#birds eye view east

[lies]

Sometimes when I’m birdwatching

[dinosaurchurch]

Biscan Cove Path.

July 18th 2024.

The summer has been hot, I did a 14km hike in 35ºC heat. It was humid and sticky but was worth it. Just don’t forget sunscreen and lots of water!

[mallowsweetmiri]

Strawberry Pie 🍓 ~ F.W.

Part 1 • Black Bikini

Summary: You’re staying at the burrow for the summer like you do every year. All is well expect for the fact that you kind of slept with your long time family friend, Fred Weasley.

Warnings: thigh riding, cursing, mentions of sex

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Your POV:

You woke up in Charlie Weasleys old bed to an unusual amount of chaos coming from a few floors below you. You groaned as you rubbed your eyes and stretched. The morning sun bathed your skin in warmth. You let out a content sigh as you closed your eyes once more. You loved being here, especially since you got Charlie’s old room, the best room. The window next to the bed looked out on the sprawling hills towards the east, a big tree sat in the middle of the view. Little birds chirped in the thick cover of leaves. You heard the patter of footsteps rapidly approaching your bedroom.

“Y/N!” The door busted open to reveal a bounding Hermione Granger with Ginny hot in pursuit behind her. Hermione threw open her arms and squealed as she jump onto your bed to tackle you with a hug.

“Granger! I didn’t know you were coming today, I would’ve gotten out of bed earlier,” you frowned as Ginny and her took seats on your bed.

“Sorry, I forgot to tell you yesterday. You know, too much sun at the beach and then I wasn’t allowed to hang out with you last night,” Ginny glared at you but you just laughed. Ginny couldn’t keep a straight face, but you knew that she really did want to hang out with you and twins last night. She was just too young for drinking games with the twins. And… oh Merlin.

Suddenly, you remembered what had happened last night. George had taken Ginny and Ron back to the house, leaving you and Fred alone on the hillside. One thing led to another and… well… you ending up naked with your oldest family friend.

“It’s okay! Now that you’re awake, we can start our day,” Hermiones voice tore you out of your thoughts.

“Okay, okay I’m getting up now,” you sat up straight and yawned, “what are we doing today?”

“Get dressed and meet us downstairs for breakfast,” she grinned, “we’re going strawberry picking.”

After Ginny and Hermione left your room, you quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a white cami. You checked yourself out in the mirror. You had definitely grown this past school year. The biggest difference was your chest which had filled out significantly in a just one school year. In fact, you really needed a new bra. But besides the physical side of things, you also just felt more mature. You swept your hair up into a loose pony tail, leaving your neck bare and exposed. You fell still as you saw a small purple blotch in the crevice of your neck.

“Shit,” you cursed, tying off your hair and reaching for your wand on the bedside table. You applied some glamour to your neck to hide the mark and then pulled out more than a few strands of your bangs to give you more coverage. You had forgotten that Fred was kissing you all over last night. You saw yourself blush at the thought. You continued to get ready like this. You started brushing you teeth and recalled opening your mouth for Fred last night. You applied lip balm and remembered his wet mouth in between your thighs. You walked downstairs and made yourself swear to stop thinking about it, but you wondered if Fred was in the kitchen too.

As you reached the bottom floor, you saw Molly cleaning in the kitchen and 5 seats taken at the dining room table. The Weasley children and Hermione sat around the table feasting on pancakes, sausage, eggs, potatoes, and toast with jam. You graciously thanked Molly before sitting down to get some grub of your own.

“Okay so after breakfast we’ll leave to walk to the fields. Definitely pack a hat or something to cover yourselves so nobody gets sunburnt. Also I was thinking that after we come back we could bake something with the strawberries,” Hermione spoke with incredible speed while simultaneously spreading apricot jam on her toast. Ron huffed out a smile and took a bite of his own breakfast.

“That sounds great ‘Mione. And while you girls cook, I’ll be taking a nap,” Ron said with a full mouth. Hermione turned to smack him on the arm causing the twins to laugh. Of course this made you look up, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Fred was wearing he wore a simple t-shirt, but it seemed like he was starting to grow out of it. You couldn’t fathom that the twins could grow anymore, they were already a full head taller than you. But there was Fred, leaned back nonchalantly in his chair. His hair had grown out slightly from the year away from home and his face seemed to be more dotted from the summer sun. He met you gaze and gave you a soft smile. You could’ve sworn he was blushing a little.

“What do you think Y/N?” Hermione turned to you to hear your opinion. You cleared your throat and ripped your eyes away from Fred’s.

“Erm- what were we talking about?” You asked with a sheepish half-grin. Hermione raised her eyebrow at you.

“What should we bake this afternoon?” She asked, sweeping her eyes to Fred as he sat back with a noticeable grin on his face. Merlin, couldn’t he keep that smile off his face for two seconds? It was hard to think.

“Hmm, strawberry pie,” you grinned as you sat up to bring your plate to the sink.

“Mm, that sounds simply divine,” George said in his best posh voice, standing up to join you by the sink. Fred gathered his plate as well.

“Indeed, George. That sounds delicious,” he crossed the kitchen to put his dish in the sink, “and I do like to have something sweet after dinner.” His arm brushed against yours. Immediately the contact made the hairs on your arm stand up. Since when did that happen? When did Fred start making you feel this type of way?

Maybe since his head was buried between my legs and he used his pretty mouth to give me the best orgasm of my life, you thought to yourself, making yourself blush a crimson shade of red. You cleared your throat and made your way onto the front porch. You sat down on the bench and began putting on your boots, you knew the fields would be muddy. The screen door swung open and Fred turned towards you with a half smile. As soon as you guys looked at each other, both your faces flushed red and you looked away. Fred took no time to recover and made his way over to sit next to you. Suddenly your boot zipper was extremely fascinating.

“I’m glad to see you up in this morning, Y/N. I was afraid the fire whiskey had gotten to you,” he teased, putting on his own boots.

“I don’t think it would’ve been the fire whiskey that took me out,” you mumbled, color running into your face again. At this point, you were sure you looked like a tomato, and you could hardly look up at Fred. You had a small moment of panic, what if last night ruined everything? Fred’s chuckle took you out of your doubts.

“Take a breathe, Y/N. You look like you’re about to faint,” Fred laughed as he took a look at your face. You smacked his arm and let out a breathe you didn’t realize you were holding. Your mouth couldn’t help but curve into a smile. That always seemed to happen around Fred. The two of you fell into a small silence as you both finished tying your boots. The door burst open as the rest of the gang piled out onto the porch to put their shoes on. You gathered some baskets and passed them around before the 6 of you set out towards the fields. They were right next to the burrow, but they spanned for acres. You and Fred naturally hung back from the group and strolled at a leisurely pace.

“Summers here are truly amazing,” you sighed, breathing in the fresh breeze. Fred smiled down at you.

“Truly, and I have a feeling this summer is going to be the best one yet,” Fred hummed as he veered right towards a particularly abundant bush.

“Oh yeah, and why is that Freddie?” You skipped up next to him and began picking berries. You figured you already knew the answer but you wanted to hear him say it. Half of your mind was still convinced that last night hadn’t happened at all.

“Well I told you, Y/N. I’m going to make you mine this summer,” he said this so casually, you almost didn’t hear him. You’d completely lost interest in the berries at this point.

“Fred,” you tested. You almost thought he was joking, but his face was dead serious. His expression was something you rarely saw on the face of a Weasley twin. “Are you serious?”

“Look at my face,” he said, pointing up at himself, “do I look like I’m joking.” He did not, but it only took about one second of his seriousness to cause both of you the keel over laughing. You dropped your basket which Fred promptly picked up for you. As you grabbed the basket from him, your eyes locked. It felt serious again.

“Fred, I don’t want to ruin anything while I’m here this summer. Even if last night was... I don’t want anything to go badly…” you trailed off, feeling vulnerable in front of your best friend. He only stepped closer to you and put his hand on your cheek. Even though he’d been inside you only last night, this felt more intimate than anything you’d done before.

“Just trust me, Y/N. Nothing is going to be ruined,” Fred whispered. His finger ran along your cheek, behind your ear, and down the side of your throat. He chuckled, “except maybe your neck.” You blushed and swatted his hand away.

“Can you see it? I thought I covered it this morning,” you grumbled, rubbing your neck as if to wash off the mark.

“I can only see it because I was looking for it. Don’t worry, you can keep up your little goody two shoes act,” Fred teased, flicking a strawberry your way. You rolled your eyes and smiled at his words. The two of began to walk toward the group once more. Ginny was laughing her ass off.

“What’s so funny?” You asked, strolling up next to Ginny. You soon saw why she was laughing. Ron was frowning, sinking into a mud hole, his boot stuck in the mush and filled with mud.

“He’s such an idiot,” Ginny barked, pointing at her brother. Hermione tried to stifle her laughs.

“Oh, come on now, Ginny. Let’s help Ron out,” George said, stepping up to grab Ron’s arm. Ginny grinned and grabbed his other hand.

“On three,” George said, “one… two… three!” The two of them tugged on Ron before releasing him back into the mud. He fell with an oof as the rest of you broke down in laughter.

“You guys are actually the worst,” Ron grumbled, throwing a handful of mud at Fred.

“Hey! What did I do?” Fred exclaimed, grabbing a handful of mud at slinging it at Ron.

“Oh, fuck,” Ron said as George pelted him with another handful. It took about 3 seconds before everyone was covered in mud, howling with laughter as you continued to pelt each other with mud pies. Your fun lasted all of two minutes before a shrill yell came from the house,

“What in Merlin’s name do you kids think you’re doing!”

Molly Weasley was marching out of the burrow and towards the strawberry fields. You all stopped. You let the mud slip out of your fingers and slop onto the ground.

“Come here right this instant!” She yelled, stomping her foot and pointing towards the ground she stood on. You looked towards Ginny who whispered, “oh shit.” The six of you started to head back towards the house, the twins grumbling to themselves.

“Its like she’s allergic to fun,” you heard George whisper, Fred laughing and elbowing him in the side.

“Seriously don’t make me laugh. We can’t get in trouble this summer,” Fred whispered back, earning an eye roll from George. His eyes looked back to you for a second, and you wondered if he knew about last night. He probably did.

“You kids are trouble! I thought you were going to go pick strawberries, not roll around in the mud!” Mrs. Weasley scolded, making Hermione drop her head in shame. “Go clean up in the pond-”

“But Mum! There are frogs in there!” Ron whined, earning a glare from his mother.

“I don’t care, you lot are a bunch of frogs. You’re not allowed back in the house until all the mud is off of you. You tried not to laugh at her sass as you walked towards the pond. Ron was grumbling to Ginny about this was her fault and Hermione looked like she was going to cry.

“Don’t worry, ‘Mione. She’s not really mad. Once we bake her a delicious pie she’ll forget all about this,” you smiled, putting a hand on her shoulder. She swallowed and nodded. That girl was too sweet for this world. The grass grew longer as you entered the shaded brush near the pond. You stripped your shoes off and waded into the water. It really wasn’t too disgusting, it was just warm. The twins followed after you.

“Watch out for the bullfrogs, Ron,” Fred teased.

“Yeah, we caught at least 5 of ‘em yesterday,” George added, stripping off his shirt. Next came Ginny and Hermione, who were mildly grossed out by the slime. Then Ron who looked disgusted. You chuckled to yourself as you sunk into the water, rubbing the mud off of your arms. Fred watched as you rubbed over your chest, his lips twitching at the corner. You sent a splash his way to deter him from looking which didn’t really work. Fred followed George’s suit and stripped his shirt off, the shaded lighting making him look absolutely divine. Fuck. You almost groaned at the sight and had to turn away to prevent yourself from drooling. Gods, you thought he looked good playing quidditch this year but seeing him shirtless and wet everyday this summer made you feel insane. After a few minutes of washing off all the mud, and a few splash fights, you guys headed back towards the burrow. One by one, you all cast drying spells on yourselves, and headed inside.

“Before we start the pie, I’m going to go change,” Hermione said with a face of disgust. While the pond got the mud off your clothes, you definitely reeked of dirt and sludge. You all murmured in agreement and headed upstairs to change. You got off on your floor, heading swiftly to your room.

Fred’s POV

I watched her go towards her room as me and George kept climbing up the stairs. She was going in there to change, to take off that little white tank top that was just soaking wet against her chest. Fuck. I had to keep my train of thought from wandering. I didn’t realize how difficult it was going to be to control myself after last night. After I saw her perfect tits bouncing while I fucked her and watched her face as she came and fuck. I didn’t even realize I had turned around and started back down the stairs and towards her room. I knocked on her door swiftly.

“Fred?” She asked when she opened the door.

“Can I, uh, come in?” I asked, smiling sheepishly at her. She nodded and moved to the side to let me in. I shut the door behind me and stood in front of her. She looked nervous, waiting for me to say something.

“Y/N, can I be honest,” I breathed out a chuckle, feeling slightly awkward in front of what used to be only my best friend.

“Of course, Fred,” she replied, holding her hands behind her back as she looked at me.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, uhm, after last night,” I admitted, feeling a relief as the words left my mouth. She let out a breath.

“I know how you feel,” she chuckled, moving towards me.

“I don’t even really know why I’m here,” I chuckled again, breathing in as she stepped closer again.

“Do you want to, I dunno…” she blushed, looking up at me expectantly. I wasted no time in closing the gap between our lips. I let my hands grip around her waist, making her gasp into my mouth. I pressed her against my body, wanting to feel all of her. I couldn’t get enough, I just wanted to take her to bed.

“Com’ere,” I breathed, falling to sit on the bed and pulling her with me. She groaned as she straddled my hips, sinking down and feeling my length through my jeans. I groaned and pressed her down against me. Her legs felt so good under my hands, her hips gently moving on top of me. I swiped my thumbs across the front of her hips, causing her to whine into my lips. Merlin, she sounded so sexy. I moved my leg under her and used my hands to guide her hip back and forth on top of my thigh. She threw her hand back with a moan.

“Shhh,” I shushed her, bouncing my leg up and down as she rode me. I brought my lips up to hers, causing her to fall closer to my chest. She whined into me, giving me the change to slip my tongue into her mouth. I pushed her back and forth on my leg, earning more pretty moans from her mouth. I felt her shudder on me as she pulled back.

“Fred, I’m so close,” she whined, her face falling into my shoulder. I kissed down her neck.

“That’s it, come for me darling,” I murmured, licking over her neck and rubbing her down on my leg in a faster rhythm. Her moans got muffled in my shoulder as she sped up her movements. I wanted to hear her while she came, but shushed her gently as a reminder. She whined quietly as she shuddered on top of me, her hips grinding slowly on my leg. I kissed her tenderly as I helped her ride out her high. “Such a good girl,” I whispered in her neck before kissing up the side of her jaw and towards her lips. We shared on last kiss before she pulled back, her lips curling up into a smile.

“Fuck,” she giggled, panting on my lap. I smirked back at her.

“Did you like that?” I asked cheekily. She blushed and nodded before burying her face in my shoulder. I laughed and picked her up, placing her on her feet. “You should probably get changed. We don’t wanna be late to the pie making party.” She chuckled and playfully shoved my chest.

“Then get out of my room so I can change,” she teased, rolling her eyes. My face fell into a half grin as I threw my hands up and started towards the door.

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I protested, exiting out into the hallway. She smiled as she shut the door behind me. Once again, a permanent grin was plastered on my face as I walked up the stairs. I readjusted my pants before stepping into my room.

“Mate, are you and Y/N fucking?” George asked, fixing his hair and the mirror. I breathed out a laugh and shrugged, moving towards the closet to change.

“Oh, it’s so much more than that, Georgie. I think I’m in love,” I sighed, pulling a band tee off the hanger. George chucked and came over to clap me on the back.

“Good for you, brother. I knew it was going to happen this summer,” George smiled at me and I smiled back. He would always be my number one wing man.

“Thanks, George. You mind helping me out with something? I have a plan,” I grinned. He grinned back at me.

“Count me in.”

[zaynessbeloved]

A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 6.5k

A/n: This story began with one idea: what if Rafayel existed in a Regency world of whispered courtships, candlelit ballrooms, and dangerously improper strolls through the gardens? And then… well, then it became everything. The fan fluttered. The heart raced. The gloves came off. Literally.

If you love yearning, poetry, burning touches behind closed doors, and the kind of romance that leaves you sighing into your teacup—then I hope you enjoy every soft, scandalous step of this journey. Prepare for aching glances, stolen kisses, and perhaps a few gasps behind a fan. Because this is the Season, after all.

With all my heart, —Lex

Chapter 1

The manor had not known this much noise in years. 

Maids fluttered between corridors like startled birds, arms burdened with ivory silk, pearl-dotted gloves, and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing, a heated debate arose about whether the new French ribbon complemented or ruined the eldest daughter’s gown. In the drawing room, their mother fanned herself with a fluttering hand and sighed dramatically into the air, as if managing two debutantes had taken five years from her life already—and it was only the first day of the Season.

And you? You sat near the window, watching the grey spring clouds roll across the sky, utterly untouched by the chaos. Or at least pretending to be. Your reflection in the glass looked pale, thoughtful, expectant. As if even you weren’t quite sure what you were waiting for.

“Would it kill you to act excited?” came a voice behind you.

Your sister. Eleanora glided into view like a well-practiced scene in a stage play—tall, elegant, every curl in place. Her dress had already been fitted days ago. Pale rose, delicate embroidery, soft gold accents. The kind of debutante gown that said: look at me, then look again. Her confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was simply… inherited. 

“I am excited,” you replied without looking at her, chin resting in your palm. “I’m vibrating with anticipation. Can’t you tell?”

She rolled her eyes and sank gracefully into the seat beside you. “Mother’s convinced I’ll receive a proposal by the second ball.”

You blinked slowly. “That’s optimistic.”

“She’s not wrong,” Eleanora said, half-smiling. “There’s already talk. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball. And he—well, you know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah. Him. You’d heard the name whispered since you were old enough to understand what betrothal meant. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt. Promised to your sister since they were both children, in one of those quiet family agreements made with wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and fortunes. You’d never seen him. Never met him. But you’d heard of him. 

They said he rarely came to town. That he’d been abroad for years. That he was... peculiar. Brilliant, but peculiar. That he collected ancient art and turned down nearly every social invitation. That he had no interest in courtship, except the one already chosen for him.

Your sister’s.

“I wonder if he’s dreadfully boring,” you mused aloud.

Eleanora snorted. “He’s a duke, darling. I’d hardly be expected to love him. Only not embarrass myself at dinner.”

You turned to face her then. “Do you mind it?” you asked quietly. “That you’ve never met him. That it’s all been arranged.”

Her expression softened, then faltered. Just for a second.

“I mind being married off like a trinket. But… I also mind not having a choice,” she said. “And choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

A pause. “You’ll have more freedom, you know,” she added lightly. “You’re not promised to anyone.”

No. You weren’t. Not the eldest. Not the heir-maker. You were the afterthought in pearls. But freedom felt like such a fragile thing when it was wrapped in expectation and painted in powder and rouge.

There was a knock, then the door creaked open.

“The carriage is ready, Misses,” said a maid, curtseying low. “Your mother says the ball waits for no lady.”

Your sister rose in one graceful sweep. You followed, smoothing your skirts and forcing a smile.You did not know it then. Not as you stepped into the carriage, nor as the first ballroom doors opened before you. Not as your name was announced or champagne touched your lips.

But somewhere in the city, a man named Rafayel Vale had also dressed for the evening.And the Season had already begun. 

The ballroom glittered like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloomed overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors. Laughter curled around the violins. Perfumed fans fluttered like butterfly wings. It was the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London had come to play their part. 

Your mother had insisted on white for your debut—soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves just off the shoulder. You felt like a porcelain doll being paraded across a chessboard. But Eleanora? She was art. A single glance at her, and suitors flocked like moths to a flame. Her rose-colored gown shimmered with every turn. Her laughter fell in just the right places. She danced as if she’d been born to do it. 

She probably had. You didn’t mind. Not really. You sipped at your champagne near the edge of the floor, nodding politely to a young gentleman who’d just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz began.

“She’s rather enchanting, your sister,” came a voice beside you.

You turned. A tall, freckled young man smiled at you, slightly flushed with wine. “But I find myself curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lifted. “Curious, or drunk, My Lord?” 

He laughed, unoffended. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?” 

You hesitated—then took his hand. The music rose, and so did you. You danced. Twice. Once with the freckled gentleman—Lord Daniel something—and again with a kind-eyed viscount who fumbled through small talk but smiled at your wit. You laughed. You curtseyed. You did everything you were meant to.

But it was impossible to ignore how the room revolved around Eleanora. She hadn’t left the floor. A new partner every song. An admiring audience wherever she paused. You caught glimpses of her between turns—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, posture perfect. And then… a whisper.

“Did you see? Lord Ravencourt is here.”

The name slipped between fans like a secret.

“I thought he wouldn’t come.”

“He never does. But this Season—well, everyone knows why.”

“He’s to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he—”

You turned too fast, looking for the voice, the source. But all you saw were swirling gowns and smiling mouths. No sign of him. Your heartbeat kicked just a little faster, for reasons you couldn't name. You’d heard the name all your life, but now… he was here. In this room. Breathing the same air. And yet—You couldn’t find him.

Eleanora laughed again, a musical sound that carried across the dance floor as she twirled in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps not. You watched. And listened. But Rafayel Vale, Duke of Ravencourt, remained as elusive as his reputation. Just a name. Just a whisper. For now. 

Another glass of champagne was placed in your hand—your third of the evening, perhaps fourth. The effervescence prickled pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness refreshing but not enough to cool the flush that had crept across your cheeks after so many turns about the ballroom.

You’d danced with no less than six gentlemen—each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh,” said one. “Your sister is lucky to have you by her side,” said another. “Might I call on you this week?” asked a third.

You smiled, curtsied, responded with the appropriate level of civility. But your mind had long since drifted elsewhere—pulled by curiosity, by the weight of a name that kept brushing past your ear like a breeze you couldn’t quite catch. 

Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one pointed him out. No introductions. No dramatic arrival. You were beginning to suspect he hadn’t come at all—despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room like a pebble dropped into still water.

You were about to take your leave from the floor when you caught the flicker. A subtle shift. The orchestra hadn’t stopped. The conversations hadn’t paused. And yet— It was as if the air had gone still. You turned. There, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stood a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announced him. He didn’t need it. He stood with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveyed the ballroom below with the kind of expression that didn’t demand attention—but commanded it nonetheless.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—elegant, distant, dangerous. His hair was tied loosely at his nape, the soft wave of it brushing against the collar of his coat. His eyes, from what you could see across the distance, were sharp. Watchful. His jaw cut clean beneath the candlelight.

You didn’t need to ask who he was. You knew. The Duke of Ravencourt has arrived.

“Ah, there he is,” someone murmured near you, confirming it.

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. He descended the stairs unhurriedly, greeted no one, and walked with the ease of someone completely uninterested in impressing. And yet, every head turned.

Even Eleanora’s. You watched her gaze snap upward, watched the moment his eyes met hers—just for a breath. Then, with unflinching grace, he crossed the ballroom and offered your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice was low, velvet-draped steel. Refined. Controlled.

Your sister curtsied perfectly. “My Lord.” 

And for the first time in your life, you stood mere feet away from the man who had, without even knowing it, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. Rafayel Vale.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t look at you. But something inside you stirred—a thread pulled taut, a chord struck too suddenly. So this is the man my sister is to marry. So that was him. The man whose name had been sewn into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread. The Duke your mother spoke of in hushed tones. The one your sister had been destined for before she’d learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

And yet, you didn’t linger on the sight. You watched long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand. Watched him take it with a bow too shallow to be entirely respectful, too intimate to be entirely proper. Interesting. But not your concern. So you turned away.

“Miss Everleigh.” You faced the gentleman with a smile just sharp enough to cut through the fog of champagne.

“Lord Renswick,” you greeted, dipping into a curtsey. “You’ve finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It’s hardly bravery when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilted your head. “Flattery, my Lord? We haven’t even danced yet.”

“I’m hoping to improve your opinion before I embarrass myself,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”  

You allowed him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble floor. You danced. And laughed. And when he stumbled, you teased. Another gentleman approached you before the music faded. Then another. The evening passed in a haze of pleasantries and compliments, silk gloves and careful steps, and smiles that never quite reached your eyes. 

You were being seen. Not just as Eleanora’s sister—but as yourself. And still, somewhere behind the swirling figures and murmured invitations, you caught the occasional sound of his name.

“The Duke hasn’t danced with anyone else.” “He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with her.” “They’re to be married before summer, I hear.” 

You didn’t seek him out. But you noticed. He didn’t hover near the punch. He didn’t court attention. He simply existed, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room.

Eleanora had his company almost exclusively. They spoke often, heads bent slightly toward one another. She laughed in that polished way she’d perfected since finishing school. He only smiled once—or maybe you imagined it. He offered his hand to two other ladies for a dance. Out of courtesy, not interest. Both looked dazed when returned to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz played, you found yourself near the windows again. A gentle breeze filtered through the open panes. The sky outside was deep and velvet blue, dotted with the promise of rain.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass, cooling your skin. Behind you, the ballroom glittered on. Your sister was still dancing. With him. So that is the man who will be her husband. You didn’t envy her. Not truly. He was distant, unreadable. A mystery, yes, but not yours to solve. You were only curious. Just a little.

The ride home was quiet at first. Outside the window, London twinkled beneath the night sky, gas lamps glowing like stars trapped in glass. The carriage wheels clattered softly over the cobblestones, a rhythmic lull that always came after a long night of dancing. 

Inside, you sat across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand—more habit than necessity now. 

Your mother sighed for the fifth time in ten minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage was hardly warm.

“Well, I’d say that was a successful beginning to the Season,” she declared. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” she turned to you, “were charming. I heard Lord Pelham compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love, not just your appearance. A rare thing.”

You offered a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora chuckled softly, her face half-lit by the carriage lantern. She looked pleased—no, content. A strange softness in her expression, one you didn’t often see outside the confines of private moments like these.

“Six dances,” your mother continued. “Four requests for calling hours, and—oh! Did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did,” Eleanora murmured. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stopped mid-wave. Her expression turned reverent. “Ravencourt. Good heavens. I still can’t believe he came. I truly thought we’d have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was...unexpected,” Eleanora admitted, her gaze turning briefly to the window. “Not at all what I imagined.”

You looked at her then. Not sharply, not with envy. Just with interest.

“What did you imagine?” you asked softly.

Eleanora tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose someone older. Colder. Not so… sharp. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never empty.”

You hummed. “And?”

She smiled—small, knowing. “He watches everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug. “Especially me.”

Your mother gave a delicate gasp of delight and resumed fanning herself with renewed vigor. “Well, it’s settled then. We’ll expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps earlier, given how much time he spent at your side.”

“I don’t think he’s the sort to follow expected schedules,” Eleanora said, almost absently.

You didn’t say it aloud, but you agreed with her. You leaned your head against the side of the carriage, watching the lantern light flicker over your gloves.

The Season had begun. Your sister’s future—the one stitched in gold and promise—was unfolding. And in the shadows of it… a man made of silence and storm had finally stepped into the light. 

——

The garden smelled of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spilled over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the edges of your teacup as you sat beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hummed lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirred the hem of your skirts, carrying with it the faintest echo of music from last night’s ball.

You swirled the honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and mother seated nearby. They were reading from The Society Pages, lips twitching with every name mentioned. 

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta—that will certainly be remarked upon,” your mother sniffed.

“And here—‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

 “They flatter,” Eleanora murmured, though her eyes gleamed over the rim of her teacup.

You didn’t comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze. The first caller arrived before noon.

“Miss Everleigh,” the butler intoned with perfect composure. “Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.” 

You rose, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offered a pleasant smile as the young Lord was shown into the garden.

He bowed. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You didn’t roll your eyes—though it was a near thing. “Good morning, my Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He spoke of the ball. Of your dancing. Of how he hoped to see you again. You responded with grace, with interest even—but something inside you remained still. Unmoved. He wasn’t unpleasant. None of them were.

A second gentleman came not long after. Then a third in the late afternoon, with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller was welcomed, each given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet…

With every charming smile and gloved hand pressed to yours, you found your thoughts drifting. To silence. To shadows. To eyes that hadn’t yet sought yours. By the time the sun began to lower, streaking the garden in amber light, the butler reappeared once more. 

You glanced up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat gently and bowed. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nodded, not disappointed, not expectant—only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You returned to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora had set aside her book and was absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers.

“He hasn’t called,” she murmured.

You looked up. “The Duke?”

She nodded once. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem, but... he did say he’d be in town this week.”

You sipped your tea. “He doesn't seem the type to rush.”

“No,” she agreed. “He isn’t.” Her voice held no bitterness. Just observation. Eleanora didn’t chase affection—she expected it to arrive, eventually, on its own terms.

You glanced toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustled the hedges, but no footsteps came. Still. It was early. Much too early to assume anything. By evening, the callers were gone. Your mother was content. Your sister, thoughtful. And you?

You were content to watch. To listen. To wait—not for him, but for the Season to unfold as it always did: slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke was to be part of your sister’s story, he would arrive in time. And if he didn’t? Well, that too, would be telling.

——

The gown was periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You had said nothing when your maid fastened it, only watched your reflection in the mirror with mild detachment while she smoothed the folds. Your sister had gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” she asked, not looking up as your mother arranged curls at the crown of her head.

You knew who she meant. “I imagine so,” you replied simply. “It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

That was the third time she’d asked this week. He hadn’t called. Not once. Not even a letter. After all the glances, the evening spent in her company, the conversations in corners and near the card tables, the dance others noted… and still, nothing. The Ton had started to notice. Even the papers had commented on it, their tone careful, but curious.

Your mother tried to stay composed, but the tension in her voice betrayed her. “He’s a duke, darling. He’s dreadfully busy, I’m sure. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business—men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlors.”

But it wasn’t poetry Eleanora wanted. It was certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, had offered none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom was suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd was lively, the musicians sharp and practiced. By the time you arrived, the dancing had already begun.

You made your greetings. Smiled when expected. Allowed a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laughed once—genuinely, this time. Eleanora remained composed beside you. Her gown was elegant, her posture perfect. But you knew her well enough to see the flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he? 

You saw it the moment he stepped into the room. He was dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He didn’t linger at the entrance. He didn’t pause for greetings. He moved straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence. And then, there he was. Standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said with a bow deeper than the one he’d offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister turned. Blinked. “My Lord.”

He reached into his coat. From his gloved hand, he drew a small, velvet-wrapped box and placed it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence,” he said simply. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You didn’t look away—but you didn’t move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opened the box slowly. Inside was a brooch—silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its center. Not extravagant. Not loud. But tasteful. Rare. Beautiful.

“You needn’t have,” she said, voice softer now.

“I did,” he replied. Then, “May I claim a dance, if you haven’t promised it?”

She hesitated—but only for a moment. “Of course.”

You stepped back as he offered his arm. She took it. They moved to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch. And you? You remained at the edge, untouched by the drama, your fingers gently clasped, your thoughts still clear.

He had returned. He had apologized. He had done what was expected. Nothing more. And yet, somewhere—deep in the space between music and silence—you felt the first ripple.Not interest. Just…a shift.

You didn’t watch them dance. Not because it hurt—it didn’t. Not because you were jealous—you weren’t. But because watching felt unnecessary. Predictable. Rafayel Vale had returned, and he’d returned to your sister’s side. As he was meant to. As he had been for years, in name if not affection. So you turned away. And smiled when another gentleman bowed before you.

“My lady,” came a smooth voice, warm like polished amber. “You’ve been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lifted your eyes. He was striking. Not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke was. No, this man wore charm like a perfectly tailored coat. Light brown hair, elegantly curled. A golden signet ring on his right hand. A smile that curled ever-so-slightly at the edge—like he knew something you didn’t. And his title?

“Lord Wessex,” he said with an elegant bow. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I’m told I’m the more tolerable of the two.” 

Your brows lifted, amused. “You’ve quite the opinion of yourself.” 

He grinned. “Only when justified. May I?”

You placed your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex was a skilled dancer. Not just in form, but in conversation. Where others had asked the same tired questions—What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy embroidery?—he inquired about the books you read. The places you wished to see. The way your eyes lit up when speaking of the sea, despite never having seen it.

He kept you laughing. Thinking. On your toes. And when he led you to the refreshments table, he didn’t hover or smother. He offered you a glass, nodded at your thanks, and kept the conversation moving like a current pulling you along.

“They speak of your sister and Ravencourt as though the match is already sealed,” he said at one point, gaze drifting toward the couple in question.

“It was arranged,” you replied lightly. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged,” he repeated. “That word always leaves such little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him. “You don’t believe in arrangement?” 

“I believe in lightning strikes, not family bargains.”  

You tilted your head, a little smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

He laughed. “You’ve no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening, you’d danced with him twice more. Once by request. Once by invitation. Both times left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled. 

And while your sister ended the night with the Duke beside her—the talk of the room once more—it wasn’t his presence that lingered on your skin as you stepped into the carriage. It was Lord Wessex’s voice in your ear, still echoing,

“Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I’m standing close when it happens.”

——

The sun had barely settled above the rooftops when the butler arrived in the parlor, his expression neutral, but his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.” 

Your mother nearly dropped her embroidery. Your sister froze, her teacup held midair.

You simply blinked. “Both?”

The butler inclined his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then your mother clapped her hands together as if summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely. That gown is ideal. And you, dear—yes, you’ll stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laughed. Rude, of course.

The drawing room had been polished to near-blinding shine. Fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids had barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men were escorted in.

Rafayel Vale entered with the same quiet command as he had at the ball. Dark coat, silver cufflinks, gloved hands behind his back. He bowed with effortless grace, and his gaze settled on Eleanora with a soft nod. 

“Miss Everleigh,” he greeted. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsied, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, my Lord.”

And beside him—light, where Rafayel was shadow—stood Lord Wessex. Smiling, charming, a pale waistcoat and a sunlit presence. His gaze found you immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said warmly. “I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raised a brow. “That would’ve been quite the feat, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper, my Lord.”

He grinned. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often to defend my honor.”

Tea was served. The Duke sat beside Eleanora. Their conversation was soft, low, and polite. Words about estates, travel, the architecture of Bath. 

You and Lord Wessex? Laughter. Playful remarks. A small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies. And a question about your favorite poet, which—unlike others—he actually listened to. He watched you speak with a kind of gentle interest that was easy to receive, easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looked your way. 

——

The party was held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-colored canopies and strings of flowers that fluttered like silk ribbons in the breeze. There were games set up on the lawn. Plates of sugared strawberries. Lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walked beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels. She wore a lilac gown. You wore blue. And they were there. As they always seemed to be, now.

Rafayel Vale, tall and composed in a dark grey coat, standing close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree. Listening as she spoke. Offering a quiet smile when she made some soft remark. And across the lawn—your suitor. Lord Wessex, lounging like he belonged in every summer painting ever created. When he caught sight of you, his expression lit up immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he called, rising with one graceful movement. “You’ve saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?” 

You glanced at your sister. She gave you the faintest nod. And so you did.

You walked the gardens with him, spoke of travel and philosophy and music you weren’t supposed to enjoy. He offered you a wildflower he plucked from the hedgerow. You laughed and told him it clashed terribly with your gloves.

And when you paused to rest beneath the roses, you found yourself glancing across the lawn. Rafayel was still there, standing just a few steps behind your sister now as she spoke to another couple. But his posture had shifted slightly.

His gaze was no longer on Eleanora. It was on you. Not direct. Not rude. But unmistakable. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath between pages. And then, as if realizing it himself, he looked away. Just as Lord Wessex turned to say something clever that made you laugh again.

The grand hall was glowing. Every window draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmered with perfume and warm anticipation. Music poured from the raised platform where a quartet played their first waltz of the evening.

You had barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appeared. 

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex. Handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox. His smile was brighter than the chandeliers.  “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lifted your chin. “You assume I’d say yes, my Lord.” 

He bowed low. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.” 

You let out a soft laugh—and extended your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

He looked triumphant. The dance was effortless. You moved together as if you’d done it a hundred times before. You knew he’d make a joke right before the turn. That he’d lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm. But never improper. Never forward. He was a gentleman with a wild spark. 

Afterwards, he offered his arm and guided you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish Lordling cut in. You spent the next hour beside him—talking, sipping chilled wine, laughing so hard once you had to hide your face behind your fan. He made it easy. He made you feel seen. 

Across the ballroom, the Duke stood by Eleanora once more. They spoke in quiet tones. He escorted her to a dance. Then another—not hers, but another lady’s, whom he partnered with as expected. His face remained unreadable. His words careful. 

But every time your laughter rang out or your gown brushed past the edge of the room, his eyes found you. Just for a second. A flick. A pause. A look. Not interest. Not longing. Not yet. But curiosity. Not because you demanded it. Not because you tried to steal it. Only because you were there—and something about you lingered, even when you were no longer in the room.

Lord Wessex offered you another dance before the night ended. And you accepted, with no hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asked none of you. But watched—just once more—as you danced away, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

——

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as you stepped inside. It was cooler here. Dimmer. The thick scent of paper and aged wood pressed gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves towered around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings. A world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pulled your gloves off delicately, tucking them beneath your arm as you wandered. Most ladies preferred the modiste. The milliner. Or the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here? Here, you could breathe.

You found yourself in the poetry section—of course. One gloved finger brushing the titles, searching for something half-remembered. Brow slightly furrowed. Alone with your thoughts. Until a soft shift of leather soles caught your ear. You turned, expecting a clerk. And froze. 

He stood not three paces from you. Dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves. Simpler than usual, though no less composed. The Duke. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The absurdity of it made your lips twitch—of all places. He regarded you with that same unreadable expression. As if trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said at last. Voice low. Measured. “This is… unexpected.”

You curtsied ever so slightly, regaining your composure. “My Lord. I might say the same.”

A pause. His gaze flicked briefly to the book in your hand—Keats, you realized. Then back to your face. “You favor poetry?”

“On quiet days,” you replied. “And rainy ones.”

Another pause. He nodded, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You waited, wondering if he would say more. He didn’t.

“And you, my Lord?” you asked, a touch of amusement laced through your words. “Are you here for poetry, or politics?”

His lips curved just slightly. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or… anything with weight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that so, my Lord?” 

He looked at you for a long moment—still distant, but not unkind. 

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said finally. “But I’m not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticked once. Then twice.

“Nor am I, my Lord.” you said simply. “But I should let you return to your… weighty thoughts.”

He inclined his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsied, slight but proper. He bowed in return. No lingering glances. No breathless goodbyes. Just two names exchanged, two minds acknowledged. And a silence that somehow said more than the words themselves.

——

It was one of those warm spring afternoons where everything felt too golden. The garden terrace was filled with soft laughter and the rustle of silk skirts. Ladies fanned themselves under shade trees. Gentlemen clustered near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrived beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes—one of the wheels had needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling,” your mother said as she adjusted your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of color in your cheeks wouldn’t hurt either.”

You smiled. You nodded. You adjusted. Eleanora had woken feeling unwell—no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never allow a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair.

“You’ll attend in her place,” she had said. “Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.”

So now you stood in her shadow—only without her beside you to cast it. You moved through conversation with practiced ease. Three ladies asked after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly called you by her name. You corrected him gently, no sting in your voice.

And then you excused yourself, moving toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offered a moment of quiet. You were just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifted behind you.

“Miss Everleigh.” You turned. There he was. Rafayel Vale. Alone. 

Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another lady to dance with. He stood a respectful distance away, one hand loosely behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace,” you greeted calmly, offering a curtsy. “I’m surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitched. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

A pause. His eyes studied your face—not in a way that lingered, but in a way that noticed. “Your sister is not attending?”

You shook your head. “She’s unwell, my Lord. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” His voice was quiet. Smooth as ever. But beneath it—something unreadable. Again.

“I hope you don’t feel... obligated to entertain me in her absence, my Lord” you added, careful. Light.

“I don’t.” The reply came quicker than expected. Not curt. Just honest.

Your brows lifted, amused. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, my Lord?”

A pause.

“Curiosity, perhaps,” he said. Then added, almost like a confession, “...You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blinked. And then—smiled. Just a little. “I assure you, my Lord. I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Pity,” he murmured. “It’s becoming a habit I rather look forward to.” 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because someone was calling your name—Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the edge of the terrace with that signature grin.

You turned back to the Duke. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

You curtsied again. He bowed. And you walked away—toward the man who wanted you, and away from the one who had only just started to wonder if he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex asked, offering his arm as you returned to the center of the terrace.

“It was, my Lord.” you replied, fingers brushing the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accepted.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smiled. “Polite. Curious, perhaps. But no frowning.”

He clicked his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laughed, soft and warm, as he guided you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hung low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walked in companionable silence for a moment. Then— 

“You always find me,” you said lightly.

“I always look,” he said without hesitation. That stilled you—just a fraction. Not because it was dramatic. But because it was true.

The conversation drifted easily, like it always did. He asked about your favorite lines from the bookshop. You asked about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He made you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint. 

It was easy, this thing between you. Not dull. Not predictable. But certain. And when he asked you for a dance under the stars, you said yes without thinking twice. You danced in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above. His hand was steady. His eyes never left yours.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured as you turned.

“Apologies, my Lord. I hadn’t realized.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No,” you said truthfully. “Just… present.”

He smiled at that. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke danced with another lady. He did not fumble. He did not charm. He did not smile too wide or step too close. He was composed, as always. Fulfilling his role. Bowing when required. Saying the right words. But when your laughter drifted once more across the lawn, his eyes—just for a second—turned toward the sound. And lingered.

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next part

[rangerbarbz]

Professor Pines pt. 2

Author’s note: YALL RAHHHH I MADE THE HIGHEST GRADE IN THE CLASS ON ONE OF MY ZOOLOGY FINALS LETS GOOOOOO anyways things are slowing down for me other than i am moving into my own place!! Im so excited <3 I hope yall enjoy this!! (I just want to apologize for me nerding out over birds in this chapter) 

Summary: This is just a random day in the first week that Ford and the reader are spending in east Tennessee. They are going bird watching ayyyy 

May 21st 

You leaned over your field notebook, trying to recreate the beautiful foliage you had seen on a hike with Ford the day before. Before trying to find any mysterious creatures that lurked in the Appalachian, Ford had suggested that you both get acquainted with the area you would be studying in. This way you would be able to fully understand the habitat this cryptid called home and any adaptations it developed to flourish there. You didn’t mind it whatsoever. Wildlife had always been something you were interested in, and Ford made it so damn fun. It was a shame you never had him before as a professor. He would be one hell of a lecturer. Despite having the reputation of being an introvert, he came to life when he got to speak about his passion: science. 

You certainly weren’t as gifted in the art department as Ford was, but you were determined to finish this drawing of a flower if it was the last thing you did. You bit the end of your indigo coloring pencil as you examined your illustration. 

“Needs more purple,” you mumbled, grabbing your violet pencil and drawing streaks over the petals. You hummed contentedly. “There we go.”

“Very nice, Y/N,” Ford complimented. You didn’t know he was bent down looking over your shoulder, observing your artistic process. 

“Jesus!” you yelped, knee hitting the underside of your desk. Your colored pencils began to roll onto the floor beside you. “You scared me,” you said through laughing. 

“I seem to be good at doing that,” Ford replied jokingly. He kneeled beside you, his face now eye level with your lap. Out of your view, his eyes flickered at your plush thighs as he stood back up. He placed your pencils beside your notebook and placed a hand on the back of your swivel chair. 

He pointed to your drawing. “Is that the Bachelor’s Button we saw yesterday?” 

You smiled. “Yes, it is! How did I do?” You turned to him as he read the notes and labels that were littered around the page. 

“Looks just like it,” he answered, grinning at you. 

“Why, thank you, Ford.” You closed your notebook and turned towards him, still seated. He was now leaning against the oak drawers of the desk, his hands flat on the surface behind him. “What do you have planned today?” 

“I’m glad you asked!” He removed his journal tucked into a pocket inside his jacket and flipped through the pages. He landed on a page that had nothing on it besides the word “Birds” written in his loopy scrawl. “I thought we’d go bird watching today! I’m a little rusty on class Aves, so I thought we’d go together and see what we find.”

Yes! I would love to! Let me just-” You leaned over to the bottom drawer where Ford was standing. The drawer was shielded by his broad legs. 

“Oh, excuse me!” Ford apologized. He stepped out of the way. You pulled out a pair of binoculars and a guide for bird identifying. 

“Alright, I’m ready.” You stood up quickly from your chair. “Lead the way, Pines,” you said faux authoritatively.

He laughed. “Yes ma’am.” 

You found yourself walking down a trail where the grass had been patted down by others who had walked on it before. Trees grew on either side of you and bushes were scattered throughout the forest. It was quite peaceful. You and Ford had settled on a comfortable silence as you looked to the branches for birds. You were both trying to walk softly to avoid any twigs or leaves crunching. This came surprisingly easy to Ford despite being the tall, broad man that he is. You eventually stopped at a spot behind a shrub that had been covered in vines to gaze across an open area. 

“This should be good enough,” Ford said, placing his bag on the ground. He brought his binoculars to his eyes just as you did. “Keep an eye out for anything…unusual. You never know what you’ll find.” 

You chuckled. “Got that right.” You then turned to your left to search for any bright patches of colors that could be songbirds. After about a minute of not seeing anything, Ford brought your attention his way. 

“Look! Do you know what that is, Y/N?” he asked quietly, pointing upwards. You quickly pivoted on your feet and moved closer to him, scanning the trees with your binoculars. 

“I don’t quite see it,” you murmured, still looking for the bird in the wrong direction. 

“Here.” Ford then shifted behind you gently touching your elbows and lifting your arms into the line of sight of the bird. Your breath hitched in your throat at the contact. His fingertips were rough compared to the soft flesh of your arms. He leaned next to your ear and pointed once again, facing the sky. 

“Do you see it?” he whispered. You felt your face grow warm at the current proximity. His voice was so low and gravelly in your ear. You suddenly saw the bird he had been talking about. It was black, white, and had a bright red splotch across its chest. 

“Oh, I see it!” you exclaimed. “That’s a, uh,” you snapped your fingers, “a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak.” 

Ford smiled warmly at you. “That it is.” 

You spent an extra hour and a half taking in the scenery around you, continuing to find even more birds. It was a truly beautiful day for it. The sun was even shining just right on Ford to accentuate the silver in his hair. That’s when you remembered something. 

You then pulled a disposable camera out of your back pocket. “Ford, look at me,” you instructed, positioning the camera in front of your eye. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at you. 

“Taking a picture of you. Don’t think you can escape entering my scrapbook. Now smile.” He laughed in response to that, giving you a perfectly authentic grin. 

“That reminds me of my great niece. She loves scrapbooking. You’ll have to meet her one day.” He began to pick up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “You would get along swimmingly.” 

You giggled. “I would love that,” you responded, also picking up your own bag and putting your binoculars in it. 

You began to walk back down the trail together, recapping all of what you saw today when you spotted a raspberry bush. “Hell yes,” you said, striding over to the bush. “You want a snack, Ford?” You started to pick the berries off the plant. 

“I’m alright, but thank you,” he responded, waiting for you to get done harvesting. You walked back over to him and began to bite a berry in half. Unfortunately, this was an especially juicy one. It busted and left a red streak dribbling down your chin. 

“Dammit,” you grumbled, about to wipe your mouth with your sleeve. 

Ford frowned at you. “No, don’t ruin your shirt like that. Here let me.” His hand gently cradled the back of your head as he took the bottom of his shirt and brought it to your chin. Your eyes widened at the action and the fact you could now see Ford’s midsection. He had a muscular belly with just a little bit of pudge and a graying happy trail. Oh my God. 

His cotton covered thumb swiped below your lip, removing the juice that was there. He wasn’t looking in your eyes but instead focusing on the task at hand. His hand left the back of your head as he dropped his shirt.

“There we go,” he grinned, eyes crinkling at you. “Now, I’m the dirty one.” You knew your face had to be as red as the berry you just ate, but he didn’t mention it. It was such an innocent act of kindness, but the way you were feeling was far from innocent.

[lurkinginnernarrator]

Shen Jiu wakes up with dried tear tracks that make his face stiff, his eyelashes tacky.

The soft light of morning streamed into his quarters, bathing him in warm sunlight. His nerves were settled, his body uncoiled like worn rope finally unwound. It was a welcome change of pace from the on-edge and tense mornings that followed his nightmares.

He forewent his usual morning routine of deep breaths and paltry meditation, of white-knuckling himself into a form of composure; smoothing over the raw edges exposed by sleep. Instead he drifts around his quiet home, his mind soothed by the suffused peace of morning.

The Qing Jing Peak Lord was entitled to beautiful views, especially in his own residence.

He enjoys the chance to admire those views in the early morning light.

Surely he must have done so before, but he cannot recall.

He drifts towards his oft-neglected east window, peering out into the unknown. Immediately his eyes are drawn towards a yellow flutter of movement.

A golden oriole flies past his windowsill holding a small twig in its beak.

A gentle breeze brushes past the oriole’s tail feathers and caresses Shen Jiu’s face.

Again, and again, the small passerine searched out and returned with building pieces for its nest. Unceasing, inexorable, Shen Jiu watches as the oriole builds its home.

Golden feathers flash before his face, and a second oriole streaks into view. Morninglight reflects off of the pair as their black crested heads come together in what seems to be an embrace.

Framed by the verdant green of Qing Jing’s morning glory, haloed by the sun, the new coming oriole delicately passes a twig to the diligent oriole.

Branch by branch, the unflagging passerine weaves together a home, and Shen Jiu aches within himself.

Even birds have a home with which to roost.

(They had to build them. If a little oriole could build a home, why couldn't you?)

His hands have never known the shape of a home, only the absence of one. Could he be so talented a craftsman that he could translate his childish yearning into something he could grasp with his hands?

Perhaps he is the one who determines the shape of home.

Does the oriole know the shape of the nest before it is woven? Or is it the process of weaving in the weft, grasping those pieces in your hand, that tells you what home should feel like?

How much has he stolen from himself? How many moments of beauty, how many moments of peace? In his anger he has created a snaggle with the pieces he should have been building with.

He has bound himself with the very threads he should have wrapped ‘round his shoulders. Prisoner to his own anger, his bitter spite.

It seems Shen Jiu has followed in the steps of the world in every part of his life. How many have stolen from him? So he too has stolen from himself.

It is good, that he has begun to take action, but he cannot help but mourn for how much he has lost. His fingers trace the windowsill, and his face twists into a frown, the dried tears making his cheeks crack with the movement.

Outside is green, lush.

It’s beautiful.

Tension in his shoulders releases, from a night of dreams, or the sedate morning, he cannot know. The air smells of fragrant grass, fresh soap from the curtains, a whisper of incense from his study.

Between the rays of amber morning his mind’s eye convinced him he saw movement. A living memory, come to haunt him. An afterimage, of Shen Yuan’s sunlit dancing, the halo of his head, the sheen of his hair intermixed with the sunstained bamboo leaves.

His uplifted hands flicker like oriole’s wings, and the smile of his lips red like the petals of the peonies. The swirl of his humble robes like the sway of the magnolias in the morning breeze.

A duet registers in his ears, the oriole couple’s morning song, the beat, the music of Shen Yuan’s feet.

Shen Jiu is suspended in a dream.

His heart beats in tandem with the jubilant sweeps of hand, done in by morning and memory.

He feels the breath in his lungs, the texture smooth wood varnish of the windowsill at his fingertips, the brush of his unbound hair at his neck, his sleep chapped lips curving in an unfamiliar shape.

A lightness of heart falls upon him, and muscles disused save for cruel amusement twist into a small smile.

It seems A-Yuan blesses his work then.

His work that day was light.

Even the memory of Shen Yuan brings him good things. How is it possible that his love could not only persist, but grow?

Taken from my oneshot, because I was rereading and really liked this scene and wanted to share.

The small passage about home, determining and building it, especially, is one I find precious. Perhaps home is built a memory and joy at a time, every small bit of goodness you have in your hands, woven together.

These are the notes accompanying the scene which I think are a nice addition: "Orioles — Symbolize joy. Pair this the direction they’re in, East: new beginnings, prosperity, and well-being. Generally speaking, take this subtle thing to mean that there is joy in their new beginning."

May we find as pleasant a morning as SJ in this scene (⁠⊃⁠｡⁠•́⁠‿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠)⁠⊃ (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

[the-monkeies-girl]

Okay wait because I just thought of a lil fic for our soft boy Noa: maybe him having a bad day with maybe a lot of stress from the responsibility of rebuilding his clan but he sees reader playing with some of the baby apes? Like she’s letting them climb all over her and she’s chasing them and playing one of their games and Noa’s heart absolutely melts at the sight because she’s so caring with the babies and it makes him think of HIS future babies? 🥹

Paige you are my muse and I could kiss you if I lived closer to you ( Platonically mwah. )

Title: Chimp Gossip. Fandom: ( Kingdom of the ) Planet of the Apes. Pairing: Heavily Implied! Noa x Human!Reader. Rating: K. ( FLUFFY BABY. ) Words: 2.5K+ Summary: Prompt above.

●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・●・○・

Noa felt tired. Beyond that, it felt like the usually taut muscles in his entire body were all turning in on themselves, desperate for rest as even his calves faltered a bit as he made his way down from the work in progress that was the Eagle Enclosure. So many large thatches of wood had been used today, so many propped up with the help of other Apes, Noa feeling the responsibility of brutally bearing it all metaphorically onto his shoulders as he thought dimly of his Father and the ultimate legacy that he had left behind.

Noa paused them, feeling the splay of his elongated and spaced out toes pressing into the wood below him that heralded his body in suspended animation in the air, a spiraling walk way that on most days, would not pose a problem, but today with the trenches he was pulling himself through to make sure that Enclosure was perfect, Noa wanted nothing more than to lay his body down and just roll the rest of the way until his fur was coated with dirt and even then he’d fall asleep on the ground, not even able to will himself to the communal nest to sleep. 

Green eyes that would rival even the most flushed and beautiful landscapes that surrounded the village were dropped and silken with lazed appointment to get just himself somewhere that he could unwind, somewhere where there were no responsibilities and where he wasn’t a Leader, he wasn’t the Master of the Birds. A place he could just be… Noa. Another Ape in their vast numbers, not important and just as insignificant in the scape of the world as any other. Maybe, the Ape thought and felt the fur rise against his spine at the mere idea that brilliantly popped into his mind, maybe he’d go and find you just to talk it through. 

Maybe… This burden he felt could be explained in Echo logic, maybe you could give him insight that no one else was able to give, given you came from the outside and had a vastly different view on the inner workings of the Clan. You tried, Noa knew that, but the ignorance and your soft words always put him at ease and he found himself tugged towards that as he finally began moving once again, this time with a more lively tug towards actually doing something beneficial instead of giving up and falling on his face to sleep.

There were two places you could be, he thought and scanned the scape of the village itself with induced interest. With the Eagle Enclosure nearly complete, now there were sprawling natures of half built huts that hit the flattened land that made the Clan a part of the Earth.

He could hear the hustle of a group of Apes playing Monkey Ball to his left in the adjacent field that housed the horse paddock as well. You were definitely not there, Noa chuckled to himself, and bi-pedal even though it tore into the muscles of his tired thighs, he began in the opposite direction towards the stream that cut through the east perimeter of the sprawling and homely bungalows that catapulted into the air. 

Monkey ball, Noa had noticed, was not your thing. There were logistics of it that made no sense, your eyes not able to keep track and you only cheered with what Noa cheered on to help the cause that you were only there to spend time with him. Not that he minded, he like the rise of your body against his as you yelped, your arms in the air and even going as far as showing him a congratulatory high-five, the interest there for the Ape only to see the scape of your stomach as your shirt rose with the action.

There was more chattering to the right of Noa, recognizing his Mother with the young Apes who gave him a spotted glance, Noa giving his best impression of adoration towards her that was always felt as she threw a fish for one of them to catch. Then--- Slowly, his feet backed up and he looked back at his Mother when the tear of your voice rocketed through him. 

You… Noa focused his eyes at the motion behind Dar, curiosity sinking their teeth into him and he trailed that way, hap-hazardly giving her a pressing of the forehead as he went by, a silent hello and always a quiet thanks for being so proud of him despite his shortcomings. Much like you were, Noa mused and stopped a few feet behind Dar to stare at the scene in front of him.

He’d--- It took him a moment to recognize the fact that you were even there, pinned to the ground on your back by four or so young Apes, no older than three years of age, your mouth formed into a grin as they trailed themselves against your appendages. Noa felt slack-jawed, not even tearing himself back to reality at the sound you emitted. A laugh, snorting around the edges as you felt a baby Chimpanzee seat themselves on your chest in victory. “Alright! Looks like Gul won Pin the Echo down.” His brow hardened at that. Was this… A game you were playing with them? Something you… Made up? The objective being to get you pinned down. Surely not. Surely you were fighting back at least a little--- But, then again that would take away the fun as he crouched himself down into a small hunch to observe, admiring the way that your hair flushed back on the ground as you reached to grasp the Chimp who was on your chest into the air and then back onto the ground below.

There was sudden abundance of noise as they chittered as the others, three Bonobos praised their Chimpanzee friend who had just won this new game, Noa tilting his head as you rolled, laughing to himself at the amount of dirt and twigs that were now tangled on your body as you rose, knowing that if you were in any other situation rather than tendering to the young, you’d complain about being dirty. 

You bent your body for him, at least that’s what he wanted, his eyes getting a tasteful amount of skin through the thinned t-shirt you had on, loose in the front and Noa was able to look down it before looking away in innocence and puffing his cheeks in mild defeat that the Ape had that desire, telling himself to remain calm and to not let the hackles of his fur shoulders rise in anticipation.

Curiosity truly was an end all be all as he drew his gaze back towards you slowly from the tree he had chosen to fixate on, admiring the stance of your legs into a position where they were spread, your feet digging into the ground, knees bent and you sat your hands on said knees to urge yourself down to speak to the young group.

“You need to give me a head start this time, you guys are a lot faster than I am.” Gul looked at you, absolutely determined as did Noa to understand the clear objective of this game. Noa figured he’d win again. He seemed competitive, his small frame ready to pounce forward at the moment you began running. The other three he recognized. Bek, Corel, and Stem. Not as competitive but they seemed to be baited in eagerness just like Noa was as you rocked back and forth on your feet. They followed your movement - back and forth on their hands and feet as they were all resting on all fours.

“You ready?” “Yeah!!!” All four in unison and before Noa could blink, you were running away from them, their much smaller frames all chasing after you as you threw your head back in a wild cackle, Noa widening his eyes at the animalistic tear that came from you.

“I’m gonna do it!” You yelled at the Apes who now bounced through the taller grass of the meadow you chose to dart in. “I’m gonna make it to the tree!”

Ah, so that was the objective. Get yourself to the tree safely before you were pinned down by the young. As you went to turn your head back forward so you could see where you were going, you disappeared into the tall grass with a loud grunt, Noa raising his body in a frenzy at the lack of visual on you as the young Apes called out your name, ringing to Noa as he himself fell onto all fours and traced his way there.

“Noa!! Noa!!!” Bek yearned for him, grasping his banded forearm as he came forward. “She fell!!!”

“Right on… Face!” Gul laughed as Corel came to rest by your head, her tiny face near the crown of your skull and sniffed experimentally and Stem was bringing his small body near the other side so they were essentially flanking you before you brashedly moved your shoulders rapidly, up and down.

Momentarily, panic ran through the older Ape that you had been hurt, that you were crying and begging for some help but that… Was not the case as he told himself to calm the beating of his heart at the sound of your muffled laughter that seeped into the Earth below your face. “You can’t cheat and get Noa to come help you!” 

“Not cheating!” Stem was fast to defend himself and bounced on his feet. “Noa like Echo! Had to come make sure okay after falling on face!”

The other three cooed and looked towards the Master of the Birds himself at this gossip and he found himself staring into three sets of small eyes that were alight at the gossip that their friend knew. Before Noa could say anything to you in defense, seeing the blush radiating across your cheeks at the confession from the young, Noa was hounded, his legs being pushed and pulled on by all four of them. “You like the Echo!”

“Echo likes you too, kept talking about you all day!!!” Corel tattled with a barking laugh, Noa’s eyes ample as he looked over at your apologetically. It appeared difficult to keep even the smallest secrets away from the smallest ears.

“Does… she like Noa!?” Gul inquired, “Maybe…” They all gasped in unison as if they knew what he was thinking, “She will be like Mother Dar!!!”

They all four ‘ooo’ed at that curiously at that and moved towards you and climbed onto your back, their small hands and feet tickling at you. “Would… like that! To be Noa’s mate! He need… to ask!!!”

Noa’s mouth opened in protest as you rolled onto your back, all four scattering before they returned to jump on your chest and stomach, a small grunt rising from you as you laughed, your eyes shut as they began pestering their tiny grasps on your face, admiring the plushness of your lips, the fullness of your cheeks and the smooth nature of your skin. “Make… different looking Apes! Echo looking!” Stem offered to Noa with a gleam.

“Maybe… ugly.” Gul said, brashedly and Noa felt a pang of offense to that but refused to take it personally. They were just young Apes, they had yet to set into their social skills and he was more than used to that from Anaya at times.

“Hey!” You said with a guff and looked over at the Chimpanzee child. “They would not be ugly!” Staring up at Noa, you spotted him with a small smile that told him you were okay and that there was no reason for him to be apologetic about the entire situation as you could see the wheels turning in his head at the prospect that these young Apes had just presented to him.

The obvious nature of his feelings were able to be detected abundantly as you lifted yourself onto your forearms and told Gul with flushed cheeks at the prospect that Noa even wanted that with you, “You lose a point in the game for that comment.”

“Sorry!” He said and jumped off you to trail himself to Noa, faux swagger in his stance as he looked up at him and said, “Make Beautiful Echo Ape baby.”

Noa gazed down at him and felt his mouth fall open at the statement before there was a call from behind him and all four of the young jumped at the voice, chattering a quickened goodbye to the two of you and made their way back to head home before communal dinner rolled around.

Noa turned his attention back towards you, his stance wide as his arms were open, his feet spread out to accommodate the attack of the small Apes against them and he began fumbling over his words, hopeful to defend himself against it as he tore through the idea of having… Anything beyond a friendship with you. His hands moved frantically, trying to come up with a sign, an excuse. Something that would garner him favor with you as you chuckled softly. At first and then it turned into a boisterous laugh, your head tilting back and you laid in the grass below, arms and legs spread out like a star-fish as you looked up at the sky. 

“Crazy Apes.” Noa chuckled nervously, drawing himself down into a hunch and looked at the side of your face. You were embarrassed, it was obvious from the reddening of your face, the way that you tugged your bottom lip and chewed on it as your glances were giving favor to the fluffy clouds above that were turning a soft orange as the sun was getting ready to depart. “Crazy.” Noa agreed quietly, his hands resting between his bent knees as he played with some grass between his fingertips. “They--- Don’t know what… They talk ab---” “Noa,” You had turned your face towards him, Noa’s heart jumping straight into his chest at the softening of the look, your lips tugging from a hardened laugh into a gentle and eased smile as you assured him, “Don’t worry about it. They’re just… Kids.” “Yeah...” Noa chortled nervously, letting his eyes fall over to the trees to his left as he was unable to shake the idea of what it would be like to bear a child with you. To… Have you give him what he wanted, not known until minutes ago when he had seen how you were with them. How carefree you were, how easy it came to you. Would it be the same if he asked you to do that for him?

To ask you to brute the pain and agony of at least trying with the knowledge that maybe it was indeed possible. Noa pierced his eyes into the deep forest and shuffled on his feet to keep himself from standing awkwardly like a statue before he looked back at you, captivating your gaze with such ease as you smiled at him, tenderly… Softly… A… Affectionately like you would accept the challenge that ran through his mind. 

 “They.. are Just… Kids.”

[christianwhitewolfanimations]

When we meet, by the creek.

'By The Creek' TADC au

..........................................................................................

The warm rays of sunlight lit the shaded forest foot trail through the leaves, causing mesmerizing patterns of golden light to shift across the forest floor as a warm summer breeze rustled the high reaching branches. The young boy squinted as a patch of light shifted across his golden eyes. He brought his hand up to guard against the the offending light that was blinding him, continuing his walk down the overgrown path.

The vibrant green leaves above him rustled with the soft wind, the sounds of the forest around him mixing in a soft melody upon the whisper of the breeze.

Listening to the crunch of fallen leaves and twigs under his feet as he walked, the boy took a deep breath of the fresh air, the feeling of the crisp cool air entering his lungs sends goosebumps down his arms. A satisfied and content smile broke his calm expression, his warm tan skin tingling with the sensation of the warm sunlight periodically brushing over his skin.

A blue bird flew past him, causing the boy to jump, startled. He chuckled as he watched the bird fly off into the trees, his feet moving at a steady pace. His ears perked at the sound of running water, a grinned to himself, walking slightly faster to reach the source of water.

The brush occasionally catching on his dark blue overalls, and shifting his dark purple shirt. As the sound of water increased, the brush and trees began to part, and the sunlight began to spread from small patches till it filled his whole vision.

Squinting at the bright light, the boy shaded his face from the sun. Once his vision adjusted a beautiful scene unfolded. He blinked, drinking it all in. Before him was an open area between two walls of forest, one behind him, one in front of him. In between the two sides was a bubbling, vibrantly clear blue creek. Some fresh water plant life growing on along the creekside. The paths along the the creek leading for as far as the eyes could see on both sides of the creek to the east and the west, were rock paths, mixed with sand a dirt leading up to the forests' edge.

The boy looked around the creek, smiling to himself. The breeze flowed by, brushing through his dark brown hair, which glowed with red highlights.

The boy took a deep breath, like he did in the forest, and stretched his arms above his head. His muscles aching from his hard work at the farm. He sighed in relief, dropping his arms at his sides.

When the breeze died down, a new sound caught his attention. He sucked in a sharp, shallow, breath and froze. A voice, singing softly, drifted through the clearing; it was barely audible, but he could still hear it over the sound of the creek.

The boy turned in the direction of the voice, a short distance down to his left, his eyebrows furrowed as he strained to hear the words of the song.

'Who- who could that be?' His thoughts echoed.

He frowned, no one was supposed to be at this creek, only he and his brothers knew about it. He hummed to himself, then slowly and quietly made his way down the path beside the creek toward the voice.

'It's... kind of sweet sounding.' The voice was sweet, and soft as it drifted toward him as he crept closer.

As he drew closer, he could tell it was coming from behind a bush that grew close to the edge of the waterfront, blocking his view. He slowed his pace, sucking in a sharp breath and holding it as he peeked around the bush.

His eyes widened in surprise. There was a young girl, humming a sweet tune to herself, an astronomy book in her lap, her hands folded together on top of the book. She wore a faded navy blue hoodie, and black jeans. Her darl brown short hair, framing her pale face, a galaxy of freckles covering her cheeks and nose. The song she hummed made him shiver, it was haunting, yet comforting.

He crept forward, attempting to hear the song better, a stick snapped underneath his foot. Causing both him and the girl to jump in shock and freeze. The girl's gaze snapped in his direction, her eyes a vibrant sky blue flecked with gold.

The stared at one another, an odd feeling stirring inside their chests, their gazes locked.

The breeze brushed by them, the only witness to their meeting, was the sky, and the bubbling blue creek.

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

Black wenley

The black wenley is a fish belonging to the order Perciformes. It is a slow-growing freshwater fish that is often the apex predator of its habitat. Its colours range from all black to a dark brown. Its diet as a juvenile consists of zooplankton, and as it grows it starts hunting for bigger and bigger prey, moving to crustaceans, fish larvae, small fish and finally medium fish. Opportunistic adults will also feed on small mammals and young birds. While juveniles tend to band together, adult black wenleys are solitary and will readily attack and consume others of their kind if they feel crowded. They prefer cooler waters and tend to inhabit the deepest parts of lakes, ponds and rivers. Their natural distribution spans through Central, North and East Europe.

A young juvenile and a mature adult of a few years of age, respectively. Besides for the eel-ish appearance of the juvenile, the beginning and end of life stages of the black wenley are completely ordinary and unassuming. Likely this fish would've been entirely forgotten if these were the only life stages this most confusing animal goes through. But, no. The black wenley is among the most studied fish in the world, and it's all thanks to its older juvenile phase:

What in the world!! What is that? That cannot possibly be the same animal, let alone a fish! That's a strange frog, in no way can that be a black wenley!

That's an entirely sensible conclusion to come to! A good portion of people used to think the same, centuries and millenia ago. If a community of people lived in a place with no merfolk who could explain the real deal (merfolk used to be restricted to large bodies of water, before the two-legs spell was invented), they would often view the big black fishes that appear each spring and the strange froglike creatures of the late summer as separate animals. Most European languages give them separate names, in fact! Only when information became more available and the scientific method improved did it become clear that these two were one and the same...

So, how exactly does the life cycle of the black wenley work?

The fry hatch in late spring, and start their life as normal. They eat, ferociously! Once they reach about 10 centimeters in length, they not only grow in size, but change in shape, too. Their pectoral fins begin to develop into lobe-fins, then into legs, and two hind legs rapidly sprout from their side. During the summer months their appetite and search for food is neverending, but even then, they still absorb their tail fin and tail into their bodies to obtain any new bit of energy possible. Inside their bodies the swim bladder becomes highly vascularised, and on the outside their black scales slowly morph into a messy green colour. Perhaps the strangest change of all, the head of the fish slowly moves up its body, and its eyes migrate higher on its head to view the environment better. By the time the transformation is complete, it is already August.

That's when the migration begins.

The black wenley juveniles spend more and more time out of the water as they develop, but the moment their four legs are strong enough to carry their weight, they leave their home waters and venture out into the world. Their tall stance allows them to see their environment better and assess possible threats much more efficiently. Their swim bladder now a lung of sorts, the black wenleys can travel considerable distances through forests, through fields, through swamps, and through city suburbs to the amusement of onlookers.

Their stumbling is... very silly. Their flippers seem to be all awkwardly placed hind leg and no front leg, making their walking slow and waddly. It's common to see them fall on their stomach or their knees. For fish on land, they do rather well though!

The goal of the black wenley juvenile is to find a fitting body of water with few or zero conspecifics, many food sources, and deep water. Once the juvenile has found the home of their dreams, they settle down and resume aquatic living.

All throughout winter, the black wenley transforms in secret under the ice. The legs that it spent so much energy building shrivel up: they use the extra energy to sustain themselves in the harsh cold darkness. Slowly, their head moves back down to a straight continuation of the spine, and their body elongates once more. Spines begin growing from their back. In the spring they regrow their fins, as if nothing had happened at all. As if the black wenley had been but an ordinary fish all this time. A one-year-old black wenley is rather slim and small, but as the fish matures it grows in height and develops its distinctive large head. It remains this way for the rest of its life! Black wenleys seldom reproduce in their first year and tend to wait until they are two years old to begin their courtship. They spawn in the spring, and so the cycle begins anew.

The black wenley is a fascinating example of metamorphosis and how the influence of magic in the genes of animals can cause them to develop otherwise-impossible-to-achieve forms. Its semblance to frogs in its middle stage was a key piece in the creation of the theory of evolution, and in times of old before DNA testing became possible it was even hailed as a missing link between fish and land animals, an all new class of animal! Now of course we know that it is a perciform fish, just as distantly related to tetrapods as any bass or grouper. While it is fairly obvious this land-dwelling form is the species' unique answer to dispersal, it is not exactly known how the magic in its DNA causes this froglike form or came to cause it: few animals go through such large changes in their life cycle, magic-induced or not. The species is a common test subject to this day, for these reasons.

The black wenley is a beloved favourite of anglers, due to its aggressive nature and tendency to quickly bite into fishing bait. It is a symbol of change and escape from dire situations by any means necessary, especially in merfolk culture and literature. In everyday life, merfolk view it akin to a fox: it can bite, but only if you bother it or something is wrong with it, so it's best to leave it alone. Kind of cool if you spot it, actually. It's a very beautiful fish!

The black wenley is a species of least concern, though industrialisation and overfishing has made a dent in its populations and their average size is smaller in the modern day. While it is native to Europe, it has also been introduced outside of its range. Due to its extremely high affinity to travel from a body of water to another and eat everything that moves, it is classified as a harmful invasive species in North America and Asia.

Most importantly: yes! Some merfolk in the sirpaverse have the lower fish half of a black wenley. They develop into the older juvenile stage at about 5-7 years of age, and into the mature form at puberty. They don't feel the need to leave their home to find a new one as children.

[thesleepyfable]

~ SWTD: Still Here AU Part 10: ~

Dream a Little Dream, For Me:

It's time for Gibbo to have some of the spotlight. This was going to be a series of mini-chapters following everyone's dreams, but Gibbo's stuck with me the most.

Part 11:

'...r...li....e...'

'Char...lie...'

'...Charlie...'

Gibbo shot up from his bed, which was just a mountain of spare pillows he needed to keep his head elevated. A voice called to him. One he knew and thought he'd never hear again. It was sharp in tone yet spoke as a comforting whisper. He was still in the shipping container. A small break in the doors exposed faint sunlight. It was warm. The cold winter air was gone. He couldn't see his breath.

'...Charlie...'

Gibbo moved and, with a tendril, opened the doors. He wasn't on the rig. The container sat in a field with overgrown grass and dandelions. A small breeze picked up, sending the dandelion tufts in all directions. Birds were singing their songs in the trees. Rabbits moved in the grass. The sky was clear, with no clouds for as far as the eye could see. He didn't know where he was, but it was peaceful. At first, Gibbo didn't want to leave the makeshift bedroom. He felt his body would ruin the imagery. To him, it was heaven. She called to him again.

'...Charlie...'

The voice was a beacon. Gibbo moved through the grass, practically hypnotised. It was her voice. His sweet Elanor. She was here. This really must be heaven. Yes. Gibbo must have died peacefully in his sleep. After several 'steps' from the centipede-like legs used to keep him moving and balanced, the infection melted away, along with all of Gibbo's worries. He was happy. The literal weight of the flesh vanished into nothing more than a puddle behind him, disappearing into the Earth. He wasn't in his uniform, but his casual attire, which was a striped green and white polo shirt and bell-bottom jeans.

A figure came into view. A blur slowly formed into a shape. A woman in a flower patterned maxi-dress stood with her back turned. Long flowing ginger hair, lighter than his, moved with the breeze. Gibbo stopped. His heart racing. A smile formed on his face. He had to double-check, but there was no denying it. He moved forward. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. His legs felt heavy, but that didn't stop him. Gibbo reached out a hand.

'Elanor.' His voice was a muffle, like he was submerged in the oil that infected him, but he didn't seem to notice. His hand fell on her shoulder. Elanor turned, but before Gibbo could see her beautiful face, she vanished. Simply turned into dust and was gone with the wind. Particles landed in his hand. Gibbo's smile, which was known to light up an entire room, faded. He looked at his palm. At the dust. It turned into the oil The Shape resided in. That hideous black, green, and purple glow cast a look of fear in his eye. The field around him began to melt. The backdrop turning into Engineering. The loud hisses from the pipes that were ready to burst. The cold air ran a shiver across his body. His clothes turned back into orange boiler-suit. The oil pulsated, then froze into a firm solid, and pierced Gibbo's hand like a stalagmite. It grew as his veins turned black and began to spread through his forearm. It was fast. Gibbo couldn't do anything. His scream still muffled and drowned out with the noise. The Shape reached his eyes and turned them black. He cried oil, skin discoloured, and his hair began to fall out.

Not again. Not again.

His eyes scanned to the left. Eleanor was there again. He tried to reach out, but the oil froze him in place until everything went black.

'CHARLIE!'

Then he woke up.

Light shone through the doors. Gibbo hurried and shoved them open. His mind hadn't caught up with reality. He thought he was still in a dream. He wanted to be there. In the field. To be human again. Instead, he was stuck on Beria, watching the sun slowly rise in the East. He was still a mass of flesh with no arms and those legs that were once his bones.

Gibbo couldn't cry. He was empty. All he could do was find comfort in the chain he stored in his body for safe keeping. A tendril sprouted from his side, and he gazed at Eleanor's picture. The sight of her calmed his nerves. Was it for the best she wasn't here? How could she even look at him? How could his mother and son look at him? What was he going to tell them? Would he even be able to see them again? The questions began to consume it. Until...

'Bad dream?'

Addair sat on his container. Gibbo didn't notice at first, but after seconds ticked by, an ugly feeling came over him. Rennick might be in charge, but Addair ordered him to go and check the drill. If you count ordering as grabbing hold of his uniform and shoving him in the direction he needed to go. Because of him, he was infected. Maybe the slaps he gave Rennick should have also been directed to Addair? Both were his superiors. Both were shit people.

A part of Gibbo wanted to smack Addair into next Tuesday for what he did, but he just couldn't. He wasn't that type of man. He didn't feel bad for hitting Rennick. However, he didn't want to make it a regular occurrence to his character. Whenever he's let his bottled anger get the best of him, either himself or something has gotten hurt. Only Douglas knows he's the reason there was a large indentation on one of the pipes that lost a screw. It only took one punch, and Gibbo walked away with a bruise.

'Same. I-'

'What do you want, Addair?'

'Am I supposed to want something?'

'The only time you talk to me is when you want something.'

'I just want to talk. No dramatics.'

'...Fine.'

To Addair, that was an invitation to move from his container and stand beside Gibbo, which just made him uncomfortable. It's like he was trying to get under his mostly non-existent skin. He turned his attention to the sea's high tide. 'I never thought you would've given Rennick a kickin'. How did it feel?'

Just answer his questions and he might go away.

'Good,' Gibbo answered curtly. 'It was a long time coming. Surprised you didn't get involved.'

'I think you made your point, well enough.'

Well, this was awkward. Caz made it look easy from afar. They didn't have a beer to share or darts to comment on. Both were too much of the polar opposite to find anything to talk about.

Except for one thing.

As Addair waited for Gibbo to talk, he noticed the chain. Before, he would have swiped it from him to tease and stress the poor man out, because he was the 'big man' who could do whatever he wanted to little Gibbo, who lacked a backbone. Yesterday was something of a wake-up call.

'She's pretty.' Gibbo's eyes widened. He pulled Eleanor's picture close to his body as the tendril began to retract. 'What's her name?'

Isn't it sad? These two men have been working on Beria for six years now, and neither knew anything about each other's family.

'Eleanor.' A pause. Gibbo could feel the anger fade, but he wasn't going to be polite. He hoped to never speak to Addair after this, despite that being impossible. 'What about yours?'

'Jennifer.' The way Addair said her name, she was a Goddess in his eyes. 'Married for 13 years now.'

'And you have, what, four boys?'

'That I do. You?'

'I have a son. Ma looks after him when I'm out here.'

'Looking forward to see them again?"

'Of course. But,' he tried to laugh. 'Fuckin' look at me.'

'Don't get yourself worked up, Gibby. You're not the only one thinking that.'

He didn't want to admit it, but Gibbo knew he was right. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to get home. Something everyone was feeling, infected or not, but he was scared. What if his mum and Jackie run away in fear? He'd didn't want to be alone. They were all he had left.

The sound of Rennick opening his container ended their conversation. Was it productive? It was a start, at least. They watched their manager quickly acknowledge them before wandering off to Accommodation. Other crew members could be seen in the corridor gathering up their belonings. Addair turned and began to follow Rennick. 'Roy better have made bacon today,' he muttered.

Gibbo watched, then looked at the sea. One last vision of the field sprung into his mind. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass. Eleanor's voice called to him as he began to turn in the Water Tanks. Her voice comforted him as his bones cracked, and his body turned inside out and expanded. That was before the rage he bottled up began to boil. He felt it, and it was why he pleaded for Douglas to stay away. With Finlay, he just knew something was going to happen, and his only option was to scare her away. 'Who did you hear in The Shape?'

Addair paused and turned back. Silence lingered. The pair locked eyes. He tried not to look venerable. Bad enough he cried in front of O'Connor.

'I heard my boys laughing.'

'And your dream?'

'Back home with the wife and kids having Christmas Dinner. The food melted into oil and The Shape infected me again. They...' He sighed. 'They ran away.'

More silence.

'I heard about your son. I'm sorry.'

Addair's eyes softened, caught off guard with Gibbo's words. The man can try and act tough and superior all he wanted to the men here, but his children were his soft spot. He loved them, and he would happily burn the world to keep them safe. He just hoped they knew that. 'Thanks.' Using his tendrils, Addair grabbed onto the catwalk and vanished into Accommodation.

Dobbie awkwardly shuffled by him and appeared on stairs to yell.

'You coming Gibbo?!'

'Aye!'

[extrathicccarlwheezer]

i finished my latest built in Tiny Glade, or at least got it to a point where i’m satisfied leaving it for a while. closeup pictures after the cut :)

i've included pictures of the main boulevard by the east gate (with the fancy inn on the left), the southern canal, the church (with a little graveyard around back, the two wealthiest houses, the main keep's gatehouse & courtyard, the northern canal, the market square (with a pen to put livestock before they're sold), and a closeup of the tavern courtyard in the poorer part of town. i think i might go back and get a bird's-eye view of the city to make a map, but that can be a project for a later day.

i very much enjoyed working on this town. it's my sixth major build in the game, the second one that's going for a specific architectural vibe (this is a large town near the royal castle, which was a previous build), and my first time building what feels like a city rather than a village. this dense, complicated style is NOT my strong suit, nor is it what i enjoy the most, but i'm very glad i did it. i think i'm gonna take it a bit easier with some small village builds next. i hope the devs increase the height limit with the terrain tool because i want to build a classic hill fort, but they're just two people doing this in their free time so i'm definitely not expecting any huge rush from them.

i have a couple ideas for future builds. i think next up is a motte & bailey, then maybe a small river town or an orc stronghold or something. i think i might also go back and post my older builds; there are several i'm quite happy with and i want to document them

[femoso-seben]

CoD Monster AU

Price is an old-ass fire-breathing dragon. Was quite content with his life until he met a human traveler from the East. Grew to be interested in traveling and gaining more gold and shit to hoard. His opinion of humans at that time was one of apathy. It was until his traveler friend was burnt at the stake for being a witch.

Horangi is a tiger beast who was once worshipped as a God/ mountain spirit. Was given human brides as a sacrifice. He Fell for one of his brides until the other poisoned her to death, she was pregnant with his children.

Ghost gives me gargoyle energy. For most of his early life, he looked for a nice decrepit castle to sit on and judge passersby. Was heavily discriminated against by humans for the way he looked. He ended up hiding himself from prying eyes until he met a burnt human girl who made him feel more comfortable in his skin. they parted ways promising to meet again… that never happened. Humans have short lives.

Soap is def a werewolf on the younger side like born in the 80s def a punk rock kid. At this time humans were losing the war to the monsters. Soap fell for an eccentric human girl. She died protecting him. His heart hardened to humans who took his lover away.

Alejandro is a Jaguar spirit/ beast man.

Rodolfo gives off a flying serpent.

Graves is definitely a vampire that colonized shit for his own power but never judge them for their skin/ race but if their monsters or human. Is filthy rich. Once traveled all of Europe with his human wife before she died of old age.

König is definitely a Cthulhu-like monster. Was a runt and left to die until humans captured him. A random wench found him and returned home to the ocean.

Gaz is a young harpy who grew up in a time of war. Lost many of his family to humans who napalm his home. Has a pretty negative view of humans.

Valeria is a gorgon, she once well for a human girl, before she was killed.

Laswell is a “fairy” of sorts. She does her best to keep the monster human struggle civilized.

Farah Anqa bird woman who’s fighting a Remain of the human government from Russia.

Roach is a Banshee siren hybrid that keeps quiet for the sake of his teammates.

——

Part of Price’s hoard is Ghost. He found the young gargoyle wandering looking for a castle to call home. At that point, Price wanted to travel. Ghost spent most of his time guarding the castle.

Price meets Farah and helps her push back the human forces, losing a horn in the process. One of his wings has a giant hole in it, can’t really fly but will glide.

Horangi met König when König was Beaches in Korea became acquaintances but truly became friends once they joined Kortac to fight against humans.

Graves and 141 aren’t on the same side, graves still see humans as pathetic pets that can be easily controlled and not the fearsome threat that they are.

Alejandro, Rudolpho, and Valeria were once friends until they suffered the same fate and took the pain differently. Valeria wanted pure revenge while both Alejandro and Rudolpho wanted to mourn.

----

Honestly, I kinda of want to write romance fanfic for most of them lol would anyone be interested in

[its-wabby-stuff]

By the Side of the Black Lake

I can’t remember how I found the lake, or when. But it was instantly mesmerizing.

The surface lay completely still, bordered by rocks on the east side and a glassy beach of soft sand on the west. There were no waves, no tide, I wasn’t even sure if it was water.

Just a black ink that spread out, shaped by the land, completely opaque. It didn’t feel natural, but it looked beautiful.

I could sit on the lake side for hours, just admiring it and it’s intensity. I wouldn’t dare to touch it. Things this peculiar in nature always came with some horrific price. A temperature hot enough to boil you alive, or completely melt the flesh off bones. (Like the sulphur springs in Yellowstone, except this didn’t smell of rotting eggs).

Things had been dropped into the lake before, but the surface was so dark, you would never be able to tell what happened to it. It would just disappear into the darkness. Things could float on the surface but the patterns never matched any typical current, it moved at its own leisure, as if the lake was playing with it. But just like everything else, it would eventually sink into the depths.

Sometimes things would wash up on shore, bones of birds and animals that had tried to swim. Unsettling to say the least.

Some believed the lake was cursed, but I was never one to believe in magic. Still, it was hard to shake that the lake felt- alive. It could feel happy and sad and angry, and the environment and the surface of the lake acted on these. Unpredictable as ever.

I was afraid. There were so many uncertainties visiting a lake like this. But it was practically impossible to ignore the strange comfort I got staring into the darkness, pondering its depths, and admiring its beauty.

Curiosity’s temptation always calls until it receives an answer.

I found myself visiting more and more frequently, and spending more and more time amongst the quiet solitude of the lake, although I never felt alone. It became a habit to visit the lake everyday. I’d bring a blanket and set up atop one of the rocks that presented the best view. I’d sketch, read, nap. I’d watch people come by with their own stories. They’d leave things for the lake. Throw things into the lake. Walk around the border. I’d hum and sing and whisper conversations to myself. It felt like someone was listening, and conversations with myself and some distant party became common.

I wanted to share ideas and stories and life, until speaking out loud became less to help myself understand and more for someone else to listen to.

I was always so careful to clean up after myself. Not leave anything behind. I didn’t want to upse- I didn’t want to lose something I might regret letting go of. But I guess I was distracted, lost in my head, and I forgot.

I only realized that I had when I went to visit the lake the next day. It was missing. I must’ve left it behind. I looked everywhere for it. Even places I had never actually visited by the lakeside. I searched and searched til the sun started to set.

I didn’t know what to do. Perhaps the lake had- no that’s impossible. The lake couldn’t have taken it. It’s up on the rocks. So someone else- but there was no one else around. I couldn’t have lost it.

Even if it didn’t have much monetary value, I had spent weeks by the lake side using it, and it didn’t feel right to not have it. I can’t believe I lost it, and I couldn’t help but cry at my own incompetence.

I hadn’t realized how close I’d gotten to the edge until it was too late, and one misstep caused me to fall into the lake. I only had a second to catch a breath before I was submerged into the darkness.

In moments that catch you off guard you find yourself doing things you never would’ve before. And I opened my eyes, not like it helped since I couldn’t see anything. I had no idea where I was and no sense of direction. The surface was missing, and panic began to settle deeper within me.

My mind began to focus on my breath, or the lack of breath. I hadn’t been ready to be submerged, and I could feel the choke hold my lungs had on me, begging me for more air. Air I couldn’t give it.

Was this it? Was this where I was to die. I suppose it could be worse. My flesh could be melting off my body, but the darkness was surprisingly tame. I wouldn’t say cold just as much as I wouldn’t say hot. It was- comforting. Like being held. And the darkness seemed to wrap itself around me. I couldn’t tell if it was trying to help, or trying to push me further down. But I was unwelcome either way.

I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold my breath, but maybe there was no point holding onto something I couldn’t control. Maybe I should just-

Two massive orange- um- eyes appeared before me. One with a slash straight through. I swam backward, startled. What was this thing? Some sort of lake creature? I wasn’t even aware anything lived inside. I thought- this must be what eats the creatures that get stuck.

They got closer, and I tried moving away, but I was stuck. I couldn’t move, and the tugging and flailing of my arms was only met with resistance. The glowing eyes circled me, settling behind me and than looked up. Up! That was the surface!

I swam up as fast as I could, following the refracting orange light all the way. My lungs longed for another breath. I could feel it leaping in anticipating until finally, I breached the surface and gasped for air in a fit of coughs. Quickly, I swam toward the beach, pulling myself completely out of the lake and a little extra for good measure.

It was dark now, the final glitter of the sun settling behind the mountain. All the beauty the lake offered by day as an oddity left when given the dark abyssal nature it had by night. It looked as if nothing was there. As of the universe itself ended in this very spot.

I pulled my knees up to my chest as I tried to get myself to move. A wave brushed itself on the sand, over and over until something was left on the beach.

That was mine. What I’d been searching for! I found it or- it was returned to me. I looked out over the lake again. Quiet and still as ever.

———————-

I don’t know how comfortable @somerandomdudelmao is with fanfiction of their own persona, but the very intriguing idea of a sentient, completely black lake divined me with inspiration and I had to write out an idea. I tried to keep it mysterious in nature because I have a lot of unknown variables. I also wanted people to put themselves in these shoes, so this isn’t about me per se. I wanted the lake to be as inspiring as it is mysterious, trying to embody a bit of Cass in it.

[schrijverr]

You Don’t Know Me, But I Know You 2

Chapter 2 out of 6

5 times Tim showed he stalked Robin + 1 time Jason did

Inspired by this post of thecrazyleader.

On AO3.

Ships none

Warnings: none

~~~~

2. A Familiar Password

“Fuck, I need some of the case files on the Crawfort case, but I haven’t digitized them yet,” Dick’s voices comes over the coms. “I’m on a stakeout and can’t go get them. Can anyone go pick ‘em up and bring them to me?”

“I’m out and about. I can swing by, no problem,” Tim replies.

“Pff, out and about, are you a grandpa?” Steph snorts.

Tim graciously ignores her as he asks: “Which safe house?”

“The one in Cobble Hill, on the border with East Park Side,” Dick answers. “Do you know it?”

“Oh, yeah, that one. I know where that is,” Tim says.

In the moment, Dick thinks nothing of it, turning back to his stakeout. He listens to Tim drive, before coming to a halt. As Tim walks up the stairs to the safe house, Dick starts: “The spare key is-”

“Behind the hallway radiator, I know,” Tim cuts him off, as there is an audible click of the lock. “Is the safe still in the cupboard with the sink?”

“Y- Yeah, how did you know that?” Dick asks, though he doesn’t wait for a reply. “The password is 493117.”

“Still?” Tim’s voice comes out highly judgmental. “You’ve had that password for this safe since you bought it, that’s terrible security!”

“What?” Dick chokes.

“Really? You know how B gets about security, did you ever pay attention?” Jason asks.

“Yeah, like I know password updates suck, but that’s excessive,” Steph agrees, always ready to get on the gossip or shade train. “When did you buy that thing again?”

“Ten years ago!” Dick exclaims. “Which is why he can’t possibly know that. I haven’t even had anyone over in that safe house.”

“Nah, but you aren’t very good at shrugging off a tail, especially at the end of your Robin days, you were fucking cocky back then,” Tim says casually. “Besides, this safe is, like, in full view of the window and you don’t really check if anyone is watching. Again, terrible security.”

“Oh my god, is this from your stalking days?” Steph asks.

“Baby Bird, don’t spread lies, I’m great at shrugging tails,” Dick whines. “And I wasn’t cocky.”

“You were definitely cocky and very annoying,” Jason pipes up. “But I do have to say, Timbo, that is very fucking creepy. You were just following us home and peaking through our windows?”

“I didn’t do it to your homes, Jason, just safe houses. I wanted to know what you were working on,” Tim says, an eye roll obvious.

“No names on the coms,” Bruce reminds them, suddenly speaking up where he’d been silent throughout the previous interactions.

“Don’t you have anything to say about this? Replacement just confessed to peaking through our windows,” Jason says indignantly.

“Not your windows, just this one safe house,” Tim complains. “And it’s not even that much of a safe house, I found it when I was eight.”

“I don’t have anything to say, no. Like all of you, I already know of Red Robin’s previous occupation,” Bruce answers, obviously trying to stay neutral enough so he won’t get caught up in a war between his children. “It’s in the files, if any of you bothered to read those.”

“This is so unfair,” Dick whines.

“You have a file on RR’s stalker behavior, since when? Why didn’t you tell me about that, oh sweet ex of mine?” Steph asks.

“Oh shut up,” Tim mutters, embarrassed. Before he swiftly changes the conversation: “Nightwing, en route to your location. File obtained.”

[arthistoryanimalia]

#FishFriday :

Two Sides of a Bengal River #Fish

India, Calcutta, c. 1804

Pencil, opaque watercolor, & gold on paper

On display at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (2004.176)

🆔 “This painting most likely illustrates a Bengal tongue sole fish (Cynoglossus cynoglossus), so-called for its unusual flat shape. The artist who created this work has illustrated two views-top and bottom—of the same creature, executed on paper in pencil and watercolor with traces of gilding. The mottled, scaly surface of the fish's body is carefully rendered with a subtle metallic sheen, as are its mouth and eyes and the dark spots along the body.

The work is from the collection of Marquis Wellesley, Governor General of India between 1798 and 1805. His collection of natural history paintings numbered around 2,660 folios depicting plants, birds, mammals, insects, and fish. In his important position, Wellesley regularly received presents of rare flowers, birds, and animals from East India Company servants all over India and from travelers visiting from further east. The gifts were kept in a magnificent menagerie and recorded in paintings such as these.”

[sennenpharaoh]

Just to clarify what's going on Atem's end:

Mana and Mahaad are searching via magic and a bird's eye view. They've already deduced that the east path is a diversion and are now down to two, Mana took one, and Atem and Mahaad are searching the other.

Roy and Riza are searching by foot, using Aki's nose to track Yugi's scent and find him that way.