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jimlingss · 3 years

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It's B from @bang-tan-bitches and I would like to request a yandere fic. It can be BTS OT7 x reader or BTS member of your choice x reader. Similar to your amazing isekai story i would like something similar(a long one shot or a multi-chapter, your choice). Whether YN transmigrates to a game or a novel (not as a villain but maybe as a cannon fodder side character that has little importance to the story and just wants to lay low) but YN captures the attention of the love interest(s) and shit starts getting weird, intense, uncomfortable. Maybe it causes the supposed female lead to turn into the villain, maybe it causes the love interest(s) to turn into the villain(s). Maybe YN realizes that something is wrong with the story/game but can't figure it out. Idk. Time period doesn't matter. Modern. Ancient. Fairytale. Fantasy. Whatever.

If you can do this great! If you can't or don't want to, that's okay too. You're an amazing writer with so much talent and I'm really appreciative of all your work. Thank you for taking requests from your fans, I'm sure you've received a lot.

Take care! 😘💜💜💜

at the start of the pandemic, I was getting back into manga and manhwa and then after a few months, I dawdled off but recently, I’ve been getting back into it again haha so this request came at a pretty good time. Hopefully you won’t mind that I’ve taken some creative liberties with this request lol I think it’s more fun if I keep readers on their toes, including the requester.

On another note, I really shouldn’t be writing all my isekai’s with Taehyung as the main lead but he’s just so fitting asdfghjkl

↳ The Fox Bride

2.6k || 99% Light Fluff, 1% Angst || Kim Taehyung || Isekai!AU, Slight Yandere!AU, Nine-Tailed Fox!Taehyung

You are a tutorial character.

But you weren’t always. You still remember being a career woman in the twenty-first century, struggling with overtime and paying bills while trying to keep yourself fed. The success of that ranged from month to month. But more importantly, you still remember that night too.

It was rainy. Your car blew a flat tire. You pulled to the side of the highway and got out.

The last thing that registered was the deafening honk of the semi-truck.

Then you felt yourself flying upwards.

But when you landed, instead of colliding with the concrete and dying upon impact, you fell back onto your ass in the middle of a market on a dirt road. Transported back a thousand years ago.

Your purpose was fulfilled in the next two minutes.

“Are you alright?”

The male protagonist had stretched out his hand and helped you up. The hero. The main character. It was obvious with his bright red hair, shining eyes and bronze armour. He was so starkly different from the rest who were gray and drab, including you who was suddenly in a brown shapeless dress. He was practically a neon billboard in the middle of a graveyard.

“Are you Y/N?”

You looked at him, befuddled that he knew your name. But before you could even respond or provide a line of dialogue, he said, “This is a delivery from Baker Jeon. He gives you his thanks.”

The protagonists handed you a loaf of bread. Undoubtedly his first ever quest.

You looked down, not sure what to do with it.

“Do you know where the blacksmith is?”

You had absolutely no clue. But there was the deafening noise of hammering steel literally ten steps away. You would have to be blind not to see the gruff man shaping a sword at an anvil right on the road and deaf not to hear it. As if that wasn’t enough, the literal sign of the shop read: ‘the blacksmith’.

So you pointed.

“Thanks.” And he trudged off.

You were utterly confused until a background character who said they knew you waved you over. You shared your bread with her, brushed aside when she asked you what was wrong, and you followed her as she walked up to your supposed cottage.

All the while, you saw yourself in the background of the hero’s main quest as he ran through the town.

And that was that.

It wasn’t so hard to figure out where you were or what the hell this was when you put your mind to it. Without much of a job or a family, and no technology but the candle that you had to conserve when night fell, there was ample time.

So you spent it thinking and you eventually solved the mystery.

You were in Beast Boys Harem: A Forbidden Embrace. AKA. a dumb yaoi otome game app that you downloaded on your phone when you were sixteen and bored. You remember because you were too cheap to buy the routes, so you played the tutorial, prologue and read the summaries of the routes online. Now you regret that you didn’t just fork over the goddamn five dollars.

Even more than that, you regret that you even downloaded the game in the first place.

But at least you’re just a tutorial character. You’re free from the storyline and the plot—

That’s what you thought.

Turns out living a thousand years in the past in a fantasy realm as a woman didn’t bode well. It was probably no different from how it would’ve been like in the medieval ages. You had no trade skills. No one was willing to accept you as an apprentice when you were a woman. You found that you were essentially illiterate with a reading level of a preschooler, no one was willing to teach you, and you had no power or wealth when you were without a father or a husband.

And you’re certain what the landlord and tax-collectors are doing is illegal.

But in this world, in this unjust realm, there is no such thing as the law.

“We know you’re in there!”

You jolt from the heavy pounding on the frail wooden door.

“It’s time to pay up!”

Your hands tremble as you set the candle down that’s still billowing of smoke, the flame smothered out mere seconds ago. As much as you want to hide and pull the blanket over your head, you know that door won’t last. They’ll find you if you’re trapped in here.

“If you can’t, spread those legs of yours!” a low voice spits and there’s chortling from the men.

Someone adds, “Sell your body already!”

“Open up! Damn whore!”

Without a single possession but the white nightgown clad on your body, you open the latch of the back window. You cringe at the squeak, trying to keep your movements quiet before the door gives way.

You hoist yourself up onto the window ledge. The door bends with the strength of multiple clenched fists against it. Your feet touch the soft grass outside your cottage. The men shout.

And the door finally slams against the wall, hinges broken.

But by then, you’ve slipped into the shadows.

“Where is she?!”

The blanket is ripped off the bed, curtains are whipped back, every drawer dumped onto the ground and cupboards yanked open. The floor shakes with the weight of their boots and you press your palm to your mouth to silence your panting breaths, slowly stepping away.

“That damn whore slipped through us—!”

But as your shitty luck would have it, a sudden crack has the whole world coming to a standstill.

Shit. You look down at your feet, realizing that the snapping noise came from you stepping on a twig. And it’s exposed your hiding place.

“There she is!” — “Out the back window!”

You grab fistfuls of your dress and bolt.

“Get her!”

With your cottage on the edge of town, there’s nowhere to run but through the dense woods. It’s shrouded in the darkness, no doubt filled with wild beasts creeping through the thicket. The rustling canopy of the trees doesn’t allow the dim, waning moonlight to illuminate your path.

So you’re left blind. Struggling up the high incline of the forest, feet slipping on dirt and mud. But you keep sprinting with all your might, even when the pointed, coiling branches scrape at your calves until blood sheds and the hem of your dress tears in the underbrush.

“Run, little rabbit!” one of them mocks, “Run!”

The four men continue to give chase, gripping onto their roaring torches, shrieking and howling after you. One of them is manically laughing as if your efforts to flee only adds to the thrill. Their greased hands reach out to snatch you, but the tips of their fingers graze the ends of your hair.

Your teeth are sunk into the bottom of your lip, sobs breaking through your aching chest. Your lungs burn, dying for a break or moment of relief. But you don’t relent and luckily, you manage to build distance between you and the men. Only, that luck comes crashing down by a fucking hole.

A hole in the forest floor that you don’t see. That has your footing all wrong. That makes you scream and fall.

You twist your ankle in a direction it’s definitely not supposed to be in and cry from pain.

A second later, you force yourself to get up and keep running with tears flooding your eyes and dripping down your cheeks. But it’s more like limping than running, akin to hobbling on one leg and every movement has pain shooting from your swelling ankle.

The effort becomes futile. They surround you within minutes.

“All finished?” The tax-collector’s head cocks with a spreading grin. “You’re not going to keep running?”

Why couldn’t you just fucking die the first time?! Even if it was an awful death where you didn’t have time to prepare yourself or say goodbye to anyone, at least it would’ve been the end. At least you wouldn’t have to suffer.

But there’s no time to grieve. Or hate the new life you’ve been given. This is it. You have to keep going. You have to survive. By any means. You’re about to pick up a branch and uselessly wave it around at them, shout at them to stand back. Anything that you could do to save yourself—

“Who dares come onto my mountain?!”

There’s a deep timbre behind you. A husky voice that quivers the very core of the forest.

As if the wind has swept through, the trees and thicket rustle and it goes silent.

The men fall back onto their asses, some torches clattering to the ground. Their eyes have grown double in size, nearly falling from their sockets and their jaws have dropped to the dirt.

“I-It’s the nine-tailed fox!”

The man scrambles back.

“Demon!”

Another barely manages to get onto his feet. He turns around and lurches away while shrieking.

They all run. Scattering away as frantically as cockroaches when the light is flickered on.

From your spot on the ground, you turn around with wide eyes.

Amber irises meet your gawking and they practically glow in the darkness of the forest. He is dressed in a loose, white robe that’s draped over his frame, open to the middle of his chest. And over his honey hair, on the top of his head, his pointed golden ears twitch. By the torch fire still yet to die out, he is illuminated and his shadow is casted on the ground. The blazing flame warms his cold, sharp features.

He is the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. In both worlds you’ve lived in.

And you know who he is.

Taehyung. One of the love interests of the hero. A seductive, sly creature that eventually coaxes the hero into selling him his soul to grant one of his wishes. But Taehyung grows to become an obsessed character that wants to do nothing but monopolize and possess the hero for himself.

That same Taehyung approaches you with his lip curled as you teeter to your feet.

“Run away, girl.” He leans close. “Before I eat you.”

“Stop!”

On sheer instinct and adrenaline, you push him back. Your palm shoves against his firm chest.

Taehyung stumbles back with his eyes becoming rounded. He looks down to where you had made contact against his body. “Did...you just touch me?”

“What?”

Taehyung’s head darts upwards and he captures your wrist in his hand, squeezing tightly. He tugs you in and on your swollen ankle, you stumble into him. Bodies flush against one another. Your face pressed to his warm chest. His arm coming around your waist to break your fall.

He is aghast.

“You’re not from this world.” Taehyung’s yellow eyes swirl as they gaze into you. “Where did you come from?”

…

It’s been three days.

“Wed me,” he begs for the seventy sixth time.

You don’t know why you’re keeping a count.

“No.”

You’re hugging your knees for warmth. The rice paper-paneled doors are slid open and letting in the chilly air. He doesn’t seem to be affected by the cold, but you don’t look at him for long.

You turn into the corner of his home while sitting on the tatami floors as if you’re putting yourself into time out. But you’d like to say it’s your privacy corner. It’s as private as this abode, which was basically one room, could get.

Taehyung sighs in frustration, placing his hand on his forehead. His teeth grit. “You’re only making this harder for yourself.” Your silence angers him more. “You can never leave.”

You turn over your shoulder to glare. “Even if I married you, you’d never let me leave anyway.”

Taehyung narrows his eyes on you and then smirks. “You’re right. Wed or unwed, I won’t let you out of my sight. You should feel grateful, girl. You’re the best human I’ve ever treated.”

You quietly scoff.

Maybe you should feel scared. Maybe you should tread more lightly. After all, he’s not a character to be trifled with.

But you know he needs you. That alone gives you power.

As a beast, Taehyung’s been trapped on this mountain by priests for centuries. The only way he can be free is by feeding off of sexual energy and breaking the barrier. But of course, they also cursed him to be unable to touch any woman in this universe.

You aren’t from this universe.

You jolt when you realize that while you were lost in thought, Taehyung’s crawled closer. He has a foxy smile, amber eyes searching your expression. “Maybe….maybe I’ll grant you a bit of freedom if you would just give into the temptation and let me have a taste of you.”

As cold as he looks, he is beautiful. He is mischievous when he smirks and sly when he speaks. You are utterly spellbound as you look into his irises. And the temptation he speaks of flickers in the warmth of your belly.

But you turn away.

“I already said we only do that kind of thing after marriage. And I will only marry someone I love.”

Taehyung draws back with an unamused scoff. “What a prudish world you’re from.”

He wanted you the moment you were brought to this house. With the intensity of his stare and your captivated state, you had let him pin you to his floor and you liked it. But then clarity came and you blurted that such an act only happens after marriage. A lie just to buy time.

You didn’t expect for the hero to arrive at Taehyung’s house the next day. With his red hair and bronze armour, he had gotten lost in the forest and knocked on the door. Before you could limp over and answer it, Taehyung jumped off the roof and confronted him.

The guy was thrown off the mountain within five minutes.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to have a steamy rendezvous. Taehyung was supposed to get the sexual energy from him!

The story was going off the rails. And you’re not sure what you’re even buying time for anymore.

The both of you know it’s only a matter of time before you break and succumb to his mesmerizing seduction.

Taehyung is cruel, ruthless, obsessive.

But what’s the most bewitching thing about him is the jarring contrast of when he’s clumsy and nurturing. It’s what he regards as his own weakness. What he hides from others. But you felt your heart waver two nights ago when you were shaken awake in the middle of twilight. When you peeked open your eye to see him gingerly wrapping your swollen ankle with bandages.

He looked beautiful in the pale moonlight, ears, tails, sharp features softened—

“Ow!” You wince as he squeezes your ankle, right on your injury.

“You think too much in your head,” he says and looks at you. “What’s wrong?”

“It hurts.”

A sadistic smile tugs on Taehyung’s lips. He lets go, but only to lift your chin with his fingers. His plush lips are inches away, his breath warm on your skin and he gazes deep into you. “I won’t let you return to your world. I won’t let you run away. I won’t let anyone harm you.”

“You’re mine now.” Taehyung swears, “You’ll fall in love with me eventually.”

You gulp and he smirks.

The two of you know it’s only a matter of time.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #taehyung fanfic #taehyung scenario #taehyung fluff #bts fluff #taehyung reader insert #taehyung x reader #taehyung fanfiction #LET'S GOOOO

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thescarletspire · 2 years

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First Meeting, Part 1

Well, here would have to do. It was getting late, stars peaking through the twilight. The tavern looks inviting enough, golden glow shining on the packed sandy dirt outside, the salt wind dehydrated wood panels squeak as she opens the door and walks inside.

Holly sits at an empty table, her coat draped on the seat back behind her. Bare wood, no frills, cheap. To be expected from a lower end establishment, but that's what she needed. One must be conservative with funds when they didn't know what would be coming next. But not too cheap, or else one could lose what they just purchased to the thrushes.

The tavernkeep finally addresses her. She orders a simple meat pie and produces 5 Doron, guessing at the value.

The tavernkeep huffs impatiently. "Do you have anything else? I don't have all day."

Holly stares at him dumbfounded.

Holly closes the door behind her, the tavern's chatter hushing with it, and sighs. Apparently Doron weren't as universal as she thought. At least coats were warm and comfortable in any continent. She hugs it close to her chest and closed her eyes.

In a split moment, it rips from her grasp. Her fingertips grasp the last fragments but gain no purchase. She opens her eyes, a dark, lithe figure quickly darts through the dying end of the market walk, toward the port docks, her coat in tow. She takes off after them, clearing passersby but making little gain on the thief.

No matter how her lungs and legs burn, the figure always stays the same shadowy shape.

The shape glided down the docks, Holly notices a massive freight barge pulling away. She quickly understands the connection, watching as the shape runs along the parallel dock and and leaps over the railing and onto the internal walkway. She pushes the last pockets of oxygen from her lungs to burst forward, barely clearing the railing just as the barge pulls away. She exhales, her feet numb, and watches the shape disappear into a side door. She follows.

Weak moonlight through rows of windows along the cabin walls did little to illuminate the room, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed the room was bare except for a few wooden cargo boxes, stacked on top of each other...a few spare nets, what looked like some broken fishing poles...and an old man, lying against a wall in the corner. He pulls the cap from over his eyes as he awakens to her sudden presence.

"Who...who goes there?" He slowly, sleepily mumbles.

"Ah...um...sorry," she scans the room further, visibility improving by the second,

"Sorry to bother you, but...have you seen anyone else here? Someone should have run in here just a few seconds ago..." Holly already understands how stupid her question sounds, after all, wouldn't the old man have awoken already? He couldn't have awoken, fallen asleep, and awoken again in just those few seconds...though she was aware certain sleep disorders that described existed. Well, she didn't know this man. They'd just met seconds ago.

"No...?" He wheezed, and coughed. "No one. Whaddya want? I'm tryina get some shut eye!" He snapped.

Holly stares at him, puzzled. "But I could have sworn..." She looked around the room, scanning for possible other exits, but none emerged. "You have to have seen them! I saw them come in here and there's no where they could go! Explain yourself!"

A large figure loomed, stepping forward into the weak moonlight. A pair of diamondlike glints and razors flashed, surrounded by a shapeless mass that slowly formed into a head, long body, muscular arms, and powerful tail. Holly gasped. A lizardfolk. And a Blackscale at that...of course it had escaped notice.

"Make your leave, girl." The old man chuckled. "If you know what's best for ya."

The Blackscale advanced, but slowly. Enough for Holly to notice its full height, about 5 hands above her own head. She looked into its face, the mixture of terror and fascination causing both mobility and articulation to fail. Slitted eyes, slots at the end of a snout, flaring...forked tongue, and hooks for claws she'd only seen the like of in her keep's armory.

"I'm...not leaving! Not without my coat!"

The old man lifted his arm, holding a brown piece of fabric, its shape and size was familiar. "Its just a wee rag though, is it really worth your life?" He said, eyeing it. "Ah, unless...unless it's not just a coat, eh?" He grinned cruelly.

"Give it back." Holly snarled.

"Oh, no, I don't think so," he said, matter-of-factly. "But the lady doth protest too much...I wonder what’s inside.”

He produces a small knife, and begins cutting into the lining. "I knew I saw the hem swing just a little too quickly, odd bulges in asymmentric spots..." He mumbles as he works. Holly just watches indignantly. Finally he reaches the inside of the hem, and reaches inside. His expectant grin turns into a scowl as he opens his fist to find a handful of bahree nuts. He rips open the side pocket with growing desperation, playing cards. And a chest pad...scrap paper.

Holly grins smugly.

He throws the coat back at her, glowering. "

"Now you have a rag."

Holly hears a rhythmic hissing sound, notices the lizardperson's chest is shuddering, and quickly realizes that the Blackscale is...laughing?

"She got you good, Robin." The raspy voice chimes. "You must be losing your touch."

Robin glares at her, and Holly watches as the old man's image begins to fade and reshape into a slight figure with dark hair and eyes, and slightly pointed ears, who immediately began to laugh. Holly couldn't stifle a gasp. "Well played." He chuckles. She can't tell if it's playful or sinister.

"She's fast, to be able to catch up with you!" The Blackscale responds.

Robin suddenly looks at Holly with interest. "Yes, very fast. Faster than most humans, at this altitude..." Even in the dim starlight, she can sense the wheels turning. "In any case, I'm sure we can find something she has worth having..." Holly looks to the porthole windows to her side, suddenly very aware of the ship's distance from the shore, and how she was now very much at their mercy, whoever they were.

"Well, Kerezi," He chirps cheerfully. "Should be a very interesting ride."

@kaelang12 @talesfromaurea @1863-project idk who else needs to be tagged, just drop me a line

#the first part of this was a dream #we post first drafts with little editing here. like men.#look. it's kind of a miracle I write anything anymore so I take it where I can get it #fic

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fascination-street-writing · 4 years

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Sober to Death | Teenage Au! Risotto Nero x Reader

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts

Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (Not Underage), Mentions of Suicide, Implied Child Abuse, Underage Smoking, & Emotional Manipulation (Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics)

It is the summer of 1988. You have spent the past few days cooped within the shelter of your home to evade the arid, sweltering heat; even the spigots are dry. You long for autumn leaves.

The smouldering faces of painted women stare at you and watch, still, as you glide the twin blades of your mother’s cooking shears through pulp paper. She had promised you for weeks now to buy a new set of crafting scissors for you; your last pair disappeared, seemingly out of thin air. Your father insists that it was the work of garden fairies. You suspect interfamilial thievery.

A dollop of hot glue pools beneath the tip of the gun. A string not unlike a cotton candy fiber chases the glue gun upon separation; a scar on the back of your hand prompts you to not touch the simulant gemstone-encrusted tool. You press the trimmed image of a smoking model against the glue. Turquoise glitter rains down from the bottle and coaxes over the greyscale photograph. Plastic diamonds the color of honey, a magenta feather streaked in silver – you blow over the page of your scrapbook and grin.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop your dresser. Paper trimmings fall to the carpeted floor. Glitter sticks to the palm of your hand. Christy Turlington joins Isabella Rossellini and a nameless American model – the seventeenth page of your third portfolio is complete. You pride yourself in this hobby of collecting the images of women who have been frozen in time by glamour shots and risqué poses. Perhaps immortality truly means to be plastered inside of a teenage girl’s fashion scrapbook and hidden beneath her bed. You fancy yourself a curator – a conservator.

You kick back your feet and breathe in the perfume of the candle that burns on your bedside table. Instead of a pair of proper scissors, you mother had returned from the craft store with the caramel-scented candle. She is, admittedly, a bit forgetful at times.

You hear his fingers rapping against the pane of your window before you notice his presence: a pair of black-sclera eyes with red irises peer into your bedroom. You blow out the candle and turn off the overhead light. He is patient as he waits for you to slip on your Mary Jane’s. The bulge of a cigarette carton peaks out from the pocket of his torn jeans.

Through the opened window, Risotto Nero wordlessly extends his hand to you: yours is dwarfed by his calloused grasp. He leads you beyond your father’s wilting flower garden – you dance over marigolds, asters, and tithonias, careful not to step on the blossoms that suffer in this Sicilian drought.

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts. Cicadas and katydids sing. Risotto’s brooding, silent form matches your pace as walk towards your rendezvous place. Your legs have memorized the journey: up the hill, past the schoolyard, down the spiraling path behind the market, to the park across from the shoreline.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath your weight. You grip the rusted chains and push, only enough so that your body sways, suspended above the ground. Risotto sits beside you, stagnant. Ashen earthiness wafts through the cloud that forms before his face. The smell of cheap tobacco is so strong that you forget how lovely the scent of the caramel candle felt in the well of your lungs.

The cigarette slips from his fingers to yours. Hot to the touch, you bring it to your lips and breathe in. “Mio padre said he could look at your bike, by the way,” you say to your companion, the first words of the night thus far. He takes back the cigarette. “He says he’ll let you work for him or something, just so you don’t have to pay him back for the new tires.”

He hums with the filter stuck between his teeth. “Thank you,” he mumbles through smoke.

You smile and nod. He had been without his bicycle for nearly a month now, ever since one of the boys in his tenement building slashed its tires. Risotto’s parents had refused to replace them, insistent that their son had purposefully dug his own grave with the older, less reputable residents of their complex – it was his responsibility to lie down and bury himself alive.

If not for his cousin Barolo’s intervention in the matter, you thoroughly believed that your friend would have been thrown out onto the streets. The Nero’s were a temperamental pair, to be sure. You have lost track of just how many times Risotto has come to school with a bruise on his cheek or a busted lip – how many times you have met him at your window in the dead of the night, to be greeted by the aftermath of a blackeye: and always, he blamed the welts on fights with his neighbors, but you knew better. To him, it had never mattered what his parents did – so long as he has his cousin. And you.

His mother and father terrify you, and rightfully so. And yet, a part of you is grateful for their negligence; it means that you have the chance to spend more time with their son, to whisk him away from the strain of his household. You are beholden to the burning in your legs because it reminds you that walking to the park takes longer than a simple bike ride. Though few words are ever spoken between you and Risotto, you savor every moment spent in his company.

His actions tell you that he is appreciative enough of your presence. He drops the spent cigarette into the carton and pulls out a second; the flare of the match glistens in his eyes. You hide the frown that creeps upon your face behind a curtain of hair.

A nicotine high is nothing more than a nasty headache and an upset stomach – you do not enjoy smoking nearly as much as he does.

Although, you have gotten rather good at pretending.

Insegnante di Scuola jailed, charged in Manslaughter

Sordi Fellini, 32, was arrested at his home after Polizia Municipale di Palermo said he fled the scene of the 1:50 a.m. accident. Fellini, insegnante di lettere for Istituto Gonzaga, has been charged for driving while intoxicated, manslaughter, and leaving the scene of an accident involving a death.

Dead at the scene of the 1:50 a.m. wreck was Barolo Nero, 20.

The dried leaves crunch beneath your feet. The wind pulses against your legs, pressing your pleated skirt taut to your stocking-clad skin. There is a certain bitterness that comes with walking home from school, alone. The autumn air becomes more frigid. The journey, longer. The weight of textbooks in the bookbag slung across your back is far heavier.

More than anything, you miss Risotto. You are reminded of him every moment that you catch yourself staring, longingly, at his empty desk in each classroom. Though you consciously leave a seat open for him next to you at your lunch table, as if he might sit down at any moment, you know that it is for naught.

You were not invited to the funeral, because there never was one. Barolo was cremated and scattered along the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Signore Fellini, your estranged literature teacher, has been stripped of his certification – not that a degree would do him any good in prison.

And Risotto disappeared.

His bicycle has become something of a centerpiece in your father’s workshop: a drying rack for freshly cleaned hand towels. Each night that you find yourself hovering over your father – who is typically hunched in his desk chair – to press a kiss to his cheek and summon him for a meal, the bicycle taunts you. It is the emblem of your missing friend.

Tonight, you do not enter the workshop. A detour to the park has set you three hours behind. Your mother greets you from her place at the kitchen sink with a worrying tone. You have missed dinner, though truthfully, you are not hungry. Her water-pruned hands reach for you, yet you bat her away and retreat to your bedroom. Homework assignments wait to be completed. You strip yourself of your uniform and settle for a nightgown.

The evening sky has not yet settled to dusk – the cicadas and katydids no longer sing, for summer has passed and taken everything else with her: the drought, the wilted flowers, and Risotto. Still you sleep, a hand clutched to your chest, as if the meager act of cupping your aching heart might alleviate the dull rhythm that pulsates through you, even while you dream of cigarettes and torn jeans.

And when you open your eyes, jostled awake by the rattling of the window, you know that he has come back, perhaps compelled by devotion. Or perhaps, after all this time, it is that he could no longer bare the self-driven deprival of your affection.

In your room, Risotto’s battered shoes sink into the plush carpet. You close the window and draw the blinds shut. His gaze falls to the record player, then to a neglected crafting toolbox – scattered laundry on the floor, a framed watercolor painting of lilies: everywhere except for you. Your mouth opens, but words fail you. The questions that you have wanted to ask no longer matter because he is here now.

As you study his face, you wonder if his cheeks were always this gaunt. His fists are clenched. You pull him into your arms, crossing a line that you have only ever fantasized of toeing. His hands raise to your spine after a moment of hesitation. Fingernails pry into the thin fabric of your nightgown – he grips you tightly, like he fears that you might drift away if he pulls back. You feel the quaking of his shoulders before his tears fall and collect against the crook of your neck, to pool in the cavity of your collarbone.

Vulnerability has never come easy for Risotto. He wears stoicism like a mask. But here in your room – the forbidden safe haven – he wills himself to let it go; it falls to the floor as you lead him to your bed and pull his clothed body flush against yours, beneath the shelter of a duvet and wrinkled sheets.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper into the dark. “I was so worried about you.”

His grip on you eases and he settles onto his back before he speaks: “I’m sorry.”

Your face falls. “Don’t apologize. I don’t want you to.” The mattress creaks. You lean against your bent elbow and watch him as he stares at the ceiling. You can practically hear the gears churning in his mind. He is begging for help, but he does not want it – he is drowning, yet he refuses the buoy. “You don’t have to talk about it right now,” you say, referring to Barolo’s death and consequently Risotto’s absence. “Just understand that I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

But he already knew that.

Your eighteenth winter hails no snowfall, but rather gentle rain. You clutch the steering wheel of your hand-me-down sedan, foot coaxing over the pedals. It had once belonged to your father, until your seventeenth birthday. The scenery blends and contorts through the windows and Risotto puffs on a cigarette, exhaling through his opened window. Softly, Christmas carols hum through the speakers. The noise of your tires grinding against the slick roads is muddling.

Midnight Mass was a blur. Tradition demanded your attendance, yet your thoughts wandered. You broke the bread with quivering hands and said your holy words to Mother Mary, fingers and palms conjoined ephemerally. When the bishop dismissed the clergy, you found Risotto in the crowds of embracing strangers and giddy children.

The car swerves into gravel. The scent of sea spray climbs to you. The waves crash against the sand just as the tide beckons them to. You have reached spiaggia di Capaci. The gingham blanket settles into the sand. You and Risotto take your respective positions, a considerable distance left between your bodies. You do not mind the early rain that peppers your face with mist.

Above your heads, the stars embellish the ethereal ink-black sky.

His thumb coaxes over the back of your hand, tracing the grooves between knuckles. Your breath hitches in your throat. It is unknown just how many times your hand has found its way into his grasp before. And yet, you shiver and flush because now it is different – because now, you are an eighteen-year-old woman in love with your childhood friend.

You crane your neck to face him, a question of his intent frozen on your tongue as his red irises meet your gaze. You are motionless, even when his stare falls to your parted lips. The chill that radiates from the ocean holds you in place.

Time stops as he speaks to you: the waves refrain from the shore – the steady drizzle eases – but your heart beats in a fury.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod and suddenly his lips slant over your own, which remind him fondly of a freshly split strawberry. He bites back the gasp that betrays your composure. He kisses you with such fervor that he pulls his hand away from yours and tethers it to the back of your head, his fingers lost in the matted mound of hair. Like a kitten starved for milk, you explore the caverns of his mouth, the taste of communion wine heavy on his breath.

You find his shifting grasp on your hip daunting. A knee threads between your legs, parting them. A heat pools within you – you grab the back of his neck and pull him closer, closer. You lean into him, keening, desperate for friction.

He toys with your clothed sex and swallows the adolescent moan that you choke on. The hand beneath your dress is cold; goosepimples rise over your tender skin. He separates his lips from yours and pulls back to admire, through half-lidded eyes, as you bite your cheek and squirm while his thumb hooks around your dampened panties. You lie beneath him – your hair splayed around your head like a halo and a red blush stained to your cheeks – and he thinks, utterly and truly, that you must be Persefone herself.

Risotto’s heart beats, faster still; a contender only to yours. You feel like you might die, blissful that it would be a winsome way to go – on a beach somewhere, echoed only by thoughts of the one you might have loved in time. But when his long finger brushes against your untouched folds and tethers you to your very core, you know that you cannot possibly be dead. He curls himself and retracts. You raise your hips to meet the fever of his palm, eager for the second finger that he has yet to add.

“Please, Ris,” you beg. “More – please.”

He obliges. It is not long before you feel the coil tighten within your lower abdomen – before you fall apart for him.

Through your stupor, you manage to grab his wrist to cease his movements. “We can’t do this here,” you airily insist. “My car –”

He pulls you to your feet. Your shaking legs have you fumbling over sand. The key jiggles in the lock of the backseat door. You shimmy over crinkling faux leather. Your dress falls to the carpeted flooring.

A shirtless Risotto takes in the sight of your naked form. A body once saved for marriage, now prepared for sacrilege. He utters your name and groans: “Voglio scoparti.”

“Per favore.”

He fills you, slowly. Knees bent and tucked beneath his weight; you cry out against the skin of his neck. With little time to adjust, he rocks into you. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, desperate to anchor yourself. Every thrust elicits a gasp from your swollen lips.

You grimace peevishly when Risotto slows his pace. “I can’t do this,” he mutters. “It’s not comfortable.”

He pulls himself out of your folds, only to flip you onto your stomach without a moment to spare. A hand finds its way to the back of your neck, effectively pinning you down onto the car seat. His other arm ensnares your waist and hoists your backend into the air. On bended knees, he enters you again, pounding with a burst of newfound energy and desire.

Condensation coats the windows. The pressure on your neck deprives your lungs; however, the mere thought of Risotto asserting such dominance over your bent form has you reeling towards the edge. Your fingers fly to your sensitive nub, tweaking the it in your own grasp. Your release washes over you, and you cum on his cock with a moan laced in ecstasy.

He finishes on your back, lacquer to your sweat-slicked skin. He rubs something soft against you. You realize, as sand particles fall to the car seat, that it is your blanket. Head flush to his chest, you listen to the thumping within his ribcage. A sigh passes through your lips and your eyes fall to his discarded wristwatch. It is just after 3:00 a.m. – in five hours, you will wake to the sound of your mother’s knuckles rapping against your bedroom door to join her and your father for breakfast before an onerous day of entertaining relatives. But for now, you will enjoy the solace of Risotto’s embrace.

You press a kiss to his cheek. “Bon Natali, Risotto.”

He grins, tired. It is enough to fill you with unadulterated love.

“Bon Natali, bella.”

The early days of the springtime bloom yield the first wave of tourists to Palermo for the season. Market vendors inflate their prices. Restaurants become far too crowded. The beaches – the sacred places – lose their luster as they become a haven for foreigners.

You do not mind the influx of strangers, for you have never found a reason not to. After all, no one comes to your city to gawk at Catholic school students.

The hand pressed to your bare backend feels limp. Even as you trail your finger over his chest, through patches of hair and young muscles, Risotto is unresponsive. Your lips brush against his clenched jaw – he flinches but does not relax. He is perturbed beyond question.

“Ris?” you begin, waiting for him to look at you. He does not. You frown. “Are you alright?”

A stiff nod is his response.

“Well, if that’s the case, can I ask you a something?”

Another nod.

"Would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night? You know – as in an actual date.”

"No.”

You sit up, tucking the blankets around your breasts. “Oh . . .” you trail off, suddenly self-conscious of the post-sex haze that lingers on the sheets. “Why not?”

Because I’ll be gone – he wants to say. The pair of crafting scissors that he once stole from you years ago, now tucked away within his backpack, is a nasty contemplation. “Because I don’t want to,” he huffs.

“Did I do something wrong? Are you embarrassed of me?”

No. “Yes.” He can feel the splitting of your heart – it feels just like his own.

“I don’t understand,” you insist. He reaches for his jeans, dressing in silence. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

“It’s easier than telling you the truth.” He shrugs on his jacket.

“What truth?”

I’m never coming back. “I’ve only been using you for sex, and now I’m bored – I never thought you were stupid enough to think that any of this was genuine. But I shouldn’t be surprised.”

You bring a hand up to catch the tear that rolls down your cheek. You wait for his rebuttal – for a smile, a shaking of his head, and an insistence that it was only a cruel jest taken too far. But the look in his eyes, that callous sneer, tells you that he is serious.

You will not cry for him – you will not beg him to stay. “Get out.” You choke over your words. The figs of your tree have shriveled and fallen to your feet, black as death itself. “Get out of my house.”

And so, he leaves you beneath the barren tree you once thought to have planted together. Springtime has left a sour taste in your mouth, after all.

Sordi Fellini Dead in Suicide at Jail, Spurring Inquiries

Signore Fellini, the insegnante di lettere sentenced for his convicted manslaughter of Barolo Nero in 1988, was not under suicide watch at the time of his death.

Signore Fellini was found around 6:30 a.m mercoledì mattina. He posted bail seventeen hours before his alleged demise.

On la Costa Smeralda, echoed only by thoughts of the one he loved a decade ago, Risotto Nero basks atop bloodied sand, dying. A crushed carton of cigarettes lies beyond the reach of his severed hand. The phantom pangs of adolescence remind him of you.

Years of schooling under the scrutiny of god’s eye have turned him away from religion: he was a deist and nothing more. Still, the silent prayer on his lips pleads that he might see you once more – to beseech your absolution, though he knows that he does not deserve it. To prove his fidelity. To give you the life you have always been so deserving of.

No, Risotto was never a religious man. But he worshipped the very ground you walked on. You were his savior – and he denied you like a disciple driven by guile.

The lump in his throat elicits a painful cough; a blade to his esophagus. He recognizes his folly far better than any man. How differently might things have turned out if he had just stayed by your side – if he had agreed to go on your silly little date; if he had never snuck his way into Fellini’s prison cell to slit the wrists of the man who bequeathed to him an unending grudge; if he had never found Passione.

He might have been a husband, if you would have wanted to marry him. He might have been a father, if you were so inclined to become a mother. He never knew your thoughts of the future because he had never asked.

He might have been anything other than a broken, dead man who has lost everything.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath his weight. He grips the rusted chains and digs his feet into the dried woodchips. A katydid crawls over the mulch next to his sneakers and chirps; Risotto brings the sole of his shoe over the mating insect, ready to squish it.

A pair of Mary Jane’s comes into his view. He leaves the katydid be, which resumes its path to the second katydid beneath the opposite swing. The scent of cigarette smoke wafts through the air.

He meets your gaze. You smile and take your seat in the swing above the female katydid. The cigarette slips from your fingers to his. Hot to the touch, he brings it to his lips and breathes in.

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows have become your ghosts.

| 3869 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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arse-crack-thistle · 4 years

Text

a firstprince meet-cute

the heroes of olympus au

in which the roman son of apollo meets the greek son of themis

Henry—the quiet son of Apollo and Centurion of the 3rd cohort—leads a team of five demigods through the Long Island woods. Their task: spy on the Greeks and bring information back to Octavian. The golden-haired boy wishes he could’ve refused, but anyone who goes against the Pontifex Maximus gets severely punished and he will not let any harm come to his legionaries. Not again.

The group weaves through the trees, dodging the sight of any patrols. Henry has no idea how he’ll get close enough to hear anything, but he might be able to interpret some battle strategy from the Greek’s night preparations. As his fellow soldiers fan out beside him, Henry inches up the hill. He’d say a prayer to his father if he thought it would help, but he doesn’t. After many unanswered prayers about his sexuality, about his rather fucked up influential family, he doesn’t bother with Apollo anymore.

Henry gestures for his right-hand man—Pez, son of Mercury and the only one who actually knows he’s gay—to peer over the hill with him; the others stay back, keeping watch. The Centurion readies an arrow just in case, while Pez has his hand on the hilt of his blade, and they watch Greek demigods reinforce their buildings, sharpen their weapons, and prepare medical tents. None of them are practicing formations, which doesn’t help Henry or Octavian at all. He has to come back with something, so he puts the arrow away and crawls forward.

This could be really stupid, but he has to try—not for Octavian but for New Rome. It’s the only place that’s felt like home to him. Back in England, there’s his grandmother, the CEO of an underwhelming home goods empire. The stuff is cheap, but they’re still the number one seller back home. His mother and brother have a part in it. His sister ran off a few years back, and he has no idea where she is or if she’s even alive. His father—or rather ex-step-father—hasn’t wanted much to do with him since about three years ago when he found out Henry’s mother had an affair at a music festival fourteen years before.

They had a scandalous divorce, covered by every major news outlet, and Henry found out his true identity when a handsome demigod knocked on his door and told him he was in danger and had to be take to California. Several monsters, a few thousand miles, and a few months with a wolf goddess later, he found himself at Camp Jupiter. Everything that happened to him up until then—the blurry images of creatures at the corner of his eyes every time he turned a corner, the dyslexia that made his passion for writing frustrating, the way he never really fit in with his family—finally made sense. He was a demigod! And when the sign of Apollo appeared over his head after he made his first bullseye at the archery range, he truly felt like he found where he belonged.

Pez whispers for him to come back, but Henry lifts a hand in warning. Just then, someone—a dryad probably—screams an alert to his enemy, and all Underworld breaks loose. His legionaries get in formation behind him, readying themselves for the Greeks. They were taught never to run from a fight, but Henry can’t allow this to happen. He’s been in enough battles to know when he can win and when he can’t. Eventually, they’ll be outnumbered because Octavian won’t send him reinforcements if he can help it. He doesn’t know how violent the Greeks will be, but if they willingly fired on New Rome when their defenses were down, then he can’t take the risk. And he won’t repeat what happened in the Titan war.

Henry orders his soldiers back, telling Pez to take temporary control of the cohort and share the minimal information they gathered with the Pontifex. If they’re to be any casualties tonight, it will only be Henry and the Greeks he can take down with him.

•••

The last thing Alex—the wise-ass son of Themis—wants to do in the middle of the night is go to a counsel meeting at the Big House. He wipes the sleep from his eyes as he walks up the creaky steps. Inside, Chiron and the other counsellors gather around a table. It’s times like this he wishes it was a year ago when the children of minor gods were left out of meetings and decision-making. But as soon as he slaps himself awake, he regains his undying need to get involved and raise hell—fair and just hell, of course.

He sits down next to Nora, the temporary head counsellor of the Athena cabin. She’s bouncing in her seat—no doubt high on caffeine and nectar and ready to get back to developing war strategy. She gives him a wink and taps her fingers like she’s back home typing on a computer. Chiron clears his throat and tells the demigods of a Roman scout team that was spotted an hour ago. Unfortunately, most of the soldiers got away, but they did manage to capture one. He’s being held in one of the Big House’s guest rooms.

Now it’s Alex’s turn to bounce. He’s been waiting for an opportunity like this. A prisoner of war means they’ll need to get information. There will need to be a lawyer present—or a lawyer in training that is. He can preside over the questioning, be the voice of justice, and maybe even get the Roman to see the right side is his. He can picture it now: Camp Half-Blood safe from the Romans and that dude reformed in his ways, joining them to stop Gaia. Yes, this is his chance to step out of his sister’s shadow.

He volunteers to mediate for whoever is charged with the interview. Alex ignores Chiron’s obvious hesitation; just because he can get a little heated—thank gods Leo isn’t here cracking a dumb pun joke at that, which would inevitably leave them both laughing on the floor—doesn’t mean he can’t be objective. So he hates the Romans’ guts and thinks they should go back to their stuck-up little camp, so what? Once he’s in the real world, going to college, running for congress like his father, he’ll have to deal with a shit-ton of people he doesn’t like. Looking at you, Bitch McConnell.

Just as Chiron decides he, Nora, Will Solace, and reluctantly Alex will talk to the Roman boy, a camper from the Aphrodite cabin bursts through the door and tells him one of the Hephaestus girls accidentally blew up a boy from the Ares cabin. Apparently, armor strapped with projectile explosives wasn’t the best idea. So Chiron declares they will talk to their guest in the morning, and in the meantime, they’ll take shifts in pairs guarding him. Alex raises his hand to get the first watch, but Chiron appoints Drew Tanaka and Connor Stoll. They both roll their eyes at the idea of being stuck together for the next few hours. Alex’s chest deflates.

Ever since his sister left—he and June are some of the rare demigods that have the same mortal and immortal parentage without being twins—the responsibility of the Themis cabin has fallen on his shoulders. He wanted it, of course, but his siblings also elected him to the head counsellor position, thinking he’d follow in June’s footsteps: ruling with truth, justice, and wisdom. Just like their mother.

Back in his cabin, Alex stares at the marble statue of her that presides over her children. Her iconic image—blindfolded, holding a sword in one hand and balancing a scale in the other—reminds him he’s definitely no June.

She was a leader of quests; Alex has never been on one. June was the voice of reason at counsel meetings; he struggles just to sit still, let alone calm a room with one enlightening sentence. When the children of minor gods were finally given their own cabins, there was no question who should run theirs. Now, he hears his siblings whisper whether they should hold another election. Gods, you call out your conservative brothers one time—it was way more than once—and suddenly, you’re imposing your opinion on everyone.

That’s not it though. Alex has never been given a chance to step up. No matter how many times he tries to convince the counsel they should establish a court system at camp—nothing settles an argument like a nice, fair trial—he always gets shot down.

Not anymore. He’s not going to sit back this time. Not when the threat to camp is this great. He’ll get what he needs from that Roman. If June were here, she would’ve been trusted to go ahead without Chiron, so Alex will do the same.

•••

Henry wakes up to angry whispers outside of his door. The twelve Greeks overtook him easily, but he did put up a good fight. At least, he did until he was knocked unconscious. On the table beside his bed, a note sits atop a plate of food.

Eat well. Hydrate. Rest. We’ll speak with you soon. -Chiron

A glass of juice spiked with nectar sits next to the plate. Why would those imbecilic Greeks give him what’s essentially strengthening serum? He intakes his surroundings: a bed, a table, a dresser, and a chair. Window to the left. Only door out to the right. There’s a clean set of clothes at the end of the bed, but Henry would rather go to Tartarus and back than put on another camp’s shirt.

He jimmies the window, but it’s locked and to hard to break. He lightly tries the doorknob, but it’s locked as well. By the sounds of it, three maybe four people argue outside his door. Romans never had this much trouble changing guard shifts. Henry fiddles about the room, looking for anything to 1. unlock the door and 2. use as a weapon. He can handle four Greeks, and he’ll do everything in his power to get back to his cohort.

Henry hears the click of the door unlocking. Gods, they’re thick, aren’t they? He grabs the wooden chair, and as the door swings open, he thwacks the person walking in with it. Just as he suspected, the chair breaks, and he uses one piece to press against the throat of the careless demigod he’s pinned to the floor.

The boy beneath him groans. He’s got light brown skin and dark curly hair, and if Henry weren’t about to kill him, he’d think he was quite cute.

“Gods, can you Greeks do anything with finesse? Even your hero, Percy Jackson, as talented as he may be, flies by the seed of his trousers.” Henry grits his teeth.

“Ha!” the boy coughs out. “Jumping to conclusions, are we? I thought you guys were supposed to be strictly trained soldiers. You miscalculated.”

He points behind him, and when Henry looks up, a girl stands battle-ready with a sword in her hand. The distraction is enough for the boy below to wrap his legs around Henry and flip them. The Greek holds a dagger to his neck.

“Listen here, pretty boy, are we going to talk or am I going to go all American Revolution on your British-ass?” He presses the dagger, and Henry yelps.

The boy’s brown eyes peer into Henry’s, and some strange part of him likes it. The Greek looks about his age and, while clearly not as capable as he, definitely has some fight in him.

“I’d like to see you try, graecus. But be forewarned, if you send me to the Underworld, I’ll drag you and your camp down with me.” He keeps his face plain and uncaring, though he can feel the heat in his cheeks. Apollo help him.

The girl interrupts them to remind her partner what they’re here to do. She sheaths her sword and closes the door.

He’s called Alex. Henry swallows. And they need information.

Alex releases him. The two get up off the ground. No one moves to sit or get more comfortable. The boys just stare at each other, long and cold.

Henry can tell this guy is a complete and total arse, and yet he can’t shake the swirling feeling in his stomach. A memory from a quest eighteen months ago flashes in his mind. In Vegas, a priest of Venus dressed like Elvis told him great tragedy would befall his love life, but with the goddess’s blessing, he’d find happiness again.

He already lost someone. The demigod who found him, Daniel, son of Ceres, his sponsor when he joined the camp, his Centurion. Everything was quiet between them—few words needed for mutual understanding. Daniel brought him fresh lavender; Henry played him a tune on the lute. But then the Titan war came. And Daniel disobeyed the Praetors’ orders to save the boy he loved. Henry barely had time to grieve before he took control of the 3rd cohort and lost four other demigods in the process. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of the five who died because of him. Because of love.

No. This feeling he has is the desire to beat the Greeks, nothing more. He doesn’t give a damn about happiness in love or this obnoxiously hot demigod before him. Like even as Alex breaks eye contact first, puts his sheathed dagger in his boot, ruffles his hair, puts his hands on his hips, and sighs, Henry feels nothing. Elvis can go fuck himself.

“So,” Alex says, “what do you have planned, and how can we convince you to stop? We’d really like to prevent another demigod civil war.”

Henry laughs, and even though nothing would make him happier than to stop fighting, to rest as Chiron suggested, he tells Alex, “You’re really a dickhead if you think I’m giving you anything.”

•••

“It was an accident!”

“You expect me to believe with our two camps in a centuries-long feud that the one time we let down our defenses, your lot just attacked us on accident? Right, and I suppose Pluto is actually a sweet guy once you get to know him, too?”

“My buddy Leo was being controlled by Gaia!”

“Your mate Leo should come up with a better lie.”

“You’re impossible!” Gods, Alex really hates this guy. “Nora, can’t we just—”

She shakes her head before he can finish. He’s not really sure what he was going to say. Have Drew come back and charmspeak him? Feed him to the harpies? Pin him down again? Wait—what?

“Listen, dude. We’re really on the same side here. Right now, both Greeks and Romans demigods—our friends—are fighting against a greater threat than the world has seen since the beginning of time. That’s got to count for something,” he says.

The Roman is quiet. Alex hates how he looks like a goddamn prince even after a fight. But maybe he got through to him. After all, it is true. For all the shit he talks about Romans, he knows they’re not bad, just different. They actually have more in common than they’d like to acknowledge. Jason Grace taught him that. If there was ever a Roman WASP he could get behind, it’s Jason.

So Alex tries a different approach. He gestures to the bed. “You want to?” The blond boy stiffens, and Alex clarifies, “Sit?”

“How about we start over?” He sits. Nora takes the opportunity to march to the other side and bellyflops onto the bed. “I’m Alex, son of Themis, the goddess of justice. And you are?”

He watches the Roman look from the undefended door to Alex and back again.

“You could run,” Alex says. “But then we’d have no chance to broker peace. Hera thought she could do it by trading heroes, but I think you and I both know it takes more than one person to heal two armies.”

Power swells in his chest. Alex can’t know for sure, but maybe his mother is looking out for him. This is how he can bring the demigods justice for Gaia’s destruction. June would be the better choice, but Alex is here and he has to try.

“Let’s work together. Or at least, get along long enough for the prophesized seven to come back home,” he says.

The Roman hesitates. Alex can see in his light blue eyes the number of strategies racing through his mind. But ultimately, he decides to sit. Nora snores next to them. Five a.m. and a caffeine/nectar crash will do that to you.

“So your name?” Alex asks. “It’s only fair.” Dumb pun but he winks.

The boy coughs, but then he looks into Alex’s eyes. “I’m—er—Henry, son of Apollo, Centurion of the 3rd cohort.”

so this is a little late but we’re just going to ignore that...

i just finished reading toa a couple of weeks ago, and i can’t stop thinking about it!! so when i saw the meet-cute prompt, i couldn’t resist a percy jackson-ish fic! i hope you enjoyed this little short piece. <3

rwrb romance week | @rwrb-fests

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debtbutton41-blog · 4 years

Text

Just How To Measure For Home Window Blinds & Tones.

Patio Awnings And External Sunblinds

#toc background: #f9f9f9;border: 1px solid #aaa;display: table;margin-bottom: 1em;padding: 1em;width: 350px; .toctitle font-weight: 700;text-align: center;

Content

Distribution

Are Hillarys Blinds Expensive? That Depends On The Agent

Are Hillarys Blinds Expensive?

Made To Measure, Made Simple.

Outside Garden Waterproof Awning Canopy Patio Area Cover Uv Color Awning *.

Blinds Direct Clearguard.

Distribution

Is it better to have curtains or blinds?

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paellaplease · 5 years

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Firebird | Chap.2

Summary: 105 years before the hero’s resurrection, a young woman trained under ancient knowledge once forgotten- enchants her very first weapon. For the sake of research and in search of a warrior worthy to wield it, she is sent to Rito Village, immediately clashing with the local archer, Revali, a bird too prideful for his own good.

Surviving deadly road-trips, sudden drops, and a hand bearing a Sheikah rune with a penchant for catching fire, she slowly begins to uncover the secrets behind who she once was and the old evil that lies asleep in the mountains beyond.

Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 2: The Chief

Good news and bad news. Fate plots her course and laughs in her face.

The enchanted dagger hung heavy from inside its decorative scabbard as she ascended the multiple wooden steps taking her near the summit of Rito Village. Along with her backpack full of notes, books and supplies, she was also unnecessarily armed to the teeth, by her standards at least.

Teacher carries twice this many weapons to a village picnic.

Maiya felt silly, listening to the dagger at her hip clank noisily alongside the sound of her other sheathed throwing knives. She felt more like a bag of metal than a mysterious enchanter from a land far away. The thought made her snort.

The young woman adjusted her now shoulder length hair, tucking it underneath her newly acquired bandana. She quietly mourned for its comforting weight when it used to hang long and healthy at her waist. Brushing it out in the morning was one of her few indulgences, and now with it gone she felt an uncomfortable gap in her usual routine.

The bandana was yellow and scratchy, but it was cheap and did the job in hiding her lopsided haircut. This is your punishment for not paying attention to your surroundings.

Maiya shrugged, clicking her tongue and clutching the railing at her side with a bit more force than necessary. There were more important things to worry about.

It’s just hair.

Humming a cheerful old folk-song, she attempted to summon her final dredges of courage as the number of stairs left began to dwindle. She was nearing the top and getting closer to the Rito Chieftain’s office.

As much as she hated to admit it, the near second brush with death had rattled her enough to have cost her sleep the night before. And she found herself more of a nervous wreck this lovely morning than she usually was. Comfy and plush the bed may have been at the Rito Stable, she spent the evening tossing and turning, plagued by night terrors.

For a moment, she thought it was the same nightmare she usually saw. Skeletons on horseback, metal clashing on metal. Voices, so many voices, calling out for her to run .

However this time instead of a sword plunging into her gut as she turned away, it was an arrow, coated in blue feathers, soaring straight and true towards her, piercing her skull’s soft flesh just between her eyes.

Maiya had awoken early that morning, finding it difficult to return to sleep. She packed her things and tipped the stablemaster, setting out for the village which blurred the lines between earth and sky, and reaching the connecting bridge by early afternoon.

Anxiously, she flexed her gloved left hand, willing the aching buzz of energy emanating from the rune underneath to recede. The soft glow seemed bluer, it’s shine reminding her of the Rito she had met the day before.

Not all travellers that passed by the forge at Akkala were sunshine and rainbows. Some were quite icy, or downright uncivil, her mentor not wasting any time to throw them out should they had overstayed their welcome.

However…him. What was his name again? That Rito. He was rude, callous, and absolutely full of it. Which made his willingness to help her all the more suspicious and confusing.

Maiya half expected the oversized bird to lead her towards a bokoblin camp in revenge to her interrupting his target practice. However, she was pleasantly surprised to find that his directions were indeed correct, and that she found herself back onto the Highway within hours instead of days.

What a weird guy.

At her thoughts, her hand glowed brighter. Surprisingly, the usual accompanying pain felt dulled. Almost…non-existent.

She glared at her left hand, pulsing like a blue beacon underneath her glove. Hush , she thought.

Another worrying memory gnawed at her brain as she climbed the final steps, clutching the railing to catch her breath. Back there, faced with the threat of imminent death, the rune on her hand reacted accordingly, reaching out to neutralize whatever threat was heading towards its host.

In hindsight, the protective fire wouldn’t have made it anyway, and the arrow would have killed her instantly. But the memory of a glowing blue light and the confusion she felt at a heavily feathered something running towards her still remained.

Maiya grimaced, looking out at the bright, blue sky to her right. ‘Helpful’ as the Rito archer may have been, she wonders how friendly he would be if he finds out she nearly burnt him to a crisp. Good riddance. I hope we never cross paths again.

Three more steps, two, then one. She reached the entrance of the Chieftain’s office. What was a light breeze from below was now a strong gust of wind at the summit, playing with the wisps of hair that had escaped her bandana and making her clutch her brown traveler’s coat tighter as she suppressed a violent shiver.

The outside of the hut was decorated with colourful silks and cloth, all printed with a white symbol of an oddly shaped half-circle with two wing-like geometric shapes fanning out from either side. She recognised it from her history classes with her mentor, the sacred Rito sigil. An emblem that had survived centuries of history.

Along with the banners, shells and chimes were strung up and hung along sections of the hut. They danced merrily in the wind, creating soft music which worked well in reducing some of her nervous panic. She wondered where they came from, the shells in particular, some looked to be from mostly molluscs.

Someone to her left just cleared their throat.

“Uh…Miss? Are you alright?”

Maiya blinked, shaking her head and turning to whoever just spoke.

It was a Rito, clad in brown leather armour. He had piercing blue eyes, which stood out like two bright stars against the coal black of his plumage. The partisan spear gripped in his right wing, and the bright red sash with the Rito emblem secured neatly to his waist indicated that he was probably some sort of guard.

One second passed. Then another.

Oh dear.

“I was staring off into space again wasn’t I?”

Surprisingly, a small, shy smile graced the guard’s severe stony face. “Perhaps,” he said, shrugging awkwardly. “You looked like you were trying very hard to set that yellow cloth on fire with your mind.”

Maiya let out a shaky laugh. Yikes, bit too close to home, birdie.

“Sorry,” she said. Rocking back on her heels and scratching the back of her head in embarrassment. “Anxious habit, I guess I’m a bit nervous to meet your chieftain…”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about.” The guard smiled kindly. “Chief Kamori is a wise and just leader. He has been dedicating himself to our village since I was a chick."

He quickly surveyed her appearance. Though his gaze was purely calculating, Maiya still felt a tad self-conscious as his eyes took in her worn coat and old leathers. The guard seemed to understand where some of her stress was coming from, beak quirking into a serene smile. "He worries little about formalities, Hylian guest, so do not feel concerned over not packing your finest silks and messing up your curtsey,” he winked good-naturedly.

Thank Hylia .

The guard turned his head towards the Chieftain’s hut, “I’ve watched him govern our great village for many years now. He treats all that meet him with respect and honesty.” The Rito then stood to attention, stamping his staff on the ground and making Maiya jump.

“We only ask that you do the same.”

Filled with new understanding, Maiya’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s a reasonable request to ask for,” she smiled.

She stepped forward to the cloth door, “Oh! By the way,” she said. “My name is Maiya, what’s yours?"

"Talako,” he said. “Protector of the Chief and Guardian to the peoples of Rito Village."

"Thank you Talako, hope to see you around I guess?”

“I hope so too, Miss Maiya."

And with that, she pulled the curtains back and stepped inside.

The Chieftain’s office was small and humble. Minimally decorated save for the large oak table which sat at the corner of the room. Glass lamps strung with carefully woven rope hung from the high ceiling, swinging lightly in the breeze.

Tall windows surrounded her from all sides, all kept wide open as the cool Tabantha air danced and whistled through the room, carrying the sweet scent of flowers and fruit. Beyond was a stunning view of the snowy Hebra mountainside, with rolling hills and white capped peaks which disappeared into the clouds.

Finally, in the middle of the room sat the Chieftain.

The Chief’s eyes were kind. His right eye was a dark shade of green, the same colour of grass after rain in the lush fields of her hometown. It was relatively clear, unharmed, contrasting with the milky white of his left eye, a long, old scar running jagged across it.

He was a rather large Rito, widely built and towering over her by a fair margin. His brown feathers were fading to grey in his old age, with the ones that grew under his beak decorated with silver plates and beads, braided to resemble a three pointed beard.

She’d never met a Chief before. Maiya didn’t know what she was expecting. Someone grander maybe? A throne instead of a rocking chair? But a part of her felt relieved. This Chief looked understanding, fair. He was dressed conservatively in simple cream clothes, the only splash of colour being a green scarf printed with the Rito emblem tied neatly around his neck.

Maiya’s eyes continued to roam the room, noticing the tapestry that hung at the back wall. Shells and feathers were woven into the fabric, with splashes of beautiful colour laced into its intricate weaving and embroidery.

It depicted a surprisingly wingless Rito, golden light surrounding them like a halo. They were dressed in a red and gold robe, which fanned out dramatically across the tapestry like a crashing wave. Flying down from the heavens to meet the flightless bird was a giant serpent like dragon. Its scales were the colour of wildfire, with outstretched claws that gripped and curled around a snow-white mountain. The Rito was reaching an arm up, as if to grab the bright star which rested in the beast’s gaping maw.

It was beautiful.

The Chieftain held out a wing, "Hoo! Hello!” he gestured for her to step further into the room. “Come in, let me have a better look at you! These eyes aren’t the same as they used to be, more a bat than a hawk unfortunately.”

The leader of the Rito squinted his good eye at her as she approached, widening as she stepped into the light. The expression he had on his face was puzzling. Open, almost trusting. As if he recognised the person standing before him now. Which would be impossible as this was their first meeting.

Stop overthinking.

“Hoo,” he smiled, “Are you the young Maiya that Nisandrey has been telling me so much about?”

That caught her off-guard. It was rare that she ever heard her mentor’s name spoken out loud. Let alone so casually by someone she’s never met.

“Yes…that’s me. Do you know my Teacher well?”

“Hmm,” the Chieftain said, turning his head to the stack of letters on the oak table. One of them was still rolled open, her mentor’s signature in the bottom in her favourite red ink.

“She and I have been friends for a very long time, young one.” He breathed, voice as light as the wind around them. “She says that you are progressing well in your studies.”

Maiya felt her ears go red, biting her tongue and clasping her hands behind her back to stop her from yelling out and fist pumping in the air. HOLY SHIT! YES! Yeah! Woohoo-

Instead.

She bowed her head bashfully. “Thank you, Chieftain. That is good to hear, especially coming from her."

The wise Rito chuckled, "No need to be so humble, young Maiya.” He then began to sit up slowly, minding his back as his talons touched the floor. “Where are my manners? I am Chief Kamori of the Rito Village. But you may just call me Kamori if you wish."

He walked to the side of the room, pulling a chair towards his and gesturing to her with an open wing to take a seat. "It has been a long time since an Enchanter had stepped foot on this village.” She thanked him and sat gently into the plush chair. Rito furniture, there’s just nothing else like it!

“Hardly an Enchanter,” Maiya said, relieving her shoulders from the weight of her travel pack. “I was granted the title just a moment before I left.”

Kamori smiled, eyes far away. “Ancient tales say that to be called an Enchanter means to have endured years of hard-work and intense study.” Sadness seemed to mingle with his voice as he continued. “Regardless of when it was made official, you are what you are now, do not belittle the efforts which have brought you to this point.”

She gazed down at her left hand, wondering to what extent her mentor revealed to Kamori of her abilities. Enchanting was a science as old as ancient history, but the methods she used were rather unconventional. Moreso magical even- an opinion Teacher would never agree with. If she focused hard enough, she could feel the active hum of energy running through the veins and nerves underneath the lines of her scar. The rune on her hand made everything easier, but the pain and fatigue that followed almost always trumped the allowances.

Many evenings she wondered if it was truly her skill and knowledge aiding her, or the rune acting as a permanent crutch. She was happy with her accomplishment, she wouldn’t deny that, but making a point to constantly take credit felt wrong somehow. Like she was cheating.

Maiya’s lips curved, bitter. Pride was never her forte anyway.

A short pause settled between her and the Chief when she finally remembered why she was here in the first place. Business now, self-deprecating internal rant later. Quickly, she reached down to the enchanted dagger at her side, unbuckling the scabbard and presenting it to the Rito Chieftain. “It will not harm anyone while sheathed, but please still be careful not to touch it,” she said.

“There’s a defect I still need to work through. From what I gathered, the elemental energy infused within it is still tied to mine. Teacher believes the ancient masters met this issue as well in the beginning stages.” She frowned, shaking her head. Don’t think he would appreciate a lecture . “The dagger burns all except for me, a powerful enchanter, and…"

“The warrior you deem worthy to wield it,” Kamori finished, smiling knowingly.

Maiya’s shoulders dropped. There it is. “Yes,” she breathed. “And you probably know that’s the reason why I am here.”

“Hooo, you are correct child. Dear Nisandrey…”

Maiya shivered. Such an endearing term before such a terrifying woman’s name was so unnatural.

“…has informed me of the details. You are very lucky, we have already named the village’s most skilled archer and fighter a few years ago. During the time, Nisandrey was invited to survey our new line of lightweight armour and weaponry, but unfortunately she had to decline due to previously scheduled…appointments.” The way his voice rose and dipped at the word appointments in a rough imitation of her mentor’s own accent made her laugh in surprise. Kamori sat back in his rocking chair, pleased.

"I warn you enchanter, the Rito warrior is skilled, but young. He can be quite vocal of his achievements and I’ve been told this can be slightly off-putting at times,” He paused, deliberating over how he should salvage her opinion of their chosen after his quick admission. “However, he is inherently good of heart and extremely diligent. I’m sure you will both find a way to get along.”

A bell chimed in the distance, accompanied by the sound of flapping wings.

"Hoo! I believe that is him now.”

Maiya stood from her seat, sheathing the dagger and turning to face the mysterious Rito that had just entered the room.

“Welcome back home, Revali, Pride of the Rito.”

Growing up, Maiya never really had much in the way of an extended family, or friends rather outside from the other smiths who frequented the workshop.

Hence, she can’t say she’s ever had the honour of experiencing the specific, delicious concoction of embarrassment, anger, and surprise from being on the other end of a prank or practical joke. And for many years, she was happy to keep it that way. Till now.

This is a joke right.

Her eyes were wide. Scanning the newcomer in disbelief.

Jade anklets, blue feathers, a familiar scowling beak.

Haha…

I’m in danger.

The chair behind her let out a loud screech , and she belatedly realised that she was unconsciously backing away and towards the nearest exit, which in this case was a window opening up to an at least 30 story drop.

She could feel her heart galloping in her ears.

To make matters worse, in response to her panic, the rune underneath her glove started to glow once more, sizzling the leather. A trail of black smoke rose from the ruined material, making her predicament obvious even as she tried to hide her hand behind her back.

Across the room, the Rito known as Revali stood, royal blue feathers ruffling as he slowly began to process who exactly he was looking at.

“What are you doing here?”

Maiya raised her smoking hand and waved awkwardly, “Uh…hello again.”

'Idiot! You big dumbass! What the hell was that?’

I don’t know I panicked!

“Hooo,” Kamori smiled, oblivious to the heavy cloud of animosity that now hovered over the two. “It seems you both already know each other. Excellent.”

#revali #botw #breath of the wild #revali x oc #loz botw #legend of zelda #botw fanfiction #revali botw #rito #rito botw #botw fic #fanfiction #writing #enemies to friends to lovers #paellaplease #firebird botw #maiya botw

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scapegrace74-blog · 6 years

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Seventeen: Ines

A/N You ever make a list? A way to compile all the missed opportunities, the transgressions, the warning signs telling you that you’re on the wrong path? Of course you have. Part 4 in the series. Part 1 and links to other parts are here. Rated NC-17. And yes, I did a self-insert. Sue me. But for the record, in the twelfth grade, I totally would have put out for Fox Mulder. No question.

Michelle was his Grade 12 chemistry lab partner. They’d known each other since kindergarten, but something about his newfound confidence with girls must have cast him in a different light that fall. That, or it was the fifteen pounds of lean muscle he’d developed paddling a long board all summer. Either way, casual familiarity turned to coy flirtation as she tapped her pale green nails atop the lab stool next to hers and purred, “Come sit next to me, Fox.”

They were an item by October, when his father countermanded his mother’s decision and bought him a TransAm for his sixteenth birthday.

“Boys will be boys, Teena. And he owned up to his responsibilities. That slut can have a litter of brats for all I care, but none of them will be Mulders.” Another charming dinner conversation, courtesy of his divorced parents.

The TransAm gave him unfettered mobility and released him from the affliction of having to take the school bus each day (made even less appealing by the fact that Nicole had dropped out of school), but it didn’t get him into Michelle’s pants.

Patrician and blue blood to the core, Michelle was a vestal virgin in the church of Nice Girls Don’t, saving herself for marriage to someone of equal pedigree. He was a half-Jewish mutt by comparison, but his surfeit of charm and gifted fingers convinced Michelle to acquire a very technical definition of virginity.

By senior prom, he could play her like a Stradivarius, and teased her that their yearbook should list “Zen and the Art of Exquisite Fellatio” as her favourite book.

Still, by then he had an entrance letter to Oxford University lying on his nightstand, and it was thoughts of trans-Atlantic escape and not Michelle’s coltish thighs that kept him up nights.

Oxford was another universe. The cultural revolution taking place across Britain had not washed up on its shores, and he donned his sub-fusc like Edwardian landed gentry every morning before proceeding to lectures across the quad. If there were students getting laid, they were doing it very discretely, no doubt in the most decorous manner imaginable. He wondered if they closed their eyes and thought of Oxford.

In all honesty, he barely noticed. His brain was so stimulated that his sex drive ran a distant second, appeased by the familiar clutch and tug of his right hand. The freezing cold college showers didn’t hurt either.

Instead of going back to the States between Hilary and Trinity term, he headed to the Algarve with a cluster of first year boys from Balliol. Something about the sun and sand and copious cheap wine turned his formerly dour flatmates into rogues, and they terrorized the seashore, laughing uproariously and chasing anything in a skirt.

They were sitting at an outdoor cafe, three empty bottles of vinho tinto decorating their table, and a passionate debate about cricket was gaining amplitude.

“No no no, mate. Even if we’d played South Africa back in ‘71, we still would have gone undefeated. Tony Grieg was a masterful bowler.”

“I don’t know, Hayes. That Springbok team was prodigiously strong.”

“Bollocks. Ask Mulder. What do you say, Mulder?”

It was a public school idiosyncrasy that everyone at Oxford referred to him by his last name. After a short period of adjustment, he found he liked it. Mulder had no history. Mulder was whoever he made him to be. No-one ever wondered what had happened to Mulder’s lost sister.

Mulder also knew nothing about cricket.

“England all the way, lads.”

A chorus of loud cheers, and another bottle of wine was uncorked.

It was about this time that he noticed their waitress. She was conservatively dressed in a long black skirt and peasant blouse, with glossy black hair and eyes that reminded him of a startled deer. She leaned over him to collect their empty bottles, and breast met shoulder for a fleeting moment. That was all he needed.

That first night, the boys had insisted they leave the cafe and find some fresher mischief further down the beachfront. He left a good tip, and made sure to make eye contact before walking away. He wanted to believe she looked regretful at his departure, but it could have been relief. They were a loud bunch.

Two evenings later, they were back at their regular table, and she brought out their first bottle of wine, along with some petiscos.

“Obrigado,” he murmured, trying to impress her with his rudimentary Portuguese.

“Disponha,” she demurely replied. Things were progressing. His heart did a little hiccough.

Several hours later, his friends were ready to find a bar that was showing England’s qualifying match for the 1978 World Cup.

“You know what, guys? I’m not really in the mood for peering at a tiny grey screen made even greyer by a fog of cigarette smoke. I’m gonna beg off.”

After some cursory protests, his friends walked west and he walked east towards their hostel, before doubling back to the cafe. She was wiping their table when he approached.

He held out five escudos. “Sorry, I forgot to leave you a tip. Ahh, err, preciso de gratificação?”

She blushed and then laughed. He shrugged his shoulders, puzzled.

“You just say that you need gratification,” she tittered in her heavily accented English.

He blushed deeply, then erupted into laughter, which she echoed.

“Well, that may be true, but I really only wanted to leave you a tip. The gratification will have to wait.” He grinned his best boyish grin.

She smiled in response, and he sensed an opening.

“Mulder,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.

“Ines,” she replied, placing her delicate fingers on his palm. “Mul-dar? Is a strange name, não?”

“Well, it’s actually Fox Mulder. Fox.”

“Fucks?!!” She withdrew her hand quickly.

“No. Not fucks. Fox. Like, um, like a small wolf. Fox.”

“Ah. Raposa. Sim. But is still a strange name.” And then they both burst anew into gales of laughter.

After that hilarious introduction, he saw as much of Ines as he could. She lived outside of the town, and rode a little blue moped to work each morning, so he met her at the cafe, waking up late after the night’s revelries. He sat at a small table facing the sea, reading his textbooks for the next term and watching Ines interact with the other patrons. She had a thoughtless grace to her movements that he found captivating.

She was older than he’d assumed. Twenty-five, but still living with her parents. Unmarried, for reasons he couldn’t fathom in his innocence. If the cafe grew quiet, which it rarely did, she’d sit across from him and they’d share a plate of olives and sharp cheese and try to understand one another. After a pause in one such conversation, a cool slender foot skimmed up his right calf, tickling beneath his knee and causing his khaki pants to tent. He looked across the table at her and she answered with a slow, sleepy blink.

They met on a Tuesday. By Saturday, he didn’t know who was seducing whom.

His friends gave up on him, rolling their eyes and teasing him for “going native”, but he could read the envy in their faces as he came back to their shared hostel room later and later each night.

Portugal was a conservative country, and Ines had to live in this small, gossip-fueled town long after he was gone. They kissed in narrow alleyways. They necked behind the breakwater. When she had a rare day off, they walked hand in hand down dusty farm roads until they found an ancient oak tree and lay down in its shade.

His hands charted the exotic territory of her thighs, ass, pelvic mound, before slipping inside her underwear and teasing the moist envelope of her labia.

“Sim, Mul-dar. É tão bom. Sim. Sim.” The sound of his surname on her pretty wine-dark lips was the most beautiful song he knew.

Their last night arrived, and he watched her patiently as the cafe emptied, memorizing her for a rainy day. Finally, her work was done, and she approached his table and held out her hand. She led him through dark tangled streets, past barred windows and open doors. At the base of a steep external stairway, she lifted her finger to his lips, requesting silence. They climbed, and behind the slanted door was an austere room. A mattress and a wooden chair were the only furnishings, but the gauzy curtains billowed before an open window that faced the sea breeze.

“Is Martim’s room. The chef. He sleep with friend tonight.”

He understood at once what she’d done, and why, and he was humbled by her courage.

“Ines, I... this is wonderful. But it’s not necessary. Você não precisa fazer.”

She covered his lips with her finger once more, then cupped his crotch with her other hand.

“Precisa de gratificação,” she repeated his first words to her.

“I’m fine, Ines. You don’t need to-” She kissed him silent before whispering in his ear.

“Not you, Mul-dar. Me.”

Go to Chapter 5: Phoebe.

#my writing #x-files #wip #seventeen

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professor-stomachache · 6 years

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The Good School, ch. 1

Title: The Good School // AKA the Good Place High School AU no one asked for Chapter: 1 Summary: Eleanor Shellstrop has been plucked from her ordinary life in Phoenix, Arizona, to attend prestigious boarding school, Iverson Academy for the Gifted, thanks to her intelligence, social activism, and passion for the performing arts. Except for one thing: they’ve got the wrong forking girl. Pairings: Chidi x Eleanor

There were only three things on Eleanor’s mind: her headband was itchy, it dug into her scalp, and it was the actual worst. It was a required part of her new school uniform, since the dress code explicitly stated that all hair must be held firmly in place. What kind of rule was that? Hair must be held firmly in place? Please. The racial undertones were not lost on her.

The secretary, whose name Eleanor hadn’t bothered to remember, called from her desk with a sticky-sweet smile, “Miss Shellstrop? The headmaster will see you now.”

As she stood from the ancient chair she’d gotten comfortable in, a tall, white-haired man popped his head out of his office and smiled. Everyone loves smiling here. “Eleanor Shellstrop? It’s so wonderful to meet you.”

“Yes,” she said, shaking his hand, “it’s great to meet you too, Mr—“

“All students are welcome to call me Michael.”

“That’s…progressive of you,” she replied.

He ushered her inside his office and handed her a small water bottle and an individually-packaged sugar cookie covered in blue and gold icing — the school’s colors. “I like to encourage an open and transparent environment here amongst student and faculty. I’m sure you and your parents read through the brochure before your arrival, and I must say, I’m surprised and disappointed they weren’t able to come see you off.”

“That makes one of us,” she mumbled.

If he heard her, Michael made no comment and continued on with his spiel. “All of the main housing and academic policies will be gone over at orientation in just a few minutes, I’ll even walk you there myself. But I just wanted to review your file with you, especially because it’s so rare that we even accept students so close to the start of the school year.”

“Thank you for allowing an exception,” she interjected.

“Nonsense, Miss Shellstrop,” Michael said as he opened a folder marked with her name. “You are an exceptional student and it would have been my biggest failure had I not successfully championed your application with the rest of the school board. You had a 3.9 unweighted GPA transferring in, volunteered with your local city government, and your passion for the performing arts made you an incredible candidate and a shoo-in for our program here at Iverson Academy for the Gifted.”

“Iverson Academy for the Gifted,” she repeated, “Cool.”

“Enough about your accomplishments, I’m sure you’ve heard praise all your life, so why don’t I walk us over to the first day orientation and I can start selling Iverson to you?”

They stood together and Eleanor tugged on her sky blue plaid skirt, just one more thing about the whole situation that made her deeply uncomfortable. Michael guided her down the hallways, which were decorated with various portraits of presumably past headmasters and founding figureheads. She mused, “A lot of old white men roamed these halls.”

“Iverson Academy was once an exclusive boarding school for privileged sons of wealthy families,” Michael replied, “it’s a bit of a sore spot, understandably, but in 1975, we opened our doors to everyone.”

To everyone who could afford it. He continued, “Of course, the price tag is still hefty, but several of our alumni are kind and generous enough to help fund scholarships for those who wouldn’t get the chance to be here because of a silly thing like that. Like you.”

They arrived at a pair of huge wooden doors that looked important to Eleanor. “One question: how did you find me in my little podunk part of Phoenix?”

“Paradise Valley is only thirty minutes away,,” Michael reminded her, chuckling at her description. “At the end of every year, the school board will appoint a search committee tasked with finding students that exceed the expectations of their surroundings. Normally, I wouldn’t boast, but I was the one who found your records at Thunderbird High School.”

She didn’t know what to say. “T-thank you.”

“Nonsense, Miss Shellstrop. It is my pleasure to provide you with the opportunities you deserve. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to find you until your senior, but you’re here now.” Michael pushed the door open to reveal a grand hall, filled with students in matching uniforms, all buzzing with excitement for the new school year. “It’s time for orientation.”

It took all her strength and willpower not to roll her eyes or comment about how ridiculous it was for students in uniforms to be as cheery as they seemed to be. Michael vanished from beside her, suddenly appearing near the steps of the stage. She was on her own now, but Eleanor was used to that.

She walked towards the back of the hall, hoping to avoid the peppiest of her new pep-filled classmates. There was an empty seat next to a boy who’d already thrown his jacket off, onto the back of his chair, slouching over in a light slumber. Anyone who couldn’t even fake caring about the rules was the type of person she wanted to be a little associated with.

“Is this seat taken?”

The boy, who looked somewhere between Chinese and Filipino, opened his eyes and nodded, going back to sleep once more.

“Cool.” Eleanor sat back into her new seat, eyeing her new peers. She smoothed her skirt over her knees, noticing that all the other girls’ skirts were pressed and wrinkle-free. Is this really my new normal?

“Good morning, everyone. I hope you are all as thrilled as I am to be here today!” Michael cheered, kicking his leg up from his excitement. “As most of you recall, I was a teacher last year, but am pleased to announced that I am now Headmaster here at Iverson Academy for the Gifted.”

The hall burst into applause, most students whooping and hollering. “Thank you, thank you. To all the returning students, welcome back! I am certainly looking forward to what the new school year will teach you. This morning you have the choice to head over to your homeroom or stay here to help your new classmates acquainted to Iverson after their own orientation.”

Majority of the room stood and started to walk out, their mindless chatter acting as white noise for Eleanor as she felt herself drawn to sleep. Michael added, “Oh, there’s tea and breakfast pastries in the cafeteria as well! Help yourselves.”

A few of the teachers ushered the remaining students to move closer to the front. Eleanor wanted to push back, but decided it was in her best interest to make a decent first impression. The sleeping boy followed her with his jacket crumpled in his hands.

“You’re awake.”

He nodded.

“You don’t talk,” she stated.

“Not much,” he replied. The boy didn’t bother to continue or go back to sleep, instead sitting straight up, ready to listen to Michael’s welcome spiel.

She whispered, “I’m Eleanor Shellstrop, senior.”

“Jason Mendoza, junior.”

Eleanor tugged on her blonde hair, scratching her neck in the process, and sighed. She knew she needed to make allies soon, people to study with to help keep her grades up. The fact the walls were probably made of really expensive wood, like mahogany, was proof enough this school meant business.

“Only the brightest and most diligent,” Michael was saying, “are granted an invitation to come here. You are all here because you are the best, the true cream of the crop. So welcome to the most challenging and rewarding experience you could ever dream of. We are not just the ‘Good School’ as our neighborhood reputation claims, we are the best. Welcome to Iverson Academy.”

“Is there anyone that I would have heard of that graduated from here?” Eleanor asked as she followed Michael to her new dorm room. She quickly added, “I’ve known about Iverson’s spectacular status by just being in Phoenix, but I’ll admit, I’m not well-versed in its alumni.”

“Of course, Miss Shellstrop. As you saw in our Hall of Headmasters, this school was originally dedicated to the education of privileged, but incredibly intelligent sons. Mostly the sons of politicians and foreign diplomats. And in all honesty, that’s still true for today. Majority of our students, boys and girls, come from political backgrounds all over the world.”

“Wow,” she replied, doing her best to sound impressed. She doubted it really was the best and brightest here -- just the ones who came from the brightest families who could afford it.

“Ah yes, this is your dorm.” He handed her a small envelope, heavy in her palm, and she slipped a bronze key from it. “Yours is a single, as you were a last minute addition to the roster, and this is a co-ed floor. I hope you don’t mind that.”

She exhaled, and her shoulders relaxed. I don’t know how I would’ve made it living with a bunch of girly girls. “That’s perfectly fine.”

“Wonderful, Miss Shellstrop!”

“Why do you call students by their last names but encourage us to call you Michael?”

“I’m from a very traditional family, it’s quite the habit to break,” he replied, ushering her into her room. He hovered at the doorway and explained, “Faculty are not allowed to step into a student’s room in any circumstance except for emergencies.”

“Faculty...of the opposite gender?” The walls were a faint blue-grey with a floral pattern, and more wood paneling that matched the rest of the school. There was a large window with an exquisite view of a well-kept courtyard with a working fountain.

“Of any gender. It’s a relatively new policy.”

Eleanor dropped her two duffle bags on the floor next to her full-sized bed. They really don’t cheap out here. “That the traditionally conservative school board approved?”

“We haven’t experienced any dangerous situations without the policy; however, we felt it was better to ensure our students’ safety with a preventative policy instead of waiting for an issue to occur.”

“Excellent.”

“As this is an old building, its original use was not to house students for extended periods of time. So there are no closets or attached bathrooms. All rooms do come with wardrobes, a chest of drawers, and a bookcase for your things. As you can see, there is a desk already stocked with notebooks, binders, and every other office supply you can think of.”

“That’s impressive and generous, thank you. I didn’t bring any other than the school uniforms.” Since that was all I could afford.

“You are welcome, Miss Shellstrop.” Michael looked at his wristwatch. “Your floor advisor should be coming to greet you and take you to your first class. Here is your schedule.”

She walked over to him, uneasy about allowing him full entry to her room, and took the slip of paper to read through. Modern American Literature, British Literature, Advanced Calculus, Advanced Government, Economics 1, BioChemistry, The Philosophy of Ethics, and Woodworking. “Woodworking?”

“It was the last elective with open seats, my apologies.”

“It’s fine,” she waved him off.

“Do you find the rest of the schedule suitable? We didn’t want to overload your first semester with us.”

“This is just for one semester?” Eleanor snapped her jaw shut.

“Yes, you will be able to pick your own classes for the spring semester.”

Eleanor groaned internally, but stuck a smile on her face, hoping Michael wouldn’t notice the dead look in her eyes.

“Hello, Michael, and you must be Eleanor. I’m Tahani Al-Jamil. Oh, look at you, you are so sweet and teensy,” a leggy brunette with caramel-colored skin said, gliding into her room. The girl poked Eleanor’s nose and smiled. “Boop.”

“Oh, you booped me.” Eleanor kept the scowl off her face.

Tahani gave a clipped laugh. “Yes, I did.”

“That’s fun.”

“You two look like you are going to get along swimmingly. Any questions you have, Miss Shellstrop, should be directed to Miss Al-Jamil here. She’ll be happy to entertain you, isn’t that right?”

She reached up to clutch her necklace and gave a long sigh, like she was wishing for something else. “I simply adore entertaining.”

Michael said his goodbyes and strutted away, Eleanor listening to his footsteps grow faint. “Can I ask where that accent is from?”

“High society London. Go on and grab your things, I ought to take you for your first class.”

“Why would you leave London for bumfu-fork Arizona?” Eleanor picked up her backpack, emptying its contents, which were mostly snacks she had doubted would be available here. In this prison. She grabbed a notebook and a couple pencils from the desk - her desk - before stuffing them into her bag.

“Well, I was born in Pakistan,” Tahani replied, flipping her hair gently over her shoulder, “had some schooling in London and then Paris, before my father decided it was time to do business in the States and brought me along, leaving my mother and sister Kamilah in Paris.”

The pair of girls walked down the halls, with Eleanor struggling to keep up with Tahani’s long stride. “I noticed Eleanor that you almost swore when describing Arizona. While the description was rather precise, I do have to warn you that the teachers here do observe a more conservative outlook on language.”

“You don’t say,” she said, rolling her eyes. She couldn’t stop herself this time. Of course, she could tell that swearing wasn’t exactly welcome here, it’s why she said bumfork. Bumfork. Who was this girl?

“Now, you’ll attend 4 classes per day, excluding homeroom, and the schedule alternates. Somehow by the end of the term, it’ll all even out so you needn’t worry about that.”

“I wasn’t, but thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Tahani said, placing her hand on Eleanor’s shoulder, and ignored the blonde’s obvious recoil. “Due to orientation this morning, we’ll be skipping homeroom and here’s your first class at Iverson Academy. The Philosophy of Ethics.”

Eleanor hovered at the door, hesitant to enter, until the small Asian woman sitting at her desk looked up and called her in. The teacher had short black hair, and thin, wire-framed glasses, and smiled, “You must be Miss Eleanor Shellstrop. I’m your Ethics teacher, Jessica Yeh.”

“Ethics,” she repeated, breaking the word up into long syllables.

“It’s a senior requirement,” Jessica replied, before turning to the rest of the class. “This is one of the new transfer students, Eleanor Shellstrop. Where are you from?”

“Just down the street in Phoenix.”

“Nevertheless, welcome to Iverson. Please have a seat next to Chidi.”

A lean, athletic boy raised his hand and she did as she was instructed, dropping into the seat next to him. He had deep brown eyes, with light flecks of gold she noticed when the streaming light from the windows hit him just right, black framed glasses, and dark skin that looked soft and inviting. Eleanor shook her head and introduced herself, “Hi Cheeto, you can call me Eleanor.”

“I-it’s Chidi,” he corrected her. “Chidi Anagonye. Nice to meet you. Do you like clowns?”

She had pulled out her notebook and placed it on the desk, not even noticing the giant clown on its cover. “Oh my fu-forking god. Is everyone’s notebooks like this?”

“No, our school supplies are actually customized by the school,” he whispered. “Mine has Plato and Socrates making the Spy Vs. Spy pose. I love it.”

“Right, nerd,” she said under her breath.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything. What’s the rest of your schedule look like?”

He rattled off his list of classes, his excitement growing with each one, before ending with, “I have BioChemistry today too.”

“Perfect!” She exclaimed just a touch too loudly, drawing the attention of her peers once again. Ignoring Chidi’s side-ey, Eleanor quickly lied, “Iverson is perfect! The revelation is just happening right now. Sorry, Miss-- Jessica.”

“That’s fine, Miss Shellstrop. Please continue to focus though.” Their teacher smiled and continued going over the semester syllabus and what she expected each of them to learn by the time finals rolled around.

In a hushed voice, Eleanor asked, “Can we meet after this class? I want to make sure I’m all caught up in Biology and Chemistry. Because that’s what BioChemistry is, right?”

“Y-yes. BioChemistry is the study of chemistry within living biological organisms.”

“Right, exactly, so what do you say? Partner up?”

“Sure? Sure, I guess.”

Eleanor beamed at him and turned her attention back to Jessica,who was now giving a brief rundown on the most famous philosophers.

Five minutes into their short break between classes, Eleanor had finally stopped dragging Chidi and freed his hand from her deathgrip. He cupped his own hand, massaging lightly, and flinched at the pain. “Eleanor, what’s wrong? Is everything okay? Also, you’re really strong.”

She noticed he spoke with a faint accent. “Where are you from, Chidi?”

“I was born in Nigeria, completely accidental, apparently I couldn’t wait to get out of my mom before she got home from her business trip. So I grew up in Senegal,” he explained, sitting down on the window bench in the empty hallway. “But my dad was an esteemed ethics professor, and was asked to do speaking engagements all the time, so he took me along. I spent some time in Hong Kong and Paris, picking up a little bit of both languages, before he died.”

She sat beside him and reached for his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“It happened when I was 12, and since then, my mom and I have lived in the States. She helped out on the Obama campaign, but not publicly. Wouldn’t have helped the American part of his angle.” Their hands were still intertwined and he immediately pulled away. “How about you?”

“From Phoenix, Arizona. Dad died when I was 15, but I hadn’t seen him in 3 years since he left my mom and me. Then I got emancipated from my mom because she was an alcoholic who forgot she had a daughter still.”

“And despite all that, you got into Iverson Academy on an academic scholarship. Is it true that you worked on the Paradise Valley’s mayor’s office?”

She didn’t say anything, instead letting an awkward smile rest on her lips. Chidi smiled back and admitted, “I don’t make friends every easily, Eleanor, but I feel like I can trust you. Is that stupid?”

“No, that’s great!” She took her headband off and ran her fingers through her hair, feeling weightless. “In fact, I need you to promise me that you would never betray me. Like a friendship vow.”

“I promise you that I will never say or do anything to cause you harm.”

“Good, because I’m not whoever Michael thinks I am. I didn’t have a 3.9 unweighted GPA, I barely had a GPA. I didn’t volunteer in the mayor’s office and I’m afraid of clowns. Like I don’t even eat those delicious Mexican clown candies you see on the street for 50 cents.” She finished with jazz hands. “There’s been a big mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Paleta Payaso,” he replied, before whipping his gaze back up to her. “Wait, what?”

#the good place #the good place au #tgp fic #chidi x eleanor #cheleanor #the good place fic

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briancampbell0706 · 7 months

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architectnews · 3 years

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Daab Design converts art dealer's vault into tranquil London basement flat

London architecture studio Daab Design has turned a former art storage vault in Marylebone, London, into a two-bedroom apartment full of Georgian period features that were restored with the help of an archaeologist.

Before the renovation began, the Grade II-listed basement flat was boarded up for decades and featured a dark, cramped interior.

"The flat had suffered from years of unsympathetic alterations – poor design decisions, neglect, cheap overlaid materials and clumsy partitioning, which distorted and confused the layout," Daab Design explained.

Daab Design restores period features such as Georgian stone courtyards (above) and fireplaces (top image)

The studio stripped back more recent additions such as vinyl flooring, peeling paint and roofing over the two courtyards to reveal the building's original features and generous proportions.

"Much of the flat was boarded up in an effort to protect the strong room, which had been used as a vault by an art dealer," said Daab Design co-founder Anais Blehaut.

"The benefit of this was that the partitions and vinyl were installed straight on top of original features and actually covered and preserved them over time. So what we thought was lost at first glance was waiting to be found."

A petrol green glass pendant lamp hangs in the bedroom

The studio rearranged the floor plan to create a clean, simple and functional layout adapted for modern living.

From the street, stairs lead down to a recovered Georgian stone courtyard that serves as the entry to the apartment while another spacious courtyard bookends the property at the back.

The vault door was moved to the guest studio

Two bedrooms are located at the front near the entrance while a bathroom and open plan living space and kitchen occupy the rear.

The kitchen nook is painted in muted blue and stands in what remains of the art dealer's concrete strong room.

It now leads to a wine cellar

"It took contractors 10 days to demolish a portion of the vault's 500-millimetre-thick concrete walls and six people to move the heavy steel door across the courtyard to its new home as the door of the wine cellar," Daab Design recalled.

This is located in a generous guest studio beyond the rear courtyard, which also features a bathroom, utility room and play area, all painted in olive green.

The firm enlisted an archaeologist and a team of structural engineers to go through an "almost surgical" process of recording, identifying and protecting the apartment's heritage features, including windows, wooden doors, architraves, York stone flooring and an original outdoor larder.

"Upgrading the floors, repairing the walls and installing new services was a complex and intricate effort in conserving the period detailing," said the studio.

Glazed terracotta tiles were used to finish the bathroom

Daab Design chose to finish the walls in various shades of green and white to offset the original York stone flooring that is revealed in sections throughout the space.

Green was also used on contemporary additions such as velvet curtains and glazed terracotta bathroom tiles to create the impression of a leafy garden reflecting green-tinged light into the flat.

Two bedrooms are located near the entrance

Blehaut, who founded the studio in 2014 alongside Dennis Austin, explained that the studio wanted to seamlessly blend the flat's restored historical features with contemporary interventions and modern technology.

These include "invisible" retrofitted services like underfloor heating, LED cove lighting, USB sockets in recessed floor boxes and flush walk-in showers that help to "reveal the simplicity of the space".

Original Georgian doors were restored

Elsewhere in London, Holland Harvey has revamped a row of heritage-listed Georgian townhouses to create a hotel with relaxed, Scandi-inspired interiors.

Photography is by Jim Stephenson.

The post Daab Design converts art dealer's vault into tranquil London basement flat appeared first on Dezeen.

#Architecture – Dezeen

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thesobouquetme · 4 years

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woodparquetfloortilesplxz44-blog · 5 years

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Fascination About Wood Parquet

Picture: istockphoto.com When it concerns specify flooring, parquet rules supreme. Constructed from little pieces of wood fitted together in geometric patterns, parquet flooring adds a significant design element to any room. In the United States, parquet reached its popularity height in the 1960s, and afterwards, as with lots of boom patterns, need reduced.

7 Easy Facts About Wood Flooring Manufacturers Described

So maintain reviewing to discover the parquet benefits and drawbacks, prices, setup, as well as maintenance to decide if this bold statement underfoot is ideal for you. With care, your parquet floor must preserve its appeal for 10 to 15 years, or much longer. Over time, however, even one of the most clean timber floor can start to look a little dull, specifically in high-traffic locations.

Refinishing a parquet floor can be difficult because getting rid of the old surface involves sanding, and also wood ought to always be fined sand with the instructions of its grain to stop cross-grain marks. Because a parquet floor features pieces of timber grain running in different instructions, eliminating the old coating without damaging the surface area of the wood underneath needs painstaking treatment.

Flooring product is that which covers the flooring structure and creates the flooring surface. Parquet floor covering is comprised of blocks of smaller items integrated onto a floor tile sized mesh. You will certainly discover that the cost to install typical wood parquet floor covering depends upon product as well as coating grade, area, preparation and also unique needs, and labor rate.

Replace flooring: of a 2,500 sq.ft. residence with dividers as well as 500 straight feet of wall; remove as well as dispose existing floor covering; include various product and also waste. Item System Cost Quantity Line Price New flooring: install 2,500 sq.ft. of chestnut ended up oak parquet (5/16" x 13" x 12" blocks) flooring and also 500 straight feet of hardwood baseboard.

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Not known Details About Wooden Floorboards

2,625 $9,295 Upgrade: extra cost to set up finished cherry or walnut wood parquet floor covering (5/16" x 13" x 13" blocks) and wood baseboard. $1.60 per sq.ft. 2,625 $4,190 Elimination: get rid of 2,500 sq.ft. of carpet and underlayment, plan for transport; strip to wood floor. $0.01 per sq.ft. 2,500 $26 Disposal: transport as well as non-hazardous dump charges.

2,500 $13,961 + Labor Cost (get rid of and also dispose) $32 per hr 16 $512 + Labor Price (flooring) $36 per hr 125 $4,500 Total Expense $7.59 per sq.ft. 2,500 $18,973 Prep work is limited to an intact flooring in excellent condition to be changed. These costs are for solution in the immediate solution location of the supplier.

Examine out our overview if you need a finance for your house improvement job . This job is ideal for DIY with typical collection of tools and also skills. Partial DIY is likewise feasible by handling the job of eliminate as well as dispose, leaving the installment to an expert. The workplace must be devoid of all furniture and other things.

By Genetics as well as Katie Hamilton When you won't choose anything less than a hardwood floor, think about utilizing prefinished parquet flooring ceramic tiles. The complicated herringbone patterns are offered in light and dark oak and supply the appeal of actual timber. Parquet tiles are the favored floor covering material in halls and also entrance halls as well as a great option for a household space or den.

A flooring service provider will bill $1,105 to install prefinished oak parquet flooring ceramic tiles in a 10-by-12-foot space, assuming the subfloor is audio and level. That consists of labor and also material. You can purchase the tiles as well as glue for $580 and also lay the floor on your own, http://query.nytimes.com/search/sitesearch/?action=click&contentCollection&region=TopBar&WT.nav=searchWidget&module=SearchSubmit&pgtype=Homepage#/parquet flooring conserving 47 percent. DIY Trouble Alert Don't underestimate the time and also job called for to get rid of the existing product.

Some Of Cheap Parquet Flooring

Budget more money and time if a brand-new subfloor or repair as well as leveling is required. To lay the ceramic tiles figure concerning 2 days of work, which will consist of preparing the subfloor, getting rid of the flooring trim, outlining the floor tiles and also cutting and also suitable the tiles. Do not want to https://www.getparket.co.il/ פרקט לבן do the job? Click Residence Consultant, a totally free online reference solution that attaches house owners with prescreened regional floor covering service providers.

Make use of a lever as well as putty knife with a hammer to delicately, however securely draw the molding far from the wall surface. Beware so you can recycle it after the floor installation. Very carefully get rid of the nails by hammering them out of the molding from the behind so the nail appears the front.

Not known Details About Modern Parquet Flooring

For instance, "window wall, facility area" You'll require standard carpentry as well as measuring devices and also a circular saw. If you do not have kneepads, get some and save your sorry shins. For additional information Hadley Court includes A Guide to Parquet Wood Floor Patterns. Now you know the typical price to install a parquet floor, that includes the labor and material, as well as what's included, so you can choose to do it on your own or employ a contractor.

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jodybouchard9 · 5 years

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How Much Do Plantation Shutters Cost, and How Do They Pay Off?

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Plantation shutters—window blinds with wide wooden louvers or slats—may hail from the South, but they’re everywhere these days, because they make a dramatic window decor statement without looking flashy. They look elegant from a home’s interior and exterior, and they can lend a decidedly upscale look to your windows. This all might have you wondering: How much do plantation shutters cost?

Granted, as far as window treatments go, they don’t come cheap on the spectrum of blinds.

“Plantation shutters can be a bit pricier than other shutter styles, like board and batten or flat panel,” acknowledges Charlie Capps, director of home and garden for Hooks & Lattice.

According to Home Advisor, homeowners typically spend a total of around $2,000 on plantation shutters for the windows of their home. That said, the price will hinge greatly on the material and size you’re getting. Wood is the most common material, but also more expensive. Composite or faux wood and even vinyl shutters can be more affordable (they’re also more resistant to humidity and, in some cases, lighter).

Bottom line: At the cheapest end of the budget, you can pick up prefabricated shutters at most major hardware stores for as little as $50 a set, and give your windows a decent little upgrade.

For long-lasting, custom wood shutters, you’re better off working with a specialty store. Expect to spend $20 to $45 per square foot for a custom job. Wood shutters will run you $200 to $350 per window, while composite shutters cost $80 to $200.

So why would anyone cough up so much cash for plantation shutters anyway? Is a window treatment really worth that much?

We’re glad you asked!

Photo by Acadia Shutters & Blinds, Inc.

Benefits of plantation shutters

Plantation shutters—also called California shutters because of their recent surge in popularity on home windows in the West—are perennial favorites around the U.S. for a variety of reasons:

Energy conservation: Possibly the greatest advantage of plantation shutters is how those wide, heavy louvers block out anything from the outdoors you don’t want coming in. That’s most often sunlight (so you can sleep), heat (so your home can stay cool), or the cold (in colder climates).

Privacy: Adjusted to the right angle with the tilt bar, plantation shutters can allow you a good view of the outdoors while preventing people outside from seeing into your home. Shutting them all the way gives you total privacy.

Durability: Blinds work on the same principle as plantation shutters, but are flimsy—they can bend and break, and generally don’t look all that stately. Plantation shutters, whether wood or composite—are the far sturdier option, lasting for years, and much easier to dust and clean. Although the louvers are typically 2½ to 3½ inches wide, they can be found as wide as 5 inches. The wider the louvers, the greater the durability and energy-conserving powers—and the higher the price.

Photo by Frederick + Frederick Architects

DIY or pay for installation?

Plantation shutters are usually installed indoors rather than outdoors. If you pay to have them professionally installed, it will run you about $100 an hour, but it may be worth it, because they can be harder to hang than traditional ones.

“Plantation shutters require an anchor, and knowledge of the capacity of the window treatment and the shutter,” says Taylor Spellman, New York–based interior designer and co-host of Bravo’s “Yours, Mine or Ours.” “So professional may be the way to go here.”

In other words: Shutters are an investment, so don’t make this your latest Pinterest crafting project. Whether you go DIY or hire out, here’s Spellman’s biggest tip: “As my grandfather says, ‘measure twice, cut once.’ Pay close attention to all dimensions of the windows you are purchasing them for, accounting also for shrinking and expanding due to moisture and temperature.”

Get the help of professionals at the store where you buy your shutters, and you’ll enjoy the cool, chic effects of your shutters for years.

The post How Much Do Plantation Shutters Cost, and How Do They Pay Off? appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

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briancampbell0706 · 8 months

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The Role of Timber Conservation Windows in Sustainable Architecture ?

Timber conservation windows are becoming a hallmark of sustainable architecture, offering a blend of classic aesthetics and eco-friendly functionality. As the demand for environmentally conscious building practices grows, these windows play a crucial role in preserving the charm of historic structures while contributing to sustainable design. Here’s a closer look at their significance in modern construction.

1. Classic Design with Modern Sustainability: Timber conservation windows beautifully marry classic design with modern sustainability. Crafted from high-quality wood, these windows maintain the architectural authenticity of historic buildings while meeting contemporary environmental standards.

2. Affordability and Accessibility: Architects and homeowners seeking affordable and accessible options for conservation windows find timber to be a versatile and cost-effective material. The affordability of timber conservation windows makes sustainable choices within reach for a broader audience.

3. Natural Insulation Properties: Timber inherently possesses excellent insulation properties, contributing to energy efficiency in buildings. Conservation windows made from timber help regulate indoor temperatures, reducing the reliance on heating and cooling systems. This natural insulation aids in energy conservation and cost savings.

4. Softwood and Hardwood Options: Timber conservation windows offer a choice between softwood and hardwood options. Softwood, such as pine, is popular for its affordability and versatility. Hardwood, like oak or mahogany, adds a touch of luxury and durability. The availability of these options allows for customization based on specific aesthetic and functional requirements.

5. Longevity and Durability: Timber, when properly treated and maintained, exhibits impressive longevity and durability. Conservation windows made from quality timber can withstand the test of time, ensuring that the architectural heritage of a building remains intact for generations.

6. Versatility in Design: Timber conservation windows provide architects and designers with versatility in design. Whether replicating historic window styles or creating contemporary adaptations, timber allows for intricate detailing and customization, adding character to the building façade.

7. Environmental Conservation: Opting for timber conservation windows aligns with broader environmental conservation goals. Timber is a renewable resource, and responsible forestry practices contribute to the overall health of ecosystems. Choosing timber over less sustainable materials supports forest management initiatives and reduces the carbon footprint of construction projects.

8. Conservation of Cultural Heritage: Timber conservation windows play a vital role in preserving the cultural heritage of buildings. Whether restoring a historic property or incorporating conservation windows into new designs, timber allows for a seamless blend of tradition and innovation.

In conclusion, timber conservation windows stand as a testament to the harmonious coexistence of architectural heritage and sustainable practices. By choosing timber, architects and homeowners make a conscious decision to embrace eco-friendly solutions without compromising on design, affordability, or performance.

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happyhomesworld-blog · 5 years

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How To Create Modern Victorian Interiors?

A room full of sumptuous antiques and high-end modern chairs is a perfect mix to create the modern Victorian style.

Owning a Victorian house full of personality sounds dreamy until you move and you discover that ancient antiquity flows throughout the house, including cables, roofs, and windows.

Well, sometimes it’s not all that simple. The renovation of a Victorian house is not only expensive in terms of time and money but before modernizing a historic home, it may also be necessary to jump through the circles of historical and conservation societies.

Despite all the obstacles, the intrigue of owning an old Victorian house is still strong for some. We can understand why, when these marvelous houses are so full of character and artisan qualities that they are hard to find in most modern houses.

Apart from the expensive remodeling, how can we incorporate modern interiors into our ancient home? Or on the other hand, how can we take our modern home and decorate it with a touch of Victorian charm.

Modern knit design with a Victorian touch can be made – in any home.

It’s all about the mix of modern style with Victorian-style. Some might call this eclectic, but we prefer to call this mixture, Modern Victorian. In reality, it only makes sense that this style has evolved. Most people who own a Victorian home want a small sense of modern design in their home, and those who do not own a Victorian crave the Victorian quality and character that seems hard to find nowadays. The creation of a modern Victorian interior can be achieved by carefully inserting the two styles. Emphasize the word, carefully: you don’t want a messy dough that makes your house look like it is decorated by a group of your grandmother’s castles, mixed with some modern pieces of furniture from the chain of stores.

Check out some of the Victorian Concepts here.

Let’s look at examples of a perfect blend that helps create a modern Victorian interior:

Pair an antique wooden table with ultra-modern chairs, such as acrylic or steel chairs.

Reupholster an old Victorian style sofa with modern chevron fabric. Or reupholster a very modern chair in a Victorian-style fabric like damask, floral or tapestry.

Reshape your grandmother’s old dining table by simply repotting the chair cushions with a bold graphic print.

Paint an old wardrobe a bold black, elegant or crisp white (yes, this thought makes some lovers of the ancients shudder).

These perfect blends create a true style statement that says, “I like modern design, but I also like the curves and quality of Victorian antiques.

Add the artisan character to your home.

This article promised design ideas that didn’t require heavy renovations, so in line with this promise we won’t tell you about crown moldings, nut tracks, wall paneling, frames and wall panels installed at home to create a Victorian character (but all of these would help if you want to do some remodeling). The Victorians were very much in love with richly carved wooden furniture made of mahogany, walnut, and oak. Everything was handmade, hand-carved and well done. Nothing was cheap; the houses were meant to show your wealth through all the wonderful high-quality objects that filled it.

Here are great ideas for adding a handcrafted character to your home:

Add pieces of wood carved wherever possible – not only in furniture but in frames for mirrors, lamps, and frames.

Buy high-quality furniture. Even if you’re mixing modern furniture in your Victorian home, make sure it’s the best quality you can afford. Low-cost handmade furniture can ruin the aesthetics.

Add a fireplace. You can find old cloaks at many flea markets or buy a new electric fireplace in the style of an old wood-fired oven.

Save the old architecture and reuse it. Old windows, finishes and doors can be found online and used throughout the modern home, adding a Victorian atmosphere.

Add marble. Whether you find a marble table or a carved marble statue, adding this wonderfully rich element promotes the high-quality aesthetics that Victorian homes boast.

Color-themed rooms

Those who lived in the Victorian period were not afraid of the color of the paint. There were no white walls in this period of opulence and decadence. Colors rich in green, golden brown, red and blue were very popular.

Victorian colors were a bit dusty in nature compared to our modern and bright colors, but colors were used everywhere (ask your local paint store if they have a colored line). Sometimes the most daring colors were used to indicate a room of great importance like the dining room or the library, while the less bold colors were used in rooms like the kitchen. In any case, the color was everywhere and every room had a new dramatic color compared to a nearby room.

This color combination is easier to make in an old Victorian house divided into numerous tiny rooms, compared to our modern open-plan houses

Take a look at some ways to add Victorian color to any style of home:

If you have a modern open plan, think of painting the individual accent walls to add Victorian drama to your home.

If you live in a Victorian house, then take advantage of all those small rooms and paint them all in a different shade.

On the other hand, if you own a Victorian house that you want to modernize a bit, consider painting everything warm white. You can always add a Victorian touch through accessories, after all, the mixture of old and new is the main point of Victorian modern design.

If the bold paint scares you simply, then consider adding colors through accessories, window treatments and fabrics, abandoning the bold walls for beige walls.

The deep, dusty blue-gray walls covered in white trim are a fine example of Victorian color. Still, black and white furniture is very modern.

Don’t forget the details

Victorian times were full of detailed decorations. Everything was in excess: the houses were full of decorated furniture, fabrics, ornaments and paintings.

When decorating your modern Victorian home, moderation can be used sparingly. Floors can be layered with Persian-style carpets, walls can be covered with ornate oil paintings and windows can be finished in sumptuous silks.

However, you still want a modern vibe, right?

Modern interiors are just the opposite; they are angular, sharp and sober.

How can you create the best of both design worlds?

Here are some ways to create a modern look with a modern twist:

Feel free to focus on the details in your modern Victorian-style home, but use a little more restraint than Victorian-era hosts. Layer your decorative elements just enough to make the room cozy, not covered from floor to ceiling, as some did then.

Add romance with fresh flowers or small touches of floral fabrics in the cushions. A floral cushion placed on a modern chair can offer a modern Victorian touch.

Add floor-to-ceiling curtains in a Victorian draped style, but use a modern graphic print.

Match your modern cork or tile floors with a Persian rug

Show your collection of antique porcelain in a modern lined piece of furniture, or on a modern steel table.

This beautiful room is perfectly layered. Not too little, not too much. Image source: Amory Brown As you can see, creating a contemporary interior that matches the Victorian era can be difficult. It takes a careful eye to mix these two styles and get a result that looks perfect, instead of a crazy puzzle that doesn’t match perfectly. Add the puzzle pieces slowly to make sure they fit together well. Start by mixing your modern and Victorian furnishings in a room, take a step back, and see what works together. Maybe you need to reupholster an older piece with modern fabric, or maybe you need to paint the walls in a bold color. Live with the two styles together to get an idea of what works for you. In the end, you’ll have the perfect mix of old and new, creating your modern Victorian home.

by Happyhomes - interior designer in Kalyan Nagar look out our fantastic interior designing in Bangalore

#interior designig #home interiors #affordable interiors #residential #kalyan nagar #bangalore #victorian interior designing #interior decorators

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