Gale asks. “Are the boys following their orders, Lieutenant Colonel?”

John smirks at that, partly to hide his discomfort. It feels wrong that he should outrank Gale after everything they’ve been through, flight school, then serving together, then imprisonment.

“It’s busy,” John replies and drums his fingers against the table. “They’re good kids. Fucking caterpillars though. So damn young.”

Gale smiles softly. “Were we ever that young?”

“Maybe you were,” John quips. “I feel like my bones have been creaking since before our war even started.”

Gale laughs, and the sound hits John like a fist to his sternum. He realizes suddenly that he’s missed Gale’s laugh so goddamn much. It rings in his ears, out-of-reach and yet familiar, like a favourite song of his he hasn’t heard in years has come on the radio out of the blue. For a brief moment, John regrets denying himself this for so long, even if it was the only way he could get on with his life.

“How’s school?” John asks in turn. “Master’s coming along?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Gale says, nodding. “I like my classes. Lots of grading, lots of writing, some teaching. I’ve got a meeting on Tuesday with my advisor about my thesis.”

“Well, well, look at that,” John says, the corner of his lips twisting into a grin. “Professor Cleven.”

Gale dips his chin towards his chest, almost shy. “Not just yet, John.”

“You’re getting there,” John says. “Y’know Marge wrote to me about your thesis a year or so back, not that I understood a word. Astrophysics, not exactly my wheelhouse.”

Gale’s face falters imperceptibly at the mention of his late wife’s name, and John immediately feels apologetic for bringing her up without much warning.

“It’s not done yet,” Gale says flatly, his gaze falling from John’s face to look at his interlocked fingers resting on top of the counter. “You can read what I have though if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I might,” John says and grimaces at his own inadeptness while Gale’s eyes are elsewhere.

The coffee maker beeps and Gale goes to it, removing two mugs from the cabinet and setting them down beside it. He takes the sugar out of the cupboard and the cream from the icebox.

John bites the inside of his cheek, knowing what he needs to say but unsure if he has it in him to say it. “Buck?”

Gale’s head snaps up at the sound of the nickname. He regards John with a puzzled look, like he’s no longer used to being called anything other than Gale to his face. The name is a relic from a different time, John supposes, something that belonged to them only, and when John was no longer around to use it, there was no one else around to take up the task.

After a moment, the expression on Gale’s face smoothes out. “What is it, Bucky?”

John swallows, then pushes the words out. “I’m sorry, y’know, that I, uh, I couldn’t make it. To the funeral.”

Gale looks at him for a moment, then his face softens. “It’s alright,” he says. “Marge didn’t much like being the centre of attention anyway.” He pours coffee into the two mugs, then adds sugar to one and cream to the other. “My mother-in-law appreciated the flowers you sent.”

“Oh, good,” John says. “Azaleas were Marge’s favourite, right? I remember them from her wedding bouquet.”

Gale’s eyes grow heavy with sadness. He nods. “Yeah, they were.”

As if on cue, John hears a grumbly cry coming from one of the bedrooms down the hall. It starts off quiet, like a baby stirring from sleep, then gradually gets louder until it becomes a full-blown wail. Archie’s ears perk up before he quickly sulks away.

“Sorry,” Gale says as he grips the coffee with sugar and hands it to John. “I just put her down for her afternoon nap, but she’s in that phase where she’s rebelling against sleep.”

John says nothing, frozen in his seat as Gale crosses the kitchen into the hallway and slips inside the bedroom. John had been so caught up in seeing Gale again that he’d almost forgotten. He stares into the inky well of his coffee, too stunned to drink from it.

Gale emerges a moment later with a bundle in his arms. Now calm, the little girl clings to him, her head tucked into the crook of Gale’s neck as she sucks her thumb into her mouth. She’s wearing cream-coloured footie pyjamas with pink roses on them, her curly blonde hair tangled from sleep. Gale draws circles against her back, rocking her slightly from side-to-side. John regards her carefully. She must be at least a year and a half now, much bigger than she was in the pictures Gale had sent him however long ago.

Gale approaches the table where John is sitting. “Lucy, this is your Uncle Bucky,” he says, pointing over at John. “Can you say hello?”

Lucy turns her head and looks straight at John, and John sees the Marge in her face right away, the slight upturn of her nose, the fullness of her cheeks, the pink purse of her lips, but her eyes are all Gale, blue and round and yawning. She quickly looks away, hiding her face back in her father’s neck.

“Sorry,” Gale says again and rubs her back. “She gets shy around strangers.”

John doesn’t expect it to, but the comment stings. The fact that any child of Gale’s could be a stranger to him is borderline unforgivable.

[To be continued...]

#masters of the air #john egan #gale cleven #clegan #buck x bucky #my fic

[lostloveletters]

Big Girls Don't Cry (Bucky Egan x OC)

Summary: After a night out spirals out of control, Holly thinks she's doomed to be a haunted house. Bucky’s brave enough to let the light in.

Note: An angsty first kiss for Holly and Bucky…I’m so overwhelmed by the response to the MotA fics I’ve posted so far, thank you so much🖤 There's going to be a parallel Woody/Brady-centric fic to this, which is why I included a decent ensemble here lol. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Descriptions of a panic attack and related self-inflicted injuries; mentions of death and grief (hurt/comfort). Inevitable historical inaccuracies. Ends on a somewhat suggestive note, but nothing explicit.

Holly was exhausted when Bucky asked her to go to the pub in town with him and some of the other pilots that evening. She initially hesitated, but between his near insisting and her notion that a break from the base would do her good, she accepted the invitation. When she found Woody later on to ask if she was going, Brady had already invited her, a light blush spreading across Woody’s face when she told Holly. The overall group of seven required pushing two tables together and stealing some empty chairs.

“Holly, your drink’s on me. I got $4.50 when you won the last typing contest,” Bucky said.

“You bet on it?” Buck asked.

“I knew she’d win.”

“Beat her own record,” Woody added.

Buck shook his head, smiling a bit. Holly liked Buck a lot, especially the way his face lit up when she asked him about Marge. Seemed to be physically lighter, too, like the weight of being one of the de facto leaders of the 100th was off of his shoulders for that moment in time. He’d get almost flustered if he realized he was rambling, apologizing for taking up so much of her time talking about his girl even though she was the one who asked him.

“Which is why I’m buying my sailor a dark ‘n’ stormy, and the rest of you are on your own.”

She laughed, “Thanks, Bucky.”

‘My sailor.’ He had taken to calling her after they listened to the Nationals-Yankees game together. But she apparently inherited her sailorship from Stan, her preference for rum and penchant for cursing around Bucky (and few others), made him designate her so.

Nevermind she had only been on a boat a handful of times, one of which was the ship that brought her over to England from New York, and no, she didn’t know any sea shanties. He took it upon himself to learn one from a local laborer who worked on schooners at the turn of the century. Of course, Bucky had been drunk when he tried to teach her the song, remembering half of the lyrics and ad-libbing the rest. She left the singing to him.

She still had one secret–an anchor tattoo on her upper arm. An impulsive decision she and Stan made together when she accompanied him to San Francisco the week he shipped out to the Pacific. The same week she met Woody, and the rest of her life started before she could blink.

Being in the pub with everyone was the most normal she’d felt in a while. She hoped could finally shake whatever stormy clouds had made their home in her mind over the past year. 

“Hey Holly, you’re from DC, right?” Curt asked abruptly. “You ever meet the President? See him around the neighborhood or something?”

She laughed. “No, unfortunately I’ve never run into President Roosevelt at the drug store.”

“How would he even do that? He’d get mobbed,” Crank said. 

Woody nodded. “He’s probably got a mean security detail, too.”

“Well he can’t spend all day in the White House!”

“Why not? Heard they got a bowling alley in there,” Buck said.

“Woody, I’ll get you a beer?” Brady asked, his voice low among the clamor of what President Roosevelt did for fun in the nation's capital.

“Thanks, John.”

Holly sneaked a glance at her best friend when Brady stood up and headed over to the bar. She wasn’t sure if Woody had told him that Holly knew about them. There were few, if any secrets between Holly and Woody, and guys were certainly no exception.

“Look, if I were the president, I’d wanna know my neighbors,” Curt said.

“If you were president,” Buck repeated, toothpick between his teeth as he smiled. “Listen to him.”

“Hey, anybody can run,” Curt said. “That’s what it says in the Bill of Rights or something.”

“That doesn’t mean you should,” Crank said.

“You got my vote, Curt,” Bucky announced, setting his and Holly’s drinks on the table.

“Thanks, Bucky. You’ll be my VP.”

Bucky grinned, sitting next to Holly. His arm settled on the back of her seat, his fingers brushing the ends of her curly hair. 

The next few minutes was a game of musical chairs as everyone else came and went with their drinks of choice, Brady taking the seat next to Woody as soon as it was open. 

Holly found herself leaning against Bucky as she drank, nursing her dark ‘n’ stormy with the intent of making it last until it was time to leave. He was the only person she felt comfortable enough to be in such close contact with besides Woody. He felt like sitting next to the radiator in her childhood bedroom, and she nearly nodded off after some time, Buck and Bucky in the middle of some conversation she couldn’t follow. 

Curt returned to the table with what must have been his third or fourth beer of the night.

“Hey Bucky, some of these blokes are lookin’ to play darts,” he said, motioning behind him.

Bucky nodded. “Hope they’re ready to cover my tab.” He threw back his whiskey and gave Holly’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as he got up. “C’mon, doll.”

Holly didn’t remember much of what happened between then and when she heard it. An entire chunk of time morphed into a hazy blur in her mind. Vaguely remembered cheering for Bucky and Curt. Then Curt called an RAF pilot an asshole, and a fight nearly broke out before fizzling down by the grace of god. Or maybe Buck stepped in. Bucky had something to her before his turn, an aside she laughed at, but couldn’t recall.

Different conversations around her jumbled with one another, stringing together in a cruel way only her own mind could conjure up for her. She heard him clear as day. 

“Stan?” she whispered, her voice crazed with illogical hope.

Her heart raced. She looked frantically around the room for a sign—any sign of him.

But Stan was dead. There’d been a funeral with a body. His mother wept over the open casket. Her own mother had written as much. Sent her the funeral program which remained hidden among her belongings. 

She kept the accompanying memorial card on her person at all times. A nice photo of Stan in uniform. His full name. Dates of birth and death. A bible verse and a little mention of his service in the Navy. 

Stan was dead. Had been for over a year.

Her chest tightened, pulling like a rubber band about to snap. As the room closed in on her, she barrelled through the pub patrons, paying no mind to who was in her path, only that they were between her and a door. 

The cool night air shocked her skin, but it wasn’t enough to snuff out the burning in her lungs. Panic overtook her brain. With a strangled shout, she curled her fist, unleashing months of unspoken grief directly onto the brick wall in front of her. Pain struck her hand like a bolt of lightning, but she could breathe again. 

Her knuckles split open, bruises blossoming across her fingers in the darkness. “Fuck!” she shouted, both in pain and disbelief at herself. “Motherfuck–”

The alley door slammed open, chaos from the bar ringing in her ears as she looked wide-eyed at the person who interrupted her. A tense mortification swept over her body. 

She’d been doing so well. Kept the self-destructive thoughts at bay. Used to chew on her bottom lip until it bled, the pain of broken skin and taste of copper strangely grounding when her mind wandered too far. Hadn’t done in it months. But she never exploded. Not quite like this. 

Bucky stumbled forward, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Holly?” he asked, his gaze drifting down to her hand. “Jesus, what happened?”

Of course he would be the one to witness her breakdown. She wished it were Woody, but she sure as hell didn’t want to ruin her best friend’s night out with her boyfriend either. 

Woody was used to it. Holly was always too embarrassed to go to a nurse, so Woody would sit her down and carefully apply petroleum jelly to Holly’s raw lips, eyebrows knit together in concerned concentration as her fingers brushed across the cracked, scabbed over skin. Didn’t care if she had been working for over twelve hours straight or was in the middle of something else.

But Bucky wasn’t Woody, and she never wanted him to see her like this.

Holly stared at him, trembling as he took a tentative step toward her. Tears welled up in her eyes. She frantically rubbed at them with her sleeve. She let out a shaky breath. 

“Holly,” he repeated. “Are you alright?”

“I felt like I was going to explode in there so I came out here and…” She flexed her injured hand and winced. “I heard someone talking. He sounded just like Stan.”  She swallowed a lump in her throat, feeling more pathetic as she explained herself. “I guess my wires got crossed.”

“Hey, it happens,” he tried assuring her. “You think you’re the only one?”

Holly shook her head. “Even when I got the letter last year, I still showed up and did what I had to do. Didn’t miss a day.” She was silent for a moment. “I don’t know why tonight was so different.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He took her bruised hand, whispering an apology when she hissed in pain. Examined it as best as he could in the cover of night. “At least not any more than you already have.”

“I punched a brick wall. I’m not gonna be able to type tomorrow,” she said, quickly adding, “I can’t go to a nurse. They’ll ask what happened, and I’d rather crawl in a hole somewhere.”

He shook his head. “C’mon, I’ll patch up that hand for you. It’s probably not even that bad.”

“Don’t cut your night short because of me.”

Briefly, almost enough to convince her it was just a trick of the moonlight, he looked uncharacteristically sheepish. “It’s the least I can do for making you come out tonight.”

“Bucky, you didn’t make me do anything. I don’t want to be some wilting flower who’s too afraid to keep living. Stan wouldn’t have wanted that for me. I just wish my brain would get the message.”

“Well, I’m sure Stan wouldn’t have wanted you to walk all the way back by yourself if you didn’t have to,” he said.

She smiled weakly. “Yeah, he’d chew me out for that.”

So would Bucky, if this had happened and he hadn’t found her. If she walked back to Thorpe Abbotts alone in the dead of night with nothing but the stars to keep her company. She never cared for them, especially not after Stan. They gave the night glistening teeth that tore her apart far too often for her to be comfortable beneath them.

“Hey, what about darts?” she asked, a good distance away from the pub.

“I pulled Crank in. He can hold his own. Besides, if there’s an angry bartender hunting me down on the base tomorrow, you could probably hold him off for me,” he joked, lightly elbowing her side. “You got one hell of a hook.”

“Stan taught me.”

“He taught you how to fight?”

“Sort of, but he was probably thinking more along the lines of self-defense instead of getting into fights with brick walls.”

“That wall had it coming. If you didn’t punch it, I probably would’ve.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Will you tell that to Chick so he doesn’t kill me tomorrow?”

“He’s not gonna kill you. Might be pissed that his best typist is gonna be out of commission for a few days, though.”

“I can still proofread. Or sort mail. Or—“

“Let me worry about that, alright?”

Holly hesitated. “Alright.”

—————

Bucky had the keys to the Air Exec office, empty for the night, and sat Holly down at her desk. He disappeared for a few minutes, but returned with an armful of peroxide bottles, absorbent cotton, and a roll of gauze. 

“Geez Bucky, don’t waste all of that on me.”

“If I brought you to a nurse, they’d use it on you, anyway.” 

He pulled up a chair, his knees touching hers as he took a closer look at her hand beneath a desk lamp. His eyebrows furrowed as he considered the dried blood, cuts that had already begun to scab over, and a particularly gnarly knuckle that didn’t sit quite right.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but one of your knuckles got dislocated. I’m gonna clean your hand and then pop it back into place.”

“Fuckin’ A,” she said. “I learned that from Stan, too.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“No. Neither did he.”

He snickered, grabbing the peroxide and some cotton. “What was Stan like, anyway? Sounds like an interesting guy from what you told me.”

“Stan was…” She paused. Nobody asked her about Stan. All anyone knew was what little she offered. What was he like? “He cursed like a—well, he was a sailor. Of course he was a Nationals fan. Loved detective novels. We’d have ones we’d read together and see who could figure out the big plot twist first. His front tooth was chipped, but god, he had the best smile. I’m talking serious wattage—“

“Wattage?” Bucky repeated incredulously.

“Okay, I made that up—think electric! He could light up a whole room with just his smile,” she emphasized with a smile of her own. “You know what I mean?”

He glanced up from her hand to her face for a moment. “Yeah, I do.”

“What else…we had this goofy thing going where we’d play tic-tac-toe in our letters to each other. I started doing that because I’m not great at writing letters. I never know what to say, but I wanted him to still look forward to getting them from me.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“I just started secretarial school when he got a job at this fish market up the street from my house. I remember thinking he was so handsome, he almost looked out of place,” Holly said, her voice soft for a moment. “Well, I’d spend so much time there that my mom would complain about how awful I smelled by the time I got home. I asked him out first.”

Bucky laughed. “You’re kidding.”

A wide grin spread across her face. “I wanted to make him mine before he could even think about another girl, so I went in one day and said, ‘When are you gonna take me to see a movie?’ Most guys wouldn’t have liked that, but Stan got a kick out of it. He’d tell the story to anyone who’d listen.” She paused. “I think what really scares me is that at some point, I’ll remember him for longer than I knew him, and I’m always gonna be…like this.”

“I’m gonna set your knuckle back in place now,” Bucky said, his voice low, almost contemplative.

Holly tensed, staring at the ceiling while Bucky pushed against her bruised knuckles. Bone clicked back into place. She groaned. Clenched her good hand into a fist, blinking away tears.

“Barely flinched,” he said. “You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for, doll.” 

She smiled. “Thanks, Bucky.”

They were quiet as he finished bandaging her hand. The room was almost chatty though, buzzing overhead lights, ticking clock on the wall, a leaky pipe somewhere. Among them, a thought broke free from the confines of Bucky’s mind.

“Stan was lucky to have a girl like you waiting for him.”

Glassy brown eyes, wavering with the weight of the world, stared back at him in silence.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Holly. I shouldn’t have—”

She kissed him, her bandaged hand caressing his cheek. Weeks of silently longing, lusting, and wondering, answered in full as she moved her lips against his. Nearly forgot to kiss her back until he felt her pulling away. 

He placed his hand over her bandaged one, still tenderly cupping his face. The gauze was rough against his skin, a contrast to the pads of her fingers. He curled his fingers around hers, her blunt nails lightly scraping against his cheek.

She gasped against his lips. “John.”

A shiver rolled down his spine as he brushed his thumb over the bandage he’d just finished wrapping, her knuckle that he set back in place for her. All for her. And she kissed him first.

‘I wanted to make him mine.’ 

Mine.

Mine. 

Her dulcet tone echoed in his head until he couldn’t think of anything but kissing her again, offering himself to her as the sole object of her affection. 

Mineminemineminemine. “Holly, baby—” He was trying so hard to be coherent, nearly choking on his words until finally uttering, “I’m all yours.”

#bucky egan x oc #john egan x oc #bucky egan x ofc #john egan x ofc #masters of the air #bucky egan #john egan #masters of the air x oc #mota x oc #mota oc #masters of the air oc #ch: holly

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

I know they’re NPCs we never see in canon, but do you have any headcanons for both sets of Harry Potter’s grandparents?

Well, there's things that make it into fics, though I'm not sure they really count in the fact that if people wanted to argue with me I'd just shrug and a lot of them are because it's useful for one story or another.

That said, we do know/can infer quite a bit about both sets even though we never see them. This is a lot like the Alphard Black case in that @therealvinelle and I subscribe to what we can infer/what makes for the best character for our purposes.

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter

We know a few things about James's parents without even venturing into the nebulous and hilarious realm of Pottermore. First, they died before Harry reaches the age of eleven and finds out about the wizarding world. Second, they took in Sirius when he ran away at sixteen, he canonically went to live with James and Sirius cited no friction with the Potters. Third, James is their only son. Second, James married Lily Evans, a Muggle-born. Fourth, there's no pictures of Harry with his paternal grandparents at any point.

Now, if we scrape from Pottermore, we get more details that shockingly don't contradict what we see of Harry's background that he's vaguely aware of in canon.

The Potters are noted to historically being the odd ducks and essentially the Weasleys. They were dirt poor, backwater, and ideas about Muggle-borns and Muggles that no one agreed with (that were per the examples JKR gave er not as enlightened as she intended). However, Fleamont struck rich when, as an able potioneer, he produced a hair product that sold like fucking crazy. Everyone bought this stuff. And so, the Potter wealth was born, and Harry inherits gobs of galleons and is stupid rich.

Fleamont and Euphemia are also noted as having a child very late. This is because JKR is hilariously bad at math and keeps making 13-year-old fathers unintentionally (in my personal opinion she should own it) but in this case she makes Fleamont born before 1909 and James in 1960, so he's at least 51, at least. It's noted that they had given up on expecting to have a child.

They're noted as having died of dragon pox late enough to see James and Lily married but died before Harry was born so around 1980 at >= 68.

We also have a brother of Fleamont, Charlus, who is younger and marries Dorea Black. They have at least one child who will carry the Potter name, who would be around James's age, who we then never hear of. They do not ever reach out to Harry throughout the series nor does Harry ever learn of them.

So, where does that get us?

We're looking at a newly wealthy couple who have been iced out of most Pureblood friendships for a long time, who despite having pro-Muggle views don't really know anything about Muggles and were Pureblood until Lily Evans entered the picture, who have a single son who they cherish deeply and will let get away with nearly anything.

These are the kinds of people who believe that they should have helped the Muggle chaps out in WWI (never mind that it was a war about nothing, and it'd be needlessly escalating it into a wizard conflict about nothing), who talk about promoting the Muggle-borns, gladly have Lily Evans over for dinner, but quietly aren't thrilled that James married her and are very thinly smiling during the wedding. They're the kind who don't mind alienating the Blacks when they enable Sirius running away (or, again, aren't thrilled about it but it's James's best friend) and it explains a lot of James's behavior that he's the beloved charismatic only child who does no wrong and expects things to work out for him.

Lily Evans's Parents

These we have a bit less on.

We do know that no mention of him was made on where to send Harry nor do we ever see them canonically when we do see Aunt Marge. They are given no mention.

We do know the sisters had a strained relationship due to Lily's magic but we got no indication that there was any issue with the parents even with Lily basically receiving no education and disappearing for most of the year.

@therealvinelle and I tend to lean towards that her parents died at the very least before Harry was born if not when she was in school. Given they both suddenly disappear and are unlikely to have died of plague like James's parents, we typically have had them die in a car accident as that's something that would take them both out at once and potentially fuels the Dursley's "your parents die in a car accident".

In our fics this has fueled Petunia's hatred of her sister, beyond resentment, as Lily was unable to save her father who sustained brain damage in the accident and had to be pulled off life support.

We imagine an early expectation was placed on Lily by her parents that she catch up with her Muggle schooling in the summer, when they realize she's learning nothing, but this slowly fades as the years go by and Lily ends up feeling very alienated from her parents and her family in general.

#harry potter #harry potter meta #harry potter headcanon #lily evans #james potter #anti james potter #fleamont potter #anti fleamont potter #euphemia potter #anti euphemia potter #meta #headcanon #opinion #vinelle #therealvinelle

[basilone]

Rating: M Fandom: Masters of the Air Characters: Benny DeMarco, Gale Cleven, Original Female Characters, mentions of other characters because they do not live in a bubble here Note: features canon-typical refs to death/dying etc., but if you watch the show you can handle this fic just fine. The only thing you gotta know about this AU before you start is: the history's the same, but there are women added to the bomber crews. References to Catholic imagery and the Italian-language prayers (Our Father/Hail Mary), as well as Benny hailing from Chicago in this one, are firmly based in fact. You might recognize fractions of episode 3 in this one, though it's not a play-by-play retelling by any means! Summary: Benny DeMarco omits one line from his prayers every time he pilots a bomber. The only time he speaks of mortality is when his feet hit the ground. Now, on a run that takes him all the way to Africa, he finds himself connecting with someone who'll call upon anything that's useful – from saints to baseball players – in order to make it out alive.

full of grace

He has lost count of how many Hail Marys he has held in his mind like rosary beads. Ave Maria, piena di grazia… Benny almost raises his eyes to the cockpit’s ceiling in supplication. Fixes his gaze on the point between the flak and debris instead – on that bright blue sky, colored like the robe on Mary’s statue back home – and rounds out the prayer that is taking shape in his mind. Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, please fucking save us, prega per noi peccatori, give us a goddamn break, amen.

There is a part to the prayer he does not bring into flight with him. Can’t. Bad luck all around to even think it, especially now that they’re so close to target. He’d have to do more than rap his bare knuckles on the strip of wood near his seat to ward that off. Would have to pray a thousand more Hail Marys, tumbling into the recesses of his thoughts like a game of marbles, before he’d feel safe flying this thing again.

There’s some things you just don’t take up with you. You don’t take fights. You don’t take grudges. You don’t take pictures of dames – no, Buck, not even Marge-with-the-pretty-smile – and you don’t take a completed prayer. It’s just common sense, like the dice and the strip of leather from Meatball’s harness he pocketed pre-flight. You take the things that bring luck. Leave out all the rest. Live with the feeling of your teeth about to rattle out of your skull with each hit you take, the twang of fear thicker on your tongue than the strongest liquor could ever be, and say a little half-moon prayer on every next breath.

And then, well, then there is that sweet, sweet feeling of being almost there.

[read the rest on AO3!]

#masters of the air #mota #bernard demarco #gale cleven #mota oc #oc: stella #basilonefic #I wrote a 5k goodiebag! #that I really really hope people will enjoy

[radiohead-spiderman]

Lily and Petunia have such an interesting and complex relationship and there aren’t enough fics that delve into that.

From what we know from canon, the two were relatively close before Lily’s magic was discovered. We can assume that Petunia’s resentment ramped up when Snape and Lily started to become friends, which was partially because she just didn’t like him and thought he was a weird but if you look at it from a child’s perspective it paints it in a different light, children are easily possessive of things and people, siblings especially, sisters especially.

Her resentment was furthered with their parents treatment of the two. Petunia was the eldest sister, between the two she was the less remarkable, from what we know and can assume from canon, Lily was the golden child, when she received her Hogwarts letter and their parents reacted positively and from what we’re told in the books, ecstatically even, which furthered her resentment even more when she even wrote to Dumbledore asking if she could go to Hogwarts too, but he had told her, though kindly, that because she was a muggle she could not.

Petunia lashed out the only way she knew how to, with resentment and envy, which makes sense really.

If Petunia was already envious of her sister, and their parents put Lily on an even higher pedestal after they found out she was a witch, adding Dumbledore’s words about Petunia not be able to go because she was a “muggle”, then it’d make sense that Petunia would resent Lily, to make her a “freak” in her eyes.

Petunia’s jealousy and resentment came from many things with Lily’s odd abilities, with Lily spending time with Snape, with Lily discovering she was a witch and their parents praising her for that, with Lily’s acceptance into Hogwarts and Petunia’s rejection from it, with pureblood James Potter.

That’s not to say that Lily is at fault or that she didn’t care, we KNOW Lily loved her sister. We can safely assume that she wrote to Petunia throughout Hogwarts, her letters probably getting more scarce as they grew and Petunia had stopped responding, but Lily still sent Petunia a letter when she gave birth to Harry, she still felt that her sister was important enough to her to send a letter announcing Harry’s arrival.

Petunia’s resentment even caused her to marry Vernon because he was everything that Lily was not. He was a boring regular man with a boring regular life. (Which we learn from this part in the books below)

“Mrs Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.”

However, even with all that envy and resentment, Lily was still her sister, we see this when Vernon and Marge are laughing about Lily being a bitch and Petunia isn’t, we see this when Petunia tells Harry that he didn’t just lose a mother that night but she lost a sister(it’s in the movies explicitly so not book canon but it’s still a thing to note)

Petunia treated Harry the way she did because he was attached to the wizarding world and her sister, yeah Harry was a wizard but he was also the spitting image of James, Petunia must have resented him that much more because Harry was the embodiment of the two things that took away her sister, magic and James Potter. More over, Voldemort killed Lily to get to Harry, Lily died for Harry, it’s not an insane thing to think that that added even more to Petunia’s disdain.

Harry was the embodiment of everything that took Lily away from Petunia, magic, James Potter and the very reason her sister was dead. In Petunia’s mind at least.

To add Petunia treated Harry horrifically and no this isn’t an excuse for her inexcusable gross actions, but an unnecessary long look into the reasoning for it.

#character analysis #character study #this is so bad #harry potter #lily evans #petunia dursley #petunia evans #the dursleys #james potter #anti jkr #I tried to make this as canon as possible #marauders #golden trio #sorry #this is so long #jily #marauders era #my mother proofread this #dare I say this is a Petunia character study?? #I dare #this better not flop #I will cry guys #thank you to the two people who wants to see this I’ve never done a character study before lol #hopefully this is good but idk

[babybluebex]

italy calling: part one | joseph quinn x fem!reader

summary: part one of three! after much convincing on your friend's part, you end up in italy and, on your first night, you meet a handsome stranger. pairing: joseph quinn x fem!reader (rpf - don't like, don't read) tags: drinking, probably bad financial decisions word count: 3.1k author's note: again, big thanks to @icallhimjoey and @wordscomehither for your help on this fic!! let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this fic!

You suppose, the whole thing wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the no good, terrible job you had. 

Overall, you liked your job. Well, that was an exaggeration. You liked your job well enough that you showed up every day and did your work, entering data into spreadsheets for an organization that you honestly weren’t entirely sure of what it was. There were quotas that you had to record, quantities and whatnot that you supposed people were chastised for for not meeting. But past that, you didn’t really know. The important thing was that it was mind-numbing work, just punching away at your computer day after day, getting lunch breaks and fifteens and really whatever else you needed. Decent sick leave hours, and a bit of a process to request time off, but you didn’t mind your job, no matter how tedious it could be. Your cubicle was small and you hated the professional “office attire” that you had to wear, but you made do, coming home each evening to a TV dinner and reruns of Murder, She Wrote. 

Your friend, however, was convinced that you were miserable and needed something more. “Babes,” Lily said one night over margs and tacos. She had sort of dragged you out of the comfort of your flat and forced you to do a “girl’s night”, and you poked at your margarita with your straw. “You need a vacay. Like, desperately.” 

“No, I don’t,” you told her. “Where would I go? What would I do?” 

“Go to Italy or something!” Lily said. “Just for a week, just long enough to destress from work! Your shoulders are all tense, you look sad.” 

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Go to some expensive resort for a week and blow my savings for what? To ‘destress’, only for me to come back home to work and get all stressed out again? No thanks, Lil, I’ll stick with London.” 

“I mean…” Lily started. “My family has a house in Livorno. I’m sure my parents would let you stay for way less than if you went to some resort.” 

“Okay, I’d still have to get a plane ticket and pack and everything,” you said. “And ask for time off, which isn’t guaranteed. It’s just— Lil, I love you and I appreciate you thinking about me, but it’s just not doable.” 

“What if I went with you?” Lily asked. “Then, you’d get the house for free, because I’d be there with you! I won’t, like, harsh your mellow or anything either, I can chill at the house while you explore and everything. C’mon, some sunshine will do you good.” 

You frowned. You loved Lily, you had known her since your school days, but she had a sort of intense personality that could get old quickly, especially if you had to spend more than about three days together. She was definitely all beautiful and bubbly, could make friends with anyone no matter where she was or who she was with, and you just didn’t consider yourself her social equal. You definitely couldn’t see yourself traveling to Italy with her, but you also knew that she would keep on the topic like a dog on a bone. “I mean…” you started. “I guess it would be nice to get away from London for the week. And I do like Italian food.” 

“Yes!” Lily smiled. “Go to Italy!” 

You sighed. “Alright,” you said. “Give me a few days to check if I can get time off and see what my money situation is, and I’ll get back to you.” 

“Oh!” Lily squealed, and she grabbed your arm. “I’m so excited for you! You’re going to Italy!” 

“Maybe,” you said quickly. “I might be.” 

“What if you meet a guy?” Lily gasped. “Some tall, dark Italian guy?” 

“Now you’re just talking shit,” you laughed. “I’m not gonna meet some guy in Italy, that’s added stress that I don’t need. That’s ridiculous.” 

“Maybe not a relationship,” Lily said. “Maybe just a little… Tryst. A fling. Just for the week.” 

Just for the week. A fling. Oh, Lily, you optimistic creature, you. You were lucky to pull a guy in London, there was no hope for you in Italy. “Right, right,” you mumbled. “When pigs fly.” 

“Don’t get so down on yourself,” Lily said. “You could! You could meet the most wonderful guy and keep up with him after the vacation!” 

“Ew, long distance?” you said, wrinkling your nose. “I might go to Italy, but you can forget about a man.” 

You didn’t forget about that, though. You thought about the idea of it for the next week, as you worked and relaxed. You sorted through your finances and found that, if you stayed at a midline hotel, you could stay in Livorno pretty comfortably for roughly a week. You appreciated Lily’s offer of staying at her family’s house, but you wanted time to yourself, and you couldn’t see Lily giving that. Staying at a hotel would wipe out your savings, though, so you hoped that you didn’t have any sort of emergency before or after the vacation. You sent in your time off request, and you were elated when it came back the next day as approved. 

It seemed as if you were going to Italy. 

Finally, after waiting for what felt like years, the time came. You packed the day before, putting in swimsuits and jackets and everything that you could imagine— you had looked at the weather forecast and it said that it would be hot, but you knew that the nights could go cold, so you packed at all ends of the spectrum. Your flight took off at ten in the morning, giving you very little time in the morning to get ready, and you shot Lily a text when you left your flat. Italy, here I come! 

You felt like you were holding your breath the entire time you passed through security and boarding the flight. The flight was pretty decent, all things considered, and your heart caught in your throat when you finally saw the bright blue Italian water as you made your descent. You held your breath again as you made your way through customs, and in the taxi, and you finally, finally sighed when you made your way into the hotel room. It was small, just a king-size bed with a serviceable bathroom (with a tub, what a win), but the real showstopper was the balcony. It was tiny, hardly big enough for you to stand out on, but it overlooked the city, giving a beautiful view of Livorno and all she had to offer. You flopped down onto the bed, the balcony doors wide open, and you sighed again. Finally. A vacation. 

As per the vacation rules that you yourself had set, you took a nap, then got ready to go out. You didn’t usually fancy yourself a “going-out” type of girlie, but Italian nightclubs always looked so fun in movies and on TV. You had to experience it, before your better sense told you not to. In fact, your lesser sense told you that, even exhausted from the flight, going out would be good for you. You put on your favorite outfit, still smelling like your flat in London, and you hoped that it was chic enough for Livorno before you skipped out of the hotel room, making sure you had your key with you. 

The sun was just starting to set as you found a nightclub, close to your hotel but far enough to be unfamiliar. Once in, you adjusted to the low lights and pulsing music, and you wondered for a second if this was a bad idea. Not just the club, but the trip as a whole. You had considered your Italian to be pretty good, enough to survive in the country for a week, but the chattering around you was overwhelming. You couldn’t make out a single word, and you ground your back teeth as you steadied yourself on a barstool. Just order a drink, you told yourself. And fucking relax. 

Luckily, you didn’t have to take your chances on ordering something and wondering what the Italian name for it was. Before you could even grab the bartender’s attention, he set a glass down in front of you, a martini glass, filled with a clear drink with an olive. The bartender said something to you, something you could scarcely make out as “Something something, gentleman at the end of the bar, something something”, then turned back to his work. 

You expected to turn and see the type of guy Lily had mentioned, tanned and Italian and overall gorgeous, and, yes, the guy you locked eyes was gorgeous, but he was not tanned and Italian. He looked a little pale under the blue and purple lights, scruffy curls at the nape of his neck, a round nose, a crooked smile on his pink lips. He wore a buttoned shirt, the top two buttons undone, two thin chains around his freckled (and sunburnt?) neck, baggy jeans and white sneakers— an odd outfit, to be sure, but his handsome face and enigmatic energy made you smile at him and pull your head towards yourself, inviting him over. 

The first thing he said was “Hi there”. Thank God. English. And British, maybe? Something like that. You focused on the English. 

“Hi,” you said. “Thanks for the drink.” 

“Of course,” the guy said with a nod. “I hope you like martinis.” 

“Can I be honest?” you cringed, and you cast a glance at the drink before adding, “They’re not my favorite.” 

“Aw, shit,” he said with an abashed smile, shaking his head. “Well, what is your favorite? I’ll buy that for you.” 

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” you said quickly. “I, umm, thanks for the offer, though.” 

The guy looked downtrodden, seeing your rejection, and he started to say, “Alright, then, umm, have a good night—“ but you stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“No, no, that’s not—“ you started. “That’s just me saying that you don’t have to buy me a drink. Don’t go.” You don’t know why you said that to him, especially sounding so desperate, but he seemed into it, the cheeky smile returning to his face. 

“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll stay right here.” 

“What’s your name?” you asked, sliding the martini towards him, and he took it by the stem of the glass, looking at it contemplatively for a moment, as if considering what name to give you. 

“Joe.” 

“Joe?” you repeated. “Is that your final answer?” 

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “My name is Joe.” 

“I feel like you’re giving me a fake name,” you told him teasingly, tipping your head towards him. 

He rolled his eyes as he grinned, and he said, “My full name is Joseph, if that helps my credibility. But everyone calls me Joe.” 

“Alright, that makes me feel a little better,” you admitted. “Is there a surname?” 

“Mmm,” Joe hummed. “See, I don’t want to give you my surname.” 

“Why not?” you asked. 

“I want to maintain the mysterious stranger image that I’ve got going on,” Joe told you. “A handsome stranger sends you a drink and only shares certain information about himself; aren’t you curious to know more?” 

“Right,” you said. “That only makes you sound creepy. But also correct. Now, I wanna know everything about you.” 

“Maybe you will,” Joe shrugged. “Maybe you won’t.” 

“So, Mysterious Joe,” you started slowly, eyeing him up and down. He looked comfortable, leaned up against the bar, tapping his toe to the beat of the song, but his eyes were looking all around, over your shoulder and to the person next to you, before finally settling on your face as you spoke. It almost seemed as if he were looking for something— or someone. “What do you do?” 

“I’m an actor,” Joe answered easily, too easily. “I’m really famous, too, been in stuff that you’ve seen. You’ve seen my face before, I guarantee it.” 

That made you laugh. Joe smiled at you as you laughed at his words, and he said, “What, don’t you believe me?” 

“Not at all!” you said. 

“Good!” Joe said. “You shouldn’t!” 

“So, you’re not an actor,” you said, your laughter dying down with tiny giggles, and Joe’s cheeks turned a shade of pink under the lights. “Can I guess what you are?” 

“You can try,” Joe said. “But you’ll never guess it right.” 

“Maybe,” you started. “If you buy me an actual drink, you might convince me to drop the whole thing.” 

“Done, darling,” Joe said. “What do you want?” 

The night went mainly that way, laughing and joking with Joe, and he bought you your drinks all night. You complained every time he told the bartender to add your G&T to his tab, but Joe shook his head and insisted. The more you talked to him, the more you liked him; he was funny and very down to earth, always telling stories about his friends and family. You asked him what he was doing in Italy, and he said something about a vacation between big work events, although he didn’t elaborate what events they were. In fact, when it came to his work, he was very tight-lipped. Twice during the night, his phone went off, and he scowled at it before he declined a call from someone named “Alex”. When you asked— “Alex must really need to talk to you, surely?”— Joe shook his head. “Alex can wait,” he said. 

You weren’t sure at what point you decided that you wanted to sleep with him, but you eventually came to the realization that Joe also wanted that. He had stepped closer and closer until his hips nudged your knee as you sat on the barstool, and he carefully let his hand touch your thigh. You got the impression that he would have tugged his hand away had you expressed discomfort, and you just generally felt safe with him. He was an easy, laid-back sort of guy, and you liked that; those sorts of fellas were hard to find anywhere nowadays. Joe’s eyes canvased your body as you spoke, regaling a story from your uni days, and his gaze stopped at your lips, all of your lipstick having worn off onto the edge of your glass. 

Finally, Joe made his move. “Why don’t we go someplace more… I don’t know, quiet?” he asked, leaning forward and speaking into your ear to be heard over the music, and you nodded quickly, polishing off your drink with haste. “I’ll meet you out front, let me pay the tab.”

The night air outside was warm, and you checked your phone as you waited for Joe. It was just past one in the morning, no new calls or texts, just work emails that you promptly dismissed before you sighed. “Tired?” you heard Joe ask from behind you, and you shook your head. 

“Just… Work,” you said. “You know how it is.” 

“I do,” Joe nodded. Without the hustle and bustle of the club and the colored lights, you could finally see him properly, and you saw a subtle golden glow on his skin, faint freckles splashing his nose and cheeks, his rounded cheeks tinted pink. And his eyes. Jesus. You had seen that they were dark in the club, but outside, in the streetlight, you could finally see that they weren’t just brown. They were deep brown, dark brown, chocolate brown— neverending, hypnotizing. You felt your legs grow a little weak and, in your state of maybe one too many G&Ts, you blurted out, “You have nice eyes.”

“So do you,” Joe told you, putting a hand on your back, maybe to steady you or maybe to pull you closer. No matter why he did it, your hands went to his chest, and he drew you into him, his arms around your waist. “You’re beautiful.” 

“You should kiss me,” you told him, and Joe chuckled, brushing your hair out of your face.

“I think someone’s a little drunk,” Joe said fondly. “Where are you staying? I’ll walk you back.” 

“Umm,” you started. You couldn’t recall the name of the hotel you were at, and you went into your bag, searching for the room key that you knew had the name of the hotel on it. “This one. Here, I can’t pronounce it, I’d absolutely butcher it.” 

Joe took the key card in-between his fingers and looked at it, reading what was written, and he mumbled, “Oh, that’s close to here. C’mon, darling.” 

“How long are you in Livorno for?” you asked, carefully taking Joe’s hand in yours as you started your short walk. He instantly laced his fingers with yours, his hand big and warm and soft, and you felt yourself going warm at the thought of his hands all over you. 

“Just until Friday,” Joe told you. “Only a few more days. You?”

“Tonight’s actually my first night,” you told him. “I got in earlier today.”

“Oh, nice,” Joe said. “Well, I’m glad I got to meet you during the small window we have together.” 

“Likewise,” you told him. 

You kept small talk as you walked to your hotel, not going too deep into conversation like you had at the club, and Joe stopped himself as you approached your hotel. “Aren’t you coming up?” you asked, and Joe grimaced. 

“Not tonight, love,” he told you gently. “You’re drunk. It’s not right.” 

Although you were disappointed and pouted, you felt relieved that he had the good sense to recognize that and not try to take advantage of you in any way. “Fine,” you said. “Can I at least, like, get your phone number or something?”

Joe smiled softly. “Sure,” he said, and he told you an England-based number. You had glommed onto the fact that he was British, what with the accent and certain stories he told, but he had never told you where he lived. Now, you were narrowing in on him. You saved it in your phone as Italy Joe, and you grinned at him. 

“Can I get a goodbye kiss too?” you asked, and Joe chuckled. 

“You’re incorrigible, aren’t you?” he said. 

“Yeah, well, it’s my best quality,” you giggled. “Please?”

Joe locked eyes with you, and you shivered under his intense gaze. Carefully, he tugged you close to him again, and he gave your cheek a firm kiss before he drifted away. “Since you asked so nicely,” he whispered. “Good night, darling.”

“G’night,” you told him, and you went back into your hotel, dreams of the mysterious Joe already swimming around your head. You definitely were going to call him tomorrow.

#joseph quinn x reader #joe quinn x reader #joseph quinn x you #joe quinn x you #joseph quinn rpf

[findafight]

WAIT OKAY I just read your supernatural st au and AHHHHH now I need that one too holy shit token human Steve!! Token human Steve!!!

Even here everyone’s just like I love him he’s a neat little guy he’s literally thrown himself around and been mortally wounded for the party when he’s literally the only human and everyone’s just like - him!!!! Selkie Robin and how they find out they’re soulmates!! Aaahh!!!! And that final line…… I am obsessed putting in my little request for a full fic when you can, pretty please!!!

Anon you're spoiling meeeee I love you I love hearing from people who like my writing/ideas!! Original post

This one is definitely something that has high potential of me actually writing too. Because like, yeah. The Party is Marge Simpson "I just think they're neat" potato meme about Steve. He's so shaped.

This has a readmore because it's actually got two different mini scenes in it. Enjoy~~~ (also note I included a bit of another non kinky kinkmeme prompt about supernatural baby sitter Steve in this!)

I imagine a scene where Dustin, early fall of '85, is complaining to Lucas and Mike about another failed attempt to get Steve Officially (as he can't actually be Pack unless he KNOWS he's pack, ya feel? Like he IS their pack but also he doesn't know so not really but yes but no...) In their pack at lunch, and Eddie, who as mentioned is a vampire that feeds off energy and is therefore The Most Dramatic Bitch Ever, overhears and is like

"Steve? Steve Harrington is part of your Pack??"

And Dustin goes "well he would if he stopped being DENSE about it!!! We've been trying to tell him-"

"you've been trying to tell him" says Mike.

"-since before Christmas last year! But he keeps thinking we're-"

"you're-"

"-talking about DnD!!"

Eddie is just a little shocked his newest sheepies have been trying for nine months to tell Steve, King Steve, of all people, that his preppy human ass is such a firm part of their Pack that they haven't given up on telling him.

Lucas pipes up. "To be fair to Steve, he was concussed before Christmas last year, and then again this summer."

Dustin shakes his head. "Need to get the guy a helmet. Protect the braincells he has left."

"did he have any to begin with?"

"oh, can it, Mike." Lucas says. "At least he knows about Robin, now. So maybe you should ask her for help. He believed her!"

Ohhh? Eddie was curious, because he had heard certain...rumours, about a Robin and her possible tie to Steve Harrington.

Dustin scoffs. "Okay, yeah, but she's his literal actual soulmate who he still refuses to date, and she transformed in front of him. But I don't want to freak him out. A seal is one thing, a wolf is another!"

"Dustin, you're basically a dachshund."

"fuck right off"

Eddie waves his hands in front of them. "Wait wait wait. Are you talking about Robin Buckley? The selkie in the marching band with Gareth?" The sheepies nod. "You're saying Steve Harrington, former captain of laundry basket sport-"

"actually pretty sure he wasn't ever basketball captain, just swim team-"

"-former Head Jock, is dorky little Robin Buckley's soulmate? Like full on, Selkie coat magic woo woo, Soulmate?"

They all nod, but it's Lucas who speaks. "Yeah. They worked together over the summer. Became, like, inseparable. She told him in August sometime I think."

Eddie does not know how to process that.

-----

ALSO!!!

I imagine Steves parents sitting him down, after his nineteenth birthday (which I headcanon as April first) and very carefully explaining to him that Monsters Are Real.

And Steve sitting there, nearly eight months into knowing that, trying to pretend he doesn't. Pretending that since Robin told him she was a Selkie and the Party told him about being werewolves, he'd sort of, kind of, become any supernatural beings' go to babysitter. Sort of.

It started with a litter of pups he stumbled across in the woods who seemed really friendly for being abandoned in the woods and welcomed the water he brought them and the ear scritches he gave, that he didn't even realize were werewolf children until a couple came crashing through the trees frantically and stopped to watch as he helped a puppy get a leaf off its paw. And the pups are waggled over to the woman and the man looked at Steve with a twitchy nose and then Steve realized they were scenting him because ohhhh. Werewolves.

And Steve went "uh. I think they forgot how to change back? Good luck?" And left. Because what else was he going to do?

So it became a thing. Little magical creatures were told that if all else fails, Steve Harrington will make sure you're safe and looked after until your parents could get to them. He amassed a Rolodex of the contact info near-human folk of Hawkins, and a reputation for being a damn good babysitter. And also somehow having a gaggle of kids around him whenever he went to the park.

So his parents go on and on about things Steve already knows about and he's wondering why they're telling him all of it and also how they know and then they mention how these things are dangerous. How they must be removed. Destroyed. Killed.

Because that's what Harringtons do, they hunt monsters in the night and keep the good, normal, human folks of america safe.

And Steve, who knows that there are supernatural creatures in Hawkins; who knows what actual monsters in Hawkins look like and has hit them with a spiked bat and an axe; who can't go three blocks before some pup or fae or gnome or whatever decides to follow him like a duckling; who little lost kids of all shapes and sizes flock to in order to get back home; sits there and listens as his parents tell him how to kill them. How to salt and burn the remains.

He grips the edge of the table with white knuckles and purposefully evens his breath. He will not betray The Party, or Robin, or any of the families who have found a safe haven in Hawkins to live their lives peacefully. And isn't it ironic, that the place the Harringtons supposedly live, the place they are barely in because of legitimate business and the family business takes them across the country, is a hotbed for supernatural activity. It happened right under their noses, and their only son and heir was at the centre of it. The Human in a Pack of werewolves, platonic soulmate to a Selkie, potential.... something to a vampire, babysitter of all the little creatures of the county.

So Steve tries to make a plan. He can't let his parents know that Hawkins is anything but a quiet human town, but he can't let them keep hurting innocents either. It's either a long con of taking up his family mantle and changing things from inside, manipulating the system like he did in highschool to his whims, or dismantling it loudly and more dramatically which could back fire.

Either way, as soon as his parents leave again (for human related business), he takes the family Grimoire, his birthright, and calls an All Party Meeting.

He slams the tome onto the table and says, simply,

"we've got a problem"

#anonasaurus #stranger things #steve harrington #dustin henderson #supernatural au #eddie munson #lucas Sinclair #hes barely in it but i love him #finda's rambles #findaanswers #finda writes stuff #i hope this is something of what you were looking for anon!! #also this is an excellent example of if you want me to write more literally just shoot me an ask #tumblr is stinky so i may not answer right away but when i dooooo well. i do this #only vague but definitely hinted at #steddie #human steve au

[maganne-bonete]

Ofc I'd rather write about a beheading of one of my OCs rather than fluff fanfic of an actual IP

#marge's stuff #trying to sleep but I can't stop thinking abt angst #like Zia has revived Laurent before by stitching his head back and fetching his soul from the underworld #but now I can't stop thinking abt the idea of Andreas getting beheaded in the celestial wars and right infront of them too #like could his mother hold herself together enough to save her own son and on time too? #like her and laurent have done so much to try and protect him #are her hands too shaking from the shock? she has saved her husband with so much determination and anger at the world #for doubting her and doubting him for wanting the both of them dead #and Andreas was their brave boy who they know they raised him well to use his words and thaught him to protect himself #the tears start rolling down her face #she was strong before why can't she be strong now? has she gone soft after the fae wars and the revolution? #or is it because she's powerless to act in vengence towards who's done this? someone more powerful than her and her husband combined? #marge's fic notes #marge's ocs

[twostepstyless]

Party Games

Fic Advent Calendar Day 17

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Authors Note: Harry get's a little handsy before their annual Christmas house party so Y/N sets him a challenge, a game he never wants to play again. Inspo for this one came from that photo of him behind the bar in the black shirt holding like 3 glasses in one hand, and the video of him dancing to dirty dancing on the bar with Kristen Wiig

As always, reblogs, likes and feedback of any and all varieties is appreciated and encouraged, only 8 fics left! - G <3

Word Count: 2k

SFW

———

Y/N and Harry were having a busy week, they had planned and had their Friendsmas dinner, they had their special Christmas date night and now their annual Christmas party all within a matter of days of one another. Their party was something their friends and colleagues looked forward to every year, Harry and Y/N were outstanding hosts and generally were just supplying a place to get intoxicated, if they so wished, and to kick off the festivities. Harry, especially, loved the party. He loved having an excuse to socialise and have their home filled with people and if he was able to provide a good time for all those people, then even better. 

“Baby? D’you think the frozen marg station should sit here or over by the fridge?” Harry lugged the tabletop slushy machine under his arm as Y/N was loading up their freezer with bags of ice. 

“I think it’s fine where y’had it H, if people are by the fridge, they’re going for somethin’ specific, not a marg,” Y/N stood from where she was bent over the opened freezer drawer, rubbing her hands together quickly to warm them back up. 

“Mm, suppose so,” he set the machine down, plugging it in ready to create his first batch of his favourite frozen cocktail. 

“Most important question though,” Y/N bounced over to Harry, wrapping her arms around his middle, pressing a kiss into his shoulder before resting her cheek against his back. “Can I put all the bottles on the kitchen island or are y’planning to get on top of it again this year?” she giggled, kissing the middle of his back again before he grabbed her hands clasped around him and spun himself round to face her, propping himself up on the countertop behind him, keeping her in his grip. 

“I can’t promise that I won’t,” he smirked, remembering last year when he was joyfully drunk and ended up on the island screaming his own rendition of All I Want for Christmas is You by Mariah Carey.  

“So, we’ll go for bottles on the side then rather than the island, I don’t know how impressed I’ll be if I need to clean up a bottle of Jack Daniels off the floor and walls,” her chin rested on his chest looking up at him, pressing a kiss to his chin. 

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Harry tilted his head down, nudging his nose against hers before not being able to hold himself back and pressing a kiss on her lips, his hands slipping from the grip he held on her arms to wrap around her waist and fold on her lower back, pulling her in closer as he deepened the kiss with a breathy exhale against her lips. His tongue slipped between her lips as they tasted their shared breath.  She could feel the brush of his stubble against the smooth of her cheek as his nose brushed and rubbed against her own as their lips moulded and shaped against one another. 

“We need t’stop,” Y/N breathed as she tried to part from him, but Harry’s lips migrated instead, across her cheek, up by her eye, her forehead, her other cheek before he licked a stripe down the side of her neck. “Harry,” she gasped out, a warning tone evident in her voice. 

“Don’t want t’stop, don’t make me,” he begged against her neck, sucking his mark onto the delicate skin of her neck. 

“We have so much to do,” she combed her fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, to get him to give up his latch on her neck, hearing him whine as he broke away. 

“Let me do you first,” he winked, hands dipping lower to grasp at the full of her bum before she swatted his hands away. 

“Nope, you’re banned,” she held each of his wrists in each of her hands as Harry looked appalled. 

“Banned? From what?” Harry looked terrified at whatever she was about to say.

“From touching, no touching me until I say so, we’ve got far too much t’do, so paws off mister,” she had an evil sort of glint in her eye as she set his challenge. 

“That’s evil, Y/N/N, really evil. Have y’seen yourself? How am I supposed to resist?” he groaned, wiggling his arms trying to break the vice like grip she held onto his wrists. 

“Guess y’better figure it out, no touching until I say,” she smirked before letting him go and starting to pull bottles of liquor, spirits and every mixer and cocktail ingredient you could think of out of the bags Harry had delivered from their favourite liquor store. 

*** 

Harry’s hands were twitching, and he was becoming increasingly impatient. Everything was set up in their house, frozen margaritas spinning in the machine, some pre-made cocktails ready in pitchers, every alcohol you could name on every available surface around the kitchen, apart from the kitchen island which will inevitabley become Harry’s makeshift dancefloor in a few hours as long as Y/N’s twisted game didn’t kill him off first. He had his carefully curated playlist playing through the sound system they had installed throughout the bottom floor of their home as he heard Y/N’s footsteps cut through the music as she made her way downstairs after getting ready for their party. She looked sufficiently ready for a Christmas party in a pretty sequinned number and her tall heels, that would immediately be swapped out for her slippers as soon as everyone had arrived and taken a few photos. Her legs went on for days and Harry wanted to memorise every inch of them with his fingertips if she would just drop this sick act. She had styled her hair so one side of her neck was exposed to him, funnily enough she had chosen the side Harry had left the faintest mark on earlier, riling him up even further. 

With his jaw set, he held his hand out to assist her down the last few steps. She stopped two steps from the bottom, looked at his outstretched his hand then letting her eyes flicker up to his gaze, “that counts as touching, gorgeous, y’not slick,” she looked pleased with herself as she came down the last steps without his help, brushing past his hand. 

Harry’s hand closed in a fist, white knuckled, as he breathed through his frustration. All he wanted was to feel the warmth of her skin, and maybe take her into the downstairs bathroom and fuck her into the middle of next week but he’ll save that for later, hopefully. ‘Y’look beautiful, so beautiful it’s not fair really,” he complimented as she primped her hair in the mirror in the hallway. 

“Thank you, y’so pretty too,” she looked over at him, he looked effortlessly stunning in his black, short sleeved shirt, unbuttoned enough to display the full length and pendant of his necklace that swung against his chest, glinting in the low light. He looked edible, but she was enjoying watching him struggle against her challenge, so she was going to leave him festering a little longer. She walked close to him, as Harry kept his arms tight against his sides, desperate to keep himself from reaching out, determined not to break. She was close enough so that he could smell the intricacies of her scent, her perfume, her bodywash, the lotion she uses, the way those products reacted with her natural scent, sending his mind in a tailspin as he was swept up in the allure and haze of her. 

“You’re not playing fair,” he grunted. 

“It’s my game I can play how I want,” she shrugged innocently, as the doorbell rang and they could hear a rabble of laughter and chatter from their guests stood on their doorstep, she pressed up onto her tiptoes, her mouth dangerously close to his ear, “y’better go get the door, our guests are waiting,” she whispered in his ear, before stepping away from him, “I’ll save you a dance, yeah?” she winked over her shoulder, sauntering away from him as Harry had to take a few deep breaths before opening the door. 

*** 

The party was in full swing, and Harry was, for lack of a better word, pissed. He had been playing barman in the kitchen, quite enjoying making concoctions in the kitchen, some tasting a lot better than others. Every time he made someone a drink, he was having one himself and he couldn’t even tell you how many that had been at this point. He was ready to throw in the towel at Y/N’s game now as he watched her smile refract around the room like a sparkly little mirrorball as she tossed her head back laughing at the anecdote a friend was telling her. He was waiting for the right moment and by God it came, in the form of George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. 

“Oh, my fucking God!” Harry yelled, putting down the glasses he had in his grip as the festive 80’s synth blasted around the room, his head whipped round to find her as a bright, giggly smile painted her features at Harry’s joy as he made a come here motion with his index finger as she bounced over to him, still just out of his reach, as he began singing to her. He was close enough to the kitchen island and popped himself up to sit on the edge of it as she rolled her eyes playfully at him, knowing exactly where this was going. He spun round and got to his knees and eventually his feet, in the centre of the kitchen island, head now dangerously close to the ceiling as he dodged the lights that hung over the counter. He warbled the lyrics to ‘Last Christmas’ doing some form of step dig dance routine, his hands waving as Y/N looked up at him before he yelled, “game’s over, baby, can’t take it anymore this is me claiming my dance,” and he made grabby hands for hers as she held them up to him. 

He tried pulling her up, not thinking that he could probably pull her arms from their sockets, but Harry’s friends saw before he tried again and gave Y/N a boost up so she was stood on the counter with him as he wrapped his arms around her and began swaying them to the music, everyone clearly taken with them as they laughed at their hosts before joining in and screaming and dancing along to Wham! 

As everyone sung around them, Harry’s face buried into her neck, kissing at the mark he left earlier, “don’t make me play this game again, hated every minute, wanted to feel you close all night,” he said lowly into her ear as she fingers twirled the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Was never going t’make you wait all night, was struggling m’self, y’looked so fucking good making drinks and charming the pants off everyone,” she giggled, enjoying the heat that radiated from his body. 

“When can we kick everyone out? Want y’closer, preferably without clothes,” he smirked, fingers playing with the hem of her dress. 

“Reckon they’re here for a few hours yet, we’re just too good at hosting parties,” Y/N shrugged as Harry pouted. 

“Think we could slip away for a quickie?” he pleaded as Wham faded into the next song as their guests continued dancing as Y/N and Harry towered above them from their place slow dancing on the kitchen counter. 

“You’ve got a queue at your bar, so I don’t think so, but how about we go to the loo and have a little kiss and I’ll give you a flash to tide y’over?” Y/N laughed, clearly intoxicated to a similar degree as Harry as he nodded eagerly. 

He hopped down off the counter before gripping her hips and lifting her down before he whispered in her ear, “lead the way, but if you think there’s any chance of me stopping after a flash and kiss, you’re mistaken,” he nipped her earlobe between his teeth and sent her teetering forward with a swift slap to her bum. 

———

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#harry styles writing #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles x fem!reader #harry styles x you #harry styles one shot #one direction fanfiction #one direction #harry styles oneshot #harry imagine #twostepstyless advent calendar #harry styles christmas #harry styles comfort #harry styles concept

[treasureswordsgirl55]

A Drawer Full of.... Surprises

Character: Jake Lockley (Mostly) / Steven Grant (Mentions of Marc Spector)

Pairing: Steven Grant x Fem!Reader x Marc Spector x Fem!Reader x Jake Lockley

Mentions: DID

Inspired by: One Crazy idea and Moon Knight Comics

Warnings ⚠️: Nothing. Fun. So So Fun. Spicy talking. Mentions of sex. Fluff. Domestic things. Established relationship. Post!Moon Knight!

Author's Note: Hi everyone. I Hope you're doing well!!!

I'm so sorry for my absence but I'm trying to save the semester of the university and I hardly have time to write.

I'm going to be honest with all of you, I have at least 19 ideas in my drive, and this is one that I finished a little while ago.

How was this fic born? Easy, we were talking with my mom about Moon Knight especially our Moon boy Jake and the subject of the "mustache" in the comics, and came up and a comment led to another thing that ended in my crazy idea that Jake has a drawer with fake mustaches like Marge Simpson has a drawer full of replacement collars.

In addition to my laughter every time I remember it and since I can't make a meme, I wrote it 🤭

I hope you like this fic and you have a little of fun as I have writing it. I hope to bring you much more fics soon and thanks for reading, likes, comments and reblogs are very important to me.

Enjoy reading and welcome to my new followers and readers!

XOXO Noe! 😘💖

🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹

- Love, do you want to help me look for the keys? - Steven's voice full of uncertainty reaches me from the kitchen. I know from the tone of his voice that he must be frowning and most likely Marc is complaining in his head. I go out to meet him and I see him looking in the armchairs, on the small counter of his kitchen and as soon as I pass by his side, I give him a kiss on the cheek before walking away towards one of his many libraries .

I look at the pyramid-shaped clock on one side and it tells me it's 8:30.

 The time that Steven should be on the bus.

 - Donna will kill me.

 - She won't because she's not your boss anymore, darling. Don't forget - I walk past him as I stroke his shoulders and hear his sigh at the delicacy of my touch - Now you're the best tour guide in the museum, so Donna can go and ruin another's life now.

 - Did I tell you today that I love you?  -I laugh as soon as I feel his arms around my waist, bringing me close enough so that there is no space between our bodies while I feel his lips leave a kiss against my neck - If I didn't, I love you.

 I blush at his words and move as I pull away and gaze scan the apartment.

Steven had become even more confident since we started dating, helped in part by Marc and Jake, but it was easier for him to express his emotions since that "I love you" that slipped out after our first anniversary as a couple and he found that I hadn't ran away from him.

 - You always say it like I'm going to forget it.

 - I always have to remind you - I hear his laugh from the other side of the apartment, more specifically in our room and I roll my eyes. Another characteristic that had become more evident in Steven was an overconfidence that increased when he was Mr. Knight, but that was my guilty pleasure to see - No trace of them, right?

 - Before you continue looking, why don't you use mine? - The silence made me raise my head and as soon as I take my bag to look for them, I can't find them - They're the ones we're looking for, right?

 - I don't know where I left mine, love.  Maybe I dropped them in the street or in a fight... I don't know.

 - You and your clueless Egyptian head - I shake my head as I search through his books, the kitchen cupboards and even the bathroom, but there is no trace of even the little elephant that he has as a keychain - Didn't you leave them in the drawer of the bedside table's light? Where are the rubik's cubes?

 - If they're there, I didn't see it.

 I walk quickly towards the small table while Steven returns to the kitchen checking Gus's fish tank on his way and I check his drawer, but I only find a book, his perfume, three rubik's cubes and one of them broken, I imagine product of the lack of patience of Marc or Jake's anger, and various crossword puzzles.

 The other drawer belongs to Jake because he has one of those guns with a silencer that only he can have next to his bed without looking like something crazy and macabre together with that brown beret that he loves so much, and I barely open the last drawer of the bedside table from Steven, which theoretically belongs to Marc and I see its contents, I refrain from bursting out laughing.

Am I hallucinating or that what I see there are fake mustaches?

I turn to Steven who mutters something about having left it on a book, that this here is like looking for a needle in a haystack and I try not to imagine myself with one of those little artifacts, if I can call it that.

 I try to say something but all I can do is let out a giggle, which gets Steven's attention and he turns and walks over to where I'm standing.

 - Love, tell me you found them or I'll be late… - I turn without saying a word with one of the little "whiskers" in my hand, containing my desire to laugh as best I can and Steven sees it as if he had a cockroach in my hand -... Are those...? That's not mine.

 - Are you sure? - I move away while I open the drawer and I can not contain the desire to laugh anymore as soon as I see his face as surprised as mine was sure when I opened the drawer the first time seeing the exaggerated amount of mustaches in it, which remind me of the tribbles from Star Trek or the Gremlins, that if I throw water at them after midnight, they will multiply even more - Because this says something else.

 - Are you used to wearing a mustache now, Marc?  Is it some kind of sexual fantasy or what?! - Steven's voice sounds terrified and I let out a laugh that catches his attention. My stomach hurts from laughing so much and even more from imagining that either of them are walking around with one of these as the most natural thing in the universe.

 - Stop laughing at me, muñequita.

 Jake's cold, serious tone doesn't stop my laughter, but it makes it even more uncontrollable knowing that he owns the drawer.

 - I'm sorry is that….  - I take a deep breath while I feel that the heat takes over my face and not because of the annoying and penetrating look of him - It's just that...

 - Keep laughing, muñequita. Keep doing ot, then I'm going to laugh when I take care of you and you can't walk for a week after I get tired of making you mine.

 I laugh again without paying too much attention to his words that cause heat to spread throughout my body and I look at the drawer again, which reminds me for a moment of Marge Simpson's dresser drawer with its thousands of pearls necklaces, and I glance at Jake, who looks at me like he wants to scream in anger.

 - Why? - It's the only word I manage to get out of my lips in its entirety, without being interrupted by a laugh or a smile.

 - It's my alibi so they don't recognize me - I remain silent as I sit on the edge of our bed and I feel that the desire to laugh begins to lessen a little, but as soon as his image with his "alibi" appears in my head, my poor attempts fail miserably - Tell me you're not serious, Jake.

 - I'm very serious, muñeca.

 - Is your alibi a drawer full of fake mustaches?  - I laugh again that makes his eyes narrow and look at me as if he could stop my teasing with a single look, while my eyes fill with tears blurring his image.  If I continue like this, I'll have a fit from laughing so much - Can I tell you something? I always thought the mustache would look horrible on you... it doesn't go with your handsome face.  And this confirms it.

 I extend my mustache in his direction until it is level with his lips and I laugh again as I confirm my theory: I don't like the way it looks on him at all. They make it look older and very, very fake. I let out a giggle that does nothing but annoy him and Jake takes a few steps closer while running his tongue over his lips, as if savoring a thought that only he knows and looks around me, more precisely at the Steven shirt that i'm wearing and the bed.

- Have I stopped being your personal clown, mí amor?

 The tone of his voice drops several decibels and his voice with that Spanish accent causes several chills in my body, which seems not to react to my actions.

 My God, forgive me but it is too hot to hear him speak in Spanish.

 - Forgive me darling, but it is difficult for you to stop being so every time I see you and remember this.

 Jake peers at the clock, weighing his options without even saying a word, he cheekily looks me up and down like I'm a dessert he's going to take his time eating, then looks back at the clock on the wall with a sigh. He weighs heavily as, noticeably resigned, he grabs Steven's bag from the small chair as he walks to the door and yanks the door handle with a bang, popping the lock out of the door as if it were paper, then pulling out the keys from one of the small drawers located on the large shelf next to the door.

 How is that…?

 - You save yourself from the fact that Steven will be late for work - He mutters as if he were holding back the desire to close the door and keep his promise, but Steven's work was important to him, as it is to everyone - If it weren't for that, and because this is his life's work, I'd have you screaming for mercy under me, muñequita.

 I hold back a groan as he pulls his legs up onto the bed, listening to his breathing get heavier even though he separates us several feet from each other.

 - I'm sorry Lockley.  Or should I say…

He shakes his head as he falls silent for a second and then smiles, that mischievous, cynical smile he only has when he's about to get into one of his "mischief."

And by his "mischief", I mean what he'll do to me when he gets home from work.

- Don't you dare, mí amor - He approaches so fast that I can't escape from his hands and he is fast enough to immobilize me in bed, while I feel his warm breath in my ear - I want you to think about this, that when I return tonight you won't run away from me. I'll be the one to have fun with you - He holds my hands with one of his while the other goes down until he puts it under Steven's shirt and gently touches my stomach, drawing small circles - I'll make you scream so much that I'll forget about your laughter and your teasing, muñequita.

- You will not do it. They will defend me from you - I make fun of him but something in his eyes changes and I guess his plans just by looking at him - Oh...

- That's it, amor. You need to understand that tonight, Steven and Marc are on my side - He pulls away from me not before pressing his lips against mine and I barely want to pull him into my arms, he walks away laughing - Who's having fun now?

- Both of us? Don't you like that I had a little bit of fun with you?

- Of course, I love that you have fun but not at my expense - I let out another laugh as I look at the drawer and I see him shake his head as he walks towards the door - You're not safe from me tonight, hermosa. Don't forget it. 

#marvel cinematic universe #moon knight #fanfic writer #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #marvel fanfiction #steven grant fic #jake lockley imagine #marc spector imagine #steven grant imagine #steven grant x oc #jake lockley x you #moon boys #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight drabble #steven grant x you #jake lockley x oc #marc spector fanfic #marc spector x you #i write for myself but you can read it too

[bigmammallama5]

Dear ms llama,

How do draw?

How do learn draw?

Sincerely, the gayest mess who wishes to draw all the things

Dear Pizzarolls,

I'm sorry this sat in my ask box for two months, life has been very hectic and it slipped off my radar. D:

How do draw: get a pencil and paper, set your self critiques and harsh expectations to the side, and draw your favorite character or otp. It's intimidating still even for me, but just being in the moment and creating something that makes you happy is worth it.

How do learn draw:

draw. get used to the motions, problem solving, and repetitiveness. make sure you stretch and take care of your hands. also drawing with friends is very fun!

look for references and resources and tutorials! looking at what you want to draw will help you understand how to draw. wanna draw a skelly boi? look at lots of skeleton pictures. using a reference is not cheating, so dont let people tell you that. i would also suggest taking your own reference pictures if you can using yourself/your friends/or those little wooden bendy dudes you can get at the craft store. i didnt really use those but i have friends who swore by them. worth a try!

trace. yes, im saying this. tracing for the purpose of learning is not inherently bad. if looking at a picture of a skeleton and following a tutorial are just not clicking, print that sucker out and tape it to a window and trace him. focus on the part that you arent understanding and see if it clicks then. if it does then yay! you have successfully learned. now draw him again without tracing and see how you do!

***an addendum to tracing: i would suggest not tracing other people's artwork without asking first. a fair amount of artists are okay with you using their work as inspiration, though the topic of tracing has always been polarized. use caution and err on the side of screenshots and stock imagery!

draw for yourself. the lure of popularity and "clout" for notes and likes is really pervasive in a lot of online spaces now, and ive seen it destroy artists and fic writers. ive seen how it can negatively impact individuals to the point of hatred and jealousy and while it is extremely easy to want to get notes and recognition and we as humans thrive on feedback and community... draw for yourself. you will find your community and people who genuinely enjoy what you make. your worth is not measured by likes or algorithms.

On a more academic note some actual resources I and other artists do recommend are the Morpho books. I'm sorry for the am*zon link but that should give you an idea of what to look for. They're affordable, well illustrated, and cleanly put together. I would also look at those fun stock image packs of dynamic poses! Like the ones you find on deviant art. Those are super great for drawing your oc's and otps. I'm also a big advocate of live drawing, which i know isn't always available for some people. Drawing a Real Body right in front of you with an instructor is invaluable, but also asking to draw your friends sitting at the lunch table is just as good.

Um yeah. That how draw. And disco music. here's a skelly boi for your troubles

hes doing the marge simpson dance

sincerely a very tired and gay llama

#ask me stuff! #arting #im not here #reference #no but seriously take care of your body #you cant draw with a fucked up shoulder or wrist #also i forgot to add alt text to the image my bad #idk how to do it from an edit im sorry #its a silly skeleton doodle of him doing the marge simpson dance #theres a minecraft skeleton and creeper in the backgroun #like i will admit it is very difficult to practice what i say #but if i can instill better habits in others by example while untangling my own #then thats a win imo #OH YOU DO ALT TEXT ON THE APP #wtf tumblr thats so silly

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

For fun pairings

Thorne Jamison x Peter Vincent - Peter meeting whichever parent (s) Thorne has

Thorne Jamison x roderick Peterson - Thorne defends his boyfriend when someone calls Roderick too boring/too weird

(I know both of these prompts have the ability to be angsty, but I feel like they definitely have the ability to be fun too!)

Hope you’re inspired ❤️❤️❤️

Since I haven't written anything for them this month, let's go with Thorne and Roderick!

On with the fic!

--

"You didn't have to come." Roderick said as he opened the front door for Thorne, who gave a nod in thanks before slipping inside.

"I wanted to spend the evenin' with you." Thorne said, his grin charming. "I mean, yeah, it's some borin' get together for stuffy children's choir conductors, but still!"

"It's an annual event." Roderick rolled his eyes. "From all over the kingdom. You'd be shocked on how big of a deal this sort of thing is. We're all stuck in a room together, forced to talk and compare notes and try to play nice when there isn't a competition. Which isn't easy, considering a lot of my fellow conductors can be... well..."

"Absolute petty bitches 24/7?"

"If you want to put it like that, though it is apt." Roderick smirked and removed his coat, bringing it over to a coat check. Thorne did the same, the poor girl behind the counter was surprised to be handed a studded leather jacket instead of something a bit more formal and clean.

Roderick took Thorne by the arm and walked him into a room which, thankfully, had an open bar, and went up to get them drinks. There were people already here, and frankly, Roderick wanted nothing to do with any of them. He hated all their guts, and they hated his, especially considering he happened to be the best in the business.

Well, if you exclude that one year Donald's little group did better, but that had been an... eye-opening experience and Roderick really didn't like thinking about it too much. At least the parts where he had been a complete idiot.

"Look at all these stuffy losers." Thorne said, sipping from his glass, gesturing to his room. "Bet they've got their conductor wands shoved up their asses from how stiff they are."

"Like you wouldn't believe." Roderick sighed. "We play nice, but there is bite in our words."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me, sweetie, I'm in the music scene too. Though, when it comes to catty bullshit, we tend to usually throw drinks at one another to prove a point."

"Please don't."

"We'll see how the evening goes." Thorne grinned and drank down his glass before getting a refill.

Roderick stuck close to the bar, mostly to keep Thorne from getting drunk, and to avoid having to make small talk. He just wanted to hear how things were going and what competitions were planned for the year, maybe grab some nibbles, and get out of here.

He noticed a woman approaching and he inwardly groaned. Oh no, not her...

"Roddy, darling!" The woman smiled, showing her teeth as her red-painted lips were pulled tight. She was really putting on the fake joy today.

"Marge." Roderick replied, setting his glass down. "Didn't expect to see you here, thought I heard word that your husband was in the hospital."

"Oh, he'll be fine, Broken pelvis from an accident. I'd be there with him now, but I never miss one of these, you know that! I've got perfect attendance!"

He tried not to roll his eyes. Marge was a bit too much for his taste, and too damn nosy. She always sniffed out gossip and anything she could use as blackmail to try and get a head in this business. Rumor had it that she was also known for bribing judges.

As if he'd ever sink that low.

Okay, he stole a baby, but frankly, that baby had been stolen once already that day.

"Not sure why that's so important." Roderick sniffed. "It's not like we're students."

"Yes, but it's good to show you're attentive, especially when there's a chance of getting a place in the planning committee!" She practically sang.

"Hm." He picked up his glass, finishing it off, before turning to Thorne. "Could you ask for another gin and tonic for me, please?"

"Got it." Thorne winked and moved down the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention.

Roderick turned back to Marge, who had a look on her face that made him uncomfortable. "You brought a friend?"

"Yes?" He asked, frowning. "Why? Is that a problem?"

"Oh, no, it's just... you've never took up the whole 'plus one' thing, Roddy. Ever." She smirked. "I heard rumors before, about how you've been... collaborating with someone. Is this your collaborator?"

"Yes." He shifted a bit, looking for an exit out of this conversation. "His name is Thorne, he's a metal and punk musician. We're doing research into the combined sounds of classical and rock, considering that they are closely tied."

"Sounds like you've probably been combining sounds for a while, Roddy." She laughed and he felt too hot all of a sudden. "Always did wonder why you never brought any girlfriends before, or straight up rejected some of the ladies here! But I guess what people have been saying about you for years is true!"

"And what would that be?"

"That you're gay! God, it was obvious from the start, should've seen it coming! But really? Really? Some punk? You're really at the bottom of the barrel if you're into that. But then again, it's too hard to really find anyone who would find you date worthy in our business. Considering how much of a hardass you are, probably need someone who finds that kinky. I mean, it's probably a fetish for the more outlandish types, to want someone who is so straightlaced and boring, a total snore-"

Suddenly, something flew over Roderick's shoulder and hit Marge with a splat. She stood there, shocked, covered in a liquid with ice cubes on the ground.

"Oops."

Roderick turned to see Thorne, holding an empty glass in his hand, the other one full. "A bit unsteady on my feet, you know how Doc Martens are."

Marge let out a growl of frustration. "Roderick! Control your freak of a-!"

The second glass's contents hit her in the face. "Whoops." Thorne said casually. "Butterfingers. Best to get refills, sorry baby."

"That's quite alright, accidents happen." Roderick smiled. He turned back to Marge. "What were you saying about my boyfriend?"

She didn't reply, she huffed, walking off, dripping in alcohol. A few of the other guests stared at her, then turned to him. He gave a small shrug. "You heard him, you know how Doc Martens are."

--

*takes these two from terrible movies and has them being happily in love because I said so* This is nice. :)

#thorne jamison x roderick peterson #john's drabbles #good omens extended universe

[tawaifeddiediaz]

twenty questions for fic writers

@captain-hen my beloved ily thank you for tagging me.

how many works do you have on AO3?

163

what’s your total AO3 word count?

917,479

what fandoms do you write for?

i usually write for 911, but i've written for 911LS, marvel (just once, for Stucky), and emma x julian from the dark artifices series.

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

a christmas miracle - the first friends to fiances fic i wrote now that it's over (and i'm sober) - @ao3theskyisblue and i wrote this because we were thirsting over buck hopping into the hot air balloon you better run from me (before i take your soul) - that's a fic i wrote about buck's childhood way, WAY, before we knew anything about phil and marge. let me go - buck gets kidnapped and made into a human bomb, eddie saves him, boom. to glimpse red - buck pulls eddie out of the well

do you respond to comments? why or why not?

i try to so much, because it's so nice of people to leave them in the first place, but historically i haven't been great because i kinda just post and dip because i hate my writing 99% of the time lmao

what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i wrote a fic (which isn't completed and will never be completed) where eddie dies, and i have a fic in the works where chris dies that isn't posted yet lol.

what’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

i don't even know what the happiest ending would be, because most of my fics end on a happier note but i think cinnamon kisses was very cute and fluffy. love like (the sweetest) chocolate was also very flufftastic.

do you get hate on fics?

yup. not always directly on the fic itself, but they drop into my inbox.

do you write smut? If so, what kind?

yes, and the depraved kind.

do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

not always, but i was watching high school musical: the musical the series, and i made a 911 crossover, and that's insane to me ajkdlasjdl

have you ever had a fic stolen?

yes

have you ever had a fic translated?

i think someone just reached out about a chinese translation for a fic @ao3theskyisblue and i wrote, but other than that, no.

have you ever co-written a fic before?

yes! with @ao3theskyisblue and @bieddiediaz <3

what’s your all time favorite ship?

buddie lol

what’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

buddie hate fic, buddie hockey au, love, eddie, so much.

what are your writing strengths?

hmmm i like that i can use metaphors, and sometimes it's the extended metaphors that take my breath away when i go to re-read one of my fics.

what are your writing weaknesses?

that i usually don't like any of my writing without the advantage of some distance and time xD i also wish i could write longer fics.

thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i've done it, and i love it so much. i had a fic i wrote years and years ago, when i was first starting out, that was half urdu and half english. the urdu just worked so much better.

first fandom you wrote for?

it was a youtube group and i wrote an au for it xD it embarrassed about it all now.

favorite fic you’ve written?

in the dark (with the stars) is one of my favorites because it's so personal and it feels like i just dropped my bleeding heart into it so...i do quite like it. i also like acts of service because it was a fricking insane prompt from a show @bedhadakdiaz and i were watching LMAOO

anywayyyy i finally got through this xD @deareddie @ao3theskyisblue @negansmiith @oneawkwardcookie @bieddiediaz @alkaysani @renecdote @miserykites and anyone else who wants to do this hehe

#zee's writing process #get to know zee #tag game #fic writer