i’m like a bitter old man except i’m a teenage girl
so rest your heart (lyra)
Morning: dull. Weather: satisfactory. In these few words, a young girl found required encouragements that fired in her a thirst for, well, adventure. The grass heavy with dew, trees filled to the brim with sweetness and air, and her — - wild, wild girl, with sun in her hair and laughter in the rims of her little chest.
She had danced into the kitchen, her step eager and light, with the two house-elves there greeting her in chirps. Outside her hands had stilled, and she observed the growth of the vines sinking into the old stone of the house. Some windows had cursed out the light in thick curtains, and others let the sun in as a guest - and she always favoured the warm wood beneath her feet in the afternoon. She had been careful with the stairs, with an uncaring sting housed in the blue of her knee. A house-elf squeezed through the door, hopped lightly at the sight (a sordid creature - wide-eyed, a needle of a nose, and bunched knuckles in the lightness of his palms): “Lyra, Lyra, where do you go, Lyra?” But the girl ignored the call, burst through the flowerbeds her mother had so carefully overseen in the spring. It was the most delicious feeling, with her bare feet sinking deeper into the earth with each step, and the skirts of her dress pressing to her knees, swallowed by the wind. For Merlin’s sake, she then told herself. I’ll do what I want!
Somewhere past her, well behind now, she heard her mother’s shrill voice called her name. Her pace thrilled at this, and Lyra, her chest drumming with shallow breaths and smiles, rushed through the few trees and shrubbery guiding the path further away from her home. the faster she ran, the deeper she sank into unknown territory, something dark, damp, something that triggered a terrible curiosity. She was jerked back by some branches, scratched by others, but in the wildness she had yet to explore, she did not care. The world was beautiful and kind and tender, and she will live in it for today.
She nosed past the gate, and the wild greeted her with a warm embrace. Not stuffy, nor thick - she could smell what was to her a history of wonders, all concealed in the dirt, in the ribs of the earth. People walk on land, but always underestimated the secrets beneath their feet. The girl felt a power then, something painfully strong. She felt she could bend things to her will, that the trees, branches, flowers and berries will all fold into her comforts of her palm, and she marvelled at such a feeling — - no, no. She watched it with smiling eyes, and she knew that if she were to sink her teeth into the universe, it will taste like sugar on her tongue. And Lyra contemplated that, truly, whatever freedom people have fought for; they all sought out that taste, with laughter in their eyes and something set alit in their chest. She carried the cliffs of Ireland in her heart: the little rivers spilled from her wrists, and she let the moss grow out of her fingertips.
It was not a young revolt that pushed her out the door, but the promises of August. By early noon, her parents had made it clear that they were uninterested in her plans for today, and her mother had ousted the afternoon as “some time off” - a gentle way of telling their daughter to distract herself by something else. And Lyra did. She had uncovered from her father’s study (which she had succeeded in unlocking with a handful of pins) some maps, books, and other things too disfigured by dust to recognise. She grew restless eventually, and tired, and made sure she had put everything back into place before closing the door and tempting the unknown.
The sun stretched curtly to the fields, and its fingertips reached for the girl leaping in the tall grass, the arches of her feet tickled by the dirt, her palms sticky with air and summer. There was no more path, and she felt lost. She failed to recognise the trees, the undergrowth. The fear, however, made her smile. She walked on, merry and eager, her pace having slowed down considerably since the moment she left the house. The world was mute: it did not speak to her. There were no birds to be heard, only the rustling of her dress. She encountered, however, a curious sight: blackberries grew near her, quiet beneath the remote shadows of the canopy. She paused then, considered the bushes at her feet. The gesture was mindless. In the world of today, in her world, there would be no consequences. She had agreed so herself - and her word, today, was law. Her arm stretched forward, and her little hand grabbed a load of blackberries. Some fell clumsily to the side, Her fingers broke through the dark flesh, and juice began to drip down her wrists. Her hand was red, red, red, and the bubbles she had crushed into her grasp with a squelch fell past her fingertips. The blackberry bled out in the creases of her palm, little and round. Its curve flushed, and in the summer heat Lyra sensed an odd satisfaction. There it is, that feeling again.
The bramble pricked into her skirt, and her cheeks flushed at the stain she noted through her dress. The blackberries had left rosy blotches in her skirt, and she considered her hands, and the marks. Her eyes searched the surroundings, and her hands felt heavy at the ends of her wrists. In an instant, she had predicted it all, she saw in the nearby hours her mother’s expression at the purple on her dress. Nonetheless, she clockworked in the moment, felt pleased with her escape. She perceived in the distance what her parents will say at her return. Her father, whose successful work had rewarded him with a few days of free time, will huff at his pipe, perhaps in disappointment, or, rather, in truthful indifference. Her mother, of course, will shriek, maybe smack at her hands, and pity the few Galleons spent on the dress itself. And that’ll be the end of it. She will be expected, of course, to bathe, peel the thick layers of dirty from the soles of her feet, and keep to her room only to be fetched hours later by the nearest house-elf they could find. Her mother will lecture her restlessly, endlessly on the value of the dress (though, shortly put, not that valuable at all), demand to see it cleaner than it ever had been by morn, then eventually insist on ridding themselves of the damn thing. “I was only gone for an hour, at the least,” she will try to say that evening. Her mother will then look to her husband, whose stern reply was a dismissal of the case. “She’s still young, Oona,” he will say. “Let the child be,” he will say. And all of these words will twist her heart into knots, for this will be the only time her father - the man with the black hair, the man you should never talk to first - would breathe out such comfort. But he will speak with indifference (always with indifference.) His words will resonate dryly at the table, and her mother will take no notice of them.
So be it.
I’ll do what I want.
Muse A is a young professor, definitely younger than all of those working at the school, because of excelling multiple years ahead, when they were in education. Being a young professor isn’t easy, Muse A has to deal with tormention from their co-workers and bullying from their students - who are almost the same age as Muse A. What makes it worse is the fact that Muse B finds it highly enjoyable to make Muse A's life living hell. Muse B is the kid at school that everyone is jealous of, they’re attractive, get everything they want and are number one on the social ladder - which is completely opposite to Muse A. After a mental breakdown during a one on one detention, Muse B begins to feel differently towards Muse A and it all goes from there.
i couldn’t help it forgive me