#Accented Blooms stamp set

[dragonfly0808]

I know you’ve answered this several times before but what’s everyone’s current style like (since its possible it’s changed)

This is actually in my character sheets so I’ll give their style with a few examples of colors and fave clothing and stuff like that.

This will get way too detailed but I don’t care, I’ve been waiting for this moment.

Bloom: I don’t know how to describe her style, maybe casual street style but a little cute?

Her main colors are blue, yellow, light orange and the tiniest dash of pink. Bell bottom jeans and high tops are her staple. Other favorites are: thrift shirts, graphic T’s, simple form fitting blouses. Messy ponytails.

Later on her style becomes just a bit more elaborate (in part thanks to the other girls influencing her style) and she incorporates cropped cardigans, pattern jeans and collard shirts. She loves using small flames but doesn’t wear a lot of red. Doesn’t like heels. Messy buns are her fave (she can often be seen with a pencil holding up her hair). ALSO, her staple is bell-bottom jeans and she uses a lot of sweetheart necklines as a way to honor Daphne since that was Daphne’s fave.

Stella: She’s just starcore and artsy fashion.

Her main colors are gold, orange, yellow and green. Later on starts using dark blues and silvers as she gets more in touch with her moon magic.

She wears chain belts, dozens of matching sets (crop shirt and skirt) bralette croptops, mini skirts, high waisted shorts, silk satin fabric (lots of satin fabric), sequins and glitter. Gold jewelry and *extra* shoes, wears heels almost all the time. And her hair is always straightened.

Her style doesn’t so much change as it does just… mature over time, she still wears her glitter and sequins just with more… I don’t want to say taste but more strategically if that makes sense. She experiments more with shapes and overall she does appear a little more mature. She also starts curling her hair a little more often.

Flora: A mix of bohemian and cottagecore aesthetic.

Her main colors are pink and green. Overtime she starts mixing in more neutral colors like beige, white and light greys and browns along with blues and lilac.

She wears puff sleeves, sheer blouses, ribbon corsets and long flowing skirts. She wears cute lace and lots of tull. Simple shoes. Platforms and comfortable heels and ankle boots. She always has braid crowns and accent braids.

Overtime she incorporates even more romantic silhouettes, wrap shirts, translucent shirts over tops, and more complicated shapes for her skirts. She loved showing off her shoulders and back but is at a stage in which she isn’t doing such and is wearing more long sleeved shirts. She also wears more big earings, not just hoops but also big stars and hears and moons and stuff like that. The braids remain but now her favorite kind are waterfall braids.

Musa: She starts off goth/emo but at season 3 I feel like she’s shifting becoming more goth/punk.

Her main colors are dark red and black. Overtime she incorporates dark blues and royal purples.

She wears lots of leather, strappy croptops, fishnets, plaid, checkered patterns, combat boots, chunky platforms, tight mesh tops and big jeans. Her staple is red eyeliner.

Overtime she starts wearing more chains, leg/armwarmers for the aesthetic, chokers, more leather skirts and fishnets with patterns. She loves space buns. And cropped sweaters. Big sweatshirts and lose jeans. Her staple is still red eyeliner but she starts wearing dark lipsticks, dark purple, black, etc.

Tecna: She’s kind of futuristic cyber-punk.

Her main colors are purple and green, later on incorporates silver, blues and whites.

She wears a lot of deconstructed tops and pants. Long boots, irridescent fabric. Cargo pants are her favorite, the more pockets the better. Neon colors and long sleeves.

She starts wearing a lot of bomber jackets (Stella makes her some with dozens of pockets). Visible hemlines, stamped designs (idk how to explain it) black tops and baggy pants.

Aisha: she starts off kind of not really having a style of her own and just wearing the same stuff she does to do sports and dance but over the course of season 2 and 3 she finds she really loves and embraces street style

Her main colors are tans and neutral tones at first, as she discovers herself she incorporates blues, aquas, greens, black but keeps her tans as well.

As her style develops she starts with more sporty streetwear but evolves to just streetwear, cool sweatpants, tracksuits, jerseys, leggings, knee high socks, jumpsuits and sneakers. Cargo shirts.

She incorporates cut-out tops, wide leg pants, platform boots, long necklaces and satin tops as well as interesting patterns for her tops.

Sky: Simple style, becomes a bit more fancy over time

His main colors are blues and yellows. Incorporates oranges and dark green overtime along with neutral tones.

During the swticharoo he mainly wears plain t’s, collared shirts, simple jackets, comfy sneakers and jeans.

After that he wears more ‘styllistic’ shirts and really cool shoes not sure how else to describe it and he honestly doesn’t care that much so that’s as much as he does when he’s not in prince mode. In prince mode he goes all out, long leather boots, capes and velvet.

Brandon: Sporty casual (is that a thing?) becomes more skater boy aesthetic by the day

His main colors are green and white, starts using more dark red and dark blue overtime

He wears tight shirts, vans and either simple or ripped jeans. Printed shirts and lots of weird, but cool, patterns for his shirts. Starts wearing more converses and jackets with patches.

Helia: my boy is very preppy but in a soft way if that makes sense

His main colors are beige and pale yellow and neutral colors, he incorporates pale greens and blues and reds.

He wears a lot of chinos, soft cardigans and collared shirts as well as knitted sweaters and vans that he paints on .

He incorporates overtime blazers, button ups, scarves, pullovers, soft vests and loose… what are they called? Those romeo-like shirts you know the ones. But he still wears exclusively long sleeves unless he’s in the dorm or with just the squad.

Riven: He starts off very street style but after he starts living with his grandparents his street style starts incorporating some punk elements (yes, he was influenced by Musa but he will never admit it)

His main colors are dark red, dark blue and grays. He incorporates more blacks, greens and different shades of red.

Bomber jackets are his staple in season 1. He also wears leather jackets, cropped t’s, graphic t’s, ripped jeans and simple shirts with stickers as well as sneakers.

Overtime he incorporates, hightops, plain sleeveless shirts, black cargo pants and darker bomber jackets with patches. He starts wearing a lot of rings and his sister always paints his nails black. He’ll occasionally ask Musa to do his eyeliner.

Timmy: I love Timmy but he is low-key hopeless. He’s just nerd

His main colors are yellows and oranges, he wears more greens and neutral tones overtime.

He wears simple t-shirts with colored sleeves, baggy jeans and cotton shirts, sneakers and layers. He has 1 jean jacket that he loves more than life itself, both his mom and Stella keep trying to burn it because it’s that old but he guards it with his life.

He starts wearing more button up shirts, turtlenecks and slightly less baggy jeans. He gets shirts with cute patterns (he has one with kitten paws) or graphic t-shirts from fandoms. He also wears a newer jean jacket with patches that Stella made but still has the old one.

Nabu: he has a cool casual style if that makes sense? Not sure?

His main colors are purples, blues, grays and neutral tones.

He wears chinos, button up shirts, cool vans, loose sweaters. Cool long sleeved, loose shirts. Leather bracelets and hawaiian-style shirts only with patterns that are more ‘fashionable’.

Fire-round for the Trix’s styles in season 1 since all fashion has gone out the window for them for different reasons.

Icy: main colors; blues and silvers

HIGH PONYTAIL, leather skirts, crystals and crop tops. Thigh high boots, belts, strappy tops high heels and mini skirts with chains.

Stormy: main colors; dark reds, black and blue

Punk. Ripped fishnets, black, ripped graphic t’s, belts, off-shoulder shirts and plaid shirts over black bras.

Darcy: main colors; purple, yellow and grays.

Long bell pants, vests and blazers. Circles/weird patters, small sunglasses. Platforms and simple crop tops.

There!

Now, you may be asking, Dragonfly did you seriously just HAVE THIS in your fucking character sheets since before season 1 began?

…yes, yes I did. I HAD A LOT OF FREE TIME AND IT WAS PART OF THE CHARACTERIZATION. Also I was pissed at what Fate did with fashion and that’s why s1 had a lot of descriptions of what the girls were wearing

Also also, fun fact, I found in Stormy’s character sheet that her real name was going to be Rita? And I just didn’t remember I’d already decided her real name and just changed it to Willow and I hadn’t remembered the name change until now? So uh… yeah?

Anyways, hope you enjoyed!

[atimelesslullaby]

Anonymous said: It's a box. A small wooden box set upon her bed, carved with intricate details along the elegantly whorled tiger mahogany, the deep woody reds contrasted in stripes against lighter orange sections. It is easily held in both palms together, silver accents in corners and small molded feet to rest on surfaces, and a simple little hinge lock easily moved aside to open the lid. Velvet the color of deep royal purple lines the inside, a waft of clean sea air tinged with hints of roses accompanying the opening lid, a fine accent to the treasure held within. A pair of golden chains hold draperies of fine beads made of tiny faceted gemstones, accented and spaced with fine filigree to keep them separate of each other, a fine counterpoint to a deep blue gemstone at the focal. It is cut into the shape of a teardrop, not too big to overwhelm the piece, but still large enough to be the center focus. When the light hits the front face, a shimmer of silver underneath shows the stylized curl of a sea dragon before it disappears into the blue depths once more. Sitting beneath the box is an envelope, smelling of spice and roses, and stamped with the emblem of thirteen stars. The paper within scrawled with an elegant scroll of handwriting, the sweep of the pen practiced and punctual. 'Birthdays are special days, most especially for royalty. But it is good to remember, in all the revelry, to take time to reflect on yourself as well. So to you, we send The Protector. The Leviathan is a spirit who lives in the depths. But it is at its core a protector. We may not see it often, but it is a long-lived and hardy creature. So to you on an auspicious day, you become a keeper of a piece of it. I hope it finds you well.' It's not signed. But likely, a signature is unneeded, the matching stamp of thirteen stars the only notary in the bottom right corner. Granted, the gift is belated, but the thought still counts. Though the better detail here is... How did it get in here to begin with...

My, what beautiful craftsmanship!

Upon opening it, assuming it was just another pendant from one of the guards, she's stunned. It's beautiful, Chains, but not just any chains. Chains that would go perfect with her traditional dress. They were of gold, they would match and fit in just fine with the rest of the jewelry she was required to wear. That wasn't what really drew her eye, however, as she was used to golden jewelry.

What really drew her eye was the sapphire.

It was a little known fact, that Zelda's favorite color was blue. Not purple or pink, like many assumed, but blue. Then the scent of roses reaches her, and she's enamored. Roses were such a beautiful flower, and thus, a beautiful scent she often didn't experience in the autumn times, during her birthday. In Hyrule, they only bloomed in late spring to late summer.

The Leviathan... She'd heard legends of such a being, yet she never imagined someone would send such a beautiful, meaningful piece of jewelry. But who sent it? That was the real question. Clearly someone skillful, no guard would be this thoughtful towards her, and neither would the council. Someone who was able to sneak around, yet she knew these weren't Impa's words.

So who could it be?

"I'll love it, even if I don't know who has given me such a priceless gift."

She broke her perfect diction. Now all she had to figure out is where to put it, on display, of course. And when she got the chance, she'd most certainly be wearing it. Perhaps as a bracelet, with such a beautiful jewel for everyone to see. Maybe as a short necklace, that was one piece of jewelry she didn't have to wear for tradition.

Needless to say, she was thankful."

[jcpaperco]

DIY Wedding: Crafting a Personal, Budget-Friendly Celebration

In recent years, DIY wedding have grown in popularity as couples look for ways to create unique, meaningful celebrations that reflect their personalities without breaking the bank. Planning a DIY wedding allows you to handcraft many elements of the day, from invitations and décor to favors and table settings. Here’s a guide to planning the ultimate DIY wedding, bringing your vision to life in a personalized, memorable way.

1. Crafting the Perfect Invitations

Your wedding invitation sets the tone for the entire event, so why not make it as unique as your love story? JC Paper Co. offers beautiful templates and custom designs, allowing you to choose and personalize stationery that feels perfectly suited to you. If you’re feeling crafty, consider adding a DIY touch like a wax seal, ribbon, or hand-painted accents. Choose colors and designs that complement your theme, whether it's rustic, vintage, or modern. Handmade invitations will leave a lasting impression and give guests a glimpse of what’s to come.

2. Designing Your Ceremony and Reception Decor

DIY décor can completely transform your wedding space. Some ideas to get started include:

Floral Arrangements: Skip the traditional florist and make your own floral arrangements with seasonal blooms. You can purchase flowers in bulk from a local flower market and assemble them with friends and family. Consider using recycled jars, vintage vases, or hand-painted pots as containers.

Signage: Wedding signs add a charming, rustic touch and help guests navigate your event. From welcome signs to seating arrangements, creating your own signage can be easy and affordable. JC Paper Co. offers customizable signage templates, making it simple to create elegant signs that match your theme.

Table Centerpieces: DIY centerpieces can make a big impact without a huge cost. Consider options like mason jars filled with fairy lights, candles in geometric holders, or wooden slabs adorned with greenery. Each table can reflect your unique style while staying within budget.

3. Creating Personalized Wedding Favors

Wedding favors offer a great opportunity to add a personal touch. Some budget-friendly DIY wedding favor ideas include:

Mini Succulents or Potted Plants: Guests will appreciate a living keepsake from your wedding day. Add a small tag with your names and wedding date for a special touch.

Handmade Candles or Soaps: Crafting small candles or soaps allows you to customize scents, colors, and packaging. This personal gesture will make guests feel appreciated.

Sweet Treats: Homemade jams, cookies, or candy make thoughtful favors. Package these treats in small jars or bags tied with a personalized tag.

4. DIY Wedding Day Stationery

JC Paper Co. offers templates for wedding day essentials like menus, place cards, and programs. These items tie your theme together, so coordinate the design with your invitations. Add calligraphy, stamped details, or pressed flowers to give each piece a handmade feel. Creating these items yourself is not only budget-friendly, but it also brings an extra touch of love and creativity to your big day.

5. Setting Up a DIY Photo Booth

Capture memories and give guests a fun activity with a DIY photo booth. You can rent or borrow a camera and tripod, then set up a simple backdrop with a curtain, fairy lights, or greenery. Provide fun props like hats, signs, or frames that match your theme. You could even use JC Paper Co. for custom “Mr. & Mrs.” signs or hashtag cards to add to the experience. This touch will let your guests walk away with candid, fun photos.

6. Planning for DIY Success      

While a DIY wedding is a beautiful way to express your personality and creativity, it’s essential to plan ahead. Make a list of each DIY project you want to tackle and set a realistic timeline. Don’t hesitate to involve family and friends—they’ll likely be eager to help and excited to contribute to your special day. Remember, the goal is to enjoy the process and create lasting memories, so don’t overwhelm yourself.

Conclusion

A DIY wedding is an opportunity to create an intimate, one-of-a-kind celebration that truly reflects who you are as a couple. From invitations and décor to personalized favors, each handcrafted element brings an irreplaceable charm. With JC Paper Co.’s custom templates and high-quality design resources, you’ll have the tools to make your DIY wedding beautiful and seamless, leaving both you and your guests with treasured memories of a heartfelt celebration.

[poonammsharma]

Embracing Elegance: Wedding Stationery Trends for 2023

As an expert wedding planner, I understand the crucial role that stationery plays in setting the tone for a couple's special day. The year 2023 brings with it a wave of fresh and captivating wedding stationery trends. From inventive designs to eco-conscious choices, these trends promise to elevate your wedding celebration to new heights. In this article, we'll delve into the top wedding stationery trends that are poised to define weddings in 2023.

1. Sustainable Elegance

With an increasing focus on sustainability, couples are seeking eco-friendly stationery options. This trend incorporates recycled paper, plantable invitations, and biodegradable materials. These choices not only reduce environmental impact but also add a unique and naturalistic touch to wedding stationery.

2. Digital-Print Hybrids

2023 is witnessing a seamless blend of digital and print elements in wedding stationery. Couples are opting for personalized, digitally designed invitations that are then embellished with exquisite finishes like foiling, embossing, or letterpress. This combination offers the best of both worlds - convenience and a tactile, luxurious feel.

3. Botanical Illustrations and Floral Motifs

Natural elements are gracing wedding stationery in the form of delicate botanical illustrations and intricate floral motifs. Whether it's lush greenery or vibrant blooms, these designs evoke a sense of romance and bring a touch of nature to the paper.

4. Artistic Watercolors

Watercolor designs continue to reign in 2023, offering a dreamy and ethereal quality to wedding invitations. Soft, pastel hues blended with artistic brushstrokes create a visually stunning effect, capturing the essence of romance and sophistication.

5. Minimalistic Typography

Less is more in 2023, as minimalist typography takes center stage. Clean, elegant fonts with ample white space create a timeless and sophisticated look. This trend aligns perfectly with couples seeking a modern, understated aesthetic for their wedding stationery.

6. Interactive Elements

Innovative and interactive stationery elements are making a splash in 2023. From pull-out RSVP cards to multi-layered invitations, couples are incorporating playful, tactile elements that engage and delight their guests, creating a memorable experience from the moment the invitation is received.

7. Bold Color Palettes

2023 sees a departure from traditional pastel hues, with couples opting for bold and vibrant color palettes in their stationery. Deep jewel tones, rich burgundies, and striking emeralds are making a statement, infusing energy and personality into wedding invitations.

8. Custom Illustrations and Monograms

Personalization is key, and couples are opting for custom illustrations and monograms that reflect their unique story. These bespoke elements add a touch of intimacy to the stationery, creating an invitation that feels truly one-of-a-kind.

9. Luxurious Finishes

Elevating stationery to a whole new level, luxurious finishes are gaining popularity in 2023. Foil stamping, metallic accents, and velvet or silk ribbons add a touch of opulence, exuding a sense of grandeur and luxury that sets the tone for an elegant celebration.

Conclusion As we step into 2023, the world of wedding stationery is evolving in exciting and creative ways. Couples are seeking designs that not only reflect their personal style but also capture the essence of their love story. From sustainable choices to opulent finishes, these trends promise to make wedding invitations an artful and cherished part of the celebration. As one of the best wedding planners in Bangalore, I am thrilled to embrace these trends and work with couples to create stationery that leaves a lasting impression on their guests, setting the stage for a truly unforgettable wedding day.

[stampwithtami]

New: Wreath of Blooms Kit

Stampin Up Forever Friends Card Kit Introducing the latest addition to the Kits Collection by Stampin’ Up! The Forever Friends Kit has all you need to create beautiful floral cards with green foil accents to share with all your friends!  SHOP STAMPIN UP KITS FOREVER FRIENDS KIT DETAILS #162362 $21.00 - Kit Includes: - Enough supplies to create 8 cards—4 each of 2 designs - 8 coordinating envelopes - One Forever Friends photopolymer stamp set - One Night of Navy Ink Spot - Printed card bases, printed foil envelopes, foil die cuts, adhesive, twine, and a clear block - Finished card size: 5-1/4" x 4-1/4" (13.3 x 10.8 cm) - Coordinating colors: Calypso Coral, Daffodil Delight, Night of Navy, Old Olive, Petal Pink   Read the full article

[fandom-puff]

Manhunt

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Requested by: anon ‘Hey, I saw that your requests are open. Can I request a Tommy Shelby fic where y/n gets kidnapped, please? Maybe Tommy’s getting extremely angry and worried and only calms down when he gets her back. Of course it’s up to you. Female reader if possible. Thank you so much :)’

Warnings: kidnapping, violence, swearing, injury (result of knife, beatings)

Bold italics = flashback

Gif creds to owner

“Where the fuck’ve you been?” Polly demanded from her desk, arms folded and lips pursed as Tommy stumbled through the door.

“Ah, let him be, Pol,” Arthur grinned, clapping him on the back. “Reckon his head’s still on his honeymoon. Been stuck in bed with the missus all morning, eh, brother?”

Tommy smirked boyishly. “No. Fuckin’ car broke down. Anyway, YN left ours hours ago, said she was seeing Ada before she buggers back off to London,”

At that moment, Ada walked through the door, holding one of John and Esme’s kids on her hip, bouncing him gently. “I haven’t seen YN today, Tom. Didn’t show up to our reservation in that nice cafe. Haven’t heard from her, so I just thought she was with you,”

Tommy frowned deeply. “But... she left at half eight to catch the bus. I told her I’d give her a lift but she said she needed to run a few errands before she met up with you,” he checked his pocket watch quickly. “It’s gone noon. Are you lot sure you haven’t heard from or seen her?”

“Tom, it’s fine, she’s probably just caught up in the shops or something,” John said, lighting a cigarette.

“No. It’s not fucking fine, Johnboy. She left at half eight this morning, stood Ada up in her favourite cafe- and she’s been going on about it for weeks- and no one has seen hide nor hair of her for hours. Something’s wrong,”

Jaw set harshly, Tommy strode out of the betting shop, closely followed by his brothers. “Oi! Finn. Run and tell Sergeant Moss that I said to have a search party out. Tell him YN’s missing. Then on your way back, go to Charlie’s yard and tell him to keep an eye on the canals for her, alright. Good lad,” Finn nodded and began to run as fast as his legs would carry him.

“What about us, Tommy?” Arthur said. “Tell us what to do,”

***

Slowly, your eyes opened, though you still couldn’t see anything- a length of fabric covered your eyes, blocking out all light. Every inch of your body ached, and you became vaguely aware of the stinging sensation at your wrists- they were bound behind your back, the tightly knitted rope rubbing your skin raw. Judging by the slight jostling movement of your body and the hum of an engine below you, you were in a vehicle, being driven god knows where.

Deciding to keep quiet, you took some deep breaths in an attempt to calm yourself, trying your hardest to recall the previous hours...

***

“I’ll see you later, Tom,” you smiled, giving your grinning husband a final kiss goodbye before setting off to the bus stop. Tommy had offered you a lift, but you declined, saying something about errands and scenery. It was an alright day, by British standards, the sun trying its hardest to peak through the thin clouds.

You were halfway to the bus stop when you felt a presence behind you. Hurrying your steps a little more, knowing the old gentleman from the village would likely be at the stop for his weekly shop, if you could just get around this bend, you dared a look behind you, before colliding head on with something- or rather someone.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” you said, making to step around him, but his arms shot out, grasping onto you while the man behind you yanked a fistful of your hair, tugging your head backwards.

“Don’t you worry, Shelby,” he said, a slight accent lacing his low voice. “You will be,”

You tried to stamp your heels down on the attackers’ shins, you made to bite the hands closest to your face, to wriggle as much as you could. As you began to scream, a damp cloth was held over your nose and mouth, making your eyes roll back and your body slacken, allowing the two men to drag you to their vehicle, hidden by the shrubbery and blossoming trees and the loud caws of the birds.

***

Tommy was in full panic mode. He had Peaky Blinders scouring the whole of Birmingham, Sergeant Moss had managed to telephone the London police and have a telegram sent to every constabulary in the country to keep an eye out. Johnny Doggs had the Lee boys out, and Charlie was stopping every boat the passed through the cut.

Tommy kicked the table in the betting shop, sending papers and coins flying. “Where the fuck is she?” He roared, eyes flashing with some anger, but mostly fear.

“We’re doing everything we can, Thomas,” Polly said firmly, patting her nephews back and pushing a cup of tea into his hands. “It’s well sugared. You need the energy,”

“It’s not fucking enough!” He yelled, taking one sip of the tea before slamming the cup down, sloshing the table. “She could be anywhere and we’re sat here like idiots!”

Polly sighed, retreating to man the phone, waiting for someone, anyone to phone with knowledge of your whereabouts.

“It’ll be alright, brother,” John said. “Esme’s down with the Lees making sure none of them are sat twiddling their thumbs. Moss has every copper in Birmingham on the case. Even the London coppers are looking for a Shelby, and their almost all under Solomons and Sabini,”

Tommy was quiet for a moment before he looked between his brothers. “Solomons and Sabini...” he said slowly, processing the information before his face hardened.

“Solomons is a mad bastard,” Arthur said quietly.

“Right. Car, now. We’re going to London,”

***

The blind fold was removed, but you still couldn’t see much. One of your eyes was swollen shut, and the room you were in was plunged in almost complete darkness. Your hands were still tied, only now they (along with your ankles) were bound to a chair. You tried to shuffle the chair along, but it made a loud grating scraping noise, and caused a blinding pain to shoot through your nerves. Something was definitely broken.

“Shelby,”

The voices echoed around the room as you heard the men draw closer, their footsteps rapping sharply against the concrete ground. You strained your good eye, trying to make out their faces, but you could only make out vague face shapes, plunged in shadows.

“I told you, I don’t have any information!” You said urgently, preparing yourself for another punch or kick.

It didn’t come. Instead you felt the cold edge of a thin blade pressing against your swollen cheek. He dragged the blade slowly and you hissed as your cheek bloomed with stinging pain, feeling your hot blood trickle down your face and neck.

“We don’t want information,” the other man said lowly as you felt the tip of the knife press against your neck briefly. You held your breath, preparing for the worst, before the blade dropped. You let out a shaky breath of relief, which quickly turned into a groan of pain as a thick finger dragged along the fresh wound. “We don’t need one of Shelby’s whores for information,” you shut your eyes tightly, willing your tears not to fall. “We want to destroy Tommy Shelby,”

***

“Thomas! Thomas! Stop the fucking car now!”

The car squealed to a halt and Tommy almost tripped over his own feet in his haste. “This had better be good, Pol,” he growled, grabbing hold of the phone. “Speaking,”

“That you, Tommy?”

Tommy gritted his teeth. “Aye, Solomons. Make it quick. I’ve no time for business now,”

“Yeah, I know, right. Right fuckin’ fuss you’ve kicked up, yeah. Looking for that wife of yours, I heard. Well, Tommy, my coppers have been out and about , right, searchin’ high and fuckin’ low. Found nothin’ right,”

“Alfie,” tommy hissed. “I’m on my way down to London, now. If you’ve got no information, I don’t wanna hear any of your fuckin’ stories, alright?”

“Oi, you watch your tone, Tommy. I’m getting there. See now, Ollie’s missus’s got a friend whose friend is the wife of a fuckin’ wop, right. She says, right, that your wife, YN, had been on Sabini’s fuckin’ hit list from the very start. He’s got his coppers trying to dismiss this ever so mysterious disappearance, right. But my coppers, yeah, Tommy, you followin’?”

“I’m following,” tommy said through gritted teeth.

“Right, well my coppers have received a tip off from one of Sabini’s coppers that there’s some funny business going on in the old abandoned warehouse, you know the one, the one up in Cheltenham, what the anarchists set fire to,”

“You sure, Alfie?”

“Course I’m fuckin’ sure. Off you go, Tommy,”

***

How long you had been on the floor for, you had no idea. Your arms and legs were no longer bound- not that it made any difference. You couldn’t move without a fresh round of pain turning your stomach. Tears mixed with blood on your cheeks; you could barely keep your eyes open; you lay next to a pool of your own vomit due to the pain; your clothes were soaking with your own blood and urine; you were ready to die.

***

Gunshots. Three of them.

Three voices shouting, although you couldn’t distinguish what they were saying.

The door swung open, flooding the room with light. You made to lift your head up off the floor, but sobbed in agony.

“Fuckin’ hell!”

“YN, it’s alright, I’m here! They’re gone, I’ve got you,”

You felt the familiar warm hands on your body, the strong arms lifting you, the distinct smell. But you couldn’t open your eyes- you were simply too tired.

“Tommy...” you breathed, one hand bunched up in his coat.

“Shhh, I’m here, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. We’re gonna get you help, okay, my love. Don’t you worry one bit, okay?”

You nodded, trusting your eyes to shut, knowing that this time, tommy would be there to shake you awake, preventing you from giving into the darkness.

[hlizr50]

Leathers (NSFW)

I wanted to have this ready for Gwynriel week, but I haven't written smut in probably 10 years so I was on the struggle bus for a bit.

Read on AO3

Gwyneth Berdara was a devious creature. A true menace.

Everyone thought she was sweet and innocent. But Azriel knew better.

She was cruel and secretive and conniving.

He’d realized her scheme as soon as she entered the High Lord’s study with the other two Valkyrie leaders, all clad in the leathers that marked them as such. And he knew, he knew, that this had been her plan all along.

As he gritted his teeth and worked desperately to quell the heat churning in his gut, his own tightening leathers, and the scent of arousal, he saw her soft pink lips spread into a knowing, satisfied smirk.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

He had seen the leathers before. He remembered the day in the house when Nesta emerged into the dining room with them on, squealing to her mate. The shadowsinger recalled that he always thought white was a terrible color for fighting garments, but even he could admit that the Valkyrie leathers were exquisitely designed and painstakingly constructed. They weren’t so different than the Illyrian leathers, overlapping scales over most of the torso, but the gold accents over the trim and feather-stamped panels over the shoulders made them look less like warriors and more like angels. Angels of death and light.

Azriel had wondered in that instant what Gwyn would look like in hers. He’d fantasized about it, seeing her standing tall and confident, a warrior in all areas of life. But she had never let him see them. She never talked about them, barely acknowledged their existence. She didn’t even keep them in the bedroom they now shared. He’d never mentioned it, never pushed. Perhaps it had been a bit odd, but the female never did anything without a reason.

And now, with his jaw practically on the floor, the musky scent of his arousal filling his nose (luckily he could tell he wasn’t the only one), and shadows twisting and writhing around him, he knew exactly what that reason had been.

Gwyneth Berdara – cruel and calculating and tantalizing Gwyneth Berdara – had waited for this moment, so she could see the practiced calm of the spymaster unravel before her eyes. One of the most powerful males in all of Prythian, absolutely undone, for all the powers of the Night Court to see. Cobalt siphons flickered.

This challenge would not go unanswered.

Luckily for the shadowsinger, this meeting was nothing deeply serious and more of a discussion about expectations for the three as leaders and members of the High Lord and Lady’s inner circle. As if anyone there had any doubts about their capability or dedication. And it was a good thing that his attention wasn’t particularly important, because he could not remove his gaze from the former priestess standing with hands on her hips as she listened intently to Rhys.

He’d always admired her body in leathers, though in the beginning he’d found it a source of shame rather than pride. Gwyn had been through too much for him to be casting lustful glances in her direction. But things had changed quite dramatically since then, in regards to her body and their relationship. Where once stood a relatively scrawny girl, now was a strong woman. The leathers – Azriel thanked the Cauldron for how tailored they were to her – showed off the definition in her arms, the muscled thighs and powerful calves, and the swell of that perfect ass. Every inch of her was sculpted from hours upon hours of training, then extra training, then training to escape nightmares or to work through feelings.

And that process was how their relationship had developed as well. The more time they had spent together, the more the spymaster had craved it. It was always easy with her. She always made him smile and laugh, things he didn’t often let others see. His shadows had been quite taken with her, and she had never shied away from them.

Nor from his hands.

He couldn’t be sure when it had happened, but she had firmly planted herself in his heart. She was beautiful and kind, irreverent, bold, and relentless. He respected the hell out of her, and that only made him want her more. But he hadn’t wanted to make the move, concerned about his own demons, concerned about her comfort and choice.

The Blood Rite had changed everything.

He had been as confident as he could have been, under the circumstances. He’d had to lean into that, keeping Cassian from falling into a pit of despair or, even worse, from doing something incredibly reckless that would’ve resulted in a death warrant on both his and Nesta’s heads. But the storm had raged inside Azriel then, a stark reality settling heavily in his stomach that he may never have another minute with Gwyneth Berdara. And since then he’d never made it a secret what she meant to him.

So he didn’t care that his hazel eyes slowly roamed her body, clad in white leather painted with gold, over and over. Memorizing every rise and fall and curve of her. He didn’t care that it was obvious to everyone in the room that he was immensely distracted. He didn’t care that his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when she walked into the study on swaying hips. He didn’t hear the amused chuckles or see the raised eyebrows when he’d nearly dragged her out through the double doors when their meeting had concluded.

The only thing on his mind now was that she would pay for her scheming.

“You seemed a bit distracted, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn giggled breathlessly, trailing behind him, tethered by his hand on her wrist. He rounded on her, releasing her wrist only long enough to cradle the back of her head as he pushed her against the wall. His body pressed into her, they breathed the same breath, her eyes bore into him with intensity and desire.

“Seems I fell right into your trap,” he whispered gruffly, sliding his cheek down roughly against hers and letting his tongue dart out against her jaw. He felt her inhale against him and he smiled wickedly against her skin. “You’re a menace, Berdara.”

“I won’t forget that look on your face for a long while,” she breathed, her fingers crawling up his chest, around his neck, and planting in the thick dark locks at his nape. It wasn’t a full confession, but it wasn’t a denial. And it sure as hell wasn’t a damned apology.

“You don’t know what you’ve started, lovely Valkyrie. I think you need to be taught a thing or two about decorum.”

Her giggle was more like a shaky rasp. Azriel could feel her heart beating as he dragged his lips down the column of her throat, feel her chest heave as her breathing quickened at his touch. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I was not the one gawking and distracted while the High Lord was speaking.”

A growl rumbled through his chest, and he knew she could feel it reverberate through her, as well. He let his hands slide down the leather scales over her sides and traced them around to her back, fingers trailing ever downward until they cupped the muscled swell of her ass. After a rough squeeze he reached just a little further down to lift her thighs. Gwyn didn’t require much prodding, crossing her ankles behind him and effectively holding herself up against him. The shadowsinger lifted his head from her neck, turning his attention to the roses blooming under those freckles. One might think they made her look innocent, but he was no fool. Those cheeks were flushed with desire and satisfaction, teal pools darkened lustfully. He captured her lips in a demanding kiss as he pulled her from the wall, their grip on each other firm and unyielding. He stalked toward the door, anxious to get outside the wards of the estate so he could winnow them home.

So he could show her exactly what she did to him.

“You’re going to pay for that, Berdara,” he whispered huskily, voice coated in want. He could barely see, barely focus on getting them out into the cobbled street. The only thing in the world was her, the maddening heat of her skin and her warm breath hitching against the shell of his ear. And then he stepped into the darkness, emerging just a few paces outside the door to their seaside home with the conniving Valkyrie and heavy shadows still wrapped around him. The locks and hinges on the door took care of themselves as he stalked into the foyer, finally in the privacy of their home.

And that was all he needed.

Azriel set her down – not as gently as he probably should have – on top of the cabinet in the foyer and crushed his mouth over her soft full lips, long fingers immediately working at the ties of her leather pants. He felt her laugh against his mouth and took the chance to push his tongue between her lips. Gwyn’s fingers curled into his hair, grasping at him desperately. He grinned against her mouth as he loosened her leathers enough to reach a hand down over the lower part of her toned stomach. His Valkyrie’s hands drifted down around his neck and over the front of him. But he knew that her aim was to loosen his now very tight breeches, and there would be none of that. He pulled away for just a moment, grabbing her hands and then forcing them above her head. He covered both of her alabaster, freckle-speckled hands with one of his, holding them against the wall as he looked straight into her eyes and traced his other scarred hand down her front.

“Did you enjoy the sight of me coming undone before your eyes, Gwyneth?” She moaned as his knuckles disappeared beneath the leather, into the heat between her legs. He pushed a finger into her, relishing the wetness that had already built there. Azriel chuckled darkly, leaning in so his lips brushed her jaw. “It appears that you did. Very much.” He dipped a second finger in, his palm rubbing against her clit and eliciting a gasp.

“Az!” Gwyn breathed. His tongue darted out right under her ear before nibbling on her soft skin. “Oh Gods, Azriel.” Her voice, usually strong, was breathy and labored.

“Yes, Love?” His mouth continued to move over her neck, nipping and sucking and licking, as he plunged his fingers into her core. Satisfaction rumbled through his chest as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over that bundle of nerves. Her hips bucked against him. “Tell me, Gwyneth, was it your intention to drive me mad with arousal? In front of the entirety of the High Lord and High Lady’s inner circle?” Her head tipped back, mouth open and gasping, giving him even greater access to that elegant neck of hers. His thumb kept rubbing, fingers pumping, her body writhing under the mastery of his powerful hands.

“Did you want them to scent my need? Even as they could see it plainly on my face? In my fucking pants, stretching and struggling to contain what the sight of you did to me?” He pushed his thumb down and she cried out.

“Gods, Az, please!”

“That’s not an answer, Love,” the shadowsinger crooned against her throat as she bucked and rolled against him. “Tell me, Gwyneth. Yes or no? Ride my fingers and tell me.” He curled the two fingers inside her and pulled them nearly out of her before plunging them back in, pressure ever present on her clit. Her moaning and keening were music to his ears. He loved that he was the one she trusted to give her pleasure, that she would let go for him.

“Y-y-yes! Yes, Azriel!” She was almost there. He could feel it, feel her clenching around his fingers and hear her impending release in the cracking of her voice.

“I’m going to unravel you, lovely Valkyrie. I will undo you with my touch, just as you undo me. Just as you unraveled me in that study. I told you that you had no idea what you started.” He lifted his head and grew impossibly harder as he studied Gwyn’s beautiful face, flushed with pleasure, expressive eyes lidded, strangled cries escaping through parted lips. “Look at me, Gwyn. Look at me when you cum for me.” The wicked smile that curved his lips could not be stopped, not when those clouded teal eyes found his. They were deep as the sea, dark as the night with ecstasy. He curled his fingers inside her again and ground his thumb into that sensitive bud, driving her over the edge. She howled her release, tense muscles firing through her legs and core, making her twitch and buck. His touch was relentless, extending her orgasm as her wetness soaked his hand.

“That’s it, Love,” he praised as he leaned in to press his lips to hers and pulled his hand out from between her legs. He pulled her hands away from the wall above her head and draped her arms over his shoulders. “Hold onto me,” he whispered, kissing her again. He grabbed her thighs, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him. Then he pulled her off the cabinet and carried her down the hall, navigating the corridors to their room. Her breathing had only just begun to calm as he stepped into the bedchamber. He released her legs and she allowed them to straighten as he lowered her toes to the ground.

When she looked up at him, arms still around his shoulders, her smile was languid and content. Azriel flashed a crooked grin. “How do you feel?”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. “I feel… very good.” She giggled at her lacking vocabulary. The shadowsinger let his hands slide over her, finding their way to her back – to the buckles of her leathers.

“I think we need to get these off.” He started fingering the buckles, pulling straps with an impatience that wasn’t typically his style. But when it came to Gwyneth Berdara he could never get enough, soon enough. “I am not nearly finished with you yet.”

[sabraeal]

In Plain Sight, Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Written for @k-itsmaywriting​‘s birthday! I hope that, despite how weird the world is right now, you have an amazing day!

Shirayuki understands how this is supposed to work. She’s seem movies after all-- Witness, of course; Sister Act 1 & 2, if only because Opa thought Whoopie Goldberg was a national treasure and Oma thought she was too young to be watching Ghost; and Our Lips Are Sealed about eight times on video cassette, since she’s old enough (and Opa resisted DVD long enough) have both VCRs and wholesome Olsen twins content as a part of her childhood.

(Her favorite formative twins were Annie and Hallie from The Parent Trap; they were red-headed, just like her, and one of them had a British accent. She’d been devastated to find out that not only were both of them American, but they were also only one girl. She’d watched Double Trouble to console herself)

In any case, she knows how this goes, at least narratively. She lays down in this amazingly comfortable bed, stares up at the ceiling in a tense yet melancholy fashion for hours, and dreams in plot-relevant flashbacks. Extra points if they reference the crime she witnessed.

The problem is: she didn’t. She’s just the unfortunate collateral to her father’s personal redemption. All the life ruining without ever being part of the A plot.

There’s an upside though: the second she hits that firm cloud of a mattress, she’s out like a light.

Absolutely nothing wakes her, but Shirayuki jolts into consciousness anyway, as unpleasant as any false start. She expects to be confused; she’s not a graceful riser to begin with, and every morning in temporary housing, she’d bounce off three walls at minimum trying to find a bathroom that didn’t exist.

(Well, the bathroom did exist, it just didn’t exist where it should, which was down the hall to the right, and was compounded by the door being in exactly the wrong place too.)

Instead, she knows exactly where she is. Knowledge which is quickly followed by the low-key, seething resentment for the man who put her here.

She groans, lifting her head from the pillow. It’s fine. She’s fine. It’s just--

7:00, her alarm clock says. Tuesday, her brain provides after a long moment.

She should be getting up, habit told her. Getting her morning fix of avocado toast and orange juice with Paul Newman’s face stamped on it.

There’s worse ways to start your day than having a fine pair of eyes smiling at you, Oma would say.

What can I say? Opa’d grumble back, flipping through the paper. It’s impossible to compete with Butch Cassidy.

Her fingers curl into the sheets. There’d be none of that today. Agent Jiang-- Obi’s assistant had gotten her Simply Orange instead. A small mercy. It’s hard enough to be someone else when there’s still so much her clinging to the edges.

It’s tempting to linger in bed; she’s always been a morning person, up with the birds, but maybe Claire isn’t. Maybe Claire likes to stay up late and sleep in, sleeping past the three alarms she sets for herself. Maybe she likes to have waffles for breakfast, straight from a box, and drinks pomegranate juice. Maybe she doesn’t bike into the lab at eight because--

She groans. Because Claire doesn’t have a job. A thing that will have to change soon, since Claire has to pay for this house.

There’s a great deal of compromise that happens between bedside and bathroom; habit insists she needs to be fully dressed, ready to greet the day, but everything else--

Well, she’s not going anywhere is she? There’s no reason she couldn’t wallow in her pj’s all day

Standards, habit insists. But those belonged to Shirayuki, not Claire. Claire has no job, no friends, and nothing to do on a Tuesday morning besides--

Oh no, the recycling.

The bin is nearly two-thirds her height, but with only one day under her belt, it’s already overflowing. Good thing she’d looked at that brochure when it slipped out from between the takeout menus.

She shrugs her hoodie a little tighter, pulling it down over her leggings-- habit and hedonism settled on exercise wear as a happy medium-- and grips the handle, tugging it out the opening garage door, right into the fresh Texas morning--

And promptly throws her hoodie back into the garage. She might need that with the downright frosty temperature the house is set to, but oh, she was not going to cover her skin out here any more than necessary. Even now, she’s starting to sweat in impossible places beneath her leggings.

Hooking her palm back around the handle, she tugs the bin down the drive. Her gaze fixes to the pavement-- the last thing she needs is to trip right over herself on her own driveway taking out the trash-- and she doesn’t look up until she hits the sidewalk. It’s a struggle to get it to sit right-- these are proper curbs, white poured cement with squared edges meant to puncture cheeky tires; one of the wheels catches in a gap and refuses to budge until she hip checks it out onto the next slab.

She’s damp at this point, skin dewing with giant drops of sweat she’s tempted to shake off like a dog, but--

But Martha Kino has an arm slung along their fence, holding a tall glass of iced tea that makes her mouth water just to look at.

“Oh, um, good morning!” she calls out with a weak wave. “I didn’t, um, see you there.”

It’s only when Martha slides her gaze to her that she realizes her neighbor hadn’t been looking at her at all. Her mouth curves into a knowing smile at the sight of her. “Good morning, honey. You here for the show?”

Shirayuki blinks. “The show?”

“Mm-hm.” Martha takes a long drag from her straw, ice clinking against the glass. “Here it comes now.”

Shirayuki tracks her line of sight right across the cul-de-sac, squinting at half acre of immaculately trimmed, completely invasive Bermuda grass. Their front garden is well-kept, as well; thickly mulched with giant hibiscus blooming blood red against pristine stone facade.

Oh, and there’s a man as well. That’s probably what Mrs Kino is looking at.

He’s tall. No, tall is an understatement; he’s a giant, six foot four at least with shoulders to match. He’s trimmed with the same military precision as his lawn, clean shaven with an undercut that could scratch glass. Heavy brows draw sharply over his nose, forehead rumpling as he tears a box right down the fold--

Ah, well, all right. It’s not doing much of anything for her, but the Vitruvian man’s more ideal cousin ripping up boxes definitely counts as a show. Halfway through, he grabs the hem of his shirt, mopping his brow, and ah, hm, he could definitely have made money as an anatomical model. His rectus abdominis are, ah...very defined.

“Is he--” Shirayuki searches for the words-- “from around here?”

“Oh, him?” Martha’s gaze doesn’t stray for a second, not even as she sips at her tea. “That’s Scott. Aspen’s husband. They just moved in a few weeks ago.”

Shirayuki glances around the neighborhood. Seems like more than a few of her neighbors hope they’ll never leave either.

“Quite the pair, those two,” Martha hums. “She’ll be at the luncheon. I know you two will just get on like houses.”

More like houses on fire if she mentions she’s seen her husband’s floor show. “Oh, right. The um, luncheon.”

Mrs Kino grins as Scott hops back inside, out of this heat, just like she’s dying to do. “By the way, he mows the lawn on Sunday, just before lunch.”

“Oh, um, great.” She’ll be sure to miss it. “Can’t wait.”

It’s too early to bake cookies.

There’s not a baked good on earth that tastes as good two days later as it does fresh out of the oven; Shirayuki knows that down to her toes and bones, but still--

Stress baking. It’s a thing. And she doesn’t have to make anything right now. She could get all the ingredients together, just to make sure she has them. And then...just not do anything.

She can. Definitely. Absolutely. She’s Claire now. Claire probably doesn’t even like chocolate chip cookies.

Oh gosh, who is she kidding? Only monsters don’t like chocolate chip cookies. What next, Claire doesn’t like brownies? Apple pie? Snickerdoodles?

It’s a slippery slope, not liking things. Best to just keep it simple and eat everything, that’s what Opa always said at the church potluck.

The morsels and brown sugar already sit out on the counter when her phone lets out a piercing ting. She’s half tempted to ignore it; she’s having a contentious battle with the ten pounds of King Arthur flour that’s tucked away in her cabinet-- what was she thinking?-- and she refuses to show any fear in the face of baking supplies but--

Ting. No one knows her number. Well, no one except the government.She settles back on her heels with a sneeze. The government probably doesn’t take kindly to being left on read.

Her hands clap against her thighs, flour misting into the air as she leaves two partial prints right over the helical print. She frowns, plucking at the fabric, nose wrinkling as more powder burst into the air. Ting.

“I’m coming,” she mutters, stumbling over to the island. “I’m coming.”

Sugar Daddy i got just what u need pumpkin check ur email

The corners of her mouth dig furrows into her cheeks as she clicks on the notification. It’s the only message in her inbox, aside from the ubiquitous Welcome to Gmail spam and a few coupons for Banana Republic and a couple of other retailers. They’d taught her about this at orientation; they couldn’t do much about an empty inbox, but everyone had at least a few mailing lists they’d either forgotten to opt out of or regularly used.

Still...what about her said Banana Republic? She glances down at her spandex-clad legs. If they were going to go for a too-expensive clothing line, they could have at least sprung for Lululemon.

Ah, but that wasn’t the point. Marshal Jiang-- Obi hadn’t texted all...that...to show off some spam. Sitting at the very top of her inbox is a Cornell email address-- Cornell-- with an attachment.

Dear Claire, the message reads, We’re so sorry to see you go, but I’m glad we’re able to keep in touch. Of course we kept the copy of your old CV. Good luck to you in all your endeavors.

It’s signed by some professor; not high profile enough for her to have heard of, but she doesn’t doubt that he’s real, someone a curious party could look up on Cornell’s directory. Well, at least for the next six months.

The Columbia alumna inside her writhes in agony. Cornell. She doubts it’s a coincidence.

Me Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me?

Not that she’s very, um, up on the specifics of such a relationship, but she’d been under the impression that sugar...children?...were supposed to be fully reliant on their sugar parent. Her mouth pulls thin. Already she’s thinking about this far more than she’d ever hope to.

Sugar Daddy a good daddy makes sure his baby can take care of herself ;)

This declaration is followed by a stream of emojis, ending with an eggplant and a peach, and she just-- doesn’t need to know. She wipes away the sweat that beads at her hairline-- from embarrassment, of course-- and downloads the attachment.

Me I’ll take a look. Thank you.

She sets the phone back on the island, face down, and glares. He can’t possibly be like this to everyone. People would complain. They wouldn’t just let him insinuate that he-- that they--

Ting.

Sugar Daddy good girl

All right. Maybe they would.

Shirayuki doesn't get homesick.

She’d been the first brownie to leap out of her car at summer camp; Opa barely had time to lurch into park before she was traipsing across the field, backpack slung over her shoulder and duffel bag dragging on the grass. Freshman year, she moved into the dorm by herself, pressing kisses to wrinkled cheeks as she lugged her suitcases onto the train; she’d almost forgotten to wave from the window.

But as soon as she lays down in bed, the lights snuffed out and the world still, it hits her. Just a soft roll of her stomach at first, the barest itch on her skin, like wearing a wool sweater on a spring afternoon. It’s fine; too much to ignore but nothing that would keep her up too long.

It doesn’t stay that way.

Her stomach clenches, tears pricking at her eyes, and it’s everything she can do to just roll onto her side, letting the chills wrack through her body. She shivers so hard her teeth chatter, and this-- this isn’t the gentle ache of nostalgia her books prepared her for. This is an illness, plain and simple, like when she caught norovirus in eighth grade can could hardly do anything but lay on the bathroom floor and wait for the next wave to begin.

This isn’t her, she isn’t like this, she doesn’t get like this, but-- but--

Before she always knew her home was waiting for her; she could leave but Oma and Opa would always keep the front lamp on, waiting for weary travelers and last minute bookings.

It’s different now that there’s no home to come back to.

7:00, her alarm clock says. She watches it tick over, like she has for every hour before it.

She must have slept at some point; it’s impossible that she’s lain awake, staring at the clock for eight hours. But that doesn’t make her any less tired, and so when her alarm starts up, beeps cutting through the quiet white noise of the air conditioner, she reaches out and slaps it off.

Shirayuki may not sleep in, but Claire is certainly warming to the idea.

Her notebook sits open on the island; neat, looping script stretches across the page, straining the boundaries of the blue lines that contains it. She’d done her homework yesterday, combing through job sites to find the most likely candidates. There’s five on her list right now, ranked according to preference, and oh, is Shirayuki glad she had the gumption to do this before, because this morning she feels like roadkill being scraped off the blacktop.

Still, she worries at her lip as her laptop boots up, peering over her list. In the cold light of the morning, five seems too few, but...desperation hasn’t set in yet. She’s allowed to still have standards.

Wrapping her hands around her mug, she glances at the next page: another list. No, a set of instructions. Edit CV. Write cover letters.

Shirayuki groans. Even with the bullet points she left for herself, composing cover letters is a circle of hell all its own. With only three hours of solid sleep under her belt, it’s an insurmountable hurdle to getting hired.

“Right,” she murmurs, hooking an ankle around a stool and pulling it under her. “Editing it is.”

She clicks on the pdf Obi sent her, scrolling down and--

“Oh no.” She rears back from the screen, heart pounding. “No, no. There’s got to be a mistake...”

“Hey, baby,” Obi’s voice rumbles through her speaker. It’s thick and warm and would be utterly distracting if she were in any less of a crisis. “A little early for a b--?”

“What happened to my papers?”

“Uh.” All the suggestion in his tone evaporates. “What?”

“My papers.” Her hand grips the phone so tight it creaks. “They’re gone.”

His end goes silent. Silent enough to make that weird click, like the line’s cut out, and she pulls back to check--

“Someone stole your passport?” He laughs, incredulous. “Some sort of luck you have, Miss. Barely had it for a day and already you’ve gotten your identity stolen.”

She blinks into the barren air of her kitchen. “What?”

“You know,” he hums, too amused, “I picked out a cute house in the suburbs for safety, and here you are, getting robbed. Did you leave them in your car? Or did you just go out--”

“N-no!” She’s honestly half tempted to say what car, until she remembers the tasteful mid-sized SUV in the driveway, the one she’s still been calling the girlfriend car in her head, and realizes-- it’s hers. She’s the girlfriend.

Except she’s not. At all. Which is fine! She doesn’t even want that! If she’s still thinking about what his mouth feels like as he wraps them around his words, then--

She really can’t be thinking about this right now. “I mean my papers! I just looked at my CV and it’s a page!”

He hesitates, though not enough for the line to click again. “Isn’t that long enough?”

“CVs aren’t resumes,” she informs him patiently, pen twisting between her fingers. “They’re dick measuring contests--”

Her teeth snap around the words, but oh, it’s too late. They’re already out there in the aether, and he’s laughing.

“Now there’s something I didn’t think I’d hear out of you, Miss.” He doesn’t need to sound so pleased about it.

“It’s something my old PI used to say,” she mutters. Oh, Garak would be so proud of herself if she knew. “It’s not very polite, but she’s not, um, wrong.”

“I’m sorry the US government made you under endowed.” His words practically rattle as he says them. “It’s not the size that matters, Miss, but how you use it.”

“Obi,” she huffs. “All the work I’ve done for the past ten years of my life now is attributed to my birth name and my birth name only! According to this CV I have the same level of experience, but less papers than an undergrad! And you can’t tell me that any of these are searchable on PubMed.”

And none of them are first authors, is what she doesn’t say. It’s a petty thing to worry about when her entire academic career is functionally extinct.

“Hm.” His fingers drum quickly on a table. Desk? It’s strange not knowing anything about the man who is her only lifeline. “I’ll look into it.”

“I don’t want to be, um, alarmist, but I can’t get a job with this.” Her hand shakes as she scrolls down her screen. “No one is going to hire a post-doc with a one page CV.”

“Don’t worry, Miss. There’s a plan for this, somewhere.” She can feel his grin when he says, “You can’t be the first academic who’s had to go into hiding.”

She smiles, despite herself. “Considering some of the conferences I’ve been to, I can believe it.”

“Besides, you could always apply to pharmaceuticals.” The very word is like a donkey kick to her gut. “The pay’s supposed to be better--”

“I can’t work for Big Pharma.”

He hesitates. “You...can’t?”

“Obi, they make little old grandmas pay eight hundred dollars for insulin!” She presses a hand to her chest. “Banting and Best didn’t sell the patent for one dollar so that people could get gouged by--”

“I get it, I get it,” he assured her. “Preaching to the choir. But as a safety, I’m sure you could find one that isn’t stealing candy from babies.”

She huffs. “I doubt it.”

He rasps out a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. As I said, can’t be the first PhD on the lam.”

Her mouth twitches. “Just yours?”

“You are certainly some kind of education, Miss.” He hums. “Give me a day. See what I can turn up.”

“You have two,” she informs him magnanimously. “I have the luncheon tomorrow.”

“Oh, right.” She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s lounging, smug like a cat post-canary. “Looking forward to joining the neighborhood’s Ladies’ Committee?”

“Ha ha,” she drawls flatly. “Very funny.”

He is unnervingly silent on the other end.

“You’re kidding, right?” Her voice certainly does not fill with a nervous quaver. “You guys don’t have things like that around here.”

Obi hums, humoring her.

“W-what would they even do?” She picks nervously at the sticker on her laptop, prying up part of NVIDIA. “Plan potlucks? Organize the Neighborhood Watch? Cotillions?”

She doesn’t know how he makes his grin so palpable over 4G. “Looking forward to your debut, Miss?”

Shirayuki scowls down at her screen. “I think I’m firmly up on the shelf, thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I have cookies to make.”

[deathonyourtongue]

Henry taking you on a carnival on your birthday hc?

Okay, so I took inspiration from the descriptions of the circus in The Night Circus, which is by far my favorite description of a carnival/circus I’ve ever read. Wish it existed in real life! The song I was listening to while writing this is Zoetrope by Joep Beving

You’ve told Henry a million times that theme parks and carnivals are a waste of money on you. You’re afraid of heights and falling, and that cancels out most, if not all of the rides. With most carnivals not having an extravagant budget for more complicated rides that use the latest technology, every time you’ve gone to one, you’ve been left wandering aimlessly, looking at games of chance that are impossible to beat, and food that is as overpriced as it is unhealthy. On a whole, you’d rather spend an evening watching a movie than watching others have fun.

Which is why, when Henry comes home one day with tickets to a carnival and an excited grin on his face, you can’t help but feel crestfallen. This is not how you’d planned on spending your anniversary with him and the fact that he’s forgotten your fears only makes you feel worse. 

“Before you say anything, just know that I full well remember that rides are useless and games of chance are a waste of money. This is not that. This will be a night you’ll never forget.” He says, reading your body language in seconds, one hand lifted in defense of the barrage he knows is coming. Sighing, you stick out your hand, palm facing up, wanting to see the ticket. If you’re being dragged somewhere, you at least want to know where you’re going. 

You’re surprised when the ticket placed in your hand has heft to it. Most tickets nowadays are the definition of cheap, with the print disappearing in weeks, and the paper ripping at the slightest glance. This one is different. 

Printed on textured cardstock the color of midnight, it takes you a moment to realize the writing isn’t pressed, but handwritten in elegant, flowing script. The ink reminds you of fireflies in the garden, not quite gold, but not quite silver either. You spend far longer than you imagine entranced by how the light reflects off the letters. 

Le Carnaval de L'éphémère

One night only. Never to return. 

Opens at dusk and not before.

“Now I have your attention,” Henry smiles, knowing your obsession with stationery and calligraphy. 

“Did you make this?” You can’t help but ask, even though the question sounds stupid the moment it leaves your mouth. Henry laughs and shakes his head. 

“Bought and paid for. Like the card says, one night only, love.” 

Your favorite part of October are the smells, and not for the first time, you’re grateful your anniversary with Henry falls nearly on Halloween. Every wonderful scent in the world–his included–is at full bloom right before the world falls asleep in Winter’s icy grasp, and summer aside, it’s the season where you feel the most alive. 

Holding onto Henry’s bicep, you keep time with his long strides, his steps leading to Kynance, the mews not too far from the one you both live on, but far more idiosyncratic and interesting. The archway that marks the beginning of the street brings up a thought in your mind, and you can’t help but feel your curiosity yet again piqued in the same way it had been when Henry handed you the ticket.

“Isn’t Kynance a dead-end?” You ask, swearing you remember a dark brown double-gate at the end of the road. Squinting, you realize that the gate you remember is no longer there, replaced by a large iron gate behind which stands an old-fashioned ticket booth. Henry just shrugs, his smile broadcasting the same excitement you feel growing in you with each step you take closer to the end of the mews. 

There’s a few people already waiting when you get there, bundled up in various degrees of cold weather gear. Knowing you have the advantage of living with a human furnace, when the two of you settle in your spot, you simply slip your arms in between Henry and his plaid jacket, instantly shielding yourself not only from the cold, but from the slight breeze that twists and dances through the narrow road in a way you’ve never felt in any other mews. 

Henry graciously wraps his arms around you, turning you both so that you’re parallel to the gate and can take a moment to appreciate how the sunset plays off the gilded edges of the ticketbooth. You notice a large, meticulously-constructed clock at the top of the booth, the numbers replaced with only two words where 12 and 6 would normally be; Dusk and Dawn are the only markers of time on this particular chronograph, and you recall the words on the ticket with a smile. Whatever this is, they’re leaning into it hard and you appreciate it greatly. 

You tip your head up to press a kiss to Henry’s lips, his arms squeezing you tighter as a breeze seems to wrap around the two of you like a tornado. Pulling away, you both look at each other like children on Christmas morning, adventure and wonder filling the air. Your eyes turn to the sunset, mesmerized by the waves of pink and purple in the sky; a sunset rare for this part of the country, especially with winter fast approaching. Resting your head on Henry’s chest, you can’t keep the smile from your face if you tried. 

A deep tintinnabulation causes you to lift your head, and looking at the ticket booth, you realize the clock has hit Dusk. The carnival is open and your night has just begun.

When the curtain draws back on the ticket booth, you nearly gasp to see not a person, but an automaton behind the glass. Impeccably painted, the animated machine holds out a hand and takes the ticket, inspecting it briefly before stamping the back with the same ink used in the hand lettering and returning it to the waiting patron. With each person, it gives a different greeting, and when it’s yours and Henry’s turn, you eagerly await what it has to say. 

Stamped and handed back, the automaton looks up at you and briefly, you wonder if there’s not life behind the glass eyes in its papier mache skull. 

“Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing.O budding time! O love’s blest prime!”

The accent is appropriately 18th century, and you hear Henry snort above you, his face holding nothing but amusement. “The lady knows her Eliot,” he remarks with a raised eyebrow, taking his ticket back and keeping you close as you step forwards to heavy black and white striped curtain. You can’t help but smile when you feel Henry’s one-handed grip on you tighten as he peels back the curtain with the other hand. 

A gasp does leave you this time, as you’re met with a narrow corridor, lit only by small flecks of light that dance around as though in their own orbit. Fog floats at your feet, and ozone floods your nostrils. You keep both arms wrapped around Henry’s torso as he guides you through, knowing full well you’re nearly night blind. 

The corridor twists and turns in impossible directions given its geographical location, and for a moment your mind goes to the Bermuda triangle and alternate universes. There’s no way the city allowed them (whoever they are) to take up so much public space and alter it in such a way as to confuse the carnival-goers into thinking they’ve entered another realm. After what feels liked an eternity, you and Henry find yourselves at another curtain.

You watch the confusion and excitement light up in Henry’s eyes after he lifts the second curtain, bringing you into open square. Intricate parquet floors gleam from the rays of a moon that seems too close to be your own. Other guests mill about, all with the same slack-jawed expression of awe that both you and Henry are wearing. In the center of the square stands an iron cage with cutouts designed to look like trapeze artists, lions, tigers, and tents. Inside burns a fire that you swear changes color each time you blink. Henry has to physically move you towards the first tent. 

With the same gilded lettering as the ticket, the tent is titled simply, and though you swear it’s your night blindness playing tricks on you, the lights around the sign seem to dance in circles around the letters. 

Hall of Mirrors

Looking at Henry, you can’t refuse the boyish grin he gives you, letting him lead you in through another heavy curtain, into an even darker space. When your eyes adjust, you see each mirror is lit by a single, flickering candle and you can’t stop yourself from stepping up to the first one that’s at eye level to you. Rather than your own reflection, you find a scene that brings tears to your eyes immediately. In a grassy field sits the man you love, a warm creme-colored sweater setting him apart from the sea of green. In his arms is an infant, little hands curling around Henry’s chin as it coos and gurgles happily. Finally, you enter the frame, another infant held in your arms, the smile that lights Henry’s face one you won’t soon forget. 

“You alright, love?” Henry asks even though his eyes don’t move away from the mirror he’s gazing into. You squeeze him tight and wipe your eyes, smiling up at him after giving him a little jostle. When he meets your gaze, you’re not surprised to see the same, sappy look on his features that you yourself are wearing. 

“I love you,” he whispers, a breeze ruffling through his curls as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead even as the air guides you out of the tent. You return the sentiment with a kiss to his sternum and a rub to his back, the scene still playing vividly in your head. 

A scent catches your attention as you step back into the moonlit square, and without even needing to look up, you feel Henry tug you in the direction it’s coming from. Salted caramel and exotic spices mingle in the air, creating an otherworldly smell that you wish you could bottle up. Arriving at the stand, you marvel at the different offerings, all delivered by a different automaton dressed much like an 18th century baker would be. 

Without a word, the doll hands each of you a bag of caramel corn, drizzles of chocolate and a sprinkle of cinnamon binding everything into one mouth-watering treat. The doll’s eyes indicate that the two of you should move and Henry quickly shuffles you out of the way and accidentally into another tent.

Though you miss the sign, there’s no question as to its contents the fur brushes your hand. Looking down, you’re met with a white Siberian tiger, its frost-colored eyes gazing up at you with curiosity. The animal chuffs and purrs, rubbing itself against you before moving on to another patron. 

“Henry,” you whisper before moving your gaze and finding a veritable pack of large cats prowling the interior of the tent, none of them seeming all that interested in the prey that walked right into their space. You side-step when Henry gets nudged by a full-grown lion, its main a beautiful sunlit gold, the cat nuzzling against Henry until he gets pet. Henry laughs, the sound equal parts joy and surprise, neither of you understanding how it’s possible. 

You get braver with each step, and soon you’re petting puma while Henry is crouched down, getting a tongue bath from a cheetah, the fear of being mauled all but a distant memory as you enjoy what seems like a dream.

When you finally step out of the tent, both of you have to pause short as a colony of penguins waddle past, some wearing bow ties. “Henry,” you look up, befuddled, “what is this place?” Again, you get a helpless shrug, Henry’s eyes catching the moonlight and nearly making you swoon for how icy blue they look.

You all but yank Henry to the next tent, excitement rushing through you like whitewater down a mountain.

Aquatic Life

Behind the curtain is a wall of water, and you flinch thinking you’re about to get caught in a tsunami, but the water moves only in gentle waves, never once losing its vertical shape. An automaton hands each of you a paper straw, motioning for you to go forward, into the unconfined aquarium. Placing the straw in your mouth as modeled by the doll, you and Henry hang onto each other tightly as you step through the threshold. Surrounded by an oceanic warmth, you look down to find your clothes not only feel dry, but that you and Henry are both encircled in a bubble blown simply by the two of you breathing normally. 

A dolphin swims past, jarring you from your thoughts, and you look up to find a whale shark coming directly for you. Henry pulls you aside and you both stand completely still as the creature dallys past. Sea turtles, great whites, and jellyfish all move about, not caring whether they’re impossible or not. Reaching out, you touch the bell of the jellyfish, marveling when your hand comes back as dry as it went in. 

Your last stop for the night is one of the few stands that offer games of chance. Though you have a rule about them, Henry convinces you to let him play once, and you give in, unwilling to say no when he’s managed to escort you on the most magical evening you’ve ever had. 

The game is simple; on a luxuriant black velvet board, the same twinkling lights that illuminate the rest of the carnival dance. If Henry counts how many of them there are and guesses the correct number, he wins you a prize. 

Sipping on the last of his cider, you watch as he readies himself. The automaton signals and Henry begins, moving in quadrants so that he doesn’t re-count the number of lights. When the time reaches its limits, he writes his answer neatly on a piece of cardstock, handing it to the automaton. A moment’s pause and the wall behind the ornate doll slide open, revealing a choice of prizes unlike any you’ve seen at other carnivals.

You take your time in choosing, the automaton seeming to watch you as you select between antique jewelry, smaller automatons, a framed painting of a headless woman, or a plush tiger which looks handcrafted and not mass-produced. Henry says nothing, but you can see his eyes venturing to the automaton of a ballerina, so realistic and graceful its as if they miniaturized the principal dancer of the Royal Ballet.

You point at the Ballerina, and when the automaton places it in your hand, you’re delighted to find that she sits on a jewelry case, dancing to a music box version of Gymnopedie. So admiring of it are you that you nearly trample a contortionist on your way out of the kiosk area. The woman smiles understandingly from her position, reaching up with one hand to give you and Henry each a small card. 

On it, you find a fortune similar to the kind you’re used to getting inside of takeout cookies. You only read the first word before the contortionist catches your attention again, shaking her head from its spot between her knees. She indicates the music box, and without a word, you place the fortune inside, daring not read it just yet.

As you make your way out of the carnival, the first streams of sunlight filter through the starry sky, and you blink, trying to figure out how time seemed to slow inside the carnival. Just as you come to the edge of the cobbles, you hear the chiming of the bell once more, and looking back, are shocked to find the same old brown gate you remembered always being there. You say nothing to Henry, still held in thrall by the magic of the evening and not wanting to ruin it with chatter. 

You very nearly forget about the music box and the ballerina once you get home, the ache in your feet from having spent all night walking around making itself known as you sit down for the first time in nearly six hours. It’s not until the familiar tinny music begins to play again that you remember the fortune you’d tucked inside. Standing, you pad over to the box and to Henry who still seems to be in a dreamlike state, his eyes transfixed on the ballerina. 

“What did you see in the mirror?” You ask him quietly as you observe the automaton dancing on her platform. Henry’s quiet for a few moments, and when he speaks, his voice is soft and hoarse, as though he’s holding back tears. 

“I saw you standing in our kitchen, swaying back and forth, wearing my favorite dress of yours. You were smiling and there was music playing off in the distance. When you turned, you were glowing. And…” he waivers, pulling you back against him, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. “You were carrying our babies.” The words are muffled and whispered, holding so much joy and anticipation, that it puts a frog in your own throat and you can’t help but reach up and card a hand through Henry’s curls in silent hope. 

Reaching down, you open the box just as the music fades, winding it up to play anew before pulling out your fortune. You let out a wet chuckle when you read the words, and Henry squeezes you tighter, a snuffle accompanying the tears that darken the shoulder of your shirt. 

On the same beautiful black cardstock are the gilded letters, the fortune cementing the night’s theme.

After winter comes spring, and new life it brings.

[agapaic]

for prompt, how about an au where guan shan is famous and he tian isn't? (i love your writing ❤️❤️❤️❤️)

25.

‘I heard he’s an asshole. A mean asshole.’

He Tian lights up another cigarette, crouches down on an overturned crate. The back door is propped open with a thick hardback, spine broken and pages ruined and wrinkled from rain and spilled ink, and He Tian indulges in the heaviness of smoke in his throat, breath stolen for just a moment. 

‘You shouldn’t listen to rumour,’ he tells Jian Yi, who is propped against the back wall, worrying at his lip. Jian Yi’s cigarette is dwindling in his fingertips, half-touched, and He Tian forces himself to look away from it. 

‘Hard not to when the guy’s press team is setting up inside your store for a signing.’

‘My brother’s store,’ He Tian reminds him. 

Jian Yi jolts forward. ‘Which makes it worse! Protect the family name! The integrity!’

He Tian smirks, grinds out his cigarette beneath the toe of his shoe, newly shined. ‘He Cheng? Integrity? That would be the day.’ He presses his hands to his knees, pushes himself to his feet with a small sigh. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘He’ll be here soon.’ 

‘Ready to protect the family honour?’

He Tian rolls his eyes. ‘What little there is of it—I don’t think it needs defending from some celebrity thriller author.’

Jian Yi halts in the doorway. His look is incredulous. ‘Some celebrity? He’s the youngest recipient of the Mao Dun Literature Prize. He’s won it twice.’

There’s a breathless sort of reverence in the words, an adoration He Tian thought the fair man reserved only for one other person. Waxed lyrical like a starving poet first discovering the moon.

He Tian says, ‘I thought you said he was an asshole.’

Without hesitation: ‘Oh, he is. A mean one.’

—

Jian Yi is right: the man is gruff to his staff, dismissive of He Tian’s. He’s hard-tongued to his fans, and delivers his short welcoming speech in clipped tones and the curved accent of someone raised on the backs of city streets. He Tian’s only interaction thus far takes place with the author’s publisher, a sharp-edged, sly man with silver hair and a series of tattoos peeking beneath the rolled-up shirt sleeves.

He Tian watches the proceedings from the upper mezzanine, arms resting on the balcony banister. The bookstore is big, the building inherited from a long line of He’s and, once, housed a group of Literati scholars during the Qing Dynstasy Men and women waiting eagerly in line, copies new and old clutched to their chests, eager for a glimpse at the man who could create such a mastery. Jian Yi stands at He Tian’s side, eyes on the café on the other side of the mezzanine, where Zhengxi stands cleaning the shelves behind the counter, now empty, listening to the voices from below.

His eyes flicker up, and, seeing Jian Yi, he offers a nod, a small wave. Jian Yi looks away, blushing.

‘Really?’ He Tian asks, unable to help himself. ‘Just fuck already.’

Jian Yi’s eyes go wide, silvery and wet with childlike fear, as if he’s just heard the beginnings of creaking from his parent’s bedroom.

‘We haven't—It’s not—Oh, balls…’ He sighs, dramatic and overzealous, a hand pressed to his forehead like a fainting maiden from one of his battered romance novels from the eighties. ‘It isn’t like I don’t want to,’ he hisses, suddenly correcting himself. An almost defence. ‘But Zhan Zhengxi’s…’

'Frigid?’

’Stoic.’

He Tian considers the barista, his dark brows affecting an air of eternal broodiness and a painful duty of thought. Some Byronic figure blessed with dark, philosophical features and bright, cutting eyes. Beneath it, He Tian knows there lies a shadowy, quiet man who is far simpler than the likes of which Jian Yi likes to indulge.

But He Tian leaves him to his fantasies.

Below, Guan Shan is reaching the end of the first wave of guests, those who’d bought tickets for the introductions and a photo pass with the author. He Tian watches as the man states, unflinching, into the camera, flinching each time as a fan presses closer, leans in. There’s a curl to his lip that is purely hostile, and a startled look in his eyes for just a second as the camera flash goes off and He Tian realises that the whole thing is a front.

Guan Shan, he realises, is like most other authors who step over the threshold of the store. Unused to crowds, largely content with their own company, enduring social conventions with an awkward manner that lingers on rude.

‘He doesn’t like this,’ he murmurs.

Jian Yi glances at him. ‘The country’s most famous author doesn’t like going on a tour of adoring fans?’ He shakes his head. ‘Imagine standing on a stage and having a crowd of people singing your songs back at you. The thrill.’

‘Imagine putting your private thoughts and the workings of your mind on show.’ He Tian glances at the publishing representative, the sharkish figure standing towards the back of the store. He has a smile on his face, yellowish eyes glinting in the light. ‘It’s a horror.’

‘It’s money,’ says Jian Yi, a little more practical. ‘I heard he’s got a three-part movie deal for Secondhand Smoke. If it flops, maybe he’ll get a Netflix drama. Maybe a K-drama. He’s set for life.’

More decisions, more executive choices handed over to someone who knows him little and claims a lot. Dreams and secret thoughts set on a screen and gazed at while Guan Shan flinches from the criticism like a camera flash.  

He Tian stops himself—he’s not a writer. He can’t create characters like this, a caricature of a man—a real man—he doesn’t know.

—

He ducks out for a cigarette when the line begins to thin and the sky has grown dark, leaving Jian Yi to watch over the final signings. He won’t get a chance to leave the shop until the early hours of the next morning, stacking away chairs and tables for tomorrow’s opening and reviewing the accounts from the day’s events, a night holed away in the office with straining eyes and a too-dim lamplight Jian Yi has told him to replace a thousand times. 

He hears the door hinges creak, the stomp of boots, an unfamiliar gait. Somehow—he knows.

‘Got one goin’ spare?’

He Tian glances back, unaffected, and then goes still. He’s different up close; the spotlight attached to the wall beside the fire exit adds a softness that none of his author’s portraits have allowed him. There’s an amber glint to his hair, his eyes, a pellucid quality to his skin. Hard callousness gives way to a strange, chipped beauty that He Tian can’t look away from.

He offers up the carton. 

‘Getting tired of handing out your autographs?’ he asks, only lightly mocking. 

‘Just signed the last copy.’ The author’s lip curls, and he takes a cigarette. ‘I hate this shit,’ he says, and then pauses when he props the cigarette between his lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone I said that.’

The corners of He Tian’s mouth quirk. ‘You’re bringing me good business. You can say what you like.’

Mo Guan Shan leans into He Tian’s cupped hands, the flame of He Tian’s lighter snagging on the end of his cigarette until it blooms like a marigold. He kicks a crate over and sets himself down on it.

‘You’re usin’ a copy of Secondhand Smoke to keep your back door open,’ he remarks, unoffended.

He Tian hides a smile. ‘It’s hefty,’ he says. ‘And we ordered too many copies.’

‘A bookstore with an accidental surplus,’ says Mo Guan Shan. ‘What a luxury. Guess you’re doin’ pretty fuckin’ well from where I’m lookin’.’ He leans back, smoke tendrils drifting upwards. ‘Oldest independent bookstore in Beijing, and you haven’t sold the place out to Suning or Yonghui or some other corporate shit like the rest of ‘em.’

‘The building belongs to my family,’ says He Tian, a finite note to his voice. 

‘I know. My publicist gave me some background.’ Mo Guan Shan glances back. ‘Guessin’ there’s some stories to be told in these walls.’

‘You’d be writing forever if you set yourself to writing about my family.’

There’s a pause, and then, ‘Okay. You got archives?’

He Tian leans back. He considers what the man is saying, what he’s offering. It’s not much, not a promise—but it’s something. And that something starts to warm behind his ribs, a ball of air in his throat that feels like panic.

‘If you come in tomorrow,’ he says, ‘I’ll try and get them for you. But no promises.’

The writer shrugs, stamps out the dwindling cigarette from beneath his shoe, and gets to his feet. ‘See you tomorrow then, Mr He.’

He Tian glances back to watch him leave, the slight set of the man’s shoulders disappearing into the store, the door thudding against the beaten copy of his most famous work. A shift, and He Tian murmurs, ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Mo.’

—

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[magnoliasinbloom]

Crash Course Love

Infinite thanks to @lcbeauchampoftarth​ and @anna-swims​ for being awesome betas. 

AO3 :: Previously

3: Surprise [Claire]

Despite the fucked up situation, it was the best I’d felt in a long time. Seeing Frank’s pictures burnt and in the bin was strangely cathartic, even if I didn’t remember setting them on fire. There was probably a lot of Frank’s shit around that I had overlooked that I could also burn.

Jamie and I stood awkwardly in my tiny kitchen for a few minutes, his Viking warrior frame towering over me. I had a hard time meeting his deep blue gaze; it wasn’t uncomfortable, just strangely intimate given our surprise encounter this morning, and possibly last night. Finally, I cleared my throat.

“Um, well. It’s Sunday…” I trailed off. I didn’t have anything to do, but didn’t really want to prolong the morning-after-that-wasn’t.

“Och, aye, I’m sorry.” Jamie looked embarrassed. “I should go. Do ye work on Sundays?” He patted his pockets, probably searching for his phone or keys.

“No, but I should go down to Sainsbury’s for groceries. It’s just a short walk. St. Enoch is a couple of blocks away if you need it.” I began washing the bowl in the sink.

“I usually take the tube, but I do have a car. It’s mainly for driving up to see my family, though. I took an Uber to the pub. Since I’d planned on getting pissed—ifrinn!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“What?” I dropped the bowl, startled. It didn’t break, but it clattered noisily.

“I was supposed to meet my sister Jenny for lunch at St. Judes.” Jamie turned his phone to face me and I saw it was already noon. He ran a hand through his hair in desperation, making it even more tousled.

“No problem. I can take you in the van.”

“The van? Ye just said—”

“I’ve a van, for my flower shop. Beauchamp’s Blooms,” I said, not a little proudly.

“Yer last name’s Beauchamp?” He pronounced it the French way, and it sounded beautiful, but I corrected him.

“Bee-cham. I guess we were French at some point in history, but we’re English now.”

“So what’s a bonny sassenach such as yerself doin’ in Scotland?”

Sassenach. I bristled. “An Englishwoman like myself followed her dickhead boyfriend who had a teaching position at the University of Glasgow. I opened my own flower shop, got dumped, and now, I’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future. Unless it bothers a Scotsman such as yerself.” I imitated his brogue as much as I could, injecting it with a fair amount of venom.

Jamie turned bright red. “Och, Claire, I didna mean any disrespect. Sassenach just means English, or outlander. It’s nice to see ye’ve made a home here, and a business as well, despite yer hardships.” His tone softened. “Have others made ye feel unwelcome here in Glasgow? I apologize on our behalf.”

“A couple.” I sighed. “I Google-translated sassenach the second time it happened. Sorry if I came off touchy about it. When they said it, it didn’t sound very nice, that’s all.”

“I think ye should appropriate the word then. May I call ye sassenach? As a wee nickname?” Jamie smiled impishly.

I laughed. “Alright, why not?” I dried my hands on a tea towel and laid it next to the sink. “Well, let me find my keys and we’ll be off.” I found them in my purse and hoisted it on my shoulder as we left my flat.

We traipsed down the steps of my apartment building slowly, no doubt his head pounding as much as mine. The aspirin had helped some, though.

“Are ye a photographer then, Sassenach?” he asked conversationally.

“Oh, the pictures. No, Frank took those. It is—was—his hobby.  I personally like herbs, flowers, and medicinal plants. I’m a botanist, actually. Hence, the flower shop.”

“Ye kept some on the walls.”

“They were the best ones. And the flowers, those are mine. I think we can spare them a fiery death.”

“I couldna help but notice…” I glanced at Jamie, who was turning all shades of red as he rucked up the hair on the nape of his neck in embarrassment. “Ye have this tattoo on yer back, like…”

“Oh, yes.” It was my turn to go a bit red. “It’s a gladiolus. It means strength.”

“Bonny.” Jamie smiled crookedly at me while he pushed the entrance door to the building and held it open for me. “It’s funny, I dinna even ken where in Glasgow I am. I havena been…” he trailed off as we came down the steps onto the street. The chilly November wind nipped at our exposed faces.

“Is it familiar now?” I laughed, jingling my keys. I sobered up when I saw the look on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Och, aye. I—it’s just that yer apartment building’s right next to my—”

“James?” A high-pitched, accented voice pierced the air.

“—ex’s building,” he finished weakly.

I turned to the source of the voice. A woman about my age walked towards us. She had sleek brown hair—perfectly coiffed—and fashionable matching boots and purse. Her eyes were green, and were trained on Jamie, who stood next to me, pale and silent.

I tried to whisper discreetly, “Jamie, that’s your ex?”

Before he could answer, the woman was upon us. “James! I thought it was you! What are you doing here?” She gave Jamie a kiss on each cheek, hugged him tightly, and pulled back before he could react.

Jamie swallowed visibly. “Hello, Annalise.”

Oh, no. I could sense anxiety rolling off Jamie in waves. He was speechless, while there was something smug about Annalise’s own smile. The cow probably thought he was stalking her; still pining, after all this time. No wonder Jamie looked so panicked.

He was almost shaking, while Annalise waited for him to explain why he was there. And she was pointedly ignoring me completely.

Oh, this wouldn’t do.

“Hello! Did you just move in? I’m Claire, I haven’t seen you around!” I chattered brightly, channeling one of my old friends from university. Keeping it light and bubbly, but still honed like a knife. I practically shoved a hand in her face, forcing her to step away from Jamie.

Finally, Annalise took my proffered hand gingerly with her fingertips, like it was a dead fish. I flashed another insincere smile, even though I wanted to wipe my own hand on my jeans.

“Well, Claire, as it happens, I’ve lived here for quite some time now.” Her tone was condescending and forced. “James and I… we used to go out awhile back.” She glanced at Jamie as she said this, and he stared at his shoes. He looked trapped and desperate.

Admittedly, I had known him less than 24 hours, but he had helped me forget about a hellish night and torch some of Frank’s memories; I was his unconditional ally now.

Fuck her. Let’s do this.

“Oh really? Jamie, darling, you didn’t mention that!” I giggled and pressed myself against Jamie, lacing our fingers together.

Jamie only had time to look at me with wide, stunned eyes before Annalise butted in. “James, you are dating her? Since when?” Her nostrils flared, though she tried not to show her agitation.

I ignored her implied insult. “Hmmm, let’s see… about six months?” I replied. I leaned in and kissed Jamie’s surprised open mouth. “Best six months ever, am I right darling?” He still tasted faintly of booze.

“I, um, I think that…” Jamie stammered.

“So, we have not seen each other in almost a year, have we James?” Annalise crossed her arms over her chest, heel tapping. Where did this bitch come off acting self-righteous? I nuzzled Jamie’s neck lightly and turned to Annalise.

“Well, we’re moving in together. We just clicked, and everything happened so fast and it’s so intense, but just wonderful!” I gushed. I gave Jamie a light pinch on the arm; he shook his head as if to clear it, and I took the opportunity to stand on my tiptoes (damn his Viking height!) to plant another kiss on his cheek this time.

“Moving in?” Annalise’s naturally high-pitched voice went up another octave, sounding strangled.

“Oh, yes, which reminds me, we’re late for the meeting with that realtor, so we should get going.” I nudged Jamie and stepped on his foot.

“Ann—Annalise, it was… good seeing you… again, and I, um…” Jamie gave me a side-long glance, urging me to help us escape.

“James, you never liked for me to call you Jamie,” Annalise said, still ignoring me.

“Actually, I do like it. ‘Twas you who didna care to call me that,” he managed, finding his voice at last.

“So, anyway, nice to meet you, Annalise! Have a good day!” I grasped Jamie’s forearm, locking it with mine and dragging him away.

Annalise stood there for a moment or two, before stomping off on her chunky-heeled boots, coat swinging. I tugged on Jamie, who was still out of it.

“Come on!” I hissed in his ear, and then we rounded the corner. Jamie slumped against the faded brick wall, and I let go of his arm.

“Oh Christ. It’s like I couldna even think, she made me shut down…”

“Breathe, Jamie. She’s gone.” I patted his back gently.

“It’s just… I didna think she still had that effect on me,” he said, wincing.

“The power to make you hurt?” I supplied. A feeling I knew all too well.

“Aye,” Jamie grimaced. He inhaled deeply until some color returned to his face.

“Are you feeling better now?” I asked, stamping my feet in the cold. The wind was still whipping against us.

“I think so. Where are we goin’, by the way? I thought the van was—“

“Well, I wanted to walk away from your ex in the opposite direction, so she wouldn’t know which was my car.”

“Why?” Jamie looked puzzled.

“You know, in case she felt inclined to scratch it with her fingernails or key the paint job, throw eggs or something.”

“Och, exacting revenge on the new girlfriend?” he teased, nudging me with his massive shoulder as we turned back; the coast was clear and blessedly Annalise-free.

It was my turn to stutter and flush red. “By the way, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You know, with the kissing and hand-holding. Annie there was getting to me too.”

“Nah, ‘tis fine. That was some quick thinking. Thank ye for rescuing me like that.”

“My pleasure.” I stopped in front of the delivery van. “Here we are.”

Beauchamp’s Blooms was printed on the side of the van, in curly script, with purple orchids and violets in the background. Jamie traced his finger over the letters.

“I like it. The purple suits ye.”

“Those flowers are some of my favorites. Orchids mean love, luxury, beauty, strength. The violets symbolize that the giver’s thoughts are occupied with love about the recipient.”

“Ye speak the language of flowers,” Jamie said with a smile.

“It’s an easy one to learn,” I replied simply, before we climbed into the van and drove off. As Jamie fiddled with the radio on the van, I let the sounds wash over me.

For the first time in months, it felt like things would be alright.

[lostbutterflyutau]

Sorry for Loving You

Note: This is my first time writing the story from Gabe’s POV. I apologise for any OOCness due to my inexperience in doing so. The feeling wrapped up in this plot are complicated and even I have trouble portraying them correctly.

Part of the For My Broken Heart collection.

*** Girl, I was so wrong to make you

Promises I knew

I couldn’t give you

‘Cause I made you believe

That I’d always be

The one to give you

All your hopes and your dreams ***

 As much as he didn’t want to, Gabe knew he had to get some work done. He’d never be able to hide what had just happened if he didn’t stick to his routine. They’d done a good job of keeping people out of it so far and he wasn’t about to break that streak, even if it meant forcing himself through paperwork with his heart in shambles.

He sighed to himself as he turned the key in his office door. It was the first time in a long time he’d be going in as a “free man.” Well, sort of one. He still had to take the dissolution to the public records office and have it stamped and filed. Yet, he knew that, even after doing so, he wouldn’t feel free. Not in the sense that people typically used the phrase. Sure, he’d be without a wife and a ring, but not without the grief that came from losing those things. Grief he would be chained to for a long while.

Unlike with their – no, his – quarters, where it took him weeks to notice things disappearing, he noticed the changes in the office as soon as he entered.

She’d let the flowers wilt. Usually, she would have changed the vase out with something new and blooming from Luisa’s garden, but this time all he saw were dry, stiff petals lying lifeless on the table. An all too fitting metaphor.

The portraits on the wall were either gone or changed out. All reminders of romance and forever were gone. Replaced with stiff, formal shots of him in uniform or the guards in formation. He figured the ones on his desk would be long gone as well. What she planned to do with them, he didn’t know.

What he did know was that the bottom drawer on the left side of his desk would be empty. She’d already cleared the love notes out. He had found them tied together on the table with the signed paperwork that morning, along with her ring and the letter. However, he didn’t expect that, among the paperwork and empty frames, he would find one last thing.

The wooden frame had been a wedding gift, a joint project between Rapunzel and her mother. A plain frame painted in brilliant shades of blue and purple with the inscription, “First Page of Forever.” It used to sit on the nightstand. A perfect accent to the tinted lamp and flower vase that always sat there. Now, it was lying on top of his desk. In pieces. The words had been smeared over with black paint and, by the splintered edges and lack of burn marks, he could tell this wasn’t a spell. It had been thrown against something. Hard.

Most people would be pissed, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. This was his fault, after all. As much as he hated to admit it, he was the one who twisted her heart around.  

He delicately picked up one of the pieces and went to move it aside, slowly setting it back down when he caught sight of the card underneath. He carefully picked up the simple piece of white stationary, flipped it over to find a purple border and six words that put a knife through his heart.

When did you stop loving me?

Gabe leaned over, put his hands to the desk, the card still between his fingers as he took in a breath, whispered to himself, “I didn’t.”

He understood why she thought that. He didn’t give her a choice. They had both changed as a result of their struggle. She became more withdrawn, lost a little bit of spark every day that passed since that first appointment. And he…? He messed by not giving her what she needed.

He slumped into his chair. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ring. He still wasn’t sure what to do with it. Selling it felt wrong. He’d had it custom ordered just for her. Took time to pick out the exact shades of amethyst for the hearts.

He sighed. Why couldn’t she have taken it with her and took care of it herself?

‘Because it was probably too much,’ He thought, answering his own question in his head. She had already suffered enough and probably figured that if he paid for it, he needed to figure it out.

Or maybe it was meant to be a painful reminder of what he’d lost?

No. She wouldn’t do that.

As hurt as she was, the note she left conveyed that she didn’t want to hurt him. Even if it was his lack of communication that caused this. If he had just been honest from the start and told her when his feelings were changing, would it have been easier on her?

He sat back for a minute, decided that, no. It wouldn’t be easier. While being upfront would have saved her a lot of pain, it still wouldn’t have saved her heart. Not completely. He was her first everything. She trusted him so thoroughly and all he did was let her down, but not before giving her a whole decade to love, hope and dream alongside him.

Part of him felt like he wasted her time. Wondered if, given the chance to foresee the future, he would have even acted on his feelings all those years ago. It wasn’t that he regretted anything. Those happy years would always have a special place in his heart.

He didn’t hold any malice towards her. Hadn’t even completely fallen out of love with her. No matter how hard he tried to will it away, there was still a nagging part of him that was still in love. Knowing that he was the one who shattered her was almost enough to break him. Almost. On the other end, he knew that he made his choice, and that, as painful as it was, it was better they separate.

His biggest regret wasn’t falling in love, but how he let it end.

Gabe set the ring down. More than anything, he wanted Carla to be okay. Even if it took her months or years to get there, he wanted her to be happy again. He meant it when he told her that he hoped she’d eventually find someone to do all the little things that he couldn’t anymore. Despite the changes in his own feelings, he still thought highly of her. She had so many good qualities and so much to give. She deserved to be loved by someone who could give her everything. Someone who kept his promises.  

The only comfort he had – though small – was that at least now they would both have the chance to reset their paths. They were still young. There was time to grieve and then move on. For them to both set out and rewrite their futures.

Separately.

It wouldn’t be tomorrow or even next week or next year. He couldn’t say exactly when it would be, but Gabe believed that eventually they would both rebuild their lives and be happier than they were now. He had to believe it.

It was all he had left. 

*** Girl, you think that I took advantage

It’s hard for you to understand it

I loved you, Girl

Right from the start

I never meant to break your heart

I couldn’t give you what you needed

Girl, I’m not ashamed to admit it

I was so wrong…

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Black Coffee

Vax'ildan needs a way to make money. Life got pretty rough after Syldor cut him off and he and his sister found themselves living in a tiny apartment in the city.

He needs a quick way to make some money. What he finds is Percival de Polo.

-

We’re calling it the sugar daddy au and we’re unapologetic, folks. Will be multi chapter if people like it.

Please consider reblogging, leaving a comment on Ao3 or donating to my ko-fi page!

Thanks to @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian

-

Always meet them in a public place.

That had been the prevailing advice when he’d looked on the Internet, when he’d asked Molly’s mother, when he’d finally decided to do this slightly crazy thing.

So Vax had messaged back, after stewing over those handful of words for nearly half a day, after they’d popped up with a unusually cheery message chime that honestly was a bit of a weird choice for an online sex forum. Though Vax didn’t know what else he’d expected. A moan of lust maybe, every time a message from his anonymous friend came in?

I’d like to meet you and talk about this face to face.

He’d replied, sat cross legged in his underwear on the bed that took up the majority of the space. He’d have called his bedroom the box room of the apartment, if his sister’s hadn’t been equally as claustrophobic.

1pm tomorrow at the Blooming Grove café? It’s on fifth street.

Vax thought it was a good choice. Nice, airy and Caduceus made the best coffee he’d ever had in the whole city. Also it wouldn’t hurt to be in a place where there would always be a stronger-than-he-seemed, seven foot tall friend within earshot.

He’d frowned than, tugging at a loose strand of ink black hair that had come loose from his bun. He’d told himself he was overthinking this. Catastrophizing, that’s what the CBT book his sister had lent him called it. Odds were this guy was just a nice enough, probably lonely middle-aged man. If anything seemed off, Vax could easily just politely decline and get out of there. He’d escaped from far worse.

Besides, maybe the offer would scare him off. Maybe Orthax- obviously not his real name but his username on the website- would lose his nerve and shut down and that would just be the end of it.

But then the reply came, less than five minutes after Vax’s offer when he’d taken five hours.

I know it, good choice. See you there. I’ll have a red carnation.

Vax had smiled at that, maybe even snorted a little. How romance novel. How Gone with the Wind.

It was a little sweet.

His estimation of the guy’s age had shot up but the amount he feared for his life went down.

And now he was sat here, at the comfy table for two right in the window, the one with the black iron seats and the mosaic table top. Dark eyes flicking to his watch, he noted it was now five minutes past one and there wasn’t a single flash of red to be found amongst the dinner crowd.

What if he never showed up? Maybe Orthax had lost his nerve at the last minute.

Vax frowned and leaned back in his chair, trying to figure out how that made him feel.

It wasn’t like he was dying to be someone’s sugar baby. After all, if he felt completely, 110% okay with it, he wouldn’t have lied about where he was going to his sister when she’d asked, dashing back to grab her forgotten lunch and seeing him half in, half out of his leather jacket, chasing Trinket around for his second shoe. He’d told her he was going to meet another art director, once she’d wrenched his now dripping shoe from her hairball of a dog.

And instantly regretted that lie, when he’d seen how her face lit up with hope for him.

Truth was, he thought as he took another sip of his black coffee to match how bitter he felt inside, the auditions had been very thin on the ground lately and even the few he did get didn’t go very far. Most directors wouldn’t even see him dance, not once he told them he was trans.

No auditions meant no jobs. No jobs meant no money coming in. And he and Vex would rather lose the apartment than ask Syldor for money, after he’d made it so acidly plain they wouldn’t be seeing another penny as long as Vax lived as himself.

The old man could rot as far as Vax was concerned.

He sighed, screwing up his face, fingers tight on his own arms. He was getting angry again, he could feel it, the kind of anger that could so easily make him say and do stupid things. But it was so much simpler to get mad at his bigoted ass of a father than at the whole world, the world that just didn’t seem to want to let him be happy, the world that had always been so unfair to him, the world that had left him sat here, messaging random people on the internet, offering to sell himself, hoping for one last chance to not fuck his whole life up.

“Are you…sorry, this is going to sound insane if I’m wrong but are you Raven?”

Vax opened his eyes, startled.

Well, he was a hell of a lot younger than he’d been expecting. Wasn’t half bad on the eyes either.

“I am. You’re Orthax?”

Tall, very tall. Human. White hair but it had to be the result of dye rather than age, no one with naturally white hair would wear it in such a neat, subtle undercut. Shockingly blue, tired looking eyes behind a pair of circular, gold rimmed glasses. Stubble creeping up his jaw. Looked like he needed a good night’s sleep.

And he actually did have the red carnation in his pocket.

The guy’s face wrinkled in gentle embarrassment, “Yeah. Sorry, it’s a rather stupid username. I didn’t think how bad it would sound out loud.”

His voice was prim, sculpted, a borderline ridiculously high society accent. But it was the only thing about him that gave any hint of the wealth Vax assumed he’d have; his clothes were dark and simple, no logos or brands, just dark blue jeans and a pain grey collared shirt that was a little oversized. Wait, no, there was a ring on his finger. The gleam of real gold, a crest too small to make out from his distance.

Vax cracked a smile, “It’s fine. Doesn’t have a reference to the size of your genitals so it’s better than most I see on there.”

The guy laughed, a short, bark of a laugh like he didn’t do it very often, “Even so. Now we’ve met face to face, can I be Percy?”

“Sure,” he nodded, “Then I’m Vax’ildan. Vax for short.”

“Lovely. Can I get you a drink, Vax?”

He tipped his mug, judging that he had maybe two swallows left. Having two drinks at a café was rank extravagance on Vax’s budget, even with Caduceus’ heavy friends discount, and all of a sudden the idea of having one bought for him seemed strange. But he was going to have to get used to that if this was going to work.

“Sure. Black coffee please and an amount of sugar I’m not comfortable telling you right now. The guy behind the counter knows.”

That made Percy laugh again, “Sure. A gentleman after my own heart.”

Vax paused as he watched Percy move through the maze of mismatched tables to the counter (Caduceus didn’t have the best eye for organisation). Being called a gentleman had gave him a happy little tightness in his stomach and it was probably good that he’d been able to make the guy laugh twice. So far so good.

Vax had always been very good at reading people in a short space of time. It was partly good intuition, partly a strong sense of empathy inherited from his mother, partly survival instinct from his years with Syldor, trying to work out how much he could trust people, how much he could be himself versus how much he’d need to lie.

It was serving him well as it ever had in trying to set up this delicate arrangement, helping him reject a handful of people and decide Percy was the only one he was going to agree to meet. And it was telling him a lot about Percy right now.

He seemed sad. There was no other word for it. There were too many lines around his eyes for someone as young as he was, down turned ones that clearly didn’t come from smiling. That shirt wasn’t doing a good job of concealing how slender he was, his nails were bitten uncomfortably close, there were old burns and scars on his hands and he’d missed part of his hair when he’d brushed it. And of course there was the fact that he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. It didn’t take a lot of Vax’s intuition to see that.

In short, he looked a bit bedraggled. At first Vax had been stunned that someone with such good looks and, presumably, a lot of money needed to inquire after a sugar baby. But as he watched him fumble for change, exchange a few pleasantries with Caduceus and pick his way back over to their table with two mugs, he was starting to piece it together.

Percy was just a little bit lost. He needed someone to hold his hand.

Vax mentally shrugged. He could do that.

“Here…” Percy sat the two coffees down, one in front of Vax, “I promise I didn’t look when he put the sugar in.”

Vax smiled wanly, “I’m pretty sure he stints me every time. It’s for my own good.”

Percy slid into the chair opposite him, muffling a cough, “Sorry…and I’m sorry for being late too. Time got away from me when I was working.”

“Oh? What do you do?” It was as good a place as any to make a start.

The tips of Percy’s ears reddened, “Well. Not work as in for my job. It’s…well, tinkering? Just messing around with machinery for my own amusement. I have a little work shop in my apartment.”

“Sounds interesting,” Vax smiled, wondering if he could be paid for his company in putting up all that flatpack furniture that was still sitting around in his own place.

“Well…” that seemed to please him, “I’ve made a few things. Odds and ends, patented a few things actually…”

Vax filed that away for something to return to later, something to do a little research on, “So what’s your day job?”

The discomfort returned a little, though it seemed a well-worn kind, something he was used to, “I, uh…I run my family’s company. Whitestone Industries.”

Vax nearly choked on his coffee, “Wait, what? Seriously?”

It was one of those ubiquitous household names, a little silver stamp on everything from electronics to massive civil engineering projects and charity initiatives. So huge and all encompassing, it was hard to imagine it as a family business.

Fuck, he’d suspected anyone with a kink for having a kept partner would have a fair amount of spending money but he hadn’t expected an oligarch.

“Yeah…” Percy looked down awkwardly, tracing his finger between the pretty glass tiles on the table top, “I don’t do that much, the board just puts stuff in front of me and I sign it. It’s the surname really…they let me mess around in the aerospace engineering department sometimes.”

Vax paused, his dismay fading. While he wasn’t about to feel sorry for someone who earned more money by the hour than his mother had ever seen in her life, he could see how that would be lonely. Having the pressures of your family bend and twist you into a position you couldn’t hold long before your muscles began to burn and your head swam.

He could understand that.

“Well…” Vax gave a friendly smile, soft and gentle as he could manage, “You’ve always got your work shop to come home to?”

“Yeah,” Percy looked up, like he really appreciated those words, “I do…so what do you like to do, Vax’ildan?”

“You can call me Vax,” he reminded him, leaning forward on his elbows.

“I like saying it,” he said it like it was something he was admitting, “It’s beautiful.”

Charming as well, huh? Vax was starting to think this whole thing was his very first good idea.

“I’m a dancer,” he stirred his coffee idly, spoon ringing against the china, “Aspiring, really. It’s been a while since I had a gig. I do teach a class down at the community centre and my friend Mollymauk lets me choreograph for his shows. They do Shakespeare mostly so there’s not a lot of call for it but…”

He trailed off limply. He felt like he was in front of someone who remembered him from Syldor’s, meeting him in the street and asking politely how he was getting on, all the while both of them painfully aware that he’d been disowned and this entire conversation had been an unadulterated mess.

But Percy had a smile in his voice, Vax heard it even when he didn’t lift his eyes to see, “That sounds lovely. I really admire anyone who has a creative job, especially people who teach others, I could never do that.”

Vax’s eyes darted up, too stunned to worry that he was looking a bit of a fool, “Really?”

Percy blinked, even tilting his head a little like a puppy would, “Forgive me but…have you ever had a compliment before?”

Vax opened his mouth…and had to close it again, smiling sheepishly. After a moment, the two of them found themselves laughing quietly under the chatter contained within the café. What else was there to do?

“Glad I could be your first, anyway,” Percy’s laugh ended in a cough he muffled into the back of his hand, “I’ll make sure I throw in as many as I can in the future.”

Vax lifted an eyebrow, “Does that mean…this is going to be a thing? You and me?”

Percy smiled playfully, eyes flashing a little, something Vax hadn’t even thought he would be capable of doing, “Well…I’d certainly be up for it though I think we should talk ground rules?”

Vax’s smile softened around the edges and any lingering worry that had survived in his chest died away at that moment. He was approaching this like a blueprint, of course, but there was comfort in that, reliability.

“Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking, then?” He’d finished his second coffee at that point, a pleasant buzz starting up in his veins.

Percy nodded, ticking them off on his fingers as he went, suddenly becoming very business-like and formal, “I’d pay your rent, I understand that’s the main monetary concern for people. I’d also send you a number of gifts every month once I get a better idea of things you like though some would be sexual in nature. I’d send these to your apartment or you could keep a separate P.O box if you prefer to keep that information private.”

Vax tried not to look too eager, though his heart was hammering in his chest, “And in exchange?”

“A…we’ll call it a date for want of a better word though we’d be by no means exclusive, you could pursue any other relationships though I’d prefer to be the only one with whom you had this kind of…arrangement. But one date every fortnight at least. You can suggest activities but so can I, we’ll reach a compromise. If you need to cancel any, that’s fine, though I’d like it to be rearranged if possible.”

Vax was fighting a bemused smile at how much like a meeting this felt, “And how many of these dates would end in sex? All of them?”

Percy looked taken aback, “I’d…I’d never force sex on you, Vax’ildan, never. I’d like to be intimate with you but if there’s ever any night you’re not feeling it or you’re not in the mood that’s fine. You just have to tell me.”

Vax’s amusement was replaced by surprise for a moment, surprise at the sincerity in Percy’s voice. He really did seem to care about Vax’s consent and comfort. Something that really shouldn’t come as a shock, he realised, but still…

“Understood. Same to you, of course,” he nodded.

Percy looked relieved, apparently genuinely hating being thought of as a person who would demand sex simply because he was paying for it, “I’d also appreciate pictures, whenever the mood takes you. And…” he stopped suddenly, finally seeming shy and even a little embarrassed, “I’d just…I’d like a friend. Tell me how your day is going. Tell me what you thought of whatever was on TV last night. Stuff like that.”

The expression on his face, which so clearly screamed that Percy hadn’t had that kind of friendliness in a very long time, that was what made Vax reach out and put his hand over Percy’s where it lay on the table. It hadn’t been a deliberate action, something he’d thought about, but he was glad he’d done it after Percy’s shame turned to relief and gratitude.

“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Vax smiled, feeling Percy’s fingers turn under his to hold, knotting them together, “Got a contract you want me to sign or something?”

Percy smiled, blushing lightly under his gentle teasing, “No…sorry, a force of habit, I guess. Whenever you don’t know what to say at board meetings, if you use that kind of tone I’ve found they’ll leave you alone. Even if what you said was complete bullshit. So I guess I do it when I’m nervous?”

“Don’t be,” Vax grinned, “I think this is going to work out fine.”

Percy was full of polite apologies that they couldn’t start things right away but he had work to get back to. Actual work, he promised, not his tinkering.

But they exchanged numbers and Vax stood outside the café, watching his white haired saviour disappear into the crowds, clutching a fresh coffee to see him through the afternoon. It was getting cold but he lingered, waiting until he lost sight of Percy. Percy of the tired eyes and burned hands and family money he seemed so awkward about. Percy who smiled sweetly most of the time and darkly when he wanted to and asked for a friend.

Vax smiled wryly to himself and turned himself back towards home.

At least it wasn’t going to be boring.

[missbrightsky]

Velaris National Park

Fics Masterlist

Chapter 1

Green light filtered through the canopy, patches of gold peppering the road ahead. Rolled down windows allowed the late spring air weave through the car, carrying the scent of growing things and warmth to wrap around us.

Elain had some 2000s pop station pouring from the speakers, all of us belting out the familiar words to our audience of Mother Nature. Nesta had called shotgun at the beginning, leaving me to have the back seat to stretch out, propping my feet on the bag that held our borrowed tent.

It was May in Prythian, warm and good and green. I had just graduated from my master’s program in Art History, my whole future stretching out ahead of me. Elain had insisted we celebrate but all of us were in educational debt and couldn’t afford to fly anywhere. Ever the florist, she found a state park a few hours away that boasted the largest collection of wildflowers in the country, one especially that bloomed once every three years. And because Elain was always lucky, this year was one of the few that it blooms in full.

A few days after graduation, she managed to wrangle Nesta away from the publishing house and me away from my couch and stuffed us all into her 2005 Honda.

Velaris National Park

Turn off 5 miles

Elain’s singing broke off mid-verse, a squeal replacing the lyrics as she pointed out the sign. I could only smile at her excitement; camping was never really our family’s thing, but her happiness was too infectious. At least I had managed to throw my sketchbook and watercolor pencils into my bag before she dragged me out the door. It had been a while since I had done some wildlife sketching, there was not a lot of green space or biodiversity in the city.

She turned down the music while Nesta and I straightened in our seats, ready to hop out of the car and get blood flowing back into our legs.

Even Nesta who normally tolerated Elain’s antics had a ghost of a smile playing around her lips, the fresh air loosening her iron grip on her emotions.

Elain slowed the car, turning right before the massive stone wall that announced the entrance to the park, gravel crunching under the tires.

The rough road weaved with the terrain, up and down and curving around hills and patches of meadows that peaked through the trees. We even rumbled over a wooden bridge that spanned the banks of a sparkling stream, the water throwing shimmering rainbows into the air.

A low log cabin-like building greeted us, its small parking lot only holding a Jeep with the park logo on the side and another car.

Elain turned the car off and all of us popped our doors open, slightly stumbling as our legs reacclimated to moving. Small groans slipped out of our mouths as we stretched feeling back into our lower halves, taking in the new environment.

A small sign in the window informed us of the park’s office hours and the emergency phone line. Elain pushed in first, a petite ding announcing our arrival.

The inside was a simple, square room, half the room stocked with souvenirs and anything campers may need in a pinch. A long, low counter ran along the back wall with an open doorway hinting at the back room. This was where a perky blonde emerged, greeting them with a bright smile. Her long hair was braided down her back, a forest green polo stamped with the logo somehow accented her curves instead of looking dorky and too stiff.

“Hi! Welcome to Velaris National Park. I’m Mor, what can I help y’all with today?”

“Hello! I’m Elain and these are my sisters Nesta and Feyre,” she gestured to each of us in turn, we all shook her hand, surprised to find it calloused and strong.

“How long do y’all plan on staying?”

“Two nights, please. And if you can point out on a map where the Starfall flower will be blooming?”

Mor laughed, a grin splitting her mouth. “I should’ve guessed, this is some of our busiest weeks of the year. Well, you’re in luck, we have only a few campsites left. Any preference to where?”

“None at all, we’re not too picky.”

“Perfect, how about y’all take site 20. It’s near the trailheads and not too far from the bathrooms.”

Elain turned to confirm with us, we each nodded back. Our lack of experience had us indifferent to where we camped, as long as it wasn’t out in the middle of nowhere.

Elain and Mor exchanged money and maps, paying for our spot and pointing out the major landmarks of the park.

“We do allow fires, as long as they’re in the designated fire pits. Please use the trash cans we have all along the park, anyone caught littering can be fined up to 200 dollars along with not being allowed to revisit the park. No glass or alcohol on park grounds. If y’all need anything, please don’t hesitate to call up to here the main office, and the numbers for our rangers are on the maps, along with the emergency line. Further into the park, cell service can get a little spotty, but as long as you stay near the trails, our rangers can spot you if you get into trouble. A little tip, don’t feed the wildlife, we have them on a diet,” she finished with a laugh and a wink. We laughed along with her, it was easy to feel a friendship forming with the bright woman.

“Well if that’s all y’all need, just keep following the road and you’ll see the signs pointing out the campsite. Parking gets a bit limited so try not to double park.”

We thanked her and headed out to pile back into the car.

As we were pulling out and getting back onto the road, I spotted one of the rangers on top of a horse.

The animal was tall, taller than any of the horses I had ever encountered before, and blacker than the deepest night sky. Its rider was sitting perfectly still, used to having to blend into the background.

I stifled a gasp. The ranger was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. I was too far away to see the color of his eyes, but they peeked through the leaves, boring into mine. His shoulders were broad, covered with a khaki shirt, he gripped the horse with powerful legs clad in dark green pants that were tucked into wore brown boots.

Our car soon turned a corner, breaking my gaze from his, banishing me of the spell he had cast.

More gorgeous forest passed us by, feeding my artist's mind with texture and light and color. Maybe this trip would replenish my weary mind after years of rigorous study. I loved every minute of my classes, but it left little free time for drawing and painting.

Wooden signs ticked up, eventually indicating where our sight was. Once again parking, we exited the car and took in the scenery.

We were to share a small common area with a few other campers, picnic tables and grills dotting the grassy area. Two cars were already parked there, brightly colored tents peeking out from the bushes that gave each sight a bit of privacy. Under a massive oak tree, there was a ring of rocks that held gray and black ashes from prior fires, stumps surrounding it for us to sit and enjoy the company.

I grabbed the tent from the backseat and slung my pack over my shoulder, leading the way to the small clearing that would be our home for the next few days. It was simply packed dirt, slightly raised from the rest of the ground so that if it rained, our tent would not get flooded.

I had never set up a tent before but with the instructions from the bag combined with the store owners’ tips, it was soon popped up in no time. Maybe only slightly leaning to the left but that would be a problem for later.

Nesta had pulled out our coolers of food, prepping sandwiches for a late lunch. Elain was already off in the surrounding area, making notes of the greenery and wildflowers that grew nearby. It was not the elusive Starfall but it did not take much for her to get wrapped up in flora.

Satisfied at my work, I tossed our bags into the tent and zipped it up. We could unpack after a bit of exploring.

Joining Nesta at the table, I swiped one of the completed sandwiches, ignoring her protest to wait for Elain. She was the one who refused to stop for lunch so she would just have to get the next one.

My fingers itched to start drawing the massive oak tree, its complex branches and multicolored leaves begging to be noticed and put onto paper. My stomach, however, told me it can wait.

Nesta somehow pulled Elain away from a blue flower, convincing her that it won’t disappear in the next 15 minutes.

“So, what’s first on the agenda, sis?” I asked her.

“Well it is getting a little late so I don’t want to go too far before it gets dark, but I thought we could start with one of the short trails!” Elain radiated energy, feeding off the teeming forest around us.

I smiled back at her, excited to start cataloging the world around us. We finished off the sandwiches and repacked the coolers into the car. One thing we all learned from watching TV was to not let wild animals get into a camper’s stash of food.

A quick trip into the tent had us changed into t-shirts, shorts and tennis shoes with light jackets tied to our waists. Even with Prythian warming up, the nights could still get a bit cool.

Elain consulted the map Mor gave us, confidently leading us to the first trailhead. It was only two miles long and would introduce us to the wildlife we could see in the park.

Every few hundred feet, plastic signs would pop up, listing fun facts about the park and giving an example of some of its inhabitants. Some would show a burst of color followed by the flower’s common name, scientific name and any medicinal or historical facts about it. Others would tell you how to spot an animal camouflaged in the surrounding foliage.

We all talked and joked with each other, with no tension that usually accompanied us when we got together. Nesta told us a story about an author that tried to sneak in her friends’ manuscript that turned out to be an awful rendition of Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey. By the end, all of us were in stitches and barely able to walk, clinging onto tree trunks and each other in an attempt to stay upright.

Just as the sky was glowing orange and pink, the trail delivered us back to the beginning of the campsites, all we had to do was follow the gravel road back to ours.

The smell of meat and potatoes set our stomachs growling, the sandwiches from earlier long gone from the hike and laughter.

The other campers that were out earlier had returned.

“Howdy!” one of the men shouted at us waving his arm. He looked to be in his late fifties with combed back salt and pepper hair, sporting cargo pants and a navy long sleeve to ward off any wayward cool breezes.

We all gave back nervous smiles, unsure of who our neighbors were.

“Kevin,” a voice scolded, “you can’t just yell at unsuspecting young girls.” The source of the admonishment appeared from the bushes.

“Sorry about my husband, he’s just excited to have more company,” a man apologized. He also looked to be in his fifties, a bit shorter than Mike but leaner. Dark brown skin was covered in matching cargo pants, but a faded Prythian U sweatshirt covered his torso.

“I’m Raymond, this is our third night at the park.”

We tried not to look too relieved as we shook his hand. All of us had experience taking care of ourselves but we were in the middle of a national park with the other nearest humans about 50 yards down the road.

Kevin looked appropriately sheepish as he came to greet us. “Sorry about that, I am excited to have more company. The couple that’s over there just keeps glaring at us and avoids us like the plague.” His words were playful enough but there was a deeper sadness buried in his eyes as if he was used to this sort of treatment.

“Well it’s awesome to meet you,” Elain gushed, ever the social butterfly. “I’m Elain and these are my sisters, Nesta and Feyre. We’re here in celebration of Feyre graduating!”

“Congratulations! Where from?” Raymond asked.

“Well you’re actually wearing my college right now,” I replied with a smile. There were tons of people who went to Pryth U but it was always fun to meet someone who graduated there in the past.

I fell into conversation with Ray, who insisted on using the shorter version of his name about the campus and how much it has changed from when he was there. He was an engineering major but still asked me a million questions about the art history department and why I wanted to get my masters there. Elain roped Kevin into a debate about botany and the best soil for growing tulips in. It sounded like he was also in the flower business and was here to see the blooming of Starfalls.

Nesta was never one to make easy friends and opted to start our dinner, taking over the grill next to Kevin’s. Tonight was burgers with potato chips and then s’mores for dessert that would be roasted over the campfire.

Dinner was full of lively conversation under the night sky. We were far enough away from the city’s light pollution that we were able to make out constellations that we had only read about and see the dusting of galaxies that spanned the sky.

“And that’s when the professor realized he had designed a system that looked exactly like a dick!” We burst out laughing at the end of Ray’s story from his time in college, even Nesta couldn’t keep her giggles contained at the raunchy tale.

Our cheeks were rosy from the fire that crackled happily before us, the smell of burnt marshmallow filling the air. As perfect as Nesta was at everything, it took her a few tries to get the timing and distance right for roasting.

“Sounds like I missed a hell of a tale,” the new midnight voice sent shivers down my spine.

“Ah! Rhys! I was wondering when you would show up,” Kevin greeted the newcomer. “Where are Cas and Az?”

The figure stepped into the ring of light and perched on an open stump beside Feyre. I forced myself not to freeze and stare at him. It was the same man I saw on top of the horse.

Closer up I could see how his dark hair shone blue in the firelight, no longer hidden beneath the Mountie hat he wore earlier.

He shifted his body to angle slightly towards me, catching my eyes with his. They were so blue they seemed to be an impossible violet, sparking with hidden laughter at an inside joke. “They’re right behind me,” he said without breaking eye contact with me.

I forced my eyes to drop to the page I was intermittently sketching on. I was lucky that I had started a new outline of the stream we passed on the way in instead of still having the sketch of him on his horse open. Hopefully the blush that was already on my cheeks hid the new blood that was rushing there.

“What was all that laughing about? I hope someone was making fun of Rhys,” another male voice called out as he came into view. He was tall and even more well-muscled than the man beside me but had his dark hair pulled into a low bun on the nape of his neck and his eyes glowed amber.

Rhys broke his stare at me to twist to the man, “No, I was telling them about the time you got stuck in what you thought was quicksand but turned out to be just a massive mud pit,” he shot back. The group laughed at the retort, including me while trying to shake off my embarrassment.

He pouted at the memory, “Aw com’on, you promised you would stop bringing that up.”

“Never in your dreams, brother.”

“Cas, come sit by me and have a s’more, I’m sure you thought you were right at the time,” Kevin teased, offering a marshmallow already speared on a stick. Cas threw one more sulky look at Rhys and walked over to where Kevin and Nesta were sitting. Nesta sized up the addition, bracing herself for interaction.

Cas saw her reaction, immediately forgetting his brother’s teasing. There was a new opponent to spare with. He aimed a feral grin at her, spurring her to narrow her eyes at his assessment.

A final figure, presumably Az, emerged from the dark, almost as if melting from it. He nodded a polite greeting to the group opting to stand near Ray and Elain. It took no time at all for her sister to draw him into a conversation about what all she can see at the park and if she was allowed to take any wildflower clippings home to preserve.

I turned back to my book, darkening the path the water took over, around and through the stones on the creek bed. The weight of Rhys’s gaze settled over me, making me tighten my grip on the pencil.

“You’re a good artist,” he remarked.

I smiled slightly in his direction. “I would hope so, I staked most of my career on it.”

“You do this professionally?”

“Well, I hope so someday,” I admitted, “I just graduated with a master’s in art history.”

“Really? Congrats. What’s next for you?”

He finally succeeded in pulling me away from the drawing, meeting his gaze again, looking for any sign of mockery at my chosen path. Most heard the words “art history” and assumed I would become a starving artist or elementary art school teacher.

There was no trace of judgment in his face, only open curiosity.

“In my dreams, I would open up my own studio, maybe a few galleries. For now, I’ve applied to a few museums as a curator and I have an interview with one of them next week.”

“I hope it goes well, anyone who can draw that well must know a thing or two about Picasso.”

I barked a laugh at his statement, “I can’t even begin to tell you how wrong you are,” giggling my way through the sentence. “You won’t believe the number of students I met who couldn’t tell the difference between Picasso and their own ass.”

His eyes flashed with surprise, followed by laughter rich and clear as a bell spilling from his mouth. “I can believe it, I’ve met my fair share of idiots in this world.”

“I bet, being a park ranger must set you up for a whole slew of idiots who watched one episode of Bear Grylls and thinks they can survive out here with nothing more than their wits.”

His face jokingly darkened, “Do. Not. Get. Me. Started.”

“Please, start,” my sketch was now long forgotten, pulled into his expressive voice and body. He wove the tale of a couple that thought they could go all Naked and Afraid only 20 feet off the trail, managing to get as far as cutting down a few trees to start a shelter before another camper contacted them and they were able to stop them from scarring any more people.

My cheeks hurt from the constant smiling and laughter, unable to stop myself from leaning closer to catch every detail.

By the end of his story, our knees were brushing each other every few seconds, both of us catching our breath. He paused at the end, taking the small bubble we had trapped ourselves in.

His eyes dipped to brush my lips before meeting mine again. My breath caught in my throat at the intensity of his gaze, heat blooming across my cheeks and down my neck. Our shared air was sweet with chocolate and heavy with anticipation…

A hiss startled us apart.

Across the fire, Nesta looked to be about two seconds away from slapping Cas, fury twisting her face into a knot. Cas looked like he was the cat that got the cream, lazily reclining against the stump, looking up into her wrathful face.

“And that’s our queue,” Rhys muttered under his breath. “It was wonderful to talk with you. I’ll see you around the park.”

I blinked a few times, mentally shaking myself out of the trance he put me in. “Uh, yeah sure, see you around.”

“Cas, Az,” his voice was sharp, “We need to go to the next campsite. Thank you for the s’mores and have a good evening everyone.” He pulled his brothers away, retreating into the dark. From the blackness came the sound of a sharp slap and angry words being whispered.

Everyone exchanged awkward looks at their departure. Nesta was still fuming, glaring at the direction they disappeared in. Feyre and Elain knew better that the question her on what Cas said, knowing it would only infuriate her more.

“It’s been a long day, and we have a lot of hiking tomorrow,” I broke through the tension, “I’m off to bed.” Elain and Nesta got up to join me, bidding Kevin and Raymond good night and that they’ll see them for breakfast.

Elain and I exchanged worried looks behind Nesta’s back, but it would be better to let her sleep it off. She was quick to anger but given time, could squash it back down.

We all climbed into the tent, leaving our shoes by the door. It was colder away from the fire, so we didn’t waste time layering on warmer clothes and crawling into our respective sleeping bags.

I fell asleep with purple eyes burning behind my eyelids, chasing me through my fitful dreams.

Next Chapter

[thegildedgun]

Bargain (Prompt: 02)

[This is written in the voice of @mottledscales, but hosted here as this is my main FFXIV blog. It will be reblogged at a later time.]

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

The gil trapped between his forefinger and the table steadied, stilled out of its cyclical spinning. The letters stamped into its face were clear, as was the symbol of the Spinner, though it was the former he focused on. Six years ago, he wasn’t able to read the script of Eorzea. One-hundred, ten letters, seven variants.

He wasn’t able to read the bottles stashed up on the shelves, their labels new or faded, it didn’t matter. O’Ghomorran Mead, thrice-distilled Mun-tuy brew, Daniffen’s Joy, all were nonsense, known only by smell. In Ul’dah it had all been the same: sickly sweet or nigh-medicinally harsh. The soft touch of plum was naught but a dream until they’d come to Limsa Lominsa.

A sheaf of vellum sat on his desk, awaiting delivery and correction. He could imagine the old Doman tucking them between his yet-remaining fingers, brow knit, wrinkled scowling from his nose to his scales. All in exchange for spirits and stories. This one about bells, that one about a girl of red flowers; warrior epics, cautionary tales, faerie stories...never told the same way twice.

Asato had enjoyed them, too. Doman script, some four-dozen stitches, bowl after bowl of soup and stew and kindness and care: and his tales the only price. He caught the coin between his fingers after sending it whirling across the tabletop once more, though his eyes were trained on the flower blooming on his wrist. Not simply stories to tell, but stories to make. New ones. 

New stories penned together, of winters when food was scarce and the sickly were many. Stories about the snow of the valley -so different from that of the mountains- as it crunched underfoot while he sought slumbering herbs for more medicine. How the marshlands had, again and again, turned dangerous, lakes and inlets frozen over in some places and too thin for crossing in others. They told stories about spring when flowers would blossom and he’d collect river weeds for weaving into baskets laden with colour. Children from the town would follow him, wandering through his stride and adding more and more to the pile. They’d go door-to-door in town with wreaths for the youngest girls and oldest of women, a tradition he brought from the mountains. Their neighbors found it quaint and charming, Asato said. That such a beastly man of the Steppe observed something so frivolous and feminine. Foolish, he replied, for all things come of the earth, and go to the sky.  He’d stray from their home for days, draw water for the rice paddies to the south where the hills were steep, and come home with arms full of leeks, nettles, and turnips. The farmers were eager for his stories and he, in turn, heard theirs: the rabbit that made mochi on the moon, the dragon that lived in the lake, the sky princess who lived in a palace of bamboo. 

Asato guided his hand to write the struggles, the triumphs, the sun and the moon, gold and silver, flame and water...and other such worn-out symbolism that he thought were clever at the time. Doman script across loosened scrolls, accented with Xaelic pictures and patterns. None bore their names, just the inked line of a slender bird with a flower in its long beak.

They thought themselves brilliant, clichés be damned, and when men of iron came and set everything to the torch, the library in his heart remained.

Chagatai lifted his gaze from the table, captured from his thoughts by the muffled sound of tinkling bells and a wash of vibrant blue in his periphery. By anyone else’s reckoning -and frankly, his own- he had no business playing the tall and looming shadow over the creature that waited at the top of the stairs. His, after all, was no currency such as gil, no copious coin to beg a pretty thing’s time.

Just words, just stories. A queer commodity.