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vivs-fics · 4 months ago

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In The Woods Somewhere

Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings/ Tags: Swearing, smoking, smut to come

Lumberjack AU

Word Count: 8924

The flaming heat of the mid-summer afternoon sizzled down to tepid embers with the arrival of a pleasant sprinkling of rain. The light pitter-patter of rain on your windshield coupled with the slow, easy jazz that flowed out of the radio made for pleasant company on your drive out to the small shopping center in town. A cool wave of contentment washes over you, you relish it. Finally, you feel as though you’re in a place where the entire world doesn’t feel like it’s crumbling around you. Staring out onto the open road ahead of you, a faded white line divides the smooth tarmac surface. Evergreen trees stand proudly on either side of you, the heady scent of pine is thick in the air, amplified by the rain. A sad, sullen thought slinks through your mind.

Was there even a point to bearing witness to all these beautiful things if you had to see them alone?

Thoughts like these creep up on you sometimes. Getting out of a four-year relationship that had you twisted from the inside out will do that to a person. It took you well over a year to process. Countless hours of gentle parenting yourself and using every crappy, overly marketed self-help tool at your disposal to breathe, and mantra, and journal your way through everything. And it worked, partially at least.

Learning to live with yourself was a little harder than expected, but being out here helped. Perhaps it was because of the mountains. Weathered and different from how they once were- carved and indented by the hands of men… But still strong, still present. And maybe, you thought, you should extend the same grace to yourself. Acknowledge that things inside and around you have changed, but never underestimating the importance of the fact that you are still present. Present despite every setback, disappointment and broken heart- and that is no small feat.

You smile. Fuck yeah, emotional regulation. Just as a small blossom of hope sprouted in your chest, it was crushed by the heavy boot of your car engine sputtering, backfiring and then smoking profusely. No. Sweet, suffering Jesus, no. You were too far from the town to get a signal on your phone and were too unfamiliar with the surrounding area to know where the nearest tow company was. You supposed you could just walk to the grocery store you were heading to and ask someone there- but it was at least five miles and visibility was shit because of the rain.

You pull over and rest your head in your hands for a brief moment, recalling all the choices that led you here. You didn’t even have the luxury of blaming all of this on the impulsivity of a drunken night out, no. You sat, and thought, and researched about all of this. This came to you, bit by bit, with a clear mind. A rasp of wry laughter escapes your parted lips. At the angst of it all, the fucking absurdity.

“Alright.” You mutter to yourself, gathering quiet strength stored deep down and get out of the car. You pop the rain spattered hood of your car and assess the damage- the engine smokes, a great roaring heat hits you as soon as it’s given an escape from the confines of the car. “Shit.” Yeah, shit. You wouldn’t be able to fix this, not without some divine imparting of mechanical wisdom. You wait for a moment, collecting yourself.

Your silent prayer to the heavens is interrupted by the distant rumble of an engine. As the sound grows louder, you look up, hoping for a good Samaritan that could aid your current predicament. A red truck makes its way into your vision, an oasis in the desert of your despair. The pickup rolls to a stop, and your eyes move through the rain to see the figure stepping out.

He is a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and rugged. The brown plaid of his shirt is muted by years of wear- muscles bulge under the fabric. His hair is a warm chestnut, framing his face perfectly. He’s a few feet away, eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and what you took to be mild annoyance- as if this situation was an inconvenience to him. The silence he shrouded himself in was almost tactile. It fills his immediate surroundings with an unspoken reserve that suggested a man chained in solitude. As he approaches, brows furrowed and lips set in a solid line, you notice the shining hazel of his eyes- they’re soft. Surrounded by harsh lines and weighed down by his sullen expression, but soft, nonetheless.

“You alright?” The stranger enquires, eyebrows raising a hair in concern. He looks behind you, almost through you, and lays his sights on the wispy, darkened smoke rising from your engine.

“Yeah- I mean… No. Not really. Stupid fucking car just gave out on me.” You sigh out, exasperated.

He grunts and steps closer. “Want me to take a look?”

A smile graces your features at his offer, “Please. Yeah, go ahead. You know a lot about cars?” You sidestep the vehicle to give him access to your disaster of an engine.

“Some.” He responds, eyes downcast.

He surveys the scene with an air of practiced detachment, “Yeah. It’s fucked. I can tow it into town, if you want.” he offers, his tone carrying a hint of reluctance.

You manage a wry smile, relief flooding you. “That’d be great. Thanks. I couldn’t get a signal out here either so, uh, you’re kind of saving my ass.”

“I’m Logan.” he states plainly, not bothering to shake your hand. He keeps himself away, not allowing the hands that caused so much hurt and pain to taint you with their touch. An invisible border closes him off from you- maybe from everyone, you theorise. He closes the trunk with little regard and turns to you.

“Y/N, pleasure to meet you.” You wipe your clammy palms on your pants, unsure of what to do. His head bows only a little, only for a moment. If his presence wasn’t so encapsulating, you’re sure you would’ve missed it.

He works with an efficient precision, unhooking your car from its spot and securing it to his truck. The heavy clink of the tow hitch falling into place was oddly reassuring, a small promise of resolution to come.

Logan moves to the passenger side of his truck and opens the door for you, extending his arm as a gesture for you to get in. You do so wordlessly, a tight smile flung his way as a measure of gratitude.

As you climb into his truck, the faint scent of blended tobacco and leather wafts its way into your nose. It provides you with an odd sense of comfort. You take in the interior- the brown seats are worn, the dashboard cluttered with pinecones and other forest finds. Odd, you think, but refrain from asking about it. Instead, you ask the only thing you could think of- it comes out sputtered and unkempt, “So, uh, have you lived here long?”

“A while.” His eyes don’t leave the road, his knuckles tighten slightly around the dark expanse of the steering wheel.

Am I annoying him? You think to yourself, but quickly shut it down remembering how he offered to help you. Perhaps this is just his nature, it fits with the gruff woodsman aesthetic he’s wrapped himself in.

“You don’t talk much, do you, Logan?” You peer over at him. Jesus fucking Christ this man is so beautiful. Maybe you’d be more annoyed by his shitty attitude if he wasn’t so goddamn pretty.

“Not if I can help it, angel.”

“Angel? Ah come on, Logan. Don’t tell me you’ve resorted to that because you’ve already forgotten my name.” You jest, a small ring of laughter coming from you.

There is the tiniest uptick of his lips, you note it. “Didn’t forget it.”

“So you say.” You smile at him once again, subconsciously willing him to look at you again. He does, but only for a moment. Just enough to indulge the butterflies inhabiting your belly. Logan drives with focus, intensity. You were sure he applied the same intent to everything else in his life.

The truck glides steadily along the winding road. The landscape remains breathtaking, even as you get closer to civilisation. The towering pines, strong and evergreen; the lake shimmering like a million sapphires, and the mountains looming majestically with peaks partially veiled by mist. You suck in a deep breath, letting the serenity of the outside make its way inside you. Logan is not blind to this; he checks on you periodically. It takes every fibre of his willpower to not look at you. He wants to drink you in, satiate himself on the divine radiance of your presence. So bright, so beautiful. He wouldn’t dare risk casting a shadow over that.

Your attempts to make conversation with the burly plaid-clad man feel like an exercise in persistence. “So… Is it a habit of yours come to the rescue of beautiful, stranded motorists?”

He lets out a non-committal grunt. You sigh, deflating into the seat slightly. He notes the pang he feels in his chest at disappointing you. He means to crush it under his heel, with the force and might of a tank, but he can’t seem to bring himself to. Logan shakes it off, reminding himself that he is, at his core, stone and adamantium, sharp edges and an impenetrable centre. The world breaks against him.

He glances at you briefly before focusing on the road, stealing seconds of you for himself. Logan supposes he could indulge you, just this once. “Not always. Just when it’s hard to ignore.”

“I have been told I light up a room. Maybe that same mechanism made me look like the world’s prettiest, most devastated road flare.”

Logan lets out a scoff, it’s half-hearted and something close to a show of amusement. The corners of his mouth ascend as he turns onto the road leading into town. You witness it, photograph it, and frame it in your mind.

The truck rumbles down the road as the mechanic shop comes into view. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you sook it out. It is a dingy, slightly crooked building with a battered, sun-bleached sign that reads "Ricky’s Auto" just barely clinging on to the wall. A sad collection of vehicles lay scattered around the lot, most of them looking like they were long past saving.

You sigh deeply, eyeing your pathetic excuse of a car that’s still hitched to the back of Logan’s truck. This is not how I imagined my day going, you think to yourself. You had envisioned picking up some cherries from the greengrocer and making a pie, maybe getting some reading done with a hot cup of tea. But here you were, courtesy of Mr Sex on Legs, who so far had spoken about fifteen words to you.

As soon as Logan parks the car, he exits and moves around the vehicle in an imperceptibly swift motion and opens the door for you. You hop down from the slightly raised surface and give him an easy smile, coupled with a genuine, albeit slightly surprised, “Thank you.” You doubt he hears you though, because he’s already moving to unhitch your car. And, by God, you try not to stare, but it seems like the world’s most impossible task. Seeing the way his muscles moved under the lines of his plaid shirt makes your mouth water. With the same quiet efficiency as before, he unlatches the tether between the two vehicles.

Before you think too much about how incredibly strong he looks, a man in oil-stained overalls emerges from the garage. He has a crescent moon hairline and thin, wire framed glasses. Splotches of grease stain his fingers as well as the cloth clasped in his left hand. “Logan m’boy!” he calls out, slapping his rag down on a pile of neatly stacked tyres. “Haven’t seen you ‘round here in a goddamn minute.” The grey-haired man stands a few feet away from us, a half-smoked cigarette dangles from his lips. His blue overalls are stained from decades of oil changes and brake jobs. A canvas upon which he painted his years of experience.

“Been busy,” Logan mutters, his voice gruff as all hell, but you notice the faintest flicker of a smile tug at his lips.

The mechanic turns to you, putting his hands on his hips. “And who might you be, Miss?”

“Oh- I’m Y/N. My car decided today would be a good day to give out on me and, um, Logan here so generously offered me a tow.” You flash him a half-smile.

“He did, eh?” Ricky peers over his glasses to assess Logan, standing with his arms folded over his chest. Logan furrows his brows, a silent conversation occurring between the two men. You shift on your feet awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

Ricky shrugs his shoulders and walks over to the car. The bespeckled man leans over, scratching his chin. “Alright Miss Y/N. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He pops the hood and squints, practiced eyes examining the situation. “Yeah, looks like the radiator’s shot. I can fix it, but it’ll take a day or two for parts.”

A day or two? Fuck me, you think to yourself. You make an attempt to shirk your disappointment, but it is as evident as the light of day upon your face. “Right. Okay. I suppose if that’s the only way…”

Before you could dwell on it, Logan speaks up. “Ricky’s the best. He’ll get it done, angel.” Your eyes meet momentarily, sincerity evident behind his hazel irises. “If you need a ride or anything… I can, uh… I’m around.” He curses himself out mentally. Now why the fuck would I say that? He thinks, clenching his fists slightly.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, the butterflies in your stomach flutter wildly. Considering how he behaved like simply towing your car into town was a chore, you hadn’t expected an offer like this. “Uh, yeah. That’s really sweet of you, Logan, but I wouldn’t want to put you out…” you fiddle with the rings on your fingers, hoping he sees through your feigned polite declination.

Ricky, however, wasn’t about to let this moment slide. He interjects, leaning against your car. “Don’t be silly, Miss. ‘Course he’ll take you.” An air of finality surrounds his words.

Logan shoots him a look, jaw clenching in the most delicious way. This, however, just causes an even wider grin to spread across Ricky’s wrinkled features. “Young miss, you were headin’ into town, weren’t you? Logan here would be more than delighted to take you ‘round and bring you home after.”

You glance over to Logan, eyes wide, curious, pleading. He nods his head, albeit begrudgingly. You let of a smooth sigh of relief, thank God. After giving Ricky your details, you exit the well-loved repair shop to see Logan with his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets.

“C’mon then angel.” He rumbles, tilting his head in the direction of his truck. He opens the door for you once again and waits until you’re strapped up before he shuts it.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound breaking the tension the tiniest bit. “So, I wanted to go to the grocery store to pick up some cherries. I was going to bake a pie tonight.”

He hums in response, eyes focused on the road. “You bake often?” It comes out gritted, restrained. Knuckles whiten around the worn steering wheel.

“When I can. I thought I’d bake as much as I could before the school year starts. I’m, uh- I’m starting work at Oak Haven High School in the fall.”

He nods slowly- soaking in the bright, melodious nature of your voice. He could listen to you talk about nothing forever, he thinks to himself. He wants to hear you laugh; he wants your smiles to come about because of him. He wants to hear you whimper under him while he- No. No. Can’t think about that, Logan scolds himself for allowing his mind to wander.

“You know I-” You pause for a moment, thinking about how to say this. He glances over as you stop speaking, brows raising a fraction of an inch, egging you on.

“Well… it’s just that you’ve been so kind to me, and I’d like to repay your favours.”

“Don’t need to, angel.”

“No, but I want to. I don’t know if you’re busy later but maybe you could come to mine for dinner? I was going to cook Chicken Adobo and uh, and the pie, obviously.” You smile, teeth flashing from under painted lips. And his heart catches in his chest. Every ounce of better judgement is silenced by the screaming of every cell in his body, telling him to say yes. It’s beyond desire, beyond want. It’s necessity. He must see you again.

“You don’t- no. That’s not necessary.”

“Aw c’mon, I can’t say the food will be anything to write home about, but I can promise some good company.” You bat your lashes at him and smile and for the first time in a long time, Logan feels weak.

“Alright.” He drawls out, the faintest whisper of a smile graces his face.

“Really?” You beam, all sunshine and warmth. It lights something up inside him, a fire he’s kept covered since he moved out here. He nods, loosening his grip on the steering wheel. It’s surprising to him, how easily he lost this battle of wills with you. And maybe, he thought, he should allow you to win again and again.

The drive into town is pleasant, less tense than before. You glance at Logan from the corner of your eye, mind reeling at the sight of the beautiful behemoth of a man to your right. He is clearly a man of few words, his stony exterior surely aids in his want for solitude. Every now and then, you’d catch him looking at you, infinitesimal moments that he took for himself. Neither of you comment on it.

“So… you and Ricky go way back?” you enquired finally, breaking the seemingly never-ending silence.

Logan shrugs nonchalantly, keeping his eyes trained on the road. As if he knew that if he allowed himself to look at you properly, he’d never be able to look away. “Knew him from town. He’s good people.”

You nod, eagerly awaiting more from him. When he doesn’t give you anything else, you decide to press a little. “He seemed to enjoy teasing you back there.”

Logan huffs, something resembling a laugh escaping his perfect lips. “Ricky’s a pain in the ass, but he means well.”

That, right there—that tiny hint of humour hidden under his stony exterior, it makes you smile. “Seems like everyone in this town’s got a lot of… uh… personality.”

He glances at you, his gaze lingering just a second longer than before. “Guess so.”

Subtle as it may have been, there’s something a touch different about the way he gazes upon you now. A hairline fracture appears in the brick-and-mortar walls that surround him, letting the slightest sliver of something out, something real and tactile and intoxicating.

Strolling into the little greengrocers, you glance down at the shopping list in your hand. The air in the small space is fresh, produce is lined up in neat piles sprawling across the aisles. Logan is pushing the cart with squared shoulders, he’s tense. He glances moves past the fresh vegetables receiving a light misting from the sprinklers above. His hazel eyes scan the surroundings, as if he’s waiting for something- or someone to pop up.

“Are you always this tense when you go shopping?” you ask, a vain attempt to lighten the mood, raising an eyebrow at him as you stop in front of the baking section.

Logan looks over at you, his expression hard, unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You know, some people find this relaxing,” you said, grabbing a bag of sugar and tossing it into the cart. “But you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “I just like getting in and out. Not a fan of lingering.”

“Not a fan of lingering,” you repeat with a smirk, eyeing him as you reach for a small bottle of almond extract. “I guess I shouldn’t ask for your opinion on pie spices, then? Too much lingering involved.”

He gives you a slight shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “As long as it’s edible, I don’t have a strong opinion.”

“High praise, Logan,” you jest, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’ll be sure to aim for ‘edible’.”

Logan remains silent, giving you the sweet nothing you’d become slightly accustomed to. You could, however, see the tiniest bit of amusement flicker in his eyes. He isn’t exactly chatty, but there is something oddly comforting about his presence. He’s grounded, solid. Reminds you of the mountains- he smells like them, too. Fresh, earthy, safe.

As you reach the fruit aisle, you glance at the cherries, bright and shiny under the fluorescent lights. You grab a bag and hand it to him, watching as he weighs them in his large, calloused hands.

“Do you even like cherry pie?” you asked, sliding your hands into your back pockets as you lean against the cart.

He paused for a second, looking down at the cherries, then up at you. “Never had it.”

Your eyes widen in blatant disbelief, “You’ve never had cherry pie?”

Logan shakes his head, his expression still neutral, though you notice the faintest trace of amusement behind his eyes. “Nope.”

“Well, now I feel like I’m under immense pressure,” you said, mock serious. “I’m taking your cherry pie virginity, Logan. What if I mess it up?”

He raises an eyebrow, his voice teasing. “Didn’t you say somethin’ about aiming for edible?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Shut it.”

He shrugged again, his lips twitching into a near-smile. “Just holding you to your own standards, angel.”

“So, that’s how it’s going to be?” you shoot back, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Alright then, tough guy, let’s see if you can handle the next critical decision.” You gestured grandly to the dairy section. “Butter or margarine?”

Logan drinks you in, sizes you up, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “Butter. Always butter.”

You clap your hands together and sigh dreamily. “A man after my own heart.”

The gruff lumberjack feels his cheeks heating, he needs to look away from you- you’re too goddamn beautiful, even under the harsh fluorescent lights. He feels as if he’s going to combust, but he cannot bring himself to tear his gaze from you. So, he smiles. It’s bright and big and you catch a glimpse of his sharp canines.

The banter continues as you wander through the aisles, each small decision becoming a chance for you to tease him, and for Logan to surprise you with his dry, understated responses.

At one point, you reach for a carton of eggs, only for him to pluck it off the shelf before you can. “I’ve got it,” he said, placing it carefully in the cart.

You tilt your head, pretending to size him up. “You’re surprisingly helpful for someone who looks like they’d rather wrestle a bear than be in here.”

He lets out a low chuckle, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not that bad.”

You grin, leaning in a little. “Oh? You sure about that? Because the guy I met a few hours ago...” You raise your eyebrows and suck in a breath through your teeth.

Logan’s jaw clenches, there is no anger behind it though- more like he is deciding how much to give away. You decide to leave it alone, best not to press him, you thought as you see him shift, like he isn’t used to being called out.

“I guess you caught me on a rough morning,” he says finally, his voice quiet but sincere.

You soften at that, watching him for a second longer than you intended. There is something vulnerable in his honesty, and it throws you off guard. You want to watch him unravel next to you- you want to kiss the scars on his hands and shield him from the world.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” you hum, your tone lighter again, “I, um, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Logan shook his head, dismissing it easily. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

You let the silence hang between you for a second before deciding to break it. “Well, in that case, I think you’ve earned the right to pick the ice cream.”

He glanced down at the freezer section in front of you, clearly aware of your attempt to steer things back to neutral territory. “Vanilla.”

You groaned, dramatically covering your face with your hand. “Vanilla? Really?”

Logan’ lips twitched again. “What’s wrong with vanilla?”

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head as if you were gravely disappointed, “It’s good. Classic.”

“You seem surprised.” He adds, eyebrows raised in faux surprise.

“Yeah,” you reply, a concealed smile on your face. “I had you pegged as… like a… mint chocolate chip man.”

He smirked—a full-on, unmistakable smirk. “Mint chocolate chip.” Logan swirls the words around in his mouth He kisses his teeth and shakes his head, playing disappointed. “That’s… certainly something, angel.”

You throw your hands up in defeat. “What do you mean? Mint chocolate chip is a perfectly respectable flavour to enjoy!” He grunts in response, picking up the vanilla ice cream and dropping it into the little trolley.

As you make your way to the checkout, you can’t help but sneak glances- actually, scratch that... You cannot help but full-on stare at him, eyes trained to his pretty face or his rippling muscles the entire time- shamelessly. There is just something about the way he carries himself—strong and steady, but there’s also faint whisps of humor peeking through his tough exterior. It made you feel like you’d been graced with a glimpse of the real Logan.

And maybe, no… Definitely. You definitely like what you see.

The drive back to your house is quiet, as you anticipated. Not an awkward silence- more like the kind that settles in when two people are comfortable. Logan’s prized red truck rumbles steadily along the road, the low hum of the engine filling the gaps in conversation. You stare out the window, watching the trees blur into a mix of greens and browns as the slightly parted clouds give way to balmy rays of mild, yellow sunlight.

“This is me,” you state, a pointed finger directing him toward a small, cozy house nestled between the trees. You could already see your porch light flickering on, casting a warm, yellow glow over the front steps. As Logan slows to a stop, the tires crunching on gravel, you feel a little flutter of nervousness again. I should’ve mowed the goddamn lawn, you chastise yourself internally.

Logan put the truck in park, glancing around as if taking mental inventory of the place. You observe his hazel eyes sweeping over the porch, the old oak rocking chair in the corner, the hanging ferns swaying slightly in the breeze. He doesn’t say much, but you can tell he is taking it all in- just like he’d taken in the details of you back in the store. Quiet, observant.

“You moved into Sixty-Seven?” he enquires, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself.

You blink, looking at him as you fumbled for your seatbelt. “Yeah, it was- uh- I just fell in love with it, y’know? It’s got this bay window out front, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful the view would be from there when it snowed.”

Logan gives you a small nod, his hands still resting on the steering wheel, gaze lingering on your abode. His heart clenches in his chest- this, all of this and you- so beautiful, so perfect. His eyes catch the flicker of the porch light, and for a second, you wonder what he is thinking. Surely nothing about how goddamn unkempt your lawn looks. Surely.

“You live nearby, Logan?” you ask quickly, a flailing attempt to fill the quiet.

“Yeah. Not far from here.” His voice is gruff, but there was something almost... tentative about it. Like he hadn’t really expected to say that out loud. “Just, uh, down the street actually.”

You hum and give him a smile, looking out the window again. “So… I guess, uh, I should get going?”

Logans lips twitch slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on your house. “Guess so.” He almost seems lost in thought. You couldn’t possibly fathom that he was lost in a fantasy, so long passed that he never thought he could reach it again. He imagines love flowing out of your house, music playing softly in the living room. His mind wanders to you: you who should not have such an immense hold on him this soon; you with your dazzling smile and bright eyes, with that sweet fuckin’ ass and those perfect tits- Logan blinks and suddenly the domestic fantasy is dragged away from him. The prospect of warmth like that is stolen and an icy reality washes over him. The reality that he is alone- and perhaps it was best for everyone if it stayed that way.

For a moment, neither of you move. You feel the weight of the day settle between you, meeting one another, the shared shopping trip, the easy banter, the way he had quietly helped with everything without making a fuss. And now here you are, sitting in his truck, only a few feet from your front door, and it feels like you are still... suspended. Like neither of you quite want the moment to end.

You catch him glancing at you again—just a quick, fleeting look, but enough for you to notice. He has this way of looking at you like he isn’t sure what to do with you, as if you are simultaneously the most innocent and dangerous thing in the world.

“I, uh, appreciate the help today,” you say finally, your voice resounding melodically in the quiet cab of the truck. “And the ride. I really do. Thank you, Logan.”

His fingers flex on the steering wheel, his knuckles brushing against the worn leather. “Not a big deal,” he mutters, his hazel eyes finding yours before looking away again. He finds it hard to breathe, even with the windows of the car open. You shine and radiate and fill up the space with your insurmountable beauty. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to look away.

Isn’t a big deal? You smile to yourself. Perhaps this is just his way? Saying something isn’t a big deal when he’d gone out of his way to make sure it was sorted out. Like when he stayed with you at the mechanic, or when he let you tease him about lingering in the grocery store without getting defensive. Every little thing about today had shown you more of who he was beneath the gruff exterior. And you want more.

“Well, it is to me,” you said softly, your fingers brushing the door handle as you hesitated. “So… thanks.”

He nods, still not looking at you directly, but you can feel the weight of what isn’t being said between you. You weren’t sure if it was the quiet of the woods surrounding you, or the warmth that lingered from the setting sun, but something about the moment felt... heavier. Like it wasn’t just about the grocery run or the ride home.

He shakes his head, as if clearing his mind from the thoughts he is having about you and moves to open your door. His tan boots crunch heavily on the gravel. The cool afternoon air engulfs around you, a chill runs up your spine. You turn back to face Logan, who was still here, leaning against the side of his truck. He watches you in that way of his—silent, steady, almost unreadable.

“So, um… I’ll see you tonight around seven?” you query, a genuine lightness in your tone.

Logan nods slowly, his gaze shifting between you and the house, like he was still sizing up the situation. “Yeah. You sure you don’t need help takin’ all that inside?”

“I’m a big girl, Logan. I think I can manage carrying two shopping bags twenty feet into my kitchen.” You jest, but your hands feel clammy, and your belly constricts at the thought of him coming into your absolute mess of a house. It horrifies you, boxes sprawled across the floor, clothes haphazardly strewn on the backs of your chairs, dishes piled in the sink left with the promise of fixing it up after your ‘quick run into town.’ Not exactly the best circumstances for a… what even was this? A date? A thank you dinner? God knows.

But before you could take another step, he calls out, his voice a little softer than before. “Angel. Thanks, uh, for the invite.”

You turn back to him, your heart doing cartwheels at the sound of that nickname in his mouth. You wanted to hear it over and over, every second of every day, sung out in pleasure and joy.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you intend. “Of course.”

He nods once, like that is all he needed to hear, before turning around and hopping into his car. As you watch him pull away, the truck’s rumbling engine cutting through the serenity of the street, you cannot shake the feeling that something is shifting. Inside you, perhaps inside him. It could be nothing. Or maybe it is everything.

You didn’t think that you’d live to see the apocalypse, yet here you were standing in what can only be described as a catastrophe-riddled kitchen. Bombs of flour litter your immediate vicinity. It’s on the counters, the floor, it even managed to get on the potted fern by the window it’s leaves dusted white like a winter’s morning. The air smells of sugar, sweet cherries and the buttery pie crust, which was about the only thing that was going well at this point.

Oh God. Why did I think this was a good idea?you think to yourself, contemplating why you didn’t just offer to invite him to dinner tomorrow.

Inviting Logan over for dinner seemed like such a simple, kind gesture at the time. A little thank you for all his help with the car, perhaps a little excuse to indulge in his presence once more. But now, standing in the middle of this culinary battlefield, your confidence is crumbling faster than the edges of your pie crust.

You flail around attempting to make your house seem presentable, shoving clothes into your laundry basket and wiping up the remnants of flour and sugar and pie crust that had somehow spawned all over your kitchen.

The clock on the wall ticks louder than usual, reminding you that time is running out. Fifteen minutes until he arrives. You glance at the mirror by the door and cringe slightly at the sight. Flour streaked your cheek, your hair is dishevelled, your teal apron is muddied from its time on the aforementioned culinary battlefield.

Your heart does a little flip, and you immediately scolded yourself for it. Why are you nervous? It’s just a friendly thank you dinner. A friendly thank-you dinner with a pretty, brooding, unimaginably sexy man. You suck in a few deep breaths before changing into something appropriate for dinner.

The setting of the table is interrupted by three sharp raps on your front door. You swing the door open, and there he is, standing on your porch in all his glory. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, a fresh red flannel shirt stretches taut across his defined chest, and his boots are coated in a fine layer of dust, a bottle of red wine is clasped in his right hand. For a moment, the world outside seems to fade into the background, and it was just the two of you, standing in this strange, unspoken space between strangers and something else… something more.

His hazel eyes meet yours, flicking quickly to the warmly lit living room behind you. You see a brief flash of ardour in his gaze before his face settles into its usual unreadable expression.

“Hey,” you sing out, a big smile gracing your features. You step aside and extend your arm in invitation. “Come on in.”

Logan nods and steps inside, moving slowly, as if he isn’t entirely sure if he belongs here. He glances around, taking in the varnished wooden floors, the cosy linen couches, the scent of sugar and cherry hanging in the air. His eyes settle on the antique record player in the corner of the living room, and for a second, you think you see his lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. It feels unfamiliar to him, but it was good, he thought. Something about this cosy space, with its cluttered charm and lingering warmth, made him feel less out of place than he expected.

He watches you move, your hands fidgeting as you finish setting the table. There was something... endearing about it, Logan thought. Something about the way you hold yourself that makes him feel warm inside. An almost indefinable quality that tells him that this is you, unabashed and unashamed of your nature. He yearns for that.

“Uh, I hope you’re hungry,” you said, your voice a shining as you gesture to the table. “I’ve got the chicken stewing, and the pie’s almost ready... sort of.”

Logan gives you a low grunt of approval, his eyes flicking to the pie cooling by the window. “Smells good,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, like he’s trying to find his footing in this strange, domestic moment.

You smile awkwardly, fiddling with your fingers. “It’s my first pie in, well, uh... years. Let’s just hope it tastes better than it looks.”

She’s nervous, Logan realizes, watching the way your delicate hands tremble slightly. He’s used to people being nervous around him, he’s an intimidating man, but most just avoid him altogether. But here you are, standing in front of him, your eyes bright with uncertainty, trying to make the best of this impromptu dinner.

He takes a seat at the small kitchen table, the polished chair creaking slightly under his weight. The space feels too small for him—too cozy, too... personal. But he notices the little things, the details that make it feel like a home: the way the warm porch light slants through the window, catching the edges of the remnants of flour on the counter, the faint hum of the adobo bubbling on the stove, the warmth that seemed to fill every corner of the room. It is a place he could never have imagined for himself, but in this moment, it feels like he’s supposed to be here.

You shuffle around the kitchen, stirring the stew, checking the pie. But you can feel his eyes on you- those sharp, quiet eyes that seem to view more than they let on. You weren’t sure if he’s judging your messy kitchen or just observing, but either way, the awareness of his gaze makes your heart race.

“So, do you cook often?” Logan enquires, breaking the silence, his voice low and steady.

You let out a breathy laugh, gesturing to the flour-covered counter. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it, but I promise I do.” You rub the back of your neck sheepishly.

He tilted his head slightly, a hint of playfulness flickering in his eyes. “No, it- uh- it smells good, angel. Want me to open the wine?”

You chuckle, nodding your head. “Yeah, let me- I’ll just get some glasses. Thank you for this, by the way. I thought I was supposed to be making it up to you for everything you did, and here you go adding to the list.”

“Couldn’t help myself.” Logan said, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed. He didn’t smile, but there was a softness in his tone that surprised you.

You dished out the stew, setting a bowl in front of him. Your fingers brushed his as you passed the bowl, and the warmth of his skin sent a tiny spark up your arm, more surprising than you wanted to admit. He retracts his hand, causing the stew to drip down from the side of the bowl, “Shit. Sorry.” He quickly grabs the cloth napkin that the cutlery was laid down upon and wipes up the stray droplets.

As you sit across from him, you try to relax, but every time you look up, there Logan is, sitting at your kitchen table like he belonged there, like this wasn’t the most surreal thing that had happened since you moved here. He eats in silence, his movements slow and deliberate, the way someone eats when they’ve learned to savour every bite. Why does he have to be so... solid? you wonder, watching him out of the corner of your eye. There is something grounding about him, something steady. Even though he barely said a word, his presence filled the room, making it feel smaller, warmer.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “what do you do when you’re not out chopping trees? Any hobbies besides... lumberjacking?”

Logan raises an eyebrow, his mouth morphing into some kind of reserved smirk. “I’m not that interesting.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, leaning forward slightly. “There has to be something.”

He shrugs, honey eyes drifting to the window. “Just take care of the land. Fix things up. Keeps me busy. I’m up on Lot 48- it’s lakeside. I, uh, started redoing the house when I moved out here.”

You nod, picturing him out in the woods, working with his hands, surrounded by nothing but the sound of nature. It was such a different life from anything you knew, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had led him to choose that kind of isolation.

“Must get lonely,” you coo softly, not quite sure why the words slip out.

Logan’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze still fixed on the window. “Sometimes. But it’s better that way.”

The silence that follows is heavier this time, charged with something unspoken. You want to ask more, to understand why he kept himself so closed off, but before you could say anything, Logan smiles at you. His eyes are soft, mellow pools of gold that you want to lose yourself in. The smile catches him by surprise, but he can’t help it- you’re so fucking gorgeous, and you put so much effort into this meal. Things of beauty, such as this, seem foreign to Logan.

The rest of the meal passes in quiet conversation, the tension from earlier slowly melting into something softer. You serve the cherry pie and wait in eager anticipation for his feedback. Logan takes his first bite, fork passing through his soft, pink lips. His eyes widen slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of approval. He lets out the most delicious low moan.

“This is so fucking good,” he said, his voice rough, sincere.

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the wine or the steaming hot cherry pie. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you’d done something right. Truly right. Completely right.

“Really?”

He lets out a muffled “Mhm.” Mouth still stuffed with vanilla ice cream and cherry pie. “I, uh… I don’t usually have a sweet tooth- but you’re- uh, this is incredible, angel.”

"That's mighty high praise, Logan. Would you go so far as to say it's edible?"

A laugh rings out from him, more joyful than a thousand church bells, sweeter than all the combs of honey the world has to offer. "Fuck yeah."

The scrape of chairs across the floor feels almost too loud, punctuating the end of dinner with a finality that leaves your heart beating just a touch faster. As you stack the plates and glance toward Logan, the room feels smaller somehow, heavy with the weight of something unsaid, something hanging in the air between the two of you. Nobody comments on it, neither of you have the courage to.

Logan so moves easily, like he’d done this a thousand times before, confident in every movement, every stride. Taking the plates from your hands without so much as a word, his fingers brush yours again, but he doesn’t flinch away from it this time. Even though it’s just for a second, it sends a spark of electricity up your arm—a reminder of the tension that has been simmering since he came into your house.

“I’ll take care of this,” he murmurs, already heading to the sink. His voice is low, gruff as always, but there’s something softer beneath it tonight. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing his forearms—strong, tanned, with just the right amount of scruff. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping. You can’t help but stare, and apparently, you aren’t as subtle about it as you think because he catches you looking and raises an eyebrow.

“You alright over there?” he asks, a teasing edge to his tone.

“Fine,” you say, too quickly, reaching for a towel. “Just... uh, trying to figure out how you’ve made washing dishes look like some kind of art form.”

“That all?” He chuckles, the low rumble of his voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“Yeah, I just… I can’t remember the last time someone did the dishes for me.”

“Don’t be too impressed. I can clean up after myself.” He winks, leaning over the sink.

You dry the dishes after he rinses them, the comfortable silence between you filled only by the clinking of plates and the soft hum of the evening beyond the window. Every now and then, you catch him sneaking a glance your way, and each time, it makes your pulse quicken just a little. There’s something brewing here, something that neither of you seem ready to name just yet.

When the last dish is dried and put away, Logan leans back against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture you weren’t sure you’d ever see, a sign of nervousness. “Mind if I step outside? Thought I’d smoke a cigar.”

You blink, not half surprised. The idea of him standing on the porch with a cigar seems... right. You nod, suddenly feeling like you need fresh air yourself. “Sure, uh, I’ll come with you.”

The evening air is cool, a light breeze carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The sky is splattered with deep purples and oranges, with the final rays of sunlight slowly dipping behind the mountains, casting a beautiful golden glow over everything. The porch creaks slightly underfoot as you both step outside, the world around you settling into a soft hush.

Logan reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a thick Cuban cigar, lighting it with slow, practiced ease. The flare of the lighter illuminates his face for a brief moment, highlighting the strong lines of his jaw and the hazel of his eyes that caught the fading light just right. He takes a slow drag, the scent of tobacco mixing with the pine-scented air. You’re drunk on him. Gulping down every facet of the strong man available to you.

You lean against the railing, pretending to watch the sunset but feel the weight of his gaze on you, that unspoken tension still simmering. “Hey Logan?” you enquire, breaking the quiet, “what’s with all the pinecones on your dashboard?”

He lets out a low chuckle, glancing sideways at you, cigar puffing between his lips. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Hard not to,” you reply, teasing. “You’ve got a whole collection. I thought maybe you were some kind of weird tree fruit enthusiast.”

“Not quite,” he quips, tapping the ash from his cigar. “Those... well, they’re gifts.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Gifts?”

“Yeah.” He shifts slightly, looking a little embarrassed, which only made you more curious. “From my cat.”

Your eyes widen, a surprised laugh bubbling up before you can stop it. “Your cat brings you pinecones?”

He nods, taking another slow drag of his cigar. “She’s a stray I took in. Started bringin’ me little ‘presents’—pinecones, rocks, she found a… a, uh, whole stem of Harebells once. Couldn’t bring myself to throw them out, so... they ended up on the dash.”

“That’s... fucking adorable,” you said, biting back a grin. “You’re a big softie underneath everything, aren’t you, Logan?”

He gives you a half-smile, his hazel eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Guess I’m a bit sentimental.”

You tilt your head, looking at him in a new light, a softer light. “Sentimental, huh? Never would’ve guessed that about you.”

He shrugs, blowing out another stream of smoke, his gaze flicking back toward the mountains. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, angel.”

The way he says your name—soft, low, with just a touch of something deeper—sends a shiver down your spine. You turned slightly, leaning against the railing, your arm brushing his as you did. “So dramatic, Logan. Maybe you should start filling in the gaps, then.”

Logan looks down at you, his eyes locking onto yours in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat. The air between you feels charged, the fading sunlight casting great, sweeping shadows across his face, making everything feel more intimate, more immediate. For a moment, you are sure he is going to say something—something important—but then he just smiles, that quiet, secretive smile that makes you wonder what exactly is going on inside his head.

“You really wanna know?”

You nod, biting your lip. “I do.”

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you, the fading light, the soft breeze, and the shared space on that old porch. You don’t say anything else, and neither of you move away from the other. Instead, you simply stand there, side by side, feeling the tension thrum between you like something alive, waiting to be acknowledged.

And then, in a quiet voice that is almost drowned out by the sound of the crickets, Logan whispers, “I like this. Being here.” With you, he omits.

Your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to look at him. He isn’t smiling, not exactly, but there is something softer in his expression, something that makes your chest feel too tight, your thoughts too scattered.

“I like it too.” you grin, not trusting yourself to say more.

He doesn’t reply, he just nods slightly, taking one last drag from his cigar before putting it out against the heel of his shoe, a practiced movement. And even though he doesn’t say anything else, the way he looks at you in that moment- his eyes dark and warm, his posture more relaxed than before but still stony- says everything you need to hear. And it scares him. It scares the fuck out of him. The whole reason he came out here was to get away from people- if no one knew him and no one wanted to know him, then there was absolutely no chance of people getting hurt because of him. But here you were, fresh faced and pure, weaseling your way into the stone walls he’d built up over so many years.

“I should, uh, I should get goin’, angel.” He sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, closing the solid barrier between you and him.

“Oh,” The word comes out involuntarily, sadness lacing the singular syllable. “No, yeah. Of course. It’s getting late.”

He clears his throat, stepping down the stairs one by one, “Thank you, again, for dinner. It was really good. Don’t put yourself down so much.”

You chuckle, nodding at his praise. You let it drip down you and warm your entire body. It feels good. The moonlight casts a pale glow over him, illuminating his features and encasing him in an angelic glow. God, he’s so fucking beautiful. You don’t want him to go, you want him to stay and light a fire for the two of you, you want him to sit and talk more about his cat and his house and everything else he’d be willing to tell you.

“I left my number on that notepad in your kitchen. Call me if you need somethin’ angel. I’m sure I’ll- uh- I’ll see you around.”

You wave him off as his headlights illuminate the road leading away from your house. As soon as he’s in the confines of his car, and far enough away for you not to hear- he lets out a long, “Fuck!” And another, and one more for good measure. He runs a hand through his hair, a maelstrom of emotions swirl through his chest. He shouldn’t feel this much for someone, not this soon, anyways. But it is the most intoxicating feeling in the world, being near you gives him a high people could only dream of; his head is a mess- his heart more so.

For now, Logan only knows two things for certain: that he absolutely should not see you again, and that he 100% would be seeing you again.

Part 2 >>>

Hi hi! So this is part one to my Lumberjack!Logan series. It's going to be a bit of a slow burn, but please let me know what you think of the story so far!

xoxo, Viv

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antiquatedsimmer · 6 months ago

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The Chestnut community buzzed with life, its people staying up late to welcome the new year with laughter and celebration. But up on the ridge, all was quiet, as it had always been.

There was no tree, no decorations, and no presents—such luxuries were beyond the reach of the family’s strained budget. Yet, Josephine and Lucile, made the best of what they had. As their little bundles of chaos finally surrendered to sleep, they stole away into the cold night, finding a moment of peace beneath the endless tapestry of stars.

Lucile had finally cleared away most of the dead grass and rubble from their front yard, transforming what had once been an overgrown tangle into a flat expanse of dirt, full of potential.

The blanket they spread out offered little protection from the freezing air and the cold, hard ground. Their breath hung in the air, visible as they shivered, trying to stargaze from their home together for the first time.

But! despite the chill, they found a way to stay warm.

With the budget stretched to its limits and the children still so young, they both agreed it was best to forgo the usual festivities this year—save for attending church, of course.

The children would have their time to revel in traditions next year.

Instead of splurging on toys and treats, the money in their savings went toward allowing Josephine to finally redecorate their bedroom and the children’s nursery. She was pleased to find that their bedroom, once so bleak and cold, took on new life with a splash of color.

It's hard to believe how quickly time had passed on the ridge, the days slipping by with a surprising lack of events. Lucile left for work each morning, returning home in the evening, while Josephine stayed behind, tending to Aster, Daisy, and Rosemary.

After the children learned to crawl, it wasn’t long before they took their first wobbly steps. Once they mastered the art of walking, there was no stopping them. They blossomed into energetic toddlers!

Aster, the quietest of the three, preferred to observe from the sidelines, while Daisy and Rosemary discovered a love for all things loud and musical. Much to Aster’s dismay, his sisters filled the house with off-key singing babble and wild dancing.

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smutinlove · 7 months ago

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ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ʙᴜʀɴ ʜᴀʀᴅ—ᴄᴀʀʟ ɢʀɪᴍᴇꜱ—Chapter One:the woods

Description: They say home is where the heart is, but that's not where Mae's was. Mae's parents were always stern with her. But Mae didn't care. To Mae, the way her parents behaved with her was preposterous. She wasn't a child, and she knew that. And Mae knew that it was a luxury to be rich, and she didn't take it for granted. With great wealth also comes loads of party invitations. And then she found herself at a party in the land of hopes and dreams, America. She felt distressed when she was in the large hall. And so, like any sane teenage girl would do, she sneaked out. But her parents found out and sent a couple of bodyguards after her. And so she has to make a detour to the woods. There, she meets a boy who changes her life in dozens of ways.

—🇹🇭🇪🇲—

MAE CARTER—RUNAWAY GIRL

CARL GRIMES—COWBOY

OTHERS:

MATTEO LYSANDER—WITNESS

EDMUND CARTER—DAD

WILLOW CARTER—MOM

ATHENA FITZGERALD─THE GIRLFRIEND

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Chapter Two: Undetected

Chapter One: The Woods

Some of the British don't expect happiness. Mae Carter was one of those sour people. She didn't believe that someone could be happy without money. For most of her life, Mae remained trapped indoors because of her strict parents. She was only allowed outside if one of her parents accompanied her. Some people called her a conformist; others asked if she had ever stepped outside alone.

One of the things she hated was when people asked her questions that she could not give answers to. It made her feel senseless. She opted for books instead of friends. She would sometimes feel lonely whenever the protagonists in the book would hang out with their friends. But she brushed that feeling off as being dramatic and foolish.

But there was also a secret hobby she had when she was in England. Every day, at nine in the evening, Mae's parents would be busy for two hours. So, she would sneak out of her bedroom window at nine every day and run away from home for an hour. It was something she enjoyed doing a lot. Especially when she was wearing one of her fancy gowns, and to her, it was thrilling. And it made her feel less alone in the world. It made her feel like she had a real purpose and wasn't just a useless British girl with strict parents.

And with her parents being strict came great wealth. Mae would often accompany her parents to business parties or balls. But she'd always have her nose stuck in a book or would be avoiding men twice her age who tried to court her. And Mae knew that she was beautiful. She has dark chestnut brown hair that is naturally thick and wavy. Her eyes are bright blue. And with strict parents came her sense of natural independence, determination, rebellion, and strength.

Despite her rebellious tendencies, she is quite loyal and compassionate. But to this day, it remains unknown how she found herself in the woods of King County, Georgia, running away from countless bodyguards.

Or maybe she did know how. But where was Mae going? She didn't know either. This town was all so foreign to her. "You'll never catch me alive, you prick!" Mae yelled. Her parents' bodyguards were getting closer and closer. And it didn't help that her purse weighed more than ten tons of bricks. It was getting dark. She looked down at her watch and realized it had just turned 9 p.m.

She chuckled. Her parents were probably going to wonder where she had run off to. But she didn't know either. It was dark, and she was scared and alone. Maybe it was a bad idea to run away from the party. She should have stayed put. Mae's heart dropped when she suddenly felt lighter and lighter. She looked down and saw a hole in her purse. She wanted to go back to retrieve her stuff but decided against it.

Mae found herself surrounded by tall trees. She heard the sound of footsteps. "Oh, God. No. No. I'm too young to die! Please, stranger, spare me, and I will never run away from Mom and Dad again." She begged. But Mae had no idea why she was begging. "Hello?" Someone called out.

She screamed. "Oh, my God! I'm dead." Then Mae started laughing hysterically. "Woah. Are you alright there?" Someone asked. Mae looked up and saw a boy with long hair. A bandage covered his eye, and he wore a sheriff's hat. "Oh, hello. I'm Carl," he introduced.

Carl extended his hand, and Mae took it. She brushed some dirt off her gown. "I'm sorry." Carl tilted his head. "Why are you sorry?" He asked politely. "For disturbing you, Carl, and for ruining your night, well, I'll be off now," Mae said.

She turned around and started walking, but she didn't exactly know where she'd be going. She stopped and ran back to the boy she'd just met. Carl. "So, I'm not from here. Could you help me get out of these woods?" she asked, and Carl chuckled. "I can tell. That British accent gives it away."

"Don't worry, boss. We'll find her and bring your daughter back to you." The two teenagers heard loud footsteps coming their way. "Over there! I see her!" A man yelled.

And without hesitating, Carl said, "I can take you somewhere safe; trust me." Mae nodded. Carl grabbed her hand, and the two ran. He seemed to know where to go.

Around fifty minutes later, they were out of the woods and onto a street. Carl seemed to know his way around the small suburban town quite well. Carl dug into his left pocket and took out a key. He unlocked the door quietly and led Mae inside. He shut the door and locked it afterward.

"Who were those guys?" Carl finally asked after a moment of silence. "They were probably my parents' bodyguards."

Carl laughed. "You don't seem famous at all." Mae chuckled. "You know, I never got your name."

"And why should I tell you, huh?" Mae retorted. "Well, I sort of saved you, so you owe it to me." Mae smiled. "Hold your horses there, Romeo. We just met."

"But it isn't that fair. You know my name, but I don't know yours. So tell me, girl. What is your name?"

Mae chuckled. "Mae Carter. Happy now?" He smiled and said, "Like the month?"

"Exactly." The two laughed.

"Come on. You can stay in my room. My parents are sleeping, so we have to be quiet." Mae nodded. Carl's room was upstairs.

On the second floor, there were three bedrooms and two bathrooms, all of equal size. They passed a room that had a sign that read, "Judith Grimes' bedroom. Knock or stay away!" Mae stared at the sign but quickly moved on.

Carl's bedroom was at the very end. On the door, there was a sign that read, "Carl Grimes' room. Knock before entering."

Mae chuckled. "That's cute." Carl blushed. "Shut up and keep quiet." He had a fair-sized bed. The walls were painted a nice beige color, and there was a small closet across his bed. Surprisingly, his room was cleaner than most teenage boys' rooms.

Mae smiled. She looked at Carl, who was smiling warmly at her. Although they were strangers, Carl treated her with more kindness and respect than any other person ever has. She silently wished the men and women back in England were like that.

Carl was also the total opposite of her classmates. While Carl was kind, understanding, and willing to help, Mae's classmates were rude people who only cared about themselves and never included Mae in anything. And being strangers to each other didn't change how Mae saw Carl. He seemed kind and was so good to her.

No one ever treated her like that. Everyone Mae knew had always left her in her time of need. But Carl didn't run away by himself when he heard the voices of Mae's parents' bodyguards. He stayed with Mae and helped her run away from them.

Mae felt happy for the first time in forever. She was grateful to have someone around her and not be alone. She felt free and had no intention of going back to England with her parents anytime soon.

Why? Because for now, she was nobody's daughter.

───── ❝ authors note ❞ ─────

woah... after almost 5 months of contemplating this... i did it. i actually published this on tumblr. anyway the ENTIRE book is on wattpad. "words burn hard" by uselessbitch4205

anyway tbh i loved mae.

she's such a mood.

i just have to tag my bbg @hiro--aoki <33

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galleryofart · 4 months ago

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Holiday

Artist: James Tissot (French, 1836-1902)

Date: 1876

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Tate Gallery, London

Description

Holiday was painted in the back garden of Tissot's London home, near the Lord's Cricket Ground. Autumn is coming, the leaves of the large chestnut tree are changing color, but the rest of the vegetation is still green and luxurious. The low sun shines a bright afternoon light on the scene. On the right is the painter's muse and lover, Kathleen Newton, who appears to avert her eyes from the scene. The men in the painting belong to the well-known I Zingari cricket club, judging by their yellow, red and black hats. The women are overdressed; a typical Tissot idiosyncrasy.

Stylistically, Holiday is striking because of its crystal-clear representation. The work is hyperrealistic and greatly detailed, with sparkling colors. The focus on daily scenes comes from Impressionism, which was en vogue in the Paris of those days. The influence of Manet can be recognized, also in the choice of subject, reminiscent of his Le déjeuner sur l'herbe (The Luncheon on the Grass). However, Holyday does not provoke but is suffused with a British conservatism.

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iwanttoswimintheswanepoel · 2 months ago

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Christmas & Chill 🎄🤶🏽

youtube

-i am about to have the most abundant Christmas yet

-i’ve gotten every single last Christmas gift i wanted and more

-i am naturally manifesting 10 billion dollars for breathing

-my christmas money is up past the mesosphere

-this years christmas spirit is reminiscent to visiting a victoria’s secret boutique in 2014

-i’m taking daily trips to Chanel, Cartier & Dior

-this Christmas is chic and sexy like ariana grande’s “christmas & chill” EP

-my legs look as long & thin as candice swanepoel’s in my winter attire

-i find incredible vintage fur pieces in every boutique i go to

-i’m obtaining the allure of slavic dolls this christmas

-my daily fit this season consists of: a seasonal color couture dress, sexy thermal tights, a fluffy vintage fur coat,a suede birkin and DSQUARED2 skate moss boots

-my wrist is so blinged out in ice it resembles the winter snow

-my tummy is getting as flat as i desire because i’m so dedicated to my winter arc

-every trip i take for christmas shopping i end up leaving with a little something just for me

-i’m thriving this holiday season kicking seasonal depression in its chestnuts

-this christmas encapsulates the same joy it had when i was a kid

-as expected i get the most christmas gifts under the tree again this year

-i successfully act surprised like the marvelous actress i am acting surprised opening my gifts this year. ofc i knew they’d get what i wanted they have no other choice…

-i grow prettier with every hot chocolate i sip watching a corny hallmark christmas movie

-my family is jumping to wrap presents for me cuz why bother with wrist strain ?

-my family can mend our issues at least temporarily to focus on getting me the most spectacular gifts

-everyone can agree everyday near me should be celebrated by giving me gifts

-everyone can agree i deserve to me spoiled because gracing everyone with my angel like presence alone is the greatest gift one could ask for

-i’m practically out of the country going to different skii slopes all around Europe this winter

-i’ve manifested the cutest skii wear this winter

-i’m staying at only the most luxurious skii slopes with the most beautiful views this winter

-i’ll meet the most handsome old money admirer on the skii slopes this winter

-the holiday spirit is just in the air everything seems to be going right for me… even more than usual (as it should)

-i’m a living breathing heater the way i fail to feel cold out in the snow

-i can take pictures out in the snow just like how jasmine tookes did in a swimsuit in Antarctica

-my christmas vibe is even more luxurious than usual i’m truly so opulent in energy and wealth

-like irina shayk icing her face i truly am so much prettier in the winter? i mean i glow up everyday but maybe two things can be true at once…

-i might even buy my dream penthouse in new york just to see the snow in central park from my balcony

-everyone feels the giving energy of the christmas spirit when the see me even strangers are going out of their way to do nice things for me. some are even chasing me down to give me free gifts!!!

-its so strange i’ve noticed for every sip of hot chocolate i drink and every old hollywood christmas movie i watch i loose 1/4th of an inch off of my waist?

-i’m fully immune to any and all illnesses this season… i do not claim that energy

-everyone is so so envious of my christmas hauls and my trips this winter. whatever when are they not 😹

-surprise trips this winter to : Prague, New York, Switzerland, Paris, London, Monaco , Italy, Norway

-during christmas everyone has the constant reminder i’m gods favorite

-life update:russian mani’s look real good in moscow btw…

-i’m wearing my diamonds, vintage sable fur coat, and a la perla lingerie set to bed every night

-tall russian men keep throwing diamonds and expensive fur coats at me telling me to stay warm?

-i love hitting the slopes then drinking clicqout, eating austrian pastries, fresh oysters and caviar on brioche with thick french butter by the fireplace in my family’s vacation suite

-the millionaires handbook must’ve gotten it all wrong its like all of the rich men in the world are flocking towards me like a magnet this holiday season?

-every room i step into i have the same energy as Gisele Bundchen opening the VSFS 2005 “santas helpers”

-forget eating like a slavic doll on my winter arc, i’m nourishing my body with the best steak tartare & pavlova europe has to offer

-i’m flying out justin gelband to personally train me at the skii resort this winter to give me the best candice swanepoel esque VS angel body for this summer

-everyday for me practically looks like marilyn monroe’s scene “diamonds are a girls best friend” in gentleman prefer blondes because i genuinely cannot keep these rich men off of me

-i’ve not only perfected my wishlist but also my christmas decor. too bad i’ll be out of the country to see it!

-everyone keeps asking me if i modeled for victoria’s secret when they see me?

-the winter season gave me the most flattering natural highlights for my voluminous blowouts

-its so funny i heard everyone at the resort gossiping about the pretty girl from the wealthy family who keeps playing rich guys and just realized they were talking about me? 😭😹

-i love just how beautiful my tan looks in comparison to the icy white snow

-the christmas decor everywhere is so over the top and chefs kiss i can’t help but to be in the spirit

-i still take my weekly trip to the tanning salon because a girl needs her red light therapy

-everyday my life looks like something out of an episode of gossip girl

-i’ve perfected my christmas playlist literally everyone is asking for it its almost embarrassingly good

-chanel gloves under my harry winston ring cuz i don’t need this mani catching frostbite 🤦🏽‍♀️

-i have all of the vintage fur coats i could want… peta might just throw red paint on me! #giselefurscum

-i smell so decadent and edible wearing Jo Malone “Ginger Biscuit” as my winter scent

-sure homemade cookies are sentimental and all but the ones we have sent up by the personal chef are way better…

-i look so naturally elegant and even more luxurious than usual in the winter. one would even begin to question my wealth

-i love to unwind my day by the fireplace with rich peppermint hot chocolate

-i cant help but to call the resorts spa staff after a long day of shopping. my feet hurt in those boots 🙁

-i made so much money this holiday season i’m personally on fugly 🤮elon musk’s🤮 watch list

#bennies #subliminal #iwannaswimintheswanepoel #raw affirmations

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lexiwritesbooks · 1 month ago

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Chapter Four:

The overwhelming scent was what hit me first, of crisp cold air, rotting wood, bonfires, and cinnamon.

I couldn’t contain my grin as I looked up at the towering trees, their leaves aflame with shades of red, orange, and gold. The ground was a carpet of fallen leaves, crunching softly underfoot as we stepped forward. The morning sunlight shone through the leaves, making them look like they were glowing.

Each breath I took filled me with joy. Autumn has always been my favourite season, and not only because of my birthday, on the very first day of Autumn, it was because of this feeling it gave me, of pure happiness. The branches swayed gently in the breeze, creating a soft rustling sound that was almost musical. I could see squirrels darting among the branches and hear the distant call of birds, their songs a melodic accompaniment to our steps.

Ahead of us, High Lord Beron and his family stood in a formal line, each of them sporting varying shades of red hair. My mother and father stopped a few feet from them, the sentries beside them falling back, allowing my siblings and I to stand on our fathers left, while the rest of our court went to stand beside our mother, the sentries lining up behind us.

Beron's piercing gaze swept over us, assessing, while his wife stood by his side, her face serene yet watchful. I locked eyes with Eris, standing directly across from me a knowing smile on his face.

My face fell.

How could he stand there smiling at me, after everything that had happened? After he had destroyed me.

I tore my eyes from Eris’s. Thea turned to me, alarm shining in her eyes. She knocked at my mental shield but I shook my head slightly, not letting her in.

I looked to Beron, holding my head high although I knew my sadness must be evident in my eyes. Beron's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, but he said nothing, turning instead to address my father.

"High Lord Erebus, welcome to the Autumn Court," Beron intoned, his voice carrying a weight of authority and tradition. "We are honoured by your presence."

"Thank you, Beron," my father replied smoothly. "The honour is ours."

Formal pleasantries were exchanged, each word a carefully crafted piece of the political dance. I barely heard them, my thoughts still tangled with the memories of Eris and the hurt that his smile had rekindled. I felt Aries' hand brush mine, a silent offer of support. I squeezed his fingers gratefully.

Once the introductions were complete, Beron gestured to the waiting carriages, their exteriors as ornate as the rest of the Autumn Court. "Shall we proceed to the Forest House? We've prepared a welcome feast in your honour."

As we moved towards the carriages, I felt Eris's gaze on me, but I refused to look back. Instead, I focused on my breathing, trying to ground myself in the present.

The carriages were a marvel in themselves. Crafted from dark, polished wood, they gleamed under the autumn sunlight. Each carriage was adorned with intricate carvings of leaves and vines, painted in hues that matched the surrounding foliage.

A footman opened the door, bowing deeply, and then helping Amalthea in. I could see the horses, magnificent creatures with glossy chestnut coats, their manes braided with ribbons matching the autumn colours. They stamped their hooves impatiently, eager to be off. I followed behind my sister, gathering my skirts in one hand and taking his gloved hand with the other, climbing up the steps.

Inside, the carriages were just as luxurious. Plush, velvet seats in deep burgundy lined the interior, with golden embroidery along the edges. The windows were draped with heavy, gold-trimmed curtains, which could be drawn to provide privacy. Soft cushions were scattered on the seats, inviting and comfortable.

I took a seat against the wall, opposite to Thea, as Aries climbed in. He sat down beside her, glancing around the carriage, an impressed look on his sharp face. The footman closed the carriage door behind us with a soft click, and I sat back into the plush seat, the cool velvet soothing against my skin. The interior of the carriage smelled faintly of cedar.

The carriage jerked forward and we started moving. A gruff shout sounded outside the carriage, but we kept moving.

“Wait,” a masculine voice called again, multiple sets of quick footsteps sounding from outside the carriage.

We jerked to a stop and the carriage swayed as the footman jumped from the driver's seat. His footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves.

“I apologise your highnesses, I did not realise you meant to ride in this carriage,” The footman said.

Thea peeked out the window and pursed her lips, sitting back in her seat with an annoyed sigh.

“It’s alright,” the male voice said as the carriage door clicked open.

A male with short flame red hair and honey brown eyes dressed in burgundy climbed into the carriage smirking.

“Sorry for the mix up. I know you are all anxious to get to the House.” He sat down beside Aries against the wall.

The carriage darkened as someone else got in, blocking the light from the door.

Eris.

Dressed in an elegant forest green suit, Eris moved to sit beside me, unbuttoning the lower buttons of his suit.

The footman closed the carriage door with a soft thud, and the interior was enveloped in a momentary silence broken only by the muffled sounds of the forest outside. The scent of cedar mingled with Eris’s of campfire smoke and cinnamon, a familiar and unsettling combination.

I gritted my teeth as his amber eyes bore into me.

“Alexandra,” he said, nodding at me.

“Eris.” I responded tightly, unmoving.

He looked me up and down before turning to my siblings. “Amalthea, Aries,” He nodded to each of them. They nodded back. “I don’t believe you’ve met my younger brother, Devann.”

"Nice to meet you," Devann said with a hint of amusement in his voice, clearly sensing the underlying currents. "Hope the mix-up didn't cause too much delay."

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Thea said politely, her golden eyes examining Devann.

“Are you two identical?” He asked, pointing between Thea and I.

“Yes.” I responded, “We’re triplets.”

Devann nodded, looking thoughtfully at each of us. He had no doubt heard about us.

“Alexandra has darker eyes, and she always wears that tiara. Amalthea’s eyes are pure gold,” Aries said easily, leaning back against the plush seat. “They might look alike, but they’re quite different once you get to know them.”

Eris smirked, “If looking at their eyes is too difficult, Amalthea is the nicer one.”

I glared at him.

“See,” He smiled, gesturing to me.

I turned my gaze towards the window, avoiding his penetrating stare.

“Oh, don’t do that.” He sighed.

Amalthea and Aries quickly started peppering Devann with questions about the Autumn Court as Eris stared at me.

He brushed his fingers against my shoulder, “I’m sorry Andi.”

I turned back to him, my heart skipping a beat as his eyes met mine. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it Eris,” I hissed, so quietly only he could hear me.

His expression tightened as I turned to face my siblings, who were discussing the customs of the Autumn Court. Devann enthusiastically shared anecdotes about the court's traditions, explaining an upcoming festival we’d get to attend.

The carriage hit a bump jolting all of us towards the wall I was sitting against. Eris threw his arm out, pressing his hand against the sidewall as we flung against it, trapping me between him and the wall. I winced as my head and shoulder slammed against the wall.

“Are you alright?” Eris asked as the carriage straightened out again. He kept his arm against the wall, enveloping me in his scent as he trapped me against the wall.

I nodded, rubbing my shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Amalthea and Aries were scooting away from Devann, whom they had slammed into as the carriage tipped.

Eris took his hand off the wall, reaching out with both hands to adjust my tiara. He smoothed my hair and pushed my tiara back into the proper position on top of my head.

As soon as he put his hands down I turned back to the window, feeling slightly sick.

The carriage slowed as we approached a grand gate adorned with intricate carvings of autumn leaves, marking the entrance to the Forest House. The grand gate swung open with a creak, revealing a long, winding path lined with majestic trees whose branches arched overhead, creating a natural tunnel. As the carriages rolled forward, the Forest House came into view, an impressive structure nestled among the trees.

I knew from Sinclair that only its uppermost levels were visible to us above the ground; it descended multiple floors into the stone, although it wasn’t the number of stories that generated its size. The Forest House was a sprawling complex, built in and around trees and rocks. There were layers and circles of sentries ringing it: in the trees, on the ground, and atop the moss coated shingles and stones of the House itself. No one approached High Lord Beron’s home without his knowledge, and no one left without his permission.

When the carriages came to a stop, footmen rushed to open the doors. Eris was the first to step out, offering his hand to help me down. I hesitated for a moment before accepting it, feeling the roughness of his skin against mine. His grip was firm but gentle, and for a fleeting moment, I was reminded of a time when the warmth of his touch had brought me comfort. Now it stirred a confusing mix of emotions within me.

As soon as my feet touched the ground, I released Eris's hand and stepped back, distancing myself from him. I needed a moment to steady my emotions before facing whatever awaited us inside the Forest House.

Amalthea and Aries climbed out after me, with Devann bringing up the rear. Thea shot me a concerned glance, but I managed a small, reassuring smile. She knew me too well to be entirely convinced, but she let it drop for now.

High Lord Beron led the way, his strides purposeful as he guided us towards the intricately carved doors. The air was filled with the scent of damp earth and autumn leaves, mingling with the faint aroma of wood smoke drifting from the chimneys of the Forest House.

"Welcome to the Forest House," Beron announced as we reached the grand entrance, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness. The double doors were adorned with intricate carvings of ancient creatures and autumn foliage, a testament to the craftsmanship of the Autumn Court.

Inside, the Forest House was a marvel of design, seamlessly blending nature with architecture. The walls were lined with rich, dark wood, polished to a gleam, and adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of autumnal beauty. The floors were covered with plush rugs in deep shades of red and gold, their patterns intricate and mesmerising. Large windows allowed the golden light of the autumn sun to pour in, casting a warm glow over everything.

Servants moved gracefully through the hall, their movements almost unnoticed as they carried trays and baskets.

Beron snapped his fingers, and a few servants came and lined up beside him. “They will show you to your rooms. Please, make yourselves comfortable. We will reconvene in the Great Hall for the welcome feast in four hours."

My father nodded. "Thank you, Beron."

One of the servants curtsied to us, “If your highnesses would follow me, I can show you to your rooms.”

Aries, Thea,and I followed her up a grand staircase in the centre of the house. The wood creaked softly underfoot, the sound blending with the distant hum of the forest outside. As we climbed higher, I stole a glance at Eris, who was walking a few steps behind. He moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his posture perfectly straight, as if he were untouchable.

The servant leading us paused at a wide landing, gesturing to a series of doors along the corridor. "Any of these rooms are available. If you need anything, please ring the bell by the door, and someone will assist you immediately."

Aries and Amalthea immediately claimed two rooms opposite each other. I hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of Eris's gaze on my back, before choosing the room beside Aries, towards the back of the hallway.

I twisted the bronze handle, revealing a room as lavish as the rest of the Forest House. A large bed with a canopy draped in rich fabrics dominated the space. A fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm, flickering light across the room.

I heard Eris’s footsteps behind me and looked over my shoulder at him. He smirked as he pushed open the door across from mine. Eris’s bedroom was a mirror image of mine in opulence, though it had an unmistakable touch of his personal style. The rich, green hues of the decor echoed the forests of his court, with dark wood furniture and accents of gold that spoke of both wealth and nature. A large, canopied bed sat against the far wall, draped in deep green silks and adorned with cushions in autumnal shades. A grand fireplace crackled warmly on one side of the room, and the scent of cedar and a hint of smoky incense lingered in the air.

I watched as Eris moved to stand beside the fireplace, his eyes flicking towards me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. The warmth from the fire illuminated his sharp features, casting a flickering light that seemed to dance across his face.

I desperately wanted to go into my room and shut the door, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. Eris leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, his eyes still fixed on me.

Thank the cauldron Thea chose that moment to step out of her room or I might have done something incredibly foolish. She closed her door softly and turned to look at me, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. She stepped closer to me and noticed Eris standing inside his room. She pressed her lips together but didn’t say anything as she pushed past me to go into my room.

I followed behind her, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. Thea sat down on the bed, and I walked to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains to look out at the sprawling gardens below. The sight was breathtaking, a riot of autumn colours, but my mind was too unsettled to fully appreciate it.

I whirled to face the door as it clicked open again. I let out a sharp breath as Aries peeked in, Eris’s door behind him was now firmly shut.

“You need to tell us what happened with Eris.” He said, shutting the door behind him.

I shook my head softly and Thea shifted uncomfortably on the bed, bringing a hand up to rub her temple.

"Alexandra," Aries said, his voice gentle yet insistent. "We can't help you if you keep shutting us out."

The memories flooded back. Eris and I, wrapped in each other's arms, whispering secrets and promises. The way he had looked at me, as if I were his entire world. And then, that night in the tent. The things he had said, and the hurt that had followed, so deep it felt like a physical wound.

"It's... complicated." I sighed, crossing my arms protectively.

"Complicated how?" Thea asked, standing up and moving to stand beside me.

I shook my head again, “I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll be fine, I just need to get through this visit.”

Thea and Aries exchanged a look of concern and disappointment, but they knew not to push me.

“We’re here for you Andra,” Thea said, walking to the door with Aries.

“I know,” I sighed. “I’ll see you at the feast.”

They nodded and left the room, leaving me to collapse onto a loveseat beside the window.

__________________________________

This chapter is a bit shorter than they normally will be but I had to split this chapter and the next in two and cut some parts out because it got obnoxiously long. I hope you enjoyed it anyways! Thank you for reading!

#fanfic #acotar #creative writing #acotar fanfic #slow burn #feyre acotar #rhys acotar #eris x oc #slowburn #romance #enemies to lovers #nesta acotar #eris vanserra #lucian vanserra #acotar fanfiction #nesta x cassian #fated mates

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phoenixrsing · 11 months ago

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your muses aesthetic. list your muse’s aesthetic from tastes, smells, outfits, and sceneries. add as many subjects as you like, it can help with people tagging you in aesthetically pleasing things towards your muse.

tastes: traditional fire-nation cuisine. spicy fire-flakes, roasted pork, and hot tea infused with jasmine. dragon fruit, lychee, and mangoes, grilled sea pawns. aged fire nation wines with complex flavors of oak and spice. fire nation whiskey, intense and smoky, with hints of charred oak, toasted spices, and a touch of volcanic ashroasted chestnuts. green tea ceremonies, delicate jasmine tea, and rare white dragon jasmine tea leaves—a specialty of his father. rare spices from trees that are native to fire nation, including cumin, saffron, and cardamom.

smells: a scent of smoldering cinnamon, cloves, and star anise in the air. jasmine blossoms, lotus flowers, and orchids from the royal gardens. the crisp scent of autumn leaves and the smoky aroma of fire pits. herbal notes. a hint of sage, lemongrass, and mint leaves in herbal teas. sandalwood incense burning in meditation rooms. crackling hearth fires in the royal palace.

sights: volcanic landscapes. volcanoes looming on the horizon, with smoke rising from their peaks. intense flames swirling, casting shadows against the red walls. royal palace. opulent halls decorated with gilded ornaments, tapestries depicting ancient fire nation legends, and imposing thrones. fire nation technology—advanced warships, steam-powered machinery, and towering factories billowing smoke. traditional fire nation dances—graceful movements accompanied by the flickering light of torches and lanterns. colorful celebrations featuring elaborate firework displays, traditional music, and performances. endless amount of war memorials. monuments honoring fallen soldiers of the fire nation, with eternal flames burning in their honor. regal crimson robes with intricate gold embroidery, adorned with the fire nation insignia. messages of propaganda, supremacy, and strength through firebending. a recruitment poster featuring a soldier, with the caption, join the fire nation army and defend our sacred land.

sounds: the rhythmic sound of flames dancing in fire pits and torches. trumpets heralding the arrival of fire nation royalty, accompanied by drums and cymbals. war drums—thunderous beats echoing across training grounds, inspiring troops before battle. lightning crackling in the foreground. melodic tunes played on traditional fire nation instruments, the pipa and guzheng. the chirping of fire nation birds, the rustling of palm trees, and the distant roar of waterfalls. war machinery—clanking gears, hissing steam, and the rumble of warships off the shorelines. moments of quiet contemplation, where the only sounds are the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle crackle of embers. practicing the dizi, traditional flute in between training sessions.

sensations: the comforting heat of firebending flames against the skin during training sessions. luxurious fire nation silks and satins, smooth against the touch. intense warmth radiating from the earth's core during visits to volcanic hot springs. humid, sea breezes brushing against the skin from the coastlines. tactile connection—a sensation of firebending energy pulsing beneath lu ten's fingertips, responding to his every movement and command. resilient spirit and unwavering determination. a deep sense of connection to the spirits of fire. commitment to serving the fire nation. isolationism, a loneliness you cannot shake. failure is not an option. reluctant heroism, internal struggles between morality and obligations. inside of me, there are two dogs. one is mean and evil and the other is good and they fight each other all the time. when asked which one wins, i answer, the one I feed the most. ambiguous loyalties.

tagged by — me. tagging: @hotknickers, @denouemente, @linghung, @hookedswords, @dropovers, @fearbend, @kniveds, @yourideaguy, @bowbend, @rotpoetry

#[ aesthetics. ]

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museenkuss · 2 years ago

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Sensual Delights for today

taking off my headphones during the walk and hearing the bird chilp. listening to Tom Misch while cleaning the bathroom (Lost in Paris specifically), the air still warm and fragrant with steam.

catching a first glimpse of the budding chestnut blossoms. the neighbour dog standing on her hind legs by the window to watch Sunny as we returned from our walk - plus Sunny standing up as well to return her companionable-curious stare.

white tea with rose petals and a brunch salad with feta, olives, tomato, fennel (plus fresh baguette with curry/mango/papaya spread!). grapefruit and orange pieces as a light afternoon snack.

the warmth that spreads luxuriously through my body after my quick pilates session. using a grape pit peeling in the shower and later lathering vanilla body lotion on warm-soft skin.

an initial shock of tobacco and powder from Divin'Enfant (after months of not touching the bottle at all), which melts into a scent so heavenly I keep stopping in my tracks to sniff around before remembering what caught my attention. opening a new jar of strawberry jam and breathing in the scent.

one extra moment of combined sensual pleasures: hanging my damp towels up to dry in the warm afternoon, the birds loud and cheerful in the trees overhead and the air warm and soft. Sneaking over to the wild red currant bush by the clothesline to sniff the sticky-sweet blossoms and encountering the first blossom-drunk, eager little bee.

#Sinnesfreuden #I had to put it into words once more and this felt like a really nice exercise <33 #Musenkuss #🦪.txt

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unhonestlymirror · 9 months ago

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My favourite colour. I used to have a chestnut tree in my backyard in Ukraine, too. It had a fungi infection, which almost ate it from the inside... but the tree still was blooming every year in the most luxuriant way. We used to break off this giant mushroom with our feet. I wonder if there is still someone to take care of my chestnut.

#spring #nature #Lithuania #світлини тайм #photography

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lucaderossi · 2 years ago

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ꕀ ᐝ 𖠳 luke pasqualino, cis man, he/him 𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ ‷ heads up ; if you hear that’s amore by frank sinatra blaring, it’s most likely luca de rossi making their way down the shore ! they’re 30 years old and celebrate their birthday on 06/28 - i knew they were a cancer! especially since they’re very exuberant and grandiose. they are from brooklyn, new york, staying in the cove and are currently working as a head chef/co-owner of the boiler room, here at the cape. they always did remind me of tailored suits, pasta puttanesca and a large glass of chianti, and unwavering family loyalty.‷

GENERAL INFORMATION

Full Name: Luciano Giovanni ‘Luca’ De Rossi Nicknames: Luc, Ciano, Lulu (reserved for Nonna + his nieces) Age: 31 years old Birthdate: June 28, 1992 Birthplace: Brooklyn, New York Current Residence: The Cove | Cape May, New Jersey Gender/Pronouns: Cis-Man | He/Him Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Relationship Status: Single Occupation(s): The Boiler Room (Co-Owner + Head Chef)

APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: Luke Pasqualino Hair: Dark Brown Eyes: Chestnut Height: 6'2" | 188 cm. Weight: 175 lbs. | 79 kg. Build: Athletic Complexion: Olive skin, with rich golden undertones Accent: American English/Brooklyn Spoken Languages: Italian + English (fluent) | French (conversational) Tattoos: 4 | An oak tree on his left breastplate, with the names of his immediate relatives on his right breastplate; a cursive quote on his back shoulder (Aut viam inveniam aut faciam | I shall either find a way or make one); the coordinates of his grandparent’s village in Palermo across his inner right arm; an oversized set of rosary beads across his back, with the Virgin Mary in the center and a crucifix at the bottom. Piercings: None. Scent: Sandalwood, Vanilla, and Mint Oil

PERSONALITY

Positive Traits: Charismatic, Exuberant, Loyal Negative Traits: Capricious, Impulsive, Materialistic Likes: Pasta, dinners with Nonna, football, Italian leather, vintage suits Dislikes: Birds, cheap wine, pineapple pizza, being away from family Fears: FOMO, heights, the safety/well-being of his relatives Zodiac: Cancer Sun, Taurus Moon, Leo Rising Hogwarts House: Gryffindor MBTI: ESTP | The Entrepreneur Enneagram: 8 | The Challenger Moral Alignment: Neutral Good Temperament: Choleric Labels: Benevolent Boss | Chronic Hero Syndrome | Hidden Depths

BACKGROUND (TL;DR VERSION)

The youngest of 5, and the only son among them, Luca’s birth had been regarded as a miracle, and he was showered with endless familial affection the second he entered the world

Born at the height of the Colombo Family wars, Luca spent the first few years of his life in Florida with his mother, sisters, and a host of extended family members

He doesn’t remember much from that time, apart from the old photos and shared stories, particularly from Nonna and his great aunts, both of whom are equally colorful and animated in their recollections

Returning at the end of the decade, Luca spent the remainder of his formative years in the heart of Little Italy, a place he will forever regard as his home

During this time, Luca garnered a growing interest for the culinary arts; it is one that he would continue to cultivate into his adolescence, and eventually his adult years — given his lineage and the location of his upbringing, it was hardly unexpected, and practically inevitable

Despite a persona and predispositions that might indicate otherwise, Luca was not raised in the lap of luxury; he is well-acquainted with the realities of struggling to get by, and the experience is one that motivates to do well for himself, and for his family (for his success is theirs, just as much as it is his own)

Pursuing an education at the famed Auguste Escoffier School of Culinary Arts, Luca has worn just about every hat there is to wear, professionally speaking: from Server to Sous Chef, Prep Cook to Pastry Chef — you name it, he’s done it (the same can also be said of his private life, though that is another affair entirely)

While he has quite enjoyed his status as a world-traveling connoisseur (as well as all the perks that accompany such a vocation), he currently resides in Cape May, finding success in his entrepreneurial pursuits at The Boiler Room. It has been a challenging endeavor, playing the part of co-owner, head chef, and all of the duties that accompany these roles, the effort has been equally rewarding, particularly being in such close proximity to his family, new/old friends, and settling into a life of substance and satisfaction.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Can be found here!

#cape.intro #// going to post this before tumblr deletes it again :')#// will update the rest properly tmrw!

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precambrianhottopic · 1 year ago

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Fires of the North

CHAPTER 3: NORTHWARD

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Lazare Doromos, far and away the most famous person to ever arrive in the elusive city of Fell, had been in hiding for six weeks. He had arrived just prior to the Gossamer and the Company, with no great fanfare- on an utterly silent and starless night, the least magnificent of all the Doromos’ carriages slipped in through a lesser-used gate, unnoticed by all but a lone gatekeeper and the policemen keeping the night’s watch, and from there had seemingly disappeared entirely. This was, for a creature who stuck out like a tiger lily in the tundra, no small feat. Undoubtedly, any ordinary man who carried himself with the flamboyance and vividity of Lazare Doromos wouldn’t have lasted a day in the cold, mechanical city of Fell- fortunately for him, Lazare was no ordinary man.

There are a strange sort of folk, far to the South, who are not so bound to the physical laws of material reality as much as they are vaguely influenced by the circumstances of their existence. Where the sun burns warm no matter the season and the mangrove trees grow tall, there are men who may be parrots at noon and stags by sundown, women who dance ethereal through the myriad shapes of the world, and folk of all kinds who waver pleasantly through in-betweens and gray areas. They are the chimera, the many-faced, the shapeshifters, and legends of their existence pulse from North to South like a great web of color and light. The loftiest of all these legends had just arrived in technicolor glory on the doorstep of Fell, thousands of miles from where it began. It was with all the great bluster of myth at his heels that Lazare Doromos, Prince of the Many-Faced, disappeared without a word into the leaden streets. For six weeks, the city’s keenest eyes spotted an odd white hare here, a piebald raven there, or a stranger of some impossible description stumbling into a tavern and asking bright-eyed for a glass of whatever the barkeep liked best. None of them thought to connect these incidents to the man now standing out in the snow in an ensemble of at least four different colors of velvet, although they were all undoubtedly his own. At last now, he stood in broad daylight as though he were as solid and stark as the city itself, and broke into a grin.

Doromos stands, entirely by choice, just shy of six feet. If he so pleases, his chestnut curls fall just at his chin but are swept back from his startlingly blue eyes, his ears draw up to a small point, and his mandibular canines protrude ever so slightly, a delightfully paradoxical combination of features that appears on no worldly creatures but Doromos himself. This frivolous form is grounded within eight or nine layers of clothing, each of a different material and color, he carries himself like a peacock with tail at rest, surely waiting for some future Spring to disregard his outer layers and become truly ethereal. He approaches a stunned Marshall with a ridiculous, waltzing gait that walked the line between elegance and parody in the manner that only a well-trained nobleman can. Indeed, Lazare was from wealth, vast and unimaginable quantities that had been in his family for longer than the city of Fell had stood against the North. Perhaps one of his distant ancestors had been some prototypic businessman, who’d made his fortune selling the wheel shortly after its invention, and that from that catalyst family Doromos had gone on to become great and prosperous. His greatest of grandfathers was credited almost entirely with the creation of Brink, capital of the land of the Shapeshifters, and each one of his forefathers in turn had upheld that legacy until finally, Lazare Doromos was struck by a flight of fancy and left it all behind.

Three opulent decades of luxury had left Lazare with a remarkable temperament. Having experienced almost no worldly hardships, he was largely unaware of the challenges of modern life, and floated through each day with a capricious vivaciousness that charmed and confounded everyone who met him. He had gone through life untarnished by the bitter horrors of capital, stumbling blissfully into adulthood by following whatever captured his attention at the moment. Lazare was entirely unskilled in most trades and industries, but through sheer luck and a genuinely willingness to learn he muddled his way through impulse after impulse. Above all, Lazare’s naivety had forged at his most fundamental level a deep, unfailing kindness. His golden heart fluttered desperately against the harsh winds of Fell now- whether or not the brutal North could claw apart his altruism is still yet to be seen.

Like a brightly colored child’s doll dropped idly in the snow, Doromos offers a ridiculous little laugh and says, with a melodic lilt to his voice, “Sincerest apologies, my friend- did I startle you? I thought that I might admire these- well, these beautiful horses. Might I ask- are they yours?” His manner of speaking was rambling and winding, such that it took at least twice as long as necessary to get anywhere, leaving the listener in a pleasant stupor all the while.

Marshall seemed to snap back to some awareness, away from the gaudy stranger and toward what he knew to be true: “Yes, sir. They’re mine. Raised ‘em all myself, from foals.”

Lazare’s eyes lit up. “Oh, how delightful! They are truly glorious, good sir. Could I perhaps inquire as to what your name might be? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Marshall, sir. Jack Marshall. Assistant to Harkannon Hull, if you’re lookin’ to know.”

“Harkannon Hull! Now that’s a name I’ve heard before. He’s become quite the talk of the town, hasn’t he? Although I’m afraid, Marshall, my friend, that I may end up butting heads with him in due course- I believe we both have our eyes on that lovely little oil field. Of course, you seem like a fine fellow, and I wouldn’t want to besmirch you, but I do believe I could do something truly great if I do win this little race already taking shape, and I do apologize sincerely if what could very well be a great friendship winds up tarnished by our respective businesses.”

Jack stared calculatingly at Lazare, utterly dumbfounded. The flowery and wandering language he was being presented with meshed poorly with the simple boundaries of his mind, and he stood there for a while, struggling to comprehend what this odd man was trying to tell him, before giving up wholeheartedly and nodding in simple agreement. “Um- yes. Sir.”

“Now, the horses!” Lazare continued, offering a comforting smile to Marshall to bring him gently back into the loop. “This one, here, he is just glorious.” He approached the furthest horse to the left, entirely black and entirely glorious, and placed a gentle hand on its nose- the animal swung its head away and pinned its ears to his neck. “Could you tell me about him?”

“That’s Kismet, sir.”

“Kismet! What a name!”

“Thank you, sir. He’s a good horse- young and on the shy side, but good. Strong” Jack had been closely watching Lazare’s truly poor handling of Kismet, and finally decided to intervene. At his slightest touch, the horse calmed, and Lazare smiled with wonder.

“He is perhaps the finest stallion I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Marshall thought about interjecting to add that Kismet was in fact a gelding, and that he was a far sight from the finest in this stable alone, but thought better of it just in time for Lazare to suggest- “I’d love to buy him, if you’re selling. How much?”

Marshall was knocked back by this. “Buy him? Are you sure?” Hesitantly, he amended, “Are you sure you know your way around a horse?”

“Quite sure, good fellow! See, my lovely wife and I traveled to this delightful town several weeks ago, in a chariot drawn by eight black horses just like your Kismet here. Tragically, though, only seven of them made it through the gates- sweet Sugar Belle was attacked while we rested one night and by morning the scene was so ghastly we had no choice but to go on without her. I’d love so dearly to have a full team for the journey home- and you seem like such a fine fellow, Mr. Marshall, you ought to have a bit of money in your pocket. Name any price at all, and I’ll take him.”

“That- that’s very kind of you, sir. I appreciate your offer, honest, I just need to think on it for a while, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course! Please, take all the time you need- I wouldn’t want to rush you. In all honesty, Jackie my boy, the matter of your Kismet is far from why I came out here in the first place.” Lazare smiled blithely at his own impulsivity. “Tell me, what would a man like myself have to do to find himself a place on this survey trip I hear you’re taking?

And so it was that the surveyors, rather delayed, set out from Fell into the open jaws of Hyperborea. There were six of them in all- Jack Marshall, a rather frigid older man named Albert who would book his passage home shortly after returning, two guides from the city of Fell that had made the trek twice before, a supplemental Fell native from the city council with the sole objective of record-keeping, and Lazare, having taken the shape of the albatross to glide high above his companions. For four days, they pressed Northward, watching the vanishingly small window of sunlight wane further still and the temperatures plunge lethally far below zero. To the Southerners, conditions bordered on apocalyptic; to the Northerners, it was routine. On the very first night they made camp, Albert begged his guides to take him back to Fell, that surely none of them would survive the night, that they would freeze to death in their sleep or find a far worse fate further up the trail- the Fell-folk responded, simply, that he could not hope for better weather this deep into the year, and, if he so truly wanted to stop pressing North, he could put a bullet through his head right here to lighten their burdens- Albert quieted down after this, and spent the remainder of the journey in frightened silence.

As the party pressed on into the ice fields, the North slavered and hungered for the warmth of the ignorant. On the third day, the frosty exoskeleton over the snow shattered under Marshall’s feet and he slid waist deep into freezing death, pulled back out by his companions just short of half his body becoming frostbitten beyond the point of salvage. On the fourth day, Lazare was struck clean from the sky by gale force winds and spent seven hours resetting broken bones before he could take flight again. Regardless, they pressed onward. The guides would no longer let them sleep at night for more than an hour at a time, for fear of freezing to death- the nights had already become so long they were beginning to swallow the precious few hours of sunlight remaining. On the fourth day, bitter and frozen, the travelers and scouts arrived in the promised land, and before their eyes beheld glorious nothingness. The patch of snow looked no different from every horizon they’d seen for the past four days, although a guide promised that all of their fortunes roiled beneath the surface. As the surveyor grasped a small lead pencil in her thick gloves and took out her ledger, patrolling the edges of the field with a calculating eye, Albert snapped at one of the guides.

“You’ve led us nowhere! I- I could’ve died, and for what? Some snow? I’ve seen nothing but snow for four blasted days!”

The guide, whose name was Nils, replied simply, “You ask to be brought, and we bring you. Promised nothing.”

Jack and Lazare watched on as Albert huffed and paced around restlessly against the blizzard. Lazare turned his gaze outward to the oil field and shook his head with an open-mouthed smile. “It is beautiful, wouldn’t you say? In its own way, of course.”

Marshall hummed. “I s’pose.”

“You can almost feel it. Well, leastways I can- the incredible promise of opportunity just beneath our feet, almost bubbling to the surface.” He clapped Jack Marshall on his shoulder. “Yes, my good sir, something great is going to happen here. Whether the credit ends up on my shoulders or with your Company, or- or perhaps someone else entirely- only the Stars know now, but I can say with utter conviction that this, this ground will be hallowed.” Lazare seemed overcome with the grandeur of it all, perhaps morose for the first time in his life- certainly, as he looked out at the endless blanket of white he found himself overwhelmed by something, out there in the snow. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon like a hare just caught in the sights of a wolf.

Jack said nothing. He just watched, and wondered, and waited for the journey home.

#plush.txt #my writing #fantasy #fires of the north #i really like this chapter. lazare is a cool dude

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reddirttown · 1 year ago

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Language of Flowers: Horse Chestnut

A new month arrives, and with it come new hopes and intentions. In the language of flowers, the flower for this first day of October is Horse Chestnut, which signifies luxury. (Image below from Wikipedia.) When in bloom, the flower clusters are popularly called candles in the United Kingdom because they seem to light up the tree. (Image below from Wikipedia.) The fruit of Aesculus hippocastanum…

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#acetone #aesculus hippocastanum #birthday #british #conker #cordite #England #herbalism #horse chestnut #ireland #luxury #october #united kingdom #world war i #world war ii

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hellsitesonlybookclub · 2 years ago

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Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Chapter 13-14

XIII.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock, one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods; for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practising half the afternoon, frightened the maid-servants half out of their wits, by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stable-man about some fancied neglect of his horse, he 173 had flung himself into his hammock, to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.

"What in the world are those girls about now?" thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river.

"Well, that's cool!" said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never ask me. They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it; I'll take it to them, and see what's going on."

Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket; so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boat-house, he waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.

"Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.

It was rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood-people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily 174 with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away, because uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.

"May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing slowly.

Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly, and said, at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."

"I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away."

175 "I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to be idle here," replied Meg, gravely but graciously.

"Much obliged; I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I'm ready," and Laurie sat down, with a submissive expression delightful to behold.

"Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book.

"Yes'm," was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of an admission into the "Busy Bee Society."

The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.

"Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?"

"Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.

"He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.

"Who cares?" said Jo.

"I guess he'll like it," added Beth.

"Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and don't be afraid."

"The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and we have been going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer."

"Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.

"Who told you?" demanded Jo.

"Spirits."

"No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth meekly.

"You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now."

"Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased.

"Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and 176 worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."

"Yes, I should think so;" and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days.

"Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so we bring our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the 'Delectable Mountain,' for we can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time."

Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an opening in the wood one could look across the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hill-tops; and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks, that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.

"How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind.

"It's often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.

"Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time,—the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens, and haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly.

"There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go, by and by, when we are good enough," answered Meg, with her sweet voice.

"It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate."

"You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that," said Jo; "I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all."

"You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial 177 City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?"

Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend; but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in; for I don't believe there are any locks on that door, or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river."

"Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little pause.

"I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him.

"You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg.

"If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"

"Yes, if the girls will too."

"We will. Now, Laurie."

"After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany, and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me; and I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself, and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?"

Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things,—nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! for I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make every one love me dearly."

"Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie slyly.

"I said 'pleasant people,' you know;" and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.

178 "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband, and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books.

"You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours," answered Meg petulantly.

"Wouldn't I, though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle,—something heroic or wonderful, that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all, some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous: that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream."

"Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly.

"Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.

179 "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together; nothing else."

"I have ever so many wishes; but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire.

"We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass, like a meditative calf.

"I've got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously.

"I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!" muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh.

"Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.

"I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.

"Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.

"Where?"

"In your face."

"Nonsense; that's of no use."

"Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he fancied he knew.

Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions, and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight.

"If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said Jo, always ready with a plan.

"Bless me! how old I shall be,—twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.

"You and I shall be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.

"I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall 'dawdle,' Jo."

"You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is sure you'll work splendidly."

180 "Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business; but he's set, and I 've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there was any one left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow."

Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing up very fast, and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself.

"I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called "Teddy's wrongs."

"That's not right, Jo; you mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg, in her most maternal tone. "Do your best at college, and, when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't be hard or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty; and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved."

"What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself, after his unusual outbreak.

"Only what your grandpa told us about him,—how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person, because he wouldn't leave her; and how he 181 provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother; and never tells any one, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be."

"So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like grandpa to find out all about him, without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me, and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Brooke."

"Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out," said Meg sharply.

"How do you know I do, miss?"

"I can always tell by his face, when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly; if you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better."

"Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."

182 "We haven't; don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech.

"I don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his "high and mighty" air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. "Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather for him to report."

"Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for, by and by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother, and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.

Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven; I'm cross, and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes; I thank you all the same."

Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible,—wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the "Busy Bee Society." In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea "to draw," and they would just have time to get home to supper.

"May I come again?" asked Laurie.

"Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do," said Meg smiling.

"I'll try."

"Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do; there's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers, like a big blue worsted banner, as they parted at the gate.

183 That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has."

XIV. Secrets.

184

XIV.

SECRETS.

Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish, and threw down her pen, exclaiming,—

"There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better."

185 Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons; then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen, which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way, by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript; and, putting both in her pocket, crept quietly down stairs, leaving her friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink.

She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and, going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.

If any one had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street; having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the door-way, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street, and walked away as rapidly as she came. This manœuvre she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.

There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and, after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite door-way, saying, with a smile and a shiver,—

"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need some one to help her home."

186 In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs with a very red face, and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod; but he followed, asking with an air of sympathy,—

"Did you have a bad time?"

"Not very."

"You got through quickly."

"Yes, thank goodness!"

"Why did you go alone?"

"Didn't want any one to know."

"You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?"

Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then began to laugh, as if mightily amused at something.

"There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week."

"What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said Laurie, looking mystified.

"So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."

"I'm glad of that."

"Why?"

"You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."

Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves.

"I'll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not; it's grand fun, and will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying 'I'm glad,' in that decided way; was it, now?"

"No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?"

"Not often."

"I wish you wouldn't."

187 "It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players; so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable, and be a satisfaction to your friends," said Jo, shaking her head.

"Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.

"That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come; and if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."

"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.

"No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."

"Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet; I'm not a fashionable party, and don't mean to be; but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?"

"Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you? or there will be an end of all our good times."

"I'll be a double-distilled saint."

"I can't bear saints: just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son; he had plenty of money, but didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid."

"You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged."

"No, I don't—oh, dear, no!—but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor; I shouldn't worry then."

"Do you worry about me, Jo?"

"A little, when you look moody or discontented, as you sometimes do; for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you."

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing 188 she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips still smiled as if at her warnings.

"Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked presently.

"Of course not; why?"

"Because if you are, I'll take a 'bus; if you are not, I'd like to walk with you, and tell you something very interesting."

"I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely."

"Very well, then; come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours."

"I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.

"You know you have,—you can't hide anything; so up and 'fess, or I won't tell," cried Laurie.

"Is your secret a nice one?"

"Oh, isn't it! all about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin."

"You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"

"Not a word."

"And you won't tease me in private?"

"I never tease."

"Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."

"Thank you; fire away."

"Well, I've left two stories with a newspaper man, and he's to give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.

"Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children; for they were out of the city now.

"Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say; but I couldn't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I didn't want any one else to be disappointed."

"It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare, 189 compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print; and sha'n't we feel proud of our authoress?"

Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in; and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.

"Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement.

"I may get into a scrape for telling; but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is."

"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

"It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is."

"Tell, then."

Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you know?"

"Saw it."

"Where?"

"Pocket."

"All this time?"

190 "Yes; isn't that romantic?"

"No, it's horrid."

"Don't you like it?"

"Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My patience! what would Meg say?"

"You are not to tell any one; mind that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't for the present, any way; but I'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."

"You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away."

"I'd like to see any one try it," cried Jo fiercely.

"So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea.

"I don't think secrets agree with me; I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," said Jo, rather ungratefully.

"Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested Laurie.

No one was in sight; the smooth road sloped invitingly before her; and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her, and scattering hair-pins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment; for his Atalanta came panting up, with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.

191 "I wish I was a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was capital; but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple-tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.

Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But some one did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her dishevelled sister with well-bred surprise.

"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up.

"And hair-pins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. "They grow on this road, Meg; so do combs and brown straw hats."

"You have been running, Jo; how could you? When will you stop such romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs, and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

"Never till I'm stiff and old, and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg: it's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden; let me be a little girl as long as I can."

As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips; for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time, and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face, and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine?"

"At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!"

"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.

"I'm afraid I do."

"I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

192 "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.

"Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.

"I shall never 'go and marry' any one," observed Meg, walking on with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and "behaving like children," as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang; was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about "Spread Eagles," till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.

"What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.

"I hope she won't; she is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with any one but her.

"It's very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo," added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way,—two agreeable things, which made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read.

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