#drink water for burr

[valend]

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

[homemadehorrors]

Hmph.

A custom gold burr who's judging you for not drinking enough water and taking a stretch break.

[empirearchives]

Napoleon and Water

Excerpt from the book Aaron Burr in Exile: A Pariah in Paris, 1810-1811, by Jane Merrill and John Endicott

Aaron Burr lived in Paris for 15 months, and this book goes into detail about those years living under Napoleon’s rule. This part focuses on Napoleon’s water related reforms.

———

Napoleon’s fountains gave drinking water to the population, that is, children drank water, not beer. The water was free, not purchased. And the apartment would have had a separate water closet equipped with squat toilets (adopted from the Turks) and a bucket to wash it after use. Some restaurants and cafes had W.C.s, even one for ladies and one for gents. These were hooked into the sewer system that branched under each important street.

Napoleon merits points for delivering fresh water to Paris. If serving Paris with water from the d'Ourcq River by canals was not be a consummate success, Paris gained 40 new fountains, and the emperor commanded that fountains run all day (instead of a few limited hours) and that the water be free of charge.

Perhaps the most laudable of Napoleon’s policies were utilitarian city works, especially bringing clean water and sanitation to Paris. The improvements to infrastructure included new quays to prevent floods, new gutters and pavement, new aqueducts and fountains, and relocating cemeteries and slaughterhouses to the outskirts of the city. This was also a way of keeping up employment. An Austrian aristocrat in town during Napoleon’s wedding to Marie-Louise wrote his mother, in Vienna: “Nothing can give an idea of the immense projects undertaken simultaneously in Paris. The incoherence of it is incredible; one cannot imagine that the life of a single man would be enough to finish them.”

It was a tall order. Previous rulers had been aware of the problems and one big engineering initiative, a failed marvel, had been the waterworks at Marly, located on the banks of the Seine about seven miles from Paris. Louis XIV had it constructed to pump water from the river to his chateaux of Versailles and Marly. This was the machine marvel of its age, with 250 pumps that forced river water up a 500-foot rise to an aqueduct, and it was a sight Burr mentions going to see. By 1817 the “Marly machine” had deteriorated because it was made of wood, and the waterworks were abandoned.

Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve, the prominent 19th century literary critic, wrote that there had been “ten years of anarchy, sedition and laxity, during which no useful work had been undertaken, not a street had been cleaned, not a residence repaired nothing improved or cleansed.” Postrevolutionary Paris was at a nadir in terms of both the inadequate, disease-ridden water supply and the filthy streets, which were basically open sewers, deep with black mud and refuse.

“Napoleon,” writes Alistair Horne, “was obsessed by the water of Paris, and everything to do with it.”

Parisians had mostly been getting their water directly from the Seine or lining up at the scant pay fountains. In 1806, nineteen new wells for fountains were dug that flowed day and night and were free. Napoleon had a canal built 60 miles from the River Ourcq, ordering 500 men to dig it, while still a consul in 1801. It brought water to the Bassin de la Villette, opening in 1808. Some doubted the wisdom of having such an abundance of water—an oriental luxury that might incur moral decay. Now the supply of water for firefighting was also much improved. The canal had light boats, as Napoleon tried to make back some of the huge expenditure by licensing navigation, and a circular aqueduct from which underground conduits went to the central city. In 1810, there were still many water porters wheeling barrels through the city.

Now Napoleon attacked the problem of the Seine as a catchall for pollution. Parisians were so used to it that men swam naked in the river and a contemporary guidebook advised merely that the water of the Seine had no ill effects on foreigners so long as they drank it mixed with wine or a drop of vinegar. Thus houses on bridges were demolished and an immense push began to clean and modernize the city sewers.

As this book is about Aaron Burr, here is section about Burr taking inspiration by a new water related invention during his time in Paris:

Remarkably for someone who was very aware of his health, he never complained of the water. He did, however, take an interest in an invention to make it easier to dig a well. When the inventor of a process to make vinegar from the sap of any tree was not in his shop, Burr and a friend, “Crede”, went to see another invention: “We went then to see Mons. Cagniard, and his new invention of raising water and performing any mechanical operation. His apparatus is a screw of Archimedes turned the reverse, air, water, and quick silver. Cagniard was abroad; but we saw a model, and worked it, and got the report of a committee of the Institute on the subject. If the thing performs what is said I will apply it to give water to Charleston.”

[Bold italics for quotations by me]

[milk5]

THE MILK5 COFFEE GUIDE VOL. 1

REMOVE #BADBEANS FROM YOUR LIFE FOREVER

If you are a #TrueBlueCoffeeHead and subsisting on supermarket beans and/or frequent visits to big chains like Starbucks, PLEASE help yourself (and your local community, the environment, coffee workers, etc) and buy a pour over filter and freshly roasted, quality beans from a local roaster. Explicitly seek out Fairtrade Organic/Smithsonian Bird Friendly certified beans if possible. The taste of shade-grown coffee is incredibly flavorful AND you can be certain that your beans aren't the product of yucky pesticides, actual slave labor, and the annihilation of millions of acres of rainforest.

To start with what you need, a goose-neck kettle and pour over carafe are good purchases, but a suitably sized mason jar and regular kettle still work on a budget. Learning how to make a great pour over will raise your home coffee game to professional standards without needing to spend literal thousands of dollars on a real grinder/steamer/espresso machine setup -- if you're able to buy all of these items new for less than a thousand dollars, you're going to be down a few hundos in exchange for some pretty shitty machines. Regardless, a pour over setup with good beans will pay for itself VERY rapidly, assuming it replaces frequent Starbucks visits or whatever other chain you were going to. If you frequent a LOCALLY OWNED coffee shop that you like, keep going! You're an important part of the ecosystem.

What about grinding the beans? Should I get pre-ground beans? Would a cheapo blender-like blade grinder work?

NEVER touch a blade grinder again. It doesn't matter as much if you have #BadBeans, but if you have good beans, ALWAYS use a grinder with a burr; blade grinders just chop up your beans randomly into particles of massively varying sizes, leading to simultaneous over-extraction and under-extraction, generally leading to wildly inconsistent flavors and low repeatability. Burrs will always grind the beans into uniform particles and ensure that you're always (more or less, every cup is different to an extent) getting a consistent flavor. Don't buy a burr grinder -- just bring your beans to a local coffee shop, buy a drink, tip well, and ask the barista if they could grind the beans for you when you can clearly tell that they aren't busy. I have NEVER been refused, just go to a place with less sour employees if they won't help you out. Specify the coarseness that you'd like; smaller grounds have a greater surface area, so they're extracted to a greater extent, resulting in a more intense flavor; coarse grounds are the inverse. Lots of people recommend medium-coarse for pour overs (about 80% coarse 20% fine), but I prefer the stronger flavor of medium/drip (dead middle, 50% coarse 50% fine). It's also better to grind your beans periodically, as freshly-ground beans will taste better, but it's fine to have it pre-ground or ground all at once if you aren't able to easily make coffee shop trips every week or two. As far as roasts go, there's an entire gradient for you to explore -- not just the few that I list here; light roasts have a more sour, fruitier flavor, medium roasts are well rounded, and dark roasts are rich and smokey. Medium-dark is my personal favorite.

Experiment!!! It's all about your own taste, after all.

How do I make a good pour over?

Again, it depends on your taste. My go-to is a vigorous fourth-cup of grounds to 300ml of water; this is easily on the stronger end, but it's what works for me. More common ratios are usually weighed out on a kitchen scale, so consider picking one up if you don't already have one. Document your process until you get to your favorite! I always stop the kettle a little before it gets to its terminal temperature, then pour just enough water onto the grounds to let it bloom -- wait for one minute, and then start pouring a small-ish portion of the water onto the grounds every 20 seconds (this is where my own technique varies the most, it usually takes between 3-4 minutes to finish since I'm not pouring standard amounts; some people DO measure their pours for even greater consistency). Use the stopwatch on your phone, it's much better than keeping track in your head. Make sure to distribute the water evenly over the grounds, particularly making sure to wash the grounds off the sides every pour. When I'm finished, I like to immediately take a sip to see if a splash of milk or half-and-half would help or hurt the cup -- I think a very good cup of coffee can easily stand on its own without anything else, but additives can absolutely help depending on your personal preferences. Just be sure to taste the black coffee before you add anything.

What if I like the syrupy sweet drinks? What about iced coffee?

From my experience working at/visiting coffee shops, Monin is the most common syrup brand I see at local places. As far as iced coffee goes, coldbrew would be probably be the superior option -- it's also pretty easy to make at your home. I'm not going to be writing a guide for coldbrew any time soon, so you're out of luck there. I also never steam my milk if I'm doing a pour over, so I can't really point you to an inexpensive way to do that. Just know that the cheap handheld stick-frothers do not do the same thing as an actual steamer.

What was that about certifications?

Fairtrade is a pretty notable certification for food items produced in areas that have a history for being exploited (so pretty much the bulk of the global south), it can get very complex -- read more about it here. The goal is to ensure that the workers and communities involved in the production of the product receive fair, livable wages, that labor conditions are safe and reasonable, and that the decisions around the production of the product are made by those directly involved in the labor. FTO refers to Fairtrade Organic, which just means that it meets the standards of both Fairtrade AND organic production -- I'm not exactly sure if the organic standards are based on where the coffee is sold, produced, or both, but regardless, it's still a bonus; organic coffee will almost ALWAYS be shade-grown, which is the way that coffee grows naturally. Since coffee is an understory tree in nature, shade-grown coffee is produced more slowly and under a canopy and thus does not require the forest to be damaged or destroyed to grow; however, not all organic coffee will necessarily take place in a completely natural, untouched rain forest setting. Industrial non-organic coffee is most often produced under direct sun in gigantic clear-cut monocrop rows and usually with massive usage of potentially harmful inputs like, such as various pesticides and fertilizers. Direct sun coffee grows faster, but it has a distinctly different taste and is easily the most damaging method of coffee production to both the environment and the local communities. Smithsonian Bird-Friendly is the most rigorous certification for coffee in particular; FTO is more or less a pre-requisite to achieve SBF. Coffee likes to grow in tropical, equatorial environments -- these environments are also the areas of the greatest bird diversity in the world (and, really, biodiversity in general) and the destination for most migratory birds during the winter. The coffee industry has destroyed literal millions of acres of rain forest across the world, which has resulted in the death of billions of birds worldwide over the past 50 years. SBF guarantees the FTO criteria PLUS the additional criteria that the coffee must be produced in forests that are more-or-less in their natural state with thriving diversity of endemic species of flora and fauna. It's harder to find SBF-certified coffee than FT(O)-certified coffee, but the Smithsonian website has a handy vendor locator here. I'm not confident that it works beyond U.S. vendors, so I apologize to anyone interested abroad. Note that some of these certifications may be exclusive to particular continents; I need to do more research on the subject, but the tropical forests around the world vary wildly -- this adds a level of complexity to the goals and criteria of a particular certification. I am confident that all of the certifications that I have mentioned apply to South and Central America (and most likely the Caribbean), so keep that in mind. Also, watch out for phony certifications; big corporations frequently buy out existing certification organizations and/or create new green-sounding organizations to fool well-meaning consumers.

Where should my brand new beans come from?

Like wine, the exact qualities of a bean depend on its terroir, or the specific methods and geographic factors involved in its growth. However, some countries have trends in how the coffee is generally grown; some counties will practice shade-growing more than others and some countries will practice direct-sun industrial methods more than others. As a rule of thumb, Arabica beans are mostly grown in shade or partial shade, while Robusta is generally grown in direct sun. Defer to certifications if applicable.

The following areas primarily practice shade-growing:

Mexico

El Salvador

Peru

Panama

Nicaragua

Guatemala

Cuba

Timor

New Guinea

Ethiopia

Burundi

Rwanda

Tanzania

Zambia (*)

Zimbabwe (*)

Papua New Guinea

Sulawesi

Timor + East Timor

India

The following areas primarily practice direct-sun growing:

Colombia

Brazil

Costa Rica

Hawaii

Yemen

Kenya

Angola

Benin

Central African Republic

Congo

Gabon

Ghana

Guinea

Equatorial Guinea

Ivory Coast

Liberia

Nigeria

Sierra Leone

Togo

Cameroon

Madagascar

Malawi (**)

Democratic Republic of the Congo

Sumatra (***)

Java

Vietnam

China

Jamaica

Again, this is just a rule of thumb; there are exceptions to both and I'm sure that I've left out several production areas. Most of this information comes from the blog Coffee and Conservation, written by ornithologist Julie Craves. I've only tried a very small percentage of these origins; so far, my favorites are Sumatran (Arabica, of course) and Peruvian.

*The source that I got this information from mentioned that some avoid Zambian and Zimbabwean coffee due to concerns of it helping fund violent conflict in the area; this particular article, however, is from 2006 and may be wildly out of date. I couldn't find much more info on this topic when I searched elsewhere.

**They primarily produce Arabica with organic methods, despite the sunny conditions.

***Sumatra is likely the most notable coffee-growing island in Asia; while the majority is Robusta grown on plantations that have deforested a horrifyingly large percentage of the island, the Arabica grown in the north is well-known for its far healthier growing conditions (shade + organic, usually) and extremely distinct flavor.

Volume 2?

I may eventually add on to this post, most likely with a Turkish coffee guide coming next. I used to make Turkish coffee quite frequently, but I would need to dig up my old favorite recipe and cezve first. French press and coldbrew stuff will be in the more distant future if at all.

If any of this info looks wrong, let me know and I'll edit the post :-)

Enjoy your cup!!!!

[sreegs]

if you absolutely do not like coffee and you're sure of this, keep scrolling this post isn't for you. if you drink coffee and want better coffee, or you find that you only like some types of coffee, i have some advice for you.

coffee snobs do get one thing right: a burr grinder and keeping your coffee as whole beans ups your home brew game to the next level. if you brew at home, no matter what style, get a burr grinder. and get an airtight (doesnt have to be vacuum sealed, just airtight), opaque container to keep your whole beans at room temperature.

furthermore, if you like coffee but find that some are too bitter, stop buying dark roast. look at the package and find ones labeled "medium" or "light" roast. dark roast coffee is intended for espresso and people who are miserable. or maybe they just like the taste of burned beans, who knows.

lastly, measure your coffee by weight, not by scoop. beans and grounds have different densities so volumetric measurement will vary your daily cuppa coffee like wild. a scale that does grams is like $10 and you should have one in your kitchen anyways. i usually do 25 grams of coffee per 420 grams of water. because it's easy to remember and its the amount i like.

switching from a pre-ground can of dark roast to a fresh-ground, weighed portion of medium or light roast will feel like you just opened your own coffee shop. the burr grinder is the most expensive part but it's a one-time investment (barring any shitty grinders, read reviews carefully). medium and light roast beans are more expensive than folgers or what have you but not by much. the leap in quality is so much more than the price, though.

there's a million other variables that go into a good cup of cawffee but those could fill a library. some are worth tweaking, others dont make a difference, but fresh ground beans and the roast you choose is absolutely the foundation for a nice cup of joe

[eudaimonia83]

@cursebrkr posted about Elain giving Lucien a Solstice present and I was like, well hell, I’ve got a fic for that 🥰

A tiny but important piece of background: Elain recently read in a reference book about hyraeths, light-butterflies of the Autumn and Summer courts who migrate across the border and are tended by air sprites in their mating groves.

Enjoy! 😁

——————————

Elain blinked, and the last of the darkness slid away. Before her was the erstwhile prince of Autumn, his hair braided and smoothly caught back at the nape of his neck, a bright blue coat with subtle gold threading outlining his broad shoulders. Even dressed relatively modestly, he gleamed, all color and light, all mischief and elegant trickery. So Fae. Even now it sent ripples up her spine, sliding along the knife edge between fear of him and trust in him. His golden eye glinted as he returned Feyre’s smile. “I wouldn’t miss your birthday for all the stars in Velaris,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “Not that even you could give those away.”

“Don’t put it past me,” Feyre winked at him.

Lucien turned to Elain, whose voice was as firmly caught in her throat as a burr stuck in a glove. “Good evening, Lady,” he said, with a slight bow. She swallowed, and nodded.

His good eye narrowed, ever so slightly, taking her in at a quick glance. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, swinging his eyes back to Feyre, and smiling disarmingly. “The pair of you aren’t doing the party any favors sitting here without partaking.”

Feyre protested, laughing, but Lucien cocked his head and stared at her in mock accusation until she relented with a roll of her eyes. “Very well then. A half glass of the gold wine.”

He moved off toward the bar cart with a smooth stride. Feyre’s gaze shifted to Elain, whose hands were clenched tightly in her lap. What had he seen?

Feyre leaned in and said, her eyes dancing, “That’s a magnificent color on him, don’t you agree?”

Elain blushed from her ears to her chest, hating her sister for being so open, so obvious, so damn gleeful. It was confusing enough to be around him without everyone watching and whispering. She was trying to figure out what to say when he returned, a glass in each hand. He handed the wine cup to Feyre, who thanked him and then slyly slid away; he pushed a highball glass into her hand as they found themselves alone.

“Drink it,” he murmured, almost inaudible over the chatter of the party. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

She clutched the glass hard and stared at him.

“It’s only water,” he said, a trifle defensive. “You should drink it. It’s too warm in here and you’re flushed.” He leaned forward against the chaise, body language utterly relaxed — no one watching from a distance would think he was talking about anything but pleasantries — but a strain in his voice belied all that as he asked, “Did you just have…a vision?”

She put the glass to her lips and drank, the cold of the water a welcome rush on her tongue. The shock of it loosened her voice. She tried to stay as calm as possible, to imitate his nonchalance. “How did you know?”

His smile was tight. Pained. “Even if I hadn’t felt it here…” he touched his chest lightly, over his heart — “your face would’ve given it away.”

“How?”

“You…” He flexed his fingers as if they hurt. “You looked the same as…as back then. When you were first Fae.” He threw a glance at the fireplace with its evergreen bower and gestured at it, maintaining the small talk facade with ease. “Are you well?”

Surprised, she couldn’t help but turn and look him full in the face. “I’m…”

He turned his head, quizzical, as she trailed off. “You’re not well?”

“No, I’m all right,” she said, hurriedly. “But — you don’t want to know what I saw?”

Everyone always pounced when they heard she’d had a vision, starving for details, most of which she could never recall. But his eyebrows twitched together and back apart as he wiped the concern from his face, turning it bland and calm. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.”

Elain drew in a deep breath and let it out in a trembling sigh that turned into a laugh, tremulous and true — and even a little sad, if she was honest. He cast his eyes down and smiled at his hands, folded on the back of the couch. “Don’t laugh at me, Lady.”

“But you’re ridiculous, my lord,” she said, her humor finally cresting over the prickle behind her eyes.

“Eternally,” he agreed.

She was about to give him a pert answer when she noticed Feyre, standing on the other side of the parlor and grinning like the Mad Cat in their childhood storybook. As their eyes locked, Feyre seized Mor’s arm, and the two of them turned away at the same moment, leaning their heads together. Lucien followed her gaze and then looked immediately away, back down at his hands. “Being watched all the time must get tedious,” he said. “No wonder you guard your secrets.”

“I have none of consequence,” she murmured.

“Why, Mother of Mercy. Now you’re even bringing in lies. How enchanting.” His foxlike grin split his face. She couldn’t control the lurch in her chest. “I like you deceitful, Blossom. It’s intriguing.”

“Well, everyone else has their secrets,” she fired at him. “Can’t I have any of my own?”

“Certainly,” he said. He seemed utterly earnest. “I only ask that you promise to share with me the ones you ask me to keep.”

She paled. Was he going to give her away? An outright lie to Cassian and Nesta, a lie of omission to Rhysand and Feyre…they’d have her under the daemati claws in no time…there would be no secrets then, no mind left, they’d have it all and she’d be a shell of herself…

He extended his hand in a calming motion, seeming to sense her unease. “Not just yet,” he murmured. “When you’re ready. Til you instruct it, I’ll keep my silence.”

She couldn’t think of what to say, but he straightened up and nodded as Rhysand approached. She froze, feeling the sly rake of his claws across her thoughts, and focused hard on the half-full drink in her hand.

“Lucien,” Rhys greeted him, smooth and effortless as always. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Lucien replied, and Elain was strongly reminded of the dukes and earls at the dances back in the human lands; that charm, the utter facility of sliding from one interaction to another. “Happiest of birthdays to the High Lady.”

Rhys nodded, immense satisfaction on his face as his violet eyes scanned the merry gathering. Cassian had Nyx on his shoulders; Nesta’s hand rested protectively on Nyx’s leg to keep him from falling backwards. Azriel sat by the window, shadows romping with the fluttering faelights, while Mor and Feyre argued playfully over a chessboard. And Amren stood slightly apart from the rest, her pale eyes surveying keenly. Rhys asked, a trifle absently, “How do the human lands fare?”

Lucien sighed. “The lands are buried under snow, as the seasons dictate. The humans themselves are…suffering.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows. “The fall harvest was sufficient. Once the crops come in in spring…”

“…they will still be suffering,” Lucien interrupted. “They cannot eat their seed crops if they hope to lay in the fields for next season. And yet they cannot starve. Everything there is restless. People who are hungry and sick and neglected will not tolerate it for long.”

Elain’s insides squeezed in shock. No one interrupted the High Lord. Not even Feyre, who always gazed at him with pride. But even more critically, his words burrowed through her surprise: the humans were hungry and sick. That was her village. Her friends. Mayfer, the bustling harbor city where she’d visited to wait for her father’s ships. Her former home.

Lucien continued, “Jurian has purchased extra grain stores from the continent. And Vassa took in several hundred of the country folk who would have starved otherwise, onto Lord Nolan’s estate.”

“Generous of her,” Rhys remarked. He sounded ever so slightly bored, as his eyes followed Feyre’s every move.

“Just keeping body and soul together,” Lucien replied, and his tone dropped. His expression remained mild as Elain glanced between the two males. But without even knowing how she knew it, she thought he is angry, before remembering to keep her thoughts focused on her glass of water. Angry at Rhysand. For what?

It could be any number of things, a small voice inside her head hissed, and she felt a tiny stab of shame, then covered it with thinking of how cold the glass was in her hand, beading with condensation.

“Clearly. Come see me in the morning and give a full report,” Rhys said, calm and unconcerned. But his eyes flashed as they settled briefly upon Elain. “And get Elain another glass of water. She’s parched, aren’t you, little sister?” His smile was thin and cold, and he moved away, sleek as a shadow, to stand behind Feyre, one arm draped lazily over her shoulder, fiddling idly with the knobbly handwoven string that supported the gold medallion around her neck. She reached up to stroke his wrist; the very picture of domesticity. Elain was pleased to discover that she could in fact distract him with obvious surface thoughts, to misdirect from her deeper misgivings — since she had no expertise in mental shields, that could be a useful tactic, even if it was flimsy. But warring with her satisfaction came a deep unease.

“Presents!” Mor called out from close to the fireplace, dragging a sack of brightly wrapped gifts out of a pocket realm, and everyone clustered around the couch for the exchange. Elain knew this would dissolve into spoiling the baby, and she was right; everyone competed for the best present for Nyx, who was getting a bit tired and cranky, and wanted only to play with the bright ribbons on the packages. Everyone had gotten one another gifts, and everyone exclaimed over the silk scarves, the sharp knives, the antique astrolabe that Feyre had sourced from the Day Court for Rhys…but, Elain noticed again and again, no one had gotten any gifts for Lucien.

She stole another glance at Lucien. He seemed unperturbed, smiling at the chaos of wrapping paper and mirth as Cassian opened a leather satchel from Mor with a suggestive shape. He howled with laughter as she winked and told him with supreme innocence that it was for use in the annual snowball fight. Nesta rolled her eyes, and Cassian stuffed the satchel into her hands with a hooded glance. Elain felt curiously voyeuristic, as though she’d witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to see; a tiny window into a private moment between her sister and the powerful male she was mated to. She thought of the little blue box, sitting on the table in the next room, and longed for the right moment to give it to him. But it didn’t seem appropriate, not here; not with everyone watching. She didn’t dare to give everyone else a tiny window into what was — or perhaps wasn’t — between her and Lucien. Not when it would be giggled over and teased and demeaned.

She broke away a few minutes later to gather all her presents together; jasmine soap from Nesta, tulip bulbs from Feyre, a box of expensive spices from Rhys, and found him in the hallway pulling his cloak off the hook.

“You’re leaving?” she blurted out, before she could think of anything better to say.

He turned, masking his surprise with a wry grin. “Overstaying a welcome is poor etiquette, I’ve found.”

“You’re welcome here,” she insisted. Was it her imagination that his eyebrows twitched in denial?

“Thank you,” he said, “but I think this party is for family now. And I’m not that. Whatever else I may be.”

“But…” — was she really going to say it? Her stomach clenched. Brave. Be brave. “But…I haven’t given you your present yet.”

He froze, comically halfway through securing the cloak buttons. “My what?”

“Your — your present,” she stammered. Gods above, untie her tongue from these hopeless knots. “I’m sorry no one else got you anything. But I did.”

As soon as she said it, it sounded false. Petulant. Like she was seeking a compliment.

“What for?” he asked, and he sounded bemused enough that she laughed, short and quiet.

“For Solstice, silly,” she said. She beckoned him into the darkened sitting area, turning on the lamp as she did. He followed, wary, keeping his distance.

She pushed the box at him, unsure of how to proceed, but now committed to seeing it through. He stared at it as though it was a trick, or a bomb that would explode in his face if he touched it.

“But you didn’t need to get me anything,” he said.

“I — I know,” she said, and her courage flagged. The box sank an inch or two from where she’d held it out to him. “But I wanted to. You did save my life, remember, so it’s only fair that I thank you properly.” She squared her shoulders, and in an attempt at being merry, said with a faint smile, “And I have a few Solstices to catch up on with you.”

He still didn’t move.

“Take it.” She moved two steps closer, til the box was within reach of his hand.

And with a brief hesitation, he reached up and took the box from her, pulled the ribbon off it, and opened it.

Elain was consumed with the strangest twirling in her gut, a spiral of anxiety and excitement. Gods. Dear gods. It was stupid. So stupid. Unutterably stupid, in fact. How could she have thought that it would be enough, when she had never accepted his gifts with anything but awkwardness, that this tiny thing would say everything she wanted it to?

Her cheeks flamed. She wondered if this was what it was to slowly choke…to asphyxiate under the weight of her own mistakes.

And still it was quiet. Finally, desperately, she dragged her eyes up from where her fingers twisted with anxiety and —

— and he was looking at her, his face a mix of gratitude and grief. Their eyes locked so tightly she almost heard the click of a key.

“A hyraeth,” he murmured, pulling the little pin from the box. The jeweler had fashioned it from a single piece of bright yellow amber that caught the light like honey, but also gleamed like sunshine on water. Elain had selected it herself. The etchings on the edges were done in black lacquer, faceting the surface of the amber just like the patterns on butterflies’ wings. The jeweler had done a lovely job, but her stomach corkscrewed into her legs nonetheless. Did he not like it?

“Well, not a real one,” she said hurriedly. “Just their likeness in a pin for your hair, or your lapel. But I thought you might like it…they’re from the Autumn Court,” she blurted, realizing she was babbling and cursing herself roundly for it, trying to lower her voice, which - drown her in the damned cauldron - was so much louder than was necessary.

“I know,” he said. “From the Vilderavian Groves, at the borders of Summer.” His voice fractured ever so slightly at the edges.

Her eyes widened. “Have you seen it?”

“Yes,” he replied, and there was a reverence in his voice that rippled through her like wind through grass. “Long ago. Just once. They alight on the great trunks of the hemlock trees in a shimmering mass. An ocean of tiny wings, all amber and gold and black, whispering among the green foliage. It’s a special place; the only evergreen spot in Autumn. And the sight — the whole forest alive with trembling light — is magnificent. There’s nothing like it.”

She nodded. “It made me think…” She spread her hands in defeat. That home is a journey, rather than a place. That it might not obey borders or rules, but seek its own way across barriers. That to find it, to keep it, one can endure unimaginable toil and turmoil. That there is magic in the smallest things. “…that you might someday find a place for your heart to rest. Unfathomable as that may be now.”

She could have sworn there was a gleam in his eyes, just for a moment. He closed his hand over the little pin. “It’s beautiful,” he said, softly. And then, so gently that had she not been straining toward him with every cell of her treacherous body, she would not have heard him: “I think you’ve fathomed me quite well, Blossom. Thank you.”

His eyes slid down to her lips, so close…the moment brief and shimmering, a bubble on the wind…

…and it shattered, burst by the arrival of Nyx, screaming in uninhibited toddler glee as Cassian mock-chased him through the hallway and past the open doors. Lucien started and stepped back. Elain very nearly followed him, so strong was the pull of the bond’s tidal undertow in her ribs, but she knew it was too late. Misery blooming in her heart, she turned to go.

“Happy Solstice, Elain,” he murmured.

She looked back over her shoulder, and saw him standing in the pool of light from the lamp. In that moment, he seemed aglow himself somehow. A living sun.

“Happy Solstice, Lucien,” she replied; and, unbidden, unsought, a smile rose to her lips. He returned it, shyly — and low in her gut, an ember, dormant under the ash of everything that had happened, flickered into a tiny flame.

It was nothing, she told herself sternly as she climbed the stairs to her room. So small. But even a tiny light could bring a traveler safe home.

[magdelanesingerin]

Throwing Stones

It’s nearly 11 when Jaskier finally comes floating through the front door of their apartment, tipsy and content and already dreaming of slipping into bed with his boyfriend and drifting off to sleep as he kicks off his shoes and slings his jacket to the floor before picking it up and hanging it dutifully from it’s hook. 

“I’m home, love! Sorry, we got a little carried away, ughhh, I think I drank toooooo many mojitos. They’re just so damn good, that place sticks a whole stick of sugar cane in there as a garnish, you know? I fucking love them, makes me feel like a, a goat or a happy chipmunk or something, just chomping on sugar cane, arng arng arng,” he says playfully biting at nothing as he rounds the corner into the kitchen to see Geralt standing over the sink rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. He doesn’t turn, and it takes Jaskier a moment to take in the tension along the line of his shoulders. 

“You didn’t need to wait up, Ger. Victoria says hello, by the way!” he says, and sidles up behind his boyfriend to wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face in the man’s broad back. “Alright, love?” he mumbles into the soft weave of Geralt’s t-shirt. Geralt makes a gruff, vague noise and doesn’t relax into his hold. Jaskier continues to cling like a burr as Geralt bends to put the last of the plates in the dishwasher, then straightens with a sigh to flatten his palms on the counter and hang his head. 

“I called you. Texted.”

“Hmm? Ahh, shit, my phone was on silent…ohh look at that, you sure did,” Jaskier says pulling his phone out of his pocket and blinking at the missed messages owlishly. Oops. “I was just across the street, my love, you could hit the bar with a rock from here. I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says shortly, and pulls away to head toward the bathroom. Jaskier frowns, feeling cold and off balance for a moment before he shuffles after Geralt to lean against the wall next to the closed door. 

“I get the feeling that it isn’t fine,” he calls over the sound of running water and the swish of a toothbrush. “Love?” Geralt doesn’t answer, brushing by him on the way to the bedroom. Jaskier huffs in frustration, letting his head fall back into the wall dramatically. The moment feels precarious, wobbling on the edge of a fight. He could let it go, could let Geralt clam up and go to bed and not push it and…who the fuck is he kidding? He can’t do that. 

“Geralt?” he asks expectantly, trailing along behind. 

“It’s fine, Jask, just drop it,” Geralt mutters and climbs into bed. 

Jaskier snorts and jumps onto the mattress spread-eagled with his face right next to Geralt’s. 

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening,” he says to Geralt’s stubborn glower, smoothing his fingers over his boyfriend’s furrowed brow. “You’re upset, and I’m not going to just ignore it.” 

Geralt grimaces and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling in silence. Jaskier rests his palm over Geralt’s chest, running the worn fabric between his fingers and humming softly, waiting with as much patience as he can muster and trying to keep his mind from spiraling. The silence stretches on before he feels Geralt’s ribs expand under his hand like a bellows as he finally opens his mouth to speak. 

“It’s stupid.” 

“Alright. Tell me anyway.”

“I…got into my own head. I know you and Victoria used to…it’s… fuck,” he grumbles in obvious frustration, rubbing at his eyes with a hand that trembles slightly. Jaskier sits up on one elbow and looks down at his boyfriend, alarmed. 

“Geralt,” he breathes. “It was just a few drinks. We haven’t seen each other in years, we were just catching up. I would never –”

“I know that. I know,” Geralt growls shortly. “I told you, it’s stupid. I know you wouldn’t cheat, I trust you, I just…”

Jaskier scoffs, shaking his head and trying to ignore the surge of hurt in his chest. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard from his lovers before, of course. The accusation, the judgement, the assumptions, it’s all very familiar. He just never thought he’d hear it from Geralt, and the pain of it makes him angry.

“So, I didn’t answer my phone and you just assumed…fuck, Geralt. You know I’m in this with you. Only you.” His voice is louder than he intends, frustrated and sharp. Fuck, he’s tipsy and he’s fucking this up.

“But it’s not like you never—I know you’ve– fuck , Jaskier, can we just drop it?” Geralt bites out, halting and harsh. 

Jaskier hisses and rolls over to sit on the edge of the bed facing away, fists clenched on the quilt. He tries to bludgeon his brain into coherence as he speaks, jaw clenched and aching.

“Oh, I’m a known slut and slept with married people in my twenties, so obviously I’d go fuck an old friend in a bar bathroom fifty feet away from the apartment I share with my boyfriend, the love of my life, the man that I’ve committed myself to,” Jaskier cries scornfully, then forces himself to take a slow breath, releasing is slowly and counting to center himself before he speaks again. He knows he’s being unfair, but the idea of Geralt doubting him, after all they’ve been through, burns.

“I know she cheated on you, Geralt. I know it hurt you, that infidelity like that really fucks you up,” he says carefully, trying to lower his voice, soften his tone, imagining the neighbors on the other side of their thin apartment walls hearing every word. He’s not sure how successful he is. “I like sex, and I won’t apologize for that. And I haven’t always been particularly thoughtful about who I fuck. I probably should have been, but I don’t regret who I am, who I was. But that was a long time ago, Geralt, and I’m not Yen . Your trust means everything to me and I just… fuck .”

The tears that he finds himself choking on are a surprise. This is not at all how he pictured this night going. He glances back to see Geralt sitting curled up over his knees with his hands buried in his hair, looking miserable. 

“I know . I, I…this is why I didn’t want to say anything. I know it’s fucked up, it’s stupid, that you would never…” There’s a long silence broken only by the sound of Jaskier’s sniffles and Geralt’s wheezing, panicked breaths. 

“You deserve better than this. I don’t know how to be with someone, how to trust again. You’ve given me no reason to doubt you, and–fucking shit. I’ll go, if you want me to,” Geralt says, and he sounds so forlorn, so anguished that Jaskier can’t help but roll back toward him, pulling his hands gently away from where they clutch at his hair and wrapping him up close to his chest as they fall back to the bed in a pathetic huddle. 

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles into Geralt’s back. “I’m keeping you, you ass.”

“Are you sure? I should probably just run off into the woods and be a hermit. I’d be better at that,” Geralt mumbles weakly into his neck, wry and dark.

Jaskier chuckles into Geralt’s hair, a wet and helpless sound.

“God, we’re a mess, aren’t we,” he sighs. 

“Yeah.” 

They lay curled up in each other, breathing and taking comfort in each other’s warmth, muscles slowly relaxing.

“Not nearly as messy as Victoria and her boyfriend, though,” Jaskier smirks eventually, breaking the quiet. “You would not believe the drama, Geralt. Woof. He stole her TV when they broke up. And her couch. And half of her spice cabinet, of all things. He apparently always does this , hardly buys anything for himself. Just…furnishes his whole life with the stuff he takes from his exes, can you imagine?” Geralt snorts. “She said they were moving back in together, but that she’s going to put her name on all her favorite stuff first,” he says, giggling. Geralt’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter, and Jaskier pulls him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Makes me feel extremely well adjusted.” 

“We’re doing great.” 

“We really are,” Jaskier grins and pulls Geralt’s face up to kiss him, long and soft. “Well. We’ve already scandalized the neighbors by shouting at each other. Want to lean into it?” he asks with a suggestive waggle to his eyebrows. Geralt groans and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and the way he rolls over to press Jaskier into the bed suggests that he’s not nearly as reluctant as he pretends. 

The neighbors probably hate them, but who cares. Jaskier has more important things to worry about. 

(also on Ao3)

Thank you to @dapandapod for being my favorite beta who refuses to believe she's good at it! <3 <3 <3

[octoagentmiles]

Hello! I was wondering what you'd think the octo-agents would do if you got sick. Blorbo thoughts go burr

Natquik my beloved. He has at least 20+ years of Polar Scout first aid knowledge, and roughly 30 years of "pure adrenaline/spite-fueled survival in Antarctica" instincts; so you're either gonna get a nasal strip and a raw ginger root to chew on... or a surprise shove into an ice bath, followed by a cup of hot cocoa. You don't get to pick which one.

Pirates have their own unique "medical practices," if you can dare to call them that. So... Calico Jack WILL cure you of whatever's ailing ye, but you're in for one HELL of a ride. Have fun! :D

Tracker has over 20 years of Polar Scout first aid knowledge, so he's basically Natquik but without the 50/50 chance of being forcibly thrown into Arctic waters when you least expect it. He will make it his temporary life purpose to make you feel better. He will not sleep, eat, drink, or work until you are Fixed™. He will make himself sick in the process, this is inevitable.

Ranger Marsh has father instincts + who knows how many years of experience taking care of the Everglades critters when they're hurt or sick, so he's basically a certified medic. He might LITERALLY be certified. Either way, he's also kinda like Natquik in the sense that he definitely has a normal first aid kit/medicine cabinet,, but he's going to force you to take weird swamp cures anyway.

Pearl has mother instincts but they're still relatively new, so she might treat you like a baby with a fever: tell you to take a lukewarm bath, make sure you get snuggled up in a cozy bed to rest, and watch you like a hawk while you guzzle down 7346389 liters of fluids.

Paani will straight up sit there and stare at you. You can't tell me this guy takes care of himself properly when he feels sick, so he has no clue how to help you. Realistically he'd pass you on to someone else, but let's say he doesn't do that—instead I can see him trying to tell you that you can "speed up" getting better by going out and getting dirty, running around, eating spicy food, etc., and at the end of the day you'll either end up actually feeling a lot better, or 1000x worse–

Ryla is actually the same. She's gonna drag you out into some random cave whether you want to go or not, and tell you to eat those weird-smelling berries she found because they're "good for your immune system." Unlike with Paani though I feel like somehow this would 100% work. It's basic cave diving stuff, page 574 of her book, don't question it.

Min is the only normal person. She'll make you some tea, insist you take a nap, and tell the Octonauts to make sure that you really do (instead of saying you will, but then "forgetting"). She doesn't want to get herself sick, so you can expect most of her check-ins to be through video calls. She won't seem very worried about you, but that's only because she knows you're tough enough to get through this.

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

this is for @burr-ell thank you so much for submitting for my project!

Prompt: percy and vex's first kiss in ballet au (also here's the link to the pas de deux they're doing in this fic)

As Vex is sitting on the floor of the studio, drinking water and massaging her calf muscles, she listens to Allura giving the two of them notes on their run. “Make sure you never drift too far from each other,” Allura says, reading from her notepad. “This pas de deux is about intimacy, the two of you don’t want to be more than a foot from each other if you can help it.” Percy and Vex chuckle, but nod. 

“Good work today. We’ll be with the full company tomorrow so I might ask you to run it in front of them if we have time, alright?” Allura asks with a smile as she closes her binder. Percy and Vex nod. Allura glances between the two of them, “Are you two heading home?”

Vex looks at Percy. The two of them have been partners for a number of shows already so she knows what his process is like. He likes having time after learning a new routine to work through it just the two of them to get it stuck in their brains. So before Percy can respond she tells Allura, “We’ll lock up, I think we’re going to run it a few more times.”

Allura nods to each of them, “Very well. But please do tell me if the choreography is uncomfortable in any way, there are ways we can work around it.”

“Thank you,” Percy says emphatically. Vex doesn’t know much about his past, but she knows that that means quite a lot to him. “I think we’ll be able to let you know tomorrow.” 

“Goodnight, don’t push too hard.” And with that Allura leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

Now that the two of them are alone, Vex stands back up with a groan, “Ready to start from the top?” Percy nods and the two of them get into position, Percy standing center with Vex just behind him. As the music starts playing from the speaker at the front of the mirrors, the two of them begin to dance. 

Carmen is a role unlike any other Vex has played. In this she is not girly or naive, she gets to be sultry and romantic and fucking hot. And this is by far the most intimate pas de deux that she has ever done with Percy. Hell, within the first twenty seconds of the dance they are supposed to kiss for quite a long time, longer than any stage kiss she’s done before. But Allura has told them to mark it until they’re comfortable kissing, which they do this time as well. 

As the two of them move through the dance, making their way to the floor, Percy underneath Vex, she can see him blushing more and more. She honestly adores how he looks when he’s flustered. 

As always the lifts prove a little tricky for them, but that will improve with time. And once they’ve marked the other three kisses in the pas de deux, and the two of them are lying on the floor together, panting and sweaty as the music finishes, Vex stands up. 

“How did that feel?” Vex asks as she takes a swig of her water bottle. 

“Better.” Percy nods as he sits up, “The third lift is still giving me trouble.”

“You could always ask my brother for some advice, he’s very good at lifting.” Percy nods as he quickly marks the lift by himself as she takes another sip of her water. “What do you say we run once more from the top and then work on it in more detail?” Percy nods. “Full out?”

“You mean-”

“Actually kissing, yes, darling,” Vex chuckles. “I figured it would be best to get it over with when we’re alone and not in a room full of gossipy chorus girls.”

Percy laughs a little and adjusts his glasses, “As long as you’re comfortable with it, then I am.” 

Vex winks at him, “Just try not to fall in love with me, Percival.”

Percy chokes on a laugh, “I’ll do my best.”

This time when the music starts, there’s a thrum of tension between the two of them, so clear you could feel it. Vex touches his shoulder, sweeping one leg around as she turns around him, barely brushing her fingers against his back. He shivers a little and she tries very hard not to think about what that means.

The tension and anxiety humming between them only grows as she runs a hand through his hair, leaning in as if to kiss him but pulling away at the last second. And then…Percy pulls her into a dip, kissing her. 

For a moment Vex is lost in the feeling. They’re both sweaty and trying to count the beats in their heads, but gods his lips are so gently on hers, as if waiting for her to push him away. They sink to the floor, still kissing like Allura directed them to. Percy’s hands wander down her back and up into her hair. 

Vex barely remembers the next step, having to rush to catch up with the music in time. She is sure that she’s blushing deeply, just like him, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

[tropes-and-tales]

You Fit with Me

December 15:  Marshmallows/Cabin - Fish out of water (Ray Merrimen x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts found here)

CW:  Slight angst; Ray being as fluffy as Ray can possibly be (not very)

Word Count:  879

AN:  Requested by anon!

“We don’t have to stay for long,” you promise, and Ray snorts but doesn’t reply.

He could point out that of course you’re going to stay at least for a night.  The cabin your friends rented is in Lakeshore, five hours north of L.A. on a day without traffic.  

He could point out that you both have bags packed for a multiple night stay.  

He could point out the obvious—that you are going to stay for a while.

He doesn’t say anything.  The way you hedge around the length of your stay tells him everything he needs to know:  you’re nervous about this long weekend with him and your friends.  And Ray can guess that you aren’t necessarily nervous about him (he’s taciturn but housetrained, not a complete menace) or your friends (they’re bubbly and chipper to a psychotic degree, but they have always been accepting of him dating you).  

If Ray had to guess, you’re nervous because you never ask him for anything.  In all the shit he’s put you through—the worry, the angst—you’ve never asked him for a single thing.  Until this.

A long weekend with your friends.  One is newly married, another is taking a job in Austin, and your group is splintering.  Growing up.  Life shit.  You want to spend the last hurrah with them, but they invited their significant others, so you had asked Ray—

Makes him feel like a piece of shit, when he replays how heartbreakingly casual you were when you asked him.  No big deal if you can’t, you had said.  If you can’t make it work.

Makes him feel like a piece of shit, but he can’t blame you.  He’s a closed-off person, and he has never once given voice to how he feels about you.  When you tell him you love him, he grunts, says something half-assed and non-committal like, “you too.”

You should have left him a long time ago, but you stick to him like a burr.  More loyal than any military buddy or member of his heist crew.  A loyal girl with a heart of gold, the rarest thing in the world and he still managed to score you, unbelievable as it may be.

-----

Halfway into the drive up to the cabin, he stops for gas.  

He can tell you’re nervous still.  He can feel the tension radiating off of you, and you sit in the passenger seat while he pumps the gas, cleans the windshield.

Once done, he doesn’t climb back into the car.  He walks over to the passenger’s side and knocks on your window.

“C’mon,” he says, jerking his head towards the store.  “Let’s get some drinks and snacks.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

He opens your door, holds out a hand to you.  “Bullshit.  You love snacks.”

You let him pull you out of the car, but when you go to step past him, he blocks you.  Takes advantage of his height (and breadth) advantage and stares you down until you finally look up at him, a quizzical look on your face.

“This’ll be fun,” he says, his voice low and steady.  “Haven’t been up north in a long time.”

“I promise we can leave whenever—”

“Stop.”  He hooks a hand under your chin, holds you fast to keep you looking at him.  “I’m here because I want to be, understand?”

You nod against his hold, and he pinches your chin lightly to drive the point home.

“Have I ever done anything I didn’t want to do?  Huh?”

You smile, your cheeks curving under his hand.  “Never.”

“So there.  I want to be here.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

He hesitates, then adds, “I know I don’t fit in with your friends.”  He snorts, a little bitter.  “I don’t fit in with most people.”

You lay your hand on his chest, smoothing out the wrinkles on his shirt.  “You fit with me,” you reply, and there’s a sad questioning lilt to how you say it, like you believe it but maybe you think he doesn’t.

“I do.”  He puts his other hand over where yours rests against his sternum.  “Stop worrying about me.  If the girl-talk gets too much, me and the other guys will go off somewhere and talk manly shit.  Sports.  Cars.  Whatever.”

“I appreciate it, Ray.  I know you don’t—”

He cuts you off gently, doesn’t let you get the rest of that sentence out.  “And then,” he adds pointedly, “after all the girl-talk and friendship bullshit, you and I are going to go to that loft bedroom and I’m gonna make you come so many times that those girls are gonna be jealous.”

You flex your hand against his chest, claw him playfully.  “Such a sweet talker, Ray.”  But there’s a glint in your eye when you say it.  He knows you’ll be thinking about it for the second half of the trip to the cabin.

“And I want some fucking s’mores.  Cabin by the lake, I damned well better get s’mores.”

You laugh.  “Didn’t take you for a s’mores man.”

He releases your face but dips his head, kisses your smiling mouth.  “I want it all.  Graham crackers and chocolate, marshmallows burnt to shit over an open fire.”

“I think we can arrange that, big guy.”

[noneedtoamputate]

Every Beautiful Thing New Year's Eve Outtake

A while back, I read a thread on Twitter where Burr Snith's daughter commented that her day, Tony Garcia, Pat Christenson, and Chuck Grant all got together regularly as they lived near San Francisco. I though this could be a fun set-up for New Year's. Warning: This outtake is complete fluff.

I joined Tumblr and the BoB fandom this year, and all of you made it a great one. Here's to a happy 2024!

New Year's Eve, 1951

The hotel ballroom looked festive as Chuck and Ellen were escorted to their table, the first couple of their party to arrive. The room buzzed with happy revelers and the band warming up, a “Happy New Year 1952” banner above them. 

Chuck put his arm around Ellen, enjoying how the cut of her dress exposed her shoulders and upper back for him to see and touch.

Ellen hadn’t met this group of Chuck’s friends yet, the Easy Company veterans who lived near San Francisco. Chuck met up with Pat Christenson once a month, for drinks and a laugh. Burr Smith and Tony Garcia weren't in his platoon, so he wasn't as close with them, but Ellen knew he looked forward to catching up with them tonight. 

“Are you sure we shouldn't have invited Joe and Miriam?” Ellen asked. Joe was Chuck’s best friend, and Miriam was quickly becoming one of hers. Joe knew the whole group coming out tonight; she couldn't understand why Chuck wouldn't extend an invitation.

“No,” he said, firmer than he meant, and sighed. Of course Ellen didn't understand. How could she? 

“It's just everyone who went through it deals with it in their own way. And Joe's way is to just get on with things. He doesn't want to get together with the guys.” It didn't feel like an articulate answer, but Chuck hoped Ellen would understand nonetheless.

“But he sees you,” Ellen quietly pointed out. 

And this was true. But what Ellen didn't know was that Chuck and Joe never talked about the war, the way the four of them would tonight. Joe and Chuck talked baseball, work, the weather. Sometimes they didn't talk, just smoked and enjoyed the quiet. 

Quiet after places like Normandy and Bastogne and Haguenau was a gift to be savored. 

“Can't help it that he finds me irresistible,” he replied, making a quip instead of trying to explain his best friend. Ellen rolled her eyes, Chuck's intended reaction accomplished.

Just then, Chuck saw his three friends come into view. There were handshakes and pats on the back and introductions made.

“So where are your wives, or did they finally have the good sense to run off?” Chuck asked.

“They're freshening up,” Tony answered. 

They're talking about me, Ellen thought. She knew what happened in ladies’ rooms.

The men started catching up, but Chuck interrupted Burr when he saw Pat take a sip of water.

“Anyone give you permission to drink?” 

“Fuck you, Chuck,” Pat said, and the three other men burst into laughter. 

“This is why you haven't met Pat until tonight. He doesn't know how to behave in mixed company,” Chuck explained to Ellen.

“Sorry,” Pat said, looking her direction, and she waved him off. He turned back to the others. “Can't believe you all find it so funny after all these years. And you,” Pat said, pointing at Tony, “You weren't even there.”

“I've heard the story so many times, it feels like I was,” Tony said.

Chuck recalled the tale about a long hike during basic training. Pat took unauthorized sips of water and had to march the entire route again. Tony wasn't there because he was a replacement, a paratrooper who didn't join the company until after D-Day. 

Ellen felt like a fifth wheel, forcing them to stop and explain things to her. Eventually the other women finally showed up at the table. Ellen had committed their names to memory: Jane Smith, Nancy Garcia, and Mary Jo Christenson, whose due date looked eminent.

Drinks arrived and the conversation flowed easily. The women asked Ellen questions about her job and interests and talked about their husbands, their children, the holidays, how Mary Jo was holding up. 

During supper, Ellen heard names she didn't recognize: Martin, Randleman, Heffron, Toye, and Guarnere. From what Ellen could make out, the last two had been badly injured. 

“You look a little lost,” Jane said to Ellen. “It took me a while to keep all the guys straight. It gets better …” she trailed off. She looked down, realizing she shouldn't have said what came out of her mouth. 

“Gets better?” Ellen repeated.

“Um,” started Jane, not knowing how to start. “There are company reunions every year. Maybe … “

Once again, she didn't finish her thought.

Maybe I’ll go to one, if Chuck and I get married. Ellen understood what Jane tried to say. 

Ellen gave her smile, trying to make her feel better. She knew Jane didn't mean anything malicious in her words. 

No one could flag down a waiter after the meal, so the guys went up to the bar to order drinks. A few minutes later, Ellen noticed three pairs of eyes staring at her, and Mary Jo nudging Nancy with her elbow. 

“We were just wondering if Chuck is a good …  if he’s …”

Ellen laughed to herself. These three married women, one who clearly performed the act in question nine months ago, couldn't find the words to ask if Chuck was good in bed. 

This wasn't the type or conversation she would normally have with women she just met, but she felt like it was an invitation of sorts, like climbing up that mountain Chuck and his friends had talked about earlier. She put her elbows on the table and looked each woman in the eyes conspiratorially. 

“You have no idea.”

Nancy grinned, Jane blushed, and Mary Jo howled with laughter. “I knew it!” she cried out. 

When the foursome returned, drinks in hand, the giggling started up again. 

“Do I even want to know?” asked Chuck. 

“Probably not,” admitted Ellen. “But if those three didn't love you before, they love you now. And you have me to thank.”

“And just how should I thank you?” Chuck spoke softly into her ear.

“Oh, I know you'll think of something,” she replied. Chuck raised his eyebrows and smirked. 

Ellen looked cross the table and saw Mary Jo watching them, and she raised a glass in Ellen’s direction, Ellen returned the gesture in kind.

Couples started to crowd the dance floor. Tony and Nancy were already out there, and Burr and Mary Jo stood up to make their way over. Chuck saw Ellen’s door tapping in time with the music. 

“Pat, you mind taking Ellen out for a spin?” 

“Sure!” 

Ellen looked over to his wife for confirmation.

Mary Jo rested her hands on her belly. “There’s no way I'm dancing tonight. Go. Have fun.” 

Pat led the way through the maze of tables and chairs. 

“You're a good dancer,” Ellen said, after a few minutes. 

“I'm okay,” Pat conceded. “Chuck was a great dancer. Best jitterbug in the company.”

Ellen imagined Chuck in an English pub, winning over all the girls. Tall, with his blond hair and blue eyes. Those English soldiers didn't stand a chance when he was around.

“Chuck seems really happy when we get together,” Pat said.

“Good,” Ellen replied.

“You look really happy, too,” Pat continued.

Ellen’s brows furrowed, and she felt her body tighten. “Thank you,” she replied. “But you don't know me. You didn't even meet me until a few hours ago.”

Pat smiled. “I like to draw. I'm always working on something in my sketchpad. You learn to read people's faces, even the ones you don't know so well. And it's a good thing, being happy. After all we've been through, I wished everyone could feel happy.”

Ellen felt her shoulders relax. Pat was right. It was okay to be happy. Why had she felt so defensive when he pointed that out? She laughed as he twirled her one way and then the other.

The band played a slow song next.

“Mind if I cut in?” Chuck asked Pat, who graciously stepped aside.

She leaned in close, her arms around his shoulders. She felt his hand grab her hip, his breath on her neck.

Pat was right. Chuck was the better dancer.

And then the countdown started. “Three. Two. One. Happy New Year!” Balloons dropped from the ceiling and the happily buzzed party goers sang “Auld Lang Syne” in between kisses. 

“Do you have any New Year’s resolutions?” she asked.

He thought of the ring in a box, waiting in his nightstand back at the apartment. He didn't know where or how he would ask her, only that it would be soon. 

“Yes,” he said. “One. It's a surprise.”

“Being happy isn't really a resolution, is it?” she asked him. “It's just that I’ve been happy lately, and well, I like it.”

“I think that's a great one. I’ll add that to my list,” he replied, and pulled her in for another kiss. 

Five minutes into 1952, and neither one of them had broken their resolution.

[trendyshadowqueen]

*Hamilton rushes by with an armful of water bottles* Burr: What's going on? Laurens: Hamilton wouldn't drink water. Burr: ...And? Laurens: And I asked him how fast he could chug an entire bottle. Hamilton, loudly: 16 OUNCES IN TEN SECONDS, BITCHES!

[goodheartt]

dennis' morning routine takes him two hours, and he wakes up around five a.m. every day regardless of what time he is needed at the bar. the time that he goes to sleep depends on how late he is working at paddy's. dennis usually gets between four - six hours of sleep a night ( yes he could use more but sleep is something that he has always struggled with ).

5:00 am - he wakes up and spends some time in bed. he will use this time in bed to check his text messages, emails, and other notifications on his phone. he does not use a phone alarm to wake him up, he still has an alarm clock on his bedside table. he does not need more than one alarm to wake him up, just one alarm that goes off at five. 5:10 am - once he is out of bed he does ten jumping jacks, twenty push ups, twenty sit ups, and twenty crunches. he does this morning work out in his bedroom. 5:30 am - once he is done in his bedroom he heads to the bathroom to shower, and he does these next steps in order. shampoo, body wash, conditioner, body wash, rinse out conditioner, body mask, rinse, dry off. he takes his time with these steps, and prefers a cooler running shower to a hot water. he picks his clothes for the day the evening before. so once he is out of the shower he towels off, applies an unscented body lotion, and gets dressed. 5:50 am - next he moves on to skincare. depending on the day, he will start off with shaving. he usually shaves his face and neck every other day. he starts with a cleanser, than a vitamin c serum, moisturizer, under eye cream that is meant to target wrinkles and dark under eye circles, and finally a spf. he will apply concealer, foundation, and a bit of mascara as well. 6:00 am - he moves on to then floss, brush his teeth, and mouth wash. 6:10 am - next is his hair. he adds a leave in conditioner, and then he will put on a curl defining mousse. he lets his hair air dry through out the morning. 6:20 am - he gets started on his morning coffee. he switches between a pour over coffee maker or a french press depending on the day. yes, he grinds his own coffee beans with a burr grinder and a goose neck electric kettle. 6:30 am - he sits down at the kitchen table and reads the days paper and drink his coffee. first priority is catching up on the news, and then he fills out the crossword for the day. depending on how he's feeling, he will sometimes make himself a second cup of coffee. 6:55 am - he does a double check in the mirror to make sure his hair is looking alright, his skin is looking alright, and his clothes are not wrinkled. 7:00 am - time to start the day !! if he doesn't have to go to paddy's until later he will go out and run errands, or stay at the apartment and find something to do there.

no step in this routine can be missed. if he misses a step it will throw off his whole day and he will be extremely irritable and it will be easier to set him off. if someone tries to interrupt his morning routine he will simply glare at them and not respond. mac learned quickly after moving in with dennis to give him his alone time and space in the mornings.

[stonerpsii]

hiiiii it's me again and d dbdbdbb j aqm crosssed out of m. T myjnd but i can @ typen and i bcan sit downwn but my v friens is on the flooor of her alasrfment etc making snow angelsdsb buf like i ghjn think vdddv the floorn is hard??! like you can nnot dooo that but shhe is sofft and starrv fishhh I broughdvdrbt my pen ans tahgvh he r to snoke ans also weeeed cheeetos and she boug-gjht drinks boooze and she does not like the we e taste e first burr wgwbn she staffesd getting q high she gottf thirsjty she i#s soootooo silllley beingfbfb highhhh makesssn me hormny but icaantt cummmj in her placwe so i juatttt laugghhht at h er rr

i know there were 4 hours in between your last ask and this one; it sounds like you are crossed out of your gourd and your friend is too :D i can sympathize with your friend, the taste of booze is not great!

my top recommendation for her would be vodka screwdrivers -- the orange juice masks the vodka very well and you can get drunk pretty quickly! cocktails in general might be up her alley, but i like screwdrivers because they're very simple lol.

have fun & make sure you're drinking water!!

[dogsuffrage]

When I was like 14 in 2012 I had a strange fascination with Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. And before someone makes some comment on that: I will remind you I was 14 with a deep interest in government and it's functionings and history. Anyway I was also a theatre kid. So you can imagine what the Alexander Hamilton musical did to me. I think I exclusively listened to that when it came out. I still maintain that it is good and you guys are just haters. Though I must admit the concept of a dubiously factual and contextless founding fathers musical no longer tickles me now that I, like, know more about them. Anyway I hated Aaron Burr then and I do now. Most people forgot what you did to New York's drinking water. But not me Aaron. I remember.

[sardonic-sprite]

I'm Back!

Wow, so Lent is over now, so my tumblr fast is also over and I'm still a little in shock, lol. I had hoped the past six weeks? I don't know, Time is weird, would be more productive but at least I got SOME stuff written/posted. Anyway, I have one more month of school and then fucking FINALS so expect sporadic updates at idiot-o-clock hours of the night, and maybe yell at me to sleep, eat, study, or drink water whenever i do post 😅

I am up to SO EFFING MANY wips rn on so many different fronts you guys have no freaking idea 😭 so here's a status report for EVERYTHING on or going on sardonic_sprite. (Its gonna be a monster post, y'all, bear with me)

in absolutely no particular order:

Wayne4Ham: We have a LONG way to go with this one, so just be patient and I'll slowly but steadily plug on through. Aaron Burr, Sir, should theoretically take me no longer than end of april

Wayne-Crazy: there's like 4 specific requests on it, plus a few 'series' i started, but after those, say 6-7, i'll probably mark as complete and only re-open if someone offers me an idea

Batman Beginners: i'll tell y'all up front, this one will take me forever. i don't even know what all I intend to cover, but know that i'm halfway done with the DITF arc, and it'll probably come out in the next two months

Just A Kid: this was my shits-and-giggles fic that got like 3000 notes in a weekend lmao. it's something i do intend to continue bc its so fun and i enjoy the concepts in it, but i don't have plans to actively write more of it in the immediate future.

Rev Wayne: just gave y'all Jason's fic, so the next probably won't come until late in summer, extrapolating from my few data points. if anyone has ideas for timmy's intro, let me know, i'd love some inspiration

Celeb Batwaynes: reported separate from wayne-crazy for reasons. i think theres like 12 specific requests plus 2 ideas of my own. i may put out a poll for the next one to write, but not until after school's out, because these fics are HUGE time-eaters for me. speaking of, are non-tumblr-users able to vote on polls?

Welcome to Gotham U: this was again, me doing shit bc why not. will probably add more in the style that i first posted, but i doubt i will write any prose for it. if you would like to give it a try, please reach out, i'd love to see what you write!

One Diamond: every time i touch this i make the cliffhanger worse lmao. i finally do have a direction, but execution is gonna have to wait a while.

The Young, Innocent, and Righteous: this is mostly just for me anyway, but i'm just gonna say that i'm waiting until i finish watching miraculous season 5 before i go any further

AS you wish: i have 5 more requests to do and i am so sorry to everyone waiting you do not deserve this lmao. i promise im trying, i love your ideas, it just takes me a really long time to fill in the rest and then actually write it. the next one on my list is particularly hard to pin down and so it's halting the ones behind it to. if not before, then after finals i will sit and bang my head on the keyboard until something good comes out

Light Isn't Fadin': soooooo many people have asked me about this one oof. SOMEDAY, i swear. right now its a huge, nebulous, hulking monster and im sorry it's just not happening yet.

A christmas carol: wait until december. please

Father's Day: june.

A Little Problem: over the summer, i will watch marvel movies until they once again hijack my brain and fuel this to completion. maybe.

easter eggs: how the fuck did i forget this lmao. i'm doing as much as i can in april, but when the month is done, i'm sorry, we'll all be waiting until next lenten season. hopefully it won't come to that.

aaaaand i THINK that's finally it. there's also a bunch of random paragraphs in word and google docs that may appear, not to mention ideas that kidnap me in dark alleys. but i also have like a good half dozen other wips for other places that im trying to attend to, so please be forgiving if it seems like its taking a while to post something as sprite.

as always, i love questions, comments, concerns, even some complaints, so feel free to interact.

See ya when I see ya!

sprite