filled leather-bound journals, worn and muddy soles, catching snowflakes with your tongue and wildflowers in your hair. the sensation in your stomach right before the roller coaster goes down its first hill, broad grins at inside jokes, too large sweaters, bars of early sunlight spilling through branches. it’s paint stained fingers and bloody knees, defending themselves and others until they drop dead
Aries is the adrenaline rush after a victory. Aries is a firework on a summer night. Aries is the feeling in your gut on a roller coaster.
Taurus is the sense of accomplishment when you finish a long task. Taurus is a strong mountain, with life coming from every side of it. Taurus is the satisfaction of simply surviving.
Gemini is the look in your eyes when you make someone happy. Gemini is a pair of well worn boots that have traveled more than most people. Gemini is the cadence of a poem.
Cancer is the shore of the ocean. Cancer is the moment before a long awaited hug. Cancer is fire and ice, bonded together.
Leo is the golden headpiece of an emperor. Leo is fantastic plans being made. Leo is a campfire under the stars.
Virgo is the sun shining on fresh snow. Virgo is the feeling of revenge. Virgo is a bird, flying free from its cage.
Libra is holding hands with two people at once. Libra is the smell of baking bread. Libra is sitting in silence with the ones you love, knowing they are there and thinking about you and loving you.
Scorpio is a budding tree branch. Scorpio is moving on from the bad things. Scorpio is a long talk in the middle of the night about life.
Sagittarius is a worn leather journal, filled with accounts of adventures. Sagittarius is a crowd singing in unison at a concert. Sagittarius is a spark, jumping from fire to fire, starting something new each time.
Capricorn is knowing someone is proud of you. Capricorn is a sunflower, always bright and providing. Capricorn is your favorite hiking trail.
Aquarius is a canoe in the middle of a still lake. Aquarius is saving a life. Aquarius is humans helping humans, and appreciating the beautiful mess of life.
Pisces is a feather, floating on the breeze. Pisces is peaceful mediation. Pisces is giving to the world in secret, because you don't want the credit.
I wish you'd write a fic where Dean finds Castiel's diary from the time he was human (and it's heart wrenching) ❤️
Anon, you just love angst don’t you. (this is set in an ambiguous time around s9-ish)
It’s not something Dean means to find.
He knows that, because it’s shoved underneath the passenger seat of Cas’s old car with various bottles of water and crumpled up trash sprawled over it.
Dean just wanted to clean out Cas’s Continental; a way to get Cas feeling a bit better about the world, about the fact that he is walking around with stolen grace and after having been through a shitty bender of being human. Dean thinks that he can help from ridding Cas of a little clutter.
So, even though he doesn’t mean to find it, he bumps against it as he is sticking his hand under the seat, fishing for garbage to dispose of.
It’s a journal; with worn leather and a string wrapped around it to keep it closed. Dean picks it up, and opens to the first page.
He abandoned me, says the first line. In Cas’s rough cursive handwriting.
Yeah, Dean was definitely not meant to find this.
He shoves it into his jacket pocket, dutifully finishing his task of cleaning the truck. Resolutely ignoring the fact that something very important and very personal is sitting heavy against his chest.
Dean ignores reading it as long as he can; tries to convince himself that he’ll just leave it where he found it, or give it to Cas and advise him to find a better place to hide his personal belongings.
Cas is such a private person–well, a private angel. Half the time Dean isn’t fully convinced that Cas is telling the whole story of what is going through his head. If he could just have a little insight. A little clarity into what Cas really was experiencing; why he seemed convinced to be Atlas and always have the world on his shoulders.
In his bedroom, after staring at the worn leather for a good half an hour, Dean cracks open the worn pages.
He abandoned me.
Dean takes a steady breath and reads on.
It all seemed like it would be okay. Of course, me turning human isn’t ideal - but I thought I could at least do research, maybe get trained in hunting if only a little. I thought I could still be service to the fight. Be of service to Dean.
But he abandoned me.
Dean presses his face into his palms. He should not be reading this. He should not. If this is about him, he has no right.
After an inner crisis that lasts for five more minutes, Dean reads on.
For the longest time, I have served God. It was my purpose. Somehow, Dean became my purpose, but I don’t mind it. I’m always happy to serve Dean, and Sam. But now that I’m on my own, without anyone to serve but myself, I am at such a loss. I help Nora with various tasks around the gas station; but it’s not the same. I don’t feel like I’m serving a purpose that matters. God mattered, once. Dean still certainly matters. And yet I can’t serve either.
Dean skims ahead, turning a few pages into the journal. He reads an entry that is dated the day after Dean came to visit Cas.
Sometimes we can’t help the things that happen to us. Sometimes horrible things happen, beyond our control. I know why Dean kicked me out of the bunker; it was a way to save Sam. I don’t know why, but it was. I know that Dean acted callous and abrupt because he is afraid of showing vulnerable emotion; and I know that it’s difficult for him to let people down.
Despite the situations Dean and I find ourselves in, where one of us is forced to hurt the other or make it difficult for each other in some way, my feelings never change.
He abandoned me. I was rejected by God, by all of Heaven, and then him. But unlike God, and unlike the angels I used to serve, I still love him.
Father help me, why do I still love him.
Dean drops the journal like it’s a hot poker. He stumbles to his feet and paces his room, running his fingers through his hair. This was the worst invasion of someone’s privacy - of Cas’s privacy - and he did it without more than a few minute’s hesitation.
Now he can’t erase the words searing his brain: I still love him.
Dean huffs a humorless laugh and sits at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. But Cas wrote this years ago - it can’t still be true. After all the shit Dean has dealt to him, after all the things Cas has gone through, he must realize now how untrue that love is. How undeserving Dean is of that love in the first place.
Snatching the journal from the bed, Dean stomps into the bunker’s library. Cas is hunched over a thick book, hands tangled in his messy dark hair, his trench coat crumpled. He raises surprised blue eyes in Dean’s direction. There are dark circles under them, like bruises.
“Dean,” he says with surprise.
How could Dean not see it? How stupid could he be? “Cas,” Dean says, his voice not much more than a croak.
Cas frowns, eyes flickering to Dean’s hands. His face pales. “Oh.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean asks hoarsely.
“You -” Cas’s voice catches. He straightens his back and shuts the book in front of him calmly. “You abandoned me. I got the message.”
“Fuck.” Dean stumbles toward Cas’s chair, crouching before Cas. “I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t want you to know,” Cas says, eyes steadily looking forward, away from Dean.
“I needed to know - “
“No!” Cas glares into Dean’s eyes, expression stormy. “You never needed to be burdened with that. With me.”
“Cas, you idiot.” Dean clutches at Cas’s coat, like it’s a lifeline. “If you told me - if you had so much as indicated - “ He takes a shaky breath. “I love you too. Despite our shitty circumstances, despite the fucked-up situations we find ourselves in that make us hurt each other - I love you too.”
Cas slowly blinks at Dean, processing his words. He frames Dean’s face with his hands, and leans forward to press his forehead against Dean’s. “You abandoned me,” he whispers.
“I never will again,” is all Dean can manage breathlessly as he catches Castiel’s lips with his own to melt into an endless, lovely kiss.
You stood in the doorway to Lin’s study
and watched him scribble away in one of his many notebooks,
headphones around his neck. He’d been doing this more often since
he’d gotten deeply involved in his latest project, and while you
admired his work ethic and dedication to his craft, you wished he’d
take a break every once in a while. And you didn’t mean a short break
to have a meal with you. You meant an actual night off, the two of
you going out and enjoying each other. Dinner and a movie. A concert.
The museum. Anything as long as you got to be together. You loved him
and missed spending time with him. Maybe tonight you could convince
him to put down the notebook and go out, to let off a little steam.
It wouldn’t hurt to try, you decided.
summary: you can never trust anything in the wizarding world. not even your own goddamn journal.
pairing: yoongi x female reader
word count: 8k
a/n: all poetry in y/n’s journal written by yours truly! obviously, anything written in yoongi’s journal is written by him. also, i know the word count’s pretty short in comparison to my seokjin fic, but a majority of this fic is in messaging format, which explains both the great physical length and the shorter word count. inspired by this drarry fic, which rocks and u should read.
“all art is quite useless.” — wilde, 1890.
The first thing your mother bought you in Diagon Alley, age eleven, was a worn, brown leather journal, its pages tinted and stained but empty nonetheless. She got it off of the highest shelf in the top corner of the crowded bookstore, stretching her arms and legs to reach it, the last of its kind.
“What’s this for?” You asked as she placed it in your open, waiting palms.
“For you to write in while at Hogwarts,” she said. “I find that words always seem to have a better way of flowing when on paper rather than out loud. Don’t you?”
“I dunno,” you responded, shrugging your little shoulders as you placed the journal in your cauldron along with the rest of your required schoolbooks. “Isn’t it dumb to keep a journal?”
“Only if you treat it as such,” your mother replied, as sage as she always was. “Come, let’s get you a wand.”
With the mention of a wand, your mind wandered far from the beaten leather journal in your cauldron as you skipped out of Flourish and Blott’s, unaware of how significant the journal would end up being in your later years at Hogwarts.
I wish you would write a fic where... Ok this has been on my mind for a while, perhaps it gives inspiration: Anakin or Obi-Wan goes MIA, returns with a memory loss (not permanent, that's too angsty for me haha). I adore all your writing so anything goes tbh!
Ooo! I like this idea… here’s a little ficlet for it. Thanks for the ask!~
Anakin realizes halfway to Obi-Wan’s quarters on the Negotiator that he has never been there. Obi-Wan has always met him in the hangar bay or in the war room or down on the surface of whatever planet they’re meeting at.
And now Anakin is going there alone, his handprint newly entered into the system to allow him to open the door. The medics don’t want Obi-Wan going alone to his quarters just yet, concerned that the shock might be too much if it brings back everything all at once. But they feel one or two items might help his memory return in a more controlled fashion.
The clones, having no privacy of their own to speak of, consider the notion sacrosanct and refuse to enter their general’s quarters. And that is why Anakin is striding down this particular corridor, trying not to think about the utter lack of recognition in his former master’s eyes when he looked at Anakin from the barren white of the medbay bed.
There has to be something in there that will help him.
A/N: Sorry for the shit name, I wrote this at 2 am and I just randomly came up with a name for it
Pairing: Alexander Hamilton x reader
You weren’t entirely certain that it was normal to contemplate the meaning of life as much as you did. Most of the time, it was a simple thought such as ‘Everyone on this planet has their own individual lives and has thoughts as complex as mine’. However, there were moments where you couldn’t help but stare into space and think about the frailness of life and how literally billions of people had lived and died before you, and how billions of people will live and die after you. It was moments like these when you would take out your old, worn down journal and scribble down what your thoughts were. It was a moment like this when you met him.
Alexander Hamilton was no stranger to being so focused on your writing that you were oblivious to the world around you, but he didn’t think that you would be so into whatever it was you were writing that you wouldn’t notice him and his friends standing at your table. “Miss?” He called out once more, knocking on the table next to your journal. This seemed to grab your attention and you lifted your eyes to glance at the man who had interrupted you- or men as you noticed when you lifted your head completely. “Do you mind if we sit here? There’s not enough room at any of the other tables for us all to sit together,” the man who had caught your attention said. His words were polite, but you knew that even if you said no, they would sit there anyways because it was a public table in a public library.
So, you shook your head to show you had no objections and went back to writing. Alex, being the naturally curious person he was, couldn’t help but lean over and peer at what you were writing down. Before he could read any of the words scribbled in your messy handwriting, you slammed your notebook shut. “You know, it’s rude to read other people’s journals without their permission,” you told him, not caring that you probably sounded rude. It was rude of him to read over your shoulder like that. “Ah, so she speaks!” A french voice rang through your ears. For the first time, you looked at the group of mean around you. The frenchman who had spoken sat directly in front of you with a big grin and to his left sat a freckled boy you had seen around campus. To his right sat a rather large man who looked like he could probably bench press you if he desired. And the man who had been trying to read your notebook, you definitely recognized him. Alexander Hamilton. He was the captain of one the debate teams and often faced off with Thomas Jefferson. You only knew this because your friend had an unhealthy obsession with the latter and often dragged you to their debates.
Since you knew that he was Alex, you knew that the other three had to be the friends that he was never seen without. Lafayette was easy to pick out, as he was obviously French, but you had to play a guessing game between the other two. Once was named John and the other was named Hercules, and as much as you tried not to judge by appearance, you were willing to bet anything that the bigger guy was Hercules. “Well, I am a linguistics major, so one would hope I’d have the ability to form sentences.” Your snarkiness had caught even you off guard. You couldn’t help it though, you were in the middle of an existential crisis and this group of men were keeping you from writing about it. “Linguistics, huh? I never would have guessed.” You raised an eyebrow at the frenchman. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just don’t seem like the Linguistics major type.”
“Then do tell, what type do I seem to be to you, Monsieur?”
Lafayette narrowed his eyes at you, unsure if you were mocking him or not. “I would say law, probably. You seem too uptight to be anything else,” he said, ignoring the irritated scoff of indignance that followed. “I’m not uptight, for your information. I just don’t appreciate a group of people distracting me and trying to read over my shoulder when I’m trying to write in my private journal!” You shot back, beyond irritated. “Well maybe you shouldn’t write in a private journal in public,” Alex remarked, making Layette smirk at you. “You know, I’m starting to think that Jefferson is right about you, you are so infuriating. Stop being so discourteous-” you began, before John cut you off. “We’re sorry for bothering you, but you’re the one who started being rude first!” Hercules interjected as well. “He has a point, you could have just told us you didn’t like people reading your journal without getting snarky about it. You glared at them before shoving your things in your bag and standing from the table. “Whatever, I don’t need this. I have way too many things to be doing other than sit here and argue with a bunch of intransigent, immature idiots,” you remarked, turning to walk away. “Great alliteration, (Y/N)!” You barely registered the fact that Alexander Hamilton knew your name before you were gone.
“Remind me, why are you so interested in her again?” Lafayette asked Alex as they all watched her stalk away. “Did you not see the way she just acted?” Alex merely grinned. “That, my friend, is exactly why I’m so interested in her. And now that she has noticed me, my plan to woo her is underway.” The other three glanced at each other, for once unsure about Alex’s abilities. “Um, not to discourage you or anything, but are you sure you’ll really be able to ‘woo’ her? From the sounds of it, she’s a Jefferson fan.” Alex turned to his friend John Laurens. “Oh but that’s what’s going to make it so much fun. She’ll be so irritated when she realizes she’s falling for me, that she’ll have no choice but to write about me in her journal!” They were confused. “So, you don’t want to win her heart-” Lafayette began, “-you just want her to write about you?” Hercules finished. “No, no, I do want to win her heart, but from what I can tell, she only writes about the things she thinks are really important. I want her to feel that way about me,” Alexander told them, the complete emotion in his voice enough to convince them to help him. “Well, if you really like her that much, we’ll gladly join in on your little plan,” John told him with a grin, the other two nodding in agreement.
The shadowy figure stalked the cells. Flame torches lit the otherwise dim prison and they flickered slightly as he walked past them. They clutched at a well worn journal tightly as they walked along the corridor, their footsteps echoed off the stone walls. They paced up and down the narrow path before pausing. The only sound they could hear was his own breathing and the crackle of the flames. Perfect. They could think clearly now. They opened the journal and flicked through the pages. Their mind wondered through what was already written. “You guys are unusually quiet tonight” he said to no one in particular, not looking up from his book. He smiled when he heard the rattle of chains coming from the furthest cell. “Bastard” came a low mumble from within it. The figure stepped towards the voice.
Inside the cell sat a man with a pink moustache. The hair on the top of head was the same colour with black on the sides. He wore grey trousers and a cream coloured shirt which was slightly creased from where he had been sitting. A bright pink bowtie finished off his look. The chains on his wrists clanged again as the person they were bound to walked towards the bars. They tightened a few feet away, the man let out a frustrated growl and clenched his fists. He shot a threatening look towards the person outside the cell as he made a mighty effort to reach the bars. The figure calmly took a pen out of his pocket and started to write in the journal. The person in the cell let out a gasp as the chains tightened around his wrists. They shortened and dragged him back. “Stop!” They cried. “I’ll keep my distance” The figure stopped writing. “There you go, Wilford” he said “You’re learning” he continued to write. The one the figure called Wilford said nothing as the chains loosened slightly around his wrists, instead they turned their back on the figure, shoulders slumped in defeat. “You’ve made me too weak” Wilford said, there was a drawl to his accent. “Don’t worry, Wilford. I’m sure I can make Mark come up with something. I see you fading. You haven’t been out to see the fans since Valentines day. I’ll fix that soon”
A low chuckle came from another cell. The figure grinned when he heard it. It came from his favourite prisoner. He gripped his pen tightly as he approached the cell. Inside was adorned with an antique desk with an elegant chair. The top of the desk was polished and it shined in the torchlight. A man who could nearly match the figure’s looming presence was leaning on the desk, head bowed and arms folded. He wore a tailor made suit that was immaculately pressed. He didn’t seem too bothered about the chains around his ankles. “Got something to say, Dark?” asked the figure. Dark raised his head, a confident smirk greeted the figure’s sight. “Nothing for you to worry about” he said, his voice was deep and had a subtle roughness to it. The figure twirled the pen in his fingers. “Did you like your latest appearance? It took me a while to work out how write you in to that video.” The smirk on Dark’s face faltered. He glared at the figure. “It was too short” he said, bluntly. The figure scoffed. “I’m not stupid, Dark. Too much air time for you would be dangerous for Mark, don’t you think?” “He fears me” “Don’t flatter yourself. The fans give you that power” “At least they’ve heard of me” countered Dark “Most of them don’t even know of your existence” taunted Dark.
The figure leaned in closer to the bars of the cell. “And I’d like to keep it that way” he whispered. “The only person who needs to care about my existence is Mark. The fool still thinks he made me up but we all know the truth, don’t we?” He watched as Dark’s expression hardened. “You’ll slip up one day” growled Dark “and when you do, I’ll take my rightful place as the guard and I’ll make you suffer” The figure chuckled. He liked having one of his prisoners showing a bit of fight in them and Dark was the perfect entity to have conversations with. He wrote down a few sentences in the book. Dark felt reality shifting around him but stayed calm. He knew the person was manipulating something about his existence but had enough wit about him to resist a tiny fraction of his influence. He grunted as he felt pressure within his chest. He knelt down to keep from falling. “You’re one of my favourite creations, Dark. But I need to dampen that desire for revenge.” Dark let out a shaky breath. “Of course” he said before shaking out of his submissive mindset. The figure smiled once more before walking off. Dark seethed, he hated this situation but knew he would have to bide his time. Relying on the fans’ desire to see him angered him but they were necessary to his plan to one day escape.
The person stopped in front of the last cell. “And how are you feeling tonight, Google?” The cell lit up in an instant, the walls were illuminated with a bright, white light. Another man who sat in the middle snapped his head up and stood up straight. He wore a pair of black jeans and a blue t-shirt with a glowing white G adorning the front. His glasses shined in the light “I do not feel anything, creator. Would you like me to add emotion to my database?” His voice had a robotic tone to it. “No need, Google. I can do that from here” said the figure, pointing to his book. “The fans seem to like you.” “Thank you creator. I seemed to have had an energy spike in my code which lasted nearly seventy hours after you let me out. I am still running a data analysis to process what to do with this information and will be coming to a conclusion shortly.” “No need” mumbled the figure, quickly jotting down a few lines in the book. Google immediately stopped. He looked frozen in time. “Close one” said the figure. “I’ll have to keep him away for a while.” He finished writing and saw google come back to life. “Put yourself on sleep mode, Google.” Google gave a short nod and went back to sitting down. The lights flickered off and the cell was in darkness once more.
The figure snapped the book shut and put the pen back into his pocket. He surveyed the cells and contemplated making new creations before dismissing the thought. Darkipler, Wilford Warftstach and Googlplier were all he needed for the time being. “That’ll do for now.” He stretched out his arms and yawned. His connection with Mark was strong. “Seems Mark’s getting tired. Alright, time for me to rest too then” he walked to the base of some steps which led out of the prison. “Goodnight, boys” He sighed when he didn’t get a response. “Shall I write out your demise? It’ll be easy” he waited for a second “I’ll say it again, goodnight, boys”. He grinned when heard the voices call back. “Goodnight, Author”
Prompt; Steve has flashbacks of you and Bucky from before he went down and doesn’t know what it means..
Pairing(s); steve x reader , some Bucky x reader x Steve
Warning(s); angsty/fluffy - none
A/N; since I missed out dear stevies birthday :( and I sweaaaar I'm not all angst this is just–
He sat up from his bed in a cold sweat despite the heat of the Wakandan air enveloping him. No matter how much time went by he found himself falling back onto the same dreams, onto the memory of you. Even if he had Bucky back, Peggy, had formed a new life from the one he left behind. He couldn’t seem to leave you behind with everything else from the 40′s.
“Why can’t I forget you YNN” he grunted. He was still breathing heavy as flashes from his dream played over in his mind. You voice, Your screams, they all just still seemed to echo in his brain.
‘Stevie! Come on!’ He growled and shook his head, but the action never actually made them go away. Her voice was taunting, hypnotizing as he found himself falling into the memory again.
“Steve what do you think you’re doing?” Your voice was light as you looked at the skinny man suspiciously. He froze from where he was standing, never turning around to face you. Although he could see the angry face you supported from your reflection in the glass.
“I was just… I was just uh-” he stuttered, but coughed awkwardly when Bucky suddenly also appeared from behind you.
“You’re really gonna try and enroll into the army?… Again” his voice was teasing as he spun around to face his friends. His cheeks were a brilliant red as he balled his fist.
“Buck!” He hissed, but the man only began to laugh hysterical as you gave him a disappointed look. You punched Bucky in the arm to shut him up before turning to look at Steve again.
“You were gonna ditch us to enroll in the army?” you questioned, Steve awkwardly looked away, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Well, you see I-” you could only huff and stomp towards him, pinching his little arm until he squealed - a manly one of corse - and glared up at you. You returned the look, the both of you staring intently at each other until Bucky finally decided to intervene.
“Alright, Alright doll, Steve where are you gonna say your from this time? Kansas? Come on we can all go dancing tonight” Bucky laid a hand on your waist while pulling Steve close by the hand.
You sighed and pushed away Bucky’s arm to reach out and pull Steve to your body, wrapping him up in a hug. The hug was warm and held emotion as you squeezed him tight, holding in tears at the thought of Steve actually leaving you both to join the war.
“Its just, I love you so much Stevie, I’d hate to see you hurt.. ” you whispered. He would have sighed, held you back just as tight, wipe away your tears with a kiss but he didn’t. Something in him just clicked.
He didn’t shove you away, he just pulled away and refused to give you the furious glare he was sending at the poor wall.
“That doesn’t mean i should be sitting around while good men are lying down their lives for us” He hissed. You sighed softly, Bucky placing a gentle hand on your shoulder as a signal he would handle this from here on out.
“Just… don’t do anything stupid punk” Bucky teased again, knowing that neither he or you would get through to the man unless it was as moral support. That was all you two could give him until he realized it just wasn’t worth it.
“How could I? You’re taking all the stupid with you” he found himself saying almost as if instinctively. You smiled as the pair hugged and he forced himself to look over at you. His blue eyes softened when he saw the worry on your face before it was switched to one of complete and total support.
“Just be careful, Don’t need to bail you out again” you teased lightly again. He chuckled and pulled you in for a kiss this time. slow and sweet, just like him.
“Good Luck Stevie”
He forced himself to get up after that, tossing the covers aside and moving to the bathroom. The sun was just beginning to rise anyways, the soft orange glow filtering through the balcony windows as the jungle outside began to come to life.
He was just pulling on a shirt when Natasha, Wanda and Sam came bursting through his door, singing an off key version of Happy Birthday. He gave them a smile and laughed at the shield cake they presented him with.
“Happy Birthday Steven!” Nat shouted, scooping a bit of frosting and smearing it across his cheek. He chuckled and entertained them for a while before Wanda stepped forward, a shy almost embarrassed look on her face.
“I-I have a present for you, If its alright” she asked softly, so that Natasha and Sam wouldn’t hear over there arguing if Steve could still ‘do the do’ at just 99 years old.
“Thats perfectly okay Wanda” he smiled, but something deep down ached in him as the memory from earlier popped up, as with another one from his own birthday a near century ago.
“Rise and Shine Boys!” your voice filtered through his dream as you burst through the bedroom where both Steve and Bucky laid cuddled in bed. You wore one of Buck’s night shirts that posed as a dress on you, you were also holding a tray with breakfast on it.
Bucky groaned from Steve’s neck, tightening his grip around the smaller males waist. Steve chuckled and tried sitting up but Bucky just pulled him closer to his chest, peppering wet kisses all along his bare chest.
“She won’t bother us if she thinks your still sleeping” Bucky whispered, but yelped in pain when you kicked him from the side of the bed. That seemed to wake him up as he sat bolt right in bed, rubbing his side as you glared at him, a pout on your lip.
“Shut up Buck, I’m celebrating Stevies birthday weather you like it or not!” you told him sternly before returning with a bright smile. Bucky muttered under his breath while Steve laughed out, allowing you to feed him the strawberry you’d cut up for him.
“You gonna feed me too doll?” you rolled your eyes as you flicked the older male in the forehead.
“When its your birthday you’ll get more than just a feeding” you told him as sultry as you could, smirking when a wolfish grin curled at his lips. Steve rolled his eyes now, pushing Buck off the bed when he saw you were taking up all your attention.
“Go away Buck, its my turn” you giggled, leaning forward to press a long and warm kiss to his lips while Bucky huffed on the floor.
“Come on Steve! she gave you plenty of attention last night with that early birthday present” he waggled his eyebrows as you struggled to maintain a laugh while Steve threw a pillow at him to shut him up.
“So whats the surprise Wanda?” Steve asked after she’d led him to one of the empty conference rooms. She hesitated for a second before pulling out a worn red journal from within her sweater. At first he looked at her in confusion until she showed him just who exactly it belonged to.
“How’d you get this?” he hissed, snatching the journal from her a little harder than necessary. Wanda didn’t flinch or back away, she expected this from him as much.
“From a woman while I was being held captive by Hydra years ago…” she began, watching as he flipped through the worn and yellowed pages with tears in his eyes. All dating back to the time you’d all been together, when you were all happy.
“..She was held with James in a different, more secure part during our imprisonment, she was weak and-and dying.. I-I didn’t know who she was until we first met” her voice was weak, as if telling Steve would ruin the trust between them but she knew she had a duty to hold by you.
“Who was it? why did this woman have YN’s journal!” he snapped, as if finally after years of being plagued by your voice, he’d get answers.
“The woman.. was YN, Steve” he felt as if the wind had been punched out of him as he staggered back into one of the seats. Wanda reached out to help him but he held a hand up to stop her.
“What.. she never came up in any of Hydras reports, B-Buck would have helped her, he would’ve saved her, he would’ve told me!” he finally snapped, slamming the journal to the table as a sudden fury overcame him. This time Wanda did step away from him, holding a hand up in protection from his wrath.
“She told me to tell you she was alive, to give you that and that when she was ready to see you both again, you’d know”
The dreams, the memories, it all made sense now. He placed his hands on the wall to keep himself from breaking anything out of anger. He took deep breaths to calm down, while Wanda waited patiently for his next move.
“We have to get Bucky”
aaaand scene :) hope everyone had a wonderful 4th!
*I want to apologize in advance for any grammatical errors I may not have caught, punctuation (specifically commas) are my nightmare.*
In this imagine a student from the American Wizarding school, Ilvermorny, is thrust into the world of Hogwarts when her father receives a relocation. At Hogwarts, the reader is sorted into Ravenclaw and struggles to find her place. She does discover unlikely friends in her Charms class, and after a risky move strikes a deal that will make the new acquaintances inseparable. All the while Fred grows increasingly important in the reader’s heart, but is it meant to last?
[Y/n] - your name
Y/L/N - your last name
Y/N/N - your nickname
~~~ - indicates the passage of time.
Warnings: minor swearing (it’s literally one word)
Word count: 3,419
The worst part about being a witch with muggle parents, is that the problems of both worlds apply. Ilvermorny had been my home for three years, at least until my dad, a soldier for the U.S. military was restationed in the U.K., bringing the entire family with him. My parents seemed to believe that my education would be untouched by this move, or that maybe I could return to ‘regular’ school here. Luckily I’d heard about Hogwarts and shortly after moving into our new home I received an acceptance letter of transfer.
Standing here in the upper-level dormitories of Ravenclaw Tower, I can’t shake the feeling of homesickness I have for my old school. The few times I’ve left this tower have been for meals in the Great Hall, a room ringing with laughter and carefree conversations, the occasional whisper (presumably about me), and the occasional explosion from the Gryffindor table as some clumsy boy continuously fails at executing some spell. I’ve been focused on my studies since arriving, as the transfer left a gap, but Professor Flitwick, my head-of-house believes that I’ve caught up enough to attend regular classes. The very thought makes my stomach turn, but I suppose it would be good to make some friends.
I grab the stack of textbooks from my bed and head down the stone steps to attend my first class, Charms. The classroom is medium sized and arranged with tables and waist high walls around the outside, similar to a jury-box back home. Flitwick gestures to one of the unoccupied seats. I slide into the chair thankful that he did not feel the need to introduce me to the class. As I wait on class to begin, I pull out a worn leather journal and begin to document my surroundings.
“George!” I nearly jump out of my skin as a red-headed Gryffindor yells across the room, sliding swiftly over the table and into his seat beside me. His twin brother, at least that’s what I can assume, flashes him an award winning smile and an over exuberant thumbs up. The rest of the class files in shortly behind these two, and Flitwick begins his lesson.
The ginger who startled me is drumming away at the table top and looks at me almost as if he is surprised to see the seat occupied. His honey-brown eyes scan me quickly. Seeming to have completed his assessment, he goes back to drumming but this time on his books.
My quill’s scratching of notes on parchment is stopped by a folded paper forced between the two. Shooting an anxious glance at Flitwick, who is currently instructing a Hufflepuff on how to properly 'swish’ her wand, I open the note.
“Ravenclaw?” The handwriting is rough. I find the Gryffindor boy awaiting an answer.
“Yes.” I pass it back.
“Welcome to Hogwarts. New?”
“Yes and thanks.”
“Name?” He passes the paper back expectantly.
“[Y/n]” I shove the note back growing slightly frustrated. This is class, and Professor Flitwick could turn around any moment.
“Fred.” He writes back with a smile. I glance up to see George beaming and Professor Flitwick scowling in front of me. Fuming, he confiscates the note much to my classmates’ amusement. He seems more disappointed than angry, which somehow hurts worse. My face burns in shame, but Fred seems unphased.
“Now class,” Flitwick’s high pitched voice fills the room. “I hope you all have been paying attention, as we will now be having a quiz on what we have learned today.” Oh no. “Please take out a fresh piece of parchment and black ink. We will begin shortly, after the tables have been cleared.”
Flitwick writes question after question on an old blackboard. Much to my surprise the answers are fairly simple. As I glance around the room, I notice Fred struggling. His quill falls to the floor beside me, he coughs as he picks it up, “help.” Without knowing why, I copy a few answers onto an extra piece of parchment and drop it onto the floor with my quill when I get up to turn in my assessment. Flitwick watches as Fred places the quill on the table, and I hand him my paper, the weight of guilt like stone in the pit of my stomach. What I have just done goes against all logic and morals I have. It carries the additional weight of expulsion if found out. By the time I sit down, Fred has pocketed the answers and minutes later turns his test in with a grateful nod in my direction.
When class is dismissed, the Professor asks me to stay behind. My heart is hammering in my chest. Why did I help that boy?
“Miss Y/L/N?” I feel like I may throw up.
“Yes Professor Flitwick?” My blood is rushing to my ears.
“I wanted to see how you were acclimating.” He looks at me with a hint of concern. “Is everything alright?”
“Y-yes sir. I’m just a bit nervous moving and all. People have never really been my strong point.”
“Ahh, understandable. Well I will not keep you any longer. If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, feel free to drop by my office. As head of the Ravenclaw house it is my duty to make this transition as painless as possible.”
“Thank you Professor,” my lungs fill with air, the weight lifted.
“And do be careful with that Weasley boy; I know it was just an introduction, but he is often in trouble with Severus Snape. You need not be caught up in that mess. Good day,” the tiny man waves cheerfully as I exit the classroom, practically running.
As I hurry down the corridor I catch a snatch of conversation, “… really dude, she’s gorgeous … and she really helped your sorry arse? A Ravenclaw?”
“Hey [Y/n], wait up!” I turn to see the twins hurrying over from their previous position outside of Flitwick’s room. I clutch my books closer to my chest and begin to walk faster, feeling slightly bad for doing so, but knowing that if they say anything now there’s a chance Flitwick will hear them. I turn the corner and stop, reversing myself to face the advancing boys. They run into me at full speed.
“Oh God, sorry.” one says, dusting himself off and extending a hand. “I’m George.”
“And I’m Fred,” says the other as I try to regain my balance.
“As you know by way of note I’m [Y/n]. Nice to meet you both.”
“Why were you running away?” George asks.
“I needed to get some distance from that class before speaking.”
“Thanks by the way,” Fred says scratching the back of his neck. “When he asked you to stay I thought for sure you’d been caught.”
“So did I,” I laugh nervously.
“So why did you help my mirror image here?” George cocks his head, his left eyebrow arching upward.
“To be perfectly honest I don’t know. He looked rather pitiful for one.”
“Heyyy!” Fred crosses his arms. “Interesting accent you have there by the way. Where are you from?”
“I attended Ilvermorny in the States but came here by letter of transfer. I’m a military brat as my dad would say.” I hold my books a little tighter at the memory of home.
“What’s your next class?” George inquires. “I knocked you over, so I owe you as much as seeing that you arrive there smoothly.”
“Defense Against the Dark Arts, but it’s really okay. You two don’t need to be late, we are already running a bit behind.” I note the slowly emptying hallway.
“Won’t be the first time,” says Fred.
“Or the last,” George adds.
“Off we go then,” they state in unison, each looping an arm through mine and dragging me down the hall unexpectedly.
After several minutes of the twins bantering back and forth we arrive at the DADA classroom
“Here we are.” George smiles warmly.
“Thank you both.” Perhaps Flitwick was wrong about these two.
“Well we must be going darling. Don’t cry. Farewell, farewell.” George bows, kissing my hand theatrically.
“It was marvelous to meet you darling, absolutely marvelous, but the hour is late. Adieu, adieu.” Fred does the same as his brother, bowing deeply before his lips cross my hand.
Together they bound off down the hallway, jumping to hit a hanging banner at the other end. “Later [Y/n]!” They yell together as they round the corner. I enter class with an odd mixture of confusion and amusement filling my brain.
At dinner in the Great Hall, the twins wave at me from across the room They have the biggest personalities at Hogwarts thus far, and from what I’ve learned today hold many school records for their mischief. They definitely made today interesting, or at least bearable.
After dinner I follow my house members back to our common room, but not before noticing two mops of shaggy ginger hair watching me leave.
Just like yesterday, I arrive to charms early. After the note-passing incident I feel the need to be more careful. The struggling Hufflepuff from yesterday takes her seat across the room, and Flitwick hurries over to check her wand motions. As I watch intently, I miss Fred quickly sliding into the seat beside me.
“Hello,” he says brightly.
“Don’t sound so excited.” Sarcasm drips from his tongue. He leans back in his chair with an amused look on his face. “Are you capable of speech or should I tell George I’ve discovered an American language barrier?”
“Oh,” I glance away quickly. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want a repeat of yesterday. Flitwick is my head-of-house so I need to stay on his good side.”
“Well I understand that, but I must inform you that class hasn’t started yet.” He points out the now obvious fact, leaving me feeling quite ridiculous. “I would be rather hurt if you didn’t speak though, that seat of yours sat vacant for far too long.”
Class begins immediately after this comment and I shoot Fred an apologetic look. He was only trying to be friendly after all, and somehow I managed to go flat. It was as if my brain had stopped working. Our assessments from yesterday are passed out and I earn a proud smile from the tiny Professor, top marks.
Beside me Fred is practically dancing with delight. “What?” I ask, a shy smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. He’s so childish, but not in an annoying way.
“This is the highest marks I’ve made in this class all year!” he exclaims. Across the room George looks less than thrilled. Fred’s breath tickles at my ear and his shoulder gently bumps mine. “Thanks by the way.”
“It’s passed, let’s not bring it up again as it will never happen a second time.” I try to keep my voice low. Fred looks at me with puppy dog eyes, his lip poked out so far that an entire quidditch team could land on it. I stifle a laugh. “Well alright, how about this? I have a proposal for you.”
“[Y/n] dear, I’m truly flattered but I barely know you.” He places a hand over his heart. The classroom somehow becomes dead silent just in time for me to snort in laughter. Fred’s eyes go wide and across the room his brother’s mouth falls open. I clamp a hand over my mouth quickly, embarrassment causing my cheeks to turn Weasley hair red, and it happens again. Fred begins laughing loudly to cover for me, and soon the entire class is laughing for no apparent reason.
Things finally quiet down and Flitwick gives Fred a stern look. “Mr. Weasley?”
“Yes.” Both Fred and George answer. They exchange glance that can only mean this has happened before.
“Yes?” George answers.
“No, then George Weasley.”
“Sir?” Fred replies, earning a few snickers from the class.
“I’d appreciate it if you would share whatever-”
“Sir, I’m George!” George interrupts.
“But I just-”
“No sir. I’m George, always have been,” George says earnestly.
Flitwick lets out a mighty puff of air and turns back to Fred, drawing himself to his full –and still rather undaunting– height. “The joke Weasley.”
“Oh Professor, you see, I was just thinking to myself-”
“Let me stop you right there. That sounds dangerous,” the little old man chuckes at his own joke and resumes teaching in good spirits. His anger vanished at the easygoing smile Fred offered up under pressure. Apparently spells aren’t the only thing charming in this room, and I’m beginning to notice.
The rest of class passes quickly, and I exit the classroom with Fred and George. “So,” George begins, “ he made you laugh so hard you snorted. Must have been some joke.”
“George, I must say it was no laughing matter, we were nearly engaged. Gave me a frightful scare really, seeing as we are both rather young for that sort of business.” Fred recounts.
“You were almost engaged to my brother?!?” George fakes shock. “How rude, didn’t even ask for my blessing.”
I sigh and shake my head with a smile. “No George, it was not at all like that. I said I had a proposal for Fred, not that I was proposing to him.”
They look at each other and shrug. “Same thing.” The two seem to be literal extensions of each other, forever speaking in sync.
“Well,” George looks at me expectantly. “Out with it then.”
I look around anxiously not wanting to be overheard. This plan is one I hatched last night in bed. The boys seem nice enough and I do not want to repeat the same drudgery of constant studying without fun as I did at Ilvermorny. “You teach me how to prank, I’ll tutor you both in return.”
Fred raises an eyebrow. Throwing his arm around George’s shoulder he holds up a finger. “One moment please, I need to speak with my associate.”
Within seconds of whispering they turn back around. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Ravenclaw.”
The grass beneath a weeping willow by the lake tickles at my neck. I’ve been at Hogwarts for six months. Summer is rapidly approaching and my chest grows heavy at the fact. It’s funny really, how quickly this place has become my home. While I miss Ilvermorny, I know I will miss this place more, mostly because of the people, namely Fred and George. Over the past several months of wreaking mayhem around school I’ve developed a strange sort of feeling for Fred. I would say butterflies, but really it’s an entire menagerie of fluttering creatures in my stomach.
“So the year is almost up,” George says from my left.
“Are you going to be back next year?” asks Fred. He lies in the grass on my right. One of the few clear days we have had, has resulted in an afternoon of watching clouds pass by.
“I certainly hope so,” I sigh, “ but with my dad’s job I can never be sure.” We listen to the rustling of the branches overhead and I prop up to grab my journal. I don’t want to forget this.
I smile as I flip through the pages, six months of pranks, six months of escaping detention, six months of angering Filch and sneaking out at night to meet the boys. Notes are pressed between the pages with the last of the fall leaves. Margins are filled with descriptions of fiery red hair, thundering laughs, almost inaudible whispers, and my thoughts. This book breathes like a part of me, and I suppose it is.
“What’s that?” George rolls into his stomach, watching me with curiosity. “I always see you scribbling in that thing but I’ve never asked.”
“Just an old journal, nothing major.” I try to shrug it off in hopes he won’t move closer to read. “Just stories and things I need to remember. It’s rubbish really.” I close the book and collect my things. If he had seen, he would have surely known how I feel about his brother. “Race you to the Great Hall? We are going to miss supper.”
“You’re on!” They both exclaim, jumping to their feet.
“3 … 2 …1!” I shout, tripping over a root and dropping my books. The boys laugh and help me pick them up.
“This reminds me of the day we all met. George helped you up and we all laughed at our clumsiness.” Fred says helping me dust off.
“Reminds me of how we absolutely confused Snape until he had Peeves run a tripwire for revenge.” I mumble as we cross the grounds.
“At any rate, it’s been an excellent year.” George says, pushing open the door. We say a quick goodbye and hurry to our respective tables.
After a delicious dinner I sit in my dorm completing assignments. Wait. Where is my journal? My mind flashes back to the tumble I took and George’s smug face floats into my mind as I pull a piece of grass from my Charms textbook. Oh no. If he read it he knows-
“Hey [y/n]?” A younger Ravenclaw girl sticks her head into the room. “I found this on the ground by the willow, you must have forgotten it.” The girl hands me my leather journal as I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thank you so much.” I flip through the pages as she shuts the door. That was close.
The walls of the dorm are bare, my friends all down at the Hogwarts train station. I’m running a bit late as I have been writing last minute details down. I place my treasured journal into the top of my trunk as the door creaks open.
“Hey Y/N/N,” Fred leans against the wooden bedpost.
“Hey. I can’t believe this is it.”
“I can’t either.” He seems a bit nervous and far less chatty than usual.
“It’ll be okay of course, there’s always next year.” I attempt to smile cheerfully despite my secret. Little does he know, but last Monday I received an owl saying that my family and I will be returning to the states. My father has received work as a recruiting officer.
“What is it?” Concern mixes into Fred’s already uneasy voice.
“What do you mean?”
He takes a step closer to me. “You know what I mean. That was a fake smile, you’ve been off all week, just tell me.”
I take a deep breath, “I’m going back to America.”
“Oh.” He silently opens his arms, the wind knocked out of him. As he holds me tight he nuzzles his face into my hair and I try to memorize his scent. “I hope you are happy there.” His voice nearly breaks my heart. Where I’m going is no longer home. Hogwarts is home.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he releases me. He walks towards the door but stops abruptly. In two steps he crosses the room, his hands tangle with my hair. He presses his lips to mine. I’m shocked but I don’t resist. They are silky smooth and tinged with salt from the tears running down my face. He slowly breaks away.
“I didn’t want to miss my last chance to do that.” The little composure I had shatters at his words. “George saw the notebook that day by the willow. He put it back after dinner. I was hoping we would have more time.”
I nearly choke, “You were hoping?”
“Yeah,” he looks at his feet. “I thought you were cool after Charms that first day, but as we spent more time together …” he trails off. His light brown eyes look into mine mournfully. “Please write. Promise me you’ll write.”
“I will. I promise.”
We disembarked the Hogwarts Express that day with tears in our eyes. George gave me a quick hug goodbye, and I fussed at him for stealing my notebook (All in good spirits of course). Fred held onto me until Molly dragged him away. Six hours later I was on a flight home.
It’s been three months and my parents have settled back into American life again, and though I have not, they have accepted this fact. My heart belongs to ivy walls, weeping (and whomping) willows, ancient secrets, and a red-headed boy named Fred. I pull out a piece of letter parchment and a quill to write him three words.
“I’m coming home.”
Thank you so much for reading lovelies. I love each and every one of you. Thank you also to the ever patient and kind person who requested this imagine a few days ago. While I had a few mental blocks writing this, I thoroughly enjoyed the journey.
A quick reminder that requests are open on my page. Don’t worry too much about the future, tomorrow will care for itself. Smile, you are beautiful! And always keep swimming.
The harsh crash of the ride cymbal filled the music
hallways. Early morning rehearsals were no stranger to any of the musicians
that Riverdale High’s halls, however this particular persons practicing was
making it difficult for Jughead to sleep.
He made his way down the hallway until he stopped at the
doorway of the practice room.
Inside sat a teenage girl with braided hair that reached her
shoulders, earplugs in her ears as she studied the sheet music in front of her.
The continuous tapping of the high hat and snare drum filled the room as she
began the song again with even more enthusiasm as before.
Jughead stood, watching through the small window in the door
and wondered how one girl could change so much and yet still seem like the
exact same person they were a season ago.
A reverberating crash sounded as Y/N finished her piece and
sat, chest heaving, over the drum kit. She silently gathered up her sticks and
music and placed them all into her rugged canvas backpack before making her way
towards the door.
Jughead hurriedly stepped away from the door and pretended
to be engrossed heavily in the schools noticeboard.
“Morning Jughead!” Y/N shouted.
The raven haired boy was taken aback by the sheer loudness
of her voice and turned around startled.
She stood before him, large jumper thrown of some rugged
black jeans and her trusty backpack thrown over a shoulder. He gestured towards
his ears and mimed taking plugs out. Realization dawned as her face as she
nodded and took out her earplugs.
“Thanks heaps” she murmured bashfully.
“It’s uh no problem.” He said whilst running his hand
through his beanie less hair.
“I think Archie was practicing later this morning, if you’re
waiting for him” she stated.
“Oh okay thanks.”
The pair stood awkwardly before each other until Y/N waved
goodbye and headed towards the music storeroom. Jughead stood in the hallway
watching her until she turned into the storeroom and disappeared.
In the summer she
became a painter.
Her long tanned limbs were splayed against the short grass
on the school oval as she sat with her sketchbook against her knee. She sat
alone in the middle of the oval with her bag and materials spread out around
The long strands of Y/H/C had been hastily pulled into a
messy bun as inspiration had struck her.
Watercolor paints surrounded her as she became a human
canvas, mixing colors on her hand in hopes of finding the perfect shade.
Jughead stared at her
from across the oval, his eyes transfixed by her every movement and brushstroke
she made. He remained oblivious to his friends watching him but remained enthralled by the Y/C/E girl’s beauty.
She leant back and stretched her long arms above her head,
the long white paint stained dress she wore rode up her legs exposing her
tanned and toned thighs evidence of her previous cheerleading hobby.
The harsh shrill of the bell awakened Jughead from his
gazing whilst also startling Y/N, she hurriedly shoved pencils and palettes
into her bag and carefully picked up her sketchbook whilst she made her way
back into the school. With her hair bouncing
with her every step, she nimbly slid past the eager freshmen that were heading
outside to enjoy the sunshine.
It was autumn when she decided to be a
Being a writer for the Blue and Gold meant having an all
access pass to not only the English department’s resources but also the Art
Usually the students were
willing to give Jughead and Betty a hand with whatever the needed but there were
a few students that couldn’t be swayed with the bribery of extra credit; mainly
Y/N the best female photographer Riverdale High has.
Her photos were often
featured in the local newspaper and had even won awards; she could turn the
simplest object into a masterpiece with the change of an angle.
She was talented no doubt about it but her services were
hard to acquire.
Jughead stood in the dark room collecting his photos for the
newest edition for the Blue and Gold.
Placing them on the
table outside the room he winced, half of the shots were blurry and the rest
had fingers and other miscellaneous objects blocking the focus of the photo
itself- Riverdale Highs Vixens.
Shaking his head he frowned as his worst fear had come true.
Every photo he had taken was completely
The door slamming from behind him broke him out of his
musings as Y/N walked in, headphones blasting out and a
folder of photos under her arms.
She haphazardly dropped the folder into the table next to
his and craned her neck to look at him.
“What you got there pretty boy?” She inquired.
“The reason Betty may finally kill me.” He shot back
Y/N let out a chuckle before heading towards his table to
inspect his photos for herself.
“Rookie mistakes.” she muttered, as she walked back towards
Silently she sifted through her photos until she found her
collection of photos of the Vixens and passed them to him.
“Use them, I just want credit.” she stated and turned back
to the exit.
“Thanks heaps.” he mumbled.
Y/N turned around
with a smile and waved goodbye as she headed into the dark room with her
In winter she dabbled in
The scents of Pops diner greeted Jughead as he headed
towards his usual booth only to find Y/N already sitting in it.
Dressed in an oversize coat and jeans, she was thoroughly
prepared for the harsh winter weather.
Next to her sat a worn looking journal that was breaking at
the binding. Her face light up with joy as she spotted him from across the
“Finally, Riverdale’s finest writer returns to the source of
Jughead smiles at the statement as eh slides into the seat
across from her.
“Mind taking a look at some of my work?” She shyly asks.
He nods his head and takes the journal, flicking through it
he nods his head at certain parts until he finishes the book.
“Well you can definitely add writer to your ever growing of
talents.” He teases.
Y/N throws her head back with laughter and a few strands
of her Y/H/C hair falls out of her bun.
“I’m not even close to being half as good as you at writing,
it’s your thing.”
“Oh yeah, just like every other damn thing is your thing.”
“I’ll admit that I do have a lot of hobbies but I enjoy
She leans forward and puts her elbows on the table staring
into Jughead eyes.
“Have you enjoyed watching me this year? “She inquires
His face turns a deep crimson color as he avoids her gaze.
Slowly but steadily he raises his eyes towards hers and finds that her Y/C/E
are staring at him waiting expectantly for an answer.
“I always thought the changing seasons where beautiful
but then I saw you and nothing could compare”.
Hang onto your butts! This is gonna be a meaty post.
Collecting the three artifacts grant the bearer the title “Prophet of the Invoker”
• Robes of the Invoker: [Body slot]
Originally jet black when it was first found, the robes erupted into a brilliant crimson upon being dawned. Golden runes accentuated the hem of the fabrics and the bearer’s name is engraved onto the back in the ancient draconic tongue.
These robes grant the bearer a +2 enhancement bonus to Int, Spellcraft, Knowledge (Arcana), and Use Magic Device (+4 bonus to Int and +5 bonus to aforementioned skills with two or more of the Invoker’s Regalia) while having another mysterious power; each time the bearer casts an Arcane spell, the robes have a chance to produce a Mirror Image in brief likeness of the spell that had been cast, of which last 1 minute per spell level of the source spell (Cantrips are treated as Lv.1 spells for sake of determining duration). As a Swift action, the user may expend that mirror image to re-cast that spell in its entirety. If that spell had a casting time of Swift or Immediate, the mirror image may be expended as an Immediate action. The chance of producing a Mirror Image in this way is 10% alone, 25% with two of the Invoker’s Regalia equipped, and 50% once complete.
Once the Regalia has been reunited in its entirety, the robes also produce the effect of Amulet of Magecraft.
• Gauntlet of the Invoker: [Hand slot; takes up both hands despite being a single item]
A deep crimson gauntlet accented with copper, gold, and ruby studded knuckles. This
worn, dented, scarred, and battered
metal glove firmly sits on the edge of tasteless.
This +1 Ghost Touch, Spell Storing gauntlet may not seem like much beyond its utterly tacky appearance, but its lone powers fiercely defend the wielder. When an enemy targets the user with a spell (albeit standard casting, casting as a spell-like ability, or with a power acting just as a spell) and that spell is the same as the one stored on the gauntlet, then the spell or power is instantly countered, expending the stored spell in the process. As an immediate action, the user may expend 1 use of Mythic Power to prevent the spell from being consumed in this manner.
When joined with 2 or more pieces of the Invoker’s Regalia, the enhancement bonus increases to +3 and gains the Spell Stealing weapon property along with other strange powers. As long as the gauntlet equipped, all weapons the bearer wields (be they natural, manufactured, or otherwise) also share the Ghost Touch property. In addition, when casting a damaging spell, the bearer may expend a use of Mythic Power as a free action to coat the spell in a thin veil of force, effectively granting spells such as Fireball the Ghost Touch property.
As the Regalia is completed, the gauntlet also behaves as Amulets of Spell Cunning and Spell Mastery, granting the user 9 additional spell levels to prepare spells with.
• Mask of the Invoker: [Head slot]
A blank, featureless mask where a section where the left eye should be had been shattered.
The mask first feels heavy once dawned, blocking out all vision from where it isn’t broken, however, the weight suddenly lifts and vision is restored, as if the mask doesn’t even exist to its wearer. This humble artifact grants the user benefits of Ring of Wizardry Type I and allows the user to locate and read the Prophet’s Diary. With a second member of the Regalia is reunited, the Mask also grants the effects of Ring of Wizardry Type II while also feeling breath and vision clean regardless of the environment, much like a Necklace of Adaptation.
Once fully completed, the mask then grants the effects of Ring of Wizardry Type III and the nourishment of a Ring of Sustenance.
• The Prophet’s Diary: [Slotless]
A small, worn, yet sturdy journal found in a haversack next to the body of the former Prophet of the Invoker, previously invisible without aid of the Invoker’s Mask. To the ordinary, the journal is completely blank and the paper and covers are stained with time and decay, but through the visions of the mask its pages turn and flip endlessly as text appears, dances, and skitters away incomprehensibly. Attempting to locate direct information from this book is neigh impossible as its nature is to give snippets as the powers that be see fit. The function of the diary and the secrets it holds remain a mystery.
So yeah. There we go, I think. Sorry for the sloppy and repeated wording on my part.
Request: I have a request! How about bucky and the reader know each other when they met in a coffeeshop once but one day the reader gets robbed or something but bucky - of course - is there and leads her home and they develop a friendship but in the end they fall in love somehow? Thank you!!!
A/N: I kept this as kind of a drabble because its a timeline idea so I hope you enjoy it and I changed it a little bit sorry!
The first meeting:
The light shapes her body and shines around her frame. The chai latte steams in front of her and he stands in line waiting for hot chocolate. The café had a calming vibe. When he sat down next to her his breathing fell in time with hers. Bucky had learnt in training that when in doubt of his skill he must mimic someone who he seeks to be the least threatening and so far the black jumper and denim wearing girl seemed the kindest.
Bucky’s clawing throat subsided when he found his fingers, like hers, rapping against the wooden table situated in front of him. The book that lay open on the table reminded him to pull out his own worn leather journal. Her eyes still had not noted him copying ever move and shuffle she made. Soon however in the almost silent and abandoned café she started to notice every move and shunt she made was mirrored by the bearded man next to her. She started to complete strange gestures and then began to twist her feet or pat her head until the mans face was nothing but pure confusion. Y/N laughs and turns to face him, holding out a smaller hand for him to shake “sorry, I noticed you reciprocating my movements so thought I’d mess with you for a little bit but seriously I’m Y/N” Bucky shyly shakes her hand but soon sees the happiness behind her eyes and starts to understand the humour in her actions and finally loosens up and introduces himself as Bucky.
Soon she has Bucky in stiches and he has developed his place at her table now, sharing vague details of his long and extensive trips around the world. “So your starting to settle down here, in New York now?” She asks still clutching the now mildly hot latte, thinking for a minute he answers “something like that yeah.” With a brief encounter they exchange numbers and part their own ways until next time.
A/N: had to. just had to. also, this is really old ;v;
You work at Starbucks but hate coffee.
Like absolutely despise it as much as it could be - it’s bitterness just extremely wards you off. So does whatever other flavor is surfing around in it.
With that being said, it was a horrible combination, yes, you would think, but you needed a decent paying job and this was the best you could get currently with being in college. So you made do if it meant survival - i.e, being able to buy supplies and food, and primarily whatever else one needed for a living. It helped that the campus wasn’t too far either. That and there was wifi and employee discounts to take advantage of so it wasn’t half bad, nor was the smell of java beans and confection sweetness. You also volunteer at animal shelters when you’re free from the pressures of getting an education to blow off some steam and working part time to do something you enjoy more than making six am zombies a cup of joe while having to deal with overly crotchety or peppy people was just what you needed. Including some of your co-workers you put below minimum effort in socializing with. It was an okay level of existing for what it was worth, and you just tried to remind yourself that the pot at the end of the rainbow that is a college degree would be so very much worth all the hard work.
It was the average afternoon for a mid fall day and a ginger walked in some time past one thirty. He had a young face, probably European, that had more than a healthy amount of freckles. He walked up to the cash register, seeming all but meekly polite as he ordered a small latte and told you his name so you could sharpie it on his cup.
“Alright, I’ll call you in a bit pal.” you smiled.
He nodded and you got to work. Crafting him his oddly simple drink given all the options to pick from as you thought of his name.
Newton. Certainly not one you hear everyday - in your case anyway - but very unique. It gave you can idea and as you were an in the moment confidence person, you went through with that idea.
You called him up and he listened like a retriever, red head popping up in attention. You reached over the shelf frame on the side of the register, glad you had long enough arms to compensate for your short body. He grabbed the cup from you carefully and it didn’t take long for him to snort then chuckle, but it was more school boyish than you expected and that was insanely adorable. He was amused by the nickname you had wrote - Newt. You even doodled a little one next to your curly handwriting. His smile jerked up higher on one side it turned out.
You smiled again, this time more earnestly and shrugged as he looked your way. Then you noticed something more odd than his name and of course you had to call him out on it.
“Cool critter man.“ it was a witty compliment meant for the stick bug crawling on his shoulder. It was a bright green and getting close enough to graze his collar as it crawled upward.
He startled, and without delay, frantically snatched it up. He then angrily whispered a reprimand to it, letting it crawl into his breast pocket. You watched him all the while, bemused before he seemed to remember that you were there. He started up in a stammer and you cut him off.
"Does it have a name?”
You swore you could see the headlights of his brain blinker as he tilted his head at you. He swallowed roughly and looked at his latte as he thumbed open a piece of plastic on the lid over the lip of the cup.
“P-Pickett,” he answered quietly.
You cocked your head to the side too.
A smile shyly tilts his lips and he thanks you.
It’s only a matter of time before you decide to tell him your name, but that’s about when he’s forced to go sit at one of the tables as a grouchy customer moves in behind him on the otherwise non existent line and loudly complains about him holding it up. It was moment where you really wished you could tell some people to suck it and frack off. She was just lucky more people came in after her complaint. So, you get back to work and help her with a strained attitude, a little less enthusiastic than before and painting mental mustaches on her and the rest of who followed that were not of the savory kind of personality.
When you’ve hit another lapse of inactivity in coffee serving, you spy Newt in the back, alone and ears plugged with buds. Probably listening to some chill tunes. He was writing furiously in a worn journal and taking periodic sips of his latte. Sighing, you check the time on your Android. It’s nearly three now. Good as time as ever for a break, and what better than to see how the politest guy you’ve served in a long time is doing. You made yourself something quick and poured a mug before popping out from behind the desk and telling Jordie - the quiet, sweet guy of the staff that never threw anyone under the bus and kept to himself - that’d you be back in thirty. You took a drink from your mug as you ambled over to Newt.
“Hey." You absently wonder if no one has every really went out of their to talk to him before because of how he reacts to you. He seems quirky - in the good way. So it’d be a shock that no has tried to befriend him.
You’ve managed to give him another start and he’s turned to a stuttering mess as you sit down across from him, a piping hot chocolate in hand. Unknown to you, it surprised him that you had arrived at his table.
"W-why are you- won’t you get in trouble for not being on the job?” he asked in that raspy accent, taking out his ear buds.
“Hey, it’s no problem Newt, I’m on break and well…sitting at an empty table or back of the break room by myself can be lonely." you explained, leaning back in your seat.
"A-are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” you soothe and the tension strung in his shoulders dropped visibly.
He’s nervous as you then try to start up chatter, asking if he had any hobbies.
"Well, I volunteer at the nearby animal shelter. And several others.” he confessed sheepishly.
“Really? Huh, so do I.”
Something sparked in his lovely eyes and soon you two couldn’t shut up. You relate on a few things, like options and philosophies, and he mentions that he also rescues pit bulls - he insists on telling you tokens of several, which you don’t at all mind -, and smiles brightly when you pipe up that you have one too. You feel comforted by his presence and he seems to like you to some extent if he hasn’t stopped yammering with you yet.
He got even more animated when you started to rambled about endangered species the moment he brings them up. And misunderstood or stereotyped ones.
“They deserve a lot more concern, you know? Like, these are animals - the creatures who have had the earth a lot longer than we have, so aren’t they entitled to something more than just advertisements on TV that don’t help as much as they say they do?”
He drank the last of his latte in a short gulp, he placed the empty cup down, “I wholehearted agree, I suppose we can only hope for more efforts to be exulted but I hope to help that some day."
Yes, he had told you he was aiming to become a zoologist in his near future, a career you once considered taking on in flitting thought, but your indecisiveness had left you wondering more on you choices of occupations.
Turns out you both like art too and share taste in music.
Sadly, that topic is cut short and because your break time’s up in a flash and you have to get back to work and Newt has an essay to finish.
You down the rest of your hot chocolate, "Um, sorry. Gotta go back to the grind an’ stuff.” you tuck back some hair.
He says he looks forward to seeing you again and gives a less bashful smile as he rises to leave too.
You hobble on back behind the register, catching sight of him through a window and holding onto his image as he disappears in the street. You sigh, feeling warm inside, and you know it’s not because of the hot chocolate.
You wonder if he notices the heart shaped cookie you slipped into his bag before he left.