#tfd answers

[time-for-despair]

Aether you’re my favourite character and you aren’t even canon how do you feel about that-?

Huh? I'm not... "canon"..? What the heck does that- mean? But I'm flattered to be your favorite nonetheless!

[growup-thatbeautiful]

hellooo, hi, im not sick anymore (more or less) and in surprisingly great spirits! i was thinking, if you wanted to write more Zeffirelli and absolutely and i mean ABSOLUTELY no pressure maybe we could have some sort of university themed kinda fic? not an AU just kind of widening the lens of The French dispatch to see Zeffirelli as a students not just his after school activities. im thinking like a philosophy student poet boyfriend x art and film theory painter reader kinda situation. studying and going to interesting lectures and to cinema in the evenings..idk it would be lovely to have some nice uni vibes to motivate me. also if you don't feel Zeffirelli now Timothee himself would be very much okay too i feel like. it is all up to you. sending you great energy, love you, message me if you want to brainstorm this story or want to talk literally about anything xx

omg hiiii!!! it’s fall now!! zeffirelli would be living his best life. i was really missing zeffirelli and timmy. timothee always renters my brain this time of year so be prepared. it’s movie szn brainrot time, my friends.

coincidentally enough, this happens to be my 700th follower celebration as well! yay!

uhhh so usually i write the translations at the bottom but i didn’t keep up this time i’m so sorry 😭😭

zeffirelli masterlist

ensoleillement (sunshine)

“You’re late,” you say, looking at the clock in the corner of your living room.

“I brought compensation.” Zeffirelli holds up a brown paper bag from the pastry shop down the street as an apology. “There's a pain au chocolat in there for you. I also got you a coffee.”

“I hope it’s not in the bag,” you respond drily, but take the bag nonetheless and rifle around for your breakfast. “Where’s the coffee?”

“Here,” he says absently, placing it on the kitchen counter.

“Dieu merci,” you sigh, taking a sip and shouldering your bag. The leather strap digs into your shoulder through the fabric of your coat.

“Thank me, not God,” Zeffirelli complains, ushering you out the door.

“You’re still the reason I’m late.” There’s a warning in your voice, but you can’t put any real venom behind your words. You never can, with him.

“Oui, but you’re not going to any important classes right now.”

“I’m going to math,” you protest. He reaches across you and takes your coffee, sipping it and grimacing. You slap his hand away and retake the coffee. “No matter how much you try, you aren’t going to like the way I have my coffee.”

“That’s because you have terrible taste,” he complains. “Why are still taking those bullshit classes? There are so many better classes to take.” It’s a conversation you’ve had many times, mostly out of jest, but there is some seriousness behind it.

“You mean math?”

Zeffirelli hums. “That’s the one. Why would you waste your time with math when you could be going to philosophy at noon?”

“Because I’m not some poet revolutionary, Zef,” you laugh, bumping your shoulder with his. “Not everyone is as successful as you.”

“Nonsense. You just haven’t shared any of your ideas with other people. Come on, amor, let me know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Right now there are a few things, but I don’t think you want to hear them,” you deadpan, gathering your books in your arms.

“Don’t get shy on me now, ensoleillement.” The endearment falls easily from his lips, his favorite term for you, meaning, quite literally, sunshine.

Ironically, you got the nickname on a rainy day when you had been giving him a hard time about his tendency to walk in the rain.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you reply, knocking your shoulder against his as you both try to go out the same door to the street below your apartment.

“All that math is filling your brain with nonsense,” he complains, his shoes scraping against the worn hardwoods. “I can’t have a good philosophical conversation with a mathematician.”

“Just because I’m taking the class doesn’t make me good at it,” you correct absentmindedly. He huffs and steps into pace beside you, his hand brushing against yours. The autumn leaves crunch under your feet, warm red and orange bleeding past as you make your way to class, the air crisp and the sun slinking behind the clouds. You really should be trying to make it to class on time, but you know you’ll regret it if you leave Zeffirelli out here alone with that rosy color on his cheeks from the cool air. Fall suits him well, and he wears the chill running through your fingers well.

It’s better to be here, your hands skimming against his, knuckles red and electric when he touches them than it is to be sitting in a class. Especially because he isn’t in the class.

The walk to your school isn’t much further. Just through the town sits a two-storied brick building where you’ve devoted hours to studying, crying, and trying to get Zeffirelli to take breaks unsuccessfully.

The cobblestones underneath your feet are consistently unsteady, and you find yourself, as usual, looking in awe at the quaint town that wakes up as you walk through.

There’s the flower shop on the corner with the green and white striped awning that gives out free roses on holidays. Next to it, stands a stationary store where you go more days than not to get a hand-pressed piece of paper to write home on. Across the street is a cafè where you and Zeffirelli have spent countless sleepless nights discussing movies and poetry when you should be studying,

This isn’t your hometown, and it isn’t his either, but you both know it more than you ever could know any other place on Earth. Zeffirelli’s American rouge, prophetic attitude couldn’t come from a town this small, but that doesn’t stop it from thriving. Here, nothing can stop him. Not living with his parents, which he does on purpose, or not knowing how to start a manifesto. Those things are trivial and unimportant because this place reveres every waking and sleeping moment it has with him. You and

You, well, you can’t claim this place as your home, but you’ve fallen in love with its poetically simple lifestyle. The two years you’ve been here as an exchange student has been the best you can remember, and you aren’t sure how much of that is related to the boy next to you.

A gut instinct tells you that he might have something to do with it, but you would be drawn into the charm of this town anyway, probably. He’s just an added bonus.

Zeffirelli takes the cup of coffee out of your hand and tosses it into the trashcan before you enter the towering, gray stone building that is your school.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” he asks, walking backward down the opposite hall that you’re traveling. “My mom packed cookies.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat and you can tell you’re grinning like a fool. You genuinely don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you don’t doubt the truth of his words. “I can’t even make fun of you because your mom’s cookies are so good.”

“That’s the sweet spot.” His arms are outstretched wildly as he turns back to go to his class. “I’ll see you later, amor. Don’t have too much fun in math without me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Zef.” There’s still a grin on your face when you walk into class, and you take your seat next to your’s and Zeffirelli’s friend, Mitch Mitch.

Mitch is radically passionate like Zeffirelli, but, as obvious by his presence in a math class, he’s less utterly devoted to the revolution. Which is to say that he’s still deeply invested.

“Did l'auteur make you late again?” Mitch reaches over you and slides today’s work to you. “I swear, you need to stop waiting for him in the mornings.”

“He did indeed.” You lean back in your chair and try to listen to the lecture, and you think you retain about half of the information.

The teacher at the front of the room drones on for half an hour about something you don’t understand, not that you care enough to pay attention. Despite the nature of his ideas, Zefrilli is correct about the fact that math isn’t your thing, nor is it going to help you at all. Especially not when you don’t have a clue what’s going on. Based on the look on Mitch’s face, he understands even less than you do, which is comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Why did you convince me to take this class?” Mitch groans, flopping onto the desk and banging his head on the wood. “I’m too pretty for math.”

“I don’t think that has anything to do with it.” You pat him on the shoulder consolingly and gather your things together.

“Peut être pas, but it makes me feel better about myself.” You walk side-by-side to the next class. You have film studies with Zefirelli and Mitch has some economic class.

Zefirelli is waiting by the door for you, and, when he sees you, he pushes himself off the frame and asks, “How was the waste of time?”

“It was a waste of time,” Mitch confirms, bumping shoulders with Zefirelli, who looks at you for confirmation, which you readily give.

“Let’s do something worthwhile then, mon chéri.” Zefirelli holds out his arm for you, and you take it easily. “To the magical world of film we go.”

“Onwards we go.”

*

Lunch doesn’t come soon enough, but, slowly, it comes. Mitch, Zefirelli, and you usually eat together, but today Mitch is going to the cafe down the street with a girl in your class named Layla. She’s sweet, and you hope she’s enough for Mitch.

You and Zefirelli find your normal spot in the corner of a courtyard hidden away in the twisted cobblestone streets. It’s nothing special, just a park bench pretty much, but you wouldn’t eat anywhere else. Not when Zefirelli is sitting close to you.

“What are you writing about?” he asks, leaning over your shoulder to try and read the words in your journal.

“How much I hate math,” you deflect, shutting the small spiral and stuffing it into your backpack.

“That’s not what looks like when you write about something as trivial as math. I’ve seen your math face, and it is much more détestable.”

“You’re telling me that you don’t write enthusiastically about math?” you joke, hoping to deflect the attention.

“Only about my manifesto.”

“Yeah, well you have your manifesto, and I have my movie.” It slips out easily like things usually do around him. You’re so used to telling him everything, so it comes as no school that you’re unable to keep this from him.

The thing is, he isn’t supposed to know about the movie you’re writing. Not because he wouldn't support it, which you’re sure he would, but because there’s no doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it. You try to backtrack. “I mean, I have the movie that I’m studying for class-“

“-You’re writing a movie?” he interrupts, his hand frozen where it’s reaching for his food. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m not writing a movie,” you attempt. “It was a slip of the tongue. Fourchement de langue.”

“No it wasn’t,” he denies easily. “You’re writing a movie.” This time he doesn’t ask, but he does return to his previous action, splitting the pink-colored cookie in half. He offers one half to you and you take it. You decide not to respond and focus on the cookie instead.

“So, what is this secretive movie about? Hopefully something dashingly bohemian and revolutionary.” You know he’s tuning down his excitement for you, which is nice. At least he’s trying. Hopefully, he knows that you would never keep something like this from him if you weren’t embarrassed.

“Those are your interests, not mine,” you sigh, despite the deception behind your words. Truly, you do care about those things, maybe only because he cares so much about them.

“Yeah? Then why do you work with me on my manifesto so much?” he prods, a grin on his face. Everything about him screams “got you” and you have no choice but to accept his meaning.

“Maybe I like being around you, connasse.”

“That could not possibly be it,” he dismisses easily. His cookie gets placed on the floor beside him and he leans into you, his head coming to rest on your shoulder. “You’re much too talented to be hanging around me all the time.”

“You can’t be serious,” you chastise, your hand running through his hair. “Zef, you’re the most talented person I know. Not only are you some sort of chess wizard, but you also have such a passion for life that I don’t see anyone else. I’m lucky to be around you as much as I am, honestly.”

“You’re just saying that,” he sighs, but there’s a blush rising to his cheeks that fits him so beautifully.

“We’re poets, Zefirell, we only say things that we mean.” He leans heavier into your side and you relax against him, taking his weight happily. The rest of the world passes by, and time passes by, but you don’t care. This is where you want to be, by his side.

You would lift the sky for him, but right now all he needs is a shoulder to lean on. It’s something you’re ready and willing to give.

“You know,” Zefirelli starts, “there are stories about people like us. You know, people that want to change the world. Usually, they have someone by their side, a second-in-command. Napoleon had Josephine, Pierre Curry had Marrie, Sintra had Garder.”

“I think it be more reasonable to say that Marrie had Pierre, given that she was the one who did most of the research. And you’re forgetting that Sinatra and Gardner broke up after 12 years.”

“But she was the only woman he ever loved. Come on, amore, you know that. Anyway, what I was trying to say-” he looks up at you, smiling softly- “before I was so rudely interrupted, is that most people have someone beside them when they start their journey sur le chemin de la révolution. The road to revolution can be lonely.”

“Everything must start in love,” you agree. “Nothing comes out of nothing.”

“Précisément. Would- would you like to be my second-in-command? We have a long way ahead of us, and I think it would be easier if we stuck together.”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” you breathe, laying your head on top of his and reaching for his hand. “Promise you won’t leave me for someone more antagonistic?”

“You’re enough of an antagonist for me,” he responds in an overly-sweet voice. “Not sure I could handle much more.”

“Good. I prefer you waking me up in the middle of the night rather than anyone else.” You also prefer his head on your shoulder, his hand in your hand, and his figure in your bed, but those are things you keep to yourself for now.

You’ve already got enough of a win for today.

*

A banging on your door is an unfortunately common event to wake you up. Without checking, you know who’s on the other side of the door. That messy black hair and those piercing eyes are waiting impatiently for you to make your way across your cramped apartment, you’re positive of it.

The floor is cold underneath your socked feet as you make your way over the piles of books, papers, and clothes strewn everywhere across your room. While the trek is short, to your sleep-addled brain it feels like it lasts forever, with you in a dreamlike state of confusion and agitation. You can hear the sound of rain pounding against your apartment roof, a steady rhythm in time with your slow breathing.

With a deep breath, you open your door and you’re met with the familiar, tall form of Zeffirelli. “I have an idea for the revolution,” he says, out of breath, soaked from the rain. “And I need your cinematic expertise.”

“So that’s why you’re at my apartment at three in the morning?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Yes. And it’s only two,” he says as he brushes past you and goes straight to your tiny kitchen. Absentmindedly, he rifles through your counters and grabs the first food he finds; some untrustworthy brown biscuits. You don’t take any when he offers. “I needed to talk to you. Son affaire sérieuse.”

“Right, I’m sure it is. Tell me, what exactly do you need my help with? I’m not sure I can be of much help.” You shuffle into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove, accepting the fact that you’re probably not going to get any sleep tonight.

“Absurdité. Who else is going to shut down my best ideas ruthlessly?”

“I would do that in daylight too,” you accuse. He fits beside you at your counter and reaches across you for the sugar bowl, taking a sugar cube and putting it in your cup. Two more are added to the cup that he’s claimed as his own from your array of delicately painted teacups.

“But you admit to having shut down good ideas?” A twinkle in his eyes tells you to give up now and accept your defeat.

“Sure.” It’s worth it to see the victory smile break across his face, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. “I am obviously the bane of your existence. Je suis ta couverture mouillée.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” His consolidation is quick and filled with a teasing lightness that you’ve long since accepted as his trademark. A lot of people would look past him for it, and call it arrogance, but you know it comes from a loving place.

“Don’t make me send you to Mitch Mitch’s apartment instead,” you warn, waving a spoon in his direction. “I would do it in a heartbeat.” It’s not true, you would much rather he be here with you, instead of at Mitch’s. Despite the entertainment that comes with Zefirelli and Mitch’s back and forth, you’re feeling selfish tonight.

“Empty threats.” he tisks. The kettle whistles from its spot on the stove and you both reach for it at the same time, your fingers brushing against his. It’s terrifyingly electric, but you push past the feeling. Zefirelli withdraws his hand hesitantly and you busy yourself with pouring the tea.

He’s come over in the middle of the night enough for you to know how he takes his tea by heart. Two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, no more, no less. He claims that you make it better than he does, which you choke up to him being unable to boil water without making a mess.

Clearing your throat, you ask, “So, what’s this big idea? Care to fill me in on why I’m awake at this time of the night.”

“What’s your movie about?” he fires back immediately, settling into your beaten blue couch.

“Did you come here to pester me about my future?” you ask, eyes narrowed. “Because I will kick you to the curb.”

“No, no,” he laughs, “you wouldn’t do that to me. You have no resistance to my pretty face.”

“Ah, yes, you’ve figured out my one weakness. It seems as though you’ll be taking advantage of it forever.”

“Of course, ensoleillement. What would I do if I didn’t have you to manipulate?” He sits across from you on the couch and grabs one of the blankets you have thrown around. It goes over his shoulders and he huddles into its warmth.

“So what did you come here to talk about?” you ask, taking a sip from your tea and placing it on the side table.

“Oh, right!” His eyes light up as he sits up straighter, splashing tea all over himself. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to care very much. “I thought that I would have my mother’s friend, some writer, is coming into town soon. I was thinking that I should ask her to help me. At the least, she can write about us, no? What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea. What does she write for?”

“The French Dispatch. You know, the one with all the stories they put out once a month or so. I hear that she’s looking for something out here in our petite ville.”

The conversation shifts and he talks about his big ideas and how he’s going to get them done. You could listen to him talk for hours, and, by the time he’s finished, you have, not that you have anything better to do. Not even dreams of him are this real. You could never make up in your mind the way his eyes sparkle and his hands flutter with excitement, or the way his hair falls in front of his face when he’s moving too fast.

Eventually, sleep takes him over, comically mid-sentence. He’s propped up against the side of the couch in a very uncomfortable looking way, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You’ve known him to fall asleep in worse situations,

When his breathing stills and his eyes close, you allow yourself to look at him as he is without fluttering hands and excited eyes. He’s calm and motionless, except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Everything about him is usually coiled for action, an easy tension running through his hands and his eyes, but now, now he’s undistributed and serene, laying with his hair splayed like a dark halo around his head.

Before you close your eyes, you tuck yourself close to him, fitting against his warmth like you’ve done so many times in the past, just like this, on deep-silence-ridden nights.

“You’re my movie,” you whisper into the dark, towards his sleeping figure. “You’re the one I write about.”

But of course, he doesn’t hear.

*

“Medre,” Zeffirelli swears, hopping around and trying to get his shoes on. “I have a test today.”

“You should have thought of that before you came over that early,” you admonish, watching him with amusement. “Why you didn’t think you would oversleep, I have no clue.”

“We’re in this class together, ensoleillement. You’re going to burn with me,” he warns, rushing a hand through his hair carelessly. It sticks up widely in every direction, but you know better than to try to fix it. Nothing can convince his hair to do anything except chaos.

“Yeah, but it’s so much more fun not to think about that.” Begrudgingly, you start to get ready as well. The floors creak under your feet as you shuffle to your bedroom, where a clean outfit is nowhere to be found.

For a moment, you let yourself think of the wild-haired, cigarette-smoking, arrogant person in the room next to you. His infuriating charm and charismatic persuasion captured you years ago, and you haven’t been able to get out of his orbit since then.

You may be his sunshine, but he’s your gravity, keeping you centered but tipping you over and surprising you at times.

“Dépêchez-vous,” Zeffirelli calls, rapping his knuckles against the wall. “Hurry up.” You know he doesn’t really care about making it to class on time, despite the panic, but you also know that he understands you well enough to know that you want to make it on time.

The film class you have this morning is one of your favorites, and you try and avoid missing it as much as you can. While your film studies class is more focused on the aspects of film, this class advises it’s students on the writing and cinematography that you need to make something truly special.

To make something worthy of a manifesto.

“Mon chéri, we have to go,” Zefirelli warns one last time before giving up and aimlessly wondering around your room.

“Don’t touch that,” you sigh, not having to look at Zeffirelli to know that he’s touching something he shouldn’t be touching. When you do look over, you see him flipping through your journal.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Zeffirelli defends, hiding something behind his back. You send a glare in his direction and lean back in the chair by your mirror. The wood creaks underneath you and you stretch out your back, satisfying pops cascading up your spine.

“You have some deep dark secrets written in here?” His tone is joking, and he waves the journal in the air, taunting you.

“Grocery lists and middle-of-the-night thoughts,” you dismiss. “If you want to know when I forgot to pay the electricity bill, look on the fifth page.” You hope with everything you have that he’s going to let it go, but you have no such luck. He’s nothing if not absurdly relentless.

“I know for a fact that you don’t write anything like that down, it’s not worth the time. You just forget things like the rest of us.”

“Peut être. Still, put it down.” He doesn’t. Instead, he keeps reading with a grin on his face that slowly falls as he makes his way through the rest of the book.

“Is this- is this written about me?” he asks, disbelief written on his face. “Is this your movie?”

“I asked you to stop reading,” you defend miserably, hiding your head in your hands. “I know it’s strange, and I know I shouldn’t be writing about you like that. You don’t want to be heroic or some great leader, above everyone else, but I cannot help it if that’s who you are. Please understand, I only wrote what I saw.”

“I’m your movie? I’m what you have been furiously scribbling away at, working on late at night?”

“You’re my everything,” you admit honestly, softly, “How could you not be the plot of my movie too?” Zeffirelli walks slowly towards you and drops the journal on the floor. “I’m sorry, Zeffirelli.”

“Why?” he asks breathlessly, standing in between your legs and settling his hands on your shoulders. “What have you to be sorry for? You have immortalized be forever with your words. How can I be anything but grateful. If- if I ever gave you the idea that I do not burn for you- that I do not turn towards you in every room like you are the sun and I am a flower, then I can do nothing but apologize profusely. There is more than one reason that you are my ensoleillement. You are grumpy and rude and you give me shit for everything I do, but you also light up my days and nights. You are warmth and home. You are everything.” Zeffirelli’s voice is breathless and rushed, his hands coming up to cup your face. They’re shaky and the calluses on his fingertips are rough against your cheekbones, but you lean into them anyway.

“Zef,” you whisper, like it’s the only word you know. Just as soft as his words, his lips come down to yours, hesitantly at first, but more sure as you don’t protest.

He truly is your everything. That’s the only thing running through your mind as he kisses you with everything he has.

“We’re going to be late to your favorite class,” he gasps in between frantic kisses. “Don’t be angry at me when you have extra homework.”

“I make no promises,” you laugh, pulling him back into you. “But I’ll try my best.” For him, you’ll do anything.

He’s your ensoleillement, your sunshine, just as you’re his.

[coachtfd]

Amorim to United your thoughts?

I actually just wrote about this, check it out. Probably not what people want to hear, but I’ve never been one to pander to fans. If I feel good about something I say so, if I don’t I won’t. I like him, I think he’s got potential. There are promising players and coaches in Portugal, it’s why I continually keep an eye on the league. But the Primeira Liga isn’t the Premier League, as some coaches have found out recently.

I believe the last manager who coached in Portugal and went on to win the Premier League or the Champions League was Mourinho and he’s really a rare one. Managers that win either of those competitions are incredibly rare by default.

We had one that took his team to a Champions League semifinal 5 years ago and we’re replacing him with someone whose best finish in was the round of 16 with an overall record of 7 wins, 7 losses, 3 draws and a 0 goal difference. At least when Ajax drops back to group stage or round of 16 exits is usually because all of their best players got poached again, which happens regularly. With Amorim, I feel it’s because his teams don’t defend well enough against better opposition; it’s the same problem I had with Nagelsmann. Ten Hag was just beginning to improve our defending when we sacked him so this will be interesting if it happens. 😅

[tomtenadia]

Detours to You - 25

Hello all again, here we are with another chapter. This is a nice one and after this there are still 6 chapters left. The angst is basically over. We are a few months after the last chapter. Rowan is healed and also back to work.

He gets some amazing news in this chapter and then we have Lysaedion's wedding. Also we have smut. Oh yes our two birds have finally reconnected that way too and now they can't keep their hands off each other.

Hope you will love this.

MASTERLIST

A few more months elapsed and spring finally decided to appear in Orynth and the snow eventually began to thaw. The white of winter lead the way to the colours of the new seasons and cherry blossoms painted some of the parks pink.

Rowan was a winter person but happily admitted that spring had its own way of making everything look happier with all of its colours.

He had left HQ after a meeting with the commissioners on some of the improvements they have been working on. That had been his last meeting of the day and now he was driving towards the ice rink to pick up Maya after hockey practice. She had finished her introductory weeks and now she had started the actual training and was finally learning to play hockey. That was a first he had got to experience and his phone was bursting with pictures of his daughter in hockey gear. He and Aelin had taken her to a shop to buy all the equipment. She was proudly using the stick she had received for her birthday and for her jersey she had chosen the same number he used. She had chosen him and not Dorian and he could not contain his pride. On his way to the rink he had stopped at the dry cleaner where he had to collect his dress mess uniform. Lysandra and Aedion were finally getting married that weekend and Aelin had begged him to wear his uniform so he had agreed.

He and Aelin had improved a lot more and as soon as he was cleared to go back to work, he had taken her for a weekend in Ilium just before he was due to go back to work. They had left Maya with her grandparents and it had taken some convincing that it was a holiday they needed alone. They had to reconnect fully and finally took the last step in their relationship. They had almost spent the entire weekend in bed with just a few interludes for a swim in the sea and dinners out. It had been a perfect weekend.

The ice rink appeared in front of him and parked his TFD pickup in the car park and walked in, following the sound of the girls playing. He reached the rink and saw a few parents leaning against the barriers watching their daughters play.

He easily spotted Maya and smiled. She had perfected her skating technique quickly and they had gone out a few times together.

He noticed that they were practicing shooting techniques and he smiled when Maya kicked her puck right in the corner of the net with what meant to be a basic snapshot, fooling the goalie. He had taught her that.

He pumped his fist in the air in joy and in that instant one of the mothers walked towards him “is she yours?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

Aelin had explained him that at school he had won the title of DILF. He was about to celebrate until she explained him the meaning of the acronym. He had been horrified. The same story repeated itself at hockey practice.

The woman tried to keep talking to him, but Rowan managed to ignore her by adding that he was there to enjoy his daughter playing hockey. 

Maya finished half an hour later and ran to him, while carrying her duffel bag and stick “Dad!”

He lifted her in his arms and kissed her “You have been so good today.”

“Did you see me?”

He nodded and put her down “ready to go home?”

Hand in hand they walked out of the rink and drove home.

*

The weekend finally arrived and so did Lysandra and Aedion’s wedding. The couple had decided to get married in a steading just outside the city that offered functions. It had a big pond and the wedding was going to take place near its banks and then the owners had prepared all the tables for the meal which was all produce from their farm. 

Aelin was in hers and Rowan’s room getting ready. She and Elide were maid of honours and were wearing a long sleeveless green dress “Ro, can you zip it please?”

He came out the bathroom in his still open shirt and damp hair.

“You are not allowed to look this hot,” she stepped closer, her fingers brushing his chest. Stroking the markings in the old language where she knew Fireheart and Maya stood.

Rowan hummed “no distractions, we have a wedding to attend.”

Aelin kissed his pecs and his hands landed on her hips. Since they had taken the last step in Ilium, they had struggled to keep their hands off each other, but with a toddler next door they had been careful and did not manage to have as much fun as they wanted.

Rowan kissed her neck “You look stunning.”

“I don’t have anything underneath,” she whispered in his ear and felt Rowan pushing her against the dresser.

“Temptress.”

Aelin looked up at his eyes clouded with lust and a darker shade of green. She loved being the cause of that reaction. She had feared that after their separation their intimate life would suffer but Aelin had been wrong. The sexual tension had been building up for a while and in Ilium they had discovered that their chemistry was still explosive.

Rowan nibbled at the spot behind her ear that had the power to melt her and a whimper left her mouth. She had to talk to him, she had something important to say but her body had decided to stop responding to her.

“Ro…”

The kiss he gave her almost reduced her to a putty “Ro…” she repeated with urgency.

He gently pulled back and caressed her face “what?”

Aelin stepped back and looked at him “I have something to tell you.”

His stare turned worried and Aelin noticed it so moved quickly back to him, grabbing his hand and placing it on her belly “I found out a few days ago.”

She stared at his expression morph from worry to pure joy as he got the meaning of her words “for real?”

Aelin nodded “I did the math and I am positive it was our sex fest in Ilium,”

Rowan laughed and pulled Aelin to him “We are having another baby?”

She looked up at him and was glad that she had not started with make up yet because at his expression, tears started to well in her eyes “Maya will be a big sister?”

Another nod “I have not told anyone because I have not been to the doctor yet and I wanted to tell you first.”

“I am coming with you, I am not missing anything this time.” He lifted Aelin in his arms and twirled on his feet until she asked him to stop because she was getting queasy.

“I love you,” he added kissing her deeply and in that instant the door flew open and Maya burst in “Mama, dad no kissy.”

Rowan went to his daughter, lifted her in his arms and stamped a loud kiss on her cheek “did nana help you dress?”

Maya climbed off him and showed her dad her green dress and the cute green trainers Aelin had bought her. Eiddwen had combed her hair in two lovely braids tied with a green ribbon.

“You are lovely, but now sit on the bed so mum and dad can finish dress up.”

“Mama, dad are you getting married too?”

Both adults stopped what they were doing and looked at each other. They had put the priority on rebuilding the foundations of their relationship but Rowan definitely wanted to marry Aelin.

“Not yet, Maya.” Added Aelin, looking at Rowan who nodded back at her. He walked to his daughter and sat at her side “Your mum and I are working on it,” he extended his hand to Aelin and she took it “For now you need to know that I love you and your mum very much.”

“But she is your princess.”

Rowan smiled and shook his head “no baby, you are my princess,” he kissed her head and then stood, enveloping Aelin in his arms “Your mum is my queen.”

Aelin melted in his arms and Maya joined them, and Rowan held in his arms his growing family.

*

The wedding had been perfect. Aelin and Rowan had sat together with Elide and Lorcan and Maya had been the ring bearer and she had been proud at being given such an important task. 

The ceremony had been perfect and during the vows Aelin had found herself crying, although she mostly blamed the hormones.

Now it was the after dinner and the party was in full swing. Lysandra had invited both Aelin and Rowan’s parents and Maya was busy dancing with her grandfather while Rowan had stolen Lysandra for a moment and Aelin had gone dancing with her cousin.

“So, how does it feel to be married?”

Lysandra chuckled “Marry Aelin and you will know…”

Rowan chuckled and Lysandra gasped “Are you going to propose?”

“Maybe…”

“Rowan Whitethorn,” she whispered “It’s about time.”

He smiled “we just took a detour through life but we are back on track now.”

“Good, because I want to dance at your wedding next.”

The dance came to an end and Aelin joined him again “Want to dance, chief?”

Rowan kissed her  “I have a better idea,” he took her hand and started walking away from the main party area. 

Aelin laughed when she noticed when he was going towards the barn.

“Seriously?”

Rowan paused “don’t tell me that in none of your romance books the couple doesn’t sneak away for some fun in the barn?”

Aelin pulled him closer “Oh no, chief, I have plenty of examples.”

Quickly they walked in the building and Rowan closed the door behind them and then a moment later Aelin was flush against the wall, his body caging hers “this dress has been driving me crazy,”  

Aelin’s hands found purchase in his hair while his started roving her body climbing higher up to the edge of the corset. Her breast were full and tempting him. Slowly he pulled the fabric down exposing her soft mounds. His mouth covered one of her hard peaks while the other was being tended by his hand. Aelin moaned loudly and pushed him harder against her. 

“Fuck, Rowan…”

He looked up with a happy smirk “any problems, m’lady?”

“I need you,” she breathed while her hand palmed his length in a teasing motion.

Rowan put the corset back in place and with a strong pull of his arms he lifted her on the desk, moving between her legs and getting closer to her.

“How much do you want me?” He breathed against her ear and Aelin moaned, her hand fisting in his long hair “stop teasing, chief.”

A chuckle left Rowan’s lips while his hand trailed her legs, slowly lifting the long dress. His mouth was avidly on her neck.

Aelin’s legs wrapped around his back and she slightly leaned backward on her hands “I am going commando, remember.”

The growl that left Rowan’s lips was savage and his mouth devoured her in desperation.

And when Aelin let out another obscene moan, Rowan’s finger slowly traced her core, noting how wet she was “all this for me? Gods, Aelin, you are dripping.”

She was about to let out a sassy remark when the feeling of his fingers filling her made her shatter and shorted her ability to speak. 

Gods, sex with Rowan always had the power to destroy her. She had tried with another person but it had been so mundane that she had gone home and finished herself off. It had not been Sam’s fault. He could have been decent with anyone else but she had Rowan has main reference. It had been hopeless. 

When Rowan added a third finger, Aelin saw stars and while he worked her to drag an earth shattering orgasm out of her, she grabbed one of her breasts and began teasing one of her hard peaks.

“I love when you touch yourself,” he added in a dark voice.

“Does that turn you on, chief?”

As a response Rowan stooped and fully lifted her dress, exposing her to him. A moment later his mouth was on her core and Aelin almost screamed.

“I have been hard for you since you put this dress on,” his tone had turned gruff while he kept feasting on her like a starved man. 

“Fuck me, Rowan. I need you inside of me.”

“Do you?”

“Please.”

Aelin knew he loved when she begged him and it turned her on to no end when their lovemaking was a bit rougher. Mala burn her, being taken in a barn was one of her fantasies.

Rowan pulled her up and then a bit forward so that her ass was lined up with the edge of the table. 

And while Rowan was unbuckling his trousers, Aelin’s finger found its way inside her causing a reaction in him “Look at me, Ae.”

That she did but at the same time she lifted her finger to her mouth and sucked it clean.

“Fuck.”

He stood in front of her, his cock in his hand, watching Aelin pleasing herself.

“Now chief, are we doing something about this?”

Rowan’s reaction was almost feral. He walked closer to her, lining himself to her entrance and in a swift motion he was inside her. Aelin groaned and collapsed on her back. He leaned forward and kissed her exposed breasts “gods Aelin.”

“More, I need more.”

He pulled her as close as possible never slowing down.

He felt her walls starting to clench and smiled and increased his speed until Aelin shattered under him, his name on her lips.

“I am not done yet with you.”

His finger went back to her clit trying to prolong her pleasure.

Aelin shattered a second time in his arms and he eventually felt the first signs that his peak was close too.

And when he did, he collapsed on her, wrapping her in his arms and leaning his forehead on hers “did it meet your fantasy?”

She kissed him “so much better.”

He gave her another kiss and then pulled back, trying to tidy himself up “I wonder if in the books they stash some cloth for the afterwards.”

Aelin laughed “no, in books they get clean magically.”

He grabbed her waist and pulled her off the table, pushing down her gown “Your hair is a bit messy.”

She snuggled closer to him “I don’t care. I’ll sneak in the bathroom on my way back.”

Giggling like two teenagers who had caused some troubles, they ran back to the main building and went to get sorted before joining again the wedding party.

taglist

@rowaelinismyotp @swankii-art-teacher @whimsicallyreading @elentiyawhitethorn @aelin-bitch-queen @bruiseonthefaceofhumanity  @mis-lil-red @thegreyj @sailorsassley @leiawritesstories @clairec79 @morganofthewildfire @sv0430 @heartless--aromantic @autumnbabylon @rowanaelinn  @susumaus98  @gracie-rosee @mybloodrunsblue @tanvee1231 @avenrebekah @whoever-you-choose-to-love  @theywillnotsingforme @universallytreepost @black-daisy-water @goddess-aelin @whispers-in-the-darkest-heart @lovely-dove-zee @athena127 @mariaofdoranelle

[swifty-fox]

finally saw the bikeriders today and whew the tfd brainrot is real now

yeah im in the trenches

“So you’re the man of many names.” 

He tilts his head, the corners of his lips drawing upward in a restrained smile. A big cat, lazy and commanding amongst this flock of loud screeching birds. 

“Which one’s have you heard?” 

The biker’s accent was low and rich, not quite as broguish as Ken’s slow drawl, but something richer and warmer like woodfire smoke. 

John shakes his head ruefully, “Too many to list. Most boys have been calling you Benny.”

“My name’s Gale, if that matters any.”

“Good, you don’t look like a Benny,” John grins.

Gale’s eyes dance with amusement, “No?”

“Nah,” John sighs into the polished wood of the table, “Y’look like a Buck.” 

Gale’s face twists oddly, as if torn between irritation and amusement, “Okay.” 

John clinks his beer against Gale’s half-filled glass on the table, confirmed to be water by the lack of smell, “Nice to meet you Buck, I’m Bucky.”

Gaze cutting again to him sharply, Gale answers John's mocking grin with a frown of his own, “Biddick told me about you, the hawk with the camera.”

[erikabsworld]

Mastering a Complex Signal Processing Assignment: A Step-by-Step Guide

Signal processing assignments can often challenge even the most diligent students, especially when they delve into complex topics. One such topic is "Time-Frequency Analysis of Non-Stationary Signals." This blog will walk you through a sample university-level question, breaking down the concept and providing a detailed guide to tackling the assignment. This guide aims to equip you with the understanding needed to handle similar problems and excel in your coursework.

Sample Question

"Consider a non-stationary signal which exhibits time-varying frequency components. Using the time-frequency analysis techniques, analyze the signal to determine its frequency components over time and interpret the results. Discuss the appropriate methods for visualizing this analysis and explain how these methods provide insight into the signal's behavior."

Concept Overview

Time-Frequency Analysis is a powerful technique used to study signals whose frequency content changes over time. Unlike stationary signals, where frequency components are consistent throughout, non-stationary signals have varying frequency components that need to be examined in both time and frequency domains simultaneously. This analysis helps in understanding how the frequency content of a signal evolves, which is crucial in fields like communications, audio processing, and biomedical engineering.

Key Methods for Time-Frequency Analysis:

Short-Time Fourier Transform (STFT): This method involves segmenting the signal into shorter segments and applying the Fourier Transform to each segment. The result is a time-frequency representation that shows how the frequency content of the signal varies with time.

Wavelet Transform: Unlike STFT, which uses fixed-length windows, the Wavelet Transform uses variable-length windows. This allows it to analyze signals with both high and low-frequency components more effectively.

Spectrogram: A visual representation of the STFT, the spectrogram shows how the power of the signal is distributed across different frequencies over time.

Time-Frequency Distributions (TFDs): These are advanced techniques that provide a more detailed view of how the signal's energy is distributed in both time and frequency domains.

Step-by-Step Guide to Answering the Sample Question

Understand the Signal Characteristics:

Identify if the signal is non-stationary. This can be done by observing whether the signal’s frequency content changes over time.

Consider how the signal's frequency components evolve. This step is crucial in determining the appropriate analysis method.

Choose the Appropriate Analysis Method:

For a basic analysis, the Short-Time Fourier Transform (STFT) is often suitable. It provides a straightforward way to visualize how the frequency components of the signal change over time.

If the signal has complex variations in frequency, the Wavelet Transform might be more appropriate due to its flexibility with time-frequency resolution.

Perform Time-Frequency Analysis:

Apply the chosen method to the signal. For STFT, divide the signal into overlapping segments and compute the Fourier Transform for each segment. For Wavelet Transform, use a set of wavelets with different scales.

Generate a time-frequency representation of the signal. This will typically be a matrix where one axis represents time, the other represents frequency, and the intensity represents the magnitude of the frequency components.

Interpret the Results:

Analyze the time-frequency representation to identify patterns. Look for areas where frequency components are concentrated, and observe how these patterns change over time.

Discuss any notable features, such as abrupt changes in frequency or the presence of multiple frequency components evolving over time.

Visualize the Analysis:

Use tools like spectrograms for STFT or wavelet power spectra for Wavelet Transforms to create visual representations of the time-frequency analysis. These visuals help in understanding the signal’s behavior more intuitively.

Discuss Methods and Insights:

Explain why the chosen method is suitable for the given signal. For instance, if using STFT, discuss its strengths and limitations compared to other methods like the Wavelet Transform.

Provide insights into how the time-frequency representation enhances understanding of the signal’s characteristics.

How We Help Students

At matlabassignmentexperts.com, we specialize in providing the best signal processing assignment help online. Our team of experts offers tailored support to help students tackle challenging assignments, including time-frequency analysis and other advanced topics. Whether you need assistance with understanding complex concepts or require help in completing your assignments, we ensure that you receive accurate, timely, and high-quality support. Our goal is to help you achieve academic success while easing the stress of your coursework.

Conclusion

Mastering time-frequency analysis requires a thorough understanding of both the signal and the methods used to analyze it. By following the steps outlined in this guide, you can effectively approach and solve complex signal processing assignments. Remember, if you ever need assistance with your assignments, don’t hesitate to reach out for expert help to ensure you’re on the path to success.

[mending-up-your-fences]

^ I think this is the most real answer. There such a clear arc in their writing and musical choices that chronological really does seem the way to go (and you can’t really skip any either).

Era-wise, you really have the The Story era (BC-GOTG) and Family era (TFD - ITSD) with Bear Creek as the bridging album.

The only real pitfall is it undersells how good Brandi Carlile was as a debut, especially considering it’s The Story b-sides.

If you were introducing someone to BCB albums, but couldn’t do it chronologically, what order would you go?

My best effort:

In These Silent Days, Brandi Carlile, Give Up The Ghost, The Story, Bear Creek, The Firewatcher’s Daughter, By the Way I Forgive You

[jeawrites]

16 and 17 terrorsnuckel? Maybe L as the diologue?

16. High school dance

17. Love at first sight

l. “Are you flirting with me?”

Brian was very surprised by the amount of people who showed up for such a time waster of a dance. Homecoming was nothing to be amazed by, in his opinion, but he never really experienced it until now. He skipped the dance his 9th grade year, and again in his 10th. Now, going finally as a Junior after insistent begging from Evan, he was met by lots of noise and almost too much stupid pop-music. 

Not that he believed his sense of music was any better, but it was definitely much better. 

He chose to stay sitting at his friend’s designated table, not that he could move in the stupid formal wear anyways. Occasionally Evan would visit the table, trying to encourage Brian to join in the fun, but he was always declined. 

Brian had considered just to leave early and forget he ever came, when a very pretty voice spoke to him. “Hello, is this- uhm, Evan’s table?” 

His eyes had never looked at someone so quickly, and he felt his insides melt at the sight of the lovely brunette staring back at him, nervously shifting from side to side. From the dark blue dress shirt to the cute way his hair waved and the lovely looking eyes. He felt like he was floating. 

“I-I’ll just leave if it’s not-” he spoke, his head tilting down in embarrassment. Brian forced his head to leave the clouds. “No! N-no, this is- yes. This is Evan’s table,” Brian nodded.

How had he never met this kid? 

He watched him sit down and nervously look away, tapping his fingers on the table. Brian just... couldn’t look away. Whoever this was, was by far the most precious person Brian has ever had the pleasure of seeing- and he couldn’t bring himself to speak! 

Luckily, he didn’t need to. “Yo! Brock, glad you could make it!” Evan exclaimed, acting like the party was his. “See ya met Brian! I think you two’ll get along really well!” he added, grinning as he patted Brock on the shoulder before grabbing a water bottle and running off. “Wha- Evan!” Brock shouted, turning but the Canadian was already long gone.

Brock huffed, and almost as if a switch had turned, he started talking like he knew Brian for years. “Evan’s just such a handful, right? It can’t only be me who thinks that. You know he practically forced me to come?” he shook his head and gestured, “Can I have one?” 

Brian was nearly starstruck, but he fought back a laugh and nodded. Brock took one and stared in confusion before his face flushed. “O-oh I’m sorry! It’s just- Evan just makes me so- so-” “So not yer self?” Brian finished, snickering. “Y-... Yeah,” Brock mumbled, his eyes widening before he grinned sheepishly. “So he bothers you too?” 

“Ye have no clue!” Brian exclaimed, “That asshole is t’ whole reason I’m here and not at home doin’ anything else!” He threw a hand in the air and sighed softly. “But ye can’t jus’ say no to him- otherwise he’ll bother ye until ye say yes!” Brock nodded and laughed. “Right!”

The two shared a laugh, and Brock shifted before holding out a hand. “I’m Brock! I moved here the end of last school year,” he smiled. Brian grinned widely back, grabbing his hand. “Brian, I’ve been here long as I can remember,” he chuckled. “Really?” Brock asked. “Nah,” Brian admitted, “I actually moved from Ireland to over here back in middle school.”

As the time passed, the two were already becoming closer as friends, which Brian had caught on to be Evan’s plan as the fucker had stopped by enough asking “are you both getting along” for them to piece it together. 

Brian had also gotten a bit bolder. “Ye know, yer pretty cute,” he spoke, cool and collected but he sputtered with Brock’s next words, which came out defensively; “Are you flirting with me?” He flushed red and broke. “Wh-what- yer not supposed to-” he was cut short with a laugh leaving Brock. “I’m only kidding,” he spoke between huffs of air, “I think you look cute too!” He added a wink and it was nearly over for Brian, his heart was beating too fast. 

“And here I thought ye were timid!” Brian exclaimed. “I’m just awkward,” Brock clarified, “but you’re really easy to talk too.” 

And that was the final blow that made Brian decide he was 100% going to spend as much time with Brock as possible. And, he finalized this as he stood up with a bright smile and a hand out to Brock. “Would ye like t’ dance?”

[masters-menagerie]

[DLN-000 > DWN-024]: Hey. You dtf?

....................-crack-

[DWN-024 > DLN-000] Care to elaborate?

[pinklybronzed]

3, 17, 19!

3: Does your WIP have a title? If so, explain its significance. If not, what are you calling it for now?

yes! i’ve actually managed to name all the books in this series (weird for me) anyway--it’s The Foreign Duchess which is the sequel to The Fairest Duchess, but tfd2 i actually like better because the mc isn’t actually foreign at all, she is returned to her home country but because of her marriage she is called ‘the foreign duchess’ by many people in her home country and also it plays into her feeling foreign now in her home country as a captive 

17: Does your WIP have any themes or motifs?

(gonna be straight(lol) i don’t really know what this means) there is quite a few things: betrayal (deception), coming of age, alienation, justice, and power plays ???? as far as motifs, a lot of things are symbolic, tfd2 tends to play a lot into water and it’s metaphor of taking no shape, being immensely dangerous, yet all encasing, life-giving, and beautiful 

19: Post a picture or gif that describes your WIP.

(art credit: Ouzo Kim) 

ask game

[time-for-despair]

Hu, Rose, how’re you feeling-?

...

...

...

Ah. Another body. We have to investigate- Hu please stop screaming in my ear..-

[growup-thatbeautiful]

zeffirelli x m reader where reader is zeffs muse.Reader can't do anything without being stopped by zeff.Anything reader is stopped.Getting a book, eating, playing chess,sleeping, bathing, changing clothes.Whatever zeffs boyfriend does zeff tells him to stop and pulls out a sketch book.

A/n: hey! thank you for the idea ♥️ i just did gender neutral no pronouns, hope that’s okay! no other gender related stuff.

“Hold that pose,” Zeffirelli says. You hear it every day from him, that phrase, but it never fails to make you grin. He’s sitting across the room from you in a green velvet armchair that you’re sure his parents bought for you, and he looks every bit the part of an artist. His hair, usually wild, is somehow sticking up even worse than usual, and there’s pencil marks all over the pads of his fingertips. You know the callouses on his hands well, and you can see the angry red blisters forming where old ones were peeled off. It’s a habit of his you’ve been trying to break to no avail.

“I’m reading a book,” you remind him, “I wasn’t planning on moving, love.”

He huffs an annoyed sound before reaching for the sketchbook that he keeps in his bag. “You don’t have to be smart about it.”

“I do if you keep asking me to pose for you. I can’t do a single thing without you stopping me.”

“That’s not true,” he defends, his eyes switching rapidly between you and his sketchbook. When he’s drawing, his hair flops down in front of his eyes and his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. It’s endearing, and you have it memorized from the amount of times you’ve watched him like this.

“Zef, you drew me while I was cooking breakfast and we almost burned the apartment down.” Despite your protests, you don’t move like he told you to. As annoying as it can get, you don’t hate being drawn by him anymore. “And we’ve never made it through a game of chess.”

“I would beat you anyway, amor.”

“I know you would.” You continue flicking through the pages of your book in comfortable silence, the only sound being the occasional scratch of his pencil against the paper. You tell yourself to stay put and look as natural as possible, which you’re still working on.

“I’m done,” he says after a while. You mark the spot on your page with a slip of paper (Zeffirelli refuses to call it a bookmark) and make your way over to sit on the arm of his chair. “What do you think?”

It’s a lovely drawing. The light, made of black and white shadows, catches your eyes in an enchanting fashion, and the pattern of your pajama top looks so incredibly soft and textured. It makes you look like a vision, sweet and still and beautiful.

It’s the way he sees you when you aren’t paying attention. Before you get dressed and before you’ve tried to care about what you look like.

Through the drawing, you see why he’s in love with you. Through the drawing, you remember why you’re in love with him.

“It’s beautiful, Zef,” you whisper with a kiss to his temple. “Thank you.”

He leans into your touch. “No, love, thank you. What would I draw without you, hm?”

There are a lot of things he could draw- you’ve seen his drawings of buildings and animals and cups of coffee- but the idea is flattering.

It’s not so bad to be his muse. Especially when it ends like this; you, curled up next to him, listening as he talks about your plans for the day, your fingers carding through his hair.

Yeah, there are worse things to be.

taglist: @shawnieeboyy @itshellinthereitshorror

[coachtfd]

And WHO is responsible for playing Dalot game after game no matter how fucking shit he is? Ten Hag’s incompetence is reaching astounding levels. He needs to fuck back off to the Eredivisie cause that’s his level.

Who else are we going to play? We don’t even have a left back right now. 😂 Lindelof and Martinez aren’t viable options long-term, most managers would play a fullback in the fullback positions. Zinchenko wasn’t world class but Arteta played him because that’s who he had available. When he truly had a better replacement he replaced him.

We can sack Ten Hag today and Dalot will still play because unfortunately he’s all we have. That’s what happens when you waste millions of dollars to bring a player back you let go of for nothing, sign two young wingers you never play, and overpay for an average center back at best because he’s English instead of adding depth to the fullback positions. All of those decisions pre-date Ten Hag by the way, but you’re right, there was incompetence involved.

No one ever likes to look back at the poor decisions we made years ago that landed us in this position. Even the bad ones we made after he arrived are really just a continuation of our normal operating procedure. Years of poor decisions will typically take years to set right. Emery’s rapid success at Villa was partly due to years of good decision making by the club before he even got there; same with Slot at Liverpool. For us, this is what the “bless this mess” approach to managerial recruitment gets you: the managers keep changing while the mess just gets bigger and bigger.

[sepublic]

The obvious doylist answer as to why Osran isn’t bald even though his banner depicts him as such is because they changed his design during production. But as a crack headcanon, what if Osran’s hand hair is actually a toupee, and part of the reason he wears the cloak is to secure his wig in place with the hood.

Anyhow, I do appreciate the animators doing a subtle, meta acknowledgment of the change in King’s Tide; Giving Osran a specific pose meant to invoke his appearance on the banner and sort of reconcile and bridge the differences between the two as the same person.

We also have a slightly better look at Osran’s banner from the S2 intro, which confirms that yes, the banner shows his moustache extending into his second set of arms, rather than this simply appearing to be that way, due to how The First Day’s banner cuts things off. We know from a now-deleted Instagram post that Dana was working on this frame as early as Spring 2021, and Osran’s design had been finalized for 2A’s release the Summer of that year;

I guess it was only until after Osran’s banner was expanded on for this intro that they realized they could’ve taken advantage of how TFD’s banner is framed to retcon the moustache and longer set of arms as separate appendages; For example, we can see Hunter’s staff looks different in the S2 intro, which is likely a holdover from concepts; As is things like Willow’s golden earrings or Hunter having two shoulder pauldrons, which we see was in the storyboards.

I’m honestly fascinated as to the design process and the timeline of things changing and/or being set in stone, how characters alluded to had their designs updated due to their S1 appearances still managing to leave some things to the imagination (and thus not locking the animators down should they ever change their mind), etc. I’m curious as to what the concepts for Osran were originally like (we know Belos looked very different as Obron); Was Scooter Crane always meant to be replaced by Raine in the narrative, or was that only added as an in-universe explanation when the writers opted to have Raine take Crane’s place full time, after The First Day was animated?

[tomtenadia]

Detours to You - 17

Hello everyone and happy Hogmanay! Last chapter for this year. There is fluff but alas there is also some angst and mention of death.

Happy new year everyone!

MASTERLIST

January eventually rolled around.

Rowan and his girls had celebrated the new year at home just the three of them and then on the 1st they had gone to Lysandra’s to celebrate Aedion and Lysandra’s engagement. He had proposed at midnight and she had said yes. Eventually Lorcan and Elide and joined the party too and had announced that she was trying to make Lorcan a dad.

The holiday had been perfect and on new year’s day Rowan had even video called his mum, introducing officially Maya to her after talking with Aelin. They had both agreed that it was a good idea. 

Granddaughter and grandmother fell in love at first sight. Rowan had loved to see the joy in his mother’s face. He would have to find a way for the two to meet. Maybe they could think about a holiday in Wendlyn. He definitely wanted Maya to know about half of her roots and he was positive she would love all the folklore in Wendlyn,

Now it was a cold January day and Aelin was getting home from work. The day of the date with Rowan had finally arrived and she was excited. It was weird since they had dated before, but this was new, special and they were getting to know each other again. It had taken some time to get the date organised but both were okay. Aelin knew that on her hand, it had helped her sort out her feelings and be sure they were real, just like Rowan had said. She wanted to be sure especially now that he was fully involved in Maya’s life. With the passing of weeks she had finally convinced herself that he was good for Maya. Their relationship had blossomed and Maya adored her father. Their daughter was actually happy and even her mother had noticed a difference in Maya. Evalin had been right and she was glad had listened to her mother.

She drove home as they were going to take his car to go in town. Maya was at her grandparents to hers and their delight.

Slowly she faced the roads towards the house and was glad that morning Rowan had pushed her to take his car while he took his TFD pickup.

At the top of the hill she spotted the house towering and as she got close, Aelin noticed that Rowan was not home yet. That was not unusual. 

Aelin got inside the warm house and tried to call him for an ETA. While waiting she tidied up the living room from Maya’s toys and then tried again. 

When his phone went to voicemail one more time, she worried and cursed herself for not having his work phone number. Why didn’t she have his work number? How could she forget such an important detail?

She flopped on the sofa and flipped through the channels with boredom until something caught her attention. Her heart stopped when she saw the news of the massive fire that had happened down at the waterfront. A restaurant had gone up in flames and it had quickly spread to the nearby area. The   newscast did not have any more details so she ran to her laptop to find any more information. Rowan was probably still down there. That’s why he was late.

Panic rose in her when she found a more comprehensive article and realised that the fire had been dealt with, but Aelin’s heart sank when she read that three firefighters had died.

Three.

Three firefighters dead.

Her hands shook and she almost felt sick.

Aelin tried to call him again and this time she left him a voice mail Rowan, please tell me that you are safe. I saw the article of the fire and… Rowan call me, please.

Erratically her fingers tapped the screen and called Elide. Surely she had seen the news and was worried about Lorcan.

“El…”

“Aelin are you okay?” Her friend had likely heard her panicked tone.

“Is… is Lorcan okay?”

Silence.

“You saw the news?”

“Elide, Rowan is not home yet and he is not answering his phone.” She was panicking and terror spread through her.

“I spoke to Lorcan. His team is fine but they lost three firefighters. And yes, Rowan is fine.”

Aelin relaxed “he is not answering.”

“Aelin, I am sure he is fine. I’ll tell Lorcan to text you his work mobile number.”

She walked to the sofa and waited for the text from Lorcan. Once she did she called Rowan right away.

“Hello?”

“Rowan?”

“Aelin, what’s wrong did something happen?”

Aelin started sobbing “You are fine.”

“Yes.” His tone was off and she could tell something was wrong.

“I saw the news.”

Silence. Then she heard him sigh heavily.

“Rowan?”

“Ae, I will be late for our date. I am sorry…”

Her heart sank. It sounded he had the day from hell, he had lost three of his men and he was worrying about their date.

“Hey, don’t worry. We can reschedule. How are you?”

Another sigh and silence.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Can I do anything?”

“I am okay, Ae. Thanks.”

They said goodbye and he hang up saying that he had a lot of work to do.

Aelin went to get changed in more comfortable clothes, then grabbed the keys of his pickup and started driving back into town. Rowan had told her he was fine but she did not believe him. He sounded like a wreck.

She drove to Emrys and bought dinner for both. And then she continued to TFD HQ.

Carrying the takeout bag she climbed the lift to his floor and then to his block of offices. Lyria saw her and gave her the usual death stare but Aelin did not care.

“You cannot go in there, the chief is busy.”

Aelin walked past but Lyria blocked her way “You are not going in.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” She pushed Lyria aside and walked in his office.

Rowan was standing at the window, looking outside.

“Chief, I tried to stop her.”

Rowan slowly turned and his eyes widened at seeing Aelin “Lyria, it’s fine.”

The secretary moved away unhappily and closed the door.

“Rowan…” Aelin took a step closer and placed the food on the desk. He stood in silence and stared at her.

She took another step until she was in front of him. Her hand brushed his chest near his heart “Are you okay?”

He sighed and sat on his chair heavily. In those pine green eyes she loved deeply she saw unyielding pain. 

“Three of my men died…” he let out in a growl. “Three of them. One had a wife and a daughter. Another one was due to get married in a month and the third one was even a grampa.” His fury palpable as he lifted his gaze to her “They died because a captain could not fucking follow orders.”

Aelin sat on his desk and her hand carded in his hair, his expression softened “What happened?”

Rowan leaned in her touch as if desperate for a bit of comfort.

“It was a five alarm fire. The highest level of alarm,” he explained “By the time I got called in the fire had spread to the nearby venues too. The captain had just half assed the situation and did not follow protocol. Lorcan was senior and should have been incident commander until my arrival, but the captain ignored him.” his words full of restrained anger “He did not have a plan and lost track of his men. Then not happy of his stupidity, he benched his lieutenant after she criticised him and by the time I got there the situation was so fucked up that it took me far too long to get it under control.” His face buried in his hands “I had to call those families and tell them that their loved ones had died while doing what they loved,” his tone harsh “There will be an investigation but it will not bring back those three damned good men.” 

Aelin pulled him to her chest and kissed his head. She could feel his pain and it hurt.

They remained in silence in that position for a while and then Aelin chuckled “Lyria definitely hates me,” she added to try and lighten the mood.

Rowan made a sound that could be classed as almost a chuckle.

“She has a crush on you, you know right?”

He looked up at her “No she doesn’t.”

“Yes, she has the hots for you, mr Chief.”

Rowan looked up at her, his eyes stopping on her lips “Not interested.”

Aelin caressed his face “I have dinner.”

“I ruined our date.”

She grabbed the bag of food and sat on his lap, handing him his veggie burger “We can still have our date.”

Rowan tried to protest but Aelin stopped him with a light kiss. They had been growing closer but kisses was all they had exchanged so far “We are together, that is what matters. We can go to a fancy restaurant another day.”

Aelin spread the containers on the desk and then the drinks. She had also got a milkshake for herself “I got myself a dessert too.”

Rowan flicked her nose playfully “Of course you did.”

They grabbed their burgers and ate in silence for a few minutes then Aelin stood “Look, we even have the romantic view.” Rowan’s office had a beautiful view of the city sprawling under them “I prefer it in our house, I can see the starts there.” She turned and joined him again “Living in the city centre was handy but…” a pause “but living out in the countryside with you is just perfect. I love it.”

Rowan smiled and then they finished their dinner. Aelin returned to her place on his legs and his arms wounded around her waist, his gaze landed on her lips, then up and then down again. A second later his mouth was on hers, devouring it like it was his only lifeline and passion flared up between them. Aelin’s fingers carded in his hair, pulling him as close as possible. She needed him. Her soul screamed for him. He pulled back a bit and his forehead landed on hers, gently kissing her nose “Aelin…”

“I know… you are not there and I am sorry.”

“No,” he whispered, while caressing her face gently. Then he grabbed her hand and placed it on his chest near his heart “I want this, I want you Aelin…” his lips just brushed hers “but I feel… Aelin, I am still scared about my feelings.” He added quietly, studying her expression “I love you, I don’t think I ever stopped but when we broke up I felt lost.” His arms tightened around her waist “I want this, us, being a family. I want it so badly that my chest hurts.”

Aelin kissed him again “I wish I could turn back time and go back five years and undo all I have done, because I had no right, but…”

Rowan leaned his face on her shoulder “Hey, we are here now. We need to focus on the present, that’s all it matters. No more looking back and thinking about our mistakes because we have been through so much pain already.”

He then took a sharp intake of breath and tried to stand and Aelin pushed off his legs “Let’s go home.”

“I am sorry I interrupted your work.”

Rowan shook his head “I can finish the reports tomorrow. Let’s go home so that I can try and leave this horrible day behind for a few hours.”

Aelin kissed him “Okay, chief.” A chuckle “but I need you to shield me from Lyria because that woman is clearly wanting to kill me.”

He laughed and pulled her closer “Lyria is just… doing her job.”

“Oh, you are so clueless.”

“Well, I will make sure I protect you from her glares.”

“Good because she is scary.”

Rowan switched off his pc and filed away the files, then took her hand and together they walked outside of the office.

Lyria looked up and Rowan did not miss the death glare that his secretary threw at Aelin “Lyria, that’s me going home. You are good to go too.”

“Thanks Chief.” She added coldly ignoring Aelin altogether.

They walked out and Aelin burst out laughing “Oh, you are going to have some pranks in your office tomorrow.”

“I will take the risk.”

At the cars Rowan stopped and walked to Aelin “can we go and pick up Maya?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I need to be with both of you tonight.”

Aelin smiled at the pain in Rowan’s eyes. He was grieving his men and if being with them would help even a little she would give him that comfort.

Once at home Rowan took both of them on the balcony of his bedroom, all wrapped up in a duvet and they stared at the stars. Maya in his arms and Aelin tucked at his side “Dada look a falling star.”

Rowan looked up and a streak of light crossed the sky.

“Make a wish, baby.”

Maya kissed him and Aelin tightened her arms around him.

Rowan closed his eyes and wished to have many more moments like these with them.

Because this was his life now and he would not change it for the world.

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[amatara]

Today is a crying about Dale Cooper day.