#and i am not counting my chickens before they hatch

[gaytobymeres]

hmm

[hannahhasafact]

I’m probably the only fucker dumb enough to want to pay my student loans off but my god I’m so tired of having my net worth be negative dollars I would like to just be able to exist

[oaky-dokey]

*through gritted teeth at myself in the mirror* you may have no clothes but you also have no income. one sewing project at a time.

[whentherewerebicycles]

I need some little projects for tomorrow! I think one of them will be going through my big messy list of recipes I made this year and making a nice cleaned-up version of the ones I want to keep/make again. I may also swatch some paint colors but I’m not committing to painting yet… I thought I had the strength to tackle it this weekend but I���m no longer sure. I also want to do my allotted two hours of sunday writing at a coffee shop. and if I am feeling really motivated I could do some major cleaning/reorganizing of the closets to prepare for my mom arriving at the end of the month to start getting baby stuff set up.

[tragedy-of-commons]

Heyo Gwen!! Congrats on 200 followers once more!!!!!

If you don't mind, allow me to drop in a request too hehe, no pressure of course!

"Wanna make a bet?" + Kamisato Ayato

I'm excited to see what you write for the event (>u<)!!!

– sincerely,

Maple

"Wanna make a bet?"

Ayato's lips curl at the question. Why not bite?

"Such a trap you're laying out for me," he tilts his head, sun reflecting off his pastel blue tufts, right directly into your corneas. You squint, grimacing at his sly expression. "Please, inform me of the stakes."

The Yashiro Commissioner knows which cards to play and when to play them to ensure victory, but he also knows better than to count his chickens before they hatch. You're clever and get your way more than he intends - which is precisely why he's letting you hold his hand in the privacy of the Estate's gardens.

You compliment one another perfectly. It seems like such a childish sentiment to any onlookers (those who dare to look), but even they can't deny this wonderful synergy that you two share, really two halves of a whole--

"I bet you a kiss that you can't remember our first date."

Sometimes, you can be cheekier than him.

"The art of subtlety is lost on you," Ayato tuts, already resigned. "Setting me up to fail like this... one would think you're a sadist."

It's almost comical to utter the words whispered about him by all sorts of political figures to your unassuming character. Even so, he probably won't be winning this bet. Robbed blind of another kiss - how tragic.

Kamisato Ayato is used to this being the way things go, usually nestled between sparring (where he's only lost to you twice), and hushed nights of mulling over poetry (where he still constantly watches the clock). If this routine is at all like the others that came before it, you're about to start gloating about your checkmate.

"I'm not hearing an answer," you singsong, admiring the various flora and painstakingly spoiled greenery.

He sighs, squeezing your hand. "I'd have to give you my best guess."

His memory isn't all what it used to be. Too many precious moments have been lost to the tumultuous sea of work and his constantly occupied mind; it's hard enough to keep it sharp, and even harder to fall into your arms after a long day, given the fact that there's still a lingering worry you may try to assassinate him in his sleep.

Your impish nature softens, grin shrinking into a sweet smile.

"That's all I want from you, Ayato."

Ah. Nevermind.

Before he answers incorrectly, he brings your knuckles up to his lips and kisses each one reverently, maintaining breathless eye contact. He's inclined to savor this while it lasts, after all.

"It had to have been when I first saw you. Mentally, I was already preparing to deal with the eventual public backlash of our marriage," he delivers, smirking against your skin--

You wrench your hand back to presumably elbow him, but Ayato is prepared, capturing your wrist with a gentle flair.

"I am ready for my kiss, as per your terms."

You heave a world-weary sigh, and Ayato has won.

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren

a/n: MAPLE 💗 thank you for your well-wishes n support thus far! you're so silly and fun, hope u like what i did with ayato. i know it's short, but ehhhhhhh i think i did an okay job at characterizing him.

event post here

[rdmaaron]

Not to count my chickens before the eggs hatch, there is still 5 days left to go after all, I was legitimately worried the poll was gonna be another hannigram situation where it would be neck and neck until Sulemio squeezed through at the last second, but nah destiel’s been getting its ass blown out from the word go and the chasm grows wider every hour.

And I am empathetic enough to understand where the spn fans are coming from on this, they are in fact correct in thinking that if this poll happened 10 years ago destiel would have clean swept the competition with very little resistance.

Unfortunately for them however, this isn’t 10 years ago, it’s today and nobody really gives much of a shit about supernatural anymore. Whereas it’s literally never been a better time to be an English speaking Gundam fan generally, a sapphic Gundam fan specifically.

Here’s hoping the momentum keeps up.

[mermaidsirennikita]

ARC REVIEW: Honey Cut by Sierra Simone

5/5. Releases 6/18/24.

vibes: WEAPONIZED LONGING, the perfect angst recipe, the man Lana Del Rey was singing about but much better, We Can't Discuss Our Feelings Because My Feelings Are Hard

Heat Index: 10/10

Isolde Laurence is in a bind (literally, at points). She's about to marry Mark Trevena (the cold, dangerous man who deflowered her and promptly crushed her heart) in an arrangement that will enable her to seduce him and offer his secrets to her uncle, a high-ranking cardinal. However, on her way to do so, she's fallen in love with Mark's romantic, pining bodyguard Tristan. And Tristan--who very much loves her back--is also in love with Mark, thanks to a preexisting whirlwind affair he put a stop to upon finding out about the engagement. Isolde is determined to, if nothing else, guard her heart against her new husband. And, for personal and practical reasons, honor the agreement they made years ago: once they exchange vows, they'll be faithful to each other.

Easier said than done.

But Isolde herself is deadlier than she seems, and in the midst of a thorny triangle, she may end up crushing not only Tristan's heart, but her own... and maybe even Mark's. If he has one.

Well, this was my most-anticipated release of the year, and BY GOD did it live up to expectations. This is an ongoing series (you must read Salt Kiss before starting this one, and in my opinion? You should ABSOLUTELY also read the prequel novella, Salt in the Wound, as it lays the groundwork for Mark and Isolde's relationship) and of course, I don't want to count chickens before they hatch, but... If Sierra pulls the ending off--which I totally believe she will; she's yet to let me down--this could end up being her best series yet. And that is a LOT coming from me, someone who worships at the altar of New Camelot (and Thornchapel, for that matter).

The thing about the way Sierra writes triads--and nobody does it better--is that they all feel unique. You might think that Mark, Isolde, and Tristan would have a lot in common with New Camelot's Ash, Greer, and Embry. They're MMF, they're based on Arthurian myth, these people literally know each other (Sierra: I owe you my life for that cameo). But the dynamic is completely different--and in this installment especially, quite darker. I didn't see Mark's darkness as much in Salt Kiss (Salt in the Wound... perhaps more so, which gives you some insight into the differences between his individual dynamics with Isolde versus Tristan) but here? Um. She portrayed the conflict within him and his ruthlessness perfectly... While also letting us even further into the vulnerability she hinted at in Salt Kiss.

Mark can be a difficult character for readers to humanize, I think, because we haven't had his POV yet. It's easy to sort of dismiss him as this frosty, stern alpha who doles out pain while also dealing with plenty of his own (on the inside, because Mark is clearly very uncomfortable with feeling a feeling). Where she makes it brilliant is through these moments of BOYISHNESS. We got sneak peeks of boyish Mark in Salt Kiss, but here? Oh my god. The grins, the poking at Tristan, the GOOFY HOT FACETIME SEX WITH ISOLDE??? It's so human, and dropping those sneak peeks in makes his pain even more palatable.

And the thing is that you do get that pain. Because Sierra also doesn't shy away from the agony of a love triangle and, yes, cheating in this book. I often find that MMF is used in a sort of like... "Why choose? Heehee it's all okay because everyone wants each other" get out of jail free card. Sierra really doesn't do that ever, but this is the hardest she's gone in on "these people are cheating, and it HURTS the person they're cheating on, and it HURTS them". No punches are pulled here. This is one of the angstiest books I've read, and as an angst hound, I loved every second of it.

The ending? I am going to be in actual PAIN until Bitter Burn (out early next year, SHIT). There was a moment in the last few pages of this book that made me gasp. In part because I really didn't think she'd go there on multiple levels. This is a book of huge swings, and for me, every single one worked.

Quick Takes:

--I have been very vocal about how much the one time Mark called Tristan "puppy" in a cut scene (Beg Me, which you should absolutely read if you can--I think it's on Sierra's website) has not left my head since. Guess what? It's just a regular nickname now. He says it SEVERAL times in this book, in prime moments. And I was extremely happy.

--You can for sure read this series on its own, but I will say that this book in particular "spoils" a good bit of New Camelot. In the same way that any romance in the same universe or series of standalones sort of spoils others, but if you want to read chronologically without any giveaways, you should read that series first. And in general, read it even if you do read Lyonesse first. Because it's gorgeous.

--I can't emphasize enough how happy Isolde and Mark's dirty Facetime calls made me. Like. At the end of the day, Mark is just like any other man with a hot young wife, desperately trying to get a peek over his phone. While someone else peeks, perhaps.

--Isolde's such a fantastic heroine. Broken and devoted to God and maybe lowkey a zealot, while also craving physical and emotional pain and release and Tristan's soft heart and Mark's cold one all at once. She's the kind of heroine we very rarely get to read about in romance. If I'm being honest, I was a little worried about how the dynamics would balance here, as so much of the last book was Mark and Tristan on their own, and then the remainder was Tristan and Isolde on their own. (Which is another reason why you should read Salt in the Wound first, in my opinion.) But God. The dynamic of the three, the dynamic between Mark and Isolde, just blew me away. Two black cats circling each other, Mark perhaps a little more reticent to open up to Isolde than Tristan because he recognizes something of himself in her.

While at the same time, I found that Tristan and Isolde's relationship deepened. I always fully believed in their agonized love for Mark, and their desire to stay loyal to him. Yet I also completely believed that they couldn't possibly stay away from each other, not permanently.

--Mark's backstory? I foresaw some surface level stuff, but not the parts that mattered. Those kind of blew my mind.

The Sex:

I mean, it's Sierra Simone, so it's creative and very much a part of the character development. One of the sex scenes in this book was so... it was really one of the best she's ever written. But also? DEVIOUS. Sierra, you did not have to do us like that. However, I'm glad you did.

There are so many different "flavors" of sex in this book--super kinky, kinda vanilla (or as vanilla as these people can get), happy, angsty, sad, passionate, light, funny.

You can expect, among other things: restraints, impact play, cum play, breeding, biting, public sex (a lot of that), car sex, edging, voyeurism, pain play, cum licking.......... all that shit. And more!

Look, dude. Read this book if you've read the other books. If you haven't read the other books, read those and then read this book. I can't recommend it enough. This is angsty, passionate, heady romance at its best. Hot and emotionally complex and well-written. Sierra's prose! It's what romance should be; she sets the pace, and we all must chase it.

Thanks to Candi Kane PR for providing me with a copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

[cosmerelists]

English Proverbs Translated for the Threnodites on Canticle

[Spoilers for The Sunlit Man!]

My post "English proverbs translated for Rosharans" did surprisingly well, so here I am with a sequel! What would be the, uh, Canticlan (?) equivalents for some common English proverbs?

English: Strick while the iron is hot. Threnodite: Reap while the sun is hidden. Explanation: The Threnodites on Canticle do NOT want things to be hot when they strike.

English: Don't count your chickens before they hatch. Threnodite: Don't count Sunhearts that are buried. Explanation: You can't be sure how many chickens will hatch, and you can't know if all the Sunhearts you left out will be there when you return.

English: Don't put all of your eggs in one basket. Threnodite: Only lightly lash your ships. Explanation: You don't want to put all of your eggs in one basket because what if you drop it and they all break? And if your a Threnodite on a flying city, you want all of your individual ships to be able to separate quickly so they don't all, you know, burn up at once.

English: If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Threnodite: Do not replace a Sunheart that yet glows. Explanation: If something is working, leave it alone. Or in Threnodite terms, don't try to replace one Sunheart with a better one if the one you have is still functioning.

English: Time waits for no one. Threnodite: The sun always follows. Explanation: I just feel like the Threnodites would have proverbs about, you know, always keeping moving. Because it's their sun that never waits, and it's coming to kill them.

English: Two heads are better than one. Threnodite: Three heads are wiser than one. Explanation: Since the Threnodites have three leaders.

English: It's always darkest before the dawn. Threnodite: Even the brightest sun gives way to night. Explanation: I am fascinated that light/dark proverbs would be reversed, because for them light is bad and dark is safe.

English: It is better to give than to receive. Threnodite: Warmth given is never lost. Explanation: The English proverb encourages generosity, and so does the Threnodite one--in the latter case, referring to how they can pass their warmth back and forth.

English: It is a poor workman who blames his tools. Threnodite: It is a poor designer who blames the ancestors. Explanation: The ghosts build tools based on the designs you show them. So it's not really their fault if your design explodes or something.

English: Go on a wild goose chase Threnodite: Seek to refill an empty Sunheart. Explanation: To do something impossible or silly. This one, uh, quickly falls out of use after Nomad's visit...

[lauralot89]

"Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines."

Wait how do you play with a flower? Short of doing "loves me, loves me not" with the petals?

No trifling with me! I never jest!

Like two days ago you were pulling on Jack's ear while rambling about corn

But hush! no telling to others that make so inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obedience

I see absolutely no way this could backfire

The Professor's actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopoeia that I ever heard of

Van Helsing: a summary

"Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit."

"Perhaps I am!" he answered quietly

sir, Jack is running on like an hour of sleep at best, don't be cryptic at him in these trying times

As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:—

"To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want

There's a saying, Professor, about counting your chickens before they've hatched

Ho! ho!

and now he's Santa

It must have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but I felt it all the more, like unshed tears.

everyone deserves to be slapped with a fish

[welcometololaland]

911 lone star tag game

thank you @tellmegoodbye for creating this tag and for tagging me 💜 sorry it took me so long to get to it. thanks also to @lemonlyman-dotcom @rmd-writes @liminalmemories21 @freneticfloetry

@chicgeekgirl89 @thisbuildinghasfeelings for the tags and @howtosingit and @captain-gillian mentioning my name, unfortunately for you i have taken that as a tag.

When did you first start watching Lone Star? Who or what introduced you to the show?

someone (it may have been @three-drink-amy) was yelling about the proposal in a group chat somewhere and i was stuck at home, injured, completely unable to walk, miserable and hating life...so I opened a YouTube video to see what the fuss was about. and then i watched all 3 seasons over the next 2 days.

Which season is your favorite?

three

Who is your favorite character? (Bonus: If you answered TK or Carlos, who is your favorite besides them?)

if you'd asked me a year ago, i might have had a different answer, but now (after over a year of almost exclusively writing carlos), i think it has to be him. i just think that i understand carlos a lot better than i used to. aside from tarlos...it's a hard toss up between grace and paul.

Top five episodes. Go!

you don't write 9 fics about push unless you really love push, so it's 3 x 04 every day for me. i'm actually sick for the pilot (1 x 01). i love a good origin story. my three others would be 3 x 13, 3 x 07 and a fight to the death between 3 x 18 for the proposal and 4 x 16 for soulmates.

If you could pick any character to be given a "begins" episode, who would it be and what would that episode look like?

i think the logical choice is nancy, because we really don't know a lot about her. the more she is on the screen the more i am starting to really enjoy her as a character and i'd like to know more. i'm also obsessed with getting as much reyes family backstory as i can. i'm CONVINCED tia lucy has to turn up somewhere. i need to meet that queen.

What is a scenario or storyline that you would like to see in season 5?

total cop out answer for me - i have no hopes because every time i start clowning i get the fear i might curse it. i'm just here for the ride, kids.

What do you think is going on in this still?

see answer above - i think the obvious answer is something about gabriel's death/the murder investigation but i'm not counting my chickens before they hatch or whatever the saying is. (also, they could def be trolling us and it's some scene in which tk is hangry and carlos is calling up the pizza place around the corner to ask where their order is because it's been 50 minutes and how long does a pizza really take?)

We all know about the elusive 5x05 spicy scene that has been teased, so what is your prediction for how it could possibly top 1x02?

it's no secret that i prefer sexy scenes when there's more at stake - a frantic hook up is hot but i prefer anything with feelings upon feelings upon feelings. so i hope whatever it is, it's emotional.

Where was the Tarlos honeymoon in your mind?

i wrote a whole fic about it, so it's hard to go against my own narrative. but i assume somewhere in texas. it definitely wasn't the under the tuscan sun remake carlos had apparently been dreaming about (but i hope they get there one day).

Shoutout one of your favorite fan creations.

there's actually too many to mention, and somehow even though i've only been in this fandom for coming up two years, i feel like i'm a relic 😂 i have so many personal favourites that have come across my dash (a lot of them due to fic/fandom rec friday which i miss with all my heart). but i do want to say that if you create for this fandom in any capacity, whether that is art, fic, gifs, vids, metas etc., your creations are such a gift. every single one adds something that the fandom didn't have before and makes us as a collective all the richer 💜 also, i think it's important to acknowledge the importance of the members of the fandom who are readers or beta readers, or even casual observers. everyone i've come across on this site or in the ao3 comments or discord has such unique experiences and personalities and adds so much flavour to this fandom! so thank you for being here! and thanks to @tellmegoodbye again for giving me an excuse to just ramble on about that.

an open tag because i'm very late, but if you haven't participated, please consider this a tag for you 💜

[hinatastinygiant]

4 | 𝓕𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓘𝓷 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

The Author

That night, as you lay in your bed while still on Asgard, you pull out the small remote that Loki had given you. It couldn't have been just to escape, could it? Things are never that simple with him, you know that.

You shut your eyes and think back to what he had told you before he left. Something about finding another version of himself hiding in... Your eyes shoot open when you realize. Immediately, you burst out of your room and rush down the stairs toward the library.

"Princess?" a guard asks as you pass by. "What are you doing?"

"I need a book," you state, pushing the doors open.

"At this hour?" he frowns.

"Yes, at this hour. I'm unable to sleep, is that a crime now?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Goodnight," you nod, slamming the door shut and locking it behind you.

After a few moments of searching, you're able to find the section of the library dedicated to Earth and the findings Thor and Loki had previously brought back. You comb through every page, searching for every natural disaster since the beginning of time. And one by one, you start your search. Figuring out the remote isn't too hard once you use it a couple of times. You're able to visit each disaster, one after the other, calling out for Loki in the hopes that he'll be waiting for you at one of them.

Although you spend so much time traveling from place to place, you always end up back in the same night on Asgard, digging through the books. Eventually, you come to the end and nothing. You haven't managed to find a trace of Loki at any of them.

"Shit!" you curse, slamming the last text onto the desk and knocking over a stack of others. You run your hands through your hair and lean forward, letting the frustration take hold of you. "What am I supposed to do?"

Suddenly, you hear the sound of the front door unlocking. You don't wish to look up until curiosity gets the better of you. "Balder," you groan as his large body manages to get past the grande library doors. "What do you want?"

"Couldn't sleep," he smirks. "Is that a crime now?"

"You heard me?" you sit up a bit straighter. It's never your wish to come off as impolite towards King Odin or anyone in his family. "I-I'm sorry if I woke you."

"It's fine," he chuckles, walking over to the desk. "I was just walking by. I apologize for startling you."

"It's alright," you nod, accepting his apology.

"What are you doing?" he then asks, causing you to stiffen your body. You don't want him to call you crazy, too. Not after the queen already had once.

"Nothing," you shake your head, closing the remainder of the books still on the desk.

"You're not doing some sort of dark magic are you?" he half-jokes.

"No," you laugh, though you know the joke is partly true. Loki has shown you things before, dark things. "Just couldn't sleep."

"What is keeping you awake?" he asks, placing his hands on his hips.

"I was worried about him. I know he's on Earth somewhere. I just don't know-"

"Why?" he questions you.

"Why what?" you roll your eyes. You're really not in the mood for more jokes or games.

"Why does he have to be on Earth? Was that the last place you saw him?" he clarifies.

"Well, no," you admit, feeling stupid. You hadn't even thought about that. You've just assumed it was where Mobius wanted to take him. "But I figured."

Balder shakes his head as he leans against the doorframe. "Don't be ridiculous," he tells you. "You can't assume anything with that man."

"You're right," you huff, remembering the countless times he had tested your patience.

"You know my brother. He's probably already found a way to get himself deeper in a load of shit," he shrugs. "Just don't count your chickens before they hatch."

"What does that-" you begin just as Balder rolls off of the doorframe and steps out of the library. "What do chickens have to do with anything?"

But then, it hits you. He's right. Who's to say that Loki is on Earth at all? Immediately, you stand to your feet and rush across the library to find all the texts on natural disasters you can possibly find.

One by one you cross off disasters on your mental checklist. You travel from Aladna to Xandar hoping to spot him, but still nothing. Just as you're about to give up, the last disaster comes into view. A moon on the brink of collapse from a neighboring planet. Lamentis-1.

Once you travel there, you hop from home to home, looking for any sign of Loki. All the locals ignore you, however, and instead, all rush towards a large train pulling into the station. You begin to walk over, hoping to King Odin that you'll find even a shred of evidence that he was here.

However, as you get closer to the train, you are grabbed by a guard and pulled onto the platform. "Excuse me," you gasp as he handles you rather roughly.

"Miss, if you don't get on the train right now, you will die," the guard tells you before ushering you right onto the train.

"Okay," you breathe heavily, not expecting the sudden shift. As you try to find a seat, the train begins to move and your body nearly tumbles into the aisle. "Shit," you hiss, grabbing ahold of the pole beside you and holding on for dear life.

It's then that you're finally able to look around the train with your fingers crossed for good luck. You travel from lavish cart to cart, searching for that familiar head of raven-colored hair. Though, as you reach the end of the train, your hope starts to diminish.

You're just about to give up when suddenly, you hear a voice ring out from the cart you've just entered. And it's coming from a man that isn't too far ahead of you. He's tall and thin, and his dark hair falls across his shoulders in perfect curls. There's no mistaking that silky, deep voice. But just as you're about to rush forward, you spot a woman sitting across from him with a smile on her lips.

"How about you? You're a prince," she grins at him. "Must've been would-be princesses... Or perhaps another prince."

"A bit of both," you hear him say. "I suspect the same as you. But nothing ever..."

"Real."

The word hits you hard.

"Mmm," he nods in response.

Your heart turns to glass in your chest before shattering to pieces.

"Oh," he then comments softly. You watch as he looks down at the watch he's wearing. "Seems as though my brother is back home."

"Yeah? Are you going to see him?" the woman asks.

Loki shakes his head. "His wedding is tomorrow. I wouldn't want to ruin that."

"You're not interested in going?" the woman then questions, her curiosity obviously piqued.

"I don't want to talk about it," he sighs before downing the alcohol before him.

Unable to take another step, you sink into a nearby table and stare blankly into space. You're not sure how much time goes by, but the next thing you know, Loki is causing a scene at the bar in the middle of the room.

"Love," he hiccups, talking to absolutely no one. "Is like a dagger."

Well, he's not wrong, you tell yourself. It shouldn't be as hard as it is to move.

"And when it's in you," he continues, taking a deep breath. "It's so hard to pull out."

He pauses, taking another swig of his drink.

"So," he sighs, leaning back a little. "Why put it in?"

The man beside him laughs wildly at his word choice. "There are a lot of daggers," he adds. "You could try the other ones."

"But the sharpest is always the most intriguing, is it not?" he whispers just loud enough for you to hear.

You shake your head, forcing the tears back. As soon as the train comes to a halt, you force yourself to grab hold of the small remote and remove yourself from this scene.

When you get back to the palace, it is no longer the same night of meeting Balder in the library. In fact, it's the following evening. You quickly change your clothes and rush outside, only to bump into the same man you had last seen in Asgard.

"There you are," he grumbles as he looks down at you.

"What do you mean? What's going on?" you pant.

"My parents have been looking for you everywhere!" he snaps.

"Crap, what've you told them? I wasn't supposed to leave Asgard by order of-"

"I know," he shakes his head. "Which is why I've given you the only wedding present I intend on giving."

"Huh?" you narrow your eyes.

"You have no idea what's going on, do you?"

"I've been trying to tell you. I've been-"

"I know. Not here. Don't worry, I told my parents that you had been up all night in the library because you couldn't sleep. Cold feet since you heard the news," he explains. "If anyone asks, you've been asleep in your room the whole time."

"Thank you, Balder," you sigh. "You've really saved me."

"Just get inside already so I don't have to keep this up any longer," he shakes his head.

"Right," you nod, fixing your dress slightly before stepping into the grand ballroom. Inside, you spot Thor right away. He walks up to you and kisses your hand before escorting you across the room to his parents.

"Where have you been?" he questions as you make your way past the guests.

"Sleeping," you tell him just as Balder had instructed.

"You're such a bad liar, you know," he sighs. "But I suppose it doesn't matter now. Y/N, our wedding is in the morning. Your parents should be here soon. Please, do your best not to wander off again."

"Of course, your highness," you nod.

"Please," he shakes his head. "Don't be like that."

When you approach his parents, you bow down to the king. "It's wonderful to see you again, Your Majesty," you smile, standing straight.

"Ah, Princess Y/N," the king hums. "It is good to have you awake. Balder told us you were feeling unwell."

"I can assure you I'm feeling much better now," you nod.

"I'm glad. The wedding is tomorrow. Will you be prepared?" he asks.

"Yes, of course, your majesty," you bow.

"Then you shall join us for the feast tonight. Thor is looking forward to having his wife by his side."

"Right," you mutter, glancing up at the man who has yet to let go of your hand.

"Come," he smiles, tugging on you. "Let's dance."

You grumble as he pulls you to the center of the room. "You know, since you're always pulling me out here the least you could do is actually teach me the steps so I don't look like an idiot," you mutter.

"What does it matter?" he smirks down at you. "Nobody can see your feet anyway. You look beautiful, that's all they notice."

You roll your eyes. "So, then you're not going to teach me?" you ask, lowering your voice.

"Not right now, Y/N," he shakes his head. "My father is watching. Just dance."

"But I don't know how!" you exclaim.

"Y/N, please," he sighs. "Just move with the music."

"Fine," you hiss, taking a deep breath. "But only if I get to lead."

Thor laughs. "What makes you think you'd be able to do that?"

"I can't even follow. I'll trip you if I try."

"I'd love to see you try," he teases.

"You simply want me to trip," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Perhaps I do, or perhaps I just like seeing you struggle. Now come, dance," he orders, placing his hands on your waist and pulling you in.

"That's not fair," you complain.

"All's fair in love and war," he smirks. "Dance."

Together, the two of you glide across the dance floor. You can feel every eye in the room watching you, but you manage to stay focused on the man before you.

"You're doing well," Thor compliments. "Are you sure you need lessons?"

"You're being too nice. I've stepped on your foot a hundred times by now."

"I can't even feel them anymore," he shrugs. "So it doesn't count."

"Whatever," you sigh, allowing your eyes to wander across the room. They land on your parents for only a moment as they watch the two of you with smiles on their faces.

"Do you think he'll come?" you then whisper in a voice just barely audible to yourself. You already know the answer. You heard it from Loki himself, but part of you still wants to hold onto a shred of home.

"Do you want me to be honest? Or do you want me to tell you what you want to hear?" Thor replies.

"The truth, I suppose," you mumble.

"Well, then, no. I doubt he'll come. I don't think he plans on seeing either of us anytime soon," he sighs.

"Did something happen? With you and Loki?"

"Not exactly. But, Y/N, it's alright. You're doing the right thing. You'll make your parents proud," he reminds you.

You nod as you pull away from him. Guests are beginning to leave and you can already see the four kings and queens make their exit from the room. "Where do you go?" you decide to then ask him.

"What do you mean?" he hums, knitting his eyebrows together. "I'm right here, aren't I?"

"No, I mean after the parties. You and the other princes always go somewhere after the parties. Where do you go?" you clarify.

"Y/N, it's not a place for princesses. Why are you asking me this?"

"I'm just curious," you shrug. "We're about to be married and you're keeping secrets from me."

"Secrets, huh?"

"Yes, I want to know what kind of trouble you and the others are getting into," you grin up at him. "Show me. Please."

"Fine," he sighs. "But you're going to have to change. You'll be ruined in more ways than one if you go looking like that."

"What do you-"

"Just do as I say and meet me by the gates in ten."

The Author

[netscapenavigator-official]

I'm definitely not gonna get too confident, because if 2016 proved anything, it's that the election isn't decided until it is.

But, Biden stepping down has been such a breath of fresh air. People are rallying for Harris, and there's so much less of that cringe doomsday "we're cooked" stuff. The polls are coming out that Harris has completely erased Trump's leads with Black and Latino voters. Harris has restored the typical 60/40 split among young voters, and I'm (personally) eagerly awaiting the polls showing the difference in support from women.

On top of that, Trump having grotesque meltdowns and pulling out of the debate; Vance's couch fucking allegations and misogynistic comments towards Harris; Texas suing to outlaw teenage girls using birth control; and the court case making gay marriage legal being appealed all being in the headlines.

All of these things are horrible, but they're making people mad. They're lighting a fire under people's asses. They're turning voters to the left, and thank fucking god. For the first time in a long time, politics doesn't feel as dire as it has for so long.

I'm definitely not counting my chickens before they hatch, but this hope and positivity is something the left desperately needed to defeat Trump and Project 2025, and we now have it. I'm just hoping it can last until November. With Harris's VP choice, the DNC, and potential future debates, the likelihood is decently high, but I'm also worried we've built this tower too high, and it's gonna collapse under its own weight. Maybe I'm just being anxious. I hope I am.

[jamiesfootball]

How about 74. “I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.” ?

Oooh, I'm not sure if you remember sending me this prompt, but congratulations- it's the prompt that got away from me. It's also super long so I will be posting it to AO3 shortly.

A/N: contains horror elements

Part 1 of 3

“Well c’mon in and have a seat. Ooh—watch the microphone! There we go. And what did you say your name was again?” Ted asked as he led Trent into the booth. The friendly man moved a box of papers out of the way; he waved his hand at the newly opened seat.

Trent hesitantly sat down.

“Trent. Trent Crimm. I’m with The Independent.”

Ted's simple, brandless jumper paired well with his easy smile.

“I’m not sure we get that publication all the way out here, but hey! From one journalist to another, I’m always welcome to talk. You said you were interested in Richmond. What would you like to know about our little home sweet home?”

“Well—“

“Oh, actually hold on a sec—Beard!" Ted turned around, yelling in the direction of the opaque glass window embedded in the wall. "Could we get a beverage for our guest? Would you like a coffee, Mr. Crimm?”

“No, I'm fine. Thank you. And just Trent is fine.”

“You got it, Trent! Love the name. And the glasses. And the hair. What can I do for you?”

Trent took a trembling breath.

"Why am I here?"

Ted paused in sliding a headset over his hair. "I'm sorry?"

Trent swallowed past the rock in his throat.

"Why- how did I get here? I don't remember- anything, past going to sleep last night in my hotel. This morning I woke up on a bus outside your radio station. My phone won't work. Is this a prank? Is this a fucking joke? Because I do not--"

"Can't use that language."

Trent startled, an icy shiver running down his chest.

Ted grinned apologetically. "That'd be Beard in the control booth. Sorry to interrupt, but we're about to start broadcasting and he is correct--aside from a few special exceptions, that sort of language is prohibited on air. Against the code. Now, you're welcome to strap on your own headset or if you'd like you can sit there and watch. Whatever you decide, once that On-Air light flicks on, there's no leaving the room. Got it?"

Trent picked up the headset. It fit perfectly. For a moment the bulk of the earmuffs swamped all ambient noise under a high pitched ringing, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, sure he’d find eyes if he just looked over his shoulder—

Then a click, and the world whirred back into focus.

The On-Air light illuminated in Mercury-blue.

"Hello, howdy, hi, and good morning, Richmond! It is shaping up to be a beautiful day outside, but let's not count our chickens before they hatch. We'll have a weather update coming up for you shortly, along with sports, a couple of civic updates, and the morning recap. But first!--" Ted's mustache quirked as he turned towards Trent, "A little personal news from yours truly. On my way in, I had the pleasure of running into a fellow fan of the written word. Now me and him are still just getting to know each other, but I've invited him to join me on the show today. If you wouldn't mind introducing yourself to the listeners at home...?"

Ted gestured towards a second microphone on the table that he hadn't noticed before. 

He could call for help, Trent thought frantically, but as he leaned forward the urgency bled from his chest, a preternatural calm suffusing his nerves and leaving his voice smooth and confident:

"Trent Crimm, The Independent."

The other half of Ted's moustache raised to join the rest. "And we are pleased for you to join us, Trent. Now! Let's start off with an easy one: where you from?"

His brain slipped. For a moment, the word escaped him, but he seized it before it could wriggle out of his grasp.

"London," he answered confidently. He shook his head. "I'm from London. West." 

"Any relation to Kanye West?"

The zag of the remark caught Trent off-guard. A joke, clearly, and if he had his faculties about him, he'd question the wisdom of the timing.

Trent studied Ted, who continued filling the airwaves, undeterred by Trent's lack of participation.

"You know, I've never been to London. I know I meant to visit at one time, but I suppose I never got around to it. If you wouldn't mind enlightening me, Trent; what makes the different sections of London so different, anyways? I know there's a West London and a South London, but there's also Chelseas and Surreys. Would you say it's more of a Hollywood or New York situation?"

“The different areas are divided into boroughs—,” I’m not telling you where I live, “—Wait. Are you saying I’m not in London anymore?”

“It sounds like you’re saying it, Trent,” Ted joked. “Though might I add, I’ve always felt like Richmond was a mighty fine alternative. The weather, the pubs, the accents; it all has a certain verisimilitude to the real thing, you know—oh would you look at that. Our first caller of the day."

Ted fiddled with the control panel. He flicked a switch, and a soft, pink light illuminated with a pleasant glow.

Trent's mind conjured the spectre of an iron gate wrought with blooming ivy. The scent of lilies filled the studio, rising like a fog to blend with the smells of old paper and coffee.

"What’s the word, early bird?”

A woman's voice clipped through the line, "Ted."

Ted beamed. "Rebecca! Did you get my biscuits?" He hit a button on the microphone and leaned towards Trent, whispering, "I may sound American, but when I say biscuits I do mean your folk's biscuits."

Rebecca huffed. "Good morning, Ted. Yes I did, they were delicious, now would you please stop screwing around and get to the civics update? I need my polling numbers."

"Ooh," Ted shuffled some papers around. "Sorry to say, boss, but it doesn't look like I have any news on that front."

"Yes, you do," the woman—Rebecca—argued. "You said it. You said, 'I have a few civics updates.'"

"Oh that," Ted's eyes focused into the middle distance. "The Higgenses are looking to adopt another son. Sorry, boss; that's all I got for you."

The woman let out a strangled noise, shouting, "Higgins!" before the line cut off.

"Let's cut to a quick commercial," said Ted. He flipped a switch and removed his headset. 

Trent followed suit. Once freed, his ears started ringing. Mentally, he replayed the short conversation, but his thoughts refused to be corralled into order.

When he didn't say anything, Ted filled the silence.

“She’s just got the jitters. See, we got an election coming up and this new guy in town, Zava, his platform is doing really well with the voters.”

“What’s his platform?”

“'Vote for me. I’m Zava.'”

“It’s a compelling platform.”

"She worries. Doesn’t matter how many times you assure her it's illegal for the other guy to win. Now Trent—where were we?"

Ted appeared calm and genial, leaning forward with his hands steepled under his chin and a non-expectant smile on his face. But his eyes, they were intent. He stared directly at Trent, as if beseeching him to—

—play along.

Ted drew upon all his experience as a reporter asking unpleasant questions, stuffed down his discomfort, and called upon his professionalism like a shield of armour.

"You were telling me how lovely Richmond is," Trent said. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs like he was settling in for an interview. "Tell me Ted, have you lived here long?"

Ted's unassuming demeanour briefly gave way to approval. "Oh, I've been around for a while. Long enough to know how things work around here."

"Such as local election law."

"Yes, sir."

"You seem very confident that your friend's opponent won't succeed. Against the law, even. Would care to expand upon that opinion?"

Ted told him. The answer was so absurd the world turned to white noise.

"I beg your pardon?" Trent blinked. He did not hear that right. "Metaphorically?"

"No, ma'am. I wouldn't joke about that." Ted scooted his chair closer. Whispered in sotto voce, "And don't tell her I said so, but honestly? I've considered voting for him too. Magnetic presence, like listening to Michael Keaton while looking at Prince while Tilda Swinton drinks cocktails in the corner. If you see it, you'll believe it."

"Fascinating," he said faintly. He looked around the darkened studio, looking for another topic that'd be safely within the bounds of discussion. When no photos or tchotchkes presented themselves, Trent settled for the natural follow up to 'have you been here long.'

"If you don't mind me asking—," If it's safe to ask, "—What, er, how did you come to be in Richmond in the first place?"

"Same way most of us do, I suppose. Like I said, I meant to visit London. Happened to end up here instead."

"Did you take the bus?" Like I did.

"Don't reckon a bus would've made it across the Atlantic. No, I flew over in a plane. Third class, little cups, snacks a little worse than your low expectations were expecting. Nothing special about it at all--your standard great big metal bird in the sky."

Despite his nerves, Trent's lip twitched into a teasing smile. "Metaphorically?"

Ted beamed. "Yes, sir; that one's a metaphor."

"Commercial break is ending."

Without the element of surprise, Trent could register that the voice in the recording booth also had an American accent, like Ted's. The voice scratched across the room like velcro, all abrasive friction; Trent got the feeling he was being judged.

Ted fiddled with his headset. "Oh shoot. Lost track of time."

"I spliced in one of the pre-recorded announcements," Beard said dryly. "You're welcome."

"Please and thank you," Ted returned. He nodded at Trent. "Headphones."

This time when he slid them on, he was prepared for the sharp ringing. The sharp sensation of eyes crawling along his skin was harder to endure.

"Welcome back, listeners. I apologize for the punctuated morning. Let's get on with some of our usually scheduled programming, shall we? In sports news--what a hell of a game our local football team played last night! I'm sure I don't need to tell you folks, it felt like the entire town was in attendance, but the script says I have to, so here we go."

He shuffled some papers until he found the one he was looking for, at which point he audibly sighed into the microphone. Mustering up what appeared to be a pained effort, he began, "The Greyhounds kicked off the night with a 5-4-1 formation--please, Trent, if you got something to add, you can just jump right in. We gave you that microphone for a reason."

"4-5-1. I presume we're discussing football?" Ted nodded. "Then it's '4-5-1.'" Ted looked confused. "Four defenders, five midfielders, and a striker. It's a great defensive formation, so long as the opposing team isn't playing a high line."

Ted turned into a human eye-gleam. "Well, take me to church, Hozier. You know your football."

"I'm a sports journalist."

A comical look of horror crossed Ted's face. Or a real one. His voice quavered as he asked, "You are?"

"Yes. For The Independent." He knew he'd said that more than once, but his mind insisted he mention it again. Perhaps it was a compulsion, a way humanising himself while dealing with the situation--

--which had already begun to slip Trent's mind. His heart jolted. How had that--he loved football, but surely not enough that he would forget that he was--what? Kidnapped? Some sort of hostage? He knew he was in danger; he was equally certain that no amount of true crime podcasts could advise him as to what kind of danger this was.

He was stuck.

Ted blanketed the airwaves with patter about what sounded like a competitive, if standard, match. Trent once again took in his surroundings. He'd...yes, he'd looked at them when he walked in, he must have. When he walked in the--

He could not remember entering the building. He remembered a bus, grey and blue--

It took all of his focus to command himself to study the room.

The blue on-air light was the main source of illumination, although Trent didn't remember the room being dark when he entered and he couldn't recall any lights being turned off when they started broadcasting. There was no light switch on the wall. There was a corkboard, which housed a flurry of flyers advertising local businesses as well as two campaign posters.

The 'Welton for Wellness' poster promised calm and cosy with just a hint of teeth. The combative 'Vote for Zava' poster was--alluring. Strange. Beckoning.

Trent had to force himself to drag his eyes away from it.

Along one wall--the entire length of one wall--was the opaque window that hid the control booth. The man, Beard, presuming he was a man, must be the producer or else some sort of switchboard operator. He'd not objected at all to Trent being given a headset or microphone, despite the fact that this couldn't possibly be what passed for normal programming.

Embedded in the wall with a full view of the studio, the mirror revealed nothing and reflected everything, and what it reflected was, was--

Trent thought he'd reached an inner calm, but his face reflected terror.

"...Now of course the most surprising figure of last night's match was the newest addition to the Greyhound team. Since he showed up during the last snow storm, he’s been giving the other players on both sides a run for their money. Our latest informants say they're pretty sure he's from Man City, but the tags on that collar he won't let anyone near are pretty sparse on information. They just say 'JT.'"

Like a switch being flipped, Trent's awareness pointed up at the new topic. "Man City--do you mean Manchester?"

Ted hopped over his interruption like a true professional. "No, ma'am. I don't know what that is."

"It's--it's Manchester." Trent could feel his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. "It's a city, it--they have two football teams. Famous teams. How can you be anywhere in Britain and not know what Manchester is? How can you provide football coverage and not know what Manchester is?!"

"Roy Kent's on the line," Beard interrupted, his voice joining theirs on air in the playback of the headphones. "Perhaps he can help clear this up."

"That's a great idea. Let's patch him through." Ted was back to watching Trent with that expression that was so guardlessly effacing. He explained, "Roy's in charge of the Greyhounds. If there's anyone here who can help answer your questions--"

"Would you get on with the fucking weather report!"

Trent jumped out of his chair, throwing his headset across the room. Every instinct he had told him to run. This wasn't the velcro-man or the iron-lady; this voice boomed. It reverberated through the cells of his skin. It filled the room with an anger like a stoked charcoal pit, and it encompassed everything in a smoke as thick as a London fog.

Ted's eyes crinkled in true delight. "Hey, Roy. How are things down at the Dog Track?"

Despite not wearing headphones, Trent could hear every syllable of the booming man's voice as if he were shouting in the room.

"How do you think it's going," the man did not ask. Behind his ferocity, he was--exasperated. "I've got everyone yipping at my heels wanting to know if they can go outside, and you're having a chat about geography with some journo you found wandering the streets."

Ted was full of reproach as he said, "You know it's not that simple--"

"It was raining," Trent heard himself offer. The room around him seemed to shrink as Ted and the voice turned to look at him. "When I got off the bus, it was raining."

The room went silent. Trent realised too late that without the microphone, whoever this Roy was couldn't hear him--

"Ta' for that," Roy said. "You heard him, lads. Go! Now! Sprints from box to box. Oi, you, I don't want to hear any excuses about the mud. Hustle."

"I'm hustling, I'm hustling. Keep your sweater on, old man," said another voice, barely audible above the background susurrous. A familiar voice, with a familiar Mancunian accent. Played football for Man City, with the initials 'JT'--

His mind put it together quicker than his growing horror could keep up with.

Ted watched him; his openly growing concern spoke volumes in regards to whatever was happening on Trent's face.

Hoarsely, needing to know despite the way it made his stomach swoop, he asked into the crackling air of the room, "Is that Jamie Tartt?"

A plastic clatter.

Before him stood a man where a man had not stood before.

He wore a scowl and a leather jacket. If there was anything else to know from his appearance, it slipped through Trent's grasp like sand from a broken hourglass under the weight of the sheer presence of the man.

The voice was every bit as imposing and deep when it was in the room. "Explain."

"It is, isn't it?" He felt compelled to stick his foot in deeper. If he was right, he couldn't- he couldn't not say it. "That's Jamie Tartt. The player that went missing from Manchester."

The studio fell quiet. The man in the leather jacket--Roy, was it?--Trent couldn't make out his expression. No matter how hard he tried, all he got was the impression of a scowl, depthless eyes and an unhappy brow, but the second he looked away the image faded from his memory.

In contrast, Ted's face was an open book, but that book was a horror story.

From Trent's fallen headset, a small noise fizzled.

Ted visibly pulled himself together. "Hold on a second there."

He nodded at Roy. The man in the leather jacket knelt down to pick up the headset. His knee cracked unpleasantly as he stood up. With an unexpected level of gentleness, he held the headset out to Trent.

The air popped as Trent slid them on.

"Go ahead, J--Jamie," Ted said, stumbling over the name.

"Uhm. Hello." A harsh Mancunian voice brushed against his ears like barbed wire through a pillow. Behind it fell the patter of cold rain. "Who is this again?"

Oh. The phone hadn't disconnected when Roy appeared; he'd just dropped it.

A feeling like hysteria bubbled up inside him.

"This is Trent Crimm, The Independent."

"And you said I'm Jamie Tartt?"

The man in the leather jacket glared daggers into Trent's back, a silent warning to tread lightly. Not even a warning--a threat.

"I believe so, yes," said Trent. "It's been a while. We've spoken a handful of times. Nothing as formal as a full interview, but you've always been more than generous when it comes to sharing your post-match opinions with others."

Roy barked out a laugh; the mirror on the wall rattled.

"Oh. That's...," the Mancunian sounded small. Upset. Something metal rattled. "That's okay, I guess. Don't know that I like that name, though."

Under the gentle tapping of rain, a women's voice--gentle and pink--cooed through the chainlink fence.

Most of Trent's coverage with the Premier League stuck to the greater London area. He'd interview members of a visiting team, sure, but he wasn't exactly a familiar entity in their lives, and nor was he to theirs. But he was sure in all the times he'd spoken to Jamie Tartt in the past, he hadn't sounded so lost. The small admission cut through the terror as something like heartbreak bloomed in Trent's chest, and, unbidden, he thought of his own daughter at home.

His faculties felt clearer now, thoughts attaching from one to the other like roads free of traffic.

"Have you been safe here?" he asked. The answer felt important. "Are you treated well? Are you being taken care of?" Are you in any danger, sat on his tongue. A needless question. Weren't they all?

"What's that got to do with anything?" he sniffed. "Who cares if I'm safe? I'm still [beep]-ing stuck here, aren't I?"

"Language." Ted.

"Language." Beard.

"Language." Roy.

"For [beep] sake," Tartt complained. "The [beep] can't I say [beep]. Roy gets to swear."

'Special exceptions?' Trent mouthed at Ted.

Ted gave him a stifled smile and a thumbs up.

"You can swear when you fucking earn it," the man in the leather jacket answered. For the first time since appearing, his burning gaze left Trent. He asked Ted, "You got this here then?"

"Wait, hold on a second!" the gentle, pink voice jumped in, sounding decidedly less gentle and decidedly more pink--his daughter had a small stuffed lion in the same shade. "Did you say he was missing?"

This damnable place, it made it so difficult to hold a thought.

"That's right," Trent affirmed. "For nearly a year. Disappeared after the Manchester derby. It's been in all the papers."

"A year?" Tartt asked in disbelief.

"But who's missing him?" the pink cloud wanted to know.

For the first time since arriving, the answer came to Trent quick and sharp. It tasted wrong, like blood on his tongue.

He didn't answer.

The man in the leather jacket took a step towards Trent. "I don't know what you're here for, but if it's to pull his fucking chain--"

Ted interrupted, "Now wait a minute. Maybe Trent's here to help."

Roy hesitated. He looked from Trent, who stood frozen to the ground, to Ted, who lifted his eyebrows pointedly. Some silent communication passed between the two.

Roy stood down. He sighed, "Maybe he's here to save us from your sports coverage."

He disappeared.

"Well, that was exciting," Ted said, radio professionalism flooding back into the studio. Distantly, Trent noted that they'd been on-air this whole time. "Call me Miss Gale, because I've just been taken for a whirlwind. Keeley, you got eyes on our grumpy stormcloud?"

"Yep! I'm waving to him now. If he doesn't hurry up, I'm going to start chucking food over the fence. That'll light a fire under him."

Ted chuckled. "Well I'll leave him to your capable hands." He paused for a moment. In a tone as kind as a steadying hand on a shoulder, he said, "Jamie?"

The fence rattled. There was an electronic clicking, then, "Yeah?"

Ted hesitated. "We can talk about it later."

A derisive snort that screeched like barbed wire. "Whatever."

The line clicked off.

Trent let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He buried his face in his hands, pushing his glasses onto his head as he did.

He had to get out of here.

"Folks, I'm sure you can all appreciate what a tense situation this morning has been. That's just what it's like around the Dog Track--high emotions all around. But you know what they say about footballers—no footballer is perfect. They become perfect when you learn to love them for who they are. Trent?”

They said danger sharpened the senses, but somehow Trent had failed to notice it before.

There was no door.

No door to the room. No door to the soundbooth behind the mirrored window.

No windows at all.

Ted sighed. "Boy, I wish it didn't always come to this. Beard, cut to traffic. Trent, have a seat."

Again, Ted moved a box to let Trent have a seat. It was the same box as before; no one had put it back.

This time when Trent sat down, Ted pulled up his own chair and sat down next to him.

"I just want to know what's going on," Trent said in a defeated voice that couldn't possibly be his own. "I understand if you can't tell me everything, but if you could tell me something, anything. What happened to me? Why am I here?"

Ted averted his gaze. Down to his mug, to the blank mirrored window, to the box on the ground. He said, “I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

"'Opinion is the medium between knowledge and ignorance.'"

"Socrates?"

"Plato."

Ted snapped. "Darn, I always get the two confused."

Trent didn't respond. He waited, until sure enough after a long stretch of silence, Ted cracked.

"How's your life been lately, Trent?" he asked. He sounded gentle, nearly as soft as the tone he'd used with Jamie.

Something about having that same care turned towards him made Trent's eyes burn. He swallowed around the shame of self-pity in his throat. "Poorly."

Ted nodded like he understood. "Anything big happen lately?"

He shook his head; this couldn't possibly be to do with--, "I got divorced."

Ted's face fluttered in sympathy. He sighed. "Me too. Right before I ended up here."

"Are we dead?" he had to ask. "Are we both dead? Am I in purgatory? Did I drink too much and do something stupid--"

"No," Ted cut him off. He braced his hand on Trent's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "No. That's not likely, no. Things around here are just a little-," he waved his other hand in the air. "Strange."

"Like Zava?" Trent asked, trying to give the man an easier line of questioning. The hand upon his shoulder trembled noticeably.

"Yes," Ted answered. He pulled away, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Like Zava."

"And is everyone else...?"

"It varies," explained Ted. He leaned back in his seat. "Everyone comes in a little different. Take me for instance. When you first got here, you may have noticed how holding onto a train of thought was a bit like dancing a waltz in the dark? Maybe you could fumble your way through it for a while, but sooner or later you'd miss a step, and then it's almost impossible to get back into rhythm. Me on the other hand, you may as well call me Fred Astaire. It may not be useful, the stuff I've held onto, but it's a fair bit more than anyone else around here gets. The next closest is Beard, and thank the deity of your choosing for that, because I definitely would've lost it by now if all my jokes went over everybody's heads."

"The jokes I found rather grounding," Trent confessed. "I did feel myself slipping quite a number of times, but having those small reminders braced me. They allowed me to focus."

"Huh." Ted appeared to be taken aback by the notion. "Good to know."

"What about Roy?" Trent asked. The man in the leather jacket was by far the most...off-putting, of the individuals he'd met. "What's his deal?"

"Ooh, now that's a tricky one," Ted grinned, "Our Roy is...well, the only word that comes to mind is 'omnipresent.' There's a lot of places in this town that are off-limits to folks, but it doesn't slow him down. He's here, he's there, he's everywhere. Anywhere he wants to be. Hell, he lives at the Dog Track. People aren't even allowed in the Dog Track--that's why Keeley's got to throw all the food over the fence to feed the footballers."

Something about his phrasing rang a bell in Trent's head.

"What did Beard say his name was?"

"Oh, I'm going to have to stop you, Trent. Beard doesn't share his name with just anybody."

"No, not- what did he say Roy's name was."

"Kent," Beard answered from the booth. "Roy Kent."

"I know that name." His mind whirred. "I don't know from where or how, but I know that name."

Ted watched him in guarded interest.

"How about we make a deal? I'll do my best to ply you with all the best trivia a guy from Kansas has to offer. In return, you report back on anything that shakes out. Whatever you remember. No kernel too small, no detail left unturned. If you've got a book in you, I want to read it."

"Heh!" Trent laughed, the sound startling to his own ears. At Ted's visible confusion, he explained, "Last night. I remember thinking to myself--'now that I'm divorced, maybe I'll finally get a chance to write that book.'"

The smile Ted had to offer may have been dimmer, but it was more sincere. Something like wonder filled in the gaps.

"Well that's a start," Ted concluded. "In the meantime, you know, maybe Roy's got a point. Because I've got this entire--," he lifted a stack of papers on his desk, "--sport's update, and I am still a novice when it comes to your people's football."

Trent hummed consideringly. "Maybe you made it to London, after all."

"Maybe I did." The smile got a little broader. "Beard, how we looking for time?"

"Forecast is next and queued."

"After you, Mr. The Independent."

They sat at the desk, headsets in place, and Ted flicked the switch on the control panel. 

"Welcome back everyone. There's been a change in plans with regards to our visiting journalist. Big news, Richmond! Big news.

“But for now--let’s go to the weather!”

A loud electronic noise filled the air, followed by the smash of a keyboard and a high pierced wail.

The weather sounded like Janis Joplin.

[yuurei20]

Deuce Info Compilation Part 3: Book Smarts

While Deuce used to skip school out of frustration with his own inability to keep up, Deuce says that now “going to class is a fun new experience. In middle school, I was, um…absent a lot. For various reasons.”

In reference to his school uniform he says that “dressing up nice feels so weird”, as he “used to be kind of a slob”.

Deuce is well aware that he is not very good at studying, saying that he just has to “work harder to make up for it” but "when people try to throw a lot of information at me all at once, I can’t handle it”, and that he would prefer not to study at all but he knows he cannot run away from it.

In a voice line Trey says, “Deuce was begging me to help him study. I’m glad he’s committed, at least.”

In a vignette we see him attempting to resurrect beansprouts by speaking to them, only to be thoroughly teased by Ruggie and Vil both.

Deuce wonders aloud, “Am I really as dense as all that, though…? Ace gets on my case like that a lot, too…”

In his birthday vignette Deuce explains he knows that he tends to take action before thinking and that it is an area in which he needs to improve.

He shares a story about a time when he volunteered to go to the school store on Trey’s behalf for cheese. Deuce had heard Trey talking about making cheese tarts but rather than confirm what kind of cheese was needed in advance or even calling him once he arrived at the store, he returned to the dorm with a useless snack cheese and had to go back again for proper cream cheese.

This was also an issue in the prologue when Deuce threw Ace at the chandelier, getting them all expelled.

Deuce admits that his “written exam grades aren’t that great”, and in Book 1 he infamously reveals that he thought that chickens could hatch from store-bought eggs.

We see Deuce struggle with basic math, taking two hours to solve two problems. When Cater asks if he learned the formulas in middle school, Deuce responds with “I…guess I learned it…at some point”, leading to Ace teasing him for not even knowing what it was that he learned.

Deuce is often teased by the other students for being less academically inclined, such as during Phantom Bride when Ace says that he wants to “buckle down and take my studies seriously. I can’t let romance distract me.”

Deuce agrees, and Jack follows up with “When even a student as bad as Deuce is saying it, you know we’re on to something.”

It seems these comments bother Deuce, however, as we learn in Book 5 when takes Epel to scream at the ocean and exclaims, “I’m not a smart guy and I constantly miss basic cues! All my old delinquent habits are still there! I’ve got a hair-trigger temper! But I’m trying my best, okay?! You all think you can make fun of me, Ace?! Well, think again! I’m gonna change! You can count on that!”

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 31: On the Scent

If you're on the scent for spoilers, keep reading! If you don't want to know everything about The Wheel of Time, including the books, show, comics, and card game all compressed into like, a couple thousand words inexplicably, definitely don't keep reading. The second you click that button everything will be psychically uploaded to your brain. I mean uh... something on theme... scentically uploaded to your nose.

We have a rising sun chapter as we're still in Cairhien and Thom's not around.

He gave one abrupt shudder and stopped laughing; she left him to crouch over Hurin.

Another not subtle thing to be doing. It's a good thing these Cairhienien are so politically suspicious that they miss the much greater threat right in front of them.

He said he didn’t know it, but he had a smile that shouted ‘lie’ a mile off.

Perrin could probably smell the lies on the dude before he opened his mouth.

I couldn’t hear what she said, but I didn’t know whether his eyes were going to pop out of his head or he was going to swallow his tongue first.

I'm sure that Verin just did the usual Aes Sedai thing and that the specifics aren't important, but it amuses me to imagine that she just told the dude the truth straight out.

He heard gasps from the Cairhienin listening, but he did not care. They could play their Great Game if they wanted, but Ingtar had come, and he was finished with it at last.

This is called dramatic irony and also counting your chickens before they hatch and whatnot.

Rand glanced at Perrin—He’s a sniffer?—and found Perrin studying him in return. He thought Perrin muttered something. Shadowkiller?

Have you boys tried talking to each other about your-

Nope. Can't even pretend to ask with a straight face.

Everyone was watching now—not even Cuale gave any attention to his own burning inn—and Rand thought a little caution might not be amiss after all.

Exactly Rand. You're surrounded by strangers in an immediate sense and surrounded by Darkfriends in a metaphorical sense. No point celebrating being free just yet.

Suddenly he noticed that the others were looking at him, Verin and Ingtar, Mat and Perrin. He realized what he had been doing, and his face colored. “I am sorry, Ingtar. It’s just that I’ve become used to being in charge, I suppose. I’m not trying to take your place.”

It's fascinating, how this boy has to be dragged kicking and screaming into everything, but once he accepts it he just takes to it instantly. A couple weeks' leadership and the boy completely forgets Ingtar's even there.

You can see why Demandred, Sammael, and Etcetera'al got so pissy.

She’s Moiraine’s eyes watching me, Moiraine’s hand trying to pull my strings. But I have cut the strings.

If only Rand had tried to learn about politics while he was here. He might have realized that Verin knowing things doesn't at all mean she's on Moiraine's side.

I guess that would probably have only made him more suspicious.

Also I forgot to mention her directly when taking these notes but Tiedra's plump so we know she's a good innkeeper.

It almost seemed to him that she was in the room with him, that he could smell her perfume, so much so that he looked around, and laughed to find himself alone.

It wouldn't surprise me at all if she had popped in invisibly somehow.

It was him, he thought. Rand is the Shadowkiller. Light, what’s happening to all of us? His hands tightened into fists, large and square. These hands were meant for a smith’s hammer, not an axe.

The duality that Perrin will be grappling with rears its ugly head. At last he already knows the answer. Though that really just makes his plot arc all the more frustrating.

Also, points to Perrin for pulling off having Rand in his POV instead of what usually happens (thus far in the series) and Rand hogging the spotlight. This isn't the first time this has happened (Egwene did it back in Fal Dara), but it does show the transition this series is slowly undergoing.

One of Mat’s eggs hit the floor and cracked. He did not look at it, though. He was looking at Rand, and Ingtar had turned around.

Mat, the so-called idiot, irresponsible fool: Has a tell about Rand's situation but volunteers nothing and doesn't cause any trouble.

Perrin realized he was staring, too. “Well, he did not fly,” he said. “I don’t see any wings. Maybe he has more important things to tell us.” Verin shifted her attention to him, just for a moment. He managed to meet her eyes, but he was the first to look away.

Perrin, the so-called quiet, responsible kid: Tries to get in a fight with a woman several decades his senior over his friend's honor.

“Interesting,” the Aes Sedai said, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I would very much like to meet this girl. If she can use a Portal Stone. . . . Even that name is not very widely known.”

Verin must suspect. How panicked does this make her?

Rand asked the innkeeper if there were any more books, and she brought him The Travels of Jain Farstrider. Perrin liked that one, too, with its stories of adventures among the Sea Folk and journeys to the lands beyond the Aiel Waste, where silk came from.

Is this our first real Shara reference? I think it might be.

The Shienaran played with a slashing, daring style. Perrin had always played doggedly, giving ground reluctantly, but he found himself placing the stones with as much recklessness as Ingtar. Most of the games ended in a draw, but he managed to win as many as Ingtar did.

Ignore the terrible pun and focus on how Perrin is being shifted by his experiences as well. Perhaps this is why he talked back to Verin earlier.

“There are Darkfriends among the high as well as the low,” Verin said smoothly. “The mighty give their souls to the Shadow as often as the weak.” Ingtar scowled as if he did not want to think of that.

Frankly Verin, if there weren't so few Aes Sedai I'd argue the Tower's horrible percentages make the mighty even more frequent donaters. And indeed note that Ingtar isn't "as if" anything. It's exactly the case that he doesn't want to think about noble Darkfriends.

“I know little of Cairhienin,” Ingtar told him, “but I’ve heard enough of Galldrian. He would feast us and thank us for the glory we had brought to Cairhien. He would stuff our pockets with gold and heap honors on our heads. And if we tried to leave with the Horn, he’d cut our honored heads off without pausing to take a breath.”

It's mind-boggling how actively detrimental to the cause of existence most of the modern day royalty proves to be. Like obviously they need to be toppled from their thrones and all that but damn.

There was a dignity to him that Perrin did not remember; Rand was looking at the Aes Sedai and the Shienaran lord as equals.

Well he's found the Horn of Valere twice now, so he's worthy of being a legendary hero even ignoring all the stuff he hasn't done yet. Selene's flirting sadly helped.

It will also help if you remember the way you behaved before the Amyrlin. If you are that arrogant, they will believe you are a lord if you wear rags.

Lan's training paying off in a dozen ways. He'd be so proud if he were here.

“A sa’angreal.” She sounded as if it were really not very important, but Perrin suddenly had the feeling the two of them had entered a private conversation, saying things no one else could hear.

For example, she's basically telling Rand what tools are available to him.

One by itself is powerful enough, but I can think of few women strong enough to survive the flow through the one on Tremalking. The Amyrlin, of course. Moiraine, and Elaida. Perhaps one or two others. And three still in training.

I guess Verin must think Cadsuane dead, since Lelaine and Romanda would make three if she were being counted. How terrifying that at this very point the White Tower has a total of eight, kind of nine women capable of using the Choedan Kal. It should be so much more.

As for Logain, it would have taken all his strength simply to keep from being burned to a cinder, with nothing left for doing anything.

Unless the male statue is quite different and only ever meant for Lews to use, Verin is very mistaken here. Logain is only a step below Rand, and there's sixteen tiers in between him and Moiraine.

She was talking to Rand. Perrin knew it, and from the queasy look in Mat’s eye, he did, too. Even Loial shifted nervously in his chair.

Thank goodness the empath is the POV to confirm that Loial is not blind or stupid but has in fact put two and two together.

Watching Verin’s smile, small and mysterious, Perrin felt a chill. He did not think Rand knew half what he thought he did. Not half.

Perrin you don't even know half of how right you are.

But we'll get to that next time, when our company visits The Huge Toad Crouching in the Night: Lord Barthanes's Manor! (Disclaimer: Toads may be metaphorical or even simileical)

[ageless-aislynn]

Dear ones, I don't want to jinx myself, count my chickens before they hatch or whatever saying might strike your fancy at the moment but... After a week plus a few days of over 30 blue screens of death (8 of them in one hour), my computer has made it a day without one.

I had to finally wipe everything and start over and I finally, after sooooo many hours of research, I can't EVEN, am pretty sure I've discovered the source of the problem that linked my old computer, my dad's computer and this computer to all having nearly identical bsod issues: some absolute DOORKNOB of a person was putting the exact same third-party firewall back on all of them. Who was that doorknob?

🤷‍♀️

In my, I mean, in HER defense, that firewall has served very well for the almost 20 years I've used it. It says it's compatible with Windows 10 and 11 and all of my troubleshooting was blaming the various video/network/etc drivers. However, I discovered that ZoneAlarm took an update at almost exactly the time my other computer started having trouble 3 months ago. But ZA updates "silently" so I didn't know that until I went looking just now for the date of the last build, realized it corresponded almost exactly, and then I went

That said, I'm a little worried that it took me THIS LONG to realize that that was the single program all 3 had in common. I was just so used to using and relying on it that it didn't occur to me that it could be at the heart of all of the problems.

So, as I said before, it all boils down to

Right now, I've got almost nothing on the computer besides the browser and a new set of security programs. It's been an interesting way to see what my priorities are because I want to install one thing, wait a couple of days to verify everything's working fine, then install then next, wait again and so on, putting things back on slowly and deliberately.

BUT I WANT STEAM BACK ON NOWNOWNOW SO I CAN PLAY MY GAMES ZOMGGGGGG.

Apparently, I get actual buckets of serotonin and overall feel-good vibes from playing games because I'm absolutely frothing at the mouth at not being able to play anything at all.

Next will be Word so I can stop trying to read my utterly, drastically terrible handwriting from where I've been working on "15 Minutes" ch7 by hand (I might possibly be writing in Sangheili, I can't even tell anymore 🤷‍♀️😉).

Then eventually, Vegas. I'm worried about that one in particular because my research did uncover a potential Vegas Pro 15 - Win 11 conflict. Some people couldn't get it to work, others have no problem. I've seriously got my fingers crossed that it'll be okay so I can get back to GIF-making and vid editing, in whatever order. 🤞😣🤞

I've spent SO much time seeing blue screens that I find myself staring at the place on the monitor where the error info flashes, my notebook at the ready to scribble down the pertinent messages, just expecting another to pop at any second.

The last couple of times it popped, I was trying to read the debugging info from the LAST crash. And then it would crash again.

However, I can now report that, if you're ever using WinDbg to read your .dmp files and it tells you "symbols are WRONG" (and yes, it all-capped it just like that), I can actually tell you how to fix the dang symbols. It's a weird flex to take but hey, I'm taking it. It wasn't easy to find the answer to that one! 😠😕😉

If all continues on without any further crashes, then I'll hopefully be back catching up on things ASAP. If it resumes crashing while I have nothing more on the computer than a browser and the security programs the pc came with, then I'm just going to

Let's hope for the best, m'kay? Good thoughts, prayers, hopes, well wishes or whatever you've got are appreciated at this point. Love you, friends. I've really missed you all. 🤗💖