#(in a different way from wyn)

[astrovagrant]

inventing fucked up new emotions for roz

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Eisteddfod Chairs: Pick Your Winner!

It's almost June! Nearly time to reveal the 2023 Chair! So come, gather round Tumblrs, let me tell you of the furniture-based customs of my people

So Wales has been celebrating Eisteddfodau (festivals of poetry, music, and disco dancing), in some form or another, since at least the 1100s, when Lord Rhys of Dinefwr had one all formal-like and made it into a big fun party and that. The word basically means 'sitting place', and probably refers to the way people in summer would gather round the twmpath in the village to listen to bards that passed through and drink mead and shout 'hurrah!' a lot. Amazingly, this is not where the Chair Thing comes from.

Part of Welsh history is the Bardic Age, and it was custom for bards to travel the country and visit the courts of assorted gentry types (also normal people's houses and taverns and twmpaths but let's stay on topic) and play for them. If the lord paid well, great; if not, the bard would write a Super Mean Song about them and sing it everywhere, so they were pretty well treated.

But if they were particularly good, rather than making them play for the WHOLE meal, the lord would offer them a chair at the table to join in the feast as a guest, rather than a worker, and THAT is where the Chair Thing comes from.

Anyway that's preamble to say that every year in the biggest Eisteddfod of all - the Eisteddfod Genedlaethol - the highest honour awarded goes to the Prifardd - the bard who writes the winning cywydd (super complex Welsh poetry WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN ALL OF THIS). And the prize for writing the winning cywydd is that you are awarded, you guessed it, the Chair.

Now these Chairs (capital C, please, we like a bit of Fantasy Novel Capitalisation and for this cultural reason I will never understand people who complain about it) are unique. They are thrones. They are carved each year by one chosen carpenter, who crafts a one-of-a-kind Chair with symbolism and that, never to be replicated. They usually have the year carved on, but otherwise, they vary wildly in aesthetic and symbolism. In a No Award year (because Eisteddfod judges don't subscribe to the Western idea that there HAS to be a first, second and third place; if no one is good enough there is no award, and I have seen choir competitions for seven year olds where there was no first or third place but there were two choirs in joint second), the Chair is sent back to the carpenter who carved it, and they get to keep it. In a year where the bard died before the ceremony, it is draped in black, and given to next of kin.

(That has only happened once. RIP Hedd Wyn, 1887-1917. Also the only reproduced Chair; the original, known as the Gadair Ddu (the Black Chair) is on display in his family home, but a 3D printed replica has been made for display by Amgueddfa Cymru)

BUT THEREFORE a big part of Eisteddfod fun is seeing what the Chair will look like this year. Traditional ones, see, we tend to think look like variants of this:

(Apologies for the substandard attempts at alt-text; I have no clue how to describe these properly)

This one is from 1896. The phrase "Y gwir yn erbyn y byd" means "The truth against the world", and was included in a lot of old ones. Modern ones tend to incorporate the druidic symbol for awen ("poetic inspriation") instead. Some of these incidentally turn up in lil' chapels and that about the country.

But actually even the old ones were mad different, look; clockwise from top left, these are y Gadair Ddu (1917), 1876, 1926 (when the carpenter was Chinese and enjoyed the cultural fusion), and 1908.

Still the same theme, though, but in the modern day the carpenters are all off the shits! They're all over the place! Fuck the rules! And I have Opinions.

Category: I See What You Did There

SYMBOLISM!!! 2011 is a pit wheel from Wrexham's mining past! 2013 is the head of a harp, from Denbighshire's cultural harp-making past! 2017 is fish, from Anglesey's maritime present! Fantastic. Love it.

Best in category: 2017. Why does Anglesey's have so many eyes on the fish? We don't know. Wylfa B protestors reportedly furious.

Category: The Modern Throne

TALL!!! That silhouette! That height!! They have the range, darling! Christ knows 2016 doesn't have anything else going for it! Shout out to the Conwy river on 2019, the different woods from the forests of Maldwyn for 2015, and the red kite symbolism for Ceredigion in 2022 (the spiritual home of the bird, where the species was first saved).

Best in category: 2019, Conwy. I like the bridge and the river lines and the water effect on the front of the seat it's just so pretty.

Category: That's Just A Chair

(I am actually friends with the Prifardd who won 2018 at the bottom there :D )

WHAT ARE RULES WE JUST WANT FUNCTIONAL CHAIRS. Man even so 2014 was fucking ugly. You could have 2018 in your house. Around your table, like. Even 2012 has a sort of IKEA vibe that's boring but palatable. 2014 is only coming in the house under sufferance.

Best in Category: 2018, easy, and not just because it's the one I'm most likely to get to sit in one day. It's pretty.

Category: NO GODS NO CHAIRS NO MASTERS

WHAT

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN 2010

BRO I DO NOT THINK YOU TRIED

Best in Category: OBVIOUSLY 2021 I COULD PHYSICALLY MAKE 2010 MYSELF

[musings-of-a-rose]

Jump Then Fall - Part 3

Pairing: Javier Peña x ofc “Vanessa Morales”

Word Count: 3600+

Rating: M for mature - 18+ only!

Warnings: Please be aware there is an 11 year age gap. Mature themes and some canon mentioned. Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.

Notes: When the story starts, Vanessa is 19 and Javier is 30.

**Shoutout to @VaneMando15 for listening and bouncing ideas from me, and for her guidance with being a Latina herself. Without her, this wouldn’t even be a thing, just another line on my WIP spreadsheet. And also to my husband, who is also Latino and answered any questions I had (along with taking me to Colombia back in 2014). And to @wyn-n-tonic, who listened to my rambles and insecurities about writing an oc in first person.

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

Jump Then Fall Masterlist

General Masterlist

Javier Peña Masterlist

<<Part 2<<

He's coming back. Chucho is bringing Javier back after 6 years. What do I say? How do I tell him he has a son who is already 6 years old? Will he even remember me? Will he want to be a part of mine and Alex's life or will he turn and run?

My mind spirals as I finish drying the last few pans before putting them away. I head upstairs, my brain going through a million different scenarios before I take a quick glance in the mirror. I smooth down my hair and put on a new outfit, a simple summer dress that goes down to my knees, and end up randomly tidying and cleaning the house, never settling on one spot.

I knew this day would come. I guess I just never thought about it specifically. 6 years ago, I was so sure of my choice not to tell him, that I wouldn't want him distracted in Colombia but I wouldn't want him to come home and resent us for forcing his choice. But a part of me, ok a large part of me, feels guilty for not giving him the choice.

I hear Chucho's truck pull up outside and my heart starts beating faster. The truck doors slam and muted voices make their way to the front door. I pick up the book on the counter in front of me and open it, my eyes not taking in a word but I didn't want to look like I was waiting around for them. For him.

"...'m fine. You don't have to b-baby me."

"I'm just trying to make sure you don't vomit on the clean floors."

He's drunk. I can tell by the way his words are slurred, his feet thunking across the wood floors in a sporadic pattern. Before I can move, he stumbles through the kitchen doorway, his eyes taking a few moments to focus on me.

"Who are you?"

My hearts sinks a little. I would've been surprised if he remembered me, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt.

"Vanessa."

He steps closer to me, his eyes scanning my body before settling on mine.

"Are you fucking my dad?"

"Uh, no. I-"

"Ok, Javi. Time for bed. Vanessa will be here later for you to question," Chucho claps his hands on Javier's shoulders and guides him towards the doorway.

"Ok, ok. I have more questions later, Vanessssssa."

I give him a little wave as he disappears through the doorway. Chucho struggles to get him up the stairs, but eventually the sounds of them arguing disappear and I'm left alone for the moment. I turn around, gripping the counter with both of my hands and take several deep breaths.

He doesn't remember me. Or maybe it's because he's drunk? How do I handle it now?

His eyes, though filled with the drink, held a lot of anger and regret. He's hurting. I can't imagine what he's seen or had to do in persuit of Escobar. Chucho walks back in, breaking me from my thoughts.

"Sorry about him. He doesn't usually get drunk like that."

I wave my hand. "It's fine. I imagine he's been through a lot."

"Still, it's not an excuse to act like an asshole...he's going to be out for a bit but I'm thinking hamburgers for dinner? Something greasy to help that hangover he's going to have."

"Sounds good."

Chucho studies me for a moment. "How are you?"

That's a good question. "I...I'm not entirely sure."

"You need to tell him."

I nod. "Of course. But I can't tell him when he's drunk."

He chuckles. "No, I suppose not. But soon, ok?"

I give him a small smile before moving to get out the ingredients to bake some hamburger buns. Chucho moves to the living room, the tv turning on a moment later. He flips the channel and the news report echoes through the doorway to me.

"Breaking news! Pablo Escobar has just been killed. This is live footage of the rooftop where he was killed by DEA agent Steve Murphy..."

I step into the living room, watching the live broadcast of the rooftops where the outline of a dead man lays splaid on the tiles, other men in tach vests surrounding him. A blonde man high fives someone as the news anchor continues their report. But then it dawns on me.

Javier is not there, finally catching Escobar after 6 years of chasing him. He's here. No wonder he's drunk. What happened?

"Why is Javier here, Chucho?"

He's quiet a moment. "I don't know."

I return to the kitchen, mixing the dough before forming the buns. I can't imagine working for 6 years trying to catch one of the most elusive men, only to be forced away at the very end, not even being allowed to be there for his capture. I'd lose my mind too. I know I need to tell him about Alex, but I also need to give him a moment with this.

But how long of a moment?

-------

It takes 3 days for Javier to come out of a drunken stupor. I hear his bedroom door open as he stumbles down the hall with a groan, the bathroom door closing behind him. I hear a slam from the bathroom, sounding like the toilet lid. I wipe my hands on my apron and head upstairs, hesitating for a moment outside of the bathroom door. I knock very gently.

"Javier? Are you alright?"

A grunt followed by another violent heaving sound answers me. I turn the handle, slowly pushing the door open as the heaving subsides. Javier slumps against the side of the bathtub, his hand moving around to find the handle to flush the toilet. His hair is rumpled, his eyes mostly closed, clad only in a pair of sweatpants. I walk over to the toilet and close the lid, flushing the toilet for him. His hand drops to his lap and he takes a couple of deep breaths.

"Thanks."

"Of course. Do you want help up?"

He cracks his eyes open and looks at me. "You're not my dad."

"That I am not."

He lifts his head, opening his eyes a little more before hissing and closing them, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "The fucking light is going to kill me."

"Well I can't do anything about the light coming in this window. But let's get you back to your room in bed. You'll feel better."

I wait a few moments while he gathers himself, extending my hand to help him up. He squints at me and I roll my eyes.

"Just take my hand. I'm stronger than I look."

He takes it and I have to hold back a gasp as his large hands engulf my small ones, the warmth from the contact sparking all sorts of thoughts and memories. I pull him to his feet and he leans on me as I help him back to his room, pulling back the sheets as he slides in. I pull all of his curtains firmly shut, only using the light from the hallway to see around. Javier settles into bed, groaning a little as he puts his hand on his stomach.

"I'll bring you some water and pain meds."

"Oh you don't have-"

"That wasn't a question."

I head back downstairs, getting a glass of water. I stop by the bathroom again, opening the medicine cabinet and getting out some pain meds. I also pull out the bottle of activated charcoal tablets that Chucho handed me shortly after Javier came home. He said they suck to choke down but they'd really help the hangover. I carry everything to his room, shaking out the right amount of charcoal tablets. Javier sits up with another groan, taking the pills and the glass of water.

"This isn't aspirin."

"No. It's activated charcoal. Chucho said it will really help your hangover. You can't take it with any meds though as it'll just absorb those."

"I'll just take the aspirin."

"I really think you need to take the charcoal."

He looks up at me. "I don't even know who you are why the fuck would I listen to you?"

"Because I just carried your stubborn self all the way from the bathroom after you puked your guts out. I'm just trying to help. Take the damn pills."

He studies me through squinted eyes. "Yes ma'am." He chokes down the pills and makes a disgusted face before drinking several sips of water. "Those taste terrible."

"I never claimed they tasted good. So let those do their work and get some rest. When you're ready, come downstairs and I'll make you something to eat."

He looks at me again, his eyebrows slightly furrowed together in concentration. "No really, who are you?"

"Vanessa. Now get some rest."

He lays back and I pull the blanket up, giving him a small smile when I catch him looking at me. I leave the room and head back downstairs, finishing up some of the lesson planning I was doing for the upcoming semester.

A few hours later, Javier comes downstairs, this time with a shirt. Although he only has the bottom 3 buttons done up. I'm not sure why he even bothered with a shirt. Not that I'm complaining. He stands there awkwardly, like he doesn't know what to do.

"Feeling better?" I ask, turning to face him from my stool at the kitchen island.

"Yeah. Those charcoal things worked really well."

"Good. I've never been hungover so I wasn't sure, but I figured Chucho knew what he was talking about. Are you hungry?"

"I uh...I'm not sure," his hand goes to his stomach, his face souring slightly.

I head over to the slow cooker on the counter. "I made some chicken noodle soup. If anything, you can sip on the broth?" I look over at him, his head cocked to the side, watching me.

"Javier?"

"What? Oh soup. Yeah. Sure."

I ladle him a bowl and grab some saltines and set them on a little plate next to his bowl and set it in front of him. I also set down a glass filled with cloudy looking water.

"Coconut water?" Javier asks skeptically.

I shrug. "My mom always gave it to me during and after a cold. Said it gave me back nutrients. I figure alcohol probably takes a fair amount of nutrients from you. So it should help."

"Hhmm. Guess we'll find out." He takes a tentative sip from the cup, licking his lips a little after. "Hey that's sitting alright."

I give him a small smile. "Good."

Before I can move, he grabs my arm and gives it a little squeeze, sending jolts of electricity through me. "Thank you."

"Y-you're welcome."

I sit and pull my planner and books to me, resuming my task of lesson planning. I can feel his eyes on me, like he's studying me. I wish he would find something else more interesting.

"What are you doing?"

I don't look up. "Lesson planning for this upcoming semester."

He takes a slurp of his soup and swallows it. "Teacher? Holy shit this soup is amazing."

I look up at him as he takes another bite, his eyes closing for a moment as he savors the soup.

"Yeah. I'm teaching 2nd grade this year."

"Sounds fun. Seriously, what did you do to this soup?"

"My mom taught me how to cook," My eyes sting and my heart hurts thinking of those memories.

"Well, she did a damn good job."

"Sometimes she got it right."

He looks up at me. "Oh. I'm sorry I touched a nerve."

I wave my hand. "It's ok. I've come to terms with it."

He sets his spoon down, all of his focus on me. His gaze is intense, that little furrow between his brow is back. "You look-"

"Good you're awake, puto. Put some pants on and come help me." Chucho walks in the back door, stomping his boots on the mat outside before stepping in.

"I don't know if I-"

"Come on, son. No more babying I gave you time. Now I need your young bones."

"You sound like a bruja." (witch). But Javier pushes back from the island and starts to grab his plate.

"Don't worry about it, I got it." I stand, leaning over to take the bowl and plate, noticing that he'd eaten all of it. "I have more if you want some."

His dark eyes bore into mine, fanning a flame inside of me. "I want whatever you give me, Vanessa."

SMACK! Chucho slaps Javier on the back of his head.

"What the fuck?"

"Stop flirting and come help me before these chickens run halfway to Mexico."

-------

Chucho and Javier are gone for a few more hours and return just as the sun is setting. I hang up the phone, having had my nightly call with Alex, who is having a blast at science camp. The men kick off their work boots and coats, trudging upstairs to shower.

"Dinner will be ready soon so don't take long!" I yell after them.

Chucho devours the steak I'd made him while Javier opts to have another couple bowls of soup. Before long, Chucho leans back, slapping his stomach.

"Well, I am tired. Gonna get an early sleep. Vanessa? Delicious, as usual. Night, everyone."

"Good night, Chucho."

While he heads upstairs, I start to clean up, Javier immediately moving to help me. I shake my head.

"Nope. I got this."

"I can help."

"Really, it's ok."

"Are you always this stubborn?

"Are you?"

He looks at me before he smirks, but then it's gone just as fast. Man am I fucked.

"I can dry?"

"I appreciate the offer, but really. I'm ok."

"Does washing the dishes relax you or something?"

I know he said it in jest, but now that I think about it, it kind of does. The warm, soapy water calms me down. Gives me space to think.

"Yeah sort of."

He puts his hands up. "Say no more. I don't want to intrude." Did he just wink at me? Javier heads from the kitchen and I hear the front door open, the screen door slapping closed behind him.

After I'm done with the dishes, I dry my hands, thinking. I grab another glass of coconut water and head towards the front door, hesitating for several moments before pushing open the screen. Javier sits on the swing bench, facing out to look over the front half of the farm, a cigarette lit and in between his fingers. He takes a long drag, his lips rounding to blow out the smoke.

"I thought you should hydrate again." I hold up the glass and he turns to look at me, his eyes coming back into focus. He beckons me to him and I walk up, handing him the glass.

"That's a nasty habit, you know," I nod towards the cigarette in his hand.

He shrugs. "You have your relaxing activity, and I have mine." Still, he leans forward and puts it out on the tray he'd set on the arm of the bench. "Come. Sit."

I take a breath and sit, our thighs nearly touching. The air feels electrified, like it's waiting for something to happen. We sit like this for a while, staring out at the cows grazing in the front fields, Javier lightly rocking the swing as he rolls his foot back and forth.

"Thank you for...everything. Taking care of me and..everything." He turns his head to look at me in the light coming in through the windows from the house.

"It's not a problem. Anyone would do it."

He snorts. "Not for me."

"And why not?"

He pauses a moment. "I'm not a good guy."

"Well I know that's not true. You're a great man, Javier." I place my hand on his forearm without thinking, and squeeze. He looks down at where I touch him, placing his hand over mine before looking at me.

"I'm really not. I just..." He trails off, his eyes sweeping over my face. "You...you look familiar. It's been killing me for days."

Well. Now is the time. For this confession, at least.

"That's because we know each other."

His brow furrows slightly. "I had a feeling. From where?"

It still hurts a little that he doesn't remember, even though I know it's a trauma response. Memory loss and PTSD can often go hand in hand.

"You...you gave me a rose, once."

Recognition immediately ripples over his face, his eyes widening, his eyebrows raising a little as he shifts his body to face me.

"Vanessa? From the bar? Right before I left for Colombia?"

I smile nervously. "That's me."

"Summer of new things Vanessa?"

I nod. "Yup. Me."

His eyes are twinkling now, a small smile creeping up his face. "Holy shit! I never thought I'd see you again. It was so hard to walk away from you that morning. The only thing that did it was the fact that the DEA would come down on me hard for missing that flight." His eyes soften the longer he looks in mine and for a moment, we're both transported back to that night, the night he opened up my world.

"H-how are you?" He's hesitant, but his eyes are wide and curious.

"Not bad."

"How did you end up here? I thought you were going back to-" he waves his hand around trying to think. "Austin?"

"Corpus Christi."

He snaps his fingers. "That was it."

Do I tell him about Alex? About being a father? Something inside me tells me to wait. To only surprise Javier with one thing at a time. He's been through so much and the last thing I want to do is pile more on top of that.

"It's a long story but I...got pregnant and my parents..well, they didn't approve. Out of wedlock. Anyway, they kicked me out and I uh, ended up here. Chucho I guess took pity on me and gave me a place to stay. I offered to cook and clean for him which of course he argued against, but," I shrug. "And so I stayed. He demanded I return to college and get my teaching degree I had been working on and he babysat Alex while I did. I owe him so much. My life, basically. I don't know how I'll be able to repay him."

His eyes grew serious. "You're parents kicked you out pregnant?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"That's fucked. Sorry, but it is."

I shrug. "They were the kind of parents that would scrub my mouth out with soap and make me repeat scripture if I had nail polish on so I guess I'm not surprised. I've made peace with it."

"Still. I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Thanks."

We sit in silence for another few moments, one weight on my chest lifted but a very heavy one still remaining.

"The dad didn't help?"

Here's your chance, Vanessa. You can tell him now, despite everything. Tell him. TELL. HIM.

"He...He had other things to do."

Javier scoffs. "What an asshole."

I shake my head vehemently. "No, it's not..they were very important."

"More important than knocking up a young woman?"

"I think so."

"I'm sure."

I turn to face him more directly. "What if it was yo-"

RING RING! RING RING!

The phone cuts through our conversation, forcing an ending that I wasn't ready for. Javier attempts to stand but I put my hand out.

"It might be Alex. I've got it."

I feel his eyes on me as I go inside, answering the phone quickly. It wasn't Alex but some automated political message and I grunt, hanging up the phone in frustration. I should go back outside and explain everything to him, confess it all, but I don't. I do peak my head back outside and call his name, momentarily flustered when he looks at me.

"It was some political something."

"I fucking hate those."

"I'm going upstairs. Drink that coconut water." I point to the untouched glass in his hand and he holds it up towards me.

"Yes, ma'am."

-------

>>Chapter 4>>

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[wyn-n-tonic]

That's a Real Fucking Legacy: Burgundy

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/former Tommy Miller x f!reader Word Count: 4.6k+ Warnings: Unprotected PiV. Soft Joel. Talk of death. Somno mentions. Allusion of erectile dysfunction. Body image talk. Anxiety/depression talk. Author’s Note: I got lazy at the end.

Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates for notifications. You can sign up for my taglist HERE.

Jackson’s fine.

Maybe.

Truthfully, it’s more than fine. It’s perfect. 

It’s perfect for what this world is now. 

But it’s not… it doesn’t feel right.

In the years that followed the outbreak, there was a feeling that if something like this existed, you wanted to be there. But that’s the thing about trauma and time.

The longer you give these things to sit in your brain unaddressed, the worse they become. But these things couldn’t be addressed, there was never the time for that and, so, they lingered and built and grew with every day that something new stacked on top.

All this time being in survival mode, this feeling that you don’t deserve safety is tangible in the way it shakes your hands and catches your breath in the most random of times.

Only they were deserving in your eyes. The baby, her father. Her uncle who set off across the country to find this safety for you; who dreamt of this life and that baby in a way that would belong to him and not his brother. Who has accepted the things that happened in reaction to his leaving and his silence and has forgiven you. 

There’s no guilt now. Not in that space, at least. But so much guilt knowing that you’re here and the QZ is still up and there were miles and miles of death and danger between the two.

It’s that hand-shaking, breath-catching guilt that paralyzes you now, leaned up against the sink—a genuine sink with running water—as you try to focus on anything at all. Colors. Sounds. Numbers as you count your own breaths both in and out.

It clouds your mind back into that dark space.

That gray space.

That unsafe, half dead, death around every corner space.

Baby is the first thought that really comes through, her small face grown so big with a toothy smile where, before, it was all gums and cheeks and doing her best to always stay in yours or her father’s arms. She’s safe though. She’s safe right now and you have to remind yourself that. She’s with her Uncle Tommy, working in the gardens today with the woman who came not long after you. Who took his breath away. Who’s now Baby’s aunt and one of the only people you trust with her safety.

Then Joel, with the deepening lines across every curve and corner of his face, the ones you love to trace in the soft darkness of your shared nights. Always only illuminated by whatever spills in through the threadbare curtains on the windows.

Sometimes, you think these moments might be the end.

And how peaceful, how sweet, to endure and survive all of this for so long only to be taken down by guilt and panic.

But you can’t go first. You can’t. You can’t leave him alone with a baby and another crack in his heart. He has to go before you, he deserves to go before you. If anybody’s heart is going to be broken by more death, please, God, let it be you and not him.

That beautiful man with his beautiful eyes, his rough but gentle hands and his coffee rich voice.

It’s that voice that pulls you up and out of your head now; off of the floor.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, pushing tears across and back into your graying hairline. “Not these again, baby.”

“I'm sorry.” It’s not just your hands that shake now, heat climbing up your neck to flood your senses in blood rushing waves. Because that part comes with the embarrassment of him seeing you like this; of having to take care of you again when you’re put so much effort into not needing to lean.

Because he doesn’t deserve to be the strong one all the time. Not anymore. He’s allowed to be and be soft and give in to late nights and later mornings. All these miles from Boston, kept safe by different walls and different rules, and he’s still turning up to save the day. He deserves to rest.

“Hey, you have nothing to be sorry about,” he says against your cheek, lips ghosting across the warmth of your skin as he pulls you in closer. So close in those well worn, worked through arms with his hand sliding up the expanse of your back and between your shoulder blades until he’s wrapped his fingers in the hair at the base of your skull. “How many times have I woken you up, hmm?” He asks directly into your ear. “How many nights have you spent tending to all the broken parts of me?”

“I shouldn’t be here,” you insist. “I don’t belong here, I’m not good enough.”

Joel pulls away, back just far enough to look down at you with pinched eyebrows and a half broken heart behind those big, brown eyes. “If you’re not good enough, then what the fuck am I?” 

Two beats, maybe three. Moments of silence that stretch between you both as he gently swipes his thumb back and fourth through the saltwater streaks. The tears slowed but they’re still here and Joel patiently pushes every one away.

“You’re perfect,” you finally break. “You’re the second best person in my life.”

“Oh, so Tommy wins after all?” He asks, one dimple pocketing his cheek under a crooked smile. It drops just as quickly as it appeared, an exaggerated expression of pain on his face as you hit him in the chest. “I’m kidding, I know it’s Baby but”—he leans down, his whisper turning from concern to suggestion—“I think I have something that might bump me up to top place for the night.” 

“Please don’t tell me it’s your dick,” you beg. “I love you, I love it, but I look like shit and—“

He stops you, more soothing sounds hitting your ears until you’re quiet again; less tearful and pushing what you were going to say away. It’s hard to believe that, years ago, he was just Tommy’s gruff older brother. Intimidating and prepared. Not a leader but capable of leading should it all come down to it. That’s why Tommy told you to go to him if something ever happened. Not the Fireflies—Joel.

Looking back on that instruction, it makes all the more sense that you’re here with Joel now and not Tommy. Something happened and you went to him.

Stayed with him.

Laid with him.

Built a family with him.

Built a whole life and, now, that man you were so afraid of with all his hard edges is so soft and real in front of you. It was hard to find good men before, even worse now, but he has never been anything but great to you. Even when he’s upset. Even on those nights where there was yelling and misunderstanding and a growing baby in your belly that neither of you knew how to care for, he was great.

“I got you a bottle of wine,” he says, so proud of himself with that smile making itself at home again. “And not that blueberry bathtub moonshine bullshit Seth’s been peddling.”

“I haven’t had real wine in years, Joel.” There’s a piece of you that’s skeptical until he’s turning you in his arms and pointing to the counter. He must’ve set it down before picking you up off the floor but it’s there—a bottle of red wine marked for 1999. “That was a good year.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning back against his broad chest. It’s only gotten stronger since you arrived in Jackson, built up by good food and work that makes him proud. You don’t let him go out on many perimeter runs, afraid to have to watch over him as he slips away again, but he goes sometimes. Mostly he just tends to the horses, works in the dirt, builds this or that and plays with the Baby like his life depends on it.

It’s your life that depends on it, though. Your life depends on seeing him strong and well-fed and happy, chasing his daughter around the yard and not trying to stifle her giggles or her cries to protect her from everything else that’s out there. But you know he feels the same.

“Go wash your face,” he whispers into the crown of your head, “I’ll pry it open and pour you a glass.” 

It’s strong. Strong enough cloud your mind over and replace the bad thoughts with blurred ones. Barely two sips from the mug he poured it in and your head is falling back easier beneath the laughter he pulls out of you. 

Every aching inch of you is flushed over with heat like before, but it’s not embarrassment that floods through you anymore. Tension doesn’t exist in your muscles, there’s no trying to hold it together or hold it back and it’s nice. It’s so nice to give over to this feeling without worry, putting all of your senses on a delayed track because you’re safe.

He’s safe.

As the sun sets, you leave the mugs behind in favor of passing the bottle back and forth. Really, you should save it; pace yourself on it; only bring it out for special occasions.

But this is a special occasion.

Thomi’s staying the night with Tommy and everybody is alive. There was loss that brought what made this family together; pain and the threat of more loss. All those sleepless nights you spent upright in bed worrying and crying… That’s over now until you let him go and both of you refuse to let that happen for a long time. 

“What are you thinking about now?” He asks, eyes heavy with twenty-something year old alcohol and it makes you wonder what he looked like in his twenties, too.

“Thinking about you.”

“Hopefully not all the ways I could die again,” he laughs, “don’t wish that shit into existence, baby.”

“I'm not wishing anything into existence,” you tell him. “I’m begging the world not to take you from me yet.” 

“I'm not going anywhere,” he promises. “You and Thomi make damn fucking sure of that.” 

“But you do,” you insist. “In my dreams, all the time. I dream that I don’t even get to say goodbye and I wake up and you’re not even there with me because you’ve already gone off to work or you’re taking care of our daughter and I feel so selfish for wanting you to take care of me, too.”

“So you don’t feel me in the mornings?” He asks. “Do my efforts to turn those dreams around not make it to your beautiful head.”

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, eyes tracing the curve of his nose and his lips. “What do you mean?” 

Joel tips the bottle back and then hands it over again, lips stained a deep purple-red as he sits back on his heels and considers you. “You talk in your sleep, honey,” he says. “I hear you almost daily, always muttering for me or Thomi to be spared for whatever horrors are in your head. I wish I could say that I can’t fucking imagine but I can, I think of it all the goddamn time. Think of you or my child or both ripped apart by bullets or monsters or men.” He shrugs. “I always try to leave you in the mornings with something good, I thought I was succeeding because there’s always a small smile on your face when I come back out from the bathroom and kiss you goodbye.” 

So many of your dreams do turn good but you thought it was your subconscious willing you to believe in the best. Lately, you’ve woken up wet for him and ready, usually having to wait until much later for the touch of tired hands under threadbare blankets or the running water you usually share. 

The rough pads of his fingers ghost across the skin of your upper thighs, heated over with alcohol heavy blood, a racing heart and the want for him you always hold. Realization hits on another sip from the bottle, wine falling out of your mouth and onto your shirt in a choked out sound 

His low laugh tumbles down your throat from a heavy tongue as he pushes your mouth open, body crawling over yours until the space between is negligible at best. He’s all soft touches from hands that have worked so hard, moving from your cheek to your neck to your shoulder, before he finally takes the bottle from your hands to set it to the side. Somewhere safe, where it won’t continue to seep across you, only within you.

“We agreed a long time ago that we could touch one another while sleeping,” he whispers. “I touch you through those dreams, sweetheart.” He does. For so long you thought they were just vivid, not real. You woke up wanting him because you wanted more. “One time, your eyes blinked open and you told me you wanted my mouth, so I gave it to you.” 

His voice is so low, echoing through your mind and traveling down the length of your bones into the tips of every finger and every toe. You remember that, you do. “I thought I was dreaming that, too.”

“I’m sure dream me is a very handsome and capable man,” he smiles down at you, “but I know for a fact he can’t eat your pussy as well as I can.”

“Nobody's ever done anything to my pussy as well as you do.” That fevered heat that spread just below the surface of your skin throughout your veins has finally reached its destination, simmering low in your belly beneath the stretch of skin between your hips.

“Even my brother?”

“I never even let your brother look at it for too long,” you say, shaking your head. “Too insecure about it and the way it looked, I didn’t like the vulnerability of being seen like that.”

“But with me…” He runs a hand down his face and smiles. “You get off on me watching you play with yourself. You like it when I’m down here”—his hand curves around the mound between your legs, laying heavy and hot even with your shorts blocking the full effect of his touch—“like it when I open you up, keep you from closing your cute little legs, and watch you clench and leak around nothing but the mere thought of what I could do to you. It takes everything in me not to fuck every thought out of your head every single day.” 

Head spinning, you push up against his grip and fall back again laughing. “Do it now,” you tell him. “Take me apart, Joel, take all of my thoughts.”

“I haven’t even gotten you wet yet.”

“Trust me, the mere thought of what you could do to me has taken care of that. I know you’ve been having some problems getting hard lately, I don’t take it personally. That’s why I like it so much when you look at me, we both still get something out it, but you’re straining against those tight ass pants and I need you inside of me.”

“Need?” 

“Need,” you affirm. “Need my good man who brings me out of bad dreams to leave me with good, need my beautiful boy who picks me up off the floor and never lets our daughter see the broken pieces of me. Joel, I need you and that’s why I have the nightmares that I do. 

I’m afraid of you being taken away from me and I know it has to be that you’re taken because I know you’d never leave me. I've already come too close to being without you. I’ve already been covered in the deep red warmth of your blood while you go cold in my arms and I see it over and over again every night, don’t make me do it sooner than later.”

“Are those what the panic attacks are about?” He asks.

“No,” you shake out. “The panic attacks are because I don’t feel like I deserve the sacrifices you and your brother made to get me here. To get my daughter here, yes. But me? There’s not an ounce of me that deserves this place.” 

“Oh, baby.” He pulls you closer to him, one hand tightening around your side as the other puts further pressure between your legs. You’ve kept all of these things hidden from him to the best of your ability. You haven’t succeeded very well. “You deserve to be here more than Tommy or I ever will,” he whispers. “I begged you not to leave me as you came close to bleeding out after birth. You deserve to be here, our daughter does, and you both make me deserving, too. Please, baby, stop saying you’re not good when all the best parts of me are because of you.” 

“I get emotional when I’m drunk,” you tell him.

“I can see that.” One thing you’ve loved the most about what Jackson has done to him is allow that relaxed accent back into his voice. It helps that he’s surrounded by his brother constantly again but there are others here, too. Some from all over but most from what was the south. “You also have gotten wetter than I’ve ever felt you.”

“How do you know?” You ask. “You haven’t even touched me.”

A smile spreads across his face and he pushes your legs apart before pulling your shorts to the side to expose you to the tepid air of the house and the heat of his hand. “I have never,” he whispers against your lips, pushing one rough finger easily through your entrance, “gotten you this close this fast. Usually, I’m cleaning myself out of you before you swell up to bursting. What did it, honey?”

“You.”

“Just me?” He laughs like he can’t believe it. “The wine helped, didn’t it? It’s okay.”

“The wine, yeah,” you nod, head heavy and light with the effects of it still pumping through you. You were gone off of it a while ago but—“it’s been awhile since we’ve been able to be like this together. Everything is always so fucking desperate or tired or just looking for relief in the five shared minutes of alone time we get together.” 

“Sweetheart, I don’t think we’ve ever been able to be like this together.”

He’s right. Nothing has ever been soft or easy with us. Full of adrenaline, yeah. But never fucking slow unless it’s laced through with exhaustion. Never a show of love because of love but because of fear of losing one another. He pushes another finger deep inside of you, moving together until you grab his wrist.

“I want you.”

“You want me?” He asks, eyebrow raised. “Missed me?” 

“You're teasing me, Joel.”

“It's cause I like seeing your reactions,” he whispers. “When I dream good things about you, I dream of this.” 

“Do you have the good ones, often, baby?” 

“More and more,” he says, pulling himself away and off of you to stand up but offering his hand and helping you up off the couch and not letting go until you’re steady on your feet. “Makes me feel bad when I wake up from good ones to find you having a bad one, if there’s something you don’t deserve, it’s that.” 

“Yeah.”

He takes the bottle and your hand and leads you up the stairs, back towards the bedroom where he doesn’t wait to sit you down in the space that’s usually his. “You want some more, baby?” He asks, holding out the bottle. It’s mostly gone and so is your head but your nerves still haven’t really settled from when he found you on the floor and they’ve only gotten shakier hearing all the sweet things he had to say so you take it.

Take it and tip it back slightly, trying not to choke again when he pulls his shirt off and over his head. With all the ways your brain and you have been altered by this world and these years in it, you look at him with so much happiness for the girl you once were before this all started. The one with posters on her walls of the dark haired, curly haired members of boybands on the walls. With his dimples, he could’ve definitely been one.

Mindlessly, you reach out and touch the still raised scar on his stomach, fingertips tracing across the angry, deep red knot. For a head full of so many bad memories, so much grief and pain, this little scar was the source of the worst of it all. 

He encourages you to take another drink and then takes the bottle from you again, setting it on the bedside table before coming back for your shirt. Even with a world gone to shit and no more models or fashion designers to tell you who and what is beautiful, your insecurities are so thick it’s fucking palpable. But never for Joel Miller. Because he looks at your bare body with not an ounce of scrutiny.

He’s enamored, every time, as a low whistle leaves him with every article of clothing he takes from you. Maybe we’ve never had the softness and the slowness but we’ve always had that—this hunger for one another like we can’t believe our wildest dreams are coming true.

With you completely bare, he directs you back into the middle of the bed, tells you to open your legs and let him see you while he pushes his own pants down, eyes never leaving you once as you reach down to touch yourself in front of him the way you know the both of you like. 

He wasn’t lying either, when he said this might be the wettest he’s ever felt from you. This fast, at least. The sensitivity and heat coursing through your body makes even the smallest touches feel like the biggest and he reprimands you for getting too close too quick without him.

“This might be the hardest I’ve ever been, too,” he breathes out, dragging the tip of himself through the slick before swatting your hand away completely to push in with unobstructed ease. “Please don’t be mad at me if I can’t sustain it,” he says, pulling you further and further down his shaft until the back of your thighs meet the front of his. There’s so much worry in you already about his knees, how he’s leaning on them even with the mattress beneath him, but it goes out of your head the moment he presses even further forward. “I'm old and this also might be the deepest inside of you I have ever been.” 

“I think it is.”

“I almost don’t want to move again,” he whispers against your lips. “Fuck, you’re so warm and I'm already soaked in you but you’ve had a hard day.”

“Sure.”

“You're drunk,” he laughs. “God, you’re beautiful. I love your grays and your smile lines, you are such a fucking knock out.”

You can feel him. Of course you can. But this is so difference and so… new, almost. For years you stayed away from the alcohol that was traded around the QZ. As a woman alone, it was dangerous but, even with the safety of Tommy, the shit that was made and traded was cut through with other shit. Anything to take the fucking edge off the situation of life as it is now. Which is understandable but it also wasn’t you, it wasn’t safe. So, the last time you had any true alcohol was before it all fell down. That was years ago.

Years have gone by since you got drunk in a college dorm and fucked some guy who didn’t look all that different from the guy on top of you now but, still, so, so different. Because before it all went to shit, there was never a snowball’s hope in hell you’d have a man like Joel Miller and you’re certain you wouldn’t have been his type but here he is, saying he wished he met you first. Because he was jealous of Tommy for all that time, being able to find somebody in all this shit. 

“You wouldn’t have liked me very much if we’d met first, though.”

“We did meet first,” you tell him. “We had several of the same shifts in different FEDRA duties, I thought you were a grumbly fucking asshole.”

“I'm still a grumbly fucking asshole,” he quips, eyes going soft as he smiles. “I’m really glad you didn’t keep that opinion.”

“Who says I haven’t?”

Dying light from the window hits him when he laughs. It’s the first time you’ve noticed the way the sun kissed his cheeks today at work and every last thought leaves your head the way he wanted it to. On everything you have, you swear he can read your mind, because he was moving against your hips and towards your lips before you even fully reached for him.

The way lays himself on top of you, his whole body weight melting into yours, is like he’s trying to crawl inside of you. This isn’t like the desperate grabs in the kitchen, where he whispers dirty shit into your ear with his fingers shoved down your pants as he hopes to get off against your leg.

No, this is so different.

By now, you’ve fucked drunk with grief. Then with what you thought was love. Then grief again only to find that turned into the true feeling of love. What all those poems and songs were about all those years ago. But you’ve never been actually drunk in his arms. He’s never seen you this way because finding what could make you this was was difficult. It was dangerous. But, here, it’s available and it’s red.

Not red in the way his blood was, not red in the way he blushed over with fever and not red in what you saw when you turned on his brother and told him to fix it. No, this is red in the way blushes up to his ears every day when you call him handsome. This is red in the way the hinges on the door to the backyard are rusted over with years of rain and lack of use. This is red like the wine he picked up with every beautiful intention of giving you a proper date.

Even the sounds he’s making are different. Breathy and desperate because he’s not commanding anything here; not making any declarations; not using his lowest register to push you through it.

Not even the smallest bit of, “you can do this, sweetheart, you can take it,” like he usually gives me. But it’s been a while since he’s even been inside of you so maybe he's the one who needs the encouragement.

“I-I—“ No words come out because he covers your mouth with his own, hand gripped tight around your jaw as he breathes into you.

“You’re so fucking close, sweetheart,” he whispers when he pulls away. “So fucking-ah-fuck.” 

His head falls into the crook of your neck, lips mouthing at the sensitive spot just below where your jaw hinges as you feel his muscles start to tighten up against yours. 

There’s no real warning for either of you, no theatrics or big finale. This is so different in every way relief cascades through your body, transferring from his to yours in inch of connection between you as his body relaxes down fully on top of yours.

Not an ounce of strength or tension remains. He’s not trying to hold himself up or give himself leverage anymore. He’s content to lay here, drunk and twitching, as he catches his breath against yours.

And that’s fine. That’s perfect. It’s what you always wanted; what you felt like you’d never get. He’s here and you’re here and there’s safety in these walls to feel and explore each other in every aching, relief giving way.

[backgroundagent3]

My Emily Henry Rankings

@brekker-by-brekkerr you asked here if I had a ranking of the Emily Henry books and couples, so after way too long, here's my opinions, along with some really bad explanations. <3 Spoilers ahead!!

Books:

Happy Place. This was the first Emily Henry book I read, and the first book that ever made me cry. Harriet was so relatable, and it was probably my favourite setting out of the four books. The characters were all so interesting, and they had such a great dynamic. I love the found family trope, and she absolutely nailed it.

Book Lovers. I loved the plot so much, and Nora was also so relatable in a different way. I loved how even though she isn't perfect, she doesn't have to change and give up her job to get what she wants. Her relationship with Libby reminded me a lot of me and my sister, which was so nice to read about.

People We Meet On Vacation. I really liked the structure of this book, and I think it made the reveal so much better. I also loved reading about all the places they went to.

Beach Read. I loved this book so much, so the only reason it's ranked in last place is because I somehow loved the other ones even more. The plot felt a little slower, but I think that has a lot to do with the fact that I only managed to read about 5 minutes a day.

Couples:

These were much easier to rank for some reason.

Nora and Charlie. I just love them so much, I don't even know what to say. I love how they respect each other's choices and make their decisions according to what they want/need, not what the other one wants. I usually really like the quiet, more mature relationships where they know they love each other without needing to shout it from the rooftops.

January and Gus. I though the way they learned to communicate without pushing each other was really sweet, even if it led to some misunderstandings. Enemies to lovers is always great, especially if one if then doesn't even realize they were never actually enemies.

Harriet and Wyn. I was a little annoyed at Wyn for most of the book to be honest, and so frustrated with their miscommunication. That's not to say I didn't like them. I think they were so sweet and had some of my favourite lines.

Poppy and Alex. Again with the terrible communication skills. I get that it's an important trope for the genre and it made sense in this book, but I'm a very impatient person. I did love how well they know and understand each other, but I think I preferred the scenes when they were just friends.

I'm also going to do main characters, because why not:

Nora Stephens.

Harriet Kilpatrick.

January Andrews.

Poppy Wright.

The reasoning here is purely relatability. I can see a bit of myself in all four of them, but some more than others. As I was writing this I realised the ones at the top I find relatable because of more negative things, like my insecurities, or qualities I have that I don't like. I share a lot of qualities with the ones at the bottom, but at the end of the day, I like reading about people who share my struggles and doubts because it's comforting to know I'm not alone. I don't know if this makes any sense, but it was very interesting in my head.

So anyways, these are my opinions. How would you rank them?

[thelightsandtheroses]

This Month’s Fic Recs

These are just a few of the fics I’ve enjoyed this month, but there are so many great and fics out there by very talented writers within this. Like always, some of the below I still need to leave comments on but I wanted to highlight here as a start!

Please be mindful of any content warnings and I believe all fics/ blogs in this list are 18+

Joel Miller

All of you, all of me - @wyn-n-tonic o wrapped up one of my favourite Joel series and it was just beautiful. I love this series so much and used to read it (and her other joel fic days) when I was still a lurker

Fall Apart, Again - @wildemaven Heidi is writing a wonderful Joel series that I highly recommend - angst, feels, it has it all.

Drip -@trulybetty- Betty utterly destroyed me with this drabble

A Safe Haven - @darkroastjoel - Vee updated ASH which is a fave Joel fic of mine

Dark Times @lavendertales ari posted a great Joel one-shot that looked at Joel’s grief.

Frankie Morales

Resurrected Chances - @mvtthewmurdvck jodes is just a wonderful writer and person and I can wax lyrical about how she writes Frankie.

Jack Daniels (Agent Whiskey)

Palomino - @fuckyeahdindjarin - I love this fic so much so far and it's so atmospheric and immersive.

Move Me, Baby - @psychedelic-ink Sil always delivers on some spicy vibes and I really enjoyed this stripper!Jack series

My Writing Throughout August

I updated Secret Smile three times (just) and chapter eight has one of my favourite moments I've planned from the start of the fic. I'm really excited for where this fic is going next as we’re starting to move beyond season 3 now. I've also been planning two future fics: a Joel fic (the insomnia bench iykyk) and a Frankie fic (ex!Frankie at the beach) that I will hopefully share more about soon.

Javier Peña

Secret Smile - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight

Favourite August Books, TV, Music, Games and Films

This month, I had a bit of a difficult time and so I haven't read as much as usual, but I've still highlighted some things I've enjoyed below:

Impossible - Sarah Lotz [book] - I can't talk about this one too much without spoiling it but it's a super interesting take on what it does.

Russian Doll [tv] - I discovered this show on a weekend where I felt absolutely and truly terrible and I just binged it. I have no idea how it stands up from that but it was such a different way to explore those concepts.

Barbie [movie] - I was worried this wouldn't live up to the hype, but I loved it and it was just what I needed. I sobbed and then cried with laughter throughout.

Unreal Unearth- Hozier [music] - ethereal, epic and as amazing as ever. What else could I have expected?

Oxenfree 2 [game]- if you give me a game where my choices affect the ending (like life is strange) and that has interesting spooky vibes? I’m there.

Stray [game] - you play as a stray cat in a cyberpunk style city trying to reunite with your friends. It's wonderfully quirky and I love it and it's clearly been made by people who appreciate cats.

[galesdekariios]

Communication (Gale x Wynmoira)

Hello beautiful people! I've finally continued on with my Gale and Wyn drabbles. I will definitely be posting more, especially for this month there's a small writing challenge to write daily happening so be on the lookout for more works with various tavs of mine! :)

Part [1]. Part [2] (you are here).

can find it on my ao3 here

It had been days since Gale’s big revelation. Wynmoira kept her distance from him, not having the courage to face him. She’d make excuses for why she didn’t need him tagging along on their adventures, assuring that she and Shadowheart could handle it, that a third magic user was unnecessary. When she was back at camp, she’d use any excuse to go for a supply run, typically alone or taking Karlach with her in case anyone took issue.

But no matter how hard she tried to avoid him, he always found a way, an excuse, to try to talk to her. He’d try to talk about a book he was reading, and typically, Wynmoira loved to hear about it, but she’d now say she was busy or too tired. He’d try to talk to her at dinner, asking about her day, yet she gave one-word answers or excused herself. She couldn’t let go of her petty jealousy and insecurities, and it was beginning to take a toll on her.

“Need help there?” Gale called out behind Wynmoira. He watched the woman struggle to juggle the newly cut wood in a wheelbarrow. The camp was running low on wood, and it was her turn to cut a few logs. Typically, she didn’t struggle this badly, but she got caught up in the moment during her hacking.

“I’m fine,” she said harshly. She placed another piece of wood on top of the stack. It fell, and like a domino effect, others followed shortly after. Gale watched as the mess unfolded and let out a small huff before reaching for the fallen wood.

“I don’t believe that’s true,” he challenged. His voice was soft yet assertive. They locked eyes for a moment, the silence growing between them. Wynmoira wanted to tell him to go away, yet some part of her wanted him to stay. She missed him, whether she wanted to admit it or not. She missed their time together, and avoiding him made her feel hollow like she was missing something.

“Fine, you can help,” she caved. She reached for a few logs on the ground before placing them into a stack in his arms. Gale let out a small grunt as he tried to adjust to the added weight before chuckling, proud of himself as he steadied the weight. Wynmoira grabbed the wheelbarrow and began pulling it, Gale joining her side as they headed towards camp.

“We haven’t seen much of each other these days,” Gale pointed out, his eyes wandering to Wynmoira. Her eyes remained straight ahead, not drifting for a moment. “I miss our little talks.” His voice was softer, with a hint of pain in his words. Wynmoira’s face faltered for a moment, recognizing the shift in his tone. But just as quickly as it changed, she returned to her stone-cold gaze.

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” She quipped.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Wynmoira finally broke her gaze ahead, looking over at the wizard. His brows furrowed, his lips curled downwards slightly. “Ever since the ordeal with the hag, you’ve been…different.”

She wanted to challenge him, tell him he was wrong. That she was the same woman she’d always been. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She knew he was right. Things were different between them. She never really prepared herself for this type of conversation. In all honesty, she hoped to avoid it entirely.

“I just needed to adjust my priorities.” She paused, turning away from him. She couldn’t face him and have this conversation, not now. “We need to get these tadpoles out of our heads before it’s too late.” She continued pulling the wheelbarrow, leaving Gale behind. He followed shortly after her, and the two remained silent until they made it to camp. Karlach approached the two, welcoming them back.

“Hi there, soldier!” Karlach had a large smile on her face. She was comfortable, wearing her camp clothing. There were no real plans for today other than resupplying and resting. Her eyes drifted to Gale, who was following behind, noticing the small frown on his face. “What did you do, Wyn?” Wynmoira’s eyes widened slightly, and her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Lovely how you immediately assume it was my fault,” she protested. Karlach looked at her, raising a brow. She didn’t have to say anything before Wynmoira caved, nodding her head. “He tried talking, and I don’t want to talk.” She settled the wheelbarrow on the ground and began pulling some logs out, placing a few by the nearby campfire pit. Once enough was placed, she made her way over to a larger stack of wood, refilling the pit. Gale joined her side momentarily, adding his collection to the pile before leaving her. As he walked away, she couldn’t help but look after him. His head and shoulders fell slightly as he sulked back to his tent.

He remained in his tent for the rest of the day, never coming out once. The sun had set, and the others were gathered around the campfire. Wynmoira sat beside Shadowheart, listening to Wyll tell everyone another one of his stories about his journeys. Shadowheart seemed in tune with his words, but Wynmoira was in her own little world. Her eyes would drift towards Gale’s tent in the distance, waiting for him to join the others. He didn’t even leave to get dinner once it was ready.

“You can always go in,” Shadowheart nudged Wynmoira’s shoulder. Wynmoira snapped out of it, giving a small smile to Shadowheart before shaking her head.

“I’m the last person he’d want to see,” she said. She used her fork to nudge the small bits of potato on her plate. She ate only a portion of her food; not really hungry tonight. Shadowheart stood up, walking away from her companion before returning with a full plate of food and handing it to Wynmoira.

“Give it to him. Don’t need two of you moping about,” she teased. Wynmoira took a moment before standing and taking the plate of food. She went to Gale’s tent, stopping just a few steps outside. Everyone’s voices from the campfire were like soft background noise, and she was in utter silence, waiting outside Gale’s tent. She felt a small lump form in the back of her throat, afraid to call out to him.

“I know you’re out there,” he called out. She mentally cursed herself before entering the tent, a sheepish smile on her lips. Gale was sitting on a small chair, a book in hand. His eyes were glued to the page despite her entrance.

“You didn’t get dinner. Don’t need you starving to death.” She tried to joke, wanting to lighten the mood. Gale took a small breath, his eyes leaving the book to meet hers. “Here,” she held out his plate. He stared at the plate momentarily before finally caving and grabbing it from her hands. Wynmoira sat beside him, keeping her plate on her lap. Her hands fiddled with the plate, needing to find something to distract her from her anxious feelings.

“You…us…things are complicated because of Mystra, aren’t they?” He finally asked. Wynmoira went tense, her hands coming to a halt on the plate. Her eyes drifted to him, and he was already looking at her with his soft brown eyes. She couldn’t find the words to say how she felt, so she nodded her head.

There was no denying that something was forming between the two, since their night practicing with the weave. Images that played through her mind about him, intimate images, were exposed, as were similar images of her in his mind. For a moment, Wynmoira thought something great could come from it. But after learning about Mystra, things became complicated. Her insecurities got the best of her, and she tried to separate herself from him. Hoping that her feelings could disappear. Things would hurt a lot less. But nothing is that easy.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Wynmoira finally said. She chewed at the inside of her cheek, feeling herself become uneasy as she continued to speak. “Your past is your past, I can’t hold it against you. We’ve all got skeletons in our closets.” She knew herself she had her own secrets, secrets she wasn’t ready to tell. It wasn’t fair for her to hold his against him so harshly.

“I appreciate that, but no,” he said. He placed the plate on the table beside him, turning his body to give her his full attention. “No doubt my past has caused a ripple in our…relationship. Frankly, I didn’t know how to tell you about it. I think a part of me was ashamed, really.”

His words pained her to hear. Gale didn’t seem like the type to have shame. The way he was always so confident in himself, she admired it greatly. But to see him like this, talking about his shame, reminded her that he wasn’t the perfect man she envisioned. He was flawed, just like her. He was human.

“I’m sorry,” Wynmoira said softly. She placed her plate on the table and took Gale’s hand in hers. A small smile grew on her lips as she gave him a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. I just got so…insecure.” Gale placed his hand on top of hers, giving her a gentle squeeze this time. A small smile formed on his lips as the two held a soft gaze with one another.

“All is forgiven,” he assured her. She missed this. She missed him, his touch, his embrace. She felt safe with him, something she didn’t feel with anyone else. He always found ways to put her at ease, even when he wasn’t trying. “But I do require one thing from you.”

“And what is that?”

“Don’t shut me out,” he asked softly. “If something troubles you, tell me. Let me share your pain. Let me take on your burden. I can handle it.”

His words warmed her heart. No one had ever done that for her. Or at least she couldn’t remember someone doing such a thing. He cared deeply for her, and she felt stupid for letting her insecurities tell her otherwise.

[bigdreamsandwildthings]

Review: Happy Place (Emily Henry)

Rating: ★★★★★/5

“All my life, I’ve let other voices creep in, and they’ve drowned out my own. Now my mind is strangely quiet. For the first time in so long, I hear myself clearly. One word. All it takes to answer the only question that can’t wait. You.” I am all out of tears. They’re gone, spent, fully dried up. This book wrecked me. Harriet and Wyn have been inseparable for 8 years. They're engaged to be married - until the unthinkable day when a phone call changes everything, and they're not. Now, Harriet is going back to her happy place, the Maine vacation home from where so many of her happy memories stem...only to find that Wyn, against their agreement, is there too. A week with their closest friends, who don't know that they've broken up...what could possibly go wrong? The first thing I have to point out is how goddamn hilarious Emily Henry is. I found myself laughing out loud multiple times in this book, and I just adore how she can evoke that kind of response so effortlessly. Her humour is so on point. But, in equal measure, she also breaks hearts with reckless abandon, and the angst in this book was so thick you could cut it with a knife. I actually didn't know where this book was going to go. It was hope, then heartbreak, then hope, and we rinse and repeat over and over again. I felt so wrung out by the end. I cried so hard through the last few pages, and I can't get over just how well-written and genuine the story here is. I loved Harry and Wyn and their friend group. Each and every one of them is interesting, unique, and relatable in different ways; I loved Kimmy and her boisterous party-girl side, Cleo's more introverted homebody vibes, Sabrina and her chic movie-star-with-a-plan effervescence, Parth the party boy. But most of all, I loved and felt for and pined for Wyn. He's so beautiful, in every possible way. This group of people feel like family. I was so drawn in to their story. I loved the flashbacks and learning about what happened between Harry and Wyn and why we end up where we do. I loved the Maine summer vibes. This is nostalgia at its best, with hope for the future entwined with fondness for the past. I'm so sad I can't read this book for the first time ever again.

[a-skirmish-of-wit-and-lit]

Book Review: Happy Place by Emily Henry

I won't lie, this one bludgeoned my heart wide open. Yet there was still something about it that was therapeutic, poignant, necessary. It's probably the saddest and most emotionally loaded of Emily Henry's latest offerings, so it hurt in ways I wasn't anticipating. It was messy, and deep, blowing the dust off unhealed parts of myself so I had to look at them bare-faced and really evaluate what growth and change and self-worth mean to me, because that answer, as the characters in this book show so well, is different for everyone.

Figuring out who you are, trying to be happy, allowing yourself to love and be loved--these things are neither linear nor easy to achieve. They're often long winding journeys in our lives that are populated with errors, with miscalculations and uncertainties, and I love how Emily Henry gave these characters - her little found family - room to explore that. She never shies away from the messiness of human emotion. The confusion, the contradictions, the decisions we can't bear to make but do. She leaned into that with her little hexagonal friend group, and I appreciated the authenticity of each of their arcs because of that.

Harriet and Wyn love each other so intensely. There is no disputing that. Even as they fake date their way through a Maine vacation with friends, pretending they're still together when they're not, you can still feel the pain of their breakup as if it's a physical wound they're both trying (and failing) to close. There's something so heartwrenching about Wyn's need to feel like he matters, like he's important enough to keep around, and Harriet's terror that she will let down the people that she loves most, because it ends up being the force that comes between them. It's the emotional blockade that keeps them apart. Yet, at the same time, it's their mutual struggle to overcome these self-limiting beliefs about themselves which makes their journey back to each other all the more beautiful and moving to witness.

Harriet and Wyn's love is hard won. Not only is it chosen but it's conscious, and for that reason it feels real.

(Hence why I'll be over here crying about it for the next 100 years. 😭)

4/5 stars

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[demonslayedher]

OK, so the upcoming adaptation of the Swordsmith Village arc has me in a chokehold, and as such, I've been thinking a lot about the village itself. I've been wondering- have there been any notable instances of whole villages devoted to Swordsmithing? And as a slight, more KNY tangent, how do you think Gyokko managed to locate the village wherein the story happens? (Definitely could have phrased that more elegantly, but whatevs)

Slight tangent? This like two different questions, Wyn, how sly! Just kidding. Before I get too distracted by SWORDS SWORDS SWORDS, I'm going to set aside the Gyokko question and say I have no idea, maybe Ufotable will give us something come April? Perhaps he's got spying methods through his pots, and one of his pots got sold along the route to the village? Perhaps he sent his fish to spy on the conversations between birds, or perhaps one of his fish got caught and eaten in the village? Perhaps while looking for the Blue Spider Lily, this was a totally accidental discovery? I handled this question in my Demon Sibling AU: Version Uzui as having used ninja abilities to spy on conversations between Kakushi and slayers and crows and used that to piece together a location. As for swords, instead of villages solely dedicated to sword production, what you often found was neighborhoods dedicated to a certain kind of product--pottery, textiles, oil, etc--and in the case of a town arising around, say, the construction of an emperor's tomb or a Sengoku era castle, what came first was the workers, and then the town to support the livelihood of the workers. For places that are still famous for sword production (or as the case usually is today, kitchen knife production), it was usually a certain part of town instead of the village a whole, or at least, that would be my guess. These craftsman ultimately were taking clients to make their paycheck however much it was that they cared about their craft, but in the case of Kimetsu no Yaiba, the swordsmiths live by a mission, and the village and Corp support them such that they can be single-mindedly devoted to their craft and not have want of economic prosperity. The whole village can and is be built around their work. And, to make a community around sword production, it typically involved masters of many different crafts--the tatara kiln master who produces the iron, the blacksmith who shapes the blade, the sword polisher, the sword engraver, the craftsman who fits a hilt to it, the craftsman who creates its sheath, and so on. We don't know if every swordsmith in KnY's village can do everything themselves (or perhaps likes doing everything themselves), but with each of them being such strike disciplines, some division of labor and specialization wouldn't surprise me.

Looking back in Japanese history for swordsmiths who produced any any sharp and pretty thing for killing humans as their clients liked, the famous spots various depending on the time period. For example, in the Heian era, the Awataguchi area (the far east end of Sanjo street) of Kyoto was the spot of town to go for finding a swordsmith, though swords produced by masters throughout the country still found their way to the capital too. Then as we move from Heian through Sengoku, the land of Bizen (modern day eastern Okayama Prefecture) was the top producer of swords in this era, and although Sagami (modern day Kanagawa Prefecture) wasn't as prolific, they had some super famous swords produced there. Mino (modern day Gifu Prefecture) didn't come onto the sword producing stage until later, but they supplied a lot of weapons to Oda Nobunaga and Tokugawa Ieyasu's armies. Although these areas (and many more) become associated with sword production and their own respective styles and aesthetics, they were perhaps better known by the famous individual swordsmiths they produced.

Nowadays, these are considered the "Big Three" spots for Japanese blade production: Sakai City in Osaka Prefecture, Sanjo City in Niigata Prefecture, and Seki City in Gifu Prefecture. I've mentioned Seki on this blog before, as this is where LiSA is from, and I have personal connections there. I haven't been back since long before my KnY obsession, but I can't believe no one ever told me that part of the city's history and took me the museum! There's also a parade in which knife producers walk around and show off their handiwork, while talking about this with a coworker from another part of Gifu, it was as she was saying "it seems scary" that I was like "THAT SOUNDS AWESOME, I WANNA SEE THAT."

I'm also very partial to eastern Shimane Prefecture, not as much known for the sword production as the iron production. Nowdays, Okuiizumo is the only producer of tamagahane (iron ore of the right quality for Japanese swords), and nearby Yasugi is a major producer of high quality steel for everything from industrial use to kitchen blades. Part of what I really wanted to express in my write-up of sword production as it relates to Kimetsu no Yaiba was that you can't focus solely on the swordsmiths and their direct actions on shaping the blade; Japanese swords are product of nature and management of the finite raw materials directly contributes to the beauty of the final product. Even back in the Heian era, these materials would travel long distances to reach the famous hands of renown swordsmiths, and even after the shaping of the blades, they would still be passed around from craftsman to craftsman before reaching the hands of a master swordsman.

[nikethestatue]

Azriel the torturer paused his torturous work. A relieved sigh escaped the mouth of his torture victim. Azriel ignored it, his gaze searching out his mate, and wife — equal in every way, fellow torturer G*wyneth Berdera. She, who like him, was a torturer without peer, capable of peeling a man like a grape, nay a pear!

G*wyneth glanced up, a tortured look in her gleaming torturers eye “why did you stop?”, she whispered torturously. “Do you ever stop and think about how equally torturous we are, my little torture loving freckle.” The question, uttered in a hoarse, tortured whisper, leaving torturer azriels throat dry. He hadn’t had a drink in a while, he had been so consumed by his torturous work.

“I guess, it’s because we are mates. We are equals, so that means we must hold the exact same titles, hobbies and obsessions.” Murmured G*wyneth, torturously.

Azriel watched as G*wynth cast her torturous eye, down upon the prone form of Elain Archeron the gardener, not the torturer, never the torturer. Azriel continued to watch as G*wynth with the aid of truth teller, began to slice, slowly over the curve of Elains elbow. Elain would simply never be anything but what she seems, certainly not as multifaceted as a jewel held up to the light. Certainly not capable of handling the darkness of Azriels tortured soul or of handling the darkness of the trove. Certainly not a torturer like his song bird, G*wyn.

Elains crimes? The cause of her anguished cries from the unscarred hands of G*wynth? Being soft and gentle in this torturous world, and standing up for herself and not allowing Nesta to pummel her into ground. How utterly disgusting, and certainly not at all any interesting dynamics to explore. — SJM, probably in Acotar 5 to appease some fans. 🙄🤦🏼‍♀️

Like, c’mon. This is literally what I think every-time I come across a “they’re too different and g*wyn won’t shy away from his darkness” post.

I felt like I just read acotar 5!

Thank you anon 💜

It was torturously good

[mythandral]

What memory would your OC rather just forget? (for Outis)

What is your OC's weapon of choice? Have they ever actually used it? (for Hasa)

Do you have a specific lyric or quote which you associate with your OC? (for Robin)

What's one way your OC has changed since you first came up with them? (for Alorus)

What is your OC's fatal flaw? Are they aware of this flaw? (for Wyn)

Outis - there's a lot of people Outis has been cruel to via inaction (most of their 'friendships' are very one-sided - not entirely their fault, but it can end up with feelings hurt) and I do think they regret much of it once they actually start to figure out how relationships work and how to be present in them.

There's lots of situations that they think back on and wish they had handled differently, and that includes tiny little things that the other person has almost certainly forgotten (Outis is, after all, highly forgettable) and would cause no harm for them to forget as well - it'd be those that they'd choose.

Of course the person that really helped them figure out all of this in the first place is the person who has the ability to remove those memories, but Outis isn't going to use it - they know that they'd still exist in crystal, and would rather keep them in their own head.

Hasa - Hasa uses his knives quite regularly. It's not just for combat, he's been living out in the wilderness for upwards of a century and they see a lot of use for hunting, cutting away vegetation, rudimentary cooking and what have you. He's amassing a collection - he's never been close enough to civilisation to purchase them so they're mostly stolen, or lifted from what's left of unfortunate explorers, in payment for the small rites he performs for them. I think he has a favourite, old set that he keeps sharp but barely uses - they're very ornate, with gems set in the handle and he likes just looking at them.

Robin - the rest of the song doesn't especially fit, but I like these lyrics from Schism by Tool for them:

I know the pieces fit

'Cause I watched them tumble down

No fault, none to blame

It doesn't mean I don't desire

To point the finger, blame the other

Watch the temple topple over

To bring the pieces back together

Rediscover communication

They're a conspiracy theorist at the time of the fall of the Allagan empire, managing to make contact with a survivor in the now-buried Crystal Tower, so I think they fit really well!

Alorus - Alorus went from being a bastard deserving of no sympathy to a bastard deserving of all of it as his motivations and themes came together. The underlying question of his character has remained constant - what happens if a shard of Outis was given great attention and influence from birth - and the answer remains much the same (it ends badly - their soul is never supposed to be in the forefront), but the journey has become far less pointing and laughing at the hubris and bad decisions made, and more crying about them. And way more butterflies (and crying about them, too).

Wyn - Wyn's (and the other shards', really) fatal flaw is failure to take action or connect. The world goes on around him, and doesn't change for his presence or lack thereof. He was at the Waking Sands during the massacre and hid. He flits around and does small, helpful things but if he's paid attention to he's prone to disengage. It takes concious effort for him to be involved with things, and for the most part the effort isn't going to be his. Like any fatal flaw it's addressed as time goes on, but aspects of that are always going to be present.

[musings-of-a-rose]

Falling Slowly - Chapter 1

Pairing: Tommy Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 2000+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes:This started as a simple idea for Tommy. He had different ideas and I can’t say no to those freckles and smile. Thanks to @mermaidxatxheart for helping me get unstuck. You always have such great ideas!

And a big thanks to @wyn-n-tonic for helping me form thoughts and give this a little shape. I hope I can be a quarter as talented as you one day!

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❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

**Reader is not described. Divider made by @benkeibear

Main Masterlist

Falling Slowly Masterlist

Tommy Miller Masterlist

It’s crowded in here tonight. Not quite theme park during season full, but close enough. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t seriously need a drink after the day I had at work. And this bar was the closest place to home that was still open.

Or maybe I just pulled into the first place I found.

I somehow manage to score a seat at the crowded bar, sliding quickly onto the stool that’s still warm from its previous occupant. I raise my hand to the bartender and she nods, taking another 2 orders before taking mine.

“Rum and Coke. Less Coke.”

She smiles, tossing me a wink before she walks off to make the drinks. I have to admit I’m mildly impressed by her memory, as she had taken at least 10 drink orders before mine and memorized them all. No wonder she has an overflowing tip jar.

It probably helps that she has giant tits too.

I take a few sips, letting the warmth of the rum spread through me, loosening my muscles before setting the glass down. The music playing is stupid loud, but the people seem to like it, jamming their sweaty bodies together in a tight group in the middle of the dance floor. 

I’ll admit, this isn’t typically my scene. But the patients today were really on their game of trying to piss me off and I decided I earned a drink. I just wish I’d known how loud it would be. Thankfully, I'm not on call tomorrow.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

A man sits next to me, shifting his body so he’s facing me. When I don’t respond, he repeats himself, a little louder.

“I’m ok, thanks.” I try to let him down easy, but turning down a man who’s tipsy and looking to get laid is not an easy thing to do.

“Not yet you aren’t. We haven’t even spoken yet.” 

Sighing, I turn my head to look at him. He’s all blue eyes and light hair, a slight tan on his face but one from hanging out at the pool and not from manual labor. I’d be surprised if this guy had to work for anything.

“I’m flattered, really, but I just want to drink in peace.”

“Oh, come on now, gorgeous. A little conversation won’t hurt.”

“Really, I’m good.” I turn my head back to my drink, removing my hand from the top of it to take a sip. 

“You look stressed. I can help with that.” 

His hand finds its way to my thigh, squeezing me slightly. But before I can do anything, a different, larger hand removes it for me. 

“She said she was done talkin’.”

This new guy is gorgeous. Broad shoulders, a barrel chest, arms that could totally lift me, coupled with beautiful black curls, freckles speckled across his olive skin, accentuating his eyes, which I'm sure are normally kind when they aren't staring down an asshole. 

The man who was talking to me yanks his hand away and stands up, the bar stool scraping across the floor. 

"Fuck off, friend."

"Not until you leave the lady alone."

The man puffs up his chest, sticking his pointer finger out, jabbing at the man with the curls that I'd love to touch. 

"Why don't you fuck off so you don't get hurt, hhmm? Me and the lady were getting along just fine."

The man with the curls looks at me and I shake my head, both to say I'm never going anywhere with this man and please don't get yourself hurt.

"Doesn't look like she wants to go with you."

The man glances over at me and I fix my face into what I hope is confidence. 

"No way. I'm not going anywhere with you."

The man narrows his eyes. "I bought you a drink. The least you could do is come home with me."

Curls laughs and oh, I would love to hear that sound again. "Imagine being such a dick that you think forcing a drink upon a woman entitles you to sleep with her."

The man draws his fist back and quickly releases, punching Curls straight in the nose, his head flying backwards. He stumbles but doesn't go down, his hand swiping at his nose to see its already bleeding. The man tries to grab for me but Curls stops him, landing several good punches of his own. 

"Stop! He's not worth it!" I try to step in but it's pointless. I can't get close enough to stop anything. 

A minute or so later it doesn't matter because the cops show up, separating the men and loading them both into the back of cop cars, Curls meeting my eyes and giving me a small smile before he's pushed into the cab. 

"Excuse me," I stop one of the cops. "Which jail is he going to?" 

"Travis County. The one on 10th."

"Thanks."

The men load up and take off as I turn to walk to my car and head to the police station. When I arrive, the desk officer tells me I'll have to wait a while for them to be processed, but that they will both make bail.

So I wait. 

Several hours later, the kind desk officer rouses me awake and let's me know I can post bail. I do and they ask me to wait in the lobby while they bring him to the front. When he comes around the corner, he's talking to the officer that's escorting him.

"Yes sir, but can you tell me who posted my bail?" 

The officer nods in my direction while extending his arm out, indicating that the man should proceed without him. Curls turns in the direction the officer pointed him and locks eyes with me as I stand, folding my jacket over my arm. He smiles as we walk towards each other, making my cheeks feel warm under his gaze. 

"You bailed me out?"

"I had to. You saved me."

God his smile is like sunshine. "Oh, you didn't owe me anything, darlin'." 

"I definitely did. That guy was a creep and who knows what else he could've done?"

"Well at least let me pay you back the bail?"

I wave my hand at him. "No way."

"There must be some way for me to pay you back?"

I gesture at his face. "How about you let me take care of that?"

He touches his nose and looks at his hand, seeing some dried blood. "Oh, no that's ok. I'll just go clean up-"

I step closer to him, hand stretching towards his face. "I can't believe they didn't get you checked out."

"Ah I'll be alright."

"Stop arguing and come with me."

He looks at me, all brown eyes and tiny freckles, a small smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. "Yes ma'am."

Oh I am so fucked. 

He follows me to my car and gets in the passenger side. As I turn the key on the ignition, I realize I don't even know his name. 

"I'm Tommy by the way." 

I tell him my name. "But my friends call me Daisy."

"Well it's nice to meet you, Daisy."

We make it back to my place, as his truck had been impounded and so unavailable until morning. Tommy tries to decline my offer of a place to stay while he waits for his truck, until I ask if I'm so offensive looking that he wouldn't want to come up to my apartment. 

"No way, ma'am. Quite the opposite."

He follows me upstairs, kicking off his boots when I kick off my shoes. He looks around nervously and I see him scanning all the windows and doors. 

"You serve?" I ask. 

He looks at me, eyebrows raised. "Yeah. Desert Storm. How'd you know?"

"My dad always scans a place when he enters it. I'm assuming you'll want your back to a wall too? Exits visible?"

"I…yeah. That would be preferable."

I gesture to my couch, which is against the wall. "Have a seat. Let me get my first aid kit."

I grab my kit and some ice in a bag and sit next to Tommy, who turns his broad chest towards me when he sits up. His eyes glance behind me at my bookshelf.

"That shelf looks like it's on its last leg."

I chuckle. "Probably is. I've had it forever and it wasn't high quality to begin with. Just some Ikea shit."

He groans, like I’ve just offended his entire ancestor line. "No, not Ikea! I could make you some new ones."

"What, are you a carpenter or something?"

"Similiar. Contractor. But I do know my way around wood."

"So do I."

Tommy shifts his legs at my implication and I smirk, dabbing at the now dried blood on his face, cradling his chin with my other hand. 

His eyes are on me, so close I can feel his breath puffing out against my skin and I feel heat starting to pool between my thighs.

"Pride and Prejudice?" He asks. 

"What?"

"On your shelf."

"Oh. Yeah. Haven't read it in a while but I was obsessed when I was little. Wait - have you read it?"

He smirks. "Are you surprised?"

"A little."

"My niece needed help with her book report. So I read it to be able to help her."

"You read an entire book to help your niece with a paper?"

"Yeah."

"That's really sweet. Not many people would do that."

"Oh I'm not many people."

"That's for sure.. hey Tommy, are you hungry? I have some pizza left over."

His eyes flick between mine, a soft smile appearing on his face.

"I love pizza."

"Great!" I move to the kitchen and start getting out the pizza, putting some slices on my pizza stone and turning on the oven to preheat it. 

"I rented the new X-Men movie from Blockbuster. Have you seen it?" I ask as the oven bings and I slide the pizza in it. 

"You managed to snag a copy?"

"I bribed the cashier."

He chuckles. "I haven't seen it yet."

"Ok cool. I'll put that on for us."

The pizza finishes reheating and I divvy it up, offering Tommy a beer. We sit on the couch, plates on the coffee table as I get out the DVD. Tommy whistles. 

"You got a DVD player?"

"Yeah. It was my one splurge on myself when I moved here. Well that and a new mattress."

I fast forward through the commercials, cursing the makers for not adding a "skip ad" button. 

"Is your boyfriend gonna be alright with us hanging out?"

“Yeah, no. I don’t have one of those.”

Tommy sits up a little straighter. “Oh? Why not?”

I shrug. “I just moved to a whole new city and wanted to settle in. I don’t like long distance because it just never works out. Plus I can’t deal with all the-” I twist my wrist in a circle “- neediness?”

Tommy chuckles. “Neediness?”

“Yeah. My job takes a lot out of me and honestly, I don’t have the mental space for a boyfriend right now. That’s why I like you.”

Tommy points to himself, eyebrows raised in question. “Me?”

“Yeah. I’ve only known you a few hours but you’ve already saved my ass and don’t act all high and mighty. Plus you have great taste in books and movies.”

Tommy and I finish watching the movie and I drive him back to the impound lot now that it’s open. We exchange numbers and promise to hang out again, both of us missing the glances in the other’s direction. Although I’m pretty sure he caught me staring at his ass when he was standing at the checkout counter. 

“So you’re just….friends?”

Tommy nods, taking another sip of his beer. “That’s what I said, Joel.”

Joel studies his brother, his eyes narrowing. “She pretty?”

“So pretty she’d make a man plow through a stump.”

The corner’s of Joel mouth tick up for a second before he fixes a stern look on his face. “Be careful, Tommy. It’s hard for men and women to be friends if they’re attracted to each other. Someone’s bound to get hurt.”

“That would mean she’s attracted to me, big brother, and there’s no way. She ain’t lookin’.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“‘Sides, don’t you want a good example set for Sarah? That boys and girls can just be friends?”

Joel shakes his head, pointing at Tommy. “I don’t want her near any boys for any reason for her entire life.”

>>Chapter 2>>

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[stackofstories]

Title: ????

4/???

The next morning before breakfast, Travis joined him on the bottom bunk. They sat together looking out the one window barely registering as the sky slowly changed colors. They would have to face the day soon, but Connor didn’t feel ready and it seemed neither did Travis.

“I can’t believe we lost!” Connor said and he buried his head into his hands. “It wasn’t a dream, right?”

Travis shook his head. “If only.”

“We never lose. Like ever. Like not even Luke, arguably the best of Dad, ever lost to us in poker.”

“I was there, Con.”

“The girls were there too. Silena promised she wouldn’t tell but Drew is the biggest gossip.”

“Katie is never going to let us live this down. She’s going to be annoying.” Travis pulled a face.

“How did the pipsqueak manage it? He was super good too. He actually won $50 and a five drachmas from us. Not to mention an actual bed. How did he manage to do that?”

Travis shrugged.

Connor groaned. He didn’t need a shrug. He needed answers. “I’ve been up all night thinking about it. Don’t you think it’s kinda strange? We don’t lose games.”

“Well. Annabeth, Malcolm, Wyn.”

“That’s different. Sudoku. Chess. Capture the flag. That’s strategy. Tactic. Luck. Athleticism. But games with money, persuasion… that’s us, that’s ours. But he’s not ours.”

Travis curled a piece of hair around his finger.

If Nico was theirs as in their brother Dad would have claimed him. Aside from the fact Nico didn’t share any of the physical traits of his brothers and sisters, Connor had seen enough determinations. Unlike most of the cabins here, Dad claimed his kids as soon as they stepped through the borders. Nico hadn’t gotten that. He wasn’t their brother, but he had Connor’s attention.

“The kid is a little weird,” Travis said.

Connor nodded. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“And our reputations is in tatters for the foreseeable future.”

“Suddenly I’m not sure where you are going with this.”

“Let’s just take a few minutes to let it go though. The kid is like ten years old. So, he got one over on us.”

Connor didn’t understand why his brother was being so easygoing about this. People didn’t just get one over on them.

Travis jabbed him in the ribs. “Stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Travis eyed him in the way only he could. Like he could see him beyond the goo that made human and god, he saw him and Connor resisted the urge to shrink away.

“You are vicious and ridiculous and it still surprises me that Luke was the one to turn,” Travis said evenly. “I suppose you’ve never had the ambition.”

Connor smirked. “That’s good.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “Yeah for the rest of the world, but those, you come into contact with, I’m not so sure. The kid got one over on us. Let it go.”

“I’m not planning to get him back. He just has my attention.”

Travis frowned before he stood up with him. “Whatever. Let’s just get this day started.”

_

“Why do all the Hunters look like they’ve been proposed too?” Beckendorf asked as he strapped on his breast plate.

“Cuz, uh, they’re about to get wrecked.” Sherman Yang said with bloodthirsty grin. It might have been terrifying if his war paint was red instead of a bright pink. And it was clear he didn’t know much about the Hunters. Which made sense as he had been dropped off last summer and had never seen Hunters.

Beckendorf caught his eye and rolled his eyes before he nodded encouragingly at Sherman. “Must be, man.”

Connor noticed their strange behavior too. Yesterday the Hunters had been all smiles and laughs and today it was the complete opposite. Whatever it was, Connor hoped it aided them to victory. “How many times have we lost again?”

“Fifty five times,” Malcolm said grimly, fixing an arm cuff.

“Nico. Stop moving.”

Letting Nico drink Mountain Dew at dinnertime might not have been the smart decision. He bounced on the balls of his feet and moved his mouth a mile of minute as he pushed his helmet from his eyes a dozen times.

“We’re going to fight! And use swords! I’ve never held a real sword before.”

“I’ve never seen someone so excited over the possibility of maiming or death,” Connor said dryly.

Drew sauntered over. In her full armor plume and all. “How long have you been here?”

“One day!” Nico said. “I love it here.”

Drew laughed. “Where have they been hiding you? Con and Travie have been so cruel to keep you from us.”

“Stop teasing him before he turns red permanently,” Travis said. He finished plating the kid up in his protective armor with a final pat on his back.

“I’m not. He can spend time with us. Silena would just die over him!” Drew giggled. “He’s so cute I just wanna dress him up.”

Connor raised a single eyebrow. Drew wasn’t exactly a nice girl, but he knew her heart was melted over things like kittens and sweet fires and maybe just maybe naive little boys with anime eyes.

“Hey, I’m going to talk to Percy and show him my cool sword.” Nico darted from under them and he went straight to aqualad. His volume control clearly lacking. “If we die do we get to respawn?”

“Why?” Connor asked.

“He definitely needs to come and talk to us,” Drew said as she crossed her arms. She had a little smile on her lips.

“I feel like Percy is eternally screaming inside. He’s got the raised eyebrows. The thousand mile stare. Do you think Nico notices?”

“Nope.” Travis came to stand next to him. “Kid didn’t even say thank you. He just went straight to Percy.”

“I mean…” Drew trailed.

“What.”

“C’mon Drew. He’s a kid.”

Drew shrugged. “Percy isn’t all that and bag of chips but if I was rescued by Percy as a ten year old, I might start planning our wedding and how many kids we’re going to have.”

“Your Mom is Aphrodite and your hobby is playing M.A.S.H with the richest poorest sucker you can find.”

Drew grinned at him. Connor felt it telling she did not deny him.

Chiron stomped hard on the pavilion enough to sound like thunderstorms.

“Heroes!” he called. “You know the rules! The creek is the boundary line. Blue team—Camp Half-Blood—shall take the west woods. Hunters of Artemis–red team–shall take the east woods. I will serve as referee and battlefield medic. No intentional maiming, please! All magic items are allowed. To your positions.”

Thalia wasted no time. Between her and Percy they took up the leadership positions and Connor was just fine with them. “Blue team! Follow me!”

Beckendorf lead the rallying cry as they raced through the woods. He and his brother were some of the fastest campers, Travis being the fastest, but they fell behind and kept Nico in front of them. Connor remembered how armor felt when he was still new and rosy cheeked but Nico didn’t seem to care, or if he did, he wasn’t letting it slow him down.

He climbed up the Poop Pile–Zeus’s Fist—with surprising dexerity and volunteered to sit the flag in the correct position.

“Can I go scouting with you?” Nico squeaked and eyed Percy. “That’s what you’re doing right.”

Percy stared at them all wide-eyed and the rest of them team had the decency to laugh behind hands and buttoned lips. He rubbed the back of his neck stalling.

“Uh, yeah, but I have an even more important job for you.”

Nico nodded eagerly.

“Guard-duty. With the Travis and Connor and Beckendorf.” He swept an arm toward them. “I need you to guard the flag because uh, I trust you. To keep it safe for me.”

Connor audibly snorted and for the second time that day Travis jabbed him in the ribs.

“Really?” Nico asked.

“Really really.” Percy patted him on the shoulder before he gave him a little push in their direction.

Nico squeezed between him and Travis. He stood as tall as he could. Travis nudged him with a little smile. “Maybe you should have gone scouting with Percy. Your sister is a Hunter. You might give her the flag.”

“You make a good point, Connor,” Beckendorf said looking uneasy and Travis nodded in agreement despite the wrong name. “She is your older sister.”

“Maybe we should tell Percy to see if one the girls can stand guard with us instead…” Connor added.

Nico gaped. “No! I can do it!” he vibrated with purpose. “If Bianca comes I won’t give her the flag. Not even if she begs!”

“If you say so,” Connor prodded.

“I do say so. I promise!” Nico said. “I always keep my promises. No one is getting our flag.”

Connor nodded affirmatively. “Okay. We just want to make sure.”

Thalia and Percy shouted some orders. Everybody nodded and broke off into smaller groups.

Silena darted to the left with her team while Thalia went right with her scouts. Percy prowled the area climbing onto higher rocks. Connor wondered why Percy didn’t go with Thalia, he didn’t belong in defense. Not because he wasn’t good but he was so obviously an action guy; he lacked the patience.

Case in point: “Can you hold the fort?” Percy threw over his shoulder at Beckendorf.

He heard a response and raced off. Nico cheered and they followed behind more quietly.

“Our best fighter,” Beckendorf said when Percy was gone.

“We’re doomed,” Travis said.

“Totally.”

“Way too sound positive boys,” a Hunter came from the shadows. She shot her bow with pin point accuracy to above their heads. Dense smoke spewed out.

It didn’t smell like sulfur, it wasn’t making their face break out and Connor had superior vision curtsy of his father. His confidence shot quick only to be shot down cruelly when the Hunters went forward in the smoke. Attacking with their hunting knives.

Connor raised his shield up blocking the attacks and pushing forward. He had to give it to the Hunters. They knew how to fight, he almost got neck sliced open in the few half seconds he managed to protect himself.

He fell deeper into the woods. With one hard grunt and all his strength and he tackled the girl, she sprawled into the ground with dazed ugh.

“Hey!” Nico screamed.

Connor rose. He made it half a step before the big beefy Hunter girl rose from the dead and clubbed him hard on the head enough. His ears rang and he was down for the count.

He felt two thuds on his helmet. He ate snow and laid there until Chiron came to him. He saw double of his brother on his broad back.

“They got you too,” Connor said to Travis.

“Shut up.”

“We lost…” and whatever else he was going to say was lost in the swirl of yelling. The air felt charged like before a thunderstorm. Connor knew it was Percy and Thalia.

“We’re missing all the fireworks,” Connor said.

Chiron must have heard them. He galloped first. “Just like their fathers. This is why I ignore the family invites.”

There was a lot of yelling, but that all went out the door when the world got quiet. Connor’s head still thumped something fierce, Travis gasped.

“What.”

“It’s the Oracle, dude. She’s here.”

“Nice try.”

“I’m not kidding, dude.”

“She’s like a gajillion years old and she’s dead. Like calcified.”

“Hey, I realize this sounds insane but she’s out here. Walking. Not talking.”

“This is impossible,” Chiron said. “This has never happened. Never.”

Connor’s vision became a little clearer with the admission. He swallowed. Below him was a sea of sickly green mist covering snow.

“I am the spirit of Delphi,” the voice scratched in his mind like nails on a chalkboard. “Speaker of the prophecies Phoebus Apollo slayer of the mighty Python.”

Approach seeker and ask.

Whoever she spoke to must have been a Hunter. In the swirling sea of green mist the eddies twisted together into one clear but terrifying picture. On a barren mountain there was a girl. Artemis. She was wrapped in chains and in pain.

Five shall go west to the goddess in chains, One shall be lost in the land without rain, The bane of Olympus shows the trail, Campers and Hunters combined prevail, The Titan's curse must one withstand,

And one shall perish by a parent's hand.

Another prophecy. People were going to die. But not his people.

Connor nearly passed out in relief.

[acaciapines]

Gimme song drabble number 87 for your au pls :3 (enables you enables you enables you)

HI WYN THANK U FOR ENABLING ME HE HE <33333

like ive done before discussion will be under the cut!

87. 20 Something – SZA

“he’s a child,” eda says, because she can’t deny it anymore, that the little creature she thought was some sort of odd dog that talks and mimics her and watches her with wide eyes—of course he’s a kid. how could he be anything else?

beside her, the owl beast squawks something, loud in the way it tends to be. king, on the couch, repeats the shriek right back, and the owl beast huffs at him, tossing her head.

“oh, hush,” eda tells it, moving to nudge king. “c’mon, buddy.”

his eyes light up when she sits next to him and he throws himself into her lap, practically purring. he can only say a few words, but one of those is her name, and he chirps it at her, “eda! eda!”

“yeah,” eda mutters. “that’s me, alright.”

on her own, not even a palisman to her name. just some dumb owl monster that doesn’t know when it isn’t wanted, that curls up at the foot of the couch, croons when king reaches out to play with the feathers on her wings.

“i can’t deal with a kid,” eda tells herself, and doesn’t let king go.

Discussion

EDA AND KING WHOOOOOOOOO!!! i still think its so funny that eda thinks her son is the dog at first. kings an entire titan. literally the son of the very land she lives on. and shes like 'damn. weird ass dog huh.'

anyways! not sure why i wrote this one...coulda been back when i was in the 19-20 episode range since theres a good amount of eda&king scenes there, and besides i think i wanted to kinda write a lil bit of how eda might've been when she first found king! bc its pretty fun in how its different from the show!

like, for one, the owl beast has known king was a kid (well. she'd use hatchling) from the start! it was EDA who got hit in the face with that, firefly has just accepted king as her new son and is mainly just annoyed she has to co-parent with eda. like sharing a nest with her was bad enough.

not much else to say about this one tho. actually fun fact: baby titans are little ducklings. since for so long the only living creatures WERE titans, baby titans imprint on the first source of dust they see! usually thats their parent titan, but in the case of king he wouldve imprinted on eda + firefly since before that he lived in an abandoned ruin and he was the only person around for miles.

them <3

[queenvreads]

REVIEW: Happy Place by Emily Henry

Take all my stars Emily Henry.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

"In every universe, it's you for me. Even if it's not me for you."

Harriet and Wyn broke up five months ago, but they didn't tell anyone it happened. They both end up attending their annual week-long vacation with their best friends, Harriet did not expect Wynn to attend.

There, they find out: 1. the vacation home is being sold, and this will be their final stay there. 2. their friends are getting married on this very trip.

In order to make the week as perfect as possible for their friends, they decide to pretend that they are still together for the week.

Who knew a book called "Happy Place" would be about emotional damage, second chances, angst, passion, self-growth, grief, and depression? I was taken completely off guard by this, in the most amazing way. I don't usually enjoy miscommunication and second chance romances, but all hail the queen Emily Henry because there is nothing she can't turn to gold.

I really enjoyed the two different timelines. The past was "Happy Place/Dark Place," and the present was "Real Life." We see how and when Wyn & Harriet meet, what they were like before, and how they got to be where they are today. I LOVE their banter. It reminded me so much of "Book Lovers."

This was also SO STEAMY, the angst was written SO WELL. You could just feel the gravitational pull between Wyn & Harriet. Ugh it was absolutely perfection. Probably the steamiest out of all Emily Henry's books.

They are clearly soulmates, and I was praying the whole way through that they would find their way back to each other. FEAR NOT, as much as this story cuts through the heart, it also soothes it, making it whole again. ❤❤

BRB as I go recover from this intense book hanger. I miss these characters already. 🥲

"Things change, but we stretch and grow and make room for one another.

Our love is a place we can always come back to, and it will be waiting, the same as it ever was.

You belong here."

✍️Befriend me on Goodreads: ⭐HERE⭐