#i bet lumber is busy as can be.

[onepiexe]

tables look so much better

[strawberrystepmom]

tsukasa x f!reader. reader is a medical specialist and has two friends - the farmer and the navigator. wc 2.9k

Tsukasa is looking in your direction again.

You never have to look up to see it, feeling his rich brown eyes searing into you even from a distance is enough to know, but this time you do. Flicking your gaze upward to meet his, you see the faintest hint of a smile on his face and he looks away, embarrassed. If you were closer you’re certain that his tan skin would be dusted with the faintest hue of pink across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose - it has been all of the other times you’ve caught him so you can fill in the blanks on your own now.

“You could just speak to him, you know?”

Whatever reverie you were enjoying is quickly interrupted by your friend, the farmer, bringing a bundle of fresh medicinal herbs to your desk, plopping the twine tied bundle down on your work table. She folds her arms and leans over the table, bending at the waist, and you scoff.

“I don’t want to hear it from you.”

She shrugs and brushes the dirt she just flung across your table off with the side of her hand, letting it settle on the ground below both of your feet. It has been around a month since everyone arrived at the settlement and while you don’t ever dare assume things are going to be great, even before petrification your worried and logical nature served as a compass to keep you from doing so, they have gone better than expected. Everyone seems to get along well, the Ishigami VIllage settlers are eager to help and to find their place, and winter preparations are underway without issue.

You do have one issue, though, and he just so happens to be staring at you again even with the shield of your friend’s body between the two of you. Glancing over her shoulder, you don’t bother to meet his eyes and instead keep an eye on his form, thick forearms carrying unfathomably large stacks of lumber from one end of the camp to the other to build new pens for the horses. Tsukasa spends most of his time with them and he took the responsibility of creating new shelter for them on his own - the lack of manpower and muscle in the camp prevented this project from being completed until now.

He brought all the muscle and manpower you could ever ask for and it frustrates you to your very bones.

“I’ll bet he’s lonely over there by the stables all on his own.” Your friend teases and you shoot her a glance, pretending to inspect the yarrow and wild ginger she brought you to make medication with. “You should go and check in on him. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

Picking up the bundle, you wave it in her direction and point it toward the door.

“I’m just saying!” A poor attempt to defend herself but she tries nevertheless, shifting where she stands so that she’s no longer bent at the waist and instead pressing her hip against the edge of the table with her arms still folded. “Fresh bread is about to come out of the oven if whatever the hell Ryusui has been yelling about all day is true so you better grab some and take it to him before there’s none left.”

Fresh bread has become less of a luxury now that the Ishigami settlers and their chef have come along but it goes as quickly as it can be made. Considering for a minute that he may miss out if he’s too busy, you sigh and stretch your arms over your head while rising from the wooden stool you were sitting on. The shit eating grin of your friend makes you roll your eyes and you playfully bump shoulders with her when you pass by, headed toward the galley.

Perhaps you like Tsukasa more than you originally assumed you would. He’s handsome, of course, but anyone with eyes can see that and you assumed at first that he was no more than met your eye. Until you met his sister, his gentle doting over her coming off as nothing less than altruistic and loving. Until he started looking at you with affection you’d only dreamed of from across the camp, something so gentle in his eyes you believed you imagined it but it kept happening.

This is not a time to think about feelings, you remind yourself. The world is developing and whether you and your fellow settlers wanted it or not, you are its architects with science and medicine and lust for a life similar to how it once was.

A crowd has already formed around the galley and you groan, considering walking away empty handed rather than dealing with the thick of people. You know everyone, it’s the nature of things given there are less than 75 people in the settlement total, but it feels humiliating to be waiting here for bread that isn’t even for you. It’s for a man you find yourself endlessly intrigued by, someone you desperately want to get to know.

“Hey!”

You are caught before your thoughts can spiral too far and the local navigator and mapmaker waves at you, her hair a fresh pink from the dye Senku developed at her request, and she holds out a couple of medium sized rolls wrapped in a cloth to you. Steam wafts off of them and even your mouth waters a bit in anticipation of biting into it.

“You two set me up,” you shoot toward the woman who shrugs. They did indeed set you up, planning to create a situation where you’d have no choice but to go to the object of your affections, but it’s hard to be mad when it’s well meaning.

“Tell your little friend I said to mind her business.”

The navigator snorts and waves you off toward the stables in the distance with a fond smile.

“Love you too!”

You don’t respond with anything but a barely audible grunt but you don’t have to, knowing that the bond between you, the navigator, and the farmer is as unbreakable as anything has ever been. The three of you have built this small community from the ground up with the assistance from everyone here. There have been arguments, of course, but ultimately the purpose has remained the same for everyone and that is making sure that every person has a great quality of life in tumultuous times.

Walking across the slowly yellowing grass on your way to the stables, you look around in awe at how autumn has arrived practically right before your eyes. The leaves blaze in shades of red and orange, the sun hangs low in the sky and warms away whatever chilly breeze may otherwise make you uncomfortable, and before you know it your legs have carried you down a path you’re familiar with and you find yourself faced with the man you try so hard to avoid.

He’s inescapable, you’ve now realized, and the thought makes you want to bolt but you hold your head up and smile at him.

“Hi there,” he offers kindly. That faint dusting of pink colors his cheeks and you find it hard to look away, wishing your traitorous fingertips didn’t want to reach out and feel the warmth beneath them. He looks to you like someone who runs warm blooded, a passionate man with a fire inside of him that burns inside out.

“Hi.” You finally respond in like, holding up the cloth wrapped bread slightly awkwardly. “Fresh out of the oven, I wanted to make sure you got some.”

You’ve never really done anything like this before and courting has become even more necessary and uncomfortable in a world where marriages and love can easily be bargaining tools to make a more comfortable life for everyone. You know all too well about Senku’s advantageous marriage and divorce, something the farmer has lamented on more than one occasion given her budding affection for the scientist, but you do not want him to see you as an advantage or a stepping stone because that is not how you see him.

You see him for the man he is. Warmth that runs deep enough you swear you can see a little fire in his irises isn’t something that should only be chosen for advantage, it should be stoked and adored.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

His words are a little awkward as well. All of this, love and affection, are just as new to him as they are to you and he hopes that you don’t think he is rude or cold or mean or anything he has been accused of being in the past based off of the assessments of those who don’t know him.

“It’s the least I can do considering you’re making sure our horses have a warm winter, too.”

You smile and he feels his face burn rather than just heat, the pink deepening into something closer to red. Any praise he receives from you sticks in his mind for days afterward and it makes him embrace the moments, considering you wouldn’t even say his name for the first several weeks they were here. It didn’t stop his feelings from developing further and further every day, though, and now they weigh heavily on his mind when he sees you.

Could you ever love him? Would you ever want to? It keeps him up at night if he lets it.

“I’m glad to be able to do it. They deserve somewhere nice and warm, too.” You lift the bread in his direction and present him with one of the still steaming rolls and his eyes widen, a genuine smile breaking across his features. “Speaking of warm…it’s still hot and everything.”

Giggling at his amazement, you nod. There’s something so indescribably boyish about him beneath the masculinity of his exterior and you see it most when he smiles. You haven’t learned much about the man from his own mouth, instead from his sister Mirai and Gen who is always eager to talk about anyone, but you know that he hasn’t always had much to smile about. His life has been marked by a lot of worry and strife and even the mentalist himself remarked that he seemed lighter since arriving in America a few days back, the fresh air and chance to continue to help reinvigorating him.

“I didn’t want you to miss out.”

For a moment, you consider if you should walk away. Maybe he wants to be left alone so he can go right back to work, the sun setting earlier every day leading into the cold season leaves little time to get work done during daylight hours but he nods toward a makeshift bench that is just a plank propped up on two stumps.

“Do you have time to stay for a while?”

Again, the terrible urge to bolt comes over you. Looking around camp you judge how much of a scene it would make to flee, rushing toward the medical barn with your head down. It would almost certainly cause more of a scene than just sitting beside him considering nobody is looking in the direction of the two of you, granting you more privacy than you expected.

“Sure,” you answer, smiling hopefully and keeping your head slightly downturned to conceal it at least a little. You don’t get your hopes up, after all. “I have to make medicine but that can wait until later.”

Tsukasa hums, clearly interested in what you have to say about these medications, and leads you toward the bench. The clearing is dappled with sunlight coming through the grove of trees above you and it feels like something out of a movie you watched once, something involving a lonely man searching for something to anchor him to the world besides persistent pain. He found love in a clearing just like this, sunshine warming his face and presenting him with the fact that life might not be as bad as it has always seemed.

“Oh yeah? What are you making this time?”

He sits and you follow suit, sliding beside him but keeping a respectable distance. You unwrap your bread and cross your knees, leaning forward slightly. His eyes are on you again but you choose to occupy yourself with the warm food in your hands instead, tearing off a small piece to cool down.

“Well, I was given some yarrow which is good for inflammation and some ginger which is good for stomach aches and now I have to figure out how to process them both and still make them as effective as possible which is a challenge sometimes.”

Tsukasa has never considered himself stupid but he knows he can’t keep up with this line of conversation due to lack of experience so he nods, tearing off a piece of bread himself and shoving it into his mouth. While chewing he internally reviews each of his motions - do you think he’s rude? Impolite? Brutish? Is he eating too loudly? Is he too much?

All he worries about is how you view him and yet it remains a mystery. He wants to believe the returned glances are your way of repeating his affection back to him but cautiousness keeps him from mindlessly dreaming. What if he’s misreading?

You glance at Tsukasa out of the corner of your eye and realize that you may not be the only overthinker sitting on this bench, his eyes clouding slightly while he gets lost in his own mind. It’s hard to say what he’s thinking about without being there but you clear your throat after chewing your first bite and he turns his attention back to you as quickly as he can.

“I’m sure Senku can find a way to help if I need it, though. He’s good about that.”

Nodding, he agrees with your assessment of his good friend. Senku is a good man and a gifted leader despite his sometimes lax attitude and there have been many situations he has already helped resolve around the camp since arriving. A less evolved and kind part of him is frustrated that he does not have the same skills to best help you but he will always offer what he does have which is time and a tender heart full of longing.

“I could help if you need it,” he offers and you smile, giggling to yourself. You don’t bother to hide this one and he revels in the sight of your pretty lips and teeth, something just for him. You are beautiful and often smile but never this effortlessly. “I’m serious. I have hands and can tear some flowers off of their stems.”

Looking down at his hands while you chew another bite of your bread, you raise your brows and swallow. Without thinking, you let your thoughts take on a mind of their own and your voice follows suit.

“I’m sure you could tear a lot more than flowers from stems with those hands.”

He can’t be certain but he believes you may very well be flirting with him. Raising his brows in return, he chuckles. The surprise in his laughter cannot be hidden and immediately you wish you would have bolted back to the barn and given everyone a story to tell at dinner tonight.

“Maybe a long time ago but now I only want to use them for healing or…” he trails off a moment and you look up at him through your lashes, your own face warm with embarrassment from your slip of the tongue. “Loving, maybe.”

The way the word comes off of his tongue tells you that there’s nothing short of a lover beneath the exterior. Loving, you think. Maybe he could love me.

Chewing another bite, you let the weight of both of your words settle. Perhaps your friends were right to set you up on a perfect autumn day, the breeze rusting his dark hair around his shoulders and making him resemble the man who fell in love in a light dappled clearing even more. Your heart pounds in your chest and you try to play it off, shrugging flippantly.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

Your question isn’t a question as much as it is a statement but it’s exactly what Tsukasa needed to hear and he nods in agreement. This is the smallest shred of hope you like him that he’s dared to tuck into his mind yet but he does it. This hope will carry him through the chilly evening while he’s in his bed, wondering if you could ever love him or not.

She will. He thinks to himself in the daylight, bold enough to think about you while you’re sitting next to him. I’ll make sure I’m worthy of it.

[sterekchub]

Derek gets into craft beer brewing to make werewolf friendly beers. Along the way he develops a beer belly…which only blossoms further the more into it he gets. Eventually he has a werewolf brewing company where his employees all refer to him as “the tank” based on his size.

Derek with a beer belly is...my EVERYTHING. He has to eventually open his own company because Stiles makes a few too many jokes about Derek and how he's becoming a personal beer keg and forgot a beer warehouse- Derek's gut is getting big enough to be a storage tank! Derek in tight jeans and a company T-shirt, love handles poking out the top, belly peeking out of the bottom of his shirt, and jeans so tightly stretched across his ass they're starting to look transparent. He's usually too busy at work to eat so he does a lot of "liquid lunches" but when he does go to company BBQs or has a taco truck come to the brewery (or when he finally goes on a date with Stiles)- it's obvious all that beer drinking has stretched out his stomach capacity and given him a BIG appetite. Most of the time- Derek is casually sipping the wolfsbane free beers to do quality and flavor control to avoid getting drunk. But on more than one occasion Stiles has run into a slightly tipsy Derek, hiccupping and burping and a little less aware of personal space. There's been a few times Stiles has been wedged against a doorway by Derek's bulk, or watched as Derek leans too heavily against a table and lets out a surprised belch as his belly spreads out against the surface. Derek who is a little grumpy and socially awkward so he empties at least a keg or two at the company Christmas party before he can get the courage to ask out Stiles... Ends up so filled with beer, Stiles swears he can hear it sloshing in Derek's stretched gut, his belly wobbling and slightly swaying back and forth with each unsteady step. AND on the subject of Derek "The tank" - the specific stages of Derek swelling with beer. 1. The "I'm not going to drink too much." He tells Stiles not to be ridiculous, he is having a beer or two because it's his job. Nothing more, they don't need a repeat of last week. 2. "Bloated and tipsy" is next. Derek hasn't been skinny enough to actually look bloated, but he reaches a point of "full" and his stomach is gurgling and stretching more with bubbles and the sloshing, carb- heavy weight building and building. It's really the stage MOST coworkers find him in, the middle of his day, happily chugging beer while he's sitting at his computer, one hand occasionally stifling burps as he barks out orders. 3. "Overloaded" comes next, when Derek is relaxed enough to not feel on edge around his coworkers, when he's laughing and joking like he's friends and not just the boss. He gets physical and affectionate with Stiles, will jokingly use his bulk to pin him against the wall (or occasionally go through with his threats to sit on him, which resulted in at least 2 broken chairs). Starts getting the lumbering waddle to his walk, like he's got a water-filled balloon attached to his middle, ready to burst. 4. The final stage is the "Team effort to fill the tank" when Derek is so full - he can't even find the energy to speak in full sentences. Mostly belches out "hic one buaaaaaarp more!" or "I got uaaaarp room for another bwarrrrp one!" It's become a workplace competition to bet how many more beers they can pour down Derek's throat. How wide Derek's gut will have swollen by the end of it.

[mollywog]

One of the Careers calls Peeta

handy with that knife.

I have this silly little headcanon that there’s nothing actually malicious about this - it’s just a product of his family’s business and working in the kitchen since he was little; chopping fruits, vegetables, meat, herbs, nut - he likely got pretty good at it. And as a kid, I imagine him harmlessly fooling around a bit: timing how quickly he can skin a squirrel, spinning knives in the palm, Whittling, maybe…

So in the games he was probably able to demonstrate something a little showy to the Careers that would deem him “handy with knives”

It ties into what Katniss says in Catching Fire about the other Victors having district industry related strengths.

Of course. Johanna Mason. District 7. Lumber. I bet she’s been tossing around axes since she could toddle. It’s like Finnick with his trident. Or Beetee with his wire. Rue with her knowledge of plants. I realize it’s just another disadvantage the District 12 tributes have faced over the years. We don’t go down in the mines until we’re eighteen. It looks like most of the other tributes learn something about their trades early on. There are things you do in a mine that could come in handy in the Games. Wielding a pick. Blowing things up. Give you an edge. The way my hunting did. But we learn them too late.

I similarly picture little Finnick twirling a trident like a baton.

[kit-williams]

Barn Anon. Bet Space Marines give other Space Marines a discount price. They know for sure which human businesses aren't to be trusted. I headcannon that Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors have construction companies of their own where the humans are more for admin and communication with human clients. They're in high demand but they'll give a bit more priority to fellow Space Marines.

Your Space Marine effortlessly plucked the heavy bag of groceries from your hands. He refuses to let you hold anything more than the carton of eggs that you're currently holding. You raise your eyebrow at the sight of an Imperial Fist moving about the back porch. Your Space Marine nudges you along, a soft hum from him as he steers you straight to the kitchen. You're aware that your own Space Marine is a bit of a social butterfly with his fellow Space Marines but this is the first time you've seen this particular Imperial Fist. They tend to stick to the south side of the state. You live in the north.

Your Space Marine puts the bags on the island, patting you on the head before he heads out to speak to the Imperial Fist. You tilt your head curiously when you see the Imperial Fist pointing at certain parts. You had off-handedly mentioned to your Space Marine that you feel like redoing your back porch now that some of the wood flooring is starting to wear down. You are aware that the porch was build a decade before you bought the house and it seems it's time for a new look for it. You didn't think he would take it this seriously.

You had included him when you looked over various contractors and at some designs online. It was only polite given how he lives here most of the week. He does disappear a few days a week but that's normal for Space Marines. He had expressed his preferences design wise but was visibly unsatisfied with the contractors you found. He had said something to you but you couldn't understand a single word. He disappeared soon after that rather one-sided conversation and later that night you heard two set of heavy footsteps. Now you realize that he found human contractors insufficient and sought to find one that was more to his standards.

When he comes back in from the back, you teasingly tell him that human contractors would be out of business at this rate. The Imperial Fist outside clearly heard as you would hear a bark of laughter from outside. Your Space Marine only shrugs. You're his human, of course he would make sure you get the best.

Post

Uh 100% I was thinking about writing this in for some of Orn trying to get a discount from another Iron Warrior on lumber in exchange for chopping down some trees on the readers property.

But you've brought it up. Thing is this goes into the business of payment if he is with a company that does employ humans then of course some sort of cash would be exchanged but it's always cheaper than human contractors but then again you need to have an Astarte to even get in contact with them.

I think there is also a side payment in terms of far more bartering on the Astarte's half as given they were so use to getting whatever they wanted they probably have their own exchange system in lore when dealing with other Chapters.

You pat the gold armor of your blue helmed Lion as he treats you like a child but you're a young adult capable of handling everything but your Astarte treats you like a child. He seems a bit nervous about things... you've done your research and you can hardly find any information on your boy except that he is very friendly with Imperial Fists.

You can tell your boy does enjoy to provide and protect as it seems he is very caring but very distrusting of certain organizations it seems. He drew a symbol on a piece of paper for her to watch out for but you tell him there aren't any symbols like that but you'll be the first to let him know if you do see it.

[bodhranwriting]

The Drowned Rook - Arcane Skies, Book 2 (or rather 1.5 considering it takes place a few months after Book 1 with an entirely new cast)

Chapter 1

The crowd roared in approval as the body hit the ground. The thud of flesh on hard-packed dirt was lost in the thunder of hands and feet and drunken voices. It bounced from wall to wall in the dim basement, the air so thick it slowed it into overlapping harmonies. No one was breathing their own air, it was shared and rank and damp with sweat, blood, and spit.

In the pit, the downed boxer slowly got to her feet and dragged a hand across her face.

Blood smeared across her mask; her skullcap dampened to the point that the hare embroidered into it was vanishing into anonymous black.

The crowd inhaled.

Then she spat.

Another roar.

As the fight resumed in violent earnest, no one paid much attention as the door leading up and out to the street slowly opened.

The woman who stepped inside was small and about twenty-four years of age. She wore a long mauveine duster-coat, iron-toed boots, and a grey, stumpy top hat jammed low on her head. Her eyes, hair and skin were all varying shades of brown, and she had a large square box-case slung over her right shoulder.

With the ease of someone who knows how to apply elbows to sensitive areas, mauveine duster made her way through the throng until she was right up against the edge of the pit.

Inside, the fight had slowed again, the two boxers circling each other warily. One – the woman who had been floored – was bouncing lightly on her feet, blood dripping down her chin from a split lip. Her opponent, a lumbering man about four inches taller than her and clad in dark green, feinted left. She saw it, ducked under the fist, sinking one-two into his ribs as she passed. He staggered, grunting.

The fighter danced away just in time to avoid another swing. Now she was directly opposite mauveine duster. 

They made eye contact.

Mauveine duster lifted the box high enough to be seen over the edge of the pit and jerked her head, plait escaping from the collar of her coat as she did.

The fighter inhaled, nodded, and then had to leap backwards as the man took advantage of her distraction. She hit the ground, rolled, and sprang just as he closed in. Her fist struck the man under the chin and kept going, powered by both her leap and a sudden burst of energy.

The man’s head snapped back. He stumbled backwards, gasping, when the fighter punched him in the throat.

He hit the ground to the chanting of the crowd: “Ace! Ace! Ace-Ace-Ace-Ace!”

He didn’t get back up.

The room went wild.

“You, Starling, are the kiss of death,” a sour-faced bookie poked mauveine duster in the ribs as she emerged from the crowd, “It was an even fight until you showed up.”

Octavia Starling, freelance reporter, shrugged modestly. “What can I say? I have that effect on people.” The cool expression dissolved into a smirk as the bookie reached into his pockets and produced a wad of wrinkled papers. “How much did she place?”

“Seven. Betting high today, was she?”

“Rent’s due,” Octavia replied dryly, taking the winnings. She counted them carefully and then rolled them into a bundle and stuffed them into one of the voluminous interior pockets of her coat. “Ace got anything else today?”

“No, not that it matters to you.” The bookie shot a contemptuous glance at the box at Octavia’s hip and added, “Anything interesting?”

Octavia tapped an ink-stained finger against her lips and contrived to look enigmatic. The crowd rumbled as another pair of boxers entered the ring.

The bookie rolled his eyes. “Guess I’ll read all about it tomorrow then. Which paper?”

“The highest paying,” Octavia shouted over the renewed din, “But it’s gonna be one hell of a story!”

“It’s a hell of a story, and unless we hurry up, we are going to lose it,” Octavia called. She was leant against the wall of the poky changing rooms which also served as the tavern above’s storeroom, arms crossed and scowling.

Altan Ace, her partner in both business and private, poked her head out from behind the curtain, towelling her impressive shock of henna-dyed hair and replied in a measured tone, “The toffs would throw a fit if I turned up somewhere like Marble Glen still reeking. Besides, you wouldn’t enjoy it much either.” As she ducked back inside, she added, “What is this story, anyway?”

Octavia grinned and tipped her hat to an imaginary audience. “It’s good.”

She could sense her partner’s eyeroll from behind the tatty material. “But what is it?”

Savouring every syllable, Octavia said, “A phantom thief just robbed the houses of the Minister of Commerce, the Upper’s district mayor, and Mistress Paige herself.”

The curtain rattled as Altan threw it aside, dark eyes wide, her face made even more round by surprise. “You are kidding me.”

“As true as I’m standing here.”

“Who told you? When was this?” She emerged from the nook, hastily lacing her bodice. In the ring, Altan had been small; beside Octavia she was a veritable giant. Her mouth was still an angry red against her coppery skin, but the blood had been scrubbed away to an acceptable degree.

Octavia grabbed Altan’s overfrock and tossed it at her.  “Julia Fletcher – she ran all the way here. Discovered, what, an hour ago?”

“And what was Julia Fletcher doing in Marble Glen?”

“Stealing, probably. Girl doesn’t think swimming’s worth it if she’s not in the deep end. Come on, Altan!”

“She’ll have told half the Gateway by now,” Altan muttered as she grabbed her bag containing her boxing costume, “Kiddo’s probably drowning in sestertii at this point.”

“Gave her a whole dennar to keep her mouth shut for twenty minutes so I could fetch you, didn’t I?” Octavia grunted as she slung the box over her shoulder. Altan immediately grabbed it off her and held it herself with far more ease. “And I may have – never mind.”

Altan glared at her as they hurried to the exit, “May have done what, Tave?”

Octavia just grinned wider and quickened her pace. “If I don’t have to tell you then I’ve done a good job, haven’t I? Let’s cut through Gaius Avenue, hop over the fence –“

“And get shot? No, Musician’s Plaza’s just as close and then we can get through Southdor all properly.”

“You’re no fun, Arban Altantsetseg Ace.”

“Without me, Octavia Bloody Starling, you’d be dead.”

Punching her girlfriend lightly in the arm, Octavia winked and replied, “That’s why we work so well.”

Altan rolled her eyes in response.

The bickering lasted until they crossed the brick wall separating New Rookwell’s rich and powerful from the plebeians they despised.

[spiteless-xo]

Tiff!! Hello! Hope your week has been going well!! for the ask game ☻

7. Have you ever written anything based on personal experience? 11. Post something from a current wip or concept

asks game questions!

hello 🥰 it's been great so far, thank you!! very busy unfortunately, but that's ok.

7. have you ever written anything based on personal experience?

i've answered this here but i'll give you some more detail! my boyfriend had a little friend group that he called "the Core Four", which is where I stole that name from lol also "the Point" is actually the name of the place that my boyfriend took me to when he asked me to be his girlfriend 💀 he's reading tbaw right now and he's seeing all these little references and he's like "wait... is MC me???"

11. post something from a current wip or concept.

hiding under a cut because it's long lol

You frown, glancing back over at Armin. “How are you ok with this?” you ask, voice sharp despite your lowered volume. “You’re her friend, too.” Connie screaming interrupts your conversation. You wince, watching all of the attention shift to him as he points at you from across the room. He screams your name once more before charging toward you and you hardly have the time to set down your drink before he’s lifting you off of your feet and spinning you around. “Holy shit, you’re here!” he says, squeezing you so tightly you can only choke in response. You’re grateful that the crowd goes back to their mingled conversation when Connie sets you back down on the ground, you’re tired of the attention. “Hi, Connie,” you say, strained as you palm at the ache in your skin from his grip. “I can’t believe you made it,” he says, grinning wildly as he runs his palm across the fuzz on the top of his head. “We had a bet to see if you would.” “So I’ve heard,” you say, eyes raising in amusement as Connie nudges Armin in the side. “I told you -- I knew she’d make it,” he says jovially, and now you can see the way his face is flushed and the collar of his shirt is soaked in sweat. He must’ve been drinking here for a while. Connie wheels his attention back to you before you have a chance to duck away. “How’s things going? I heard a bunch of mills had to shut down from all the fires -- you still working in forestry?” You laugh awkwardly, waving a hand to dismiss the comment but he persists. “There’s been major layoffs even back in Ragako. It’s a tough time to be in lumber.” “Global climate change,” Armin sings, deflecting the attention away from you for a moment of reprieve. “Maybe the government will start taking environmental sustainability seriously once it starts affecting our major commodities.” “Blah, blah, blah,” Connie whines, immediately bored. “This is a party, Armin, loosen up!” He reaches past you to grab a bottle of hard liquor and pours it straight into his cup. After setting the bottle back down on the cart, turns and heads back into the party, uninterested in anything deeper than surface level talk. “Thanks,” you whisper quietly, sighing in relief. “You know, don’t you?”

[duelapeep]

I'm not an architect but I roasted the Dezeen Awards 2022 winners part 4: Hlöduberg Artist Studio

Hlöduberg Artist Studio by Studio Bua, located next to the Breiðafjörður Nature Reserve in Iceland, won for residential rebirth of the year. It's a converted concrete and stone barn on an abandoned farm that has been redone to accommodate an artist's studio.

At first glance, this place looks pretty grim. The top floor looks like it's made out of a shipping container and the bottom looks like the original inhabitants were murdered there. On closer inspection, the red on the barn turned out to be lichen and not rust.

The landscape it beautiful and the studio fits very well into the landscape.

The living room is incredibly simple and a bit dark. It kind of feels like it was constructed by someone's competent uncle. However, I think the location and the actual studio are supposed to be more important than the living spaces.

That light looks incredibly hard to change and I'm not into that much blonde wood. It looks like they had to do the interior entirely from the cheapest lumber you can buy at Home Depot.

This whole area looks a bit semi-finished basement but in a fancy way. I bet the views are the main draw of the living room so the interior decor probably doesn't matter all that much.

I really wish they varied the colours of wood because this is a lot. It's like living in a deck. I'm a big fan of how the windows work as frames for the outside, tho.

I'm not sure if I like this studio space. It's dark and has very little by way of storage and outlets but it also isn't busy.

I guess putting in a modern, not depressing bathroom was too much?

This space is so cute. I like that they kept some of the original structure completely untouched but in a way you can still use it.

The Crit:

I think a lot of this project is about the engineering feat of adding an addition to an abandoned barn. I just wished they leaned more into the barn theme and less the you-asked-your-uncle-to-build-you-a-house theme. Overall, I give it an A.

[newstfionline]

Saturday, November 4, 2023

Brace for Elections: 40 Countries Are Voting in 2024 (Bloomberg) The world economy is lumbering from one shock to another as two brutal wars, stubborn inflation and high borrowing costs pockmark the post-pandemic recovery. The next source of turbulence in the poly-crisis era: a packed 2024 election calendar. Starting with Taiwan in January and running through the US presidential election in November, the year will bring 40 national elections—a busy lineup even in calmer political times. Bloomberg Economics calculates that voters in countries representing 41% of the world’s population and 42% of its gross domestic product have a chance to elect new leaders next year.

FTX founder guilty of fraud (WSJ/wwnorton.com/LRB) FTX founder Sam Bankman-Fried was convicted yesterday of stealing billions of dollars from customers of the doomed crypto exchange, in what prosecutors called one of the biggest financial frauds in U.S. history. A New York federal jury convicted him of all seven counts he faced. Author Michael Lewis detailed the rise and fall of FTX in his new book, “Going Infinite,” and wrote: I can easily imagine SBF seeing certain actions in terms of their Expected Value, and acting accordingly. If he had a 50 per cent chance of making $100 billion to give away, with a 50 per cent chance of being caught and losing everything and going to prison for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t have hesitated—the EV of that bet would be $50 billion, and in his value system it would be unethical not to take it. As Caroline Ellison said in court, ‘he said that he was a utilitarian, and he believed that the ways that people tried to justify rules like “don’t lie” and “don’t steal” within utilitarianism didn’t work, and he thought that the only moral rule that mattered was doing whatever would maximize utility.’ It’s as narrow and constricting a principle as it’s possible to imagine, and it has put Bankman-Fried in the narrowest, most constricted possible place.

Ciarán Slams Europe (BBC) A powerful bomb cyclone named Ciarán pummeled parts of France and the UK this week, bringing heavy rains and hurricane-force winds to the area. Ciarán’s intensity was likened to that of a Category 3 hurricane. The second-highest level alert was issued in the UK for parts of southern England, Scotland, and Wales. Record-breaking winds, exceeding 102 miles per hour in the Channel Island of Jersey, battered the region alongside heavy rainfall and large waves, some up to 50 feet high. In France, the town of Brittany experienced wind gusts of up to 129 mph, resulting in at least six people dead and leaving 1.2 million homes without power.

As crisis unfolds in Gaza, Europe talks about tightening borders (Washington Post) As a humanitarian catastrophe unfolds in Gaza, some European politicians appear focused on ensuring that those who survive and manage to leave don’t come to Europe. Countries across the continent have reported an increase in antisemitic incidents, as well a rise in anti-Arab hate speech and hate crimes. With division and fear in the air, far-right voices have seized the moment to play up the possibility of mass displacement from the Middle East and argue that Europe needs to tighten its borders ahead of a potential spike in asylum seekers.

Ukraine’s top commander said the war was at a ‘stalemate’ (NYT) With the front line in Ukraine having barely shifted despite months of fierce fighting, Gen. Valery Zaluzhny said the fighting had reached an impasse, the most candid assessment so far by a leading Ukrainian official of the military’s stalled counteroffensive. “Just like in the First World War we have reached the level of technology that puts us into a stalemate,” he told The Economist. The general said modern technology and precision weapons on both sides were preventing troops from breaching enemy lines, and called for advances in electronic warfare as a way to break the deadlock.

New Delhi blanketed by toxic haze, world's most polluted city again (Reuters) India's capital New Delhi was wrapped in a thick layer of toxic haze on Friday and some schools were ordered closed as the air quality index (AQI) plummeted to the "severe" category. New Delhi again topped a real-time list of the world's most polluted cities compiled by Swiss group IQAir, which put the Indian capital's AQI at 640 in the "hazardous" category on Friday, followed by 335 in the Pakistani city of Lahore. Many of New Delhi's 20 million residents complained of irritation in the eyes and itchy throats with the air turning a dense grey.

Chinese force posture (Foreign Policy) Taiwanese officials said on Wednesday that the military had detected 43 Chinese warplanes and seven naval vessels near the island within the last 24 hours. Nearly 90 percent of the planes crossed the Taiwan Strait’s so-called median line, which does not have legal status but is recognized by much of the international community as an unofficial barrier between the two nations. Taipei’s defense ministry quickly deployed fighter jets and ships armed with missile systems to guard against a potential assault. In recent months, China has stepped up incursions into Taiwan’s airspace and exclusive economic zone. Beijing argues that these operations are military drills used to deter foreign intervention. But regional experts fear that Chinese aggression in the Indo-Pacific indicates efforts to counter Western hegemony and possibly invade the island in the near future.

Israeli Troops Encircle Gaza City as Global Criticism of Strikes Mounts (NYT) As the Israeli military announced that ground troops had encircled Gaza City on Thursday, criticism mounted of the death toll inflicted by Israeli airstrikes, with one United Nations agency suggesting the bombing campaign could be a war crime. Grief-stricken family members and neighbors frantically pulled away tangled piles of reinforced concrete in the neighborhood, called Jabaliya, as others carried lifeless bodies from the crater where the dwellings once stood. The Gazan health ministry said Thursday that more than 1,000 people were injured, killed or missing after the strikes on Tuesday and Wednesday in the neighborhood. “We have serious concerns that these are disproportionate attacks that could amount to war crimes,” the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights said in a message on the social media platform X. The United Nations General Assembly, aid organizations and a large number of countries have urged a cease-fire, but the Biden administration has resisted making a similar call, instead pressing only for a humanitarian pause. American and Israeli officials have said a cease-fire would allow Hamas to regroup.

Death of generations in Gaza (Washington Post) Families in Gaza are mourning not just their own losses, but what feels like the loss of an entire generation. Youssef Sharaf has been trying for more than a week to dig out the bodies of his four children, buried under his destroyed home in Gaza City. His parents and his wife were killed in the same attack. So were his three brothers and two sisters, his two uncles and their spouses—and so many of their children. “All the families there were civilians who were looking for a simple life,” he told The Washington Post by phone. “We thought we lived in a safe place.” Sharaf, 38, was out distributing food to displaced Gazans on Oct. 25 when he got a call about an Israeli strike on his family’s apartment tower. He raced back but it was too late. The intensity of the blast had collapsed the multistory building.

US, allies try to craft Gaza endgame as deaths, destruction mount (Reuters) As Israeli forces intensify their assault against Hamas in the Gaza Strip, diplomats in Washington, the United Nations, the Middle East and beyond have started weighing the options for the "day after" if the Palestinian militant group is ousted—and the challenges they see ahead are daunting. Discussions include the deployment of a multinational force to post-conflict Gaza, an interim Palestinian-led administration that would exclude Hamas politicians, a stopgap security and governance role for neighboring Arab states and temporary U.N. supervision of the territory, according to a source familiar with the matter. Key questions include whether Israel can destroy Hamas as it has vowed and whether the U.S., its Western allies and Arab governments would commit military personnel to stand between Israel and the Palestinians, overcoming a long reluctance to do so. It is also unclear whether the Palestinian Authority (PA), which has limited autonomy in parts of the occupied West Bank while Hamas rules Gaza, would be able or willing to take control. U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken on Tuesday held out the prospects for a "revitalized" PA, but President Mahmoud Abbas' administration has been plagued by accusations of corruption and mismanagement.

Eating the unthinkable (Washington Post) South Sudan—It was 1 p.m., her children still hadn’t eaten, and every item on Nyaguey Dak Kieth’s “long to-do list” pertained to surviving another day. So Nyaguey grabbed a plastic bucket and an empty sack and set off from her village surrounded by floodwater. Those waters had upended her life, but also provided a food option—not a desirable one, but one of the few left. Water lilies. They’d been keeping her family alive for two years. They were bitter. Hard to digest. They required hours of manual labor—cutting, pounding, drying, sifting—just to be made edible. Nyaguey could still remember her initial shock at eating them, figuring they’d be a short-term measure. And now, with the floodwaters holding their ground, she could trace a two-year arc of distress in what the lilies had become: sustenance so vital that people were slogging farther and farther into the waters to find them, before someone else did. Her entire days are “devoted to the lilies,” she said.

Nigeria’s government budgets for SUVs and president’s wife while millions struggle to make ends meet (AP) Nigeria’s lawmakers on Thursday approved the new government’s first supplemental budget, which includes huge allocations for SUVs and houses for the president, his wife and other public officials, sparking anger and criticism from citizens in one of the world’s poorest countries. The country’s National Assembly recently confirmed that more than 460 federal lawmakers will each get SUVs—reportedly worth more than $150,000 each—which, they said, would enable them to do their work better. The allocations reminded many Nigerians of the economic inequality in a country where politicians earn huge salaries while essential workers like doctors and academics often go on strike to protest meager wages. Consultants, who are among the best-paid doctors in Nigeria, earn around $500 a month. After several strikes this year, civil servants got the government to raise their minimum wage to $67 a month, or four cents an hour. Kingsley Ujam, a trader working at the popular Area 1 market in Nigeria’s capital city of Abuja, said he struggles to feed his family and has lost hope in the government to provide for their needs.

Tattoo, begone (Atlantic) For most of history, tattoos were permanent. Tattoo removal, though, has gone completely mainstream, shifting from a pricey and yet-to-be-proven dermatological procedure a decade ago to a fairly straightforward process that can be accomplished at a medspa. Just looking at the dermatologists, members of the American Society for Dermatologic Surgery removed 63,000 tattoos in 2012, a level that in 2019 had risen to 164,000 tats, and that doesn’t even include all the ink zapped off in spas and clinics.

[taesspark]

A Normal Friday Afternoon

drabble #1 from the Spellbound series

pairing: Jungkook x reader

genre: enemies to lovers (but mostly enemies so far oops), hogwarts au

word count: 2.2k 

warnings: violence (oc punches jungkook in the face), swearing

It’s a normal Friday afternoon at Hogwarts, meaning everyone is going insane. You wonder why Professor Snape even bothers teaching Potions right now since it doesn’t look like anyone is paying the slightest bit of attention. He even chose a hard potion for the class to make, individually this time. As if making it an individual assignment could stop a group of annoying 17-year-olds from wreaking havoc. 

You flicker your eyes in annoyance at Jeon Jungkook and his rowdy group of friends. They had created a game where they launch the ingredients into each others’ cauldrons, giving each other points based on how close it got. Usually you try to get along with your classmates, especially fellow Gryffindors, but Jungkook has always been the sole exception. There’s something about him that grates all of your nerves like a carrot. Maybe it’s the way he’s good at all the same things you are, but he makes it seem more effortless. Maybe it’s the way everyone thinks he’s so innocent and kind, when he’s been metaphorically (and literally) pulling on your hair since first year. 

It started with the little things. You were friendly to him, like you are to everyone, and as an 11-year-old, you had nothing to complain about. Something changed one day when you were walking past him in the hallway to class and he hit you with a hex that he hadn’t mastered yet. You remember falling to the ground in pain, watching your stinging flesh go boneless. And Jungkook? He was laughing.

You’re no less of a witch or a Gryffindor though. With your limp arm, you cast the strongest dancing hex you could muster. It worked, of course, and Jungkook was known as “Happy Feet” for at least another year for the way he danced around Hogwarts that day. 

It’s a memory you keep close, as a reminder to never trust the sweet smile and starry eyes of Jeon Jungkook. 

If you looked at all of the detentions you’ve served in your 6 years of being a Hogwarts student (and there are plenty), you’re sure 99% would have been from fighting with Jungkook, whether it’s yelling at him, cursing him, or swatting him with your broomstick in midair during Quidditch practice. Because of course he would join the Quidditch team at the same time you did. 

You’re not in the mood for fighting today, though. You’re exhausted from a frankly awful week, and you just want to finish your stupid potion, get your stupid grade, and go to your stupid dorm so you can sleep. 

Your only good friend in this potions class is a Ravenclaw girl named Nina. For a Ravenclaw, she’s chatty, and she flits around you while you grind up asphodel root for your potion. With a quick slide of your knife, you dump the crushed root into your potion. It bubbled. Beside you, Nina bubbled even more, her personality like soda that had been shaken too hard. 

“-and then Emilia told me that she asked Irene if she would go with her to Hogsmeade next weekend, but Irene said she’s already going with Jieun, but Sam told me that Jieun is going alone, so what’s even the truth? You’d think that she’d at least-” 

“Maybe you should mind your business.” You give her a sour look, and you hope it isn’t too harsh. “Just a thought.” 

Nina’s mouth curls into a rueful smile. “You’re spending too much time with Yoongi lately.” 

You crack a smile at the thought of your best friend and his (only partly true) reputation. No one dares cross Min Yoongi, a 7th year Slytherin with a killer poker face. As one of his best friends, you can see right through it. 

“There’s no such thing as too much time with Yoongi,” you grumble. 

Nina leaves you alone after that, thank god. You usually have a higher tolerance for her chattiness and gossip, but today your patience is running thin. Luckily, she knows you well enough to not seem upset at your attitude. 

You sprinkle a serum into the potion before stirring it clockwise ten times. It’s the last step of the potion, and yours is already turning the perfect shade of mint green. You count to yourself as you stir: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight-

You don’t make it to ten. You were so goddamn close. 

“Oh, shit-”

You don’t register who curses. All you can see is a bottle of serum—someone else’s bottle of serum— being launched straight into your cauldron, and your entire potion splattering onto your front. Your robes sizzle where the potion hit them. 

“Oops.” 

You recognize that voice. How could you not? You almost want to laugh. 

Fucking Jeon Jungkook. 

The leech lumbers up to you sheepishly, scratching at the back of his head. “My bad. We were playing a game, and I missed pretty bad.” 

He chuckles a little, surveying the green ooze all over you. “Green is your color, Y/N. Maybe they should’ve put you in Slytherin.” 

You’re seething. 

A temper is not one of the traits associated with Gryffindor, but at that moment, you think maybe it should be. Lions do roar, after all. 

And roar is exactly what you do. Roar and knock Jungkook the fuck out. 

The room is in chaos: Professor Snape is yelling, Nina is telling you to calm down, Jungkook is on the ground in front of you, more shocked than hurt, and half the class is chanting “Fight!” because the adolescent urge to create violence never truly dies. 

“Take this outside!” Snape shouts at the two of you, grabbing you both by the collar of your robes. “Fight in the hallways, I don’t care, but this is not going to happen in my classroom. When you’re done, head to McGonagall’s office. I’m sure she’d like to have a word with you two delinquents.” 

Jungkook stares at you, rubbing at the bruise blooming on his cheek. 

The door swings closed, slamming in your face. With a huff, you turn around and vanish the potion residue still left on your clothes with a quick spell. You barely spare a glance for Jungkook. He stands several feet away, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. 

“Do you have something to say?” You snap. 

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. 

You roll your eyes. “Listen, Jeon. I know you did that on purpose. Very funny prank, absolutely hilarious. Truly, I’m rolling on the floor laughing right now.” 

Jungkook’s eyes drop to the floor as if he expected to see you there, laughing. 

“Let’s just go to McGonagall’s already,” you say, posture slumping at the thought of being yelled at by the intimidating professor.  

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says. Jungkook rolls his shoulders, and you see him gain some of his usual bravado. “We were playing a game, I already explained this to you.” 

You bark out a laugh, just one. “I’m not stupid.” 

He cocks a brow. “Are you sure? I bet my potion was better than yours even though I was dicking around for the entire class.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Hit a nerve?” 

“No.” 

It’s like this, for the long, long, long trek from the dungeons to Gryffindor tower where McGonagall’s office is. 

“You know, you don’t have to be such an asshole all the time,” you say, turning the corner. Jungkook jogs after you to keep up. 

“I don’t? No way, all this time I thought it was mandatory.” 

He sounds more upset than snarky, and in your present state of blind rage, you don’t have a single clue why he would be upset. He’s the one who ruined your potion and got you sent to McGonagall’s office. He’s the one who has been a splinter the size of Greenland in your thumb for five years and counting. 

“Besides,” he adds, as if you wanted to have a conversation with him, “you’re the one who fucking punched me in the face. It’s kinda hypocritical to call me an asshole in this situation.” 

“That’s a really big word, Jungkook. Did you finally learn how to read?” 

Jungkook’s face crumples into a frown. “Shut up.” 

“Hit a nerve?” You mock. 

You think getting to McGonagall’s office is a relief until you’re finally there. McGonagall is all but screeching at the two of you. You’ve heard the same lecture several hundred times, but never in such a high pitch. You offer to make her some herbal tea for her throat, and she only gives you the evil eye. Jungkook snorts beside you. You ignore him, nudging him in the ribs with your elbow. 

“Never in my days…”

“...Such stupidity from my own students!”

You fade in and out of consciousness during the lecture, and one look at Jungkook tells you he’s doing the same. 

“Detention for both of you. I will see the two of you here at 9 pm sharp every day for the rest of the week,” McGonagall finally says. 

Jungkook groans. 

“I’m being generous,” McGonagall says. “If I see the two of you acting like violent animals again, I can and will suspend you both from the Gryffindor Quidditch team.” 

You and Jungkook both make sounds of protest, only to be drowned out by McGonagall. 

“I hate to see my own team lose, but it has been five years of your childish fights. You two will learn to be civil to each other, and I will make sure of it.” 

The tone of her voice makes you uneasy. Jungkook beats you to the question that’s on both of your minds. “What are you going to do to us?” 

The fear in his voice would make you smile if you weren’t practically shaking in your boots yourself. 

“As you know, in Transfiguration, I am going to be having everyone work in teams this year. I was going to let you choose your partners, but you two have not earned that privilege.” 

You turn to face Jungkook. He’s staring back at you in wide-eyed horror. 

“You both are now partners in Transfiguration. Sit by each other and complete the projects together. I will not tolerate any misbehaving in my class, and if you don’t work as a team, you will be risking your own grades.” McGonagall stares at the two of you with the smallest of smiles, disgustingly smug. She’s enjoying this, and you hate her for it. 

“But-”

“Professor!” 

“I won’t hear it!” She shouts. Jungkook recoils. “This is final. If you have a problem, you should’ve thought about that before brawling like wrestlers in Potions.” 

You hang your head, staring at how the end of your robes skims your shoes. You don’t like to be dramatic, but this sure feels like the end of the world. The rest of your year is probably ruined, thanks to McGonagall essentially sentencing you to Jungkook duty. Not to mention Transfiguration is your hardest class, even without having to compete with Jungkook. You don’t doubt that this would make everything so much harder. 

“That’s all I have to say to you. Please leave,” McGonagall says, pressing a thumb and index finger into her forehead. 

The two of you file out of her office, stumbling down the empty hallway. You walk in silence, thankful that classes aren’t out yet. You stop a few corridors down, and Jungkook stops next to you.

You look at him, really look at him. Other than the bruise on his face a la you, he has a sweet face and kind eyes. You remind yourself that it’s fake. 

You take a step closer to him, and he tilts his head at you, nonplussed. 

“Y/N?” 

You brush a hand on his cheekbone, where you hit him. 

“Does it hurt?” You ask. 

The hallway is empty, but Jungkook still looks both ways before responding to you, as if you were a car hurtling towards him on the street. He gulps at your proximity to him, how he can feel your breath mingling with his own and your fingertips’ gentle pressure on his face. 

“A little,” he says, quieter than you. “You really know how to use your fists, huh?” 

He laughs. To your ears, it sounds forced. You smile. Checkmate. 

Without warning, you grab his tie and jerk his face down to yours, leaving just a breath of space between your noses. You lean even closer to Jungkook, and a smile ghosts your lips when you feel him moving closer to you at the same time. You wait for one more moment, letting your warm breath hit his skin. The moment he closes his eyes, you whisper, “Good.” 

His eyes flutter back open, confused, and you take your foot and slam it down on his. He all but howls in pain, nearly knocking his head into yours as he hops away. 

"What was that for?"

"If you still don't know, then maybe I need to step on you again." You narrow your eyes at him, still close enough to register the clean linen smell of his clothes. “Do not cross me again. I need a good grade in Transfiguration this year, and I won’t let you ruin that for me.” 

"McGonagall is right there. I could go tell her," he threatens. His eyes are wide, and you pick up on the slightest fear under his façade of arrogance. 

"Okay, do it. See if I care, asshole." 

You spin on your heel and storm down the corridor, leaving a stunned Jungkook in your wake. 

[the-lonelybarricade]

La Vie En Rose: Chapter 2

Chapter Title: The Gentle Grower of Things

Fic Summary: After everyone is freed from Under the Mountain, Elain is given the opportunity to stay in the Spring Court as a human so she can get to know her soulmate. Set in the timeline from A Court of Faded Dreams.

Read on A03 ❀ Masterlist

In the morning, Alis flooded into Elain’s room with a tray of tea and a gaggle of servants behind her. She nearly spilt the tray over when she found that Elain was already awake, sitting near the window watching the final remnants of dawn. Just below, fae milled about the manor’s grounds bearing various tasks, and Elain had been studying them since the first break of light. Some were carrying armfuls of lumber, others baskets full of laundry, or freshly lain eggs. It was not entirely unlike the morning bustle of her mortal village. No matter fae or human, it seemed the common folk were always busy trying to make ends meet.

“Did you sleep well, Lady Elain?” Alis asked, placing the tray on her breakfast table to brush at her dress in a manner of recomposing herself that reminded Elain of a hen rustling its feathers.

Elain stood, smiling placatingly as she accepted the tea tray. “Good morning, Alis. Thank you for the tea. Sometimes I struggle to sleep in a new bed.”

Indeed, Elain had struggled similarly when their family had first moved from the cottage to the manor. Her new bed in one of many countless bedrooms had felt empty and cold without the company of her two sisters, and she’d struggled to adjust in the first week. Elain also knew that her restlessness on this occasion had nothing to do with the new bed, which was softer than any luxury silk her family could procure in the mortal lands.

It had much more to do with the faeries she was conversing with as though it were a normal, everyday thing. As it would be, for she now lived in Prythian, and that thought had struck her so violently in the middle of the night that she’d hardly been able to shut her eyes without thinking of the horrid tales she’d been told as a child. She knew they weren’t true, or at the very least, she knew they didn’t apply to this manor.

The male across the hall from her had been kind. A bit sarcastic, but still welcoming. Yet she couldn’t help watching the door warily, unsure what manner of creature might barge in and threaten to devour her—or worse.

She couldn’t exactly divulge these unfounded fears to Alis, however, who would likely be offended by her prejudices. So she busied herself with laying the tea out on the breakfast table. She noticed Alis had curiously brought two additional teacups.

“Would you like to join me for tea?” Elain offered, setting out a place for her.

Alis blink at the offer, and Elain could guess the servants of this manor had rarely been invited for tea. “Thank you, but I’ve too much to get done this morning. Feyre told me she wished to join you.”

She didn’t offer an explanation for the third teacup, but none was needed. Elain would bet every piece of jewlery she’d brought with her that it was intended for Lucien, though she was uncertain if that prospect filled her with dread or excitement—they both rampaged her nerves in such similar fashion. All she knew was that the thought of him left her with an unfamiliar tightness in her chest.

There was a knock at the door moments later, and Elain swallowed that rising tension within her, slipping a silken robe over her nightgown. She held her breath as she opened the door, only to release a heavy exhale when she found it was Feyre on the other side. It was relief, she told herself, not disappointment that slumped her shoulders.

Alis quietly slipped out to give the sisters privacy while Feyre joined Elain at her breakfast table. Her sister waited patiently as Elain poured them each a cup, a content silence settling in the space between them as they sipped their warm brew, allowing the steam from their mugs to greet the crisp morning air. It was more fragrant than any she’d had in the mortal lands—and she was beginning to expect that everything in Prythian was simply more. More lavish, more rich, more exotic. No wonder they found humans so uncultured.

Eventually Elain’s attention wandered away from the warm cup in her hands, and towards the sister who sat straight-backed in her chair, hands tight around her teacup. She was so different, in so many ways, from the Feyre who had left their cottage on that cold winter morning and returned with a wolf’s skin. The energy she commanded was perhaps the most changed, the gentle authority she possessed even while sipping tea in silence, even looking as though she were contemplating the best way to bring up whatever she’d come to say.

Elain could guess well enough what Feyre wished to tell her. The conversation she’d had with Tamlin had looked unpleasant, and given what she knew of the relationship between them in the previous timeline… she could guess it was difficult for her sister to be there. And yet she was, without complaint. For Elain’s sake. Despite the war that was coming, despite the husband who missed her, and despite only just returning home with him.

Though Elain wished she would stay, desperate to cling to something familiar among so much change, she feared it would be pathetic and selfish to ask Feyre to stay. And she knew Feyre would stay, if she asked. Just like she’d gone into the forest every morning as a child to keep them alive, just as she’d given herself to the faerie beast who came to claim her, and just as she’d gone Under the Mountain twice for the men she loved. Feyre was always giving pieces of herself away, and Elain had been complicit in allowing her youngest sister to think that’s what love was.

But Elain was the older sister here. She couldn’t keep leaning on Feyre, especially when Feyre had already done so much for her. So much Elain could never repay.

Elain set down her tea, plastering a content smile over her face. “Thank you,” she said, referring to so much in those two little words. “I’m so grateful for what you’ve done to help get me here, but I’m sure the Night Court has a need for their High Lady. You don’t need to coddle me, Feyre. I’m in good hands here, I’ll be fine.”

Feyre studied her carefully, brows furrowed. “Are you sure? You seemed so nervous at lunch yesterday.”

“I was,” Elain admitted. “And I still am. This place is… very different than what I’m used to. I’m sure you relate well to that, having been in my shoes yourself. But it’s something I’ll need to come to terms with on my own, and I trust Lucien. I think.”

That managed a laugh from her sister. “You can trust Lucien,” she assured. “And if you need anything, he’s the best person to ask. You’re being really brave, Elain.” There was something about the conviction in Feyre’s expression that caused Elain to find the patterns on her teacup far more manageable to look at. “I was planning on leaving after lunch—but I’ll be back in a week to check on you. And if you need to contact me in the meantime, Lucien or Tamlin—or even Alis—can help you get in touch. And Elain?”

She glanced up from the tea she’d been absentmindedly swirling, watching the herbal specks spiral in the cup. Feyre was staring at her, blue eyes steady.

“Yes?”

Her younger sister smiled fondly. “What you’re doing—it’s incredible. Even if someone had told me about Rhys, about what he would mean to me, I don’t know if I could have overcome what we knew about fae. You have. The kindness in you, the strength it requires… I’m awed by it.”

Elain was taken aback. Between the two of them, Feyre was clearly the more impressive, for all that she’d accomplished in only 19 years of life. For all the countless lives she’d already saved, Elain’s own included. To hear that Feyre admired her… she suddenly felt very determined to be worthy of that admiration.

“Thank you, Feyre,” Elain said softly, emotion catching in her voice. “Not just for the compliment. But truly, for everything. From when you were a little girl going out into the forest to keep us alive, to everything you’ve done since. I’m the one who’s awed by you.”

Elain watched as Feyre blinked back tears, then suddenly she stood from her seat and came around to barrel Elain into a hug. It struck Elain, then, as they hugged each other, how little they’d done it their whole lives. Aside from the cold nights in the cottage when huddling for body heat had been a necessity, physical affection between the Archerons had been sparse.

At the revelation, she held her sister tighter, offered her a kiss on the crown of her head. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” she whispered. “I’m sorry we didn’t protect you the same way you protected us.”

“We were all protecting ourselves, in our own way,” Feyre whispered. Elain sniffed, because though it was true, it was unfair that they’d expected Feyre to bear so much of that burden. “Things can be different now.”

Elain nodded her agreement. Things could be different now, this time they could choose each other. “Never again, Feyre,” she promised, holding her close. “Never again.”

❀❀❀

Saying goodbye to Feyre was more difficult than Elain was willing to admit. Standing on the steps of the manor, hair carefully styled by Elain’s hand, she thought the smile on Feyre’s face spoke of relief more than a sorrow for parting. Elain hugged her sister stiffly, resisting the part of herself that wanted to change its mind and beg her to stay. Feyre pulled away quickly enough to subdue that temptation.

Feyre offered Lucien an equally affectionate hug, before Feyre turned to Tamlin, that fondness falling away until her face was a mask of cool indifference. It was another thing that struck Elain, who remembered the hot-faced child that would get into screaming matches with Nesta. All that fiery spirit was still there, contained in her smoldering blue eyes, but it was better honed. It was not just Feyre’s body that had become more powerful. She could see that her mind, even her willpower, had been sharpened.

“I’ll be back in a week’s time,” she said with a curt nod.

The tension bubbling between her sister and the High Lord left Elain uncertain if those words were made to be reassurance or a threat. Tamlin clenched his jaw, and Elain pretended not to notice the way he watched her sister bound down the manor steps, immediately into the waiting arms of Rhysand, who stood just outside the gate.

Lucien informed Tamlin that he’d be taking Elain on patrol with him, and he offered a small nod of approval before he wandered off to his study, shoulders drawn a bit too tightly to appear casual. Lucien, on the other hand, could have been casual personified as he led Elain to the stables.

“Is Tamlin in love with Feyre?” she found herself asking before she had time to think it through.

With his much longer gait, he’d been a full step ahead of her when he stopped in his tracks, turning to her with wide eyes. “Pardon?”

“Tamlin. The way he was looking at her earlier…” With that russet eye burning into her, she suddenly felt foolish for saying anything at all, but he arched a brow as though begging her to continue. “It just seems as though he has feelings for her.”

That smile broke across his face. Not the warm and lovely one that sent her heart fluttering, but the one that made her feel as though a thorn had poked through her gardening gloves.

“You’re a cunning little thing, aren’t you?” he mused. “Always watching people, silently observing everything.” He laughed as though he’d just put something together. “A few well placed smiles on your end, and I’m sure no one ever questions what they give away in front of you.”

Though he’d more or less just called her two-faced, it sounded oddly like a compliment.

“I’d hardly say it’s fair to call me cunning for asking a simple question” she said innocently. “It’s especially rich coming from that of a courtier. By the way you’re deflecting, I wonder if I’m close to the truth.”

“It’s no deflection, lady. I’d never presume to know Tamlin’s heart.” He was still studying her, the corner of his lips pulling down. “And believe me when I tell you it’s better to stay out of it.”

There was a warning to his voice that convinced her not to pry any further. She stepped towards him, thinking it would encourage him to continue onward, but he made no retreat. It occurred to her when she had to look up to meet his eyes just how much she’d invaded his space, and how forward it must have looked from his perspective. If she took a step away now, would it be offensive? He held her gaze for a long moment, and from the close distance she could better see the details of his face, could hear the soft and subtle click of the mechanical eye as it stared right back at her.

Then before she could think of something else to say, he’d turned and began walking once more, hardly paying attention to the way she scrambled to keep up with his long legs. There were two horses already saddled and waiting for them when they came to the stables. It was when Elain raised her hand to greet the chestnut mare that Lucien paused, glancing over at her skirts.

“I can find riding clothes for you,” he offered.

She glanced at her pale pink gown, trying not to blush at the prospect of wearing the tight-fitting riding leathers she’d seen other women wear. “I’ve been taught to ride sidesaddle.”

Lucien snorted as he turned back to the horses, mumbling something about mortal women and modesty that certainly didn’t sound complimentary. Elain felt her temper rear in defensiveness, but she bit her tongue, watching as Lucien sought the stableboy and requested a two-pommel saddle for the lady.

Still, Lucien resaddled Elain’s mare without complaint. That was, up until she was about to mount. He offered his hand, a patronizing gleam in his russet eye as he said, “one sister who refuses to wear anything but trousers, and the other who refuses to wear anything but skirts. You Archerons love to cause a fuss.”

She huffed, ignoring his hand altogether as she slid into the saddle with a practiced grace. “And you men certainly don’t know when to keep your comments to yourself.”

“Males,” he corrected, dropping his hand with that same amused smile that was too much a mirror of a cat toying with a mouse. Though it was rare for her to lose her temper, it seemed to dig under her skin much more effectively than anything else she’d encountered.

Lucien hopped onto his black gelding with a thoughtless ease, immediately leading in front of her mare. “Come, I promised Feyre I’d show you every damn flower in Prythian and I intend to make good on my word.”

Elain jutted her chin stubbornly, disliking that he made it sound like a chore. “Who says I wish to see every flower in Prythian?”

Lucien turned, brows raised as he fixed her with that strange mechanical eye. “According to Feyre, you did.”

She had said that she wanted to see the flowers of Prythian, and perhaps she shouldn’t be so difficult, but after his comment about Archerons being fussy she suddenly wanted to be anything but compliant. “It seems there’s much more to Prythian than just its flowers,” she said noncommittally.

“Indeed. Don’t worry, Elain, I don’t intend to bore you. We’ll see the flowers, and all the other wonders of the Spring Court.” The smirk that accompanied his promise certainly didn’t set her heart at ease, and suddenly Elain regretted her attempts to wind him up.

Wishing to redirect the conversation to something more friendly, she asked, “will you tell me a bit about the fae? Your customs and traditions? I know so little about any of it.”

Lucien slowed his horse as they entered the western wood, allowing them to walk side by side so that Elain could view the contemplation on his face. She was grateful for the proximity, if only because she still felt apprehensive about what manner of creature lurked within the shadows of the canopy, their prowling likely masked in the rustle of leaves and the clop of hooves. She kept a wary eye out, just in case.

In her peripheral vision, she thought she might have seen Lucien glance towards her and frown. Again she wondered if he could read her anxieties with that curious eye.

“We fae love our revelries,” he said, as though he hadn’t noticed anything at all. “Half the time, I think we invent holidays just for a reason to throw one. There’s an equinox festival coming up soon—the biggest celebration in the Autumn Court, where I’m from. In Spring there’s one as well, one much more friendly towards your human sensibilities.”

That earned her full attention. “What happens in the Autumn Court festival, that would make it so offensive?”

Lucien frowned, assessing Elain carefully. “It’s not the festival itself that would offend you. I don’t think you’d take kindly to the Autumn Court’s ways, Elain. Nor should you. But it’s only your second day here, I think we should avoid discussing the aspects of Prythian that would upset you.”

“You think me so easily discouraged?” she challenged, fixing him with a steady look.

Lucien searched her eyes. The mocking smile on his lips didn’t quite meet either of the russet or golden orbs that sparkled as they swept over her. “You were practically trembling at lunch from the children’s rhymes alone, and they don’t even hold any truth.”

“I was overwhelmed by the idea of being enslaved,” Elain corrected. “Because I wasn’t reassured that the rhymes weren’t true until after you’d mocked me with them.

“If you think Tamlin and I are capable of enslaving you, fine. I’m a stranger to you, I suppose I shouldn’t find it so insulting. But you truly believe Feyre would have let you eat our food if that was even remotely possible?”

She hadn’t thoroughly considered it at the time, too swept up in her own fears. And now that she realized the implications of those fears, Elain had to look away, because for a moment she could see that all mockery aside, Lucien’s feelings had clearly been hurt. “Forgive me for being rude. I’m still trying to… unlearn the things I’ve been taught about the fae.”

He sighed. “I suppose it would be useful for you to maintain a healthy dose of caution, even if it is at my expense. The Spring and Night Courts may be welcoming to you, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Prythian is a safe place for a human.”

She tried not to agonize too much over the implications of that.

“In the same breath,” she added, surprising herself, “it’s also unfair of you to taunt me for my ignorance while choosing not to be transparent with me. I’m trying to keep an open mind, Lucien. I’m the vulnerable one here, in more ways than one. I ask that you be more respectful of that.”

He was quiet for a moment, seeming to genuinely contemplate her words. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I apologize for making jokes at the expense of your ignorance.” Elain smiled, gratitude at the tip of her tongue when he added, “I’ll simply find other things to mock you for.”

“Why do you feel the need to mock me at all?” she demanded. “I thought you wished to get to know me.”

He was grinning. “You’re right, Elain. I wish to get to know you. Not this carefully practiced version of yourself. I suspect those walls will start to crack when that wicked little temper of yours rears its ugly head.”

Elain shook her head in disbelief. “I think you’ve spent too much time in the courts, Lucien. By the way you speak, it sounds as if I’ve thrown tantrums since coming here. When has my temper shown its, as you say, ugly head?”

“It hasn’t come out to play yet,” Lucien said with that irritating smirk never once leaving his face. “But I see glimpses of it from the fire in your eyes.”

She’d only ever heard her eyes described as something soft and lovely—doe-eyed Elain. Not something that burned, like Nesta’s, or something wild and untamable, like Feyre’s. But a warm, friendly brown color, like a fawn’s.

To hear she had fire in her eyes, it was nearly laughable how greatly it stood in contradiction to what she’d been told her whole life. She didn’t believe him, but she marked an earnesty on his face that was unflappable. And it stirred something in her.

“Perhaps you’re reading too much into things,” she said, testing him one last time.

Lucien shrugged good-naturedly. “Perhaps I’m enjoying reading too much into you.”

The look on his face—it reminded Elain of the gambling nights her father used to host when she was still a child. She and her sisters were always locked away from the gentleman’s affairs, but that hardly mattered when Elain could tell precisely who had walked away victorious from the looks on their faces as they departed. And Lucien, he looked like a man who only ever placed his bets correctly.

Elain had never had a seat at the table before, but if Lucien wanted to play, then so could she.

“You know, in a mortal courtship, speaking to me so freely as you do would be enough to brand you as a rake.”

Lucien looked intrigued. “And you’ve done a decent job at pretending you’re scandalized by it, yet you haven’t asked me to stop.”

“Yes, I have,” she protested.

He smirked. “You’ve found roundabout ways of insulting me, like just now. But that’s not the same thing as asking me to stop.”

Elain scoffed. “I’ve never once insulted you.”

“Yes, you have,” he insisted. “In that underhanded way you’ve perfected so that you can still stand on a moral high ground. You forget I’m a courtier, Elain, and I’m well versed in the act of verbal sparring. You ladies are practically groomed for it. You can’t say anything forthright so you bury it under posed language. I see right through you, little dove.”

“Please don’t call me that,” she said. “And I apologize for any offense I’ve caused.”

“No you don’t,” he said with a barking laugh. “Look at you. You’re thrilled by it. Most people don’t see past the well placed smiles to think too carefully about your words. You’re finally on a level playing field and you love it.”

He was right. Elain was surprised by it, because she’d never been called out before. But the last thing she would ever do was admit it, so instead she batted her eyelashes exactly the way he was accusing her of doing. “I wasn’t aware there were any politics at play, Lucien. Pray tell what game I might be playing? Or do you think I’m just posturing for posturing’s sake?”

“Who said you need politics to make a game worth playing?” he challenged. “You said it yourself, in a mortal courtship my behavior would be appalling. But I wasn’t aware this was a courtship, unless you view it otherwise, lady?”

Elain felt her face heat at the implication.

“My,” he crooned. “That blush is very telling. You must work on your expressions, Elain. You give far too much away. And if we were playing a game, I dare say I might have just won this match.” He led his horse closer, so that his leg brushed against her own, and he could lean forward so that his mouth was at her ear. “Do I win anything?”

She scoffed, pushing him away by the shoulder. If he were a human man, it might have been enough to topple him off his horse. But instead he came away laughing, allowing space between their horses once more.

“You’re unbelievable,” she accused, wishing she didn’t sound so flustered. But there was joy and excitement sparking in her chest, as well as something else. Something she couldn’t place, but that glowed low and lovely like the softest ember.

“I’ve been called far worse things. You’ll have to be more inventive than that to get under my skin.” She so desperately wished she could wipe the satisfaction off his face. “Unfortunately for you, it seems the reverse isn’t true. Just like every other modest lady, your skin is remarkably easy to get under. Whether the same is true about your skirts remains to be seen.”

Elain gasped in outrage. No one had ever said something so crude to her.

“There’s that temper,” he outright purred.

“You want to see my temper?” she snapped, gritting her teeth. “Come back over here and I’ll show you my temper.”

Lucien practically cackled as he tossed her a wink. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

And then he was off, racing his gelding into a gallop. Elain gave a shriek that was somewhere between surprise and frustration, encouraging her horse to give chase. But riding sidesaddle, it was difficult to keep up with the pace that Lucien had set.

Elain was so thoroughly enraged by his comment that she hiked up her skirts, bunching them around her hips so that she could ride her mare astride. They billowed behind as she raced after him, blinded enough by her anger to not be embarrassed by the sight of her bare thighs.

They broke out of the woods at a near dizzying pace, darting into a rolling meadow that was so beautiful it would have taken her breath away if she didn’t have her eyes locked on Lucien’s back, determined to catch up to him. The wind tore her thick, carefully styled hair from its pins, causing it to flow behind Elain just like her dress. She was only half paying attention to the mess she’d become in a matter of seconds—it was the most unhinged, the most wild she’d ever allowed herself to be.

Somewhere along the endless chase her anger escaped her entirely, and instead she was swept up in the freedom she’d unknowingly stumbled across. Her unbound hair whipping in the fresh spring breeze, carrying the scent of blossoming flowers. The sun crested high above, and now that they were away from the dense thicket of trees she could feel it warming her skin, caressing her like a blanket. And there was no one here to judge or comment on the way she’d come unbound, untamed—no one besides Lucien, who she was certain would mock her regardless.

Her mother was probably watching over somewhere, absolutely horrified. But this… this was the taste of freedom she’d always longed for. The kind of thing she’d read about but had never felt bold enough to reach for.

At some point she slowed, wanting to savor the breeze and the sun and the kiss of Spring. Wanting to lounge and dally and embrace some of the childhood spontaneity she’d never been granted.

Lucien slowed, too, as though he’d been keeping an eye on her all along. He rejoined her, none of the expected ridicule on his face. Instead, his russet eye was sparkling, expression warring between relief and delight.

He smiled, this one devoid of smugness. No, it was as radiant and beaconing as the sun above. She knew she should be mad at him—what he’d said to her was truly disgraceful. But she felt too liberated to dwell on it, and as he slid off his horse and came to help her, his bashful smile was convincing enough.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, extending his hand to help her down. His loosely braided hair glimmered in the daylight, and the streaks of crimson and burnt orange reminded Elain of the red sunflowers she’d managed to cultivate one summer.

This time, Elain accepted his hand, sparing only the smallest moment to blush over the amount of leg she’d exposed to him before she quickly fixed her skirts.

“I don’t remember you apologizing,” she said lightly.

Lucien didn’t let go of her hand even after he’d set her down. Instead he drew it to his lips, offering a gentle kiss along her knuckles. It was nothing like a gentleman’s kiss, far too tender and lingering.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding as if he meant it genuinely. “Allow me to make it up to you by weaving a crown made from every flower in this meadow.”

Elain laughed, half startled by this version of Lucien, who seemed much more gentle. “I thought you were supposed to be on border patrol.”

He spared a cursory glance around the meadow, then offered her a conspiring grin. “This seems close enough to the border. Don’t you think?”

Elain couldn’t help the smile that escaped her. “It better be an extraordinary crown, Lord.”

He hardly bristled at the title as he sunk down on the plush grass, already plucking and weaving flowers with an ease she found endearing—as familiar with the motions as though it were a craft he’d dedicated his life to.

“I think you’ll find my woven crowns are to an expert standard,” he said, glancing up at her through those long lashes.

It was then Elain registered that she was still standing. She quickly joined him, choosing a space a comfortable distance away, so that she was facing him without being so confronted by his presence. She took to assembling a crown of her own, though the process was much slower with how frequently her eyes wandered back to Lucien.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re practiced at this. Do you often weave crowns for ladies?”

Those eyes dragged upwards, away from the task at hand, and Elain held her breath as those simmering pools of russet and gold met her curious stare. There was humor stirring within them, but it was accompanied by a guarded expression that made her wonder if she’d unknowingly struck a nerve.

“Only for the rare special few,” he answered, the corner of his lip tugging just slightly.

“Rare and special, am I?” she teased. “Oh how honey pours from your lips, Lord.”

“And I might die of surprise, for I believe that’s sarcasm pouring from yours.” The slant of his lips was becoming more noticeable, the makings of that toothy grin that had set her heart aflame in the garden. “How quickly your tongue sharpens when your sister isn’t around.”

“I believe my present company has more to do with that correlation,” she said, fixing him with her best impression of Nesta’s frosty glare. “Your regard for propriety certainly leaves much to be desired.”

She was playing right into his hand again. The beastly grin on his face said as much.

“Says the lady who had her thighs out only moments ago. So terribly indecent—and I fear it’s compromised my virtue.”

Elain shook her head. “Says the man who made such a ghastly comment about my skirts.”

“Male,” he corrected again. As if Elain needed the reminder.

“Is this your idea of an apology?” she demanded instead. “It certainly doesn’t seem as though you’re sorry.”

“I am,” he said, leaning forward into that precious space between them. She could see the details of his eyes, the sunlight that danced within them as he placed the crown upon her head with a gentleness that thoroughly surprised her.

Lucien watched her long enough that she felt the need to shift under his scrutiny, trying her best not to imagine what he was seeing as his mechanical eye clicked. He tucked a stray lock of her hair away from her face, and it was all she could do not to lean into his warm touch as his thumb intentionally brushed along the curve of her ear. “If not for these, I’d almost mistake you for the fae.”

Elain didn’t know what that meant—if perhaps it was another subtle communication that he wished she weren’t human.

“I don’t think I could ever mistake you for a human,” she blurted, not knowing how else to respond.

That made him laugh, like the gentle clang of wind chimes, as he pulled away and took to weaving more flowers. “A fortunate thing, for I don’t think mortal attire would suit me nearly so well as the fae attire suits you.”

She tried to imagine him now, in the frilly and constrictive clothing that human lords loved to dress themselves in. She grinned at the thought.

“I think the cravats and tailcoats would suit you perfectly well.”

That seemed to pique his interest. “And if I’d shown up to one of your human social seasons, would you have accosted me like one of your coveted Lords’ sons?”

Elain wrinkled her nose. “With your rakish nature, not likely. I’d have found myself in a scandal.”

His brows shot up suggestively, and he leaned forward just the slightest bit, enough to offset her heart a couple beats. “And what scandalous things might you have done with me?”

She felt her cheeks flame at the question. Had that been what she’d implied?

“Questions like that, Lord, are exactly why I would have kept myself far away.”

“Ah, but for a moment there you were considering it.” His eyes were sparkling with that mischief once more. “Which makes me wonder if you have a propensity for scandal after all, my lady.”

With the way her stomach was tumbling, she feared he might be right—a private thought she would never dare to admit to him.

“I have half a mind to give this flower crown to someone else,” she threatened, brandishing the woven flowers as though it were something more menacing. “Perhaps to someone in your court who knows how to speak properly to a lady.”

“You may gift your crown to whomever you see fit,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. She felt the weight of his stare as he studied her from that new angle. “Although I maintain that you aren’t nearly as offended as you pretend to be, I do apologize. The fae court in a way that is much less… delicate.”

Elain couldn’t help her grin. “Are you admitting to courting me, Lucien? I thought you said this wasn’t a courtship.”

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he said, sounding so serious Elain didn’t know how else to respond.

Swallowing against her nerves, Elain slowly leaned forward, feeling her pulse jump wildly as that distance between them narrowed. She leaned over where he rested on his elbows, watching her with a surprised curiosity as she placed that crown onto his head. The way her fingers brushed against the loose strands of his hair was not wholly accidental—she’d been wondering what it might feel like since the moment she saw its length in Feyre’s visions.

“I suppose I can overlook the way you’ve spoken to me, since you admit to being so uneducated in the art of courtship,” she said, the words hardly a whisper but somehow too loud in the space between them.

Lucien hardly paid any attention to the jibe, his eyes focused on the hair that spilled over her shoulders, near golden in the sunlight and admittedly wind-torn. He didn’t seem to mind, with the way he raised a hand to absently catch at a lock of her hair, thumbing it as though it were velvet.

“You look lovely with your hair unbound.”

How was it that such a simple compliment, paid with a great deal of earnesty, could erase an entire day’s worth of roguish behavior? Why was it that she found it thrilling, that he spoke to her in such a manner and could still act like a gentleman a heartbeat later?

“Thank you,” she breathed, putting space between them before their proximity well and truly went to her head.

Lucien sat up, too, as though following the pull of her.

Trying to dismiss the strange feelings that simmered in her chest, and lower, she quickly tried to think of something to change the subject. “Tell me something about yourself,” she said, realizing she knew exceedingly little about him.

He seemed to frown at the direction of conversation. “What would you like to know?”

She thought for a long moment. Lucien didn’t seem the type to open up readily. “How old are you?”

He merely laughed and said, “old.”

“You don’t look old,” she challenged.

“How old do you think I am?”

Elain thought carefully. “200?”

“If you think I’m going to give anything away with your guesses, you’re going to be disappointed,” he said, smiling as though he found her very amusing.

And it was the very amusement that turned Elain shy.

“Regardless of how old you are, you must consider me a child by comparison.”

Lucien frowned, his expression turning thoughtful. “I consider you young, sure. Untested, in many ways. But I don’t think that’s necessarily for the worse. I think it’s immortality that can make the fae so cruel. There are many things you suffer when you live countless lifetimes. It calluses our hearts. But Feyre told me you value kindness. There’s strength and wisdom in that. And you’ve left everything you’ve known to come here. I know exactly how difficult that must have been. So no, I don’t consider you a child.”

Elain wasn’t sure how to respond—truthfully she’d never considered the effect that immortality could have on a person. And Lucien spoke of suffering as though he knew it intimately. The scar on his eye should have been indication enough, she supposed, feeling suddenly inundated with sorrow for him.

Lucien seemed unaffected by her lack of response, turning the conversation over to her as though he were relieved to take the focus off of his own life. She was certain he already knew much about her life from Feyre, but he seemed interested in hearing it from Elain directly, so she spoke to him of her comfortable childhood, where love was scarce and competitive, and her family’s eventual fall from fortune. Though she attempted to return every question he asked, Lucien spoke little about himself or his own past.

They talked for hours, until the sun had nearly kissed the horizon, at which point Lucien had glanced at the sky considerately and said, “we should probably head back.”

He was gentle helping her back onto the horse, and made no further comment about the sidesaddle or her skirts. It shocked her, how vastly different their ride back to the manor was. The conversation between them was almost content, almost… familiar. As though she had known him far longer than a day, and as though he were not fae and she were not human, and they’d managed to find some bridge in between. Friends, she supposed. Mates, though that word did not mean as much to her. Not yet.

But she considered his question in the moments where conversation lulled. Would she have sought him if they’d met as humans, without the knowledge of being predestined for one another? Yes, she thought quietly. She would have watched him from across the room and held her breath, hoping he would come to fill out her dance card.

But then, if he’d been a human lord they wouldn’t have done any of the things they’d done today. No galloping horses and meadows and flower crowns, no indecent repartee, and certainly no going anywhere with him without a chaperone. And she thought as terrifying as Prythian was, she was grateful for those freedoms, and grateful to know Lucien in this very peculiar way.

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[cinebration]

Prophetic Fucking Visions (Alfie Solomons x Reader) [One-shot]

Prompt: “Am I not good enough?” / “I’m not good enough.”

For @writeroutoftime​! I had so much fun writing this! I was nervous, because I love Alfie so much and felt I couldn’t write him, but here we are. I hope you like it!

Warnings: blood and guts, seagull death

Gif Source: cillianmurphyss

You first met Alfie on the shore, though you were in the sand and he was above you on the bluff. A gunshot exploded above your head.

Curses spewed out of you as you ducked, your heart pounding in your chest. A seagull went down in a puff of feathers, blood splattering onto your hair.

You swore loudly.

Alfie’s grizzled face peered over the bluff, eyes squinting down at you. “Fuck me, that’s a woman.”

Shading your eyes against the sun, you glared up at him. “What gave it away?”

“Not your fuckin’ sailor’s mouth,” he boomed at you.

If only I had a sailor’s fist, I’d knock you down, you thought.

“Sorry, love, didn’t mean for all that shit on ya. Come on up and get yourself cleaned up.”

You hesitated. You didn’t know him, and he still had the pistol in his hand. “I’ll manage,” you called up.

“Fuck me, you want me to throw down a rag instead?”

It was better than walking back into town with seagull oozing down your face. “If you please.”

“Awright,” Alfie croaked, disappearing.

After five minutes of waiting, the sun starting to beat down on you, you decided the rag wasn’t worth waiting for. You resumed your walk across the beach.

“Woman!”

You stopped in your tracks and turned toward the voice. Alfie lumbered across the sand toward you, a small towel clutched in one broad hand. You stared at him. The man seemed to be a bear, shoulders slightly hunched as he made his way to you.

The horrid scar on the left side of his face and the milky blue eye drew your attention last. The other eye searched your face as he at last stopped before you and extended the cloth.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, taking it from him and roughing it over your hair.

“Not seen you around these parts, Sailor Mouth.”

You arched your eyebrows. “Sailor Mouth?”

“Got nothin’ else to call you ’til you give me your name.”

“And what would I call you?”

“The Wandering Jew.”

Your eyebrows arched higher, but you kept quiet. Raking the towel over your hair and ears one last time, you asked, “Did I get it all?”

Lips pressing together, he surveyed your head. Taking the towel from your hand, he swiped it along your forehead and then down the back of your neck, wiping away the last of the gunk. He grunted his approval.

“Thank you,” you repeated.

“For getting seagull guts all over you? That’s bad luck, that is.”

A rueful chuckle slipped past your lips. “Call me Bad Luck Sailor Mouth.”

Alfie’s good eye glimmered.

~~

“I do the odd thing here and there. Nothing too respectable,” you said with a laugh.

Alfie walked alongside you on the beach. You had chanced upon him a week after the seagull incident. He had struck up a friendly, albeit strange conversation with you before you had been forced to return back to town.

This was the fourth such meeting. It seemed he had been waiting for you this time. You only walked the beach once a week, not always on the same day, so he must have waited each day to see if you’d walk by.

“I used to make bread,” he said. “It isn’t too respectable neither.”

“Well, I’m sure real bakers would abhor liquid bread.”

He looked at you sharply.

“Your reputation precedes you,” you informed him. “It seems you’re a god down in Camden Town.”

He grunted. “I was resurrected.”

“And I was swallowed into the whale’s belly.”

He laughed. “That where you got your sailor’s mouth, is it?”

“More like my bad luck.”

He looked at you with that unblinking stare of his. It disconcerted you less and less the more you saw it. He seemed to be fixing it on you more frequently, though you couldn’t understand why. You felt scrutinized, a not altogether unpleasant feeling from him.

“You eat?” he asked.

“What, whales? That’s not how I got out of that mess.”

His eyes gleamed wickedly in the setting sun. “Dinner.”

“Sure, if you have whale to spare.”

“No whale, I fuckin’ hate fish.”

“I suppose that’s alright. It’d just taste like bad luck.”

Alfie lumbered off in the direction of his home. You managed to keep pace with him, his stride long but unhurried. A light breeze blew off the sea, tickling your cheeks with sea spray even at a distance. Ominous clouds gathered on the horizon, the distant breakers foaming white as the wind whipped them into a frenzy.

Alfie refused to let you help in the kitchen. You followed him into it anyway, watched him work. He had put a chicken in his oven earlier. You gathered he had hoped to have you over for dinner—had probably prepared a special meal every day until you arrived.

“On occasion,” he informed you, “I did make real bread.” He set a basket full of it before you.

You plucked off a small roll and began to eat it as you waited for him to finish roasting some vegetables. “A chicken, huh?”

“The seagull I shot didn’t keep. It was a stringy bastard.”

You laughed, the sound filling the space over the sizzle of the stove.

You enjoyed every bite of dinner. Alfie watched you with interest as you ate your fill.

“What’s a woman like you doin’ here in Margate? Why aren’t you in London or someplace?”

“Too big and noisy.” You shrugged. “Nobody gets seagull in my hair or shoots at boats for fun. I guess they only do that to people.”

“Ah, well, I’ve done that. Shot people.”

You lifted your head to see him staring at you. “For business or…?”

He leaned back in his chair, appraising you. “A bit of both.”

You nodded and resumed eating. Your inquiries about him after your first meeting had told you that much about him.

Dessert was succulent fruit. Alfie had fallen into silence, not quite brooding but definitely pensive. He directed you into the living room, the open balcony doors overlooking the ocean. The storm approached, a mild rain beginning to fall.

It reminded you of the rainy days of your childhood. Your mother would stoke the hearth fire and spin yarns to while away the hours.

The weather and Alfie’s unusually subdued demeanor pulled you down into a somber mood.

“My mother told me a story once,” you murmured, “one I’ve never forgotten. It goes like this. A young man meets a beautiful woman—the woman of his dreams, he thinks—who always treats him well but never responds to his advances. He watches her from afar, watching as other men try to woo her. She treats them coldly. He thinks to himself, ‘She must love me. She treats me better than them.’ But try as he might, with flowers and sweets and pretty words, he can’t get her to acknowledge her feelings.

“So one day, he asks, desperate, ‘Am I not good enough?’ And she says, ‘I’m not good enough. I’d make a poor wife. I’ll never be the woman in your dreams.’ He protests, but she tells him, ‘I have a temper, and I speak my mind. I wake ill-humored and have days where it feels like the whole sky is gray and nothing can lift it. My smile is fake, and I hate this place.’

“He realizes with a broken heart that she is not the woman he believed her to be, and he leaves her.”

Silence descended on you both.

“I hate that story,” you hissed quietly. “It doesn’t tell you that he drinks too much and stays out late, that he would make an equally poor husband. He isn’t the man of her dreams either. Neither is enough alone, but together, they can be.”

Alfie shifted in his seat. The creak of his chair drew your attention. A deep furrow scored his brow. “Dreams, yeah?” The tension in his voice sent a shiver through you.

“Yeah,” you echoed.

“I’ve been having these dreams lately, see. They’ve got this woman in it, yeah, but I can’t see her face. She could be anyone. In these dreams, she asks me a question, right? And I know in that moment she will be my death.” He looked at you, unblinking. “You’ve got a question for me, yeah?”

You met his gaze. It was the question you hadn’t asked when he had introduced himself. “What did you do to condemn yourself to be the wandering Jew?”

He stilled. The waves crashed on the shore beyond the window, seagulls shrieking overhead.

“Yeah.” His voice rumbled in his chest. “That’s it.”

“Any woman could’ve asked that.”

“They would’ve asked, ‘Why do you call yourself that? What’s it mean?’ But you know what it means, so you asked the right question.”

“How will I be your death, then?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Thunder pealed, shaking the windows.

“Should I leave?”

“Did I say that? I came to Margate to fucking die, yeah? I’d rather someone love me to death than this fucking cancer.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’m not the woman of your dreams.”

“You’re right,” he growled. “I don’t have dreams. I have prophetic fucking visions. So are ya gonna fuckin’ kiss me or wot, Sailor Mouth?”

“You bet your fucking ass I am.”

[timelesstimesgoneby]

EPISODE VOLUME 1 DISC 1 BASEBALL BUGS RABBIT SEASONING LONG-HAIRED HARE HIGH DIVING HARE BULLY FOR BUGS WHATS UP DOC? RABBIT'S KIN "WATER WATER EVERY HARE H" BIG HOUSE BUNNY BIG TOP BUNNY My Bunny Lies Over the Sea WABBIT TWOUBLE BALLOT BOX BUNNY RABBIT OF SEVILLE DISC 2 DUCK AMUCK DOUGH FOR THE DO-DO DRIP- ALONG DAFFY SCAREDY CAT THE DUCKSTERS THE SCARLET PUMPERNICKEL YANKEE DOODLE DAFFY PORKY CHOPS WEARING OF THE GRIN DEDUCE YOU SAY BOOBS IN THE WOODS GOLDEN YEGGS RABBIT FIRE DUCK DODGERS IN THE 24½2TH CENTURY DISC 3 ELMER'S CANDID CAMERA BUGS BUNNY AND THE TREE BEARS Fast and Furry-ous HAIR-RAISING HARE Awful Orphan HAREDEVIL HARE FOR SCENT-IMENTAL REASONS FRIGID HARE THE HYPO-CHONDRI-CAT BATON BUNNY FEED THE KIMY DON'T GIVE UP THE SHEEP BUGS BUNNY GETS THE BOID TORTOISE WINS BY A HARE DISC 4 CANARY ROW BUNKER HILL BUNNY KIT FOR CAT Putty Tat Trouble BUGS AND THUGS Canned Feud Lumber Jerks Speedy Gonzales Tweety's S.O.S. The Foghorn Leghorn Daffy Duck Hunt Early to Bet A Broken Leghorn DEVIL MAY HARE VOLUME 2 DISC 1 THE BIG SNOOZE BROOMSTICK BUNNY BUGS BUNNY RIDES AGAIN BUNNY HUGGED FRENCH RAREBIT Gorilla My Dreams The Hare-Brained Hypnotist HARE CONDITIONED The Heckling Hare LITTLE RED RIDING RABBIT TORTOISE BEATS HARE RABBI TRANSIT Slick Hare BABY BUGGY BUNNY HYDE AND HARE DISC 2 BEEP, BEEP Going! Going! Gosh! ZIPPING ALONG STOP LOOK AND HASTEN READY SET, ZOOM! Guided Muscle Gee Whiz-z-z-z-z-z-z There They Go-Go-Go! Scrambled Aches ZOOM AND BORED WHOA BE GONE CHEESE CHASERS THE DOVER BOYS MOUSE WRECKERS A BEAR FOR PUNISHMENT DISC 3 Bad Ol' Putty Tat All a Bir-r-r-d ROOM AND BIRD "GIFT WRAPPED C" Ain't She Tweet A BIRD IN A GUILITY CAGE "SNOW BUSINESS C" Tweetie Pie KITTY KORNERED BABY BOTTLENECK OlD GIORY The Great Piggy Bank Robbery Duck Soup to Nuts PORKY IN WACKYLAND DISC 4 Back Alley Oproar Book Revue A Corny Concerto Have You Got Any Castles? HOLYWOOD STEPS OUT I LOVE TO SINGA Katnip Kollege The Hep Cat THE THREE LITTLEST BOPS ONE FROGGY EVENNING RIAPSODY RABBIT SHOW BIZ BUGS STAGE DOOR CARTOON What's Opera, Doc? YOU OUGHT TO BE IN PICTURES VOLUME 3 DISC 1 HARE FORCE HARE REMOVER HARE TONIC A HARE GROWS IN MANHATTAN EASTER YEGGS The Wabbit Who Came to Supper BOWERY BUGS HOMELESS HARE CASE OF THE MISSING HARE ACROBATTY BUNNY Wackiki Wabbit HARE DO REBEL RABBIT HILLBILLY HARE DUCK RABBIT, DUCK DISC 2 DAFFY DUCK IN HOLLYWOOD HOLLYWOOD CAPERS THE COOCOO NUT GROVE PORKY'S ROAD RACE THE WOODS ARE FULL OF CUCKOOS SHE WAS ANACROBAT'S DAUGHTER THE FILM FAN SPEAKING OF THE WEATHER THUGS WITH DIRTY MUGS GOOFY GROCERIES SWOONER CROONER WIDEO WABBIT THE HONEY MOUSERS THE LAST HUNGRY CAT THE MOUSE THAT JACK BUILT DISC 3 I HAVEN'T GOT A HAT PORKY'S ROMANCE PORKY'S PARTY PORKY IN EGYPT PORKY AND TEABISCUIT PIGS IS PIGS PIGS IN A POLKA PORKY PIG'S FEAT DAFFY DUCK SLEPT HERE BYE, BYE BLUEBEARD AN EGG SCRAMBLE ROBIN HOOD DAFFY THE WINDBLOWN HARE CLAWS FOR ALARM ROCKET SQUAD DISC 4 Daffy Duck and the Dinosaur SUPER-RABBIT DAFFY DUCK AND EGGHEAD A GRUESOME TWOSOME DRAFTEE DAFFY FALLING HARE STEAL WOOL BIRDS ANONYMOUS NO BARKING RABBIT PUNCH AN ITCH IN TIME Odor-Able Kitty WALKY TALKY HAWKY GONZALES' TAMALES TO BEEP OR NOT TO BEEP VOLUME 4 DISC 1 ROMAN LEGION-HARE THE GREY HOUNDED HARE RABBIT HOOD OPERATION: RABBIT KNIGHT-MARE HARE SOUTHERN FRIED RABBIT MISSISSIPPI HARE HURDY-GURDY HARE FORWARD MARCH HARE SAHARA HARE Barbary Coast Bunny 8 BALL BUNNY KNIGHTY KNIGHT BUGS RABBIT ROMEO DISC 2 THE CASE OF THE STUTTERING PIG LITTLE PANCHO VANILLA LITTLE BEAU PORKY NOW THAT SUMMER IS GONE A PORKY IN THE NORTH WOODS YOU'RE AN EDUCATION PORKY'S RAILROAD PLANE DAFFY PORKY THE FIREMAN "A CRACKED ICE C" PUSS N' BOOTY LI GOT PLENTY OF MUTTON BOOBY HATCHED 12 PORKY'S POULTRY PLANT THE STUPID CUPID DISC 3 CAT-TAILS FOR TWO TABASCO ROAD TORTILLA FLAPS Mexicali Shmoes HERE TODAY GONE TAMALE WEST OF THE PESOS CANNERY WOE THE PIED PIPER OF GUADALUPE MEXICAN BOARDERS CHILI WEATHER A MESSAGE TO GRACIAS NUTS AND VOLTS Pancho's Hideaway THE WILD CHASE "A-HAUNTING WE WALL GO H" DISC 4 THE NIGHT WATCHMAN CONRAD THE SAILOR THE SOUR PUSS THE ARISTO-CAT DOUGH RAY ME-OW PIZZICATO PUSSYCAT KISS ME CAT CAT FEUD THE UNEXPECTED PEST GO FLY A KIT KIDDIN' THE KITTEN A PECK O' TROUBLE MOUSE AND GARDEN PORKY'S POOR FISH SWALLOW THE LEADER VOLUME 5 DISC 1 CARROT RABBIT ALI BABA BUNNY BUCCANEER BUNNY BUGS' BONNETS A STAR IS BORED A Pest in the House "TRANSYLVANIA 6-5000 H" OILY HARE STUPOR DUCK THE STUPOR SALESMAN " The Abominable Snow Rabbit" The Super Snooper The Up-Standing Sitter Hollywood Daffy You Were Never Duckier DISC 2 BEWITCHED BUNNY PAYING THE PIPER THE BEAR'S TALE FONEY FABLES GOLDIMOUSE AND THE THREE CATS HOLIDAY FOR SHOESTRINGS LITTLE RED RODENT HOOD LTTLE RED WALKING HOOD RED RIDING HOODWINKED THE TRIAL OF MR, WOLF TURN-TALE WOLF TOM THUMB IN TROUBLE TWEETY AND THE BEANSTALK A GANDER AT MOTHER GOOSE SEÑORELLA AND THE GLASS HUARACHE DISC 3 BACALL TO ARMS BUCKAROO BUGS CRAZY CRUISE FARM FROLICS HARE RIBBIN' PATIENT PORKY PREHISTORIC PORKY THE BASHFUL BUZZARD THE OLD GREY HARE THE WACKY WABBIT THE WISH QUACKING DUCK WAGON HEELS THE DAFFY DOC A TALE OF TWO KITTIES PORKY'S POOCH DISC 4 ALPINE ANTICS EATIN' ON THE CUFF OR THE MOTH WHO CAME TO DINNER MILK AND MONEY I'VE GOT TO SING A TORCH SONG PORKY AT THE CROCADERO POLAR PALS SCRAP HAPPY DAFFY PORKY'S DOUBLE TROUBLE GOLD DIGGERS OF '49 "PILGRIM PORKY T" Wise Quackers porky's preview Porky's Poppa Wholly Smoke What Price Porky VOLUME 6 DISC 1 HARE TRIGGER TO DUCK. OR NOT TO DUCK BIRTH OF A NOTION MY LITTLE DUCKAROO CROWING PAINS Raw! Raw! Rooster! HEAVEN SCENT MY FAVORITE DUCK JUMPIN' JUPITER SATAN'S WAITIN HOOK, LINE AND STINKER BEAR FEAT DOG GONE SOUTH A HAM IN A ROLE OFTEN AN ORPHAN DISC 2 HERR MEETS HARE RUSSIAN RHAPSODY DAFFY - THE COMMANDO BOSKO THE DOUGHBOY ROOKIE REVUE THE DRAFT HORSE WACKY BLACKOUT THE DUCKTATORS THE WEAKLY REPORTER FIFTH COLUMN MOUSE MEET JOHN DOUGHBOY Hollywood Canine Canteen BY WORD OF MOUSE HEIR-CONDITIONED YANKEE DOOD IT DISC 3 CONGO JAZZ SMILE, DARN YA, SMILE! THE BOOZE HANGS HIGH ONE MORE TIME BOSKO'S PICTURE SHOW YOU'RE DOIN'T KNOW WHAT YOUR DOIN WERE IN THE MONEY RIDE HIM. BOSKO! SHUFFLE OFF TO BUFFALO BOSKO IN PERSON THE DISH RAN AWAY WITH THE SPOON BUDDY'S DAY OUT BUDDY'S BEER GARDEN BUDDY'S CIRCUS A CARTOONIST'S NIGHTMARE DISC 4 HORTON HATCHES THE EGG LIGHTS FANTASTIC FRESH AIREDALE CHOW HOUND THE OILY AMERICAN IT'S HUMMER TIME ROCKET-BYE BABY GOO GO0 GOLIATH WILD WIFE MUCH ADO ABOUT NUTTING THE HOLE IDEA NOW HEAR THIS MARTIAN THROUGH GEORGIA PAGE MISS GLORY NORMAN NORMAL

[wrenhyperfixates]

Not a Trick

Pairing: Loki x con artist!reader Summary: Loki wins Thor’s money back after you swindle him in a street con. Warnings: none I believe A/N: Requested by @lemonbars-and-fingerguns. Hope you enjoy!

Permanent Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @lowkeyorlokificrecs @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @castiels-majestic-wings @kozkaboi @cozy-the-overlord​ @birdgirl90 @myraiswack @mythicalgarlicknot @what-a-flammable-heart​ @marvelouslovely @laurenandloki @fallinallinmendes @sophlubbwriting​ @mooncat163​ 

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

“Loki!” Thor called in a whiny tone, drawing out the vowels.

“Yes, brother,” Loki sighed.

There was a reason he disliked going out with the God of Thunder. Ever since they’d both moved to Midgard, Loki’s older brother had decided to start acting like just that—a brother. He’d insisted they do practically everything together, making up for the last century or so when they’d both been forced into competition for the throne. Now he realized Loki was always supportive of him, and he wanted to be there for Loki.

On the one hand, Loki was overjoyed. On the other, he was beyond pissed. Thor was just a bit... overly friendly, to put it nicely. Or, as nicely as Loki could manage through his annoyance. Clingy as he was, Thor had good intentions, and Loki saw that, appreciated it, so he didn’t say anything. He sorely missed his alone time, though, which he now barely had.

“I’ve been robbed!”

Loki sighed once more, shaking his head. He was certain there was more to the story than that. No way the lumbering thunder god merely had his wallet picked off of him or something. “And how exactly did that happen?”

“See that table over there?” Loki nodded in affirmation. “Well, they have this game to play, keep your eye on the cards as they shuffle. I saw three people go before me and they all won! But I lost! Five times!”

Loki wasn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps his brother was just being imbecilic, unobservant. Or maybe he actually was tricked. Honestly, Loki had a nose for those kinds of things, and he felt like perhaps that was the case here. He wanted to write it off, but admittedly, his interest had been piqued.

“Alright,” was all he said before walking in the direction Thor had pointed.

The blond god trailed behind him, perking up a bit now that his brother was on the case. He did always have a knack for these kinds of things, outsmarting others with his tricks and the like.

“Excuse me,” Loki said, clearing his throat after waiting his turn. It seemed you had been swindling people after all, he learned as he watched you work.

“Sorry, sweethearts,” you said with a honey voice, remembering Thor from moments ago. “No refunds.”

“And who said we were requesting one?” You eyed him distrust fully as he sat down. “My brother lost against you, but that is par for the course-”

“Hey!” Thor chimed in, but Loki put up a hand to silence him.

“-while I am not so easily confused. Now, I believe I am meant to set the stakes?”

He put down the same amount of money Thor had lost and then some. Your eyes widened in disbelief. There was a bit of a crowd now, both your shills and people you’d already tricked. There was no way you could turn this man down. You felt like he had some tricks of his own up his sleeve, but how could you resist?

“Right. So you know the rules then? If I win, I keep your bet; if you win, I double it.”

“Yes. So, shall we begin?”

You frowned at his grin. “Ok. Keep your eye on the ace of spades.”

You began to shuffle the cards quickly and sometimes all three at once. Still, he caught the exact moment you switched the card with the one in your sleeve. To the inexperienced eye, he could see how it would go unnoticed. Unfortunately for you, the god had magic on his side. Loki smirked as you told him it was time to pick the card.

“Darling, you could have at least made it hard,” he tsked, pointing at the leftmost option. “This one.”

“Sorry, but-”

You abruptly cut off when you flipped the card to find it was, in fact, the ace of spades. Frowning, you furrowed your brow.

“May I have my winnings now or shall we play again,” he smiled.

“You cheated,” you accused, voice low and leaning across the table towards him.

“So did you,” he shot back, matching your pitch.

The two of you engaged in a mini staring contest, a battle of your wills. “Fine. Take it,” you begrudged, tossing his money towards him.

“Yes!” Thor boomed. “Do not mess with the Avengers! Especially not when it is the Odinson brothers.”

Your eyes widened. “Y-you two are avengers?” you asked in disbelief and worry.

“We are. And I am not too sure this ‘business’ you have here is legitimate.”

“Brother,” Loki cautioned while reimbursing the others gathered who had lost their money. Noticeably, your friends had run off. At least his time with Thor had expanded his vocabulary, though. “You got your money back, did you not?”

“Yes, but tell me this is not a scam. How many others can we allow them to- Wait. Where did they go?”

Loki looked to see you running down the sidewalk. “Leave it.”

“But-”

“Leave it,” Loki snapped a bit harsher. “They are not doing any real harm. You do not know their situation.”

“Fine. But we at least deserve some celebratory ice cream.”

Loki sighed once more, staring off after you. “Lead the way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You set a brisk pace as you went home that evening. The rest of the day had been fairly unprofitable, as you had to lie low after a couple of pesky avengers messed with your business. It wasn’t like being a con-artist was your first choice in careers, but that was always how your dad provided for your family growing up. One thing led to another, and there you were, jobless and without any profitable skill besides what your father had taught you. Still, you’d probably gotten too big for your britches when you scammed Thor. You had your reasons, though.

Locking the door of your tiny apartment, you were surprised to see a certain raven haired man standing there. “You,” you glared, tossing your keys into the dish on your table.

“Yes, me,” he replied, pulling you by your belt loops into a kiss. “Hello, darling.”

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m still mad at you.”

“I am truly sorry, but you did trick my brother,” he said, giving you as much space as possible on the old, small couch. “It was funny, I admit, but he is trying for me, so it only seems fair I try for him. I hope you know I would never have let him actually do anything to or report you.”

“Yeah, I know.” You scooted closer, the anger already dissipating. Loki helped you out more than you cared to admit; he was the reason you even met rent these past few months. Of course you wanted to pay him back, but he insisted there was no need. Still, that didn’t mean you wouldnt’t try.

He pulled you onto his lap, giving your temple a kiss. “Good. You are even better at acting than I thought, my darling, pretending you did not even recognize us and all,” he chuckled. “Though I am still wondering why you picked my brother as your target.”

“Well, how else was I supposed to get your attention,” you pouted, hating to admit it. “You haven’t come around all week.”

“I am sorry. I suppose Thor deserved it then; he is the one who has been keeping me busy. Though, I did have an idea about that.”

You wiggled around his arms, so you could face him. You usually liked his ideas, particularly when it was his trickster side talking. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Come work in the Tower. I think we could use someone with your skills on the team. Plus, we would have more time with each other.”

You blinked in surprise at the suggestion. It wasn’t an entirely bad one, but you were on the fence. “Well... Maybe. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Take your time, darling. I will always be here for you, regardless,” he said, gazing into your eyes and beginning to lean in for another kiss. “And that is not a trick.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 4

A/N  Some strong reactions to the last chapter, which I admit caught me by surprise.   Writing is a funny craft, where you spend a lot of time and effort trying to show your reader exactly the picture you have in your mind, but then also have to surrender to each reader’s interpretation of what you wrote.  That said, some interpretations miss the mark entirely, and for that reason this chapter is entitled “False Assumptions”.   Trigger warning for childhood disease.

Jamie’s weekly appointments continued through the grey slumber of late April and into the wakening month of May.  Thursday became Claire’s favourite day of the week, for reasons she didn’t care to scrutinize too closely.

With regularity came a certain brand of predictability.  Their appointments took one of two forms, she realized.  Some days Jamie was full of life, witty and exasperating by turns.  He would spin long yarns about some trivial aspect of his life, fascinating tales that turned out to be nothing more than surface reflections, revealing little of the murky depths beneath.  He was also adept at using his considerable verbal charm to draw her into divulging more about herself than she ought.  Those visits left her equally frustrated and challenged.

The rest of the time her patient arrived with a weary slump, the thousand watt bulb of his personality dimmed to an occasional flicker.  Given his offhand comment about whisky and women, she tried not to ponder if he was hungover or suffering from the effects of an all-night hook-up.  From a diagnostic point of view these days of low ebb were beneficial because Jamie was far more likely to offer some nugget of inner revelation, truth sneaking out through the cracks of his weakened defences.

“I was away on business, in Hong Kong, when my Da passed,” he said on one such afternoon, the skin below his eyes drawn tight and the copper in his hair somehow muted.

“Did it happen suddenly?” 

“No’ really.  Jen had been at me fer months tae come hame, sayin’ that Da was workin’ himself tae death.”   Jamie looked out the window, eyes reflecting the overcast skies beyond.  “I ignored her.  Too wrapped up in my own grand self tae pay any heed.  Twas Ian, my brother-in-law, who called tae say Da had dropped in the pasture.  Massive coronary.  I caught the first flight back, but he was gone before I landed.”

She watched Jamie’s face closely as he spoke, but beyond the understandable emotion of reliving the sudden loss of a parent, he remained inscrutable.  The urge to draw him out overcame the deference she paid to Jamie’s well-defined boundaries.

“Do you think you’re to blame for his death?” she asked, half-expecting to be met with silence or a nimble deflection.

Jamie shook his head ruefully.

“Nah.  I dinna think I’m tae blame.  I ken it.  I was the only surviving son, ye see?  In the Highlands, tradition is everything, an’ a Fraser man had worked those lands fer generations.  I was only meant tae complete my studies abroad, an’ then return tae Lallybroch and take o’er from Da.  Instead, I left my sister an’ Ian tae watch o’er the farm while I played the business tycoon.”

“Is Lallybroch still in your family?” she wondered aloud, the name rolling about in her mouth like marbles.  

“Jenny and Ian couldna keep it.  I wasna well enough tae object, an’ they sold tae a developer.  It’s some kind of corporate wellness retreat now,” he finished with a distasteful grimace.

For every disclosure Jamie made, two more questions arose in its wake, like hacking away at a many-headed Hydra.  She wished she could delve further, but the chime from her computer announced the end of the session.

“Will I see you next week, Jamie?” she asked as he reluctantly rose to leave.

“Aye,” said with a sad smile.  “I’ll be here.”

***

The following Tuesday, Claire took the afternoon off work to perform an errand she’d long been avoiding.

Her departure from the Royal Hospital for Children had been so precipitous, she hadn’t filed the necessary paperwork to close her employment file.  The Human Resources department had been pestering her to complete the process for months.  The threat of holding up the transfer of her accreditation finally forced her hand.

To her great relief, the personnel offices were nowhere near the actual wards.  They lay at the end of a long white hallway broken by large windows looking into a series of meeting and activity rooms.  Her plan was to get in, sign the damn forms, and leave without running into any former colleagues or patients.   

The sun slanting into one of these sparsely furnished rooms glanced off the top of a bent head, causing it to glow like a freshly minted penny.  She stopped and stared, trying to reconcile the image of James Fraser seated in a too-small plastic chair, surrounded by a group of hospital-gowned children.

He must have caught sight of her while she stood gaping.  Running to the door before she could find the motor function to turn around, he called out joyfully from behind a blue hospital mask.

“Doctor Beauchamp!  Fancy meeting ye here.”

She mumbled something incoherent, damning herself for the blush she felt enveloping her cheeks.   Behind Jamie, a row of dewy eyes watched on.   She recognized the paper-thin skin and missing hair of chemotherapy patients, and a salty knot rose in her throat.

“Can ye spare a few minutes? Ye’re jes the pair of steady hands we need.”

She longed to decline, to disappear, to come up with a plausible excuse why she couldn’t enter that room.  Her heart thumped angrily in her chest, warning of its fragile state.

Seeing her conflict, Jamie extended a welcoming hand.

“Come, Sassenach.  The lassies would love tae meet ye.”

The space smelled of sterile laundry and sawdust.  With a habit borne of years of practice, Claire disinfected her hands in the small utility sink and donned a spare mask from the nearby dispenser, all while wondering what the hell she was doing.

The children were seated on colourful chairs arranged around a low table, its surface covered in pieces of pre-cut lumber, colourful pots of paint, a glue gun and all manner of cheap decorations such as you would find at a craft store.  The little girls ranged in age from pre-school to young teen, but they all looked at Jamie as though he’d hung the moon as he addressed them.

“Ladies, I’d like ye tae meet Doctor Beauchamp.  She’s a braw doctor but I bet she kens next tae nothing about woodwork.  Ye’ll have tae show her how it’s done.”

A chorus of nervous giggles was the only response.  Claire knew from experience that being a medical professional wasn’t going to endear her to children who spent much of their lives being essentially tortured in the name of science, hoping for some kind of miracle.

“Hello, everyone,” she waved meekly.  “You can call me Miss Claire, if you like.  Now, whatever are you doing with all this wood?”

It turned out that Jamie was supervising the construction of a half-dozen birdhouses.  He had pre-cut the lumber for easy assembly, but was assisting each girl to create a custom masterpiece that would hang outside her hospital window.  With the patience and steady manner of a primary school teacher, Jamie led the group through each step.  

A waifish girl of perhaps six sat directly to Claire’s left, her bare scalp covered by a brightly coloured bandana, offset by a huge pair of peacock-blue eyes that glimmered above her mask.  Eyes that were the mirror of the ones that visited her office every Thursday.  Something heavy settled inside her ribs.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked in a low voice as she pushed an open pot of sky blue paint away from the table’s edge.  Small hands busied themselves pulling apart a package of cotton balls that looked suspiciously like the ones kept in the hospital’s supply cabinet.

“Margaret Murray, Doctor, errr, Miss Claire,” came the timid reply.  

Not Fraser, then.  But that didn’t necessarily mean anything.  She snuck a glance across the table at Jamie, who was just then teasing the youngest girl by tickling her cheeks with a fake feather.  Despite her heavy thoughts, she couldn’t help but smile.  That smile faltered when she noticed that the inside of Jamie’s elbows bore a matching set of fresh bandages.   A series of puzzle pieces tumbled into place.

Perhaps sensing the weight of her scrutiny, Jamie looked their way, whistling in admiration when he saw Maggie’s near-complete birdhouse.

“Tis a fine hame ye’ve built fer yer wee birds, Maggie.  What is all yon white fluff for?”

“Tis clouds, Uncle Jamie,” Maggie replied with the certainty of childhood.  “I dinna want the birdies tae miss the sky, even when they arenna flyin’.”

Claire watched the words hit him as surely as though they had been bullets.  A frozen gasp, a shudder that travelled the length of his body and the crest of tears that he tried valiantly to blink away.

“Aye, ye’re right, a nighean.  Any bird would be fair honoured tae sleep in yer skyhouse,” he managed to reply, voice bouldery with contained emotion.

When each birdhouse was complete and left along the window ledge to dry, Jamie set his small crew of helpers the task of clearing up the mess.   Claire stood next to him as he loaded his tools back into a small carrying case.

“Thanks for inviting me to join you, Jamie.  It was... well, it was unexpectedly wonderful,” she admitted.

“Ye’re most welcome, Doctor Beauchamp.  We couldna have managed wi’out yer steady hand manning the glue gun,” he teased.

“You’re not my patient here, Jamie.  You don’t need to use my title,” she said, a bit vexed by his formality.

“Aye, but it doesna feel right tae call ye by yer given name either.  An’ Miss Claire is jes weird.”

She had to acknowledge that he had a point.

“What was it you called me earlier?  Sassa-something?”

“Sassenach.  My Da woulda skelped my hide if he heard me call a lady by that name,” he said ruefully.

“Why, does it mean something terribly offensive?”  She was almost afraid to know, having enjoyed the delusion that Jamie felt as fondly towards her as she did towards him.

“Nah, tis jes an old-fashioned word for an English person in Scotland.  Seemed tae suit ye, is all.”  He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed by the explanation.

“Well then, Sassenach it is.  When I’m not on the clock, that is.”

Jamie’s eyes danced above his mask the way they did when he smiled, and she imagined hers replied in much the same way.  A long moment passed when nothing was said, neither of them looking away.

“You’re her platelet donor,” she said at last.  “Maggie’s, I mean.”

“Aye.  Every week while she’s in hospital for chemotherapy.  Tis the least I can do.”

It was an explanation that fit all the facts, but one that she never would have guessed.  Jamie had always worn long sleeves to his appointments, but she was certain the weeks when he was haggard and worn out coincided with the times he was donating the litres of blood necessary to distill into the platelet concentrate that would then be injected into Maggie’s body, helping her combat the poisonous effects of her chemotherapy.

“Whisky, women and song?” she prodded, relieved and yet frustrated that his offhand comment had kept her from seeing the truth.  “Why didn’t you just tell me, Jamie?”

“I didna want yer pity, Sassenach.  Fer once in my life, tis no’ about me, ye ken?  I didna want ye lookin’ at me like I was some kind of hero.”

She held back her reaction that his was a textbook definition of heroism, and instead asked the next obvious question.

“Are you a compatible bone marrow donor as well?”

Jamie shook his head slowly.  Although he was a close match, he explained, it wasn’t close enough.   Maggie’s older brother, Wee Jamie, was a perfect match but the law prohibited him from becoming a donor until he was at least sixteen, in seven long years.

“We’re jes tryin’ tae buy her enough time,” he said sadly before stepping out of the room, explaining he’d be back momentarily.

Claire stood in a daze, running through everything she’d assumed about Jamie in light of these newest facts.  A light tug on her hand drew her back into the moment.  Maggie was looking up at her with wide, trusting eyes.

“Are ye the Sassenach lady Uncle Jamie and my Mam argue about?”

“I suppose I might be,” she replied, curious what had been said between the siblings that Maggie had overheard.

“Are ye a heart doctor?” Maggie continued.

“Well, no.  Not exactly.  I’m the kind of doctor who helps people who are sad, and I try to find a way for them to be happy again.”  It sounded so easy when explaining it to a six year old.

“Sometimes Mam and Da talk about Uncle Jamie when they dinna ken I’m listenin’.  I’m verra good at sneakin’,” Maggie confided, and Claire couldn’t help but smile.  What a precious child.    “I’m sure you are,” she replied warmly, a hand coming to rest gently on the tiny cloth-covered head.

“Mam says Uncle Jamie is more stubborn than a mule and that he canna see past his own big heid,” Maggie continued.  Claire couldn’t say that she disagreed with that assessment.

“But Da says Uncle Jamie’s heart has been broken too many times, and thas’ why he’s given up on living.  Can ye fix his heart, Miss Claire, so that it isna broken any more?”

She couldn’t have stopped her tears if she tried.   She knelt on the floor and gathered Maggie’s thin, fragile body in her arms.

“Oh, Maggie.  I’m certainly going to try.”

[eagesoldartblog]

7D with lewthur for the prompts meme? :0c

Misspoke

He was an idiot and a fool, and he presses his palm further into his face as Lewis sits on the other end of the call, dumbfounded.

“You… told Lance what?”

“That…” Arthur chokes and coughs into his hand, “that I’m … dating you….”

“...”

this is it, their friendship is over, there’s no way he can recover from this.

“Why?”

“I- I haven’t slept in nearly two days..! And my coworkers started talking about relationships and dating, and started talking to me about relationships and dating- and you know how I am! I can’t - I-“

“Struggle with communicating?”

Arthur flushes, crossing his leg and hunching over, leering at his doorway before covering his face again. “Y-yeah, that. And to make matters worse, when I said that ’oh, I’m actually dating my best friend!’ Lance then popped out of nowhere and said you- and then I said yes..!”

The adrenaline he felt was still pumping through him, even if he was all the way in his room, sinking into his bed like it was quicksand. “-So then Lance gave me a look and I’ll admit, I don’t know what that look means but I’m worried-“

“Arthur.”

His throat was dry, how long was he talking? “Ye-yeah?”

Lewis lets out a sigh on the other end, and Arthur could imagine him lifting his hand in motion with, “Breath, buddy. Inhale… exhale… you’re going to run yourself into the ground if you don’t let yourself relax.”

“Well I’m sorry!” Arthur says, face twisting into a half hearted scowl, “I’m fearing for my life- not really- because I can’t stop thinking about this and I don’t want him to-“

There’s a muffled voice on the other end of the receiver, Lewis’s breath hitches and he whispers, ”Ah, Arthur, I’m sorry but my mama wants to talk. Give me one moment..?”

Arthur gulps and bobs his head, and he listens to the phone clatter lightly as it’s set down - most likely on the metal racks that holds the dishes and-

Arthur’s stomach drops. A new sound stabbing into him. The one thing he wanted least of all.

Lance is coming up the stairs. His distinct steps and lumber seemingly made the entire bedroom shake. Head spinning, Arthur considered hanging up or throwing his phone out the window. He can’t think long on either option because before he knew it, the steps were coming directly to his door and-

“Knock knock,” Lances says, sounding calm and collected, “mind if I come in, boy?”

b-boy? Arthur sits there gapping.

Before he could find an answer, the door opens anyway, and his uncle peers in, locking eyes instantly.

He gruffs.

“I was hoping you’d be sleepin’ by now.”

Arthur clutches the phone, mouth stuck open in a horrified stare. Far from impressed, Lance crossed his arms and leaned against the door, silent for maybe a moment. “Shut your trap, you’ll catch flies like that.”

Arthur does so.

There's another beat of silence before Lance let’s put a heavy breath, expression relaxing. “Calm down, Art. I aint gonna do anything to hurt you. You know this. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

Despite how obvious it was for Lance to say that, Arthur still flinches before hesitantly relaxing himself. “Y-yeah? Fire away.”

The edge of his lip curls, “So you and Lewis are something, huh?”

Arthur flushes. Shit! He didn’t mute his call- what if Mama pepper heard that? Slamming his thumb against the front of his phone, Arthur accidentally ends the call and tosses his phone to the side.

Brushing his hand through his hair, Arthur makes a point to not look at Lance. “U-uh.. y..yes?”

“For how long?”

Shit, shit now there's lore. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“... A few months now..”

“And you didn’t think to tell your dear old man?” Lance chuckles dryly, surprising Arthur, “I would be insulted, if it wasn’t as clear as the damn sun in the sky.”

Obvious?

Lance laughs again, rolling his eyes, “You really thought you were sneaky, huh?”

Stammering, Arthurs gaze drops to the floor, “I… I guess.. we-we just wanted to… we were seeing if it would work out. Didn’t wanna make anything official just yet…”

“Why’s that?” Lance is smiling now, and his voice was everything but antagonistic. A relief but still just as concerning.

“Oh… you know… word travels fast. We-we didn’t want to .. I don’t know. We just didn’t want to be the talk of the town.”

Lance's smile drops a fraction, and it’s his turn to look away, “Hm, I hear that. There ain’t anything fun about your business becoming local news. But- what’d you think would happen?”

“I don’t know! Judgment.. I guess?”

“Artie, you know everyone in this town. You really think there’s a person here who aint queer as can be?”

Wait, holy shit, what? “..I .. I guess not, no.”

“Heh, didn’t take you to be that oblivious.”

Arthur flushes, but he doesn’t respond. Beside him, his phone starts vibrating, and his pulse spikes.

“That Lewis?”

He really didn’t want to check while you were still here… Arthur gulps heavily and nabs his phone, and sure enough. “Y-Yep. Hit the nail on the head.”

“Well then, I’ll leave you two to it…” Lance lifts his hand and waves, and Arthur’s anxiety wanes the smallest bit at the sense of … solidarity(?) relieves him. He nods in return, and Lance slips past his door and lets it fall shut.

As Lance starts his descent, Arthur picks up. “Hey-!”

“Arthur, oh my god.” Lewis sounds like he had just been laughing, but flabbergasted at the same time.”Our parents were betting on which one of us would slip first.”

Heart stopping, Arthur shoots up to his feet, ”What?”

“Our- our parents-!” Lewis wheezes, covering his mouth on the other end, “they were betting! They’ve been thinking we’ve been hiding a relationship this whole time-!”

…

Is that why Lance looked guilty when he mentioned the news spreading?

“You’re joking.”

“Arthur, I wish I was. My mother just asked if I was happy in the relationship and if I needed advice on how to- I- I can’t even remember. I was just close to exploding the entire time-“

Lance fucking called Mama pepper and told her, didn’t he?

“A-ah, well- uh- Lance kinda said the same thing? Said we were obviously hiding it.” Lewis cracks up on the other end, and Arthur’s entire body feels like it’s shaking from that same giddiness or excitement or whatever. “Uh… did your mom ask how long we were together..?”

Lewis goes silent, “Uh- I think i said a little under a year.”

”Dude, I told Lance it was a few months.”

“... we can twist the truth some more.”