#box sash windows | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daviddwebb9099 · 1 year ago

Text

Reviving a Classic: Modern Upgrades for Box Sash Windows

The beauty and charm of box sash windows

Step into a world where time stands still, where every glance out of your window transports you to a quieter, more graceful era. Box sash windows are not just mere openings in the wall; they are works of art that capture the essence of historical architecture with their detailed joinery and delicate balance mechanisms. Join us as we delve into the enchanting world of box sash windows, unveiling their hidden stories and celebrating their enduring beauty that effortlessly bridges past and present in our modern lives.

Common issues with traditional box sash windows

Traditional box sash windows are beloved for their classic charm and elegance, but these iconic features also face several common issues. One of the major problems is draughts, as these windows can often be less energy-efficient compared to their modern counterparts. The design of box sash windows can make them prone to letting cold air infiltrate a room, resulting in higher heating bills during colder months.

Another prevalent issue with traditional box sash windows is their susceptibility to rot and decay. Over time, moisture can penetrate the wood and cause it to deteriorate, leading to structural damage and compromising the window's functionality. Furthermore, maintaining and repairing traditional box sash windows can be time-consuming and costly due to intricate glass pane configurations and intricate mechanical systems. Homeowners need to invest in regular maintenance or risk facing potential issues such as jamming or broken cords.

Luckily, there are solutions available that address these common problems with traditional box sash windows. Installing secondary glazing is an effective way to improve energy efficiency by creating an additional barrier against draughts without altering the window's original appearance. Additionally, advancements in materials have led to rot-resistant options such as uPVC or timber that has been pre-treated against decay – providing homeowners with a longer-lasting solution. Finally, considering replacement options like slimline double-glazed units or sliding sashes can offer improved insulation while retaining the timeless aesthetic that makes these windows so popular today.

Modern upgrades for improved functionality

When it comes to modern upgrades for improved functionality, one area that often gets overlooked is traditional box sash windows. These beautiful and timeless features of a home can be made even better with a few simple updates. For example, adding double glazing to your sash windows can significantly improve energy efficiency and reduce outside noise. With the advancements in technology, you can now have all the benefits of modern insulation without sacrificing the classic look of your windows.

Another upgrade that can greatly enhance the functionality of your sash windows is installing a spring balance system. This clever mechanism replaces the old-fashioned pulley system and allows for smoother operation and easier maintenance. No more struggling with sticking or rattling windows - with a spring balance system, opening and closing your sash windows becomes effortless. Additionally, these systems are designed to last longer than traditional pulleys, saving you money on future repairs or replacements.

One final upgrade worth considering is adding window locks for increased security. Traditional box sash windows are not always known for their robust locking mechanisms, which can leave your home vulnerable to break-ins. By installing modern window locks specially designed for sash windows, you can gain peace of mind knowing that your home is secure against unwanted intruders. Plus, these locks can be discreetly installed so as not to detract from the appearance of your beautiful sash windows.

Energy-efficient solutions for box sash windows

When it comes to traditional box sash windows, energy efficiency may not be the first thing that comes to mind. However, with advancements in technology and design, there are now several energy-efficient solutions available for these classic windows. One such solution is the installation of double-glazing. By fitting two panes of glass with a layer of insulating gas in between, double-glazed sash windows can significantly reduce heat loss and draughts, improving thermal comfort and lowering energy bills.

Another energy-efficient option for box sash windows is the use of draught-proofing techniques. Traditional sash windows tend to have gaps and cracks that allow cold air to enter and warm air to escape, leading to energy wastage. Draught-proofing involves sealing these gaps using various methods such as adding brush strips or seals around the frames and rebates. This not only improves insulation but also helps reduce noise pollution from outside.

In addition to these solutions, it's worth considering secondary glazing as an energy-efficient option for box sash windows. This involves fitting a discreet secondary window on the inside of the existing window frame, creating an extra layer of insulation without altering their appearance from the outside. Secondary glazing helps enhance thermal performance by trapping heat between the two layers of glass while also reducing noise infiltration.

By exploring these energy-efficient solutions for box sash windows, homeowners can maintain the charm and character of their traditional windows while enjoying enhanced comfort and lower energy consumption.

Enhancing security without compromising aesthetics

When it comes to home security, many homeowners find themselves torn between functionality and aesthetics. However, there is no need to compromise one for the other, especially with traditional box sash windows. These elegant and timeless windows can enhance your home's security without compromising its overall aesthetic appeal.

One way to enhance the security of traditional box sash windows is by adding key-operated locks. These locks are discreetly installed within the window frame and provide an extra layer of protection against intruders. Additionally, reinforced glass can be used to make it much harder for burglars to break into your home through these windows. With advancements in technology, laminated glass options are now available that not only improve security but also provide sound insulation and UV protection.

Another innovative way to enhance security while maintaining the charm of traditional box sash windows is by using window film. This translucent material acts as an additional barrier against forced entry attempts while still allowing natural light to illuminate your living space. Window film provides a cost-effective solution that can be easily applied directly onto existing glass panes without altering the window's original design.

By considering these enhanced security solutions for traditional box sash windows, homeowners can have peace of mind knowing their homes are well-protected without sacrificing the beauty and authenticity these classic windows bring.

Maintaining and preserving the classic style

The allure of a classic style can never be underestimated. Whether it's in fashion, architecture, or interior design, there is something timeless and elegant about preserving traditional elements. Take, for example, the beloved classic feature of traditional box sash windows. These windows have been a hallmark of architectural charm for centuries and continue to captivate the eye with their refined simplicity.

Maintaining and preserving these unique windows requires some care and attention but is well worth the effort. Regular cleaning helps to keep them looking pristine while also allowing natural light to flood into your space unimpeded. Repairing any damage promptly is crucial in order to prevent further deterioration and maintain their integrity as an essential part of your home's aesthetic appeal.

In addition to maintenance, there are also modern techniques available for enhancing the energy efficiency of traditional box sash windows without compromising their classic style. Installing double glazing or adding draught-proofing strips can significantly improve insulation while still retaining the character of these charming features.

By taking the time to properly maintain and preserve classic elements like traditional box sash windows, you not only enhance the visual appeal of your space but also contribute towards preserving a cherished tradition that has stood the test of time. Embracing this blend of old-world charm and modern functionality allows you to create a truly captivating living environment that embodies both elegance and practicality.

Conclusion: The perfect blend of tradition and modernity

In conclusion, the perfect blend of tradition and modernity can be exemplified by the integration of traditional box sash windows into contemporary architectural designs. These classic windows are known for their elegant and timeless charm, but their compatibility with modern technologies makes them an ideal choice for homeowners seeking a harmonious balance between the past and the present.

One of the key advantages of traditional box sash windows is their ability to retain historic character while offering enhanced energy efficiency. With advancements in materials and design, these windows can now provide excellent insulation, minimizing heat loss during winter months and reducing energy consumption. This combination not only preserves the aesthetic appeal of older buildings but also increases sustainability.

Moreover, these traditional windows offer more than just visual appeal; they provide a link to our cultural heritage while catering to contemporary needs. The craftsmanship that goes into manufacturing box sash windows contributes to their enduring popularity in historical restoration projects. By incorporating such elements into modern homes, we embrace a sense of history and appreciate the artistry that has been passed down through generations.

The integration of traditional box sash windows into modern architecture encapsulates our desire for nostalgia, authenticity, and innovation. It allows us to celebrate our rich heritage while embracing technological advancement. As society continues to evolve, it is essential to find ways to bridge tradition and modernity – blending old-world charm with new-age convenience – creating spaces that honor our past yet propel us towards an exciting future.

#box sash windows #best box sash #london

0 notes

anythingeverything0000 · 1 year ago

Text

Energy Efficiency in Style: How Box Sash Windows Can Save Money

Energy efficiency is a key concern for homeowners looking to reduce their carbon footprint and lower their energy bills. One effective way to achieve this goal is by investing in the finest quality sash windows. Sash windows not only enhance the aesthetic appeal of a home but also provide numerous benefits when it comes to energy efficiency. By minimizing heat loss and reducing the need for artificial cooling or heating, these windows can significantly contribute to creating an eco-friendly and cost-effective living environment. In this article, we will explore the various advantages of energy-efficient sash windows, highlighting how they can transform homes into more sustainable and comfortable spaces.

What are box sash windows?

Box sash windows are a classic and elegant choice for homeowners seeking the finest quality sash windows. These traditional windows consist of two vertical sliding panels, or sashes, which can be opened from either the top or bottom. One of the key features that sets box sash windows apart is their smooth operation and excellent ventilation capabilities. With a simple pull on the sash, homeowners can effortlessly control the airflow in their home, allowing for a comfortable and refreshing environment.

In addition to their functionality, box sash windows are known for their timeless beauty. Crafted with meticulous attention to detail, these windows exude a sense of sophistication and charm that enhances any architectural style. The finely crafted frames showcase elegant joinery techniques that add depth and character to both modern homes and period properties alike.

How box sash windows can improve insulation?

Box sash windows have long been a popular choice for homeowners due to their aesthetic appeal and timeless elegance. However, what many people may not realize is that these windows can also significantly improve insulation in a property. With the advancement of modern technology and the use of innovative materials, box sash window companies are now able to create energy-efficient solutions that help reduce heat loss and enhance thermal performance.

One key feature of box sash windows that contributes to improved insulation is their double glazing design. Unlike traditional single-pane windows, double glazing consists of two glass panes separated by a layer of air or gas. This additional layer creates an effective barrier against external elements, preventing cold air from entering and warm air from escaping the property. As a result, homeowners can enjoy a more comfortable living environment while reducing their energy consumption and lowering heating bills.

The cost-saving potential of box sash windows

Box sash windows have long been revered for their elegance and timeless appeal, but did you know that they also possess impressive cost-saving potential? As homeowners become increasingly conscious of energy consumption and rising utility bills, investing in box sash windows from a reputable box sash window company can be a wise decision. These windows are adept at retaining heat during the winter months, effectively insulating your home and reducing the need for excessive heating. Additionally, their design allows for efficient ventilation during the summer, eliminating the need for power-hungry air conditioning units.

One of the key reasons why box sash windows excel in saving costs is their ability to reduce heat loss. The traditional sliding mechanism of these windows ensures a snug fit when closed, preventing drafts that can seep through gaps commonly found in other styles.

Box sash windows as a stylish addition to homes

Box sash windows have long been admired for their timeless elegance and classic design. As a stylish addition to any home, these windows not only enhance the overall aesthetic but also provide practical benefits. A reputable box sash window company can help transform your property, giving it a touch of sophistication and charm that will be the envy of your neighbors.

With their sliding mechanism and slender frames, box sash windows offer an abundance of natural light while maximizing space efficiency. The smooth operation of these windows allows for easy ventilation and cleaning, making them both functional and convenient. Additionally, their traditional look adds character to any style of architecture, be it Victorian or Georgian, creating a sense of heritage that is sure to impress visitors.

When seeking the perfect box sash window company for your home improvement project, it is crucial to choose one with experience and expertise in this specific field.

Conclusion: Embracing energy efficiency with box sash windows

Box sash windows have become increasingly popular in recent years, and for good reason. Not only do they add a touch of elegance to any home, but they also offer excellent energy efficiency benefits. By choosing a reputable box sash window company, homeowners can embrace energy efficiency and enjoy lower heating bills.

One of the main reasons why box sash windows are so energy-efficient is their ability to provide effective insulation. With their double-glazed panels and tight-fitting frames, these windows prevent heat from escaping during the colder months and keep cool air inside during the summer. This not only creates a more comfortable living environment but also reduces the need for excessive heating or cooling, ultimately leading to significant cost savings on energy bills.

Additionally, box sash windows often come with advanced features such as draft-proofing strips and weather seals that further enhance their thermal performance.

#energy efficient #box sash windows #london #best box sash windows

0 notes

lokisgoodgirl · 1 year ago

Text

Secretive Santa: The Lakes [Loki x Reader]

The Lakes Masterlist / Regular Masterlist Summary: (8) Seasons may have changed, but some hearts still need soothed. And what better time than Christmas for some well-intentioned mischief? Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Usual Lakes fare. Established relationship. Theve (?) Soft smut , mild angst, humour, fluff and cunning plans throughout. (w/c 7.3k)

You would never forget the look on Thor’s face as the Fiat had drawn up the loose stone drive to the cottage. The glow of his smile was visible through the windshield at 100 paces.

As he and Rogers had exited the car with a spring in their step, you were starting to think the last two days had been just what everyone had needed.

The air was crisp this morning, winter’s first biting chill stinging your cheeks.

Steve’s face was glossy and fresh with the flushed sheen of recent spa treatments. His forehead shone. He strode towards you with a nod, extending his hand to shake Loki’s with a quiet ‘howdy’ as Thor brought up the rear.

‘Do you really think they slept together?’ you’d gaped to Loki as you’d lain in bed after dinner last night, thoroughly sated with food and sex. Loki had laughed gently, making your chin bounce on his bare chest. ‘There were twelve condoms in the pack I bought to get a rise from Rogers,’ he’d replied. An eyebrow had risen as you stared vacantly. ‘How many times have we had sex, darling?’ Loki had continued.

A smirk had played at the corner of his perfect mouth, still glistening with your arousal. It was burned into your memory. The soft mischief in every line.

You had bit your lip, the look of intense concentration on your face making Loki chuckle again. ‘Full, or just oral?’ you’d replied wilfully. ‘Ten,’ Loki had mouthed, raking a hand through his hair as he arched his back. One of his legs draped over the side of the single bed. ‘There were ten in the box when they left. So either-’ ‘It’s happened, or it’s going to!’ you’d gasped. Loki had shrugged. Maybe, his silence had said - but he was still smiling. Now, you tilted your chin as Thor stood beside Steve.

The captain hooked an arm around the blonde god’s shoulder, the pep of the men’s familiar pleasantries filling the air like birdsong. Thor’s followed suit, giving each other an affectionate pat before breaking apart. “You guys ready to blow off?” Steve asked, gesturing to the Fiat.

Loki’s nose wrinkled. “I humbly petition to sit in the front passenger seat this time.” he muttered, making his suitcase disappear in a flash of green. “We can take turns,” Thor offered. A relevation.

Startled, Loki’s eyebrows rose. You looked between them, smiling as the men nodded agreement in sage trifecta.

Although you’d been lumbered driving for the next seven hours back to the Essex compound, it would be another world than the trip up had been. And besides, none of these particular Earth's Mightiest Heroes could drive stick.

“Let’s go home,” you murmured, meeting Loki’s eyes as his hand slid into yours with a squeeze. “Home,” he smiled.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. The seasons changed again. But thankfully, Loki had not.

Frost adorned trees lining Central Park were visible from the god’s bedroom window. Like cake toppers, you mused as you pulled the curtains behind a sash, dusted with icing sugar. A pair of strong hands slid around your waist, slippers nipping at your heels as he moulded his stomach against your back.

Long fingers tugged against the loose sash of your robe.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured against the muss of your morning hair. His breath was warm in the shell of your ear, the heat of his skin sinking from his bare chest through your gown.

You could feel the bulge in his loose pyjama pants pulse against your ass. “They need me,” you whined, tilting your chin to meet his pleading eyes. He knew you couldn’t resist those eyes. Christmas lights on the tree in the corner lit up the golden veins of his irises. “I need you,” he retorted. The wounded tone of his voice tugged your heartstrings.

You rolled your eyes.

Loki tutted. “Agent?” he warned playfully. Playful, but no less devastating. It made your core flush with ill-timed desire. “We don’t do that anymore.” It had become a mantra. An amber light which snuffed out behaviours that no longer had a place in your relationship. And expectation of equality, you conceded, worked both ways. “Come back to bed,” he husked again, deeper this time.

Loki’s forefinger looped around the sash of your robe, stepping back slowly. Two steps, then three. You followed, falling to his lap as he sat back on the mattress. “It’s cold outside. Rogers will understand.” You scoffed, curling the mess of his hair behind one perfectly formed ear. Whatever happened, it needed to sound believable. Just a normal mission. A normal mission. “It’s not Steve I’m worried about,” you said.

Loki frowned, urging you to continue as his fingers danced dangerously up your leg. They began to massage the curve of your ass beneath the silk. “It’s your brother – he’s been antsy all week. All month, actually. Chewed Scott out the other day for being late – even Steve was embarrassed.” Loki’s hand paused. “Will he be there? On this ‘very important mission’?” he muttered, staring at your breasts with a faraway look in his eyes. “My brother, I mean…” You swallowed, the oath of utter secrecy bubbling behind your teeth, willing itself to be broken.

You managed a half-hearted shrug. Loki’s pinched fingers slid down the opening of your robe, before raising his gaze with a wolfish glint.

“Perhaps Rogers is rubbing off on him,” he quipped, lips stretching in a smirk. You slapped his shoulder lightly, trying to stand before Loki pulled you back in. His lips traced your own, inhaling against your breath. “Or on him,” he finished smugly.

You slapped his shoulder again.

“It’s been ages since the lakes, and neither of them have said a word,” you huffed, standing and shrugging your robe to the floor.

Taking a moment to enjoy the awed slant of Loki’s brows, you turned and made your way to the small selection of clothes you kept in his rooms. “If they were a thing, we’d know by now. They barely speak to each other these days.” You unhooked a combat suit, feeling the weight of Loki’s stare on your naked ass. “Has Thor said anything to you?” you asked innocently, glancing back over your shoulder. The god’s eyes snapped from your rear to your face.

“What?” he coughed. He was hard. “Has Thor said anything to you?” you repeated, trying to hold in a satisfied smile. “About him and Steve?” Loki crossed his legs, trying to dampen the arousal pumping through his veins. “No,” he sniffed. “But he is acting particularly meat-headishness of late. I should speak to him.” “You should-” you said, pulling the suit over your shoulders and sliding the zip upwards. Loki’s crestfallen eyes lingered as your cleavage disappeared from view. “I should-” he muttered absent-mindedly as you drew closer and leant down to give him a kiss. His train of thought dissipated in the air.

You paused, feeling his breath cloud around your mouth. As much as you wanted to stay, this was important. The secrecy that surrounded Steve’s message had made that clear.

Loki kissed you. First soft, then firm. A promise.

And the warmth of it lingered as you made your reluctant way down the Tower elevators and into the crisp New York December day.

You checked the top right corner of the screen nestled in your thick gloves. Nine seventeen. Shit. The dot on the GPS moved up East 50th street. Skies had darkened, clouds threatening snow. Wreaths and lightbulb-adorned foliage hung against shop windows, festive displays catching your eye.

That jacket would look incredible on Loki, you thought fleetingly; before the shade of a skyscraper loomed above. Making a mental note to come back and get it, you paused; taking a moment at the railing. It overlooked the golden statue in Rockefeller Plaza. Even at this time in the morning, skaters made their way around the rink with various displays of aptitude. A man who reminded you very much of Colin Robertson hung stiffly onto the side as his other half skated backwards, encouraging him enthusiastically. You smiled. “Thanks for coming,” a voice murmured over your shoulder.

You clutched your chest. “Steve!” you gasped.

Ever since the lakes, the relationship with your superior had become a lot more familiar. An unexpected bonus. The captain wore a thick hat low on his brow. And sunglasses, of course. A navy blue jacket was zipped up under his chin. He looked stiff, hands jammed in his pockets. He glanced anxiously over his shoulder while you leant against the railing. “You going to tell me what this is about, now?” you said quietly.

Steve nodded curtly, clearing his throat. It fogged the air. “Seems I drew Odinson in the secretive santa and I need your advice.” You arched a brow, ‘secretive santa’ making your lip twitch with laughter which would be entirely inappropriate.

“Go on,” you mustered warily. Steve cleared his throat again, removing his sunglasses. He produced a small microfibre flannel from his pocket, beginning to polish them. “You know him better than I do, see” he mumbled, meeting your sceptical gaze. You titled your head. Steve’s cheeks were pink. And not from cold. Not just from cold, anyway.

“I don’t know about that,” you replied softly. The captain’s eyes narrowed, searching for any hint of ulterior meaning.

“You spent a lot of time together before the cabin,” you explained, seeing his face soften. “- which I appreciate, by the way. We both do.” You squeezed his hand. “I think together we can find the perfect gift – don’t you?” Steve exhaled loudly. It was relief. “Well, I did have one idea I wanted to run by you…” he smiled shyly.

Your eyebrows rose.

In response, Steve nudged his head towards a store on the other side of the plaza. A smile stretched across your face.

“Perfect!” you cried, making Steve cringe. “Keep your voice down,” he hushed, wincing as a passer by jostled his shoulder. “I don’t want that Heimdall character ruining the surprise.” You laughed playfully. “If you’re on his radar then-” you started, before thinking better of it. Thankfully, Steve was too busy putting his sunglasses on and tugging the woolly hat down to notice.

FAO Schwarz was heaving with shoppers. Crowds bustled around elaborate displays of every toy imaginable. Normal-looking businessmen and women clutched large paper bags with boxes slotted in expert precision making their way quickly past you to the entrance. Trying to fit in what they could before work, you reckoned. The superheroes of the everyday. New York’s iconic toy-store was a Christmas wonderland, wreaths adorning pillars and large glittering snowflakes hanging from tall ceilings. Paul McCartney’s chirpy vocals rang from concealed speakers, heralding the season. Steve paused beside one of the perfectly coiffured trees lining the walkway through the store, glancing shiftily over his shoulder. “Maybe you should lose the sunglasses?” you suggested. He nodded reluctantly, slipping them into his pocket. “It’s over here,” he murmured.

He was frowning lightly, concern in those famously blue eyes. His Captain face. If you weren’t acutely aware of the context, you might be forgiven for thinking that this was a super-serious mission.

But, you reminded yourself, for him...maybe it is. You decided not to make light of it.

The two of you slipped around several hordes of shoppers towards a wall at the back of the store. Rows of plush animal faces stared vacantly in immaculate lines. Steve stopped. He folded his arms, spreading his feet in a stoic stance.

“There,” he said firmly, nodding towards a modest circular display. “Oh my god,” you whispered, eyes widening.

Out the corner of your vision, you saw Steve’s chin snap towards you; the feeling of his anxious stare beating into your profile. A grin spread on your lips. “It’s perfect,” you squealed, turning to him. You gripped his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “You’re a genius. He’ll love it.” Steve blushed, looking down. He scuffed his foot on the polished floor. It squeaked. “Golly,” he muttered, smiling bashfully. “You really think?”

You nodded, meaning it with your whole heart. “Perfect.”

Loki pursed his lips. He could hear the neolithic grunting of his brother doing some manner of inane task in the kitchen up ahead. It echoed.

Apparently, Thor had not been called to whatever mission had stolen you from his bed after all.

He rounded the corner, immediately tensing. The God of Thunder stood hunched over a toaster, miniscule in one meaty hand. In the other, he had a knife jammed deep in the contraption, wiggling it around. “You should turn that off at the wall, you know-” Loki drawled. Thor looked up, smiling.

“My breakfast is entrapped, brother. There is no other way.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “I thought you weren’t doing that anymore,” Thor muttered, demeanour hardening. "The rolly-eye-thing."

Loki bristled. “For some things there is no alternate or adequate lexicology to express oneself, brother.” Thor humphed, rattling the knife deeper.

A blackened pop-tart fell to the counter amid a cascade of crumbs. With silent vindication, he raised it in his grasp and shook it in Loki’s direction. A triumphant grin spread across his face as Loki slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “So?” Loki said smoothly, tilting his head. It was a loaded syllable. Thor’s brow scrunched. Loki wasn’t sure if it was the bitterness of his ill-gotten prize or the vagueness of his opening gambit which caused it. “What?” Thor crunched. Flecks of burnt fell with abandon to his scruffy beard and a white muscle vest stretched tight on his chest. It was stained with what looked like mustard, and chocolate - one hoped.

This is not that garment's first dawn, Loki thought. He sighed pointedly. “Look, we’ve been dancing around this for weeks. Your increase in short-temperedness and decrease in both affinity and hygiene has been noted.” The blonde pressed his fingers sarcastically to his chest, eyes wide. “You talk of me?” he exclaimed incredulously before chuckling, shaking his head.

Without warning, Thor released a thundering fart. It tapered to a whining toot before he spoke again. “You must be mistaken brother.” Loki didn't flinch. Not even a millimetre.

“I am not,” was Loki’s curt response. He clasped his hands on the counter-top, now marred with specks of charred pop-tart. They looked like ants. His disapproving eyes rose to meet his brother, now looking shifty. He was chewing, avoiding Loki’s analytical stare.

Thor flicked his hair back. It had a crispness to it. Some kind of resolve settled over his features, and there was a sharp glint in his eye Loki didn’t like.

“Have you told her you love her yet?” his elder brother quipped bitterly. Sarcasm seeped from him like steam. Or maybe that was the lingering stench of flatulence. “Again?” Loki tensed, resisting the bait. “That is none of your concern.”

He straightened, making space as Thor leant on the counter opposite, fist propped beneath his chin. The blonde batted his eyelashes innocently. Loki wanted to punch him. “Oh but it is, brother-” Thor smarmed, lip curling in a smirk that Loki would recognise in a mirror. “I am most concerned about it indeed.”

The two of them sat in silence, unspoken asgardian curses curling the air. “A truth for a truth?” Loki postured coldly, circling his fingertip on the counter. The question hung in the air. An old compromise last involked in their youth, in the days of the cabin-with-no-place.

It had become such a staple of breaking their stubborn stalemates that Frigga had commissioned the Asgardian Crones to weave a token.

‘To solidify the sentiment, for harmony’ she had said.

Millions of silken threads created the finest handkerchief in Asgard, an ombre of green and red which softened in silken waves to the centre; melding to one. Harmony.

On it, hand-stitched in the truest gold were the words. The only words which could provoke amnesty between the heirs. The symbol exchanged between them at times of familial discord. Whoever held it, must forfeit one admission for another or face the consequences.

En sannhet byttet mot en sannhet, A truth exchanged for a truth, Loki mulled as he traced a dark vein of the marbled counter-top.

It was not an accord invoked lightly. The ceremonial handkerchief itself may be lost to places known only to few, but once uttered, the oath must be fulfilled. He followed the winding tendril to the edge before meeting his brother’s eyes. Thor snorted, slapping the hand beneath his chin to the surface. “Fine” he gruffed.

“You and Rogers-” Loki cut in, seizing the moment. He watched his brother’s brow crease, short-lived victory turning to regret. “Is he the cause of the foul mood which has plagued you these past weeks?” Thor shuffled his feet, pushing himself upright against the counter. “I see not business that is of-” he began to parrot, but Loki waved a dismissive hand. “Brother, please-” he snapped sharply. “Even adorned with our lifespans, this banal rhetoric could last us to the gates of Valhalla.” He watched as his brother’s features relented, a quiet sigh rising in his chest. Thor swallowed. “He will not speak of it,” he muttered.

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Of what?” Thor’s jaw set, looking at his brother with exasperation. “Our amorous union, short-lived as it was.” A small smile played at Loki’s lips.

Vindication, he thought. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

He summoned the willpower that had become so familiar from his newly-trained approach to your relationship, reminding himself that vulnerability was to be encouraged, not exploited. Carefully, he re-adjusted himself on the stool. He made sure he looked sympathetic. “I wasn’t sure if-” “Yes, yes…” Thor mumbled dismissively, glancing around the walls. Pink had risen in his cheeks.

“Rogers asked me not to say anything. But methinks it’s all for nought now regardless.”

“So the two of you...at the cottage?” Loki probed.

Thor nodded. “It started as a ruse, a part of the plan should it be required to stay you in the correct location but-” he swallowed.

“When the moment arose, the moment took me...us, and- our kinship, such as it was, had changed somehow. The nights we spent setting things in motion for the two of you, we grew closer. I cannot place it, brother. I just…”

“That sounds familiar,” Loki said softly. Without realising it, he had reached for his brother’s hand.

Thor squeezed it, staring down as he continued. “The love of a male is not unfamiliar to either of us-” Thor said, glancing up briefly. “But to Rogers…” he trailed off. “-It is all unfamiliar.” Loki finished. His brother nodded. “At the spa...we talked about what the future could look like. Many plans were made, but-” Thor swallowed thickly. “-when we returned, things were different?” Loki murmured tentatively.

Thor nodded again.

Loki knew that fear all too well. He would be lying if he said that his heart hadn’t pounded the whole flight home, wondering if a return to reality outside of the bubble created in the cottage would return you to your senses too. The thought of losing you again had been almost too much to bear. “I know not if it is his values. His image. Whether his feelings have changed or whether the intrigue was more of an allure than reality- he has barely spoken two words of warmth since our return. And when he does speak – I find myself behaving most unbefitting my feelings. Pushing him further, like you did.” Tears welled in the blonde’s eyes.

“Or perhaps it is I, brother,” Thor continued, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. It twisted Loki’s heart. His elder brother released a mirthless chuckle of resignation before continuing, fingertip circling on the marble anxiously. “Perhaps it is I.”

In seconds, Loki stood and rounded the counter.

He drew his brother close, feeling the strength of Thor’s grip tentatively curl around his shoulders. The god’s chest heaved, shallow breaths ricocheting against Loki’s neck. He found himself pressing his brother’s head into his hold, trying to steady the silent sobs swallowed with every gulp of air.

Had they ever embraced like this? Loki didn’t think so. Not that he could recall. But, strangely, he found he didn’t care.

“It’s alright, brother” he heard himself murmur, not knowing what else to say.

Thor choked back a shuddering sigh as Loki continued to stroke his hair. He rested his chin on his brother’s head, closing his eyes. “It’s alright.”

A paper bag adorned with toy soldiers rustled by your feet below the table.

Steve had given strict instructions to keep it in your sight while he bought coffee. You peeked inside again, smiling.

Somehow, you’d managed to convince him to while away a little more time before heading back to the Tower, citing Loki’s suspicions. But really, you just wanted to spend time with him.

Ever since the lakes, Steve had softened – which wasn’t a bad thing. In some ways you felt much closer, but in others; from others – he seemed to be pulling away. “Careful, it’s hot” he quipped, nudging the wooden chair out with his foot.

He squeezed to sit at the world’s smallest table that you had commandeered in the corner of the café. You mouthed thanks, pulling the mug over. “Reminds me of the cottage,” you smiled; looking up innocently. Steve’s eyebrows peaked, before he frowned lightly. “I guess,” he muttered. Festive jazz played over the bustle of mid-morning conversation and clinking plates. The milk steamer spluttered endlessly behind the bar. You scooped a blob of cappuccino foam onto your finger, sucking it off. It was now or never. After all, it was Christmas.

“Are you alright, Cap?” you started deferentially, hoping that the softness you felt in your heart shone through. Steve looked up, blue eyes deep in thought.

“Can I trust you, Agent?” he asked warily as his gaze glanced over your shoulder. Your features softened further, tension easing. You reached across the space between you, fingers curling over his forearm. “Steve,” you whispered. “I owe you so much. So much. I care about you, and Loki does too.” Steve’s brow arched sceptically. “He does,” you smiled, squeezing his arm. The smile fell gradually as you studied his face. “You can trust me,” you said quietly. Seriously. The captain nodded, taking a deep breath. “I…” he started.

Your brow twitched, an uneasy feeling spreading under your skin as Steve readjusted his feet beneath the table. His fingernails scratched at the wood, tapping as he glanced out the window and back again. “I…” he pursed his lips, avoiding your eyes. “-fucked up,” he hissed. Your stare widened. “Steve!” you gasped. He looked at you sheepishly. “Apologies,” he muttered. Clearly, your look of abject confusion was enough to spur him on. He leant forwards, urging you to do the same. A woman stood at the next table. Both of you watched her leave. Steve turned back to you, his eyes trained on the coffee cup nestled between his palms. “Our...mutual friend. The blonde,” he said quietly. You squeezed his arm again to signal understanding. “Well...as it turns out, I enjoy his company a bunch.” Steve’s eyelashes fluttered upwards, bashful gaze swimming above pink cheeks. He bit his lip. “A bunch. You see?” “I see,” you replied gently. Steve released a wistful sigh.

He licked his lips, fingers playing with the mug handle. “Things happened at the lakes that I didn’t expect. That I never woulda...that I-” he sighed, hanging his head.

“I told him it was a mistake.” He blew out a puff of air. “What a ninny,” he chided himself under his breath. You tilted your head. It was breaking your heart. “Do you think it was a mistake?” Steve shook his head, sighing again. “No,” said quietly. “But now he won’t talk to me. Not like before– as though he’s realised it was a mistake. He’s done with ol’ chum over here. I can’t blame him. I guess it’s not a big deal for a god and whatnot but for me-” Steve swallowed, words drying up. “Trust me, I know how it feels” you whispered.

Steve’s eyes met yours. They were glassy with tears, darting from your own to the pictures hanging on the wall and back again.

“I fucked up,” he breathed again. His voice trembled on the swear.

“It’s alright,” you cooed sadly as your thumb stroked Steve’s palm. You squeezed again. "It's gonna be alright."

Loki paced back and forth across the rug in his living room.

He’d tried buzzing your apartment four times at thirty minute intervals. Each time, he had been left more enthused than the previous.

His mind was alight with the thrill of the plot.

Through an entirely subtle process of elimination over the past hours, he had deduced that there was only one member of the team you could be with on this auspicious morning. Rogers. And after his conversation with his brother – he needed the intel you had most certainly gathered – whether intentionally or no.

There was more to this ‘mission’ of yours than met the eye, of this he was certain. He was certain, because he had planted the seeds himself.

There was a knock at the door. Loki’s feet skidded back against the rug in his haste to the handle, throwing it wide and bustling you inside.

“-Loki-” you gasped while he glanced to either side of the hallway before spinning you against the wall with a ravishing kiss.

His senses came alive beneath your touch. The bright cool of your skin, the scent of coffee and spiced gingerbread clinging to your hair; an almost imperceptible tacky patch on your cheekbone where some soul had left a passing kiss. Lipbalm. Rogers.

“What have you been up to my secretive elf?” he purred against your parted lips. Your coat hung open, the avengers uniform you had donned this morning for his benefit, he was sure; on half-display.

“I...uh-” Loki smirked as your palms steadied against the wall. You were panting, face flushed from the onslaught of his affections. Fingers raked through your hair as you met his eyes, blinking several times.

“You tied your hair back,” you noted, dazed.

Loki scoffed at the attempt at subterfuge, grabbing your hand.

“Come,” he said as he pulled you towards the sofa. You landed with a soft bounce as the god took centre stage in the living room. He pressed his fingertips together, hands peaked in a triangle. It touched his lips briefly. “Brace thyself, darling” he drawled. Unbuttoning your coat, Loki felt his gaze fall down the black material tight to your arms. It clung to your chest, the zip far too low for any official business. His stare lingered on the curve of your waist, how it taunted and teased him as you shuffled back on the sprawling sofa.

“Consider me braced,” you said pointedly. He cleared his throat. “My brother,” he started, pausing for effect. You stared at him expectantly.

Loki admitted to himself that he was a little disappointed you did not seem more intrigued by the fatted bounty of gossip he was about to spill forth. But he decided to maintain the theatre it deserved regardless. “-is in love with…” he paused again, smirking mischievously- “Rogers.” Your head fell back, landing in the cushions as your hands covered your face. “Oh thank fuck for that!” you gasped, beginning to laugh despite yourself. Loki frowned. This was not the response he had expected.

Between sighs of relief, you peered through your fingers at the bemused god. He was standing with his hands on his hips, the irritation palpable. The foot began to tap.

“Come here,” you placated. Patting the cushion beside you, his face softened; but an eyebrow remained raised.

“I would have thought my most excellent investigations would yield a smidgeon more praise from you my dear,” he said with feigned annoyance as he sat. “Nonetheless, I imagine your response means welcome news?” You nodded. “Steve feels the same. At least – I think he does.” Loki’s face scrunched. “You think? Please. Rogers should be on his hands and knees thanking the norns for my brother’s affections.” It was your turn to frown. “But Steve doesn’t know how Thor feels – your brother’s been palming him off.” Loki smirked.

“Not like that,” you sighed as you fell back again against the cushions. “We have to do something Loki...they’re mad about each other. They both think the other isn’t interested for one reason or another. They just need-” “-a little nudge?” Loki purred.

You met his stare. Those beautiful eyes swirled with the warm glow of the treelights, sparking mischief in golden flecks buried in deepest blue. Shadows cast by candlelight danced in the carve of his cheekbones.

“A little nudge,” you repeated, tilting your head with a knowing smile.

“After all, it would be rude not to return the favour. Don’t you agree?” the god murmured as his fingers danced up your suit.

They fastened around the zip at your chest, pulling slowly down. In seconds, Loki had gracefully shifted and buried his face in your cleavage. Hot kisses worked against the skin, breath warming any hint of chill still lingering in your bones.

Your hands slid past his temples as he made it to your neck, fingers winding in the lengths of his ponytail before pulling it free.

“Minx,” he slurred against the curve.

You could feel the sharp of his teeth against your collarbone as he smiled. Hands sliding over his broad shoulders, you took a moment to appreciate the tight knit of the camel sweater he wore at the meat of his biceps. Camel, he’d insisted. Not beige. And in the heady afterglow of lovemaking amidst a sea of sparkling Christmas lights, a cunning plan began to form.

You made your way to the common room, gift-bag swinging.

The presents that you and Loki had procured for your team-mates sat nestled inside – one for Scott, one for Wanda.

The tradition was a fairly new one, but a highlight of the festive calendar. On Christmas Eve, before outsider guests for Tony’s annual party began to arrive- the Avengers gathered and exchanged all manner of tat and risque shit. You often wondered how much the picture on your phone of Bruce holding up the dinner-plate sized cock ring Tony had made for him would fetch on the open market. But you had decided long ago that it was priceless. “Brother!” you imitated in a deep, accented growl.

Thor spun on the common room sofa, his wary look melting to a wide smile. You ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He spun, making you squeal. A whining mash of faint tunefulness emitted from his chest as the god lowered you to the ground. Jingle Bells. “Ah, you pressed the penguin’s nose” he hummed, booping the knitted beakish blob. “He sings,” he explained, pleased with himself. “I can see that,” you said as you made your way to the tree. “But turn around – you can’t see which presents are ours...” Thor obliged, smiling as he busied himself fluffing a garland by the fireplace. "Perhaps we should invite my Penguin friend to the carol concert at Stark's festive jamboree tomorrow," he boomed across the room. You watched him, remembering the feeling of acting normally while tendrils of heartache wrapped around your insides.

"-Certainly, he can hold a tune better than I" Thor continued, chuckling to himself. A pang of sadness mellowed as you turned back to the pile beneath the tree. Scanning, you tried to look for one that could be Steve’s – but none fit the bill. “Okay I’m done,” you said casually as you stood. Thor continued fluffing the garland. You sidled over, trying to act casual. “Have you um...added yours yet?” Thor shook his head regretfully. “Having a little trouble with my assigned giftee” he muttered. His eyes flickered to yours guiltily. “There is something I wish to give them, but I am unsure it would be welcome.” A small smile played on your lips. “Something tells me any gift of yours would be welcome,” you said, watching his bottom lip roll beneath the top with a sceptical grunt. “Is it something I can help with?” you probed, “maybe a second opinion would ease your mind.” “No,” Thor mumbled. He sighed. “I fear this is something I must endeavour alone, sister.” You frowned. How the fuck did Thor manage one of these cunning plans, you wondered as Michael Buble crooned in the background. “I wished to speak to you as it happens,” he murmured. Your lips pursed. The tone of his voice, the tension in his shoulders. Flashing lights interwoven in the fireplace garland illuminated a newly crimson hue to his skin. “Did my brother...mention anything to you of late?” You snorted. “You’ll have to be more specific when it comes to Loki. He never shuts up,” you smiled, feigning ignorance. Thor chuckled. “Indeed,” he said as he picked at a ribbon. “Well then...more specifically about, me.” You shook your head. You hated lying to him, but in this case – it was for the greater good. The god nodded softly, still inspecting the ribbon between his fingers. “Good. Well. That wasn’t what I wished to speak to you about anyway.” You swallowed. Cryptic Thor was never a welcome guest at any gathering. “My brother,” he continued cautiously, eyeing you before moving his fingers to another strand of greenery hanging over the side of the mahogany mantel. “-He intends to declare his love for you this Yuletide.”

Your jaw dropped, neck craning forwards. “Oh,” was all you could manage.

The side of Thor’s mouth twitched in an apologetic smile. “I am aware that your relationship has been, what is the parlance...taken ‘back to basics’ in some respects-” “Yeah,” you mumbled. Suddenly the ribbons decorating the garland looked very interesting. You and he stood in silence, straightening Pepper’s ornamentation.

Thor cleared his throat. “Knowing you the way I do sister,” he said softly, “I thought that forearmed would be forewarned.” “It’s the other way around,” you snipped. "Forewarned is forearmed." Out the corner of your eye, you saw Thor’s face fall. “Sorry,” you added quietly. The god’s hand curled around your shoulder, pulling you to him in a brief sidehug before releasing it.

“It’s just...we agreed not to rush things,” you explained under your breath.

You knew that he knew this, but verbalisation was needed. The cogs of your mind whirled.

“We haven’t moved back in together, we just keep a few things at each others places...go on a lot of dates, we’re working on ourselves, you know? Avoiding the mistakes we made last time. Like...well, like rushing things.” Thor turned towards you, bicep leaning against the mantle-piece as he listened diligently. You could feel the track of his gaze over your face.

Unable to take it anymore, you turned to look at him. “He’s doing so well, Thor. We’re doing so well. I’m happy. Really happy,” The words sounded panicked. You hated that. Thor reached out, cupping your hand in his. “I just...I don’t want it to ruin anything,” you finished. Looking up, the god’s concerned stare was waiting like you knew it would be.

“Do you love him?” was all Thor said.

Heat rose in your cheeks.

The truth was that you did. That you always had, and probably always would. But in hindsight, those three little words had heralded the beginning of the end last time. When his rose-tinted effort to contain the smarm and arrogance had well and truly gone absent without leave.

In some ways, the old Loki had taken your love to mean your unending loyalty. Unconditionally, in the truest sense of the word. Your unquestioning support and adulation no matter his behaviour, however many times you tried to stand your ground. And while his actions these past months had gone a long way to assuage those lingering doubts – the fear that it could flare up his old habits made your blood run cold.

Seconds ticked on while Thor’s question hung in the air.

“I thought it best you have time to consider it before the moment was upon you,” he said quietly. “My apologies if I have overstepped.”

You shook your head, linking your fingers through his. Without realising, tears had begun to prick your eyes. He raised a palm to your cheek, wiping away a droplet which had spilled over the rim. “No tears, sis” he rumbled lovingly. “It’s Christmas.” You felt a weak smile grow as Thor extended his forefinger. It lingered in the air between you. He paused, raising his eyebrows.

He moved the finger slowly to the penguin’s beak.

It pressed against the jumper. Against the lumpy misshapen knob of black knit, Thor's eyes never leaving yours.

And as the squeaking whine of electronic Jingle Bells filled the air, it dissolved the scent of sadness into a waft of cinnamon candlesmoke. You and the god of Thunder began to laugh.

Loki leant against the counter of your kitchenette.

He watched as you waited for the kettle to finish boiling, staring at it intently. Something was off. Your fingertip ran around the rim of a glass teapot sitting on the side. Loki could smell the spiced chai leaves from here. “Are you alright, darling?” he ventured cautiously. You offered a weak smile as the kettle clicked off the boil. Steam billowed around your jawline as you poured.

Loki was careful not to let his face betray the nerves bubbling in his stomach. If he was honest with himself, he’d been waiting for something to crop up that would throw the fine-sailing vessel of your relationship off-course.

It’s only a matter of time until she changes her mind, he’d think with twisting sadness as he watched you sleep. With me, it’s always just a matter of time.

He absorbed the purse of your lips, the absent-minded wipe of a droplet of tea from the counter-top before you blew the steam gently. Its motion sent a wave of rich tea and spices in his direction.

Your slipper socks rustled against the tiles as you made your way over to him, still resting against the counter’s lip. You set the mug down to his side, hands sliding over his hips. They clasped behind his back at the base of his spine.

“I have to talk to you about something, and it’s not easy-” you murmured softly.

Your eyes were wide and vulnerable, a slight tremble of your lip making his heart race. The scent of your festive perfume filled his nostrils, like ginger biscuits.

“Go on,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure he could manage much more.

You swallowed thickly, fingers toying with the back of his sweater. Black, today. Loki hoped it was not an ensemble of foreshadowing. “I ran into your brother in the common room."

Loki exhaled a sigh of relief. “Oh,” he breathed, a small smile breaking. But your expression didn’t change. The god felt your fingers pull nervously against his sweater. Bad for the knit. “He um-now, don’t be mad at him-” Loki began to frown. “He uh, mentioned that you were maybe thinking about...um, saying something soon. To me.” Realisation blossomed, vines of anger and embarrassment twisting around the thought as he cursed his brother’s loose lips. He should have known. Loki swallowed, feeling his features harden but being unable to stop it.

Your gaze fell, the trace of your fingertips around his middle as you brought them together in front of you; pulling nervously at the ends.

“That devious, two-faced buffoon” Loki muttered bitterly, concerned eyes darting back to your face. “I told him that in confidence.” You looked up at him incredulously. “Well, he told you about Steve in confidence.” “That’s different,” he snipped, noting the immediate rise of your eyebrow. “It’s you.” he finished, glancing to the floor as he felt his cheeks begin to flush. “Loki…” he heard you begin softly, curling a rogue strand of hair behind his ear. He couldn’t look. “Loki,” you repeated, firmer this time. Your forefinger nudged beneath his chin, tilting his face up. He wondered if he looked as wilted as he felt. From the look in your eyes, he suspected he did.

“I understand,” he heard himself say. It was petulant. It was cold and detached in a way that scared him. The warm hit of your lips meeting his unexpectedly made his knees buckle, hands bracing against the counter-top. Your palms slid up his chest, over the tensed ropes of shoulder muscle, over the curve of his neck. Everything was in that kiss. The heat, the longing, the need. “Loki,” you breathed softly into his open mouth. “Mmm,” he mewled, eyes closed. “I love that you feel that way, I’m just…I’m scared that-” Loki opened his eyes. He saw a swirl of tears threatening the beautiful hues of your irises. There would be no tears of sadness this Christmas, he had decided. Not on his account. “Afraid, of things that may change?” he probed quietly. You nodded.

Loki sighed, cupping your jaw. He ran a thumb back and forth across your lips, moist from the kiss. “Change be not always a harbinger of doom, I hope the last few months have reassured you of that.” You nodded again. “I know that it's different now, it just...took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected...I just-not yet...” you trailed off. Loki smiled softly. The way your body was pressed against him, as close as you could be. The way your fingers gripped and grasped against each dip of muscle it encountered as though he would turn to dust if you did not.

Loki realised in that moment that if this scenario had occurred years before, he would have been insulted. He would have been childish. Enraged, perhaps, at the audacity of the woman he adored doubting him. But now, all he felt was closeness. The bravery of your admission that he felt his soul. That you trusted him again.

Words, he pondered as he placed a lingering kiss on your forehead. What wounds have I inflicted on this woman with words.

Action must once more be paramount. The words can heal, he realised as he memorised the softness of your skin beneath his lips. But words can wait. “Perhaps we can agree” he began, measuring every syllable with the rise and fall of your chest against his own, “that, should you feel comfortable in doing so...you could, say it first- when it is right for you. When it is right for us.”

His voice was deep and melodic, a rumbling lullaby of devotion he willed would still your thundering heart. He hoped you could feel the love simmering in those words. He had never hoped anything more. You tilted your head into the curve of his neck, kissing the exposed skin. “-and be safe in the knowledge the sentiment will be returned, when you are ready” he added quietly.

Your hands slipped once more around his hips, pulling him tightly against you with your head buried in his neck. Loki held you like that, letting the waft perfume from your hair fill his nostrils.

I love you, he mouthed silently.

The soundless click of his tongue over mute syllables wound its way through strands of your hair.

He felt your fingers begin toying with the waistband of his trousers. A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Darling,” he purred as your head left his shoulder. You tilted your face to meet his gaze, alight with the comfortable joy he knew so well.

“You’re amazing,” you whispered. A smile had spread across your face that made Loki’s heart burst. The first button on his chinos popped. “Well, quite-” he smouldered playfully. Loki felt his hips rock upwards into your waiting palm, a low groan bubbling in his throat while you stroked the arousal growing beneath cotton. “You fixed the secret Santa, didn’t you?” you coaxed. Changing the subject, Loki noticed. But he let it pass. It was hardly a question.

Loki rolled his lips, pondering. “I may have ensured that my brother and Rogers drew each others names, yes.” He let out another moan as you squeezed the thick root of his cock through the chinos. “Good boy,” you hummed. It sent a shudder of need up his spine.

“How long have you been planning this?” you said, beginning to walk backwards with Loki’s sweater firmly in your grip. He chuckled, curls tapping against his jaw. “A while,” Loki smouldered. “Seeds that I have planted have sprouted most elegantly. Although there were a few pieces of the puzzle which remained unclear until the last few days.”

You paused, making the god’s stomach collide with yours. He released an exaggerated ooft.

“Final pieces of the puzzle? Like the fact they actually have feelings for each other?” you giggled. Loki shrugged non-nonchalantly. You were playing. “A minor detail,” he drawled. “Everything needed to be in place, just in case.” Your mouth hung open, stunned into silence. “It’s Christmas,” he added with mock-incredulity – as though it explained everything. “Miraculous things happen at Christmas in this realm, do they not?”

His fingers curled around your shoulders, switching your positions and lowering himself to the sofa. He widened his legs, hips flexing upwards. Fairy lights gleamed and sparked their warmth in a halo, golden spills rolling over your skin as you pulled the jumper you wore over your head. Firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows against the walls.

He would never understand the beauty of you. And perhaps, Loki surmised, he did not have to. It was his fortune to appreciate it, not question it.

A finger twirled in the air, evaporating his clothes in a seasonal golden and scarlet shimmer. Yours followed. Loki’s thighs widened further as you manoeuvred onto his lap, covering his mouth in a hungry kiss. His fingers raked through your hair, hips bucking up as he sought the sweetest harbour his body had ever known.

“Say it again,” he pleaded darkly as you slipped a hand between your bodies, guiding his throbbing cock to your entrance. Twin gasps cut the air as you seated yourself on the thick tip, slow motions rocking down into shallow moans. “Good boy,” you murmured lovingly in his ear.

Loki let his head fall back against the cushions, fingertips sinking into the soft rounds of your ass as he bottomed out. He let you work against his body, feeling your pleasure spill and slip against the taut veins of his cock. Every little gasp, every breathy groan of his name. Your god. Each slow roll of your hips met the gentle buck from a clench of his ass. Your god. He was yours, completely.

You knew that now for certain. He was sure of it. And all the while, a few floors below, his brother was wrapping a gift for Steve Rogers.

As the final strip of crinkled sellotape was placed firmly against the paper, and as the ribbon he had smuggled from the common room garland was retied- one might have been forgiven for thinking a green light glowed within it; leaking from loose edges.

Thor had frowned, doing a double take.

The package seemed to tingle in his hold. The blonde put the strange feeling down to nerves.

But as his younger brother lost himself in pleasure, spilling his seed and his devotion within the arms of his beloved; the gift had been made whole in Thor’s oblivious hands.

A gift that would change everything.

Continued in Comfort and Joy (Final)

Tags

@lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @mrs-illyrian-baby @icytrickster17 @muddyorbs @buttercupcookies-blog @goddessofwonderland

#the lakes #loki x reader #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki fluff #loki x female reader #loki odinson #loki (marvel)#loki imagine #loki x you #loki x female reader smut #loki x yn #loki x reader smut #loki gif

524 notes · View notes

angelic-wh0re · 9 months ago

Text

Out like a light >ᵥ_ᵥ<

Boxer!Eren Yeager x Onyankopon lil sis!black fem reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔

Your big brother, Onyankopon, was a well-renowned fighter in the boxing industry, winning belt after belt due to his exceptional skill. You were proud of him, especially considering the hardships you both endured for him to reach this point.

There's a twelve-year age difference between you, with him being 34 and you being 22. Since the moment you were born, Ony has been the one taking care of you because your emotionally unavailable parents felt they didn’t need to. He stole for you, bought you food, and ensured your education by enrolling you in tutoring programs under your parents' name to secure your graduation, admission to a good university, and a high-paying job. Fighting was how he made his money.

When it came to you, Ony didn’t play, so you could only imagine his face when he sees a video of his main opponent basically flirting with you at a coffee shop.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔

Today was a very slow day for you. Your lectures were stupidly long and boring, your friends were all busy, AND on top of all that you dropped a cookie you were eating in a puddle when you were walking to class. Now you find yourself working on a assignment for your chemistry class in a coffee shop.

As you were working, you heard a large commotion coming from the entrance of the store. Turning to see what it was, you were blinded by flashing lights emanating from the front windows of the store. Deciding not wanting to have these lights in your eyes, you turned back and continued working.

After about 30 minutes you grew hungry. Cursing yourself out for not getting any food before hand, you made your way to the register. On the way there, you got a notification on your phone causing you to look at it.

Sash 🫡 :

YALL WANNA HANGOUT LATER????

Y/n 💞 :

oh so when I ask if y’all want to hang y’all don’t wanna respond 🙄🙄 (oh and sure>.<)

Con 🤓 :

thats because you be asking us at the most god forsaken hours😒

As you were typing out your response, you bumped into someone. (cliché i know but y’all bare with me 🙏) “Oh I’m sorry..” you say before you see a cake pop fall to the ground. Now you were really sorry. The man in front of you groaned in frustration. “Watch where you’re goin-“ he paused when he turned around. Staring at you as if he was lost for words.

“I’m so sorry. Please let me buy you another one.” You offer. An unexpected low “Damn” fell from the man’s lips leaving both you and him confused. “No it’s fine” he says when he snaps back to reality. “Oh come on! It’s my fault so I’ll buy you a new one! I’m going there right now anyways!” You insisted eager to fix your mistake. The man turns looks at his friends and then looks back at you. “Ok um sure.” A small smile forming on his lips.

"Here," you said, extending the cake pop to him with a sheepish grin. "Sorry again." "You really didn't have to do that," he replied, his gaze shifting to the dessert now in his hand. "No, no! I had to!" you insisted, your smile widening with sincerity. He returned your smile, gratitude in his eyes. "So... do you have a name?" he asked. "Oh, umm it’s (y/n)! What’s yours?" you responded. "Eren. Oh, um, Eren Yeager," he replied shyly.

As you processed his name, a wave of recognition washed over you. You'd definitely heard that name before. That's when it clicked. The paparazzi, the wounds on his face. everything fell into place, and you suddenly realized who he was.

"You're that boxer, right?" you said, unable to contain your excitement as you grinned at him. "Oh, umm, yeah," he replied, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "Do you like boxing?" he asked, trying to shift the focus away from himself. "I mean, my big brother's a boxer," you replied casually, feeling a of pride as you mentioned your brothers job.

"Really? Who is he?" Eren asked, his curiosity piqued. "Onyankopon!" you replied proudly, the name rolling off your tongue effortlessly.The feeling Recognition formed on Eren's face. That's where he'd seen you before—linked to the famous Onyankopon.

Eren and Ony were headlining for this highly anticipated boxing event, were they are facing each other in the ring. Throughout the years of both of their boxing Journeys, there have been very mild beef between the both of them. But nothing to Extreme.

"Hope you don’t mind me beating up your brother," Eren teased, flashing a mischievous grin at you. "Umm, I don’t think you will," you replied, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you bantered back. With a subtle nod, you motioned for him to follow you back to the table where your belongings stood.

Eren obliged, his smile widening as he fell into step beside you. "So, what do you do?" "I'm in university right now. I want to become a dermatologist," you replied. "Oh, really? That's cool," Eren responded.

"Hey, so um," Eren interrupted you, halting your steps. You turned to face him, curious about what he had to say. His smile was infectious, and you found yourself returning it. "I was wondering if you'd want to talk more," he continued. “I would love to but my class is starting in a few minutes and..” you look at the paparazzi still flashing there cameras at him. “You also look busy.” You return your gaze back to him. He looks behind him and sulks. Their still here?

"Then can I get your number?" Eren asked, eager to continue talk to you more. Your smile widened at his request, flattered by his interest. With a playful glint in your eye, you reached out for his phone, causing a flicker of confusion to pass over his face. "For my number," you clarified with a smirk, enjoying teasing him just a little. "Oh, um, yeah," Eren stammered slightly, fumbling in his pockets until he located his phone. Once he retrieved it, he handed it over to you.

"Here ya go, honey," you said teasingly, handing Eren his phone back with a playful smile dancing on your lips. His cheeks flushed slightly at the nickname, caught off guard by the endearment. "Thank you, pretty," he replied, mustering up the courage to flirt back, his attempt at charm accompanied by a sheepish grin. As you prepared to leave, Eren's gaze lingered on you, reluctant to see you go. "Text me when you get home," he requested softly, his sincerity evident in his tone as he watched you pick your stuff up and leave.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔

>ᵥ_ᵥ< : ITS MARCH BREAK YALL IM FREEE !! I might make a part 2 of this😙

339 notes · View notes

slippinmickeys · 16 hours ago

Text

The Unseelie Court (5/16)

They had awoken early, before sunup, and Scully had drifted through the dark passage of the connecting door and into her own room, closing the door behind her. She met Mulder outside an hour later, tying the sash of her light woolen coat.

When Mulder turned the engine over to get the heat going, he looked over at her.

“Sheriff’s office or morgue?” he asked.

“Sheriff’s office, I think,” she said. “We need to submit the leaf into evidence before the chain of custody gets murky. Then maybe we can all head over to the morgue together and figure out just what the hell is going on. I had the diener run another set of dental X-Rays on the new body.”

“The old body,” Mulder said.

“The body,” Scully conceded, somewhat testily.

Though it was past sunrise, the light was moody and Mulder turned on his headlights before he swung out of the motel parking lot. The radio gave a squelch of static and Scully reached forward and snapped it off, a heavy sigh briefly fogging up the passenger window, hiding the gray day on the window’s other side.

“You okay?” Mulder asked as they bumped over the curb and onto the roadway. It was something he probably wouldn’t have done before they’d started sleeping together, but a newly vulnerable part of him worried he’d done something wrong.

“Fine,” she said. Of course.

Mulder sighed himself, his mood suddenly matching that of the weather.

The sky wasn’t overcast; it was depressed, the cloud cover drooping so low it seemed to lean on top of the trees.

The drive was short, no more than five minutes, and they were out of the car and strolling through the front doors of the Sheriff’s office before they’d had time to figure out a game plan.

The deputy who’d met them at the morgue the evening before was sitting behind the duty desk, and he seemed just as startled to see them as he had twelve hours prior.

“Deputy Miller,” Mulder said. “Before we talk to the Sheriff, I have some evidence that needs to be added to what the forensic unit pulled from the lakeshore yesterday. Can you see me back to the evidence room, please?”

“Um,” the deputy said. “Can I see your badge again?”

Mulder and Scully both flipped them up.

“Alright,” Miller stood. “Okay. Um, follow me.”

For lack of anything else to do, Scully followed them, through the still fairly empty bullpen and into a back hallway, where Miller fumbled with a ring of keys before finding the right one and unlocking the evidence room door.

The deputy led them to a bankers box and handed over a clipboard to Mulder before removing the lid off the top and taking a step back. Mulder stopped writing when he looked down inside.

“This is the wrong box, son,” Mulder said.

Intrigued, Scully moved around his other side and peered in. Inside the box, encased in sealed plastic evidence bags, were the red toy bucket from near the body on the beach, as well as the beer bottle and coins. But the bottle was that of a weathered Bud Light, and the coins from Daly’s pocket were just a handful of dull pennies. The iron ingot was nowhere to be seen.

“This is the box from yesterday,” Miller said, going pale. “It says so right here.”

“The victim had a pocketful of rare coins and an iron ingot, and the beer bottle near the body was not Bud Light,” Mulder said.

“Excuse me,” said a loud voice from the doorway. “Can I help you?”

All three of them turned to see the Sheriff standing in the doorway looking thunderous.

“Miller, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, taking a step inside. “No one but law enforcement is allowed inside the evidence room. If the Prosecutor’s office finds out about this—”

“They’re FBI!” said Miller, at the same time Mulder said:

“Sheriff Cox.”

The Sheriff stopped his rant, cocking his head at Mulder.

“We were just logging in evidence we got from our initial examination of Daly Carmichael in the morgue,” Mulder explained. “We ran into a bit of a situation last night and were hoping for your input.”

“You’re here about Daly Carmichael?” the Sheriff asked. “I didn’t think the FBI had jurisdiction, but I’d be more than happy to accept your help with the case.”

“Sir?” Scully said, confused.

“I don’t know who called you, but—”

“You did,” Mulder said, setting the evidence log book down on top of the file box. “You called me. Yesterday morning.”

“I think you must have mistaken me for someone else. Did one of my deputies…”

Mulder turned and looked down at Scully, exchanging confused looks.

“Yeah,” Mulder finally said. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened. It must have been one of your deputies.”

“Mulder?” Scully said quietly. He shook his head at her, just a quick motion and moved toward the Sheriff, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder and steering him out of the evidence room.

“Why don’t you tell me about the case?” Mulder said.

***

“Mulder what the fuck ?” Scully said, the very second they had walked out of the Sheriff’s office doors and into the brisk outside air. She had not called out Mulder in front of LLE for not pushing back on the collective amnesia they all seemed to be suffering, but she sure as hell wasn’t waiting any longer. He’d gone right along with it, reintroducing himself to deputies they’d spoken with yesterday, getting the full run-down on a case they were already investigating. She was appalled.

“Did you see that?” Mulder said, excitedly. “No memory of meeting us yesterday. None of them! That rookie deputy, Andy, standing there in the bullpen. No idea who we were. And Deputy Avery, the relief on his face when the Sheriff asked him to give us the file and I told him we already had it? Avery had no idea where the file was and thought he was about to get his ass handed to him. Probably thinks we saved his career.”

“How do these people have no memory of yesterday, Mulder? It makes no sense .”

“I wonder if your diener Aeon remembers,” Mulder said. “Or if they got to him, too.”

“If who got to him? Mulder .”

Scully stopped short and grabbed Mulder by the arm, pulling him back toward her.

“Mulder, explain to me what you think is going on. Because I’m about to march back in that building and demand an office-wide drug test. Or, I don’t know, look for a hypnotist in the closet! You didn’t press them on the fact that none of them seemed to remember anything about yesterday other than the fact that they found the body of an alleged missing person, nor the very important fact that evidence from the crime scene was very clearly swapped out .”

“Magic,” Mulder said. “I think we’re dealing with some kind of magic. And it started last night the moment you took this out of Daly Carmichael’s mouth.” At this he produced the evidence bag with the leaf in it.

“You didn’t log it in?”

“Under the circumstances? No,” he said.

Scully blew out a breath. She couldn’t argue with that particular decision.

“The Sheriff is going to follow us to the morgue,” Mulder said a little more gently. “Let’s…see how this all plays out.”

He was walking to the car before Scully had a chance to fully register the word “magic.”

***

“This is the body that was found on the beach yesterday morning?” Scully asked, still in her business suit and wool coat. She was standing at the head of the examination table looking down at the older body that had appeared the night before. “In exactly this condition?”

“That’s him,” the Sheriff said. “The techs from Richmond finished up at the scene and we shipped him over here. You said you took a look at him yesterday? Any idea what killed him?”

The Sheriff was standing not far from the table’s other side with Mulder flanking him to the right. Avery stood patiently just inside the door

“I haven’t had a chance to perform the autopsy yet,” Scully said. “All that’s been done is trace.” She turned toward the door. “Where’s the diener?” she asked.

Aeon hadn’t shown his face yet, though the body and everything else was prepped and ready, and the dental X-rays were up and waiting to be looked at in the light box. The Sheriff assured her that copies had been sent to the state forensic dentist.

The night before, Aeon had been just as baffled as Mulder and Scully by the aged state of the body and had agreed to run another set of dental X-Rays.

“Crazy that he was wearing the same clothes he went missing in,” Sheriff Cox said. “All these years later.”

“Assuming this is Daly Carmichael,” Scully said.

“I mean…you don’t think it is?”

“Not without confirming his dental records.”

“I know you’re not a forensic dentist,” said the Sheriff. “But maybe you could take a look?”

Scully glanced over at the dental X-rays in the light box. The ‘70s originals from Daly Carmichael were significantly smaller–the edges of the film rounded and hoary. Scully shared a look with Mulder and he nodded at her. She blew out an unhappy breath but nevertheless moved over to the lightbox and turned it on.

The similarities were apparent the moment she looked at them. The second molar on the left side on all three X-rays showed identical amalgam fillings, each with an odd, distinct shape similar to that of Rhode Island. It wouldn’t take a forensic specialist to confirm that all three X-rays were of the same mouth-Daly Carmichael.

“These,” she said, sighing unhappily, “appear to all be from the same person.”

“Daly Carmichael,” Mulder said, clarifying.

“Yes,” Scully said. “Though I would still like confirmation from the forensic specialist.”

She knew it was a mere formality, but she was determined to do things by the book.

“Still,” the Sheriff said, smiling. “It’s great to get confirmation. And close a case.”

“We still don’t know what killed him,” Scully said.

“Can you find out? Your partner says you’re a forensic pathologist?”

Scully didn’t answer for so long that Mulder took a step forward. “Scully?” he said. “Can you?”

“I can try,” she said.

***

When Scully emerged from the locker room having changed into scrubs, the Sheriff and his deputy were gone and Aeon was back, cornered by Mulder, who appeared to be questioning him.

“So you remember us coming in here yesterday?” Mulder asked him.

“Of course I remember you coming in here yesterday,” Aeon said testily. “Hours after you should have been. And then all kinds of shit happened. You ruined my night.”

“Anybody else here yesterday? Where’s the local ME?”

“On vacation,” Aeon said. “This is a small county, Agent Mulder. It’s just the two of us.”

“Mulder,” Scully said, hoping to diffuse what was turning into a heated conversation.

Her partner turned to her. The diener took the opportunity to step around him.

“Do you need anything else before you begin your examination?” Aeon asked Scully.

“I’m good,” she said.

“I’m not done asking questions,” Mulder said.

“I think you are,” said Aeon, and Mulder’s phone trilled from his pocket. The little man gave him a satisfied smirk.

Mulder reached in and pulled out his phone. “Skinner,” he said, looking down at the display. When he looked back up, the diener had left the bay. Mulder let the phone go to voicemail. He’d call his superior back.

“I guess they didn’t get to your diener,” Mulder said. “Who I don’t think I like.”

“The feeling appears to be mutual,” Scully said. “I’m just glad whatever insanity is happening down there at the Sheriff’s office doesn’t extend to here.”

Mulder had to agree with that one. “Do you think the body has any answers?”

“If it does,” Scully said, reaching out and grabbing a scalpel, “it’s not going to be magic.”

Mulder wasn’t so sure about that. He had long ago accepted that their job turned them into ecstatics, subject to mystical experiences.

He thought about the dark opening into the trees by the lakeside, what he was now sure were Daly Carmichael’s footprints leading out of it.

“While you do this,” he said, moving to the door. “I’m going to go back to the crime scene.”

“Okay,” Scully said, reaching up to turn on the recording mic above her head, catching his eye before looking back down at the body before her. “Be careful, Mulder.”

“I will,” he assured her.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #the unseelie court

22 notes · View notes

ask-dcf · 6 months ago

Text

*Frisk and Chara look at eachother*

*Frisk pulls out a coin from their sash. Chara pulls out a coin from their pants pocket. As if it was no big deal. Alice blinks in a confused manner, surprised to see either of them having money on hand. She tries her pockets in her dress aswell. And ends up finding coins aswell*

*The doll gives a smiled like expression down at them, gently taking the money and allowing them access to the train*

*The three kids get onto the train and the floor looked like stitched patterned pillows and the seats looked like bed cushions*

*Frisk goes to sit on one of them*

*She follows and sits next to Frisk.*

*The doll waves, holds hand up, and taps drawn watch on wrist. Then heads to the front to the toy steam engine*

*They opens item box and pulls out the pastries they still had from back at the castle.*

*She takes a chocolate pastry*

*Grabs a doughnut from the box, taking a bite from it while looking out the window. The train whistles and it slowly begins to move*

*Seems they can finally take it easy as the train begins to move*

#undertale #datatale #datatale au #deltarune #frisk #chara #charisk #alice #rags #ask blog #ask dcf #ch 3 #dark world #darkner #darkerland arc

34 notes · View notes

lollystocks · 5 months ago

Text

Therapy for the Dead and Buried

A Danny Phantom x The Bright Sessions Crossover

DP Crossover Angst Week Day 6 - Runaway

Summary: Alone and in hiding, Danny is sent to mandatory therapy. It's a bit... strange. And unusual.

Notes: First chapter of a multific! Should be relatively friendly to those unfamiliar with The Bright Sessions, as it's mostly Danny's POV.

AO3

“New patient. Session one. Male, seventeen, no known history of psychological counseling. Referred by school for ‘antisocial behavior’, but no examples given, and strong comments were made about his, quote… ‘unsettling vibes.’ Condition unknown.”

It was a very ordinary-looking room.

Danny wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but "boring" hadn't really occurred to him.

The office of Dr. Bright was reasonably spacious, with pure white walls and a thick baby blue carpet. A single sash window overlooked the park, and before it sat a laminate desk - almost certainly IKEA - with precisely organized trays of papers and stationery. No photos or trinkets adorned it. Not even a Newton's cradle, disappointingly.

Towards the center of the room sat two small sofas - firm looking, upholstered in dark blue vinyl. The hospital type, designed for ease of cleaning up bodily fluids. Plump-looking cushions softened their corners. A low coffee table sat between them, sporting a small succulent and a large box of tissues.

Danny had chosen the sofa which faced the window and door, with his back to the blank wall. He got the impression that he'd made the wrong choice, somehow. He didn't give a shit.

The doctor was looking at him, one manicured eyebrow just a micrometer higher than the other. The silence stretched on, awkwardly.

"Um. Sorry. Could you repeat the question, please?"

"Of course. I asked if you knew why you were here, James?"

Danny stared out of the window, into the cloudy sky. There were many ways to answer that question. Classic shrink tactic, probably, to suss out his brain. Most of the answers that came to mind were smartassery - because this is where your office is. Because the bus brought me here. Because of human evolution. Because I'd get kicked out of my school if I didn't come.

What impression did he want to give her? Who did Danny James want to be now? What was most useful to him?

He looked at the doctor's face. "Because people are unsettled by me. I can't help it, but they are. And they want me to stop. Unsettling them, that is. And you're meant to teach me, like, body language techniques or something."

Doctor Bright settled into the sofa a little, like a question had been answered, or a data point obtained. She smoothed the creaseless paper in her lap.

"And what makes you think that?"

"The whole, 'James, there's clearly something deeply fucking wrong with you, and it's freaking out your classmates. Get help,' thing kinda clued me in, Doc."

"I assume you're paraphrasing."

"I'm not, actually. F-bomb and everything. Scout's honor."

"I'm surprised that your principal would use such language with you, James. That must have been disconcerting."

Danny stared at her. That was an unexpected response. "You saying you believe me? That he said that?"

"I do, James. My job here isn't to be a skeptic, or to 'find out the truth'. I'm here to listen, offer advice, and help you learn some skills and techniques to redirect your own behavior and mentality as you wish." The doctor adjusted her glasses. "So yes, James, I believe you. And as your therapist, I will believe whatever you tell me in this room, no matter how... outlandish, you may feel it is. That is my job here."

Danny couldn't help but smile at that, just a little. "That's a sweet sentiment Doctor, genuinely, but you can't mean that seriously. You must get all sorts of compulsive liars or straight-up crazies through here, there's no way you just decide to believe them all."

"Let me rephrase, then. While it's true that many of my patients will tell me things that they know not to be true, I find it best to start from a place of belief. If I decide, after getting to know them, that they are in fact serially lying to me, or are mistaken, I adjust accordingly. But until I can know that? I believe them."

"So if a crackhead told you they could fly. You'd just believe them?"

"I would, yes. Up and until I come to the irrefutable conclusion that they are lying or mistaken. Does that surprise you?"

Danny scoffed. "Yeah, that surprises me. It's nuts. There's no way you can do your job properly like that."

Doctor Bright smiled. "I've found it works best. For one thing, any patients I get through this door will come to learn that, no matter how strange or unusual it may be, they can tell me. I will not judge them, or turn them away, or have them committed."

There was a pause.

"So. You want me to tell you how ' strange and unusual' I am."

"No, James. I want you to tell me whatever you wish to tell me. This is an introductory session, I just want to get to know you."

"Specifically, you want me to tell you outlandish things about myself. Things no one else would believe. Things that make others scared of me."

"James, I merely-"

"Nope. Bye. Tell Principal Khan I failed at therapy, I guess."

He grabbed his backpack, and left.

“End of session one. Patient left abruptly.”

Chapter 2 here

Masterpost here

#danny phantom #the bright sessions #dpcaw24 #danny phantom crossover #prompt: runaway #fanfic #my fanfic #lolly talks #tftdab

27 notes · View notes

stereo-91 · 2 years ago

Photo

The Queen’s Drawing Room CC Now Available For Download

Another English Baroque set taken from the Queen’s Drawing Room at Hampton Court Palace.

I understand that assembling the items can be tricky so, as usual, I have uploaded a template version in my Sims gallery. Search for Rotameters91 to download.

To find the Item’s simply type “Queen’s Drawing Room” in the search box in the game.

LINK:

https://simfileshare.net/folder/188320/

Other CC Below:

Ionic Doors, Fireplace with Lions, Fireplace Ornament and Giltwood Torchere by @thejim07

Georgian Sash Windows, Chandelier & Chandelier Rope by @felixandresims

Console Empire en demi lune by @cliffou29

As usual, any questions just ask.

#sims 4 #sims4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 interior #sims 4 decor #sims 4 cc #historical sims #sims 4 history challenge #sims 4 palace

153 notes · View notes

woodstockjoinery · 10 months ago

Text

Exploring the Craftsmanship of Wooden Box Sash Windows

Delve into the exquisite craftsmanship of wooden box sash windows, where tradition and skill converge to create a hallmark of timeless elegance. Box sash windows, with their vertically sliding design, not only add a touch of refinement to your home but also showcase the artistry of expert joinery.

The craftsmanship of wooden box sash windows is exemplified in the attention to detail, precision joinery, and the use of high-quality materials. Craftsmen carefully select and shape the wood, ensuring each component seamlessly fits together to create a window that not only functions flawlessly but also stands as a work of art.

Health and safety qualified professionals specializing in joinery fitting services play a crucial role in ensuring the seamless integration of wooden box sash windows. Their expertise guarantees that the installation adheres to stringent safety standards while maintaining the integrity of the craftsmanship. These professionals bring a wealth of knowledge to the process, ensuring that the windows not only enhance the aesthetics of your space but also operate efficiently and securely.

The allure of wooden box sash windows extends beyond their visual appeal. They offer excellent ventilation, durability, and contribute to the overall energy efficiency of your home. By embracing the craftsmanship of wooden box sash windows, you bring a timeless and artisanal touch to your living spaces, with the added assurance of a professionally executed joinery fitting service.

#box sash windows #windows

0 notes

thecursedprince · 4 months ago

Text

Aladdin & Jasmine Limited Edition Doll Set – Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Series – Fashionably Late – 12 1/2'' – D23: The Ultimate Disney Fan Event

$299.99

The Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Doll Series–Fashionably Late–is inspired by the magic of moonlit balls and dramatic high fashion couture. Designed by Disney artists, our Princess Jasmine and Aladdin dolls are adorned in breathtaking costumes with intricate golden embroidered detailing and finely crafted masks, both displayed in handsome gatefold window packaging. Ride with us to a whole new world of collectors' delight–shining, shimmering, splendid!Magic in the details

Fashionably late, fiercely on point! The Disney Heroes and Villains are here to make an impression. Not even a lost invitation from a royal courier can keep them from attending the show-stopping Midnight Masquerade. They've finally arrived, and they are owning this magical moment. The blend of mystery and moonlight comes to life in this stunningly sophisticated collection. Designed by Disney artists, these dolls are adorned with intricately crafted masks, featuring iconic motifs that capture the innocence of our heroines, along with the dark deeds of our villains. This is an event for fans and collectors alike you won't want to miss. Let the drama begin!

Limited Edition of 1,000

Includes Certificate of Authenticity

Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Series – Fashionably Late

Set includes Aladdin and Princess Jasmine

Aladdin wears a satin tunic, vest, sash and puff pants

Detailed, golden accented embroidered filigree, including the Cave of Wonders

Golden jewelry, gauntlets, mask, belt and link chain trims

Sheer organza sleeves

Golden molded shoes

Molded hair

Jasmine wears a pieced satin gown with ombre dye effect

Draped sleeves

Vest with bare midriff

Detailed, golden accented embroidered filigree with ruby red gems

Golden jewelry, crown, mask and link chain trims

Finely styled hair

Rooted eyelashes

Display stands included

Comes in elegant, golden window display packaging with gatefold cover and magnetic closure

Inspired by Disney's Aladdin (1992)

Part of the D23 Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Series – Fashionably Late

The bare necessities

Ages 6+

ABS plastic / PVC / polyester

Aladdin: approx. 12 1/2'' H

Jasmine: approx. 12 1/4'' H

Box: approx. 16 1/2'' H x 15 1/2'' W x 5 3/4'' D

Imported

Item No. 416142943257

#disneylife #disneydolls #instagood #disneyland #disneyparks #disneyprincess #disney #disneystore #dolls #disneyside #disney limited edition doll #disney le doll #aladdin #jasmine #d23

17 notes · View notes

foxglovethicket · 10 months ago

Text

Wild Things

Summary:

Some Nesta x Rhysand for day 7 of @sjmromanceweek !

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta.

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles.

(AKA, the toxic Nesta x Rhys fic that has been rattling around in my brain for months)

Chapters: 1/1

Read on AO3

November 11th. The first snow of the year numbs Velaris like novacane.

White snow, white sky, white salt on the roads. Clean and blank and pure for a new year—her twenty-fourth, as of sometime mid-morning. Upon waking, shivering under her dove-grey duvet, Nesta thinks: twenty-four is the year of not fucking things up.

The kitchen is the fire to her hearth. The spray of small yellow rosebuds in a vase on the island, Gwyn’s flame-lick of hair, Emerie’s embrace, the round smiles that fill their cheeks, the pastry waiting at her seat in a white bag, spots translucent with grease. It’s all warm. it all makes her blood move, down to her fingertips, where they prickle with feeling.

***

Want is a funny thing. The question—what do you want?—I want, I want, I want, like a black hole eating the stars. Nesta wants a lot of things: to be warm, awake, clean and untouched like the snow on her bedroom windowsill.

Emerie and Gwyn had asked her months ago what she wanted to do today—today, she has some extra measure of choice, today she’s allowed to want a little harder.

Today, Nesta wants to read and she wants to dance. And she wants—

No. No. So they tuck their feet up on the couch and pile on the blankets and Emerie makes her hot chocolate just the way Nesta likes it and the next few hours are pages whispering as they are turned, steam rising from half-empty mugs, snow curling down outside the window.

***

It had ended just how it had started: cold wind whipping off the Sidra to slice their cheeks wide open. The first time, it made their mouths split into smiles; the last, into trebuchets of hurt. Neither of them is good at pulling punches. His coat was on her shoulders. He said something, then she, and it was suddenly a vile thing on her skin; she ripped it away and threw it down onto the rain-soaked cobblestones. She didn’t throw it over the bridge, into the river, because that would have been irreversible, but now, now, she wishes she had.

That was September, the last long day before time jumped back and the evenings stopped clinging to the sun.

You’re fucking mine, Nesta.

I’m fucking gone.

She doesn’t think about it. She ruined everything, and it didn’t matter, and she doesn’t think about it.

***

Anyways, she’s good at being fine. She’s twenty-four now and she’s going to be fine forever, starting now. Gwyn has a carefully curated getting-ready playlist blasting from her speaker as she curls her hair. Emerie bites her lip as she draws eyeliner across her lid. Nesta sips from a wine bottle as she stares at her jewelry box: there are the little pearl-drop earrings he gave her when they went to Adriata for a weekend in August. I know you already have a favorite pair of earrings, but I thought these could be nice for the Patron’s Gala, maybe. If you like them.

Nesta fishes them out of the drawer and puts them in. She looks at herself in the mirror until her eyes turn red, and then she drops them back in the jewelry box, and stabs large silver hoops through her ears instead.

She turns off the light in her room and goes to the kitchen. Carefully, she pours the rest of the bottle of wine into a plastic Mountain Dew bottle, sucking the spilled drops from her fingers like it’s precious, and not a fourteen-dollar bottle. She plucks her coat off the hook and her keys from the dish by the door.

The three of them are laughing and chattering as they leave the apartment; Gwyn threatens to buy her a birthday girl sash, Emerie says, I think it’s too late for that, Gwyn says, The party store on East 12th is open until 11, I checked. Nesta says, I will strangle you with your own sash if you even think about it. They only laugh at her threat, and she can’t keep her face from smiling, and it doesn’t even bother her when the snow at the curb smears over her boots. She’s untouched. She’s new. She’s only started learning how to live.

***

It doesn’t really matter how it ended. There one minute and gone the next. He was there and gone, there and gone, like seasons, like purity, like the flash of a camera imprinted on the back of your retinas, there, and there, and there, and gone.

So he’s gone. And good riddance.

She used to like to hold his hand. Liked the strong, slim bones of his fingers, the veins that crawled up the back of his hand; liked running her fingers over the scar on the knuckle of his ring finger. He had a freckle on the inside of his left wrist, too, one she liked to press her lips to. I love you so, she would whisper. I’ll eat you whole.

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta.

I love you so.

Devour me.

***

They step inside the club and check in their coats and the music is so heavy she can feel it pressing right through her muscles and into her bones. She tips her head back. Her spine is one long bass note. Yes, yes, yes.

Bodies shift around her, swaying like stalks of kelp in a western current, and she, an otter twisting among them as she dances. Sleek and warm and with only one wild and carnal drive: hunger.

She wants to devour this scene. The red lights. The upward-reaching limbs. The abandon. The singing mouths, the smell of vodka, the smell of perfume and cologne that surges when pressed too closely among the others.

“11:11,” says Gwyn, not long after they arrive. “Make a wish.”

You already know what she wishes for.

Emerie hands her a shot instead of a birthday candle. It sears her throat and then lights her aflame and she throws herself back into dancing and dancing and oh, when she tilts her head back like this, baring her throat, she feels knifelike and untouchable and violent, like she could strangle the whole world in her fists.

She imagines it. Sinking her teeth in. Getting the snow banks messy. Starting everything over so she doesn’t have to make so many mistakes this time. Sometimes, when Nesta buys a new book, she’ll bring it on the train and accidentally bend a corner when she goes to shove it in her bag in her haste to get off at her stop. Later, she’ll look at the crease, run her finger over it as if she can smooth it away, and fight the urge to buy a whole new copy—one she hasn’t irrevocably marred. She never does buy a new one; she knows, on some level, that it’s ridiculous to even consider it.

No creases this year, she reminds herself. She’s drunk now. Half of her blood is vodka. The music goes even louder, like a reminder or a threat. Emerie is grinding up against a striking blonde girl now; Gwyn is making eyes at someone across the room, sweeping her hair off her collarbones like a challenge; Nesta feels a drop of sweat run down her temples and sucks more swollen air into her lungs, her body greedy for it in the club’s heat.

All the lights go gas-flame blue, and that’s when she sees him.

***

So it ended. Fine. But it had started once, too.

Nesta had been in ballet as a child—no surprise, considering her family: upper class in a pearl-necklaces-and-endive-salads way. Everything was satin slippers and hair slicked back too tightly into unforgiving buns, until her mother died when she was fifteen and her father didn’t care enough to make her continue taking classes. It left her with a lithe body, a hatred of the Nutcracker, and a severe case of perfectionism.

Her favorite show to dance had been Sleeping Beauty, so last winter, when she heard the Velaris Ballet was showing it, she went to see it twice. Once, with Gwyn and Emerie, and again with Elain, except Elain canceled last-minute and Nesta thought about canceling both their tickets and staying home, but didn’t.

So, of course. He picked up Elain’s ticket.

During the show, she could drink up the colorful dresses, the masterful dancing, the beautiful shapes the dancers’ bodies made as they moved gently across the stage. When intermission came, she had no such distraction. There was only the stranger sitting next to her in his night-black suit, and of course he was devastatingly beautiful, how could she not notice? Admiring him was inexorable.

She caught him admiring her right back—those dark blue eyes making a steady, unapologetic map of her face.

It happened in textbook steps, alarming in its simplicity, really: He introduced himself. They talked throughout the rest of intermission. At some point during the third act, his knee made its way to press against hers, and he didn’t pull it away, and she didn’t pull away, either. When the lights flooded back on, the spell broke, or maybe it was cast?, and he asked her if she’d like to see the Balanchine performance with him the following week, and she wrote her number on the back of his hand with a sharpie she’d found in her purse. He had beautiful hands, like a piano player, and she asked if he played, and he said Tchaikovsky was his favorite to play, it was why he liked coming to the ballet.

Several weeks later, she would lie with her head in his lap, those nimble fingers combing through her hair, and ask, Play for me?, and he would, and it would become her favorite sound. And after that, she would sometimes sit on the edge of the bench, or kneel beside it, or stand behind him as he played, and close her eyes and imagine herself moving to the sound. Pas de bourré, pirouette.

But not yet. That would come later.

***

She sees him and the world keeps moving, even though she feels like it shouldn’t. She sees him and the world doesn’t end. It should. It doesn’t.

A current of blue bodies around her. He swims right through them. She doesn’t look at Gwyn or Emerie when he reaches her because she doesn’t have to see their faces to know their reproach.

She’s been locked into those stunning eyes since she first caught them; in this blue light, they are so, so dark, like midnight, and just as devastating. And they devastate her, they do.

Nesta thinks, You can’t unruin this. She thinks it so loudly that there’s no way he doesn’t hear it. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at her, and she just looks at him, and, light with drink, she sways with the other kelp, sways right into him.

She can smell the alcohol on his breath. He’s holding a drink—a gin and tonic. He always liked gin. Elderflower gin, something that sounded fairy-like and ancient, something that smelled divine and didn’t hurt going down. She takes the cup from his hand and downs half. It’s cheap; burns like hell. He takes it back. Holds her stare as he drinks down the rest and drops the cup on the nearest flat surface.

He’s already drunk; she can tell because his face is a little too devastated when he looks at her.

His hands on her waist. Her waist in his hands. His hips pressed to her stomach. Her stomach burning gas-flame blue.

Nesta, he mouths. His eyes drop to her lips. His forehead drops to touch her own, as if he could press a feeling straight from his mind into hers.

Don’t, she says. Or maybe she thinks it.

He kisses her.

She kisses him back.

It’s inevitable, after that.

Gwyn and Emerie don’t even bother to stop her. They know better. He leads her downstairs, to the front of the club. She collects her coat. She follows him out onto the snow-driven street. A fresh coat has fallen since she and her friends went inside those few hours ago. It makes her think of new slates and starting over.

It makes her think of the way her boots crush the powdery snowflakes to grey slush.

You can’t unruin this.

He lives close—close enough that they can’t justify anything other than walking. She doesn’t look over at him and he doesn’t take her hand as they walk, and it’s almost as if they’re colleagues, with this space between them. Space enough for her ghosting breaths to dissipate entirely before they could ever reach his face.

And then—the bridge. The quay. Inevitable, she knew it, knew they’d have to cross the slushy Sidra, but. But.

She can feel him looking at her.

They reach the middle of the bridge, and she can’t keep going anymore. She’s shaking, knees knocking together embarrassingly, like a child. Nesta stops and she turns and she looks at the snow on the bridge and hates it for how serene it seems.

“I missed you, Nesta,” he says.

Past tense. He doesn’t anymore. He has her now, is what he means. He won't let go again, not like last time.

“Are you cold?” he asks. “Do you want my coat?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head, still looking down at the snow. His shoes scuff the snow as he steps closer. He takes her in his arms and he is just as warm and comforting and safe as he ever was, and it makes her want to cry, but she doesn’t. She does let him hold her. Even though it makes everything worse.

Rhys tilts up her chin and she keeps her eyes closed. He kisses her, so gently at first that she shudders, and then her mouth opens to him like a rose, and she presses harder into him, and he isn’t gentle anymore.

Her lips, cracked from the cold, split and bleed when he bites into them, and their kisses change to copper.

***

Nesta threw up before their first date. She stood in front of her mirror, trying to like the grey dress she was wearing, but she started thinking that maybe a dress was too much, and then she envisioned herself sitting stiffly next to the man—Rhysand—for the whole two and a half hours, not looking at him, and the thought—the thought of the awkwardness made her physically ill. He wouldn’t like her anymore, and then she would never be able to go to the ballet again, and and and—

She threw up neatly into the toilet, flushed it, brushed her teeth, and left.

By the time she was walking up the steps to the theater, she was trembling like a fawn, but she needn’t have worried. He was charming—his hand holding the door for her, his hand steering her respectfully from the small of her back, his hand alighting on her knee during intermission and lingering there, light and steady, until the lights began to dim again and he pulled it away.

The second half of the performance, she watched him. The way his breath caught at the crescendo of a number. The way his fingers tapped on his thighs in time with the notes. The way the bare light that reached them from the stage cast a glowing outline around the beautiful parts of his face, which seemed to be all of them.

The ballet ended, and he invited her to get a late-night coffee; he knew a cafe, one run by real Italians, so she should know it was good. By midnight, she’d made him laugh so hard he’d choked on a sip of his cappuccino, and he had made her feel coltish and new and brilliant, and finally, entirely at ease.

He was always very good with prey.

***

Nesta isn’t prey. She has a mouth full of teeth and she uses them. He’d do well to remember that, for fuck’s sake.

She bites down too hard and Rhys makes a noise in his throat. She pushes him away and they stand there, panting, staring at each other.

“Nesta,” he says.

They stand on the bridge. The snow numbs sound, numbs hurt, numbs everything.

“Come home with me, Nesta,” he says.

She goes home with him.

***

He loved her too hard. Maybe that was the problem.

Rhys wasn’t clingy, desperate—nothing so plebian as that. It was more authoritative. More intense, like a bruise. He always, always wanted her. Sex, of course, but more than that.

When it was sex, it was hungry. It was always too much, and it was never enough. It hurt every time, but it was never painful. There was sweat and tangled hair and open mouths and tenderness, always, and gentleness, only sometimes, only after. His hands were always tight around some part of her flesh, as if he were afraid she’d disappear the moment he let go, as if he could have more of her if he held more tightly.

She could never stop herself from sinking her teeth in, anyways. His shoulder, his neck, his arms, his side. She’d never made a habit of it before. It was something primal only he could bring out in her.

When it wasn’t sex, it was a different kind of want. Uncontainable, devastating. He wanted her like it hurt him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure if he liked her. He just wanted her.

One hot day that summer: billowing, gauzy curtains, Nesta in those lavender sleep shorts he liked so much, the hair around Rhys’s temples curling with sweat. Still, he held her close against him as they lay on the couch, her stomach to his stomach, her chest to his chest, her chin tucked against his shoulder.

Nesta asked, “Why did you ask me out that day at the ballet?”

His arm banded around her more tightly. He said, “I liked the way you watched them. Hungrily. I wanted to make you look at me like that.”

***

They step inside Rhys’s townhouse and the familiar smell hits her like a truck. It’s just the smell of a home—a home he’s lived in. Recently, without her. She wonders if his coffee machine still refuses to work unless he thumps the side of it as it gets going. She wonders if he ever got around to replacing the batteries in his TV remote. She wonders how many other women he’s brought here since everything ended. Maybe he fucks them in their own houses. Maybe he brings them here, has them on the couch, pushes the dove-grey pillows to the floor to make room for their bodies. She can’t imagine him fucking them in his bed, or she’ll throw up right here on his doormat.

The door clicks behind her, shutting out the cold. The air inside is warm and still, waiting for something. His hand touches her waist, moves her until her back is against the wall, and she thinks this is it, this is the part where he kisses her and takes her apart—but not yet.

Rhys kneels on the floor, takes her calf in his hands and slips off her boots, one by one, setting her feet down gently as if she were a child, or a queen. Something precious and vulnerable.

His soft fingers, piano-player’s fingers, trail up her body as he rises, hitching her dress up with them. She knows how this ends and it hurts. He kisses her wet cheekbones, one and the other.

“Nesta,” he says. He kisses her lips and she tastes salt.

She sinks her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him closer.

Their kisses get harder, serious. She hitches her leg around his hips, presses into him—his beautiful fingers are everywhere. They tangle in her hair and pull her head back so he can better lick her throat. They count her ribs, looking for a way in. They move over her hips, down, cleverly stroking the wet seam of her underwear, starting out gentle, just how he knows she likes it.

She reaches for his belt. She wonders, where will he have her? Will he bring her to the couch? Will he have her right here, against the wall? Will he take her back to his bed, or would that mean to much?

Rhys shudders into her touch, eyes rolling back. His mouth is saying things like Fuck, Nesta, I missed you, yes, harder, more, Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

He chokes on his own breaths and pulls her hands away. With a few tugs, her dress is over her head, and he sinks to his knees again. She looks off to the side, towards the door, not wanting to face the way he looks up at her. Devotion poisoned by possession. His hands are hot on the backs of her thighs.

“Look at me, Nesta,” he orders. He pulls her underwear away—embarrassingly wet. The expression that flits across his face then—it’s a bit too relieved to be a smirk, but close.

She puts her hands into the silky onyx strands before her.

“Eat, then,” she says, unkindly.

He does. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. Like he’s afraid she’ll stop him, take it away from him. She wishes she would, but she doesn’t. She’s too weak to give up something this good. Something that feels so inevitable—what’s the use?

Nesta comes right there, silently, except for one gasping breath that she immediately stifles. It’s horrible, it’s so, so horrible, how badly she misses him in that moment. It hits her, a pain so sharp she nearly flinches. It’s so horrible. So obvious, how he’s ruined her.

A tug on the backs of her knees, and her body falls obediently to straddle him where he kneels on the floor, her lips coming to meet his, hungrily taking the taste of herself from his tongue. He pulls her back, back, until he’s lying flat on the floor of the hallway, and she’s sitting over him, fumbling to yank off his shirt, to shove down his pants. Her body remembers how to move with him, remembers the steps to this. It remembers, even if her mind feels heavy and watered-down.

There is a bright spark of pain as she sinks down onto him. Rhys looks up at her from the floor. His eyes glint like a country sky at night, his sin-dark hair splays across the floor like a sunburst, his mouth parts like submission.

Nesta takes his throat in her hands and squeezes. “I hate you,” she tells him, and he lets her. Her knees press into the hardwood. He jerks his hips up with a groan. She says, “I hate you, Rhys.”

She feels a tightness in her throat that means tears. She won’t cry. She lets go of his neck and bites into her palm to hold them at bay. She won’t cry, she won’t cry. Her fingerprints fade whitely from his skin.

Rhys flips them over and settles his body over hers, between her knees. He fits in her body like he’s made for her. Her head fits just so in the space between his neck and his shoulder. She breathes him in through her nose, out through her mouth, as he begins to fuck her. He had always smelled so good, like something she shouldn’t eat. Sweet and rich, with some kind of spicy undertone, like pepper or ginger. Achingly sweet with a stinger.

Rhys takes her hand away from her mouth and pulls her wrists over her head.

“You love me, Nesta, you love me so,” he says. He threads his fingers in between hers. “You love me so.”

***

Nesta closes her eyes as he washes her hair in the shower.

“Nesta,” he says, smoothing soap away from her brow. “Stay.”

She tilts her head up, but doesn’t open her eyes. “You keep saying my name,” she says.

She can feel the sigh come out of his chest. He says, “I’m afraid I’ll forget how it sounds.”

In spite of her will, her body begins to tremble. Anger and fear and rage and desperation all well up at once, and her eyes fly open, lashes dripping under the stream of the shower, and she means to say a hundred things—a hundred accusations and castigations—but only a single word comes out, choked in steam. “Please.”

His face changes into a shape she doesn’t know well. “Nesta,” he breathes, pulling her body into his.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, she thinks. But she lets him towel her dry and brush out her hair and braid it down her back with his nimble fingers, the way she taught him, once. He pulls one of his t-shirts over her head—her favorite one, god, she hates that she has a favorite—and tucks her close to him under the covers. His sheets smell like his detergent and him, and it’s miserable, knowing he’s letting her go after this, even though that’s what she wanted in the first place. Catch and release. You can’t uncrease a paperback cover. You can only buy a whole new book.

God. Twenty-four hours as a twenty-four year old and she’s already fucked everything up. She’s already let him ruin her.

They lie there in his bed in his sheets in his townhouse on the river. She’s still drunk. She’s still here. His heart is still beating just a few ribs away from hers. She counts those beats, those bloodier sheep. One-one. One-one. One-one. One-one.

She’s not entirely sure if she’s dreaming when he says it. She hopes she is. She wishes so badly that she is.

I won’t go, he promises into the dark, into the sweet warmth. Just eat me whole.

***

Snow falls overnight.

In the morning, when Nesta looks out Rhys’s window, her eyes hurt to touch anything at all, it’s so bright.

He is behind her, suddenly. His arms come around her, his chest pressing to her back. He fits. It is suddenly, terrifyingly, as if she never left.

“Nesta,” he says, one last time.

She turns in his arms, fitting herself into the crooks of his body. She is real, she is new, she is blinding like the pure fallen snow.

Nesta makes a decision.

“Rhys,” she answers, speaking against his heartbeat.

When she smiles up at him, secretive and small, her ribcage opens up and curls around him like the legs of a spider.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #nesta x rhysand #rhysta #rhysta fic #can we all be normal about rhysta today? pls and thx #sjmromanceweek2024 #sjmromanceweek

38 notes · View notes

eirinstiva · 4 months ago

Text

Life below stairs

What ho! Bertie Wooster sent a letter!. Time to prepare some tea and read all the gossip! Apparently the first plan didn't go well

“Yes; that cook-pinching business. Jeeves tells me he saw Anatole last night, and Anatole refused to leave.” “But surely Aunt Dahlia had the sense to offer him more than he was getting with you?” “The sky was the limit, as far as she was concerned. Nevertheless, he refused to skid. It seems he’s in love with our parlourmaid.”

Anatole is in love, don't you dare to break his heart! Engage Anatole and the parlourmaid is a good idea.

“It can’t be worked. If your aunt engaged our parlourmaid she would have to sack her own, wouldn’t she?” “Well?” “Well, if she sacks her parlourmaid, it will mean that the chauffeur will quit. He’s in love with her.” “With my aunt?” “No, with the parlourmaid. And apparently he’s the only chauffeur your uncle has ever found who drives carefully enough for him.” I gave it up. I had never imagined before that life below stairs was so frightfully mixed up with what these coves call the sex complex. The personnel of domestic staffs seemed to pair off like characters in a musical comedy.

This is a good soap opera!

Bingo has an idea and it to steal the article~ I love Bingo's enthusiasm but his ideas are a bit dangerous, and we know what happens when they don't follow Jeeves' plans.

“Now listen, Bingo,” I said. “I’m frightfully sorry for you and all that, but I must firmly draw the line at burglary. I⁠—” He gazed at me, astonished and hurt. “Is this Bertie Wooster speaking?” he said in a low voice. “Yes, it is!” “But, Bertie,” he said gently, “we agreed that you were at school with me.”

Run away Bertie!!! Unless you are ready to pull a Raffles & Bunny with Jeeves. In that case I propose Jeeves as AJ Raffles and Wooster as Bunny Manders. Going alone could be a good idea, but I'm not sure if it will work. It's pretty obvious that Bertie is so nervous about this

I stood for a moment, listening. Everything seemed to be all right. I was apparently alone in the world. In fact, I was so much alone that the atmosphere seemed positively creepy. You know how it is on these occasions.

Yeah, the calm before the storm... a table with a vase, two framed photographs, a saucer, a lacquer box and a jar of potpourri.

Bertie old chap, you can't expect that the parlourmaid would lie when she haven't see you before!

I looked at the girl with positive loathing. How she could have inspired affection in anyone, even a French cook, beat me. Not that she was a bad looking girl, mind you. Not at all. On another and happier occasion I might even have thought her rather pretty. But now she seemed one of the most unpleasant females I had ever encountered.

And then there was another bit of a lull. And suddenly I found myself by the window, and, by Jove, it was six inches open at the bottom. And the world beyond looked so bright and sunny and⁠—Well, I don’t claim that I am a particularly swift thinker, but once more something seemed to whisper “Outside for Bertram!” I slid my fingers nonchalantly under the sash, gave a hefty heave, and up she came. And the next moment I was in a laurel bush, feeling like the cross which marks the spot where the accident occurred.

At least this escape was successful, and Bertie learnt that being a thief is hard, even with the old bulldog courage of the Woosters. Will you try it again in the future?

“Never again, Jeeves!” I said. “Never again!” “Well, sir⁠—” “No, never again!” “Well, sir⁠—”

Let's be honest, I don't believe in your word, Wooster.

“What do you mean, ‘Well, sir’? What are you driving at?” “Well, sir, Mr. Little is an extremely persistent young gentleman, and yours, if I may say so, sir, is a yielding and obliging nature⁠—” “You don’t think that young Bingo would have the immortal rind to try to get me into some other foul enterprise? “I should say that it was more than probable, sir.”

Leave it to Jeeves, Bertie. Go to the countryside and have rest there. Run away from the gossip and enjoy your youth! [I just read the two versions of The Picture of Dorian Gray, don't blame me~]

“That the girl, in a previous situation some little time back, had been a colleague of Anatole, sir. And Anatole, as is the too frequent practice of these Frenchmen, had made love to her. In fact, they were, so I understood it, sir, formally affianced until Anatole disappeared one morning, leaving no address, and passed out of the poor girl’s life.

Oh lalà~ Anatole is a womanizer~

Jeeves has the power of gossip!!! And it was used for the great good!!! (?) Can we appreciate the way Jeeves moves everything on this case? He's like a spider on his cobweb, ready to see use all his knowledge and the gossip to get everything, and he get money from everybody. So happy to see that he's not using that brilliant mind for piramidal schemes.

Next story comes courtesy of Jeeves, that sounds interesting <3

Cheerio!

#letters regarding jeeves #jeeves and wooster #clustering around young bingo #CLUS #bertie wooster #reginald jeeves #bertram wooster #bingo little #letters in the underground

17 notes · View notes

crownedclownprince · 8 months ago

Text

Happy Birthday!

There is a parade marching down the center of Gotham City, with music loud enough to rattle windows an startle car alarms into screeching wakefulness.

The media clamor is vicious and immediate, with the GCPD racing to quarantine the event as fast as possible.

Every channel is overtaken by frantic news casters urging everyone to get inside and stay inside until it's safe.

But really, is there such a thing as "safety" in Gotham city?

The parade marches on through bullets and barricades, leaving bloody smears across asphalt and concrete. The music swells, the pulsating downbeat in rhythm with the boom and thump of confetti cannons that spray the streets with pretty little paper stars. The wind blows most of them away, sure, but a horrible amount ends up stuck in the puddles of gore that used to be policemen making a mockery of their deaths in a way only the Joker knows best.

Speaking of... where is he?

At the head of the parade are several Clowns dressed in their best holding back feral beasts on massive chains. Hyenas with brightly painted faces yip and yowl, lunging at the ends of their leashes with maws splattered red red red. White tigers lope ever onwards with heavy saddles on their backs, and smaller Clowns astride them throwing candy here and there. There are lions too, lips pulled back into unnaturally smiles full of flat human teeth, their eyes brightly glowing green to match their fluffy manes

There's a fellow dressed like Beethoven sitting at an American Fotoplayer on a float dragged by two tremendous Strong Men playing the silliest tune known to man.

A great many other Clowns follow behind, marching in a band, handing out balloons or candy or shirts to any unlucky passerby commemorating this momentous occasion. There are jugglers, tumblers, a moving trapeze and high wire act.

Several troupes of Chuckle Scouts march with them, handing out free boxes of cookies and proudly displaying sashes full of brightly colored badges.

There are onlookers, lined up along the parade route with guns to their backs and tears in their eyes. They take the gifts they're offered, they smile for the cameras, they laugh when performers take prat falls or slip on banana peels. This is a jovial jubilous occasion and people must witness it, or else.

At the tail of the parade is a cake at least a story or two high covered in exactly 85 candles and gratuitous amounts of icing. When the parade stops at the end of its route, the music shifts from manic madcap whimsy to an almost wholesome rendition of 'happy birthday'. The cake and the parade are surrounded by the surviving members of the GCPD pointing guns at everyone that isn't a civilian. The Clowns seem unbothered by this and sing along to the music, pulling wrapped gifts out of nowhere in particular and offering them to the towering confection the way worshipers leave sacrifices at an altar.

The top of the cake trembles and wiggles and writhes before exploding into icing, the Clowns clap and cheer as their God appears at the top of the cake with his famous grin across his face. He's wearing a crown, holding a scepter, and wearing a sash that reads 'BIRTHDAY BOY' in big cursive letters. One of the cops fires on the Joker without hesitation, he gets his head blown off with a confetti cannon. The Joker doesn't seem to notice this disturbance and takes a bow, drinking in the attention of his audience.

"Thank you! Thank you! Y'know it's not every day I turn 85, so I plan to make tonight the best birthday bash I've ever had." Says Joker, dabbing at a tearful eye with a brightly colored hankie. The Clowns applaud him again. "This parade was a great start, but I have so much more in store for all of Gotham, and that lowlife cape wearing deadbeat who missed this whole thing." He looks dead into the nearest camera, eyes angry and wild his smile strained and sharp.

"Anywhoozles! I better wrap this up, this cake isn't going to eat itself after all and I have a gift for a certain someone that needs to be delivered."

The Clowns turn on cue to face the audience and the GCPD, the each take their gifts in one hand and pull the ribbons off with the other. The boxes explode into smoke and confetti that completely obscures the parade in a cloud of purple and green laughing gas that brings anyone not wearing a mask to their knees.

And when the smoke clears, the parade is gone.

#ic #long post #action post

10 notes · View notes

ricardian-werewolf · 6 months ago

Text

2. If I didn't care, would I feel this way?

Summary: Alina settles in at the Great Palace, and comes to learn that sometimes the friends one makes come from the most unlikely of places. With her powers beginning to show at last, Genya and Nikolai reconnect and take Alina under their wings. Nikolai recollects on his childhood and begins to come to terms with being home.

Notes; none

Word count: 4.2k

Chapter below the cut.

The Great Palace, Os Alta.

Alina’s legs ached as she let Nikolai guide her to her new chambers.

Up they went a series of dizzyingly tight stairs, through endless marble and gold-gilded hallways, until they reached a set of white double doors with gold handles carved in the shapes of stag-antlers.

“Your rooms. Genya Safin should be along in a moment or two.” Nikolai pushed the doors open and stepped into a wide receiving room of rich velvet settees, sofas, plush, cloud-like carpets and heavy drapes. All of the room was upholstered in the royal colour of emerald green, with gold edging.

“Wait. This isn’t the little Palace.” Alina murmured, pulling off her boots, as mud and dirt soaked they were, she wasn’t about to make some poor servant clear up her messes. Nikolai had already changed into a pair of deep green slippers monogrammed with his symbol - a fox running under a crescent moon.

“No, it’s not.” Nikolai threw the drapes wide, and pushed up the sash. The windows, arranged in a bay formation, gave a visage of Os Alta sprawled out before them. “As a member of my household, you’ll be taking your residence in the Great Palace.”

“Why?” Alina examined the solid gold samovar and clicked her tongue at the lack of tea. The spout was in the shape of a stag-head. Padding across the room, she glared up at the massive landscape watercolour of the woods where Morozovas stag was said to roam with its herd.

“Tradition, according to my father at least.” Nikolai rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “You’re not a prisoner. You’ll have a room in the Little Palace as well, once your training starts. The Fabrikators are working on it as we speak, though it’ll be a different kind of grandness to this. For now…”

He paused, looking both bashful, and sheepish. Alina glanced over her shoulder at him, her brow raised in curiosity.

“I don’t want you to think that I’m…” He paused again. “Using you. That you’ll just be some sort of trophy.”

That was exactly what I was thinking. Alina thought, looking genuinely surprised and pleased at the opposite occurring. Nikolai went back to scratching the back of his neck, then looked up as a ginger-haired woman dressed in the white kefta of the palace servants stepped into the room.

“Ah, Genya!” Nikolai murmured, coming over to the woman. She hugged him tightly and kissed one another’s cheeks in rapid succession. “Nikolasha, I’d no idea you’d be home!” She smiled, and looked past him.

Alina couldn’t help herself. She scowled darkly at this woman, and Genya sighed. “Ah. It seems like your Sun Summoner is possessive.” raising a brow, Genya stepped over to Alina and began examining her.

“She’s half-Shu.”

“Genya.” Nikolai lit a cigarette. “It’s not kind to speak about Alina like she isn’t here.”

“Ah.” Genya blinked. “My apologies.” Her expression softened, and she bowed her head.

“I’m Genya Safin, and the Queen has assigned me as your personal Tailor.”

“So you mend my clothes?” Alina blinked. Weren’t there servants to do that? What did she need this devilishly pretty ginger woman for, then?

“Not exactly. Let’s see.” Genya stepped over to a brown box with gold edging that looked to Alina's eyes like needles and spools of thread. Lifting the lid, Genya’s fingers dipped into the different little inner boxes, pulling out a string of black beads, a vial of gold dust, and a small bulb of some dried flower.

Nikolai examined some part of her room as Genya sat Alina down at her dressing table and handed her a small hand mirror made of gold embellished with sapphires. The sheer opulence of everything was almost overwhelming.

“I’m seriously going to be part of Prince Nikolai’s household?” Alina breathed as Genya ran her fingers over her hair. The limp curls sprang into neat coils and her hair became an inky black, weeks of grease and oils simply vanishing in an instant. Alina almost dropped the mirror.

“Saints!”

“She’s pretty damn awesome, no?” Nikolai breathed from where he stood by the fireplace, examining the wall of her room that led to her bathing chamber for some reason. Shadows curled about his shoulders like a stole, and he seemed almost… Ill at ease.

“Yes.” Alina ducked her head. “Though I thought it rude to swear.”

“He’s the second son of the Tsar. He can do what he pleases.” Genya sniffed, gently pinching the bulb’s tip in her fingers. Those fingers brought out Alina’s blush and lightened her skin, assisting in the healing process her light explosion had kickstarted.

“The testers found me when I was 5, and I was brought to the Little Palace then. As a gift for our wonderful Tsarina Tatiana. Technically, I’m not supposed to be Tailoring you, but..” Genya’s gaze turned to Nikolai, who gave her a crooked grin. “Prince Nikolai owes me a few favours. Plus, I like his section of the palace far better than anywhere else.”

“His section-” Alina glanced over at Nikolai.

“The entire western wing of the palace is mine. Though it’s mostly shut up for the year. I only like to be back when everyone else is on a hunt. It seems, however…” Nikolai crossed over to a dark oak side table and lifted a silver serving dish to reveal a plate of crisp and fluffy blini. Stabbing a few with a fork, he picked up a plate and crossed to Alina.

“I suspect you last had a meal… last night?”

“Has it only been a day?” Alina scoffed, taking the fork and plated stack of blini from Nikolai. She set to shoving the delicious cakes into her mouth as Genya continued tailoring her and Nikolai went about embroidering the compass rose onto a discarded First Army uniform.

“You embroider?” She asked, sipping a glass of sugared tea. He nodded without looking at her, reaching over in his seat to turn down the gramophone playing Beethoven with a swift wrist-flick.

“Helps calm my mind. That, or I love to tinker.” He unfurled a whole roll of gold thread and set back to embroidering in her ranking icon as a private on the lower part of the sleeve. The pluck of the needle, along with the crackling and pop of the spring hickory logs made the whole space feel largely intimate. Safe.

Soon enough, however, the uniform was being tugged over Alina’s head by Genya, and with Nikolai’s help, Alina was veiled, her shoes slipped on and guided through the Great Palace to the throne room. As they walked, Alina gripped Nikolai’s arm in her right hand and Genya’s hand in her left.

“You’re doing wonderfully. Just walk straight, and don’t lift the veil. My father likes the idea of a fragile First Army girl who’s not seen combat.” Nikolai murmured in her ear. Alina nodded.

“How’s Dominik?” Genya asked, cocking her head. Nikolai looked over Alina’s head, and mouthed: Banned from the Great Palace still. But he’s at the Little Palace. Probably hiding out with David.

Genya nodded silently, and sighed. The Grisha were going to shun her the moment Alina showed off her powers. Nikolai hadn’t dressed in his deep green kefta. The Darkling would tear him a new one for that. If he had his way, Nikolai would probably come dressed in his work clothes. The Volkvolny was docked in Os Kervo, after all. Plus, his sailing boats were already in the water after the Spring thaw broke the 4-inch thick ice-sheet on the Great Lake blocking off the Little and Great Palaces from one another.

“Are you planning to go sailing once this is over?” Genya queried.

“You sail?” Alina breathed, almost lifting her veil. Nikolai coughed, gently adjusted the gold spanish lace and Shu silk blend, and nodded. “Yes. I do. It’s a pastime.” He explained quickly as they descended the long, wide and expansive marble stairs to the Palace’s entrance hall.

A whole motley of servants of the palace, armed guards of the Darkling and Tsar, and rogue Grisha flanked the double-golden doors leading into the throne Room with its double golden domes, and Nikolai paused.

“Moi Soverenyi.” He bowed to the Darkling, who sneered at Nikolai in his court dress, and took Alina’s hand.

“You tailored her?” Kirigan asked Genya, who nodded. Tugging on the collar of her white kefta, Genya disappeared after Nikolai through a set of double doors in the same white as Alina’s room.

“She’ll be fine.” Nikolai lit another cigarette and passed it to Genya, who took two puffs and coughed. “Saints. How can you take these?”

“It’s for my nerves.” Nikolai dropped the cigarette to the carpet and swiftly ground it under his heel. He hated being amongst his parents as much as Genya did, and he wasn’t blind to the sins of his father against her. “Dominik’s been working on another round of poisons for you. These should be more potent.” He murmured, reaching for her hand. “I’ll try and fix something, this time, I promise.”

Those words had been the last words Nikolai had said to Genya at their first meeting when she was 5 and he 6. Now, they were 20 and 19, and the sins had only doubled amongst them both. Genya deserved better, and Ravka deserved a better Tsar than Nikolai’s father. His mother was just as bad, and he hated her just as much. Anyone with two brain cells would realise that Nikolai and Aleksander III looked nothing alike. Where Nikolai’s jaw was thin and arrow-sharp, his nose straight and eyes a bright hazel, Aleksander’s chin was ruddy, fattened with years of poor diet and health. His eyes were a watery blue, his hair the colour of winter-wheat.

Nikolai and Genya’s secretive location in a lesser servant’s hallway in the double-layered walls of the throne room wouldn’t stay secret for long. With a glance behind them, Nikolai grabbed Genya’s hand and the two ghost-children-turned-adults slipped into the marble and gold throne room.

Taking their places on the dias, Nikolai stood behind his mother, who gave him a glance of pure, child-like adoration. Genya took her place at her other side, and tried to stay as far as she could from the Tsar as possible. On the Tsar’s other side, Vasily leaned forward on his elbows against his father’s throne’s back. He glared through a monocle at the sight of Alina coming up to the dias. Her booted feet made not even a whisper of noise in the baby-blue carpeting that stretched from the golden double doors to the marble dias, and the Darkling beside her radiated possessive delight. Despite the beard and dark eyes, Nikolai remembered with a shudder just how old the man was, and settled his face into an expression of nonchalance. The instances of these court demonstrations were few and far between, but he for one wanted to see Alina’s powers on display.

“Lift the veil, child.” The Tsar rumbled, and Nikolai smirked to himself. Let his parents express their horror over another Sobachka gracing their halls. Between Genya, Dominik, and now Alina, Nikolai had a habit of collecting the mutts that no one else cared for. He put his palm under his chin and winked at his father as Aleksander’s gaze turned to him full of angry ire.

“Is this her?” Tatiana leaned forward, fingering the diamond choker adorning her wrinkled throat. Time had not been kind to either of his parents, something Nikolai delighted in. For while he maintained a youthful glow for much longer than anyone expected, his parents had fallen deep into the sins of their own makings, and it suited them. He winked at Alina, who blushed and dipped her head.

“Oh, I don’t know, tell her Good morning in Shu?” Tatiana murmured weakly.

“She speaks Ravkan, Madraya.” Nikolai murmured in reply, softly enough to not cause Alina any public embarrassment. Her eyes were wide enough already. Cocking his head to Genya, he signed:

She looks ready to bolt. Can you arrange for her to take dinner in her room and keep the Grisha off her back till mid-week?

Genya nodded, signing back swiftly: Of course. Will you be dining with her?

No such chance. The bear and the lapdog will want me to dine with them. Perhaps I can figure out why I’ve been recalled back-

Nikolai stopped signing as the Darkling spread his hands and shadows filled the room. He’d been saying something about liberation, or words to that effect, and Nikolai hadn’t been paying attention. His mind was too distracted trying to figure out the schematics of Alina’s kefta. Emerald green with gold embroidery and sunburst buttons. Matching boots. Fox-fur edging. Red fur.

In the darkness, Nikolai watched the Darkling’s hand reach Alina’s wrist. A part of him felt sick, as he remembered the feeling of the Darkling’s hand on his own wrist in that cold, freezing winter of his 14th half-year name-day celebration. It’d been so dark, so… snowy, when the Darkling had taken his born gifts and warped them beyond belief. The darkness had just been one facet.

He hoped that Alina would thrive under his protection. She would not be like him. Broken, abused and hidden behind a mask of lies. Nikolai straightened as light filled the room, blasting back the darkness. He could see the wonder on his parents’s faces, on Alina’s, and he sighed. The warmth of her light felt cleansing and holy, quite unlike his darkness.

When the light settled and the lamps flared anew, claps and cheers rang out. Nikolai stepped around his mother’s throne at his father’s behest and settled his feet easily on the second step down the dias.

“My son, Grand Duke Nikolai, has become the Sun Summoner’s liege-lord, protector, and confidante. She will become part of his household, as tradition demands, and take rooms in both the Little and Great Palaces. As his vassal, Miss…” Aleksander paused.

“Starkov. Assistant Junior cartographer, formerly.” Nikolai provided, catching his father’s dirty glare at Alina. He sniffed, settled his weight more evenly in his feet and let his father continue.

“Will be provided with an annual annum of 400 gold vlacki per seasonal period, and may wish to have that money sent as compensation to any family member she desires. Along with that, she will train with General Kirigan and his…” Aleksander paused again to cough into a provided handkerchief. Blood spotted the edge. Nikolai grinned to himself. It seemed Genya’s poison was working.

“Grisha. Now, please, disperse. I trust the Sun summoner has many great things to accomplish, and I do not wish to delay her.” Aleksander looked up at Vasily, whose monocle hung from its chest pin. His face was still contorted in dumb shock.

Nikolai stepped down the dias, hands in his pockets and whistling a jaunty tune as the Grisha filed out according to their order, and the Darkling went with them, sending a dark scowl at Nikolai as he departed. However, it was the Apparat’s rat-like nostril-twitch that sent Nikolai’s pulse spiking.

“All well, Moi Tsarevich?” Alina murmured, looping her hand through his arm. Nikolai blinked, smiled. “Oh. Yes.” He grinned, and waved a swift goodbye to his parents. Genya drifted easily after them, a secretive grin shared between the three of them.

***

That evening, as a rainstorm of epic proportions roared outside, Alina lay splayed out on her plush velvet sofa. By her head, her phonograph played a rotating assortment of different classical pieces, though the 1812 Overture was currently blasting at full volume. Nikolai was humming along, his feet tucked under him as he sat with a tea-tray on his lap and was dabbing at a canvas print with a watercolour brush. By his feet, maps of the True sea lay spread across the chaise longue’s surface.

“Word is, from the Little Palace, that a certain Sun Summoner shunning her first dinner for the comfort of her chambers is something rather unladylike.” Genya announced as she kicked the door shut with the heel of her foot. Balanced on a silver serving tray were three bowls of borscht, with smaller china bowls of sour cream. Piled high on a plate were slices of rye bread.

“I thought the Grisha ate like peasants. And weren’t you supposed to be at dinner?” Alina asked Nikolai, who snorted.

“It’s better to be full when dining with my parents. Dinner lasts for so long that by the time the courses show, it’s gone the midnight bell. All they do is argue, or round-about discuss Vasily’s achievements and my failures. Plus, I always have to curry favour with them, deflect questions from Vasily on which girl I tumbled this time-” He looked up from his painting of a golden sunne in splendour and sighed. “- I don’t tumble girls often, and besides, it’s almost expected when you’re of my social standing. My celibacy is something my mother finds more scandalous than the multiple bastards Vasily sires in a given harvest season.”

“Plus, the Grisha do eat like peasants. Kirigan says its to keep us humble. Whatever that means.” Genya placed the platter down on the low-set tea-table in the centre of Alina’s private sitting room. She carefully laid out soup, spoons, the sour cream, rye bread, and glasses of tea and kvas. Nikolai however took a glass of brandy, something Alina didn’t know he imbibed in.

“Be warned. Most Grisha breakfasts are of poached fish and rye bread.”

Alina sniffed in distaste. “Anything you can do to alleviate that?” She looked at Nikolai, who nodded and went back to painting. “Technically since I’m your liege-lord, you’re under my command, not the Darkling. The whole matter of all this will no doubt drive him insane, but not even he can go against a crown-ordained law. Unless he wants to find the First Army’s bayonets in his throat whenever he sleeps.”

“As for food.” He dipped his brush in water and set the whole platter aside. “I control what you eat, how much, and so on. Which, since I’m not the kind of man to be that controlling, you’re free to have the whole of the Great Palace’s kitchen to yourself.”

“Saints.” Alina looked at him in amazement. “Doesn’t this whole power dynamic strike you as strange? One moment we’re meeting in a crowded mess tent, and the next you suddenly are in command of my every movement.”

“I’m planning to be as lax as possible. Plus, you’re what? 18?”

Alina nodded.

“Right. And I’m 20. Not at all strange. Anyways, you’re an adult. You can do whatever you bloody well wish, as far as I’m concerned.” Nikolai sipped at his soup, then as the need for food consumed him, he turned to inhaling the portion.

“Nikolai has a small issue of forgetting when he needs to eat.” Genya explained as she lightly buttered her slice of rye bread and added a portion of goose liver pate to it. “He’s a poor dining companion in the eyes of his parents, but we’ve eaten together since we were children, and once Dominik joined us, the idea of Nikolai sitting down for dinner was finally not a foreign concept.”

“I was a very active child.” Nikolai replied swiftly, shooting Genya a glance. She shrugged, chewed her slice of bread. Alina dipped her spoon in the borscht, noting the lack of beetroot. “Is the royal version of this made without beets?”

“Oh, it is. But the cook didn’t want this portion looking too red. Otherwise Prince Vasily gets testy.”

“He doesn’t like blood or things that look like it. Which is strange, since he never saw a day of active combat.” Nikolai grumbled as he wiped at his chin with his napkin and set to scooping up the drippings with a piece of bread. “I’ve killed and I’m fine with it.” His grumblings turned softer as he chewed on the bread and slugged back his glass of brandy.

“I miss my old cook.” He pressed his chin against his palm. “Wonderful man. Doused things in too much butter.”

“You have a fondness for butter. And salt.” Genya rolled her eyes. “I had to lock the salt away after a while. He would easily put it on everything.”

“Within moderation!” Nikolai protested. He sat back, kicked his feet up on the tea table, and rubbed a hand over his face. “Please tell me I don’t have to go to this dinner with my parents, Gen…” He groaned.

“You do, Nikolasha.” She sighed, patting his hand. “I’ll walk you over, since your mother will no doubt want me to tailor you. But then-” She turned her gaze back to Alina. “I’ll be right back to help you get ready for bed. Or we can stay up, pop popcorn over the fireplace and gossip. These kinds of rainy evenings are the best for books and quiet conversation, in my opinion.” Genya squeezed Alina’s hand.

She smiled. “I’ve never really had any friends besides Mal, and what with Zoya’s cruel remark… I have a feeling it’ll be like how it was back there.” She murmured, rubbing at her nose with her finger.

“Nonsense. You have us! And Dominik, once I figure out how to sneak him in.” Nikolai grinned.

“Are you two…” Alina looked between Nikolai and Genya. “Together?”

A beat of silence passed, and then Genya burst out laughing. Nikolai snorted, and suppressed his laughter behind his napkin, his feet kicking out as he snickered into the linen.

“No.” He squeaked. “We’ve been friends since we were children. But no, Genya had her head turned by a certain fabrikator with glasses.”

“His name is David.” Genya hit Nikolai with her dinner napkin, and wiped her streaming eyes with a tissue stuck up her sleeve. “And yes, Nikolai is correct. We grew up together in the Great Palace.” She explained. “But I can see why you’d assume that.” As Genya patted Alina’s hand, the sun summoner’s face turned red.

“Bloody hell.” She groaned. “My apologies.”

“None needed. We get it. I mean, I half wanted to ask if that boy… Mal, had tumbled you. The look on his face when he saw you in the Darkling’s carriage made me think so.”

“No!” Alina breathed. “No, we’ve been friends since our orphanage days. Like…” She looked between Genya and Nikolai. “You both, it seems.”

“Ah.” Genya nodded at Nikolai. “Told you so.”

“Oh, of course you’d know.” Nikolai snipped, turning to his watercolours. He grumbled as he squinted at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. “Saints, is it nine bells already? I should get going.”

“When’re you supposed to be there?” Alina asked as she sipped her glass of kvas.

“By ten bells, but I want to be early so I get off on the right foot. It’s been… how long?” Nikolai asked Genya as she straightened his mussed tie, combed his hair and spritzed him with eau de cologne. Along with that, she tailored his hair to give it a dimmer streak, and wiped away a scar he’d gotten from fighting Drüskelle.

“Anything else?” Genya asked as she turned back to her box.

Nikolai bit his lip.

“Nah. I’ll be fine. If I come back busted up, you’ll know.” He cut a glance to the door, and straightened his evening kefta’s lapels. The cummerbund at his waist was bottle-green, his heraldic colour. The fox fur of his kefta shimmered in the gas-lamps' light that were scattered throughout the room.

Genya sighed, but nodded. Gathering up the dishes, she carried the tray to the door and Nikolai pulled the bell-cord for her. A serving maid materialised in the doorway as if by magic, and took the tray, as well as Genya’s box of tools.

“Alright.” Nikolai spun on his heel and came back to Alina. He kissed the knuckles of her offered hand, which made the girl blush, and cast his gaze to Genya. “Take care of her, will you?”

“Obviously.” Genya smirked, smacking the prince’s behind. “Off you get, you scourge. If I wasn’t here, I’m sure you’d ravish her.” She hissed in Nikolai’s ear.

He squawked in indignation, threw Alina a kiss over his shoulder. Genya pulled the double doors shut, and the two of them raced through the halls, chasing and teasing one another. Soon enough, they reached the royal couple’s chamber doors, and stopped dead.

Genya pulled on his bow-tie, while Nikolai helped Genya pin her hair up and straighten her cuffs. They did this all without a word between them, and grinned at one another.

“Ready?” Nikolai murmured, reaching for Genya’s hand.

“Are we ever?” She replied, squeezing his hand.

“No.” He added, settling his shoulders. He always felt so young coming back here. Partly why he avoided it. He pushed the double doors open, and let Genya step first into the Lion’s maw. Following her, Nikolai paused in the doorway.

He wanted Alina here with them. But not yet.

Ravka needed her. Nikolai needed her. So did Genya. But Alina needed to find herself first.

Nikolai closed his eyes, and stepped from the world he controlled to the world that was out of his control. He would go quietly, not screaming or kicking.

For he controlled what he could, and the rest was up to the Saints.

End of chapter 2.

#nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone #wyn rambles #alina starkov #shadow and bone au #shadow summoner Nikolai Lantsov #Genya Safin #Vasily Lantsov #grishaverse #grishaverse fic #Shadow and bone fic

12 notes · View notes