#wooden credentials

[exo-plushie]

Dining Room Great Room in New York A picture of a medium-sized transitional great room with a beige floor, white walls, and no fireplace

[hunnylagoon]

Birthday Girl

A/N This is my first tumblr fic. I’m a retired Wattpad warrior, I only wrote this bc the Ellie tag is over diluted by smut, we need some angst and fluff to balance it out. My credentials are that I used to write Game of Thrones fanfic and I was blocked by Noah Beck on Twitter. Apologies in advance for any spelling errors or confusing sentences, bc I was high off my ass when I wrote this.

Summary

Jackson’s resident Baker works herself tirelessly to take care of everyone on their birthday and ensure they get something nice to brighten their special day but who is there to take care of her?

Birthdays are like brilliant gems in the kaleidoscope of time; they are the times when life's symphony crescendos into a celebration of its children. As the sun circles the earth once a year, we are given a day to celebrate our own journey, a day that whispers stories of victories, laughter, and the sweet notes of resiliency. You had always loved birthdays, who didn't? The look of joy on someone's face when they open a  gift you spent weeks looking for, the uncontrollable smile and pure serotonin that took over even the grumpiest of people. Everyone had a special day designated to them, of course, it was a cause to celebrate. 

You worked in the town bakery with very few other people, from five am to twelve pm on Monday to Friday every single week you were hustling around in a humid bakery, hell, you ran it like the navy.  Every morning, walking into the bakery is like stepping into a fragrant paradise where time seems to slow down to the sound of ovens buzzing to life. The first two hours were just for you before you let anyone in, The comforting routine of donning a flour-dusted apron and tying back unruly hair precedes the artistry of crafting pastries and breads. The almost therapeutic rhythm of kneading, rolling, and shaping becomes second nature: the soft crack of eggs, the calculated pour of sugar, and the clouds of flour hovering in midair. 

There wasn't much creative freedom while working in the Jackson bakery, it really just consisted of making dozens of bread loaves daily and then carting them over to the 'Barbecue Place' Which was once a restaurant though it had been refashioned into Jackson's mess hall.  However, you were able to dabble in some fun and were able to make cupcakes daily and a large batch of miscellaneous pastries every Friday. The cupcakes were very dear to you, you had to beg Maria when you were thirteen to approve the idea and eventually, you were green-lit.

As you step into the bakery you are greeted by the creek of wooden planks which are a testament to decades of busy activity; the dance of innumerable bakers has worn away at their shiny surfaces. The aroma of baked goods still hovers in the air from the previous day and all the days that came before, taking you to a more peaceful time. Sunlight streams through old lace curtains, illuminating worn, mismatched tables and chairs that have served eager clients for centuries though they no longer serve guests in the bakery. Deeply patinated wooden shelves support a variety of ceramic jars, each containing a treasure trove of hidden ingredients. Fading photos and yellowed newspaper clippings decorate the walls, telling the story of the bakery's illustrious past. There are copper pots and pans strung like time capsules on strong hooks, and an old-fashioned cash register sits on the end of the counter past the empty glass displays, it no longer serves a purpose but you have fought bravely to keep it around as it makes you think of what life had been like before the world fell apart. 

You look at a beat-up calendar on the walls, sitting in the place of an old picture frame that had been knocked down and shattered by none other than yourself when you were fourteen and had the bright idea of having you and your friend toss a bag of flour at each other to see who was strong enough to last longer in the odd game of catch. Surely, Ellie threw the five-pound bag a little too hard, you ducked to save yourself but it smashed into the framed photo of the family who ran the bakery before the apocalypse. It not only was smashed into little fragments but the bag of flour exploded and covered the dining room of the bakery as well as yourself in white powder, it looked like it had snowed inside. The calendar you were checking held the birthday of every person in Jackson, it was messy and hard to read as you usually had to cram several birthdays into a single day which was only a small square, it was hardly legible, there was almost no one else who could read it. Every day when you walked into the bakery, the first thing you did was check the calendar to find out whose birthday it was, then you began your bread dough or carried on with the sourdough started the day before, while the dough rose, you made cake batter, adjusting the recipe according to how many you had to make. After finishing work for the day or sometimes when you were midway through it, you would give each person a cupcake to celebrate their special day.

Even if no one else remembered their birthday, you were always there to make it a little bit better.

Today there were two birthdays on the calendar, Sean Casey, a man who was turning sixty. The second birthday marked down in the little square was yours. 

That's what made that day so special, you were ecstatic to see what your friends had planned for you later. Last year Ellie promised that she would go above and beyond for your next birthday and you were going to hold her to that. There was already a nice start to your morning by having your dad wake you up with breakfast in bed which you found truly impressive as he usually slept in till at least ten, on top of that he had scavenged a stand mixer for the home. You grabbed your apron off of the hook putting it over your neck and tying it tight around your waist. Everyone had a couple of designated aprons to rotate through throughout the week, yours consisted of two plain white ones, a red gingham pattern, one of forest green, and another made of a fabric covered in hyacinth flowers, their colours diluted like paint. Today you wore the apron your father gave you last year on your birthday, it was your favourite colour and the neckline was embroidered to say '(y/n)s kitchen'. You could tell your dad did the embroidery himself, the stitches were loose and uneven in some areas while being extremely tight in others, that's why you loved it so much, it was the thought and care behind it.

With a gentle hand, you pulled each of your necessary ingredients along with equipment out to begin your day. You preheat the ovens and in the quiet pre-dawn hours, the bakery comes alive with the hushed sounds of industrial mixers. The heady scent of freshly milled flour dances in the air as you measure the precise alchemy of ingredients, your hands moving with practiced grace. Kneading the dough becomes repetitive, muscles working in harmony to transform a mound of humble ingredients into a soft elastic texture. As the dough rests and rises, the anticipation builds—the promise of crusty loaves and soft, pillowy interiors. You slipped the pans of dough into the industrial ovens, the heat attacking you the second you opened the door; making sure to place the pumpernickel, rye, sourdough, brioche and wheat loaves all sorted on different racks in the respective ovens.

By the time you put the loaves in ovens it had been two hours from when you began, even with preparation the day before and dough starters, it was a process. You quickly washed your hands before unlocking the door for Juno as well as anyone who wanted to come in to visit. 

The clock read '7:09', because of the passthrough you were still able to look outside via the glass storefront, you could see people walking along the streets heading to whatever job they worked to contribute to the community, no one got paid, it was a commune after all, you couldn't imagine a world where everyone was so dependent on money and so obsessed with over-consumption. Part of you was waiting for one of those people to come in and wish you a happy birthday, but you shook the thoughts from your head.

You began to make the small portion for two of cupcake batter, remembering distinctly how four years ago you sat next to Sean at the Fourth of July party and he went on and on about how much he hated vanilla, it seemed like one of those crazy old man rants but you found delight in it. Never had you seen a man so passionate about cake flavouring. He said vanilla was nothing special, flavourless; you had come to learn that he was a chocolate man, every holiday event filling his pot belly with chocolate, when you had brought assorted sweets for a Christmas party he dove straight for the brownies. So it was easy for you to make up your mind on what flavour of cupcake to make.

After years of this cupcake tradition you had memorized each ratio to make, a double serving of chocolate batter consisting of 1/4 cup of flour, 2 1/2 tablespoons of white sugar, 1 tablespoon of unsweetened cocoa powder, 1/4 tablespoon of baking soda, a dash of salt, 2 tablespoons milk, two tablespoons canola oil, 1/4 tablespoon vanilla extract. You treated baking like it was a science and recipes were your formulas.

As for the frosting, you had a stockpile of plain buttercream that you took small servings from and flavoured according to said person's preference. All you had to do was whip it up and add some cocoa powder to make it fluffy and creamy again.

The bell above the doorway rang, signalling the arrival of someone, you looked up to see Maria. "Hey, there," You smiled, turning off the stand mixer so you could hear her.

"Hi, (y/n)," She greeted and you quickly wiped whatever was on your hands onto your apron before coming around to the service counter to speak with her. "I have something to ask of you."

"Yes?"

"I know you already do your little cupcake thing but we are throwing a surprise party tonight for Sean and I was hoping you could make a cake for him?"

You nod with a smile "Anything for the town chief."

"Great, then how about a simple vanilla cake?"

"Sean doesn't like vanilla," You answered quickly.

"Okay, well I trust you with it, his party starts at eight tonight in the town square and he's turning sixty so it's a big one, I'll see you there around then?" 

"Definitely," You grinned at Maria, waiting for her to wish you a happy birthday and reveal that she was only pretending to forget but she didn't. She thanked you and walked out, leaving you in a flour-covered apron with a tinge of hurt in your heart. It wasn't like you weren't close with Maria, you had Thanksgiving at her house every year.

Nonetheless, it was only a blip in your soon-to-be perfect day. Just as you had frosted the two cupcakes, putting chocolate chips on Sean's and breaking half of a double fudge cookie and sticking it into the thick icing. Rainbow sprinkles cascade like confetti, adding a whimsical touch to the miniature confection. The bell rang again calling for your attention, this time you didn't leave the kitchen instead just moved to look at whoever it was by the passthrough.

"Hey, kiddo!" Tommy greeted, clad in a red flannel tucked into blue jeans. He walked into the bakery as comfortably as he would his home.

"Howdy, Tommy," You said, moving out of his sight for a quick moment to put the two cupcakes in the fridge to prevent the buttercream from prematurely melting. 

"So, it's Sean's birthday today and I was wondering if you could bake a cake for his party-

"Maria was already in," You answered "Don't worry, I'm on it."

He smiled "Of course, you're always so on top of it," He leaned over the counter slightly, trying to get a look inside the kitchen via the passthrough "Say, have you got anything back there for me?" You opened the box of double fudge cookies you made the day before and scooted around the passthrough to hand him one, boots clattering on the ground. Tommy loved to visit the bakery as you always had a sweet treat for him and he would never get sick of the aromatic embrace of fresh bread. "Thanks, kiddo, I'll see you around." 

This was the moment you were almost convinced that they were planning a surprise party for you, sure Maria could forget about your birthday, she was a busy lady but there was no way Tommy would. He was good buddies with your dad and was over at your place for beers a minimum of once a week. You always baked for him when he came over and he constantly joked about you trying to fatten him up. 

The bell sounded again though you didn't bother to look up, you knew who it was by the time of the clock, Juno was starting her shift. As usual, she tied her mousy brown hair into a sleek ponytail then grabbed her apron and stuck a baseball cap on over her head so there was no chance of her hair coming loose. "Good morning," She walked into the kitchen, heading over to the sink to wash her hands.

"Mornin'," You answer.

She looks you up and down with a slight smile "You're wearing your favourite apron, must be a special day."

“Sure doesn't feel like it."

♡

Your birthday wasn’t panning out great but you didn't want to lose hope.

You had walked over to the greenhouses after your shift to find Sean, he loved the cupcake, he even hugged you which was nice albeit a little odd. You walked through town a bit after you had stopped and talked to everyone on the street for not a single one to say the words you've been pleading to hear all day. Taking it as defeat, you grabbed a sandwich for lunch from the mess hall and began the desolate walk home.

Nestled at the end of a peaceful, tree-lined street, the charming but battered house had a certain charm that cut through its worn yellow exterior. Tentacles of ivy wrapped about the crumbling outside walls, their green tones infusing the dilapidated building with a hint of the natural world's tenacity. The worn-out yet friendly doormat and weathered rocking chair on the porch told of years spent taking in the changing of the seasons. The wooden frames of the windows, adorned with faded drapes that seen innumerable sunsets, spoke tales of laughter and time passed.

The house's coziness unfolded inside like a time capsule, with worn-out rugs covering creaky floorboards and a fireplace in the living room that was adorned with vintage tiles that were mismatched and provided warmth in more ways than one. The rooms had a lived-in comfort despite the peeling wallpaper and chipped paint, and each mismatched piece of furniture seemed to tell a story of its own. Despite being tatty and ragged around the edges, the house exuded a calmness that invited guests to enjoy the beauty concealed in the flaws of a place that had aged gracefully and with character like most homes in Jackson. The living room was always your favourite, there was a spruce bookshelf pushed behind the gray, L-shaped couch, and the rug was once a maroon colour though it's clear that it's been well-loved over the years. Pillows and throw blankets were carelessly scattered over the couch from when you and your dad had watched '21 Jumpstreet' the night before, he kept saying it was a shame the outbreak happened before they got to make a second one, though many of the jokes didn't land with you, you loved to see your dad laugh so hard he snorted. The room was illuminated by a warm glow from the fairy lights overhead that your dad scavenged years prior, a small stack of books piled up on the coffee table which had been hand-crafted by Joel.

You popped 'Mean Girls' into the DVD player, just to have some background noise and went to the kitchen and started on Sean's cake. As much as you loved the bakery, you wanted to be somewhere a little more close to comfort. 

As you measured each ingredient with care, you couldn't shake the bittersweet feeling that lingered in the air. Sifting the ingredients into the bowl, you had wished your father was home from patrol duty, all you really wanted was a hug but instead, you slaved away at a black forest complete with layers of moist sponge, decadent frosting, and a profusion of vibrant decorations.

As you delicately frosted the cake, your mind flitted between thoughts of the celebration and the poignant fact that everyone seemed to have overlooked your own special day. The kitchen, usually a sanctuary for you to escape to, now harboured the weight of unspoken emotions. Your heart, though excited for Sean to get a nice surprise on his Birthday, held an unnoticed longing for acknowledgment.

The aroma of the baking cake filled the kitchen, mingling with the scent of disappointment that you couldn't quite shake.

As the cake took shape, you couldn't help but think back to the calendar at the bakery, where the date circled in red seemed to mock you. Your own birthday, usually a day filled with surprises and the warmth of laughter, had slipped through the cracks of everyone's awareness. Though the night was still young and Ellie had said that she was planning something incredible.

Finally, nine was about to roll around, you changed into some clean clothes that hadn't yet carried the memories of your disappointing day, just a white top and some jeans. The sun had set, and your dad wouldn't be home for a good while so you walked over to the town square alone. 

There was a table full of food and a long banner that read 'Happy Birthday Sean!' strung between two street lamps. There were twinkling fairy lights illuminating what would have otherwise been a dark night. 

"There she is!" Tommy smiled, doing that awkward little dad jog over you. "Wow, that cake looks incredible, mind if I take it off your hands?"

"Go ahead," You held out the cakeboard. Tommy gingerly took it away from your grasp, his forearm underneath to support and his other hand held the side of the board for balance.

"I owe ya' kiddo," He winked before taking the cake away to show a group of adults.

You stood around awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do with yourself.  You turned your attention to the moon, wanting to believe that it shined so very bright just for you, because the moon, unlike everyone else recalled how important this day was to you-

"SURPRISE!" Everyone erupted in cheers as Sean walked up to his party, his daughter had her arm linked with his. He had the biggest smile on his face it almost made you forgive everyone for forgetting because at least Sean got something thoughtful.

"Lord, I was thinking everyone forgot my birthday!" Sean laughed, pulling Tommy in for a hug.

"(y/n)!" Dina yelled, you turned your head to follow her voice. She was sitting at a long picnic table beneath an awning with some friends "Over here," She motioned for you to sit down and you obliged, taking a spot between Ellie and Laila. "What have you been up to? I feel like I haven't seen you all day."

"That's because you haven't," You said with an awkward smile. "I've just been baking, like always."

"You're always working so hard, I swear you live in that bakery and when you aren't in there your busy busting your ass around town to make sure everyone gets something on their birthday," Dina sat across from you and put a hand onto yours "You look out for everyone, but who's looking out for you?"

"My dad?" You glance at Ellie who isn't tuned into the conversation in the slightest, she has her arms crossed in front of her on the table and her head resting on them. 

"Aw, that's sweet-" Kayla moves to look at you but in doing so, she spills a glass of juice onto you. "I'm so sorry," She slaps one hand over her mouth, her eyebrows furrowing. Kayla stood up from the table, her ginger curls rustling with the breeze "I'll get a cloth or something-

"Don't worry about it," I wave her off "It's just clothes, I'll grab some napkins." You push yourself away from the table, walking over to the table adorned with food, you see a small stack of Christmas themed napkins (it must've been hard for them to come by regular ones) and grab a handful, bunching them up in your hand in an attempt to soak up some of the juice that had already indefinitely stained your clothes. 

You feel some eyes on you from the other side of the table, to look up and see Joel, he doesn't say anything though his lips are pressed together tight.

"You're back," You say, a spark of happiness rekindling inside of you "So my dad's back from patrol too?"

Joel nods "Too tuckered to come out, said he was just heading home," He uses tongs to put a couple cuts of chicken onto his plate "Oh and happy birthday, you've probably heard that a whole bunch already, lord, it's all your old man would talk about on our last couple of patrols."

"What did you say?" You look at him with furrowed eyebrows, unsure if he said what you really thought.

"I said happy birthday, shame you've stained your clothes on your birthday," He absentmindedly added some mashed potatoes onto his plate. The words hung in the air, a moment that transcended the boundaries of their usual exchanges. You, momentarily taken aback, met Joel's gaze. It was a simple, earnest wish, uttered with the spontaneity of someone who had remembered a small yet significant detail in the whirlwind of festivity.

"Thank you, Joel," You replied, your voice carrying a mix of surprise and gratitude. In that fleeting instant, the isolation that had surrounded her seemed to dissipate. A connection, however tenuous, had been forged in the acknowledgment of her existence amidst the collective celebration.

"No problem, kid, I'll see you around," He left with his plate leaving you to stand alone at the table. You continued to dab at the juice on your white top, and though you knew it wouldn't come out you proceeded to rub it; the best exchange of your day, no more than eight sentences suddenly turned from joy to frustration. The only two people who remembered your birthday were your dad and a fiftey-eight-year-old man who practically raised the girl you had spent years crushing on, not the girl herself, but her father figure. However, you thought, maybe if Joel remembered, Ellie had aswell and she actually did have something planned.

Amidst the lively chatter and laughter that reverberated through the night, you stood in the midst of flickering candles and colourful decorations, your eyes cast down to the ground. The atmosphere of celebration enveloped her, but a palpable sense of solitude hung in the air like a heavy mist settling upon your shoulders. It was a birthday party, yes, but not your own. Forgotten and overlooked, your heart echoed with a quiet ache, the irony of your situation casting a shadow over the festive scene.

The square was adorned with streamers and balloons, a tapestry of colours that seemed to dance in rhythm with the joyful voices around her. The community gathered, their faces lit by the warm glow of the fairy lights and street lamps, each one caught up in the merriment of the moment. Yet, for you, the celebration felt like a distant spectacle, a scene from which you were detached.

It was your birthday too—a fact that no one cared enough to recall. As Darla (Sean's daughter)  calls guests toward a decadent cake adorned with candles, which you had made, you couldn't escape the bitter irony of the situation. You watched as the room erupted into a chorus of "Happy Birthday," the song meant for another soul, another moment of joy. You joined in, lips forming the familiar words, your voice harmonizing with the collective melody. But within the depths of your being, the celebration rang hollow, a stark contrast to the cheer that echoed around you.

Throughout the evening, you navigated the party with a forced smile, concealing the invisible weight of your emotions. Conversations buzzed like bees in your ears, no- it grated like a fork in a blender, but you found yourself on the outskirts—a silent observer amidst the numerous connections. The laughter that erupted like fireworks, the clinking of glasses, the embraces of old friends—it all seemed distant, an echo from another realm where she once belonged.

The party unfolded as a series of snapshots: a group photo with smiling faces, a toast to Sean, and the opening of gifts that weren't meant for you. Each moment, though vibrant and filled with the warmth of shared camaraderie, magnified the silence that enveloped your own celebration, forgotten and left to dissolve into the shadows.

As the night carried out, seeming like the celebration would never cease, you cut yourself a slice of cake, grabbing one of the half-melted candles that Sean had already blown out, they sat in a frosting-covered pile next to the cake. You took your favourite colour out of the rainbow assortment of candles and stuck it into the piece of black forest cake.

With your cake you sat back down by Ellie at the picnic table where she still returned to after conversing, everyone else had gotten up to dance. You reached for the lighter in your pocket and struck it to ignite, sparks flickered around the end of it, you struck it again and a flame arose, you carefully brought it to the wick of the partially melted candle.

The flickering flame cast a subtle glow as you made a silent wish for understanding, for the beauty found in selflessness, and for the recognition that sometimes the most meaningful celebrations are the ones we craft for others, even in the quiet echoes of our own unacknowledged birthdays. Ellie turned to look at you as the candle's flame danced in the darkness, before you could blow out the candle to solidify your wish a little girl climbed up onto the bench and blew it out, you looked at her and all she did was smile up at you, the gap in her teeth prominent, her deep chocolate hair braided so intricately you had to believe that it must've taken her mother hours.

As much as you wanted to deck that little girl in the face for ruining your moment, you didn't because it would be wildly inappropriate. "Do you want this?" You sighed, holding out the plate to the girl, she smiled and nodded enthusiastically, taking the cake and scattering away "Hey, Ellie," You pushed back tears in your eyes, forcing a smile on your face "Got any plans later?"

“Yeah," She said, short

"Oh, what are they?"

"Not to sound like a cunt but I'm not really in the mood to talk, I had a shit patrol and all I want to do is go home, smoke a joint, watch a movie, maybe read a comic, and pass out on my couch, the only reason I'm here is that Dina dragged me out and Joel said I need to be more involved in the community."

Your smile dropped, you couldn't hold it in anymore, realizing that this wasn't the elaborate setup of a surprise party but Ellie genuinely forgot it was your birthday. "Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember what's happening today?"

"It's Sean's birthday," She gestured to the party around her.

"You're fucking serious," Any amusement that had been in your tone was gone, replaced by a subtle anger boiling up inside of you

"Are you going to cry?" Ellie gave you a weird look "What are you so mad about?"

"I can't believe you," You laugh bitterly "Actually I can, this is so like you, I need to stop building it up in my head that you're going to surprise me with something great. But hey, at least you never fail to let me down."

"Jesus," She scoffed "There's always something going on with you, can you go one day without finding some irrational reason to be upset?"

"Irrational?"

"Yeah, irrational," She reiterated "You always come to me when something sets you off in the slightest then your problem becomes everyone else's. You're so fucking draining and I'm sick of it."

"Fuck you, I hope your comic catches fire from your joint and you burn your place down." You stand up from the bench, wiping tears away from your eyes. Your boots clattered against the cobblestone. You stormed past the dancers, some stopping to look at one another with concern. Dina leaves Jesse to ask Ellie what happened.

The walk home might've been the loneliest you had felt in your life, the harsh wind of the night bit at your nose. The feeling of the sticky juice soaking through your clothing was borderline unbearable, were just about ready to scream. There wasn't a single person out and about as everyone was either at the party or cozied up in their own homes.

Arriving at your doorstep, you fumbled with the handle, the metallic clink resonating in the quietude that enveloped the house. The door swung open, revealing the dimly lit foyer, still no surprise. Why do you still think there is going to be a party? No one is coming.

You wandered into the living room, the TV was lit with the options screen for 'Mean Girls' that you had put on hours earlier.

Sinking into the worn-out couch, You let the weight of the day wash over you. A single tear welled in your eye, and as it escaped, a floodgate of unshed sorrow burst open. The first teardrop traced a silent path down your cheek, leaving a glistening trail of heartache in its wake.

The tears you cried weren't silent and dainty but violent sobs that burned your throat each time you cried out. As you wept, it felt like someone had stabbed your gut with a thousand needles, you cried and cried, to no one in particular, maybe the moon glistening outside the window though the moon seemed to absorb your tears, offering no solace in return.

The soft tick of the clock on the wall echoed in the quiet room, marking the strike of midnight, your birthday had ended. There was no secret party or a prank where everyone was only playing an act, only the emptiness of the house echoed the howls soaked in your tears.

The oak staircase creaked, and your dad turned the corner, peering into the living room. "What's wrong, honey,?" He shook the sleep from his mind, focusing on what was important, he sat next to you on the sofa. "I thought you said you were going to be out all night with your friends?"

You shook your head, breathing shaky breaths alone, hardly able to get a word out "They forgot," You felt the harsh sting of desolation hit you all over again "Everyone forgot," You grabbed his grey t-shirt burying your face into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, cradling you gently like you were a child who had just scraped her knee not someone who had just turned nineteen, "Except for Joel, so be nice to him, please."

"I'm sorry, baby, it was probably just a mix-up," He rubbed one hand on your back to comfort you. "I should've been there with you, I'm so sorry."

You couldn't get the words out of your mouth, all you could manage was to shake in your father's arms with sobs until you cried yourself to sleep.

♡

"Happy birthday, Jasmine!" You smile brightly, presenting a lemon-raspberry cupcake to the woman. She was serving breakfast in the mess hall, the early morning light streaming through the many windows, blinding those trying to enjoy their meals.

"Aw, thank you, love" She took the cupcake "That's real sweet," She wore a hairnet, despite having short cropped hair. "I just realized I don't even know when your birthday is."

"It was yesterday, actually."

"Aww, how was it?" Jasmine smiled, her white teeth contrasting with her dark skin.

"It was nice, it was quiet too, I just spent it by myself."

A frown replaced Jasmine's smile and she lowered her tone "Did your friends drop the ball?"

You wave off her question "Oh no, loads of people remembered, I just wanted some time to myself, it was nice."

You could tell Jasmine didn't wholeheartedly believe you, she was at Sean's party last night and saw you rush out with tears building in your eyes "If you say so," She shrugged, taking a bite of her cupcake "This is really good."

"Thanks," A small smile plays on your lips.

"God bless you, sweetheart, you deserve the best." She said, every bit of truth behind her words. She took another bite of the cupcake, savouring the sweet and sour taste "And I mean that."

You were too caught up in conversation to notice Jesse ahead of you in the service line right away, he grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the dispenser, trying to play cool and not have your attention drawn to him. With a shaky hand, he put the glass on his tray and hurried over to the table where Ellie was eating with Dina. "Guys, something not that great just happened."

Ellie furrowed her eyebrows looking from Dina to Jesse "What?" She asked through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, she swallowed them down and spoke back up "Please tell us what terrible thing has happened in the time it took you to walk to the service line, get your food and come back?" Sarcasm dripped from her voice.

"We forgot (y/n)'s birthday," He said quickly, Ellie and Dina looked at each other with wide eyes, thinking back to the night before and the way they had both behaved. Dina was extremely ignorant and Ellie got into an argument with you, though Jesse didn't speak to you at all.

"We're awful friends," Dina says quietly, scraping her mind for any way they could salvage the situation and play it off like they hadn't forgotten. "We could change all of the calendars in town and make it seem like her birthday is actually today."

"Be serious, Dina," Jesse said, though he was considering her idea. "I think the only way we can fix this is by making it up to her."

"How would we do that? We can't make it up to her, she remembers every single person's birthday in this town and gives them a cupcake, even people she doesn't like, do you remember how she planned all of our birthday parties for the last four years and has never let us down?" Dina and Jesse nodded "And how we always scramble something together last minute? Like last year, we only remembered two days before and we threw her a subpar movie night, we watched Star Wars and she doesn't even like Star Wars."

Dina sucked air through her teeth "Yeah, not our best moment."

"You think?" Jesse asked, sarcastically. "And Ellie didn't make it any better by yelling at her yesterday!"

"You yelled at her? You told me you didn't yell at her,"  Dina whipped her head to look at Ellie, the smallest glimpse of judgment in her eyes. "Shh, she's coming!"

You were making your way to the exit lugging the cart that had held loaves of bread on it before you dropped them off to the kitchen, still in your flour-covered apron, hair pinned up messy, baby hairs flying away. Clad in jeans, a green T-shirt and beaten-up boots, clacking against the hardwood floor, you still looked beautiful to Ellie with red eyes and a puffy face from crying all night. "Watch this," Jesse murmured to the group before turning around and flagging you down. "Hey (y/n)!" He smiled brightly, his words catching your attention "Did you enjoy your birthday, yesterday?"

"Jesse, I know you heard me talking to Jasmine." You said and Ellie couldn't bear the disappointed look on your face. At that moment, the guilt hit her all at once. You had been the first kid her age that she warmed up to when she arrived in Jackson, trying your best to include her in everything. You invited her to hang out with your friends even though she didn't particularly get along with them, she went anyway because she just wanted to see you. On her birthday the previous year, you had scoped out an old comic store hours away just to bring her there for one day.

Jesse's smile fell and you had walked out the door before he had the chance to push a lie through his teeth. Last night's conversation echoed through Ellie's head over and over again, she cringed at the memory, god, why did she even say that?

Dina reached over the table and gave Ellie a harsh smack on the arm "Why did you even say that?!" 

"Ow," She flinched, rubbing the spot that had been assaulted by Dina "What are you talking about?"

Dina looked at Ellie like she was just about ready to scream "What you said to her last night, what was going through your head?"

"Not much, apparently," Jesse answered for her, earning a death glare from the Auburn girl.

"I'll just apologize and it'll be water under the bridge," Ellie said, leaning back.

"That's not going to work," Dina replied quickly.

It, in fact, did not work. Ellie had shown up at the bakery where you promptly ignored her. "(y/n), I'm really sorry I forgot your birthday and said those things to you." Nothing Ellie said could get you to even look at her.

She had later stopped by your house, it was your dad who answered the door and Ellie sheepishly asked if you were home. He called for you to come down, the moment you saw Ellie, you shut the door in her face. There was no way she could defend herself, she couldn't say that she said those things because she had a bad day (even though she did), and that would just make her seem pathetic. She really wanted to say that she was scared of how much she liked you, she didn't want to ruin a good thing, you both had spent years playing the role of each other's best friend until Ellie started to distance herself from you and you ended up enwrapping yourself with work to distract yourself from the fact that she was drifting away.

Ellie didn't know what to do, if she didn't act fast, it would be too late and she was going to lose you.

♡

One week later

The sun was just beginning to set as you were already preparing to settle into bed and read a book, just about to change out of your floor-length sundress and into one of your dad's old shirts. However, your plans were interrupted when you heard your dad screaming downstairs, it was blood-curdling. You dropped everything, pulling your bedroom door open and rushing down the stairs, tripping on a step and stumbling before quickly regaining balance and moving with haste "Dad?" You called out, worry running through your head. 

"SURPRISE!" People practically screeched, the volume so loud that you jolted back in fear. The chatter only grew as you looked around you and realized what was happening, this was your belated birthday party. 

You were pulled in suddenly for a hug, squeezing you so tight you thought your eyes would pop out of your skull was Tommy "I'm so sorry, kiddo, I was being a real shithead on your birthday."

"It's okay," You choked out, nearly gasping for air. Much to your relief, he released you and you took a deep breath.

"Happy belated birthday!" Dina sang, placing a fat box in your arms. Many people followed after her, piling gifts on top of the initial one, you were quickly losing balance, so you stumbled into the living room and put the gifts onto the coffee table. There was so much life in the living room it was almost hard to believe that just a week before you had been crying alone, bathed in moonlight. 

There were streamers strung throughout your house and odd dangly decorations that hung from the ceiling. Some balloons were taped to the walls while others bounced around the ground.

The lively hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the melodic strains of birthday wishes filled the room as the party pulsated with energy. Colourful decorations adorned the walls, and the air was charged with the festive spirit.

 You had the biggest smile on your face while everyone joked and jeered. Shoving their gifts into your face, trying to get you to open them first. It had made you forget about how awful your real birthday was, though you did try to dodge awkward apologies of people fumbling over their own words to make up excuses as to why they missed your real birthday.

"Happy birthday to you-" A voice began singing, and soon enough the entire crowd joined in, harmonizing into an off-key rendition of the birthday song. They made way for the person carrying the cake which had been none other than Ellie herself. The song ended off and Ellie placed the cake in front of you on the coffee table. "Make a wish."

You blew out all of the candles, and no punchable little girl around to steal your thunder, the room erupted into applause. The celebration continued with the living room becoming a dance floor, laughter echoing through the corridors, and conversations flowing freely. The cake itself reminded you of the embroidery your dad had done on your apron, it was sloppy and imperfect but you could tell it was made with love, the icing had been put on prematurely and had partially melted off the cake. It read 'Happy birthday' with 'Sorry for being a dick' written smaller beneath the first bit of text.

"Thank you, Ellie," You smiled softly up at her.

No one else was paying attention to you anymore, aside from those who wanted a slice of cake. Ellie nervously fumbled around with her hands "Do you want to dance?"

Ellie invited you to dance as the opening notes of the song floated through the air and she held out her hand. With a gentle smile, you accepted and you moved into the middle of the living room to form a makeshift dance floor. The soft aroma of fresh flowers blended with the scent of vanilla candles created an ambiance that enhanced the moment's sensory magic.

To the gentle beat of the song, your bodies moved in unison. Your hand settled comfortably on Ellie's shoulder, and her hand wrapped around your waist. Your bond transcended the material in the living room dance, an unspoken language of mutual feelings and unknown depths.

You both danced, recklessly, so much so that you were nearly a hazard for the swaying couples drifting around you, moving faster and not hurriedly as the tempo picked up. With each step, the living room's walls became silent witnesses to a romance that was developing on the plush carpet under their feet. The muted rustle of your clothing and the melodic notes of the music were all that could be heard to your ears.

The two of you took great pleasure in the dance's exuberance, laughing at the imperfect nature of it. In the noise of the living room, your eyes, locked in a dance of their own, spoke volumes. You were embraced by the dim lighting's vulnerability, which freed you from the burdens of the outside world to fully enjoy the moment. 

Ellie guided you in a soft spin as the song went on, your moves were not fluid and elegant but Ellie could've sworn that looking into your eyes made it feel like there was liquid sunlight coursing through your veins

You and Ellie drew closer in the song's last moments, your bodies pressed together in an embrace that went beyond the material. As the last notes of the music faded, they held each other for an extra moment, relishing the warmth that they shared and the unspoken promises that danced between them. You wished that you could've stayed in Ellie's strong embrace for centuries.

You let go of Ellie, taking a step back with a smile, "Why didn't you tell me you were such a good dancer?" You tease, almost out of breath.

"I didn't know I was," She grinned, taking the sight of you in. Your cheeks were flushed and your hair had become messy, she thought you to be beautiful all the same, if not more. Her eyes raked over your body, your floor-length sundress and mismatched socks "And here I was thinking it was too late for sundresses."

"It's never too late, Ellie."

[talesofadragon]

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞

Chapter III - Synopsis: There's something profoundly heartfelt about Y/N and her daughter. They're the portrait Steve has always longed to behold—the kind of magic no artist could ever capture. He’ll be damned if he ever lets their vibrant hues fade away.

Pairing: Professor!Steve Rogers x Student!Reader/Mum!Reader

Warnings: Age Gap (14 years. Both are adults), teacher/student dynamic, abusive relationship, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, terrible partner, co-parenting. 

Genre: Angst | Fluff | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | Age Gap | Teacher/Student

Word Count: 4.4K Words

All Masterlists | Paint Me Midnight Blue Masterlist

𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐄-𝐂��𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 his credentials before logging into the online platform. He had always been meticulous, exceedingly determined to overcome headwinds that stood in his way. Yet, technology was one of those pesky challenges that seemed determined to thwart him. Whenever he thought he finally got the hang of it, the insidious alien would be one step ahead, either pulling a new update from under its sleeve or decisively crashing and glitching—outright mocking him every single time.

Maybe it was because he was an artist. And artists often clashed with that treacherous leech, mixing like oil and water. But today, Steve hoped for a touch of mercy from his computer since Y/N had agreed to attend the class virtually.

Under normal circumstances, this class was offered on-site. But this was one of those rare instances where Steve had the upper hand and could bend the rules to his advantage. After all, what was the point of being Chairman of the Arts and Culture Department if he couldn’t make a few exceptions? As long as he agreed to teach this one class online, no one could contest it. No one would even know.

Steve had logged into the virtual classroom with a sense of accomplishment, feeling as content as Bob Ross on The Joy of Painting. With ten minutes to spare before the class began, it was no surprise to find Y/N’s profile in the virtual waiting room.

He cleared his throat and hovered his cursor over the “admit” button. Steve expected Y/N’s face to pop up—her image pristine as always. Or, if she decided to turn her camera off, then he anticipated the soft cadence of her “good morning” filtering through his laptop’s speakers. Instead, his camera framed large, midnight-blue eyes—two luminous gems reminiscent of precious jewels and full of innocent wonder.

“Hi!!” Nyla, the owner of those sparkling eyes Steve remembered from their day at the park, greeted him with a wide, radiant smile. She waved energetically, her face nearly pressed against the screen of the device Y/N was using for the online session. 

“Well, hello there, Little Princess."

Steve’s smile grew wider, genuinely delighted as he watched Nyla’s giggles cause tiny tremors in her small frame. Nyla was perched on a wooden chair. Steve saw a cozy kitchen with sage green walls and charming white cabinets behind her.

“I’m not a princess,” the little girl said with a shy smile, her elbows resting on a round wooden table and her little hands propping up her cheeks. “I’m Nyla.”

Steve gasped dramatically, covering his mouth with his hand in mock surprise. This elicited another burst of giggles from the toddler.

“No! How can a young girl with such beauty and cuteness be anything but a princess? That’s outrageous. I refuse to believe it.”

“But it’s true! I don’t live in a castle. I don’t even have a crown.”

Steve hummed thoughtfully, examining her through the screen. He tilted his head and peered intently at her head. “Well, I don’t see a crown on your head,” he pointed out, pretending to scrutinize her for hidden regalia. “But I’m not falling for that. Cinderella didn’t have a crown at first, neither did Belle, Ariel, or Snow White,” he listed, catching Nyla’s rapt attention with each name. Something good came out of his friendship with Tony Stark, the owner of this university, and the father of young Morgan Stark, who was currently in a Pocahontas phase.

Nyla listened intently, her blue eyes sparkling with admiration. “You know almost all of them! Are you a prince?”

Steve’s lips twitched, tugging to the side to draw a grin on his face. “I don’t live in a castle,” he quipped. “I don’t even have a crown.”

“Silly you! Princes don’t always wear crowns!”

“Well, if that’s the case, then maybe princesses don’t always wear crowns either. So, I’m sure you must be a princess in disguise.”

Steve mock bowed, his hand resting over his heart in a dramatic gesture. It had been a long while since he had a carefree conversation, away from the weight of responsibilities, meetings, and deadlines. He had missed this—living in a bubble of make-believe, adrift from the real world. 

Wasn’t this how art was born? Wasn’t creativity a child of uninhibited imagination, meandering along endless fields of wild inventiveness?

Nyla shifted, her lips parting and her hand raising in the air. As she began to speak, ready to continue their delightful chat, another voice suddenly emanated from Steve’s speakers—belonging to someone much older than the toddler.

“Ny! Sweetheart, how many times have I told you? Don’t lean on the table while standing on the chair. You could hurt yourself.”

As Y/N rushed into view on Steve’s laptop, she wrapped Nyla in her arms, gently lifting her off the table and settling her back into the chair. With her back turned to the screen, she was oblivious to the camera, which gave Steve a clear and unobstructed view of her backside.

Pink swept across Steve’s cheeks, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Though he was raised as a gentleman, the first half of the term could not negate his genesis and nature. In other words, his natural instincts prevailed, drawing his eyes to Y/N’s ass no matter his best efforts at looking away.

In his defense, Y/N was wearing purple pajamas—her long-sleeved top tucked into bottoms that were either unusually snug or simply accentuated her curves remarkably well. It wasn’t just her striking eyes that commanded attention; her silhouette, subtly framed by the tight fabric, held a magnetic allure all its own.

What the hell are you on, Rogers? Get a grip, you fucking moron! You sound like a horny teenager.

 “Uh… good morning, Miss Y/L/N.”

Y/N jumped at the unexpected greeting, almost knocking over whatever was on the table in her haste to turn around. Steve couldn’t blame her; even he cringed at how restrained and awkward he sounded.

“Professor Rogers!” Y/N exclaimed, gripping the table for dear life. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, at least not loud enough to be picked up by the speakers. She glanced between him and her daughter. “I-I… uh. How long have you been on the call?”

“Not long. About five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“Yes.” Steve cleared his throat, trying to hide his amusement at Y/N’s fluster. He craned his neck, his eyes returning to Nyla. “I had wonderful company.”

Y/N followed his gaze, turning her attention to her daughter. Steve wondered if she did that partly to hide the growing blush on her cheeks.

“I didn’t touch anything,” Nyla asserted, anticipating her mother’s question. “The screen was blank, then it just popped up!” She raised her hands next to her face, all ten fingers spread wide for dramatic effect. “I was just taking a look.”

Nyla’s innocence and cuteness seemed to ease Y/N’s demeanor. The older woman’s shoulders relaxed as she gently stroked Nyla’s hair. She kissed her cheek and whispered something in her ear. Nyla nodded understandingly, then jumped off the chair. She gave Steve a shy smile before scurrying away to sit right next to Y/N.

“I apologize, Professor. I realized I had forgotten my glasses, so I went to fetch them. I didn’t think you’d be on the call this early, or I would have taken the time to mute myself and turn off the camera.”

As Steve watched Y/N put on her glasses with a slight blush, the lenses accentuated the sparkle in her eyes, making them look even more captivating. They fit her well.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Miss Y/L/N. I’m about to begin the session. Feel free to keep your camera on if you like. And if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Noted, Professor. Thank you.”

As his students filled the classroom, Steve began explaining the next chapter in their course: Neo-Expressionism. While contemporary art aimed to advance creative ideas and styles, it did so by building on the palettes of its predecessors. This movement marked a return to figurative painting and emotional intensity with a contemporary twist and a more confrontational approach to presentation.

As an introduction to this style, Steve wanted to keep it light, especially since almost half of the students seemed distracted, too lost in their thoughts. He glanced at Y/N, surprised to see that while she had muted herself, she still kept her camera on.

From his peripheral vision, he saw her jotting down notes. Nyla appeared engrossed as well, pushing her chair closer to where Y/N sat. Y/N, in turn, fondly gazed at her daughter, bending down to gently scoop her into her arms and place her in the chair.

Booping Nyla’s nose and tickling her stomach, Y/N reached to the side to bring the coloring books and pencil case closer. She observed her daughter coloring while her little feet enthusiastically kicked in the air with delight.

Steve’s heart swelled, and he sounded overly enthusiastic when he featured Riding with Death by Jean-Michel Basquiat, but it wasn’t like any of his students were paying much attention. He fielded occasional questions from the crowd as he showcased works by Anselm Kiefer and Georg Baselitz next.

His laptop pinged. Of course, Y/N would be the only one engaged enough to ask thoughtful questions, even when she wasn’t physically present.

Y/N Y/L/N: What are the defining features of Neo-Expressionist art, and how do they differ from earlier Expressionism?

Steve smiled unabashedly, his expression clear on the camera as he mouthed one word: “smart.”

He straightened up and spent ten minutes explaining the differences between the two movements.

“Neo-Expressionism, meaning New-Expressionism, infused the earlier epoch with a new sense of purpose. While early Expressionism emerged in the early twentieth century as a response to societal conflicts and World War I, Neo-Expressionism thrived in the late twentieth century, challenging conceptual art and minimalism. In essence, Neo-Expressionism rebelled against these movements to create more vivid and visceral art, both literally and figuratively.”

The rest of the class continued in this vein, with Y/N being the main instigator of his artistic discourse. Even when other students raised their hands, Steve had to stifle a groan, suspecting their questions would pale in comparison to Y/N’s.

Not that he was favoring her over his other students—except that he was. So far, she was the only one who hadn’t made him question his decision to pursue academia as his next career step.

“Alright, this concludes today’s class. Please sign your names on the attendance sheet on your way out. You can email me any questions you have about this chapter so far or visit my office during the allocated office hours,” Steve announced, as eager students signed their names and left his class.

Smiling at each student as they passed, Steve began to pack his things, placing his books and notebook into his satchel. After flinging the bag around his neck, he picked up his laptop, keeping it open to avoid interrupting the call with Y/N. She was still on mute, with no sound coming from her end, but her camera remained on, showing her pursed lips as she jotted down more notes in her book.

It was a long walk to Steve’s office. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he let out a long exhale of relief. After setting his satchel aside and placing his laptop on his desk, he sank into the comfort of his snug office chair. The chair's wheels whirred as it skidded across the tiled floor. Steve adjusted the laptop and flashed Y/N a bright smile.

“Do you have any more questions, Miss Y/L/N?”

Y/N looked up, her gaze disoriented. She blinked twice at the screen, clearly startled by the end of the class. She had been so engrossed in her notes that she hadn’t expected the session to be over.

“Oh… uh, Professor Rogers. No, that’s okay. I can come by your office another time to ask.”

Steve chuckled softly, his amusement evident. Y/N’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink.

“We are, or rather, I am already in my office, Miss Y/L/N,” Steve said with a smirk. “It’s office hours now, so feel free to ask me any questions you might have. No matter how many questions you’ve scribbled in the margins of your notebook.”

Y/N let out a small laugh, her head dipping to hide her lightheartedness. Nyla glanced at her mother, her blue eyes darting between Steve and Y/N. Seeing her mother searching for a question, Nyla seized the opportunity. She leaned closer to the screen, her small frame angled towards it as she asked, “Did they use crayons or watercolors during New Expressy-m?” She had the most serious expression plastered on her teeny tiny face, ears perked up and eager to hear the response. 

Y/N’s hands flew to cover her mouth, probably in an attempt to mask her amusement. But even though Steve and Y/N wore matching grins, their hearts easily melted at the innocence and cuteness of that question. 

“They used a lot of tools, Little Princess,” Steve replied, noticing Y/N’s interest in the nickname he used for her daughter. “Mainly acrylic paint. But who’s to say they didn’t use coloring pencils or watercolors?”

 Nyla bobbed her head understandingly, taking in everything Steve said. She tapped her index finger against the side of her mouth, her gaze steady but her thoughts whirling around her little head. “Are ac-lilic paints the big girl paints Mama uses sometimes? 

Steve swiftly caught Y/N’s nod while his focus remained uninterruptedly on Nyla. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Are artists only artists because they paint and draw?”

“No. Art is versatile. It means that it doesn’t have one form. Anyone can be an artist. And it looks like you are one! Are you a secret artist, too, Little Princess? My, my. Can I sneak a peek at those coloring books you have? 

The most radiant smile decorated Nyla’s face. The toddler excitedly squealed, reaching for her coloring books. One was already open, displaying a half-completed image of a ballerina. Nyla gripped her book tightly, proudly displaying her work for Steve to see. 

Instead of the soft pink and light colors that usually accompanied a ballerina’s image, the tutu was a vibrant shade of purple, and the ballerina’s hair decorated her face in a halo of wild embers—orange and phoenix red shadows hung like an autumn crown atop her head. 

“This is…wow. I’m speechless.”

Y/N snorted, unable to rein in her expression at the double meaning behind the phrase. She covered it with a cough, distracting her daughter with a hand around her waist. 

Nyla, for her part, did not seem to understand or suspect any subliminal implication. She jabbed her finger across the page, tracing the purple tutu, reminiscent of Maleficent’s envenomed magic. 

“You said that art in New Express-ym is vibrant,” Nyla explained the reasoning behind her technique, emphasizing the “i” in vibrant. “I made the bal-rina in their style. Is it pretty?”

“No, it’s not,” Steve replied. In the split second it took him to continue, he noticed two things. The first was the tremor of Nyla’s lips and the silver mist in her night-sky irises. The second, equally striking, was Y/N’s clenched jaw and acrimonious eyes. But Steve was undeterred as he said, “It’s glorious. Why aren’t you a student in my class, Miss Nyla? You’d give your mother a run for her money!”

Nyla laughed. Her euphonious and soothing sound filled his ears and spread through every corner of his office. She bounced up and down in her seat, her excitement sparkling like iridescent fairy lights on a cozy summer night. She hugged her coloring book tighter and beamed at her mother. Y/N was also smiling, a transparent sheen threatening to become visibly emotional in her eyes.

She cleared her throat, though whether to stop herself from crying or to clear her airways, Steve couldn’t tell.

“Ny, didn’t you promise to read me the new story you were learning the other day?”

Gasping, Nyla nodded eagerly. She opened her mouth to respond but then turned back to the screen. “What’s your name?”

“Steve, Little Princess,” Steve answered with a soft smile.

Nyla mimicked his expression, then turned her attention back to her mother. “Can Steve stay to listen?”

Precious. So freaking precious.

Unfortunately, Steve could not. For various reasons, none of which were due to the one Y/N mentioned. She carefully peeled the coloring book from her daughter’s hands, her fingers intertwining with Nyla’s tiny ones. “Ny,” she said softly, like the whispers of a spring breeze caressing flower petals after a long absence. “Professor Rogers has to get back to class.”

“But–”

Y/N gently lifted her daughter into her arms, placed her on her lap, and kissed the crown of her head. “We’ll have to say goodbye for now,” she said softly, brushing her daughter’s hair aside and rocking her as she spoke. “I’ll tell Professor Rogers all about the story when I see him.”

“You promise?” Nyla’s irises gleamed with hope, her little pinky extended towards Y/N.

Y/N’s pinky wrapped around hers. It amazed Steve how Nyla’s hand was even smaller than Y/N’s. “Pinky, double sugar-coated promise.”

Nyla surged forward, giving Y/N a wet kiss on her cheek. Her bright eyes met Steve’s, her happiness radiating even through the distance between them. “Bye, bye, Steve!”

“Bye, Little Princess. Thank you for your time. See you soon, Miss Y/L/N.”

“See you soon, Professor Rogers. And thank you, truly.”

The screen turned black faster than Steve had anticipated, the silence both loud and deafening in his empty office. For the first time in a while, the quiet was a welcome reprieve. In the solitude, ideas swirled and emotions flared in the back of his mind. He reached for his sketchbook and grabbed the charcoals from his desk. With vibrant, bold strokes, he sketched with abandon, letting his emotions flow freely as he tried to give form to love and laughter.

“Come in,” Steve’s voice resonated through his office, cutting through the rhythmic scratching of his pencil on yellow paper. The dark lines shaping the silhouettes were an extension of his focus, his thoughts too absorbed in the image to stray.

He heard the door creak open, followed by the soft click of heels on the floor. Steve lifted his gaze from the sketch, an expression of mild disinterest clouding his eyes. “Miss Y/L/N,” he greeted, almost awkwardly, as he noticed her standing at the door. He quickly closed the sketchbook, his feet shuffling as they found solid ground. “Why are you still standing? Please, take a seat.”

Y/N nodded politely, settling into the chair opposite Steve. She waited for him to make himself comfortable, his sketchbook set aside and his hands intertwined on the desk. “Professor Rogers,” Y/N began, her voice soft, “I won’t take up much of your time. I wanted to thank you—for the last session, I mean.”

It had been two days since Y/N had attended the online class. He had seen her today, but she had arrived later than usual. Technically, she had been on time, but the room was already crowded, leaving no chance for a private conversation. Not that he expected one. He was just glad she made it.

“There’s no need to thank me, Miss Y/L/N. Your dedication didn’t waver even virtually, and for that, I must thank you for taking the class so seriously.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed with a delicate pink, deepening as her eyes met Steve’s. “That’s too kind of you, Professor. You’ve always been so thoughtful and accommodating to your students’ needs. And in that regard, I also wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Steve’s eyebrows furrowed in surprise. “Apologize for what?”

“For our earlier interaction in your office,” Y/N clarified. Steve didn’t press further, but she noticed his confusion. Inhaling deeply, Y/N straightened her posture. “Earlier this semester, you wanted to adjust my grades. I reacted… rather aggressively to your offer. And I’m terribly—”

“If anyone should be apologizing for this situation, Miss Y/L/N, it certainly isn’t you. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Steve’s voice was firm and precise. Y/N’s fingers nervously picked at the skin on her hands. “Professor?” she responded, unsure of how to proceed.

Steve stretched his fingers, almost as if he was reaching for her hand. A second too long, his brain caught up to his actions. Briskly, his fingers retracted, curling inside his palm and under his thumb.

"You’re not just the best student in my class; you’re the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching," Steve said earnestly, observing Y/N’s newfound shyness. "What I saw at the park and during Wednesday’s session only strengthened my belief in your abilities and character. However, I realize my actions might have overstepped. I want you to know that favoritism was never my aim, and your impressive achievements have earned you every bit of recognition and success in my class.”

Y/N blinked, her gaze fixed on Steve. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips as she absorbed his words. She nodded slowly, the only sign she acknowledged his sentiments.

Steve waited for her response, giving her space to process his words. To his surprise, Y/N delivered the last thing he expected. “I will be dropping out of your class.”

Steve’s posture stiffened, his eyes widening. “What?”

Y/N tightened her grip on her bag, her purse in her lap seemingly more interesting than the professor before her.

“As you know, I…have a special situation. Not that I’m seeking or ever sought special treatment! Besides you and Professor Barnes, the university’s administration office is the only one aware of Nyla. I wouldn’t have disclosed it if the records didn’t require it.”

“Is everything alright with your daughter, Miss Y/L/N?”

 Y/N sighed heavily, and it was then that Steve noticed the strain on her shoulders. 

“I am Nyla’s primary, or to be more specific, only caretaker, Professor Rogers,” Y/N shared. Though her tone held no remorse and accepted no shame, yet there was a layer of hesitance there. “She’s my first priority. My life revolves around her and so does everything I do. I take morning classes to accommodate my kindergarten schedule. But, unfortunately, Nyla has been facing issues with them.”

“What kind of issues?” Steve blurted out before he could restrain himself. He opened his mouth again, to apologize for his slip, but Y/N continued.  

“The children there have been horrible to her due to…certain reasons. And with her mother being a twenty-two-year-old college student, the administration isn’t taking my concerns seriously.” 

Steve’s heart ached under the weight of her words. Almost instinctively, he let his hand move to Y/N’s side, his fingertips brushing against hers with a feather-light touch. Her breath caught, and her eyes locked onto the contact, a flicker of surprise and vulnerability crossing her face. He made no attempt to move closer, his fingers lingering in place—barely making contact but reaching out with a silent offer of understanding and support. 

Y/N’s delicate fingers trembled slightly against his, a subtle tremor that spoke volumes. Steve felt a shiver run down his spine. He blamed it on the nerve endings beneath his fingertips.

“And what happens now?” Steve asked. 

“I pulled her out,” Y/N replied sheepishly, her dejection evident in the tremor of her voice. “I tried to fix it as much as I could. But it looks like the only solution is to homeschool Nyla for the rest of the term. It’s too late to enroll her anywhere else.”

“And you’re taking an extra semester off to tend to her needs?”

“Yes,” Y/N affirmed without hesitation.

“Miss Y/L/N.” Steve bit the inside of his cheek, his tone almost like a reprimand. “Y/N,” he added, surprising himself by using her first name and drawing a look of surprise from her. Steve lowered his head slightly to meet her gaze, offering a warm, sincere smile that reflected his admiration and empathy. “You are truly admirable. One day, your daughter will look back on what you’ve done for her and feel immense pride in having you as her mother.”

Y/N’s tears began to flow, cascading gently down her cheeks. Seeing her vulnerability struck something deep within Steve. He hesitated, feeling a pang of helplessness as he observed her from across the desk. Acting on impulse rather than thought, he reached out with the lightest touch, catching a single tear as it glistened on the edge of her cheek.  He brushed it away with a tender stroke, his fingers gliding across her face like delicate butterfly kisses on a silky canvas.

Y/N’s downcast eyes raised, two gemstones hidden behind a glassy frame. Devastatingly beautiful, Steve’s mind murmured. A classical masterpiece.

“As your professor, and as someone who cares about your well-being, I cannot allow this to happen.”

“But–”

“No, buts, Y/N. There must be a way. Why don’t you enroll her in the university’s early childhood center?”

The mention of the center made Y/N pause, but she remained unconvinced. “It’s expensive, Professor.”

“It’s free for faculty and staff,” Steve countered promptly.

“But I’m neither faculty nor staff.”

Dammit! Steve had forgotten that detail. His mind raced with possibilities, frustrated by the unfairness of the situation. Perhaps it was his hero complex, his altruism as Bucky had pointed out, or maybe just a reminder of his own past. But Steve was determined to help Y/N—especially because she was Y/N.

He withdrew his hand, already missing her warmth. If only she had worked at the university. He didn’t want to involve Tony or even Hill; Y/N didn’t need additional scrutiny or accusations of favoritism. But there had to be something he could do!

 His eyes fell on his files and closed sketchbook. Was this really the right time to be overwhelmed by paperwork?

‘You really need an assistant to help you file through all these papers,’ Bucky’s words twirled in his head. 

And then it clicked! He didn’t trust anyone with his material. But Y/N wasn’t anyone. 

He smiled widely, his joy contrasting with Y/N’s solemnity. “Miss Y/L/N,” Steve said, hope lacing his voice. “What if I told you I might have a solution?”

Requested by @crazyunsexycool

At this point, this series depicts the love Steve is starting to have for Nyla. Isn't she the freaking cutest?! I mean, if this melts your heart, then you're definitely not ready for what chapters 4 and 5 will be bringing!

Let me know how you're feeling about this series so far!

All the love,

Sab.

[tc-doherty]

Sword Fighting for Writers (New and Improved!)

This is not about modern fencing, this is about historical battlefield sword fighting. My credentials are that I studied Bolognese fencing (a northern Italian style from the 1500s) for several years and was preparing to take my black belt ~equivalent~ exam the year that I was injured and had to quit. Naturally, I started taking those lessons to learn more about sword fighting because I write about battlefield fighting a lot. This is information that I learned that should be helpful for other authors who haven't taken classes like that. (It's very long)

The very first point is one that I have spoken about multiple times and mentioned above. Historical fighting is not fencing as we know it today. Modern fencing is a sport. Historical fencing existed as a way to kill your opponents. These moves have the potential to kill someone, they are dangerous literally by design. This is a foreign attitude to us today but it's very obvious once you have completed a set of moves with a sword and think "oh yes, that would kill someone absolutely".

The point is, if your characters are sparring please, please make sure that they are in protective gear. These moves are still dangerous with blunt steel, they are still dangerous with wooden swords. I got bruises like you wouldn't believe moving at one quarter speed without gear on. Even with gear I've heard about all kinds of gnarly accidents including the time my classmate went to a competition got an entire blunt sword shoved through his hand. A sparring match should never be full speed without gear, and even with gear it probably still shouldn't be.

Sparring matches tend to go to a certain number of points rather than one continuous duel. They're quick - the longest match I ever saw was maybe 3-4 minutes and the quickest was over in 45 seconds. Once a point was scored they would reset to the beginning and go again.

Now that that's out of the way, let's go!

The anatomy of a blade!

Typically a European sword is sharpened at the top and blunt at the bottom. In Bolognese these are referred to as the "weak" and the "strong". You want to make sure that whatever attack or defense you're doing, you're at the right distance to use the correct part of the sword. If you try to block an attack with the weak, your sword will get smacked out of the way. If you try to land an attack with the strong you won't have the momentum to land it meaningfully (plus it'll take you dangerously close to your opponent).

Swords are not particularly heavy. I have two one-handed swords and one two-handed sword and they are all between 1.5 and 2.5 pounds. But you can definitely tell a difference based on how well a sword is balanced. My steel sword is almost a pound heavier than my synthetic sword, but the steel is much easier to use because it's better balanced. Of course it weighs on you over time but if weapons are too heavy to carry and use effectively for several hours, then they're more danger than they're worth.

Sword fighting isn't just sword fighting!

We love swords because swords are cool and the rule of cool is important, but historically a single-handed sword wasn't the weapon of choice for the battlefield. They would be your backup weapon in battle and the weapon you carried while traveling. The point is that these are schools of fighting. Any character who studied under a master would not just know one-handed sword. They would know two-handed sword, polearms, dagger fighting, cane fighting, grappling…they would know all kinds of different things because the school is built off the same principles and they apply to any weapon you happen to pick up. Excluding archery. I have no experience with that so I can't speak on it. I will be referring specifically to sword fighting, however this post applies to everything that would be contained within a single school.

Example illustrations from Bolognese treatises with different weapons:

All sword fighting is not created equal!

Bolognese sword fighting has a lots of quirks that are not present in other styles, such as the idea that our sword is in front of us 99% of the time. Yes, really! Surprisingly that's not actually universal. Bolognese fencing can start with either leg leading whereas a lot of styles have you use only your dominant leg and arm. It's also unique in the fact that every single stance is a usable defensive guard, and every attack you make is a logical conclusion of moving from one guard to another.

The overall motto of Bolognese sword fighting is that it's better to lose than to win without elegance:

Bolognese was not only functional, it had to be beautiful as well. The national style can be used to inform the personality of your character's sword fighting and it's always a good way to create tension/danger if you have characters who have studied different styles come up against each other. There was a joke among the Bolognese students about going up against German fencers because they had a nasty habit of running onto our swords and breaking their ribs, because they simply didn't expect the sword to be in front. Muscle memory is your friend, but it can also get you pretty good if you rely on it entirely.

Another unique feature of Bolognese fencing is that they don't encourage you to move first. It's very much about trying to trick your opponents into making a mistake. It's heavily based on feinting and baiting and all kinds of tricks because sword fighting is primarily reliant on muscle memory. Some styles would consider this cowardly, but Bolognese takes the opinion that it's foolish to move first and give your opponent so many options:

I just want to give people the perspective of how different styles can be and how you can really put a lot of thought into what kind of country or area your characters come from and what their sword fighting might be like as a result.

Okay, so how does sword fighting actually work?

It's all about control. You try to control the distance between you and your opponent and you try to control what moves your opponent can make. This is basically too obvious for people to really think about if you haven't done it.

Every weapon has a range that it works best in and in order to fight effectively you need to make sure that you are making the best possible use of that range. If you get too far away you won't be able to attack, but you can bait your opponent because you have just that little bit of extra distance to move if they fall for it. If you get too close you get within grappling range, and that's a whole other kettle of fish. I never ended up making a post about grappling and I personally hated doing it, but it is something that I'm willing to talk about if people are interested.

As for controlling the movements, that's what the guards are for. If you stand in a specific posture, you can drastically limit how many moves your opponent is able to make, which makes it much easier for you to retaliate. It's not one to one of course! Any guard that you stand in might have 2 or 3 options that your opponent can use, and each of those options might have 3 or 4 responses that you can make. But it's much better than the nine (at least) options that your opponent can make to begin with if you aren't standing in a way that makes some of them impossible:

Cuts in Bolognese:

Specific sword movements!

Cut, a slashing attack which is generally delivered to the head and limbs. You can do a cut to the torso but given how thick clothing was at the time (not even counting on armor or shields) you generally wouldn't be able to do enough damage to make it worth it. On a related note, dagger work in the past was not a cutting style the way that knife fighting is today, they were mostly used for stabbing because the clothing was just too thick to do anything else.

Thrust, a stabbing attack which is generally delivered to the torso.

Bait/invitation, to stand in such a way that encourages your opponent to attack you in a specific manner. Pulling this off successfully is harder than it sounds, if it's too subtle they might not notice and if it's too obvious they'll probably realize it's a trap. You have to make your invitation seem like an accident, a weakness they can exploit, in order to lure them into doing what you want them to do.

Feint, pretend to do one action in order to take advantage of your opponent's response. When you feint an attack you won't commit fully. You might start from half a step further back than what would usually be useful or not attack as deeply or both. You need the attack to be shallow so that you can regain control quickly and do the attack that you actually intend to do. This can often be in response to a bait, if you recognize it. You trick the opponent into thinking that they're tricking you, and take advantage of that!

Stringere, (this one might be specific to Bolognese idk but it's fun) could also be called something like a press or a constraint. Basically you slide your sword slowly down the length of your opponent's sword and apply pressure to it, this can force a hesitating opponent to move. And if they don't move, you can just stab them super quickly. It's fun to do, and scary to be on the other side of.

Beat, hitting an opponent's sword with such force that it completely throws it out of the way leaving an opening for you to exploit. For this you would want to hit the weak of your opponent's sword, and it will generally push the sword off to their dominant side or down. Pushing an opponent's sword right in front of their chest obviously isn't going to make things easier for you. If you beat upwards, it's fairly easy to gain the momentum to turn that around into a descending attack.

And that's basically everything that you would do with a sword. A duel between two people would be give-and-take, as some moves bring you closer together and some moves take you farther away and cause your opponent to chase you. Some things like a bait or a stringere (or a beat, occasionally) would be used at the beginning of a duel, when you have room to do them safely. But they could also be done in the middle if your characters end up breaking off somehow and backing up. It's also not uncommon for a duel to end up in grappling if the moves just bring them too close and that becomes a more viable strategy.

Swords compared to movies!

I was not particularly surprised to learn that yes, you absolutely do feel a strong hit and it can make your hand or arm go numb, that made sense. However, I was surprised to learn how much of sword fighting really is just sword on sword because I had often heard people talking about how that is flashy for the movies but not actually accurate. But it is accurate! Sometimes you would have a shield, dagger, or cloak in your other hand (anything in your other hand is generally used for blocking, not really dual wielding as such) but a lot of time it is just two people with swords whaling on each other and your sword is both your weapon and your shield.

Naming sword moves!

I don't really know that you need to do this but if you are writing a fantasy story and you want to make the sword style seem more established you can.

In the case of Bolognese most of the names are extremely literal (head guard, face guard, the attack 'fendente' just means 'to the teeth') but a few of the guard names are more poetic.

Like the guard of the unicorn, where your sword is pointed down from above like a unicorn rampant. There's the iron door guard which is "harder to get through than an iron door", and its cousin the iron door wild boar guard which is similar but allows you to attack from the side like a boar with its tusks. Literal or poetic, you can do whatever you want so go nuts!

[mercurygray]

First One In

The 100th's first mission - the submarine pens at Bremen. First for the crews in the air - and the crews on the ground.

**Warning for non-graphic depiction of a civilian air accident.

June 25, 1943

The view from the tower was the best of everything.

Cord took a deep breath and let the wind ruffle her hair, listening to the birds and the soft whine of the weather equipment on the roof. This was the best part of her job - the wind and the quiet, and the green fields, and the view.

Downstairs was a hive of activity - the weather monitors on the floor below, taking their measurements, and the intelligence section below them, the huge blackboards mapping out the whole wing, squadron by squadron and plane by plane, the telex and the typewriters. But up here she was in her element, earth and sky in equal measure. It wasn’t flying - but damn if it wasn’t close.

She was glad they’d been some of the first crew here on base, and that the pilots had come later. It had given them time to settle in and really make the place theirs - and she didn’t mean the pictures Mae and the others had put up in their hut, or the curtains, or the flowers on the windowsills. She’d watched the laborers putting down the new tarmac, and watched the engineers putting in the new huts and barracks, and smelled the paint drying in the enlisted men’s mess halls and the Aero Club. This was her tower now, her radio and her field. She’d bicycled it and driven it and charted its wind patterns and read its weather reports and knew it now just about as well as it was possible to know a place.

But aren’t you scared, Cord? The question had been asked, more than once, before she packed herself off to Iowa for basic training. There’s so much you don’t know.

Well, sure, Cord had allowed. I don’t know heavy bombers, or England, or what to do in an air raid. But I know airfields. I know the Army, as much as they’ll let me know. And I know me, what I can do. I can learn everything else.

A true statement - the truest there was. She’d needed to learn a lot - how to drill and march in formation and shine shoes and salute, but once she’d gotten here, and been shown the tower, and how the radio worked, there wasn’t a thing she needed after that except the airplanes she’d be directing in, and the men to fly them. And the man who was going to lead them through it, of course.

She hadn’t known what she’d find, stepping into his office for the first time. Colonel Harold Huglin was something of an enigma. Had he worked with women before? Would he care? Captain Brennan didn’t know his name, and she’d been in longer than any of them, and Cord could tell, just by watching the older woman, that these were questions they would have to ask, and whether they liked the answers or not they’d have to live with them regardless.

She remembered thinking that his desk was exceptionally neat. It was something to focus on for a moment while she collected herself - the man had a face like a hawk, and as she’d saluted and sat down in the wooden chair opposite his desk she’d had the feeling of being prey. “You have quite the list of credentials, Lieutenant Callaway. There’s any number of things you could be doing - ferrying squadron work, for starters. Why apply for overseas duty?”

It had been a strange way to start an interview. Cord had shifted in her chair and taken a breath. Would it have been better if she’d lied, or worse? No, sir, I’ve never seen an airplane in my life, I don’t hold a pilot’s license, and I’ve never won prize money in an air race. I didn’t grow up on an airfield and I don’t know the first thing about the Army Air Corps. But her father hadn’t raised her to be a liar. “I’ve spent my whole life at Wright-Patterson, sir. I just wanted to do my bit, same as everyone else.” When you’re almost one of the boys and then all the boys start going overseas, it starts to wear a girl down a little.

“And you didn’t think ‘your bit’ was training new pilots? You’ve got more flight hours than some of the men who’ll be coming through here.”

Well, it helps if you start when you’re about fifteen or so and you’re a good student and the flying officers like you. “With respect, sir, I’m not a teacher. But I’m calm, and level-headed, and I know how to handle a plane, and that makes me just the sort of person you’d want on your tower. Flight control is just as important as any other job - and sometimes more. If a guy’s engine is on fire, he’s going to want to hear someone who can talk him out of it, if he needs.”

And then the man had smiled - actually smiled - and leaned back in his chair a little, obviously satisfied with her answer. “You can relax, Lieutenant. This isn’t an interview - you already have the job. A good commanding officer likes to know his crew before he gets started somewhere. And we’ll hope no one needs to be talked out of engine fires.”

But someone always will, sir. That’s the nature of airplanes. How many crashes had she seen at Wright - or even at the air shows? She knew all too well what a burning engine smelled like, a flamed out cowling. She hadn’t said that, of course - she knew when to keep her mouth shut. Witness Lieutenant - what was his name now? Brady, that was him, belly-landing his fort straight in from Greenland because he’d had some electrical failure and his landing gear wouldn’t engage.

They would hope there wouldn’t be any of that today - Lemmons already had something of a sour look after a noisy (and successful) campaign to rename that plane Brady’s Crash Wagon. Pilots thought they were funny, doing things like that, but crew chiefs could be superstitious about names.

Someone cleared her throat next to her. “You thinking of turning into a bird? You’ve got this look on your face like you’d like to launch off the balcony.”

Cord had to laugh. “Just admiring the view, Mae.” A jeep carrying a familiar bi-colored flight jacket came rolling around the corner, its owner whistling loudly. “Well, most of it.”

Mae laughed. “He’s the air exec, Cord. You can’t exactly get rid of him.”

“But I don’t have to be friendly, either.”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “One of these days you’re going to tell me exactly what he did to piss you off so bad.”

Where would I even start? “If it were exactly one thing I’d tell you, Mae. It’s more his entire state of being.”

“Lieutenant, you’re gonna want to come back inside.” Becky Holbrook was outside the glasshouse, binoculars in hand. “It looks like someone’s coming back early.”

Cord and Mae followed the Sergeant back inside the glass-walled observation room, and Cord took the binoculars and her position next to Anita Young on the radio, focusing on the plane on the horizon so she could try to read the numbers and assess condition. “That’s Major Veal’s plane. Looks like he’s on three engines.”

“Green flare,” Mae reported, though everyone with eyes could see it, arcing into the sky. “No need to send out the fire squad or the ambulance.” On the ground below, they saw a jeep peel out from one of the hardstands, three men clinging to their seats. “Looks like Lemmons is already on his way out.”

Another jeep joined them - the one that had only just parked at the tower. “And there goes Major Egan,” Cord said, sourly. “What the hell is he going to do?”

“Anything he can, Lieutenant.”

Cord immediately put down her binoculars and saluted, feeling foolish. “Major Bowman. There’s been nothing on the radio, sir. It looks from here like it’s just engine one that’s out.”

“As it should be,” Bowman said with approval. The intelligence officer wasn’t a physically imposing person, but Cord had spent enough time with him to know that he knew his business, and the slightly fading red hair that had given him his nickname was covering a first-rate brain. “Germans monitor all our radio traffic - Major Veal knows that. It’s different procedure here, compared to an airfield back in the states. They won’t radio in for landing instructions.” Cord looked down at her service shoes, feeling foolish. “But you’ve got a good eye about that engine, Lieutenant,” Bowman added, a gentle compliment to cover up her mistake.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Our first returned plane!” Becky said with a grin, nudging Anita and Mae. “We’re in it now!”

Beside her, she heard Bowman breathe sharply through his teeth. “We’ll get a report from him and the crew about when he turned back, and Egan will need an update on that plane’s operations status,” the intelligence officer stated, hands on his hips as he watched the plane touch down and turn down the taxiway. “Make sure no one stands down - fire teams, ambulances. We’re still waiting on the rest of the group.”

“Of course, sir.”

Bowman paused, turning away from the front of the glasshouse and stepping to the side, motioning for Cord to follow him. “You ever seen an airplane crash, Lieutenant Callaway? Apart from Lieutenant Brady’s ...unorthodox landing the other day?” He pursed his lips. “Colonel Huglin mentioned you grew up near Wright-Patterson. I want to know - if you know what we might be expecting back.”

Cord looked at him, really looked, and realized what he was asking. You mean do I know what’s waiting for the ambulances, sir? Or what a burning plane smells like? I watched a woman pancake on a pylon at Bendix, once. Took the turn too quick. Wasn’t anything to bury afterwards - just a burning wreck. I’ve seen pilots miss landings and I’ve seen gunnery practice go bad. Maybe I haven’t been in the war just yet but I know what a plane can do to a body. “Pretty frequently, sir.”

Bowman nodded. “This one was easy. The rest of it won’t be - you understand me? They may radio in to let you know what’s coming.” Manage the others was the last unspoken command. The rest won’t be pretty.

Cord fixed her eye on his and nodded, feeling the weight of his expectations and his stare. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” When the others come back, then we can say we’re in the war. But not before.

“Calm and steady, Callaway.”

“Always, sir.”

“And we’ll be grateful then that Major Egan’s doing everything he can, all right? Because we’re all doing everything we can, always.”

Cord swallowed the knot in her throat, knowing that at the heart of it he was right. Even she couldn’t say that Major Egan didn’t care about his airmen - and he was always doing everything he could, even if it sometimes made him a nuisance. “Right, sir.”

He nodded, and stepped back outside the glasshouse so he could go back downstairs. Cord took a deep breath, and returned to the radio, and the view out the front window. “Make a note of the time, Mae, will you? Captain Brennan will need that for the daily report.”

One plane back - nineteen more to go. She surveyed the airfield, wondering just how it would look in an hour, or two, or how the siren to call out the ambulance would sound behind the glass, and her hands tightened on her binoculars. I know airfields. I know planes. And by the end of today, I’ll know something else, too - something about war.

And aren’t you scared about it? She thought about that burning plane at Bendix again, the sound of the announcer’s voice, the collective gasp from the stands as the plane burst into flames and the flyer behind only just swerved to avoid it.

Well, my father didn’t raise a liar - so I’ll tell you: I’m damn terrified.

Read more of Cord here at her masterlist.

[samgirl98]

Wail of the Silent 6/?

Prev | Next

TW: Mention of Suicide

Spectra smiled as her latest victim patient left her office. She had only been in Gotham for ten days, but she already had a job in Arkham Asylum thanks to overshadowing and fake credentials. The whole place was a pit of misery.

So far, seven patients have killed themselves due to her feeding off them. Oh well, as the saying goes, you have to crack a few eggs to make omelets and all that. It’s not Spectra’s fault they were weak.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t get to the main rogues. They weren’t filled with misery, just madness. They gave her no nutrients, so she avoided them and went for the weaker ones.

Still, the patients in the asylum were nothing compared to the young man she had found the night before. She had left a piece of herself (a new development as her powers grew.) to feed off him when he felt miserable. It had already happened once that day, but he got over it quickly. The bite size snack left her craving more.

Spectra smiled as her next patient entered her room.

____

“You said you had an idea,” Danny asked as Jason led him into a room with three computer screens, some weapons lying around, and a bunch of wooden boxes.

Jason nodded; he had put his red helmet on again.

“Yeah. You know Arkham Asylum?”

“My sister has mentioned it once or twice, but I don’t know much about it. She wants to work there ultimately.”

Danny couldn’t see Jason’s expression but knew Jason was feeling judgmental.

“What? What’s wrong with that?”

“Casper—”

“Casper, wow, so original. I’m nicknamed after my high school.”

“Your high school is called Casper? What the fuck?”

“The elementary school is named Poltergeist elementary school.”

“Poltergeist elementary? No, you know what? That doesn’t matter. Arkham is where the criminally insane end up. I mean, these are people who have little chance of integrating into society, and those who do become ‘better’ usually end up reoffending again. I know of three psychiatrists who worked there who ended up being patients there. Your sister must be a special person to want to work there willingly.”

Hmm, it seemed Danny had to have a word with Jazz.

“You think Spectra is there?”

“There is no other place in Gotham that has as much misery as Arkham Asylum.”

“Okay, I believe you, but how will we know if Spectra is there.”

Amusement. Mischief.

“I can tap into the security camera and database.”

____

Bruce Wayne stared into his cup of coffee. There was guano floating in it. He sighed and looked back at the reports.

Something was wrong in the asylum.

An hour ago, he had gotten a ping of someone who had committed suicide in Arkham; the death had marked the eighth one in ten days, and no one else was worried or investigating it. He knew most people and law enforcement didn’t care for those who resided in Arkham, but to ignore something clearly wrong…well, Bruce wouldn’t be complacent.

He hacked into Arkham’s systems. Batman would get to the bottom of this.

____

Lady Gotham felt her being boiling with anger. Another one of her citizens had ended up dead by their own hands due to the interloper.

She sent the newly formed shade toward her favored knight and the ghost child. She knew they would help her lost ones. For now, she let her rage be known through the thunder and lightning in the sky.

____

“Eight suicides in ten days, and no one has reported on this?” Danny asked incredulously.

Jason shrugged; he knew how little people cared for the patients in Arkham. The only ones who probably noticed and cared were his family the bats. However, they wouldn’t know what could be happening, so it would take them longer to solve the problem.

For half a second, Jason thought about asking for their help but felt phantom pains in his throat.

He felt sadness and regret deep in his chest. (His core was humming out his emotions.)

Soon, he felt an overwhelming misery. It felt as if it was suffocating him!

“Jason! Jason, calm down!”

Calm. I’m here—calm, calm.

It took a moment, but Jason came back to himself. What the fuck was that?

“Spectra has found a way to feed off you even while far away. We need to find her and stop her.”

Anger, anger. I will stop her. Anger—she must be stopped.

Danny touched Jason’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, we’ll find her.”

Jason nodded, already feeling better. A part of him was dreading Danny’s departure, and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he met the guy.

Danny kept his hand on Jason’s shoulder, grounding him, while he looked through Arkham’s security camera.

“There! That’s her.”

Jason watched the camera as a red-haired woman left an office. She had on glasses and a red suit.

Jason looked into the records.

“Penelope Spectra. She started ten days ago, the same time the suicides started.”

“I bet if we look around, we’d find suicide rates have gone up in other places.”

Jason nodded and started looking into it. He wouldn’t let the bitch get away with it.

[ya-boi-haru]

I did a thing...

I'm no writer, but inspired by my Coffee shop au (linked) i did a little sample piece for funsies/writing practice... idk what will come of this but it was fun and interesting to get back into actually writing a fanfic piece again...

(context at the end)

Bars always seem to be a completely different atmosphere when it was day time.

All you could hear was the rustling and clinking of staff putting away the new merchandise or cleaning the equipment and the hum of the air conditioners. The faint scent of sanitizer mixed with alcohol hung in the air, strong enough to tell that the surfaces had just recently been wiped down.

As he sat patiently at one of the empty tables, Centross’ eyes glazed over the figures and trinkets that surrounded the bar. He could tell each one had been placed carefully and each section had its own theme. The tables and booths had a more ‘on deck’ feel. Pictures of great ships and sea creatures hung along the walls, surrounded by ropes tied and hung from the ceiling like shrouds or fishermen nets. The wooden tables were decorated with small ships to hold up the menus and the chairs had an aged leather look to them, which were surprisingly comfortable. The bar itself had a large, long statue of a dragon, made of a seaweed green glass displayed against the back wall, surrounded by the shelves of various amounts of alcohol.

The more you looked the more you saw, but unfortunately Centross didn’t get to look around much more as Kai, the owner of Sea Dragon, came out from the staff only doors. He stood up to meet her, extending a hand to introduce himself.

“Hey, you must Kai. I’m David, it’s nice to meet you” Centross was a little nervous. It had been a while since he was considered for an interview, he even had to buy a new button up shirt since the old one was worn out and faded.

“Yeah, I know who you are” Kai responded, her tone not doing a good job at hiding her snark and her, a bit too firm, handshake was not helping either.

“Oh, right, I guess you would after reading my resume” He tried to brush it off and lighten the mood, thinking he was just being paranoid about the way she was acting.

Kai gave a hum and the forced smile made Centross think it was meant to be a laugh. “So why do you want to work here, David?” She asked, cutting straight to the point.

Centross took a breath, trying to let the advice Wolf had given him and their practice questions come back to him.

“Well, I do have experience behind the bar, honestly, I’ve grown to love the work, it keeps me on my feet. I’m fully licenced, I have-“

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure your credentials and achievements are very nice,” Kai interrupted, “What I meant was, why here at the Sea Dragon?” she clarified.

Centross gave an apologetic look, as he stumbled to correct himself. However, while trying to come up with an answer, he noticed the daggers Kai was glaring at him.

“Have I done something to upset you?” Centross asked defensively. Gee, he had just met the woman and she acts like he spat in her face.

Kai barked a laugh at his question, looking at him with disbelief, her last bit of professionalism, now washed away.  Seeing Centross’ face made her realise, he really did not know.

“You still don’t do your research do you?”

Ok, now Centross was really confused. “Are you… not the owner?” he tried.

Ocie chuckled again. “I’m Kai. Kai Feywild”

Realisation slowly set on Centross’ face. “F-Feywild?” Ocie nodded. “As in… Strawberri Feywild- oh fuck!”

“My sister” Kai confirmed, as Centross dropped his head into his hand in defeat.

So, this wasn’t an interview, it was an interrogation. God, how the hell did he not know this!?

“Hey man, ill give you this: I’m impressed by the fucking balls you have to come in here, asking me for a job, after you did?” Kai, pointed her sharp nails at him to emphasise her accusatory tone.

“Listen i-“

“No, you listen,” Kai snapped. “I’ve worked my fucking ass off to get this business up and running and I’m not going to let it all go to shit because a deadbeat, drug pusher wants to get back in to business!”

“I’m not- we didn’t-“ Centross let out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair trying to find the words. “Look, that was a long time ago, I’m sober and clean and it’s not like I was the one making it-“

“No, apparently you weren’t, you’re just the one who insisted on selling it with my nephew and making my sister your dealer!” Centross gave a defeated sigh. “The only reason I called you in was to make sure you weren’t going to start this shit with me or my Strawberri again. She’s been through enough”

Centross took moment to answer, all the previous interviews and questioning coming back to him like a montage of fails. He knew he wasn’t going to get on her good side, maybe ever, but especially not right now. He had been through this enough times to know when it wasn’t working out.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear it, so ill spare you the details. But believe me when I tell you I am not here to start that again. The Ominous Coffee Bean is gone, it crashed and burned before it could even get off the ground, I wouldn’t even know how to get access to that stuff again and, again, even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to make it, that was Icarus, testing out their fancy chemistry, nerd shit and it failed miserably. I spent my time getting sober and clean, just like the others and I am trying to do better, Kai, but I no matter what I do, no one will even give me the time of day – which is understandable I guess but” Centross took a breath, feeling like he was just wasting breath at this point. “I truly am just looking for a job, a fresh start. Bills can’t pay themselves and I can’t keep living out of my boyfriends’ pocket. He’ll deny it, but I can tell that I’m just weighing him down. He deserves better than that and I just want to at least help him”

Kai took in everything he had said and Centross could see her processing, it all. She’d look him up and down and down at her hand, then back to him, the gears in her head turning trying to decide her next move.

Centross knew what it would be. Fuck, he should have just left as soon as he learned she was Strawberris’ sister. Maybe he can try his luck elsewhere, surely there’s somewhere that his reputation hasn’t touched.

“Alright,” Kai simply said after a long moment of silence.

“Alight?” Centross repeated, waiting for her to add on.

“You will be working the floor and are also on washing duty. You’ll start with four days a week for a trail to see if you can handle it and to see if you’re a good fit here. After that time is up, we’ll see how you’re doing and that will determine if you can stay and maybe we’ll talk about you working the bar. How does that sound?” Kai listed her conditions firmly, leaving no room for negotiation, her eyes never leaving Centross a she spoke.

Centross stared back, not processing what was happening.

“Wait, you’re… You’re giving me the job?” he asked, almost like he didn’t trust what he had heard.

“I’m giving you a chance. Do not make me regret it” She warned.

Centross had to contain the smile that seemed to spread on his face, releasing a breath of relief as the weight on his chest lifted just little.

Holy shit, he fucking did it.

-----------

So for some context, Icarus, Centross and Easton tried to start a Barista place together called The Ominous Coffee Bean ("the name will get people curious about it") and Icarus tried to do their thing of infusing flowers into tea. Little did they know that Delosperma Cooperi can be toxic, like a bad drug or alcohol when extracted/infused. They told their business investor (they found online) about their new drink and and Centross received an email back encouraging them to keep selling it and they could use Strawberris flower business to get more of the flowers in.

They were eventually got investigated and they all got arrested for selling of narcotics and Strawberri got done for suppling.

Icarus made first bale, an anonymous pay to bale *and* hush money.

Kai had to come down from a couple towns over to bale Strawberri and Easton out and thankfully they were all given the bare minimum punishment due to bale + they didn't know the extremes of what they were actually selling and their investor couldn't be tracked.

All four did get put on a probation and Icraus, Centross and Easton had to attend clincs to get clean and to help go through withdrawal. Centross made bale late as Rae had to scrap together enough money and even ask his Uncle for help to get him out.

Icarus got hush money, Easton was seen as "the poor kid who didnt know any better" and Strawberri also left in the dark. Centross basically got the short end of the stick and his reputation wasnt good.

---

idk i was just playing around with ideas for Ominous Bane equivalent??? its still a W.I.P but let me know what you think????

[fenmere]

This bit of flash fiction was inspired by @ayviedoesthings' dragon HRT comic series, and all the other spin off comics that other cartoonists are making. We wanted to participate!

But, we're burnt out on drawing comics, and yet we can write a lot of prose really fast, and that's our thing now, so here we go.

We're not asking that it be considered canon to the collective stories. We only felt compelled to write it, and hope that at least someone is entertained by it.

This is what we imagine would happen if we walked into the doctor's office:

---

The doctor's office is nearly featureless. There are white walls unadorned by the usual posters or framed credentials, marred only by outlets and a simple wooden door that opens to admit what looks at first to be a single human.

The doctor, who is balding with small circular glasses, looks up from his steepled fingers to visually evaluate what he assumes is his next patient. However, his eyes settle on a concerning accessory that they are carrying.

Although the visitor is dressed in a very typical outfit for a trans feminine person with a side cut, they are carrying a very stuffy looking brown leather suitcase.

The kind that lawyers all seem to carry.

It's very out of place, and alarming.

"Everything I do here is above board," the doctor says, reflexively. "I can show you my licenses."

"We are not concerned about that," the visitor says, sitting down in the guest chair and placing the briefcase on the doctor's desk. But they don't elaborate and just wait with an obviously self satisfied smile.

The doctor frowns and picks a script to use, "What am I seeing you for today?"

The grin broadens, "We understand that you administer something you've been calling 'Humanity Removal Therapy'."

"That is what some of my patients have been calling it. Yes," the doctor says. Despite having said this to so many people alread, he tenses. Something about this conversation feels off. But he explains anyway, "The therapies I offer, however, only change the body and mind, not a person's identity. If you're human before you start them, you'll be human when you complete them. And, if you're not, well. Then you already know why what I offer is so important."

"Yes, indeed," his guest says.

He hasn't yet gotten them to admit they're a patient. In theory, this appointment was set for a patient intake, but that suitcase and their demeanor has him reluctant to assume anything. That use of plural first person sure made it sound like they were a soliciter.

"Can we cut to the chase?" he asks. "Are you here as a patient like my schedule says? Or do I need to ask my assistant to see you out?"

The guest raises their hand and says, "We're sorry for the false pretense. We're new to your culture and do not know the proper channels. Also, we thought a demonstration of what we can offer your patients might be necessary. We know that you deal in the unbelievable already, but our abilities might strain even your sense of reality."

Scowling, the doctor reaches for his desk phone's intercom button.

"Oh, yes, let's give your assistant a donstration, too!" the guest exclaims.

His hand hovers over the phone, frozen in place. His scowl deepens. He thinks about the Manticor he'd just seen last week. It'd been just a couple years since he'd opened his practice, and in that time he'd developed a keen sense of when to not move, not provoke.

"What are you going to do?" the doctor asks.

"Well," the guest says, "Allow us to introduce ourselves first. We are the Inmara, or the Great Alliance in English. And we have developed a formula to help other beings, such as humans, take a physiological form identical to our own. We'd like to offer it to your patients."

The doctor narrows his eyes and points out, "You appear to be human. My patients rarely hold any interest in appearing to be human."

"Ah, that's where our demonstration comes in," the Inmara says, standing up and pushing their chair back. "This is just part of our protective coloration. We assure you that we are not remotely human."

Before he has a chance yo even feel alarmed, let alone protest, they shrug off their coat and step out of their Birkenstocks, and then begin to change.

Cheap, poorly made second hand Walmart brand clothing shreds easily as the Inmara's body bulges, writhes, twists, and grows fluidly into a truly terrifying monster with glowing frills and wings, and a maw the size of the doctor's torso.

The doctor finds he still can't bring himself to move. He had the chance to retract his arm, but that’s it. His own body knows better than to draw the eye of a predator by moving.

"We are Ktletaccete, doctor. And this is what we look like. We are certain a percentage of your patients will find this form desirable?"

"Cleh-tatch-a-whoozits?" his mouth blurts.

"Ktletaccete," they say. "Up until now, we've been a closed species, but we've been rethinking that choice."

"You look like a giant axolotl with antlers and an angler fish lure," he observes.

"Ah. There are some vague similarities to your tiny water dragons, yes."

"We already offer axolotl HRT. It's very popular."

The monster narrows their eyes and says, "This is just our juvenile form. When we reach maturity, we become a metamorphic species, and can take the appearance of any local life form. And more. Some of us have chosen to appear as wolves. Another has chosen the shape of a dump truck sized hare. You have already seen one of our human forms. We can even become various kinds of what you consider to be mythological beings. Dragons, hydra, mermaids, harpies, anything we can visualize clearly."

"Scary," he says.

"Freedom!" the Inmara says. "True bodily autonomy. We are offering your patients something no other therapy can afford them. The option to change their minds at any time!"

"Hm," he grunts. "You may be surprised. The number of patients who choose to lose themselves in full transformation is higher than you might think."

"Yes. But imagine how many more clients you could attract with the power we offer!" The bizarre draconic amphibian goliath settles back on their haunches. "We are certain that soon, even neurotypical humans could find the possibilities unimaginably enticing. Also, there really aren’t that many similarities between this and an axolotl. These aren’t gills."

Something about that raised alarm bells in every corner of the doctor's mind.

"Where did you say you come from, again?" he asks.

"Oh. Yes. We've been traveling across your galaxy for quite some time. We came upon your planet when we intercepted -"

"So, you’re aliens."

"Yes?"

"And you want me to help you turn Earthlings into more of your kind?"

"Well..."

"This sounds like the kind of invasion you'd see on Doctor Who."

“Now - OK. We can see that. But think about the benefits.”

“Sometimes I do wonder about the ethics of my practice,” the doctor says, putting a hand on his desk as he starts to stand up. “I always come around to how important it really is for people to be able to be themselves. But this? I’d feel like I was betraying my own kind.” He stops, partially standing, feeling like he’s taken a step too far. Fear chills him to the bone as his mind races through all the consequences that this huge shapeshifting monster could mete out upon him.

“So, that’s a ‘no’?” The Inmara asks.

He can’t bring himself to respond. Even more consequences and possibilities begin to haunt and torment him.

“We really have no interest in becoming competition for you,” the Inmara explains with a saddened tone. “Disrupting the ecosystem of this planet isn’t really in our interests, and that includes impacts to what you call your economy. But, it is important to us to bring true autonomy to all sentient species, and this is the way we know how to do so. And we do have the means to set up our own organization here and distribute this ourselves.”

They turn to leave and the doctor hears his mouth utter, “Wait!” His pulse quickening further, he pulls a sharp intake of breath and straightens up.

The manticore situation from last week keeps coming back to his mind. And he can’t help but consider how this being in front of him could have handled it with the capabilities they’ve demonstrated. That case could have gone so differently. So much better.

The Inmara turn to face him, mid-transformation back to human shape, coat in their left hand, “Yes?”

He is as surprised by his own words as he had been by anything else that happened today, as he says, “Could you leave a sample? A full regimen for a single person? I would like to… er… monitor a case... before I agree to this.”

After all, as he and his clients tend to agree, humanity, or the lack of it, isn’t in the body or the mind. Those things are just tools for the being that owns them.

And sometimes a tool could use an upgrade.

[the-slasher-files]

BARBED WIRE THAT BINDS US — Ghost Among us (I)

NIKTO X ANDREI KULOKOV [oc]

M x M — ENEMIES TO LOVERS

WARNINGS: Intense gore, violence, Andrei is a slasher, menitons of rape and sa, torture, war, death, angst, PTSD, 18+ language, eventual smut (?), slow burn

MASTERLIST — SERIES MASTERLIST

Shells smoked as they burned the dead grass around black boots. Another round in the chamber and fired at the set of wooden targets posed to look like breathing individuals.

They were just targets.

No blood and guts spilling to soak the soil this time. But he recalls it. Blue orbs of light now reach the dull reflection of the dead as he shoots another round. Pouring the bullets into splintered wood, emptying a magazine, the third one today. Always reaching the images of the dead around him, blood on his hands and teammates howling as he stands. A broken mind lost in a fight reaction. Not present, yet doing his job with a barbarous edge. Stepping over the corpses and cocked with the gun in his hands; A picture of his current state, except there were no bodies, no war, no danger. Just a field outside of the army base where he could be alone. Blue sky above and birds silent from the cracking of a gun.

He was the only soldier allowed to leave the high walls lined with barbed wire for target practice. Having credentials — medical and psychological — suddenly the gates opened with his therapist's words, "It will be good for him to get out and be alone. Let his mind process the world and feelings around him.". Treating him like a child who is unable to understand the words strewn in front of him. At least they acknowledged his mind and tried to ease him, unlike the Russian army that used him like a pawn— Something from a book, hidden away until they needed a blood-soaked berserker with a mind stowed only for the brutality of man.

"Nikto! Colonel wants to see you!"

The large masked man sends a gaze over his shoulder before fully turning to the origin of the voice. Evgeni. A short man with the heart of a lion.

"Heard?" He questions, knowing Nikto's disorder and simply receives a nod in response. "He wants you quickly, soldier!"

The other Russian turns curtly and disappears into the concrete maze that was the base.

Gloved hands set down the Kastov; Hot barreled and safety on, locking it up and making his way to the Colonel's office. Nikto walked with his head high, but shoulders tense. Paying no mind to the others that sneered and mocked him, wolves in packs ready to pick, nip, and spill the blood of a weak one. However, they were all talk. They knew what the masked man could do and would not dare to grip the scruff of his neck — That was unless they wanted to have a knife split their flesh, ear from ear.

The large body stopped before an oak door, a sigh passing his scarred lips as the guard dressed in black opened the door quickly. Shoulders turned to slip into the office with eyes keeping watch on the guard until he closed the door. A soldier's hackles raised from being in a small room, knowing he'll be safe, but the body remains lost in old habits.

"Nikto. Pleased to see you." The man spoke clearly and strong behind a large desk, watching cautious steps approach a dark leather chair. König — His colonel, leader of Kortac and a king on the battlefields — extended a large hand, "Sit."

Nikto grasped the armrest and did as he was told with keen midnight blue eyes, fingers tightening between raps. The hulking hooded figure reached downward to grab a folder from his desk, one that was thick and held together with a large clip.

"I'm not one to keep my men long so, you have a new mission soldier." The Austrian accent was thick but Nikto understood every word, raising his brow beneath black fabric. "It is a solo mission. One I give to you and you only due to the location and subject."

His teeth caught what was left of his bottom lip, grazing over the scars and his eyes pointed to the folder pushed before him. Konig could feel the unease only briefly until the emotion was placed with hardened steel.

"That— he, is your mission..."

"Andrei Kulokov," Nikto mouthed under the deep timber that was his Colonel. His head met every word that Konig spoke.

"A ghost of the North..."

"A wolf..."

The Russian shifted within his chair, sitting up stiff, intrigued, and tongue darting against his lips. This man was a legend they tried to erase from modern history.

People said he died drugged up and shot in the head, brains blown out against the stones of Russia's most highly secured prisons. Legend says the wolf murdered 20 men in the back of a convoy during the transfer to said prison.

But he was alive.

"Highly dangerous and armed. Andrei was spotted in Norway, Ukraine, Slovakia and Belarus. He goes wherever he is asked or wherever his desires take him." Konig took a breath, standing from his chair and taking a few steps to the window on his left as Nikto opened the file. Gloved fingers run across papers covered in black redacted ink and blurry photos.

"This... "Wolf" is rumoured to have some sort of home or shelter near the smaller, northernmost regions of Russia." He continued to explain, "...Wanted for war crimes, killing his own men, possible kidnapping of women and men,"

There was a sudden break in the sentence, blue eyes snapping to Konig's fist that was beginning to destroy the plastic cup within his deathlike grip.

"And now, he hunts soldiers like us." The hooded man turned back to the Russian, eyes meeting under shadowed masks.

"Dead or alive?" Nikto read aloud, questioning his superior.

"Affirmative. Study up on the target, and anything you need is at your disposal... Wheels up at 0630, soldier."

▪︎▪︎▪︎

The thick black boot was forced upon the man's trachea. Bubbles, muffled screams barely passed the waves of the water. A thrashing body tried to break the surface. Fingertips bloodied, clawing at the tiles and the man above who played god.

Piercing icy blue eyes seemed to fade into black. Any sign of a man was left behind for a predator as the crimson flooded into the clear. Like ink, it spread. A knife tearing apart a struggling carcass from the navel to the collar bones.

The face of a man with the teeth of hounds fell away into darkness. In a brutal, final act. The wolf pressed his full weight down with his other boot against the man's thighs, literally splitting the man in half. Splayed open like a deer carcass with ribs up and open, spine protruded beyond the flesh. Cracked open over the edge of the tub. Motionless. Dog tags sunk to the bottom of murky water. And the weight was removed from the body, letting it slump and spill out within the Latvian hotel.

Another one dead for some cash and a favor.

'It's done'

[interiordecorationideas]

Interior Designers in Panchkula: A Comprehensive Guide

Interior design is more than just aesthetics; it's about creating a functional, comfortable, and visually appealing space that reflects your personality and meets your needs.

In Panchkula, a city known for its urban planning and proximity to Chandigarh, the demand for professional interior designers has surged as homeowners and businesses aim to create standout spaces.

Whether you're planning to revamp your home or office, this comprehensive guide will introduce you to the best practices, benefits, and top interior designers in Panchkula.

Why Hire an Interior Designer in Panchkula?

Hiring an interior designer isn't just about making a space look good. Here are some compelling reasons why you should consider their expertise:

Professional Expertise: Interior designers bring a wealth of knowledge in design principles, space planning, and material selection.

Cost Efficiency: By avoiding costly mistakes and accessing exclusive resources, you save money in the long run.

Time-Saving: Designers handle everything from conceptualization to execution, freeing up your time.

Personalized Designs: They tailor solutions to match your preferences and lifestyle.

Access to Vendors and Materials: Professional designers often have relationships with suppliers, giving you access to high-quality materials and furniture.

Popular Interior Design Styles in Panchkula

Contemporary Design Minimalist yet functional, this style is a favorite for modern homes and offices in Panchkula. It emphasizes clean lines, neutral colors, and smart use of space.

Traditional Indian Aesthetics With Panchkula's proximity to Punjab, many prefer vibrant interiors with rich fabrics, carved wooden furniture, and ethnic motifs.

Eco-Friendly Design Sustainable and green designs are trending, incorporating natural materials like bamboo, reclaimed wood, and energy-efficient lighting.

Luxury Interiors High-end homeowners in Panchkula often opt for luxury designs featuring premium materials, opulent decor, and bespoke furniture.

Top Interior Designers in Panchkula

1. Design Studio Panchkula

Specialization: Residential and commercial projects.

Key Features: Innovative designs, smart use of space, and eco-friendly solutions.

Contact: Available on popular online directories.

2. Elegant Interiors

Specialization: Modern and contemporary designs.

Key Features: Attention to detail and cost-effective solutions.

Contact: Visit their website or call directly.

3. Urban Luxe Designers

Specialization: High-end homes and luxury offices.

Key Features: Bespoke furniture and premium materials.

Contact: Check out their portfolio on social media platforms.

4. Vastu Interiors Panchkula

Specialization: Vastu-compliant designs.

Key Features: Combining traditional principles with modern aesthetics.

Contact: Reach out via their official email.

Key Considerations Before Hiring an Interior Designer

Define Your Budget: Be clear about your budget constraints to avoid overspending.

Check Credentials: Review their portfolio, certifications, and client testimonials.

Understand Your Needs: Have a clear vision of what you want to achieve with your space.

Discuss Timelines: Ensure the designer can complete the project within your desired timeframe.

Compatibility: Choose a designer whose style aligns with your taste.

Tips for a Successful Interior Design Project

Communicate Clearly: Share your preferences and expectations with the designer.

Be Open to Ideas: Trust the designer’s expertise and consider their suggestions.

Focus on Functionality: A beautiful space should also be practical and comfortable.

Invest in Quality: Prioritize long-lasting materials and timeless designs.

Incorporate Personal Touches: Add decor and elements that reflect your personality.

Cost of Interior Design Services in Panchkula

Interior design costs in Panchkula can vary based on factors like project size, design complexity, and materials. On average:

Consultation Fees: ₹1,000 - ₹3,000 per hour.

Design Fees: 8% - 15% of the total project cost.

Turnkey Solutions: ₹1,500 - ₹3,500 per square foot.

It’s essential to get detailed quotes from multiple designers before making a decision.

Conclusion:

Interior design in Panchkula is thriving, with numerous talented professionals offering creative and practical solutions. Whether you’re transforming your home, designing a functional office, or creating a luxurious space, the right interior designer can turn your vision into reality.

Use this guide as your starting point to find the perfect expert for your needs and enjoy the transformation of your space into something truly extraordinary.

[puppiesandnightlock]

LINK: Goodbye Was Not Our End

chpt summary: after five years, the boys reunite.

“I have nothing to wear!” Jon stared at his closet, unsatisfactory outfits littered around the room.

Friday had finally come, and Jon was sure he couldn't have been the only one agonizing over this, Damian had always taken care of his appearance as a teen in public. 

“Daddy?” a little head of mussed black curls peeked into his room. 

Ah, dammit.

“Good morning, Laurel!” He called cheerfully to his daughter, the both of them still in their pajamas. He decided to leave his clothing for later, a quick call to Kathy would most likely solve his fashion problems.

He scooped her up, nuzzling her nose with his as she giggled. “How are you on this fine morning, princess?”

“Good!” He carried her to her room, walls painted a light green with flower blossom stickers decorating it. He set her back down on the little wooden toddler bed, speaking.

“What are we feelin’ today? Overalls okay?”

She nodded. “Pink.”

He pulled a pink shirt off a hanger and folded it neatly, leaving her to get dressed by herself per her request.

Nutella was spread across two pieces of bread, Jon slicing strawberries and bananas to set on top.

He pulled a small lunchbox from the fridge and set it next to the little backpack. Laurel came out of her room, fully dressed and a pair of red converse in hand. Jon swept her curls into two small ponytails as she ate the toast, leaving half of it down. 

He tied her shoelaces and ran to get dressed himself, making a mental note to change before lunch.

 He skipped his morning college lecture, asking for the notes from an acquaintance, and heading straight for the Daily Planet. He had managed to secure a temporary job as a remote journalist until he completed his masters and got his credentials, luckily allowing him to work from home most days.

Despite that, Jon often made his way into the office after he’d finished an article, preferring to pick up his next assignment in person then over email.

It was now an hour before his scheduled lunch, and he was a nervous wreck, even after following Kathy’s fashion advice. 

What could he say that wouldn’t make him sound stupid? Does he talk about Laurel? Should he apologize for five years ago? Would they see each other again or was this just…closure?

If it was only closure…he hoped he was able to let go.

Only one way to find out, he supposed, locking his door and going to his parking spot, unlocking his car and setting the course for the little cafe they were to meet up in.

Damian was panicking.

He’d pulled over several times to shove his head between his legs and breathe deeply, humming to himself to calm down. There was a part of him that sneered, screaming out “Pathetic.” at his nerves.

Now, he was entering Metropolis, following the directions on the screen. Too late to chicken out now. He looked at himself as he hit a red light, outfit chosen with careful consideration and Skylar, Steph, Duke, and Maya’s approval. A touch of eyeliner was applied per Akira’s instruction, drawing attention to his deep green eyes, and a dangling gold cuff in his left ear. His right ear had a gold stud and small loop.

He tapped a finger impatiently on the wheel, deep green sleeves of the oversized open sweater he was wearing coming over his hands.

He pulled into the lot, checking the time. He was a few minutes early, and he tugged at the black turtleneck under his sweater, feeling heated all of a sudden. It felt like something had taken him over, drumming energy into his body.

A DM popped up and he fumbled with his phone, nearly dropping it. He took a deep breath before opening his car door, locking it and shoving his phone into the deep pocket of his jacket.

His black combat boots clicked against the pavement as he scanned the cafe in front of him, knowing that despite the years between them, he’d always be able to recognize the boy who haunted his dreams. 

A head of black curls came into his vision and desperation filled him, urging him to go forwards.

 ��JON!” He called out. 

Time seemed to slow as he turned, Damian coming to a halt as he met the eyes he’d so missed.

“Damian?” Jon’s face broke into a grin, the blinding smile that was so genuine, it brought him back to high school when he would have done anything to see it appear.

He was taller now, still more then him, and his curls were cut short, styled fashionably. His freckles were still prominent, the glasses he’d carried up into their senior year traded for contact lenses.

Damian’s heart was caught in his throat, palms beginning to gather sweat. His pulse was running wild and he knew he must have looked like an idiot, standing there and staring at his childhood ex-best friend like he was an alien.

Jon didn’t seem to mind, running up to him. It was only then when he snapped out of it, magnetically drawn to the taller boy, letting himself be enveloped in Jon’s arms.

The warmth lulled him, flutters of familiarity and something so right flooding through him. He wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once, run five laps but stay in his embrace.

He let his arms tighten around the other and kept them both in a firm hug, shutting his eyes before hearing a clearing of the throat.

He let go and stepped back immediately, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. He tugged on the collar of his turtleneck again and looked up ( looked up!! ) at Jon, cooling relief as he noticed the same embarrassment on his face.

“Jon.” He dipped his head in greeting, smile playing on his lips.

“Damian.” Jon responded in kind, grinning all the while. They sat down, the reunion euphoria settling and slowly turning the atmosphere into an uncomfortable silence.

They studied each other, watching for things that had become different during their time apart.

Jon noted the earrings, more bold from the simple gold studs Damian had worn, the only pair he’d owned back in high school. There were two more piercings, and his hair had grown longer, strands of it falling in his face. His eyes were still the same but held a haunting air, speaking of unspeakable things in the past.

It twisted in his heart and he looked down, noting the boots and generally stylish outfit. It was good to see that in that aspect he hadn’t changed much. Even not having much growing up, Damian had always managed to piece something together that made him look gorgeous.

“So…” Jon coughed. “How’ve you been?”

Damian seemed surprised, but he overcame it quickly. “Fine. You?”

“Fine too.”

The silence trailed off. 

“Timothy has told me Kon is doing well.”

Jon brightened, here was something he could talk about. “He is! His fashion line thing is taking off quicker than any of us had expected, and he’s kinda just goin’ around on the internet and stuff, you know? How’ve your siblings been?”

“They’ve been doing fairly well. Cassandra has become a talented dancer, and Tim has started his technology company. It’s doing pretty well, and Steph just entered pre-med school.”

“Jason helped out a colleague of mine in her singing, as well as his own music channel. He’s been cast as lead in the musical his school is putting on. Duke has been publishing poetry and is finishing up his degree, Dick is well, ten, but has shown a strong interest in music himself. And I’m not too bad off myself, what with ROBIN and all that.”

“I know!” Jon blurted out, Damian raising an eyebrow. He flushed pink and stumbled, backtracking.

“I-i don’t know if you remember, but i uh, i was a big fan of yours when you’d first started up. O-of course i didn’t know it was you at time but ah-”

Damian laughed, the quiet noise of joy ringing in Jon’s ears, a beautifully familiar song.

“I remember. I’m surprised you still stuck with him all this time, huh?” he grinned for a split second, fading quickly.

“Have you found your happy ending yet?” The question was a silent murmur, near inaudible.

Jon was brought back to that day, so blissfully unaware of how soon after their bond would break. 

“No.” He said finally. “I haven’t reached it yet. I thought I had, for a bit. But no.”

Haisley’s gone, then.

“What about you?” 

Damian quickly shook his head. “Not even close.” 

I could never, not without you.

“It’s nice to hear you’re doing well. I ever thought we’d get this chance again.” 

Jon smiled softly. “I’m glad we did, Damian.”

They stuck around for another hour or two, chattering about mindless things and catching each other up on their lives. Their last argument, nor the ROBIN stream or Laurel came up in the conversation. 

It would be best to save that for a different time, they supposed.

Damian checked his watch, noting the time. “It’s getting late, I’m sure you have places to be.” 

They both stood, facing each other and unsure of what to do next. Their initial hug had been something long overdue, and not at all thought out. However, the air of awkwardness returned, and they simply stood staring at each other, unsure of how to proceed. 

A dance of attempted hugs, handshakes and fistbumps occurred, before they eventually paused, holding a gaze for a few seconds before collapsing into laughter. 

Damian bumped him with his shoulder gently, offering a smile. Jon pulled him into a quick side hug, and when they parted, he smiled.

“I really am happy we could meet again. If you want we could do this again sometime?” The hopeful look in his eyes, filled with a strange hue of innocence sparked something inside of Damian, causing him to mirror the expression and nod.

“Of course, J.” The familiar nickname flowed off his tongue out of what he thought was a long forgotten habit.

The slip made Jon’s whole being light up, although Damian himself winced. “See you later, then? Just message me and we can sort out a day.”

He began trotting backwards, tapping his phone. The shorter man laughed a bit as he watched him leave, a gentle pang in his chest reminding him of all the things he’d so missed.

They had yet to have the conversion about the past, and both figured it could wait a bit, after all, they had just gotten each other back. Each wanted to bask in it, if only for a little while.

Damian collapsed on their couch moments after entering their house, keys still in one hand.

“How did it go?” Duke called from his room.

“Fine!” he called back.

Ugh. He realized with devastating pain. He’s still cute.

This is fine. It would be fine. After all, it was just a normal observation, it wasn’t an immediate crush, it was a stated fact about someone’s appearance. 

It's not like this would activate any lingering feelings or make him fall in love again, right?

…right?

[theseshipsshallsail]

Chapter 2

According to his watch, it's just shy of one-thirty that the asthmatic locomotive pulls to a lurching halt, and Oliver’s struck by how little the provincial scene varies to when he and Elio caught the adjoining line to Rome. He doesn’t have much in regards to luggage. Just his clothes, laptop, travel credentials, and a framed postcard of Monet’s berm. Micol - saint that she is - will ship his prized possessions in the Fall, and wrestling his Tourister from the overhead compartment he makes for the automatic doors; every fibre of his being fizzing like French champagne.

His fierce sense of homecoming amplifies tenfold as he takes in the sparse, grey platform with its same wooden cantilever. The same stationmaster’s hut with its wilting daisies. The same aroma of pine, tar, and enamel: though mercifully a lot less piss. Blindsided, his autopilot knees wobble like an infant giraffe, and adjusting the lie of his holdall Oliver scans the milling crowd, grateful for his six-foot-five height advantage when he eventually spies a lone figure at the farthest extent of the gangway.

Mirage or miracle: it undoubtedly seems like both.

Unsurprisingly, Elio doesn’t notice his approach; transfixed as he is by the painted safety border he’s scuffing with his sneaker. He’s antsy, still. That’s plain to see. Tense. Distracted. More statue than man. Channelling the self-same cocktail of emotions that make Oliver’s heart stagger at the veracity of one last chance. His tongue locks behind his teeth. Muted and ineffectual. Yet the moment Elio glances up - the instant their eyes meet like gravity’s pull - a slow-born grin anoints his sun-kissed features. It’s artless - dazzling - redolent of a full-body embrace, and the flashfire jubilation that spreads through Oliver’s veins verges on debilitating as a lump materialises in his tinder-dry throat.

“You’ve shaved your beard…” he murmurs inanely, only realising he’s spoken out loud when Elio scoffs in delight. 

“The mockery wasn’t worth the upkeep,” he says, ghosting his fingertips over the scruff on Oliver’s jowl. “Though I dare say even Marzia would approve of these distinguished whiskers.”

“Distinguished?” The feather-light touch has him feeling like filigree in Elio’s palm. “My three-day perma-stubble?” 

“Looks designer.”

“Sounds meshuga,” he deflects, reaching up to lower said hand to his brittle ribcage. 

There’s a beat; one breath, then another. Elio’s digits fan out, forming a chord over his left breast pocket, and just like that Oliver sags forward, smothering a plaintive whimper into flyaway curls. He’s prone to being the strong one - the guardian - but when Elio’s grip tightens he melts unerringly further. It’s bizarrely dreamlike - a cliché consolidation of every fantasy he’s ever harboured - and discarding his suitcase he bands his forearm around the other man’s waist, the immutable realness skewering him with relief as he basks in a world made new.

“We still fit,” he murmurs, brain-to-mouth filter decidedly offline. 

“We always will,” Elio maintains, seizing his nape with a surreptitious sniff.

A harsh gasp rises in Oliver’s chest, and he can’t contain it. Doesn’t even try to. Not with the hushed affirmation of Elio’s voice as they sway back-and-forth on the bustling concourse. 

“I’m sorry…” he whispers, overly-conscious of the attention they’re garnering.

“Don’t be.” A cousin of grief, only sweeter. “This was a long time coming.”

“Not for the lack of wanting...”

“Anch’io. It is what it is,” he’s told graciously. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” 

It doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow.  

“You okay?” Elio asks at length.

In the broad strokes? 

“Me okay.” It’s an echo of the past; a promise for the future. “I know it’s irrational,” Oliver concedes, resting his chin upon Elio’s crown. “...but I keep expecting to wake up in that faculty rental - preparing my syllabus and feeding next door’s ficus - not padding my CV for an opening at the Statale.”

Elio huffs. “Your reputation precedes you, professore.”

“I’m done living up to others’ terms and conditions,” Oliver states, reining in the threads of his frayed composure. “What was it Vimini used to say? Reality’s a rabbit hole?”

“Deprived of the scope of imagination,” Elio finishes, the savvy maxim particularly apt given the circumstances. “She’d be thirty today.” 

“She would,” Oliver concurs wistfully.

“And full of righteous I-told-you-sos,” Elio continues, tapping a deft ostinato above his breastbone. “Papà wasn’t alone in his love of speeches.”

Oliver sniggers. “I don’t recall Sami’s being quite so bolshie…”

“Absurdité! An eloquent taunt trumps a thousand insults, ma moitié.”

“I’ll keep that under consideration,” Oliver says archly, quelling an impulsive complaint when Elio takes a half-step backwards, putting unbearable inches between them.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning to a wall-mounted mailbox.

“Hungry?”

“Sì.” Elio swipes a foil-wrapped item from atop its blistered lid. “Hungry,” he parrots, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip: a hardly-there flick that draws Oliver's gaze. “Originates from the Old English hyngran, and the verb hungaran in High German.” 

“I’ll show you High German…”

“Ist das ein versprechen?” Elio deadpans, offering up the delicious smelling bundle. “Bruschetta chicken panini?" 

Oliver’s stomach growls like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “Mafalda’s special recipe?”

“Naturalmente.”

“My knight in striped-cotton,” he declares with a swoon, and Elio chuckles as he tosses it over, unhooking a familiar pair of Persol’s from his khaki belt-loop. 

“Andiamo, Principessa. Your noble steed awaits.”

His steed, Oliver discovers, parked in the shade of a derelict water tower, is a sherbert-yellow Fiat 500 with a Jar Jar Binks air-freshener fastened to the rear-view mirror. 

“Ollie’s obsessed with the prequels,” Elio groans, slotting the key into the ignition, and steering the vehicle to the signposted exit he’s soon navigating the picturesque thoroughfare to B.

There’s a childlike elation he encounters in ticking off the intermittent landmarks that denote their journey. Chasing the proverbial breadcrumbs of yesteryear as Elio updates him with anecdotes of former associates. Marzia’s being headhunted by a rival fashion magazine, he’s told. Whereas Chiara’s eldest daughter just earned a full drama scholarship to Cours Florent. Mario - to Oliver’s great amusement - has taken over the management of La Danzing, and it’s whilst discussing the Moreschi girls’ thriving pasticceria that his eyelids become increasingly leaden, causing him to jerk upright sometime later as they negotiate the gravelled arc of the villa’s driveway. 

“Rise and shine, Bella Addormentata,” Elio says, muting the eighties’ rock ballad coming from the car’s speakers, and Oliver experiences a soupçon of déjà vu as they coast to a stop in the exact same position his taxi did two decades prior. 

“Less of the sass, Perlman,” he replies with a stretch. “Red-eye flights are brutal. And I’m an old man now, remember?”

Elio unbuckles his seatbelt. “Not to me, you aren’t.”

“No,” Oliver agrees softly. “Not to you.” 

A rosemary-scented breeze enters via the open windows; bringing with it the screech of gulls from the peninsula’s shoreline. It’s hallowed ground, this place of memory, and with a cursory squeeze to Elio’s thigh he unfolds his legs from the passenger footwell, casts his face skywards, then loosens another shirt button to expose the Star of David he’d recouped from his treasured mementos.

“Welcome home, Oliver,” he hears in stereo: his disembodied Elio twining with the flesh-and-blood original. 

He’s been quieter of late - his phantom confidante - but any thoughts of answering are swiftly squashed when a snow-white streak rockets across the lawn, the pitter-patter of scampering paws running in ever-erratic circles.

“What I wouldn’t give for that energy…” 

“You and me, both,” Elio says, nabbing the overzealous pup’s collar. “Come: meet Polpetta. Our second -biggest rabble-rouser,” he invites, hunkering down to rub her fluffy midriff. “Miranda’s exhibition got extended at la galleria, so she and Ollie aren’t due in ‘til Wednesday. I think she’s missing her partner in -” 

A faint commotion starts up inside the residence’s stucco interior. 

“Brace yourself,” Elio warns as the porch door creaks ajar, and treating Polpetta’s muzzle to a farewell scratch, Oliver twists to see their harried housekeeper backing onto the veranda.

“Eccoti! ” she calls, depositing a large, wicker basket by the vine-covered plinth. “Il garzone del macellaio -” A pause. “Signor Ulliver?” Her double-take is almost comical, and rising from his stoop, Oliver mounts the uneven steps to meet her on the decking. “Non può essere,” she admonishes, bunching her chequered apron. “Elio! He is early!”

“He is indeed,” Oliver says, grinning from ear to ear. “I do hope we haven’t muddied your plans?”

“No, per niente!” Mafalda tugs his forearms. Pecks a kiss to his bristly cheek. “It is no bother,” she says in her heavy accent, clasping his hands between her own. “Ma basta! Look at you, mia muvi star. So handsome… so tall…” 

“So bashful…” Elio drawls from the Fiat’s rear bumper. “Calmati, Mafalda. Let him be. You’ve already tormented Enzo’s poor delivery boy…” 

It’s mischief personified, and Oliver ignores the flagrant provocation as he drapes an arm around the scandalised woman’s shoulders. “Don’t you believe a word of it,” he murmurs, blushing like the peaches in the nearby orchard. “He knows I’m not going anywhere.”

And the wink Elio shoots him whilst popping the trunk is all the confirmation he needs.

[your7oxygen]

10 Tips for Getting the Minimalist Look in Your Home

Achieving your minimalist design dreams doesn't have to be a headache. These tips will help you incorporate the best of minimalist design into your space with ease and enjoyment:

1. Simplify Your Colors

A minimalist look can instantly be created with beige, cream, and brown neutrals. For a more dramatic style, go for a monochromatic color palette of black and white. If these don't appeal, try muted colors outside this spectrum, paired with a complementary accent color to highlight your minimalist furniture and accessories. The simpler and more complementary the colors, the more spacious the room will feel, which is key to a minimal style.

2. Clear Away the Clutter

Minimalism thrives in uncluttered spaces. Be ruthless in clearing away excess clutter with clever storage solutions. Ensure that all items on display serve a practical function, like the 'Zen' approach to de-cluttering.

3. Break Up the Space

Open spaces and open-plan rooms are ideal for a minimalist aesthetic, but you don't need a ton of space to achieve this look. Use room dividers, partitions, low cabinets, and bookcases to optimize the space you have. For larger projects, consider reducing the number of walls in your room, though this involves more time and money. Prioritize clean rooms with only necessary furniture and choose items with simple silhouettes and clean shapes.

4. Remember the Materials

Minimalist styles favor strong shapes over fussy details. Mix materials or add a splash of color with flowers artfully arranged on your minimalist table to personalize the look without detracting from its key principles of shape, texture, and color. Metal and glass are popular for their ability to bounce light around the room and their sleek finishes.

5. Focus on Balance and Proportions

Minimalism is all about finding balance. Furniture should be in proportion with both the room and the rest of your décor to create a natural space rather than one where every item stands out. Coordination is key; everything must be intentional, not a result of accidental disharmony.

6. Choose a Focal Point

If neutrals aren't your thing, choose a single focal point to build around. This allows for more vibrancy and customization without deviating from minimalism. Draw the eye to the center with an interesting rug, painting, or table. Whatever the focal point, it must be functional to earn its place in your minimalist room.

7. Organize Your Lighting

Streamline your minimalist design with clever lighting. Use lighting to highlight specific areas or emphasize the simplicity of the space. Allow daylight to circulate freely, and use concealed artificial lighting as a powerful, unobtrusive tool to create a sense of space.

8. Focus on Function

Great minimalist design puts function front and center. Decide whether each piece has a purpose and discard those that do not. Your interior should be a place of harmony and calm. Add storage spaces or baskets to quickly stow objects that are out of place. In high-traffic areas, use sleek storage solutions to keep essentials hidden away

9. Leave Empty Space

Emptiness doesn't have to be dull. Resist the impulse to fill every corner or hang things on every wall. Ensure each piece has a function; if not, it has no place in a minimalist space.

10. Don't Forget the Flooring

A great floor can signal your minimalist credentials. Wooden floors, marble, and stone flooring are popular options that are easy to maintain and create a seamless look. Carpets aren't completely ruled out, but simpler options are often preferred.

Why is Minimalism Everywhere?

Minimalism's popularity stems from its adaptability and simplicity. A minimalist space instantly looks and feels more calming. Minimalist design principles can be adapted to suit homes, workplaces, and public spaces, making it a versatile and enduring style choice.

[feraltuxedo]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

From the next chapter of my crime drama AU The Runaway, in which DI Fell and his sex worker sidekick Crowley debrief at the pub after an unsuccesful morning's investigation:

‘There’s something not right about that clinic.’ Aziraphale swallowed the last of his skin-on chips and wiped his hands on the napkin. Whatever Crowley lacked in credentials, he clearly made up for in observational skills. His instincts were sharp. ‘No,’ Aziraphale said slowly. ‘There’s something off about it.’ ‘Like, why’d they make us wait for so long just to turn us away again?’ ‘Oh, that’s a standard power play. By the book, really. Making us wait to see what we let slip about our investigation. Hoping by the end we’re so frustrated, we show our weaknesses. And I have to say, they nearly got you.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘They did, though. You were seething. You can’t let your nerve get to you like that.’ ‘They were wasting our time.’ ‘Quite, and that’s exactly what they’ll do again when we go back after lunch.’ ‘We what? I don’t wanna to back there. I’ve got shit to do.’ ‘What, you’ve got nudes to take for the internet?’ Just across the pub, the bartender dropped an empty pint glass, which bounced off the wooden floor but didn’t shatter. Crowley waited for the clanging to stop before he answered. ‘Yup. Busy man, me.’ ‘Alright. You don’t have to come along.’ Crowley, who had clearly been expecting a fight, drooped in his chair. His change of mind was comically obvious. ‘I mean… I could, though.’ Aziraphale thought back to their brief but illuminating conversation with the doctor at the clinic earlier. ‘Perhaps better not. I don’t mean any offence, but you don’t quite have the temper or the delicacy required for this.’ ‘How fucking dare you, I’m as delicate as a paper flower.’ He rather contradicted himself by growling as he half lunged across the table, nearly knocking over his glass in the process. Aziraphale looked around, making sure the bartender wasn’t within earshot. ‘There’s plenty for you to do in the meantime. If there is something going on at the clinic, the locals will either know or suspect. You saw the gentleman with the dog earlier—’ ‘Tory wanker.’ ‘This strikes me as the kind of place where gossip spreads like wildfire. All you have to do is use your not insubstantial charm to get the locals talking. Oh, and if you could book a hotel or a B&B for a night, that might be helpful, too. I fully suspect I won’t get anywhere today at the clinic, but perseverance usually pays off in these kind of places. That means you won’t make your seven o’clock date, I’m afraid.’ Aziraphale said all of this very quickly, but when he glanced up from his plate, Crowley was giving him an entirely inscrutable look. ‘Assuming you want to stay here, of course,’ he added, suddenly insecure. ‘I’ll give you a lift to the nearest train station, if you want. Depending on the schedule, you might get back to London in time to—’ ‘D’you really think I’m charming?’ Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut, as Crowley’s widened to a rather smug grin. ‘Don’t people quite literally pay you for your charm? I thought that was part of the whole…’ Aziraphale waved a hand in Crowley’s general direction. ‘Business plan.’ ‘That and my eight inch—’ ‘Sorted, then. I go back to the clinic, you scout the area.’ Aziraphale drained his cordial and stood up, but Crowley’s grin penetrated right through the back of his head.

[nuagederose]

As the Seasons Grey | Chapter Thirty-Eight: You’ve Seen the Butcher

ao3 link

The clouds broke a bit with the mid-morning sunshine as Christine made her way to the back side of the cafeteria, the place where she and Nelly had met up once before at the start of the school year. It had been her third time at trying out the new spot in the back room of the library, as it was either she or Alex had missed the other, and thus, it wasn’t until the third week of the quarter when she finally found the gumption to make her way over there once again.

There was a part of her that did not want to face Alex that whole time as she knew he had spent some time with Captain Howdy, perhaps more than she could ever imagine. The mere thought of him being in the arms of someone else, especially her, was enough to send her system into overdrive. The class period with him seemed a touch more restrained, a feeling that she could perhaps slice through with the blunt edge of a knife: the feral look in his eyes and the tremble in his lips told her that he had that proverbial itch once again. She had to stop dragging him around and meet up with him in that back room as he so wished.

She couldn’t lose him, not to Captain Howdy, and certainly not to a car wreck.

Christine adjusted the lapels of her coat as she made her way over to the far corner of the outside of the bookstore: all the while, she peered over her shoulder to ensure no one was following her, not Eric, not the Sundaes, no one. She returned to the path before her as well as the shape of his body right behind the brick and mortar. Alex nudged a lock of hair behind his ear and adjusted his glasses as they rested upon the bridge of his nose. He frowned when he paid closer attention to the look on her face.

“What's wrong?” he asked her.

“I don’t know, Alex, I don’t really want to skip class,” she confessed with a shake of her head: an updraft of wind sent the back of her ponytail upwards like the branches of a tree. “Especially when neither you nor I have all that much money as is.”

“You know, when I got my teaching credential, I missed all of two days,” he told her. “Consider it just a one time thing, dear Christine!”

She shook her head again.

“Tell you what,” he started again, that time in a slightly louder voice for her to hear over the winds. “If anyone asks, I was taking you somewhere to study and we got caught up in the snow and the traffic.”

She sighed through her nose and patted her ponytail down once more lest the wind pick it up again.

“Okay,” she replied, and yet there was a part of her that didn't want to lie to everyone when the time came. But she looked on at him, right into those bespectacled eyes, and she knew what he wanted. And she knew what she wanted as well.

He ran his fingers through his black hair and then he led her around the corner of the bookstore towards the library, and in particular that room in question. Another gust of cold wind sent Christine's ponytail up over her head: she held it down with both hands as Alex held the door for her, and she padded into the cozy dark little room, right at the back of the library. Once she shut the door behind her, she noticed that this was that one room in the library that everyone was forbidden from going into on a regular basis. The door was always locked and the top window, always blacked out with a piece of paper.

Alex strode on over to the other door for a flick of the light switch: it took her a second to realize that it was a dimmer switch, and the light overhead flickered on to a low light just above darkness lest anyone beyond the door see it. Christine glanced down to the floor to find a low wooden table and a pair of plush looking purple pillows. Upon the table was a teakettle as well as a bowl of what appeared to be strawberries accompanied with chocolate fondue.

To the right side of the room stood a small desk chair with a spongy back: Alex took off his jacket and draped it over the back part of it. He then rubbed his hands together and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Want some berries?” he offered her, once more in that low, husky voice: given they were in such a small room, his voice crept over her as if he was giving her a massage all around her shoulders and the back of her neck.

“Yes, please,” she replied with a smile. Alex sank down to the cushion on the floor with his back to the window, while Christine took to the one before the door. He picked up a berry from the bowl and handed it over to her.

“Care for some chocolate with it?” he offered her with a gesture to the bowl of fondue right between them.

“Gladly,” she encouraged him: he dipped the tip of the berry into the chocolate, and she leaned over the top of the table for a bite. She closed her eyes all the while: the bite of the strawberry with the sweetness of the chocolate was enough to have her going. She opened her eyes and showed him a smile.

“Pretty good, isn't it?”

“Indeed,” she replied with her mouth full: she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, and he showed her the tip of his tongue. The low light accentuated the rims of his glasses as well as the full tip of his nose and the bow shape in his lips. He dipped the berry into the chocolate again, and she leaned in for a second bite, that time all the way to the stem.

“Something tells me I should do this more,” he suggested to her as he set the stem down on the table.

“We should do this more, Alex,” she corrected him, and she swallowed and flashed him a wink. He rested an elbow up against the edge of the table and glanced down at the berries.

“I want you to feed me,” he encouraged her: he nearly breathed the words that time around. He seemed to slither about like a snake, a man so classy and put together during class time and yet therein lay a foreboding darkness inside of there. Everything is sex, as he so put it the other day.

To play with the darkness within him was to play with the tail of a dragon.

“I don't really think so, Alex,” she said with a little bow of her head, and she simply couldn't resist the mischievous grin on her face all the while, either. He squinted his eyes at her with that.

“Eat some fruit,” he whispered to her.

“I don't think so,” she insisted.

“Please. Have some more.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?” He showed her a grin. Christine showed him her tongue: Alex picked up another berry and dipped it into the chocolate. He inched around the table to meet up with her, to which he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with his free hand.

She hooded her eyes at him and the fact that his glasses slid down his nose just enough for her to look into those big eyes, big and liquid like a pair of tidepools in the dead of night, only made her move in closer to his face.

“Come to me,” he beckoned her, again in that breathy whisper of a voice.

“Only if you come to me,” she whispered back to him: he stuck the strawberry in between her lips, and all the while, her eyes never left his. The chocolate caressed over her teeth and her tongue: she opened her mouth all the way just to engulf the entire berry to the stem. Between the taste in her mouth as well as the fresh smell of his cologne from his neck and shoulders, she could feel her nipples tightening and the space between her legs moistening with the feeling.

“Pretty good, isn't it?” he whispered to her.

“Delicious,” she replied once she swallowed it down.

“Kiss me… kiss me always…” he breathed to her. She refrained from telling him to forget about Captain Howdy once he kissed her, but she found herself enveloped in his arms and with his lips entwined on her own. Christine reached down to feel the back of his jeans with the bases of her palms and the pulsation of her fingers, which in turn brought a little snicker out of him.

“Be careful,” he warned her. “There are students in the next room.”

She held back all so he could lay on his back on the smooth linoleum next to the table; all the while, Christine stood on her knees before him with her coat wide open. There was a part of her that wanted them to hear the two of them in there, to hear the truth as it was enveloped in utter silence. She let the coat fall off her body and onto his legs.

“Come down here and kiss me,” he beckoned her: not once did he raise his voice away from that husky tone. Christine suspended herself over his body, to the point that her ponytail glided down over her back and onto his shoulder and the side of his neck. He reached up as if to hold her face, but he instead went for the back of her shirt. His long fingers crawled up her back like the legs of a spider, and she arched her back inward to show off her chest to him. Triumphant, he unhooked her bra and let it hang loose inside of her shirt.

Christine then stood up on her knees and took off her shirt: the cups of her bra dangled off her chest as if she had just come out of the nearest strip joint. She lay her shirt on her coat, which had piled up on his legs, right near his knees, and then she returned to the push-up position right over his body. Her bra slid part of the way off her shoulders to reveal most of her breasts to him.

“Your nipples, right?” he asked her.

“Oh, you know it, big boy,” she breathed to him. With the flick of his tongue to her, he nudged the cups out of the way and revealed her nipples. His fingers caressed over that delicate, slightly darkened skin: those long, lanky fingers with the right amount of callus on the tips to send her nipples into a tight point like a pair of needles. She breathed harder at the feeling, but then he pressed his index finger to her lips to silence her.

“Be careful—do not make a sound if you can help it,” he breathed right into her face. He moved his finger away from her lips and down onto her chin: she then let out a low moan right into his face, to which he raised his eyebrows at her. “You really are the saucy type, aren't you.”

“Saucy like the space between my lips?” she teased him, and he nudged his glasses down the bridge of his nose.

“You really wanna go there?” he asked her, to which she gave her ponytail a toss back with the flick of her head: her bra slid off all the way down her arms and onto his chest.

“I'm as bad as they come,” she said to him in a slightly louder voice. Alex showed her his tongue again, and that time he reached down to her jeans. She held still as he undid them with two fingers and his thumb: he then reached down into the front of her underwear, down in between her legs to her clit. She gasped at the feeling of his fingers on the rim of her hood.

“Yeah, you like that, don't ya, bad girl,” he teased her, still in that husky whisper.

Christine let out a soft, whisper of a moan at the feeling of his fingers there, which in turn made him bar his teeth. Her voice remained down low in husky fashion, but it still echoed over the linoleum.

“Seeing as you're on top and everything,” he coaxed her, but then she raised a hand and wagged a finger at him. She knew what he wanted, but she knew that she found a hole in his proverbial armor.

“You're going to have to play for it,” she teased him.

“Oh, ho, ho, don't play with me,” he warned her.

“But you're going to have to because I said so,” she said.

“Don't play with me,” he warned her again. “Playing with me is like playing with fire.”

“Yes, but playing with me is like playing with water,” she retorted. “Water onto fire, baby.” Christine leaned down for a kiss on his cherry lips, and he wriggled his index finger right on the head of her clit. She gasped and moved her head back, to which he snickered at her with his tongue slipped out of his mouth.

“Yeah, you like that, don't you, bad girl?” he teased her again. “I don't know if you can handle me because I'd want to discipline you all the time.”

“And if you discipline me, who's going to be the bad one?” she asked him as she moved her head down to the side of his neck for a kiss there, followed by a gentle nibble. He gasped at the feeling of her teeth, but she kept going. A slight grind of her two front teeth was enough to stop him dead in his tracks: he made a sound that made her think he was choking on something.

She knew that he would have to explain to Captain Howdy where the mark came from when he saw her again, but she didn't care at that point anymore. Too many interruptions and not enough time alone with him.

“Try and get outta this one,” she whispered into his ear. Christine puckered her lips to add some more to the hickey, but then he gripped onto the back of her jeans and forced her off of him. She lay on the floor, flat on her back, with her breasts fully exposed to him. She gazed up to find that he loomed right over her body: Alex leaned down so his hair spread over his shoulder and down upon her face. His glasses still rested on the tip of his nose as his eyes caressed down the shape of her body.

“Like I said... don't play with me, Christine,” he warned her. “I may not have that much under my belt, but I can give you my belt.”

“Give it to me,” she quipped without a second thought. “Give it to me right now, big boy.”

“Hey, now, you didn't say the magic word,” he teased her with a wag of his finger.

“Please give it to me, you filthy dog you,” she quipped again, to where she nearly breathed the words. Alex unfastened his belt and slid it out of the loops on his jeans: he held onto her wrists and wrapped that smooth leather around them to bind them together. He then gently raised her arms up over her head.

“How we doing here...” He reached between her legs again for another fingering, to which Christine gasped. He treated her to a little sneer as he used his index and middle fingers on the head of her clit. She pinched her eyes shut as the feeling rose up as fast as she could imagine. He was getting her off yet a second time.

She could feel her hips bucking from the feeling, but then he stopped her dead in her tracks with his free hand.

“Oh, you bad girl,” he teased her as he fingered her again. She kept trying to buck her hips but he still held her steady in place on the linoleum. She lifted her head when she felt his hair on her breasts: he planted a soft kiss on the skin between them, followed by one below it. He kept going all the way down her belly, onto her waist and the spot above her hood. Not once did he take off his glasses, especially once he slipped his tongue inside of her lips.

“Maybe this'll keep you steady,” he said in between laps. She breathed harder and she knew she was about to come a third time, that time by the power of his velvet tongue as well as the leather around her wrists. It welled up within her, the sense of euphoria that she hadn't felt in what seemed like forever to her at that point. Christine parted her lips as he slithered and sliced with his tongue: he was about as deep as he could go when she let out that low shuddered moan from the back of her throat.

“That's the sound I wanted to hear,” he breathed out once he lifted his head from between her legs. Alex then reached over for something, but Christine could only keep her eyes closed, all to relish the feeling. Her heart pounded and the spot between her legs throbbed from his gentle caress: the leather kept her steady in the meantime, and that too was a feeling that she wanted with her forever. She then opened her eyes once she smelled his cologne again. He had picked up a bit of chocolate with the tip of his finger on his free hand and showed it to her. She ran her tongue along the side of his finger for a taste of it as well as his skin.

“Next time, I want to kiss every inch of you,” she confessed to him.

“Oh, you know I would love that,” he assured her with a grin and a wink. “I should also tell you that you taste so good. A great artist and you also taste delicious. Like candy to my soul.”

“Let’s make this our spot,” she whispered to him, slightly out of breath.

“Gladly. And you know, it’s not like anyone comes back here, anyway.” He then leaned into her face for a kiss on the lips, to which she reached up and put the binding around her wrists on the back of his neck to pin him down to her. He squinted his eyes at her.

“Oh, you're good,” he whispered into her face, and then he grimaced at the feeling. “It's a little much, though.” And she lifted her wrists from the back of his neck so he could sit up and so she could sit up as well. He helped her unbind the belt from her wrists when he hesitated for a second.

“Do you have the time?” he asked her as she hitched up her underwear and her jeans. Christine took out her phone from her jeans pocket.

“Ten to eight,” she replied, and he chuckled at that.

“Didn't have to call in sick after all!” he said as he handed her bra back to her. “We gotta hustle, though.”

“What do we do with the strawberries?” she asked him.

“You take them,” he told her, and he reached under the table for a piece of Tupperware. “I’ll take the chocolate.”

[sraddhasen12]

Interior Design Ideas For An Eco-Friendly Homeby Paint Sutra :)

Let's consider some sustainable and eco-friendly interior designs which can turn your home into a nature-loving paradise: Sustainable interior design is quickly rising in popularity in recent years due to its signature quality of calming nature vibes and creating a relaxed boho vibe. It is cheaper than usual when it comes to the wallet and pleases the senses. Reaching out a balance between the environment and our own needs without reduced capability of the future generations must be adequately practiced because of increasing

1.Rattan Furniture For Sustainable Interior Design

Choose the sustainable option of rattan furniture for your living room and combine it with earth-tone walls to build a warm atmosphere. Accentuate the look by adding upcycled frames, smart blinds, and eco-friendly lamp shades, thus creating a beautiful space that considers both environment and atmosphere.

2.There Is No Better Material For Interior Design Than Jute

Jute is a supremely sustainable natural fiber with beneficial qualities like durability and versatility. It can provide a recognizably rural style to an interior without adversely affecting the environment. Incorporating this strain of plant in your space will produce added sensations of pleasure when used for design elements such as settees, headboards, and upholstery work. You could even install someone on informal bench hung by jute strings for a touch of enthusiasm in the atmosphere.

3.Interior Design Ideas That Are Eco-Friendly And Minimalistic

If you're looking for smart, sustainable ways to bring beauty to your abode, we have some breathtaking idea collections. Our eco-friendly home décor philosophies are economizing and conscientious regarding the environment. Minimalism brings a neatness effect that helps present even a small dwelling as spacious and lovely. Employ sources of natural illumination to create a vibrant setting in interpersonal life at home – this establishes positivity and freshness in addition to forming an attractive space. Soften the aura using one couch.

4.An Eco-Friendly Industrial Bedroom Design With A Distressed Finish

If you're looking to make your bedroom both bold and eco-friendly, industrial style could be the perfect choice. Its intimate setting has all the benefits of minimal design - featuring a brick cladding wall with a distressed finish, recycled wooden flooring and sparse pieces of furniture - married with the traditional aspects of timeless elements. Much of its charm lies in its green credentials; only upcycled resources are used during what's otherwise quite a modern take on bedroom design, making it sustainability at its finest.

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