#hardcover room renovation

[secretgardenfox]

A suspended cabinet is designed under the TV, on which objects and ornaments can be placed, and a sweeping robot can be placed below. At the same time, drawers are designed to place messy small things, which looks high-end and practical. If you like Jimei, please collect it.

[dollycas]

Puzzle Me a Murder (An Alice Pepper Lonely Hearts and Puzzle Club Mystery) by Roz Noonan #Review /#ARCGiveaway @KensingtonBooks

Puzzle Me a Murder (An Alice Pepper Lonely Hearts and Puzzle Club Mystery) Cozy Mystery 1st in Series Setting - Oregon Publisher ‏ : ‎ Kensington Cozies (July 23, 2024) Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 368 pages ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1496746716 ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1496746719 Kindle ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0CLZ38GR2 Audiobook ASIN B0D2LRJ7GV The Golden Girls meets puzzle lovers in New York Times bestselling author Roz Noonan's first Pacific Northwest-set Alice Pepper Lonely Hearts Puzzle Club Mystery! Empathetic to a fault, librarian Alice Pepper always had a natural talent for figuring out people and puzzles in the small Oregon town of West Hazel. But as a mystery permeates the quiet Pacific Northwestern community, murder is a challenge she’s not prepared to solve . . . Down-on-her-luck Alice had hoped to retire before turning sixty-five, not struggle to keep her cozy home and dependable job. But even after divorce leaves her golden years a mess, the pieces always come together with a little help from her friends—a fun-loving crew who thrive on jigsaws over coffee, cocktails, and gossip. So, when it’s time to defend close confidant Ruby Milliner, she springs into action. Only, in this case, supporting Ruby means proving she didn’t murder her cheating husband! Ruby never wanted to kill George, although anger can make a person say questionable—and incriminating—things. And scheming, deceitful George made a lot of people angry. A quick investigation reveals the man was blackmailing whoever he could for a quick payday, from his mistress to the most prominent residents in town . . . Alice dives into a secret search to exonerate Ruby, fiercely committed to cracking the crime and patching up torn relationships along the way. Despite using her unassuming persona to fly under the radar, slimming down a massive suspect list and restoring peace to West Hazel is a real gamble. Because if successful, Alice will meet a vengeful killer whose game she doesn’t yet know how to play. Dollycas's Thoughts Coffee, cocktails, gossip, murder, and JIGSAW PUZZLES! Librarian Alice Pepper's life has had a few bumps along the way making it impossible to retire and enjoy her golden years. With help from her friends, she is enjoying life as it is until her best friend's husband is murdered. Alice does have a way of reading people and solving puzzles in addition to jigsaw, so when her friend Ruby becomes a suspect in her husband George's murder she jumps right in to clear her name. She finds George was a man of many secrets which deepens the pool of suspects including some very prominent West Hazel residents. This puts Alice in a dangerous situation because as she pares down the list of suspects she puts herself in the killer's sights. _____ Ms. Noonan has introduced a smart, relatable, mature protagonist in Alice Pepper. The twists and turns of her life are similar to so many women these days. She is getting through every day the best that she can. For her, that means working longer than originally planned at a job she excels at and allowing friends and family to rent rooms in her spacious house. Right now, that includes her sister Violet who works as a vice principal and is spiritually into tarot cards, vibrations, and rituals. Alice's granddaughter, Taylor, "a twenty-two-year-old hipster" still trying to find her place in the world lives in a basement room and only pays rent occasionally. Taylor has a twin sister, Madison and she is a rookie cop. With her husband being murdered in their home, Alice's BFF Ruby is staying with her as well. All the core characters develop well throughout the story and are likable. I love that the main characters are my age. The author does a great job at world-building especially Alice's home/Alice's Castle. It's an old craftsman-style home renovated in the 1990s by a "tech prince" to "include a handful of en suite bedrooms" so the house be used for employee functions. Those plans didn't work out so Alice and her husband at the time got a great deal. Alice was able to hold on to the house after the divorce.  Ruby's house is only a few blocks away and it as well as the town of West Hazel is vividly described. Recently my husband and I were bitten by the jigsaw puzzle bug so I love the jigsaw puzzle theme. Alice, Ruby, and Violet always have a puzzle on the table to work on, sometimes as they work their way to puzzling out much heavier topics like murder. They also trade puzzles with the local senior center where Alice and Violet's Aunt Gildy resides. They visit her often for special meals and to do puzzles. You never know, Gildy may have information they can use to catch the killer. The center manager Stone Donahue may be eager to help too. A lot happens within these pages. The mystery was very well plotted and blends easily with several subplots. The victim was doing some shady dealing that gave many people motive to want him dead. I enjoyed following the clues with Alice and her crew. It helped that West Hazel has a small police department and a granddaughter on the force. I know she overshared with the group but that is what happens in a small town. Plus gossip rolls quickly through the community. The puzzle pieces clicked into place for me before Alice but the sting, the fight, and the takedown were priceless. Puzzle Me a Murder was an entertaining read with a puzzling mystery and engaging characters set in a charming little Oregon town. It shines a light on how fulfilling life could be starting over with good friends and family by your side. I am keen to see what mystery Alice, her family, and friends puzzle out next. I voluntarily reviewed an Advance Reader Copy. This does not affect my opinion of the book or the content of my review. Thank you to the author, publisher, and NetGalley for providing me with an ARC. Your Escape Into A Good Book Travel Agent About the Author Roz Noonan is the New York Times bestselling author of the Alice Pepper Lonely Hearts Puzzle Club Mysteries, the Laura Mori Mysteries (under the name R.J. Noonan), acclaimed contemporary fiction, and domestic suspense novels. She also co-authored the bestselling collaborative novels Sinister and Ominous with Lisa Jackson and Nancy Bush, and she also writes crime novels under the name R. J. Noonan. She lives in the Pacific Northwest, where she writes in the shade of some towering two-hundred-year-old Douglas fir trees, and can be found online at RosalindNoonanBooks.com. Also written by this Author This post contains affiliate links. If you make a purchase using my links, I will receive a small commission from the sale at no cost to you. Thank you for supporting Escape With Dollycas. Thanks to the publisher I have 1 ARC to give away! The contest is open to anyone over 18 years old with a US or Canadian mailing address. Duplicate entries will be deleted. Void where prohibited. You do not have to be a follower to enter but I hope you will find something you like here and become a follower. Followers Will Receive 2 Bonus Entries For Each Way They Follow. Plus 2 Bonus Entries For Following My Facebook Fan Page. Add this book to your WANT TO READ shelf on GoodReads for 3 Bonus Entries. Follow Kensington Books on Twitter for 2 Bonus Entries! Follow Kensington Publishing on Facebook for 2 Bonus Entries! Pin this giveaway to Pinterest for 3 Bonus Entries. If you share the giveaway on Threads, X, or Facebook or anywhere you will receive 5 Bonus Entries For Each Link. The  Contest Will End August 8, 2024, at 11:59 PM CST The Winner Will Be Chosen Using Random.org The Winner Will Be Notified By Email and Will Be Posted Here In The Sidebar. Click Here For Entry Form Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. Receiving a complimentary copy in no way reflected my review of this book. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.” “As an Amazon Associate, I earn a commission from qualifying purchases.” Read the full article

[40kcals]

MY GW REWARDS :0

55kg - new sport leggings :)

53kg - a paperback book…

50kg - editing feature!

47kg - buy a new bookshelf

45kg - any hardcover book :0

40kg - new room deco

38kg - plants

35kg - renovate room :$

32kg - shopping spree / sell big clothes

YUP THATS ALL!! lmk what ur rewards are :))

[kuroosdumbslut]

happy birthday remus, heres some birthday stuff for him

• roman wakes him like all normal siblings do: with an airhorn

• remus was prepared, morning star in his hand ready to swing, but set it down when he saw it was just roman... and instead picked up a nearby pillow and chucked it at him lmao

• after their short pillow war, roman and remus finally walked to the common area where the rest of the sides were, patton missing only because he was in the kitchen

• janus was first to speak up: “happy birthday remus, i totally didnt get you anything” before handing him a small box with a green ribbon on it. remus opened it, finding little eyeball pins in there for his outfit

• surprisingly, logan was next: “Happy Birthday Remus, I...hope you find this adequate” and handed him another box with a darker green ribbon. remus once again opened the present and found a neat book “The Invention of Murder” (yea its a real book and its actually pretty interesting!)

• Before anyone else could give their gift, patton called everyone in to eat. he had made a nice pancake, egg and bacon breakfast with some added deodorant sticks for remus as well as green pancakes for him as well

• after breakfast, the presents continued with patton handing remus his next : “Happy birthday kiddo!” inside was a cute octopus plushie as well as a little thing of fake blood cause “I dont want to stifle your creativity, so I added it in case you wanted to, um, add your touch to it”

• virgil came next: “happy birthday, Remus..” virgils gift was low key, honestly, but it meant a lot to remus nonetheless. the present was a a tim burton styled hardcovered sketchbook with the first page being one of virgils rare sketches.

• roman insisted he give his present towards the end of the day, so everyone continued foward with the rest of the activities all the other sides had prepared for the day

• after a day of hanging out, movie marathons, and some great food and cake, roman finally gave remus his gift

• “we havent always been on the best terms and probably still have a ways to go, but happy birthday remus” and instead of an actual present in a box, opened the door to the shared imagination that wasnt as often used and their own individual versions of it. and inside...it was amazing: a beautiful starry sky, endless land with castles, villages, creatures, both of romans and remus’ creations, and in the main castle two doors that each led to their rooms, red door for roman, green door for remus.

• “i was thinking maybe we could start doing adventures together again like before, if you wanted to! while i dont find, um, some of your portion of the imagination my style, i thought maybe this is where we could create together.”

• remus cried 1000000%. he even gave roman a hug, something that hadnt happened in several years. for the remainder of the night, roman and remus spent it doing little mini adventures and creating a few creatures together as well, letting said creatures run around the newly renovated joint imagination

• all in all, remus put this down as the best birthday ever, thus far

[nomadmilk]

Why the God Isn’t Bored on Midgard - Loki x F!Reader Drabble - 7

Summary: With Ragnarok decimating Asgard, Thor and Loki and their people return to Earth searching for refuge. Everyone else has seemed to settle, except for Loki - the God of Mischief and Chaos - who isn’t willing to live the domesticated Midgard life, and getting utterly bored out of his mind... Until he discovered you.

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Rated M/18+. The return of the jerk ex. Mentions of sex, and sex things.

Author’s Note: I’m stuck inside reading, playing Animal Crossing, and writing this :) Let me know what you think, and enjoy <3 Hoping to get more parts up soon!

Here are the other parts to the series: Part 1     Part 2 Part 3     Part 4 Part 5     Part 6 Part 7     Part 8 (First Half)     Part 8.5 (Second Half) Part 9

It seemed like you hadn’t come to terms as to what happened at Stark’s party. Loki assumed you were too stubborn and shy to actually say anything, and resorted to your usual plan in being distracted; working.

You did the tasks; helping women with recommending lingerie, funny gifts that might actually get the ball rolling for couples, and even did the boring stuff like keeping count of stock and if there was anything that needed to be delivered. You were even able to talk and gossip with your new colleagues. Over folding and hanging pieces and products, you talked briefly about past work employers, a little about family, and little specs of each other’s lives. You admit, you don’t say much, probably because you’re still the new kid in the store, but you listen intently as you and a colleague stack some new boxed lube on a shelf.

“So, I actually tried this with my boyfriend.” She says, inspecting the box before placing it on the row you had made. “And, oh my god, it does wonders. You have no idea how big he is.”

Your eyebrows raise as you nod along. It wasn’t what you were expecting on hearing. Although, it didn’t make you startled in any way; you had just been dealing with a guy who wanted to know what gag was best with a unicorn outfit.

“I mean, they say size doesn’t matter – like, yeah, I totally agree. “ She continues. “But it’s like they took the Karma Sutra, and somehow made it a thousand times better… I mean, technically they’re, like, thousands of years old, so they must have had the reading and practice-”

“Or they were really bored.” You chime, nervous about the jokey input. The colleague chuckles.

The shift wasn’t too bad at all-

“Wait.” You say, stopping your hands and turning to her. “You-… Asgardian?”

“Yeah, my boyfriend’s Asgardian.”

“And you said he-“

“Yes. They all have big dicks.”

-----

“Uh. Who the hell are you?”

Loki has had his fair share of ugly welcomes, and he also had his fair share of countering them. The temptation to do so was high, but Loki moves the conversation along. “Can I help you?”

The Prince stares t the stranger, who is in the meantime, blinking at his stature. It seemed like he wasn’t expecting Loki at all to answer the door, so Loki had to assume he was looking for someone else.

He prompts him again. “Are you looking for someone in particular?”

“Yeah, uh, Y/N?” The man blunders. “Does she still live here?”

“I’m sorry, but she’s not here at the moment.” Loki answers, assessing the man’s language. “Can I pass on a message?”

The man completely ignores the offer. “She said there’s a box of my stuff left over. Can I come in?”

Hesitant in a reply and beginning to glare, Loki wasn’t comfortable with his presence at all. Here he was in the apartment, head buried in books and student papers, until this guy comes along and bombards the serenity of it.

Over a box of stuff.

You never said there was going to be a visitor today. To be honest, you hadn’t spoken to Loki since Tony Stark’s party. He smirks to himself; with your job occupying all of your time, you must be pent up more than ever.

“Listen, I’ll just grab it and go, is that alright?” The man says, hurriedly this time.

Loki opens the door wider, and the man immediately steps into the flat. As he closed the door, he turns around to see the man in awe of the room. “When’d she renovate this place?”

“Since I moved in.” Loki proceeds to your room to pick up said box, passing the man by. “You said-“

He grabs Loki by the arm. Loki stills. For a second, the god almost relinquishes a blade into hi hand, but he stops himself. If this guy ended up in the news as  murder victim, Fury would be breathing down his neck constantly. And he’d have to wish his little bit of freedom and sanctuary gone.

Loki sighs; it was a reflex. He didn’t know why he needed a weapon to maim a human when he can actually just use his strength or cunning to actually do more so. But the extra threat made it guarantee that the man didn’t retaliate.

Not that the guy stood a chance.

On the other hand, Loki didn’t know why he felt a little agitated by this stranger.

“Who are you?” His grip was not loosening. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“I’m just someone who lives with her.” Loki says, the reply is satisfactory enough for Loki’s arm to be returned. His jaw clenches; this guy was too curious. “You never introduced yourself either.”

“Just someone concerned about her well-being.” He squares Loki, not reaching the same height, though. “Wait a minute… Your voice… She was with you…”

Loki surveys him, the man’s expression changing. What was he talking about? Was he a spy? A stalker? It was difficult to read him because Loki had little to work on. All he could pinpoint was that anything related to you, or just you, were definitely his buttons to push. You’ve never mentioned this man at any point in your interactions. The only man Loki had heard, who he had never met, who you barely noted upon was-

Then it struck him; it was if you were here to slap him. Again.

So, this was the so-called Ex? The guy phoning you at Stark’s party.

“You were with her that night.” The Ex resumes. It seems like he’s making a few revelations in his head as well. “What were you doing with her?”

It was like spite and pride had invited themselves to spread the smile onto Loki’s face. And before he could get a word in play, you had entered the apartment.

You promptly recognise The Ex in your home, and Loki steps back as your face crumples in confusion and ferocity. And he knew the next few minutes was going to be better than what he had originally planned.

You weren’t hiding your disbelief of your Ex just barging into your place, and you unleashed your rage by interrogating on why he was here in the first place. Although, The Ex, battling against you, stood no match against you.

As the scene plays out, it reminds him of when he saw you in the apartment for the first time… Your anger was volatile when it was pushed, and maybe that’s why Loki has never tested it, even though the allurement to mess with you some more was attractive.

Your eyes are fierce, and your cheeks have that glowering complexion that made Loki freeze in an unnatural way.

“Get out.” You demand, pointing to the open door.

“You’re not serious?” The Ex fumes. “And really? Him? Who the hell is he?”

“What? He’s just-“

“Oh! You’re really oblivious, y’know! You don’t even recognise it! You never fucking do!” The Ex stomps towards the exit.

“You never noticed anything I did!” You yell some more. “And I finally fucking realise that!”

The door slams shut.

Loki lets you breathe for a minute. You slip off your heels, easily coming off due to your stockings. You remove your jacket, and hang your handbag along with it.

You lock eyes with him, and for some reason Loki is left breathless by the sight of you; as you take off the band that made your ponytail, your hair beautifully flows and frames your face. Your uniform was an ill-fitting polo shirt and skirt, but it accompanied your body charmingly.

However, whilst Loki was staring at you, awaiting a word or for you to just walk by, you were looking at him back.

Although, when he was checking where your irises were wondering, they seemed to be… They seemed to be looking low… It looks like you were looking low at his…

“Sorry you had to see that.” You utter suddenly, eyes darting away. Your cheeks fade from the glower in replacement of a pink hue. You exhale. “This day has been exhausting. So, uh, I’ll be relieving myself to my bed.”

Loki frowns in amusement; you blush even harder.

“To sleep!” You add quickly. “I’m going to relieve myself by sleeping, is what I meant.”

You pace pass him, not knowing why you felt the need to hide your face.

Loki puts his hands in his pockets. “Enjoy yourself.”

-----

The pillows comfort your head as you lay. Your room was starting to dim with violet and orange as the sun outside your window was lowering from the sky. You roll over, glancing at where the rays hit your chest of drawers. It was like the universe was being perverse with its humour because the sunset shone directly as to where you hid your sex toys. You get flashbacks of work, and the personal conversations that your colleagues spilled you with, and all the dildos you displayed, and all the vibrators you pressed buttons on to demonstrate their strengths.

Cuddling a pillow, you thought about Loki and pondered about what he was doing; he seems pretty calm, as per usual, and probably busy with some work from his students at the university. Shutting your eyes, he comes to life in your mind. Your memory makes the room vivid as it remembers the walls of hardcover novels and encyclopaedias, and his deep brown varnished desk in the middle of it all. He sits behind it, his low-lidded eyes concentrating on a page in front of him. You internally whine; you can’t see his eyes properly but they’re green and glinting. Watching his hands, you see him write; they’re large, agile and slender. His fingers touch his face in contemplation, and you see him take a small bite of his bottom lip…

A pool of wetness began dripping from your folds as your minds lets you relive the touch of his hands on your body, and his lips against yours. You can smell a scent; a citrus and oak fragrance that familiarised the God of Mischief to you…

God, you were horny, and the added detail that the colleague gave you, was making your body shift in need of alleviation.

Nothing was going to relieve you like Loki did. It was infuriating as to how good he could make you feel. Since then, no dildo, no toy had satisfied you the way he did. Even he put your own hands to shame; they knew how to do it, but Loki seemed to be more attentive, and intimate, and clever…

With the time you had been taking to evade and distance yourself from him, the more you understood that your body wanted him, and to accept that fact was getting easier and easier.

[kitanoko]

In which the doctor meets his match Part 4!!

Note: I haven’t updated this since Sept 2018....y’all thought you seen the last of me HAHA. Finally, things are building up ....... shinsou is also going to meet todoroki EVENTUALLY ~

Read Part 1 here

Read Part 2 here

Read Part 3 here

Warm.

That was the only thing Yaoyorozu could think of when he shook her hands and laid a gaze that lingered on her luscious, mascara-coated lashes a second too long. She unknowingly scratched little circles on the hardcover of her lacquered folder when she looked up and saw the way he’d run his hand through his hair as the two walked out of the meeting room.

It was habit that she had come to notice Todoroki would do whenever he was about to say something but hesistates. A feeling stirred inside her and her arm tensed. It was definitely Aizawa sensei’s fault for making the atmosphere so….strange now, Yaoyorozu thought. She’s going to his office straight away after to demand an explanation!

The receptionist immediately dropped whatever she was doing when the two closed the meeting door, her eyes directing at the white and red haired man. Yaoyorozu knew the receptionist was checking the doctor out and she rolled her eyes.

The elevator slid open after a short while and Todoroki waved a goodbye. He entered, hands naturally smoothing out the bottom of his suit, and pressed the door to ground floor. Yaoyorozu, catching his teeny smile the second before the door fully closed, mirrored his gesture and hugged the newly signed contract to her chest even more as if protecting it.

Yaoyorozu had agreed to conduct a site visit this Saturday (which was sort of silly since she could go to his clinic right now if she wanted to) and cradled the papers in her hand even closer to her heart.

“So he signed?” A voice rose behind her with a teasing tone and she turned to see Aizawa crossing his arms, shifting his body weight on the wall beside him. The smirk that had formed on his face wrinkled his jaw. Yaoyorozu huffed, making sure to be conspicuously annoyed.

“Yes he did sensei…but I cannot believe you! You came in and made it so awkward!”

Aizawa’s smirk did not fade. “I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t like Shinsou.”

At the mention of their rival’s name, Yaoyorozu scrunched her nose. She playfully slapped her mentor’s arm, a tint of pink highlighting her cheeks, and huffed again, earning her a light chuckle from the man.

Just three weeks ago, the aforementioned Shinsou showed up at their doorstep, asking to speak with her. Yaoyorozu was slightly weary –after all, they have never worked together before (and he’d always convince her to quit Erase) but figured if he was coming for an alleged business opportunity, she’d better hold onto the chance. The potential client was a millionaire who wanted to design a chain of malls he had just acquired. Shinsou, being the sole designer in his growing firm, decided to seek help from Erase. Yaoyorozu respected his humbleness and ambition and so had agreed to meet him.

Their discussion was great and from it she learnt a lot about Shinsou’s character. He was overall quite quiet, lips always in a thin line, and hair always disheveled (reminded her a lot of Aizawa to be frank). It was hard reading his expressions. Despite this, deep down, Yaoyorozu knew Shinsou’s passion for design shown through his work. The way he’d use his words to paint a beautiful picture of the planned end product was admirable. Yaoyorozu decided that Shinsou was no doubt a talent that she could learn from. Unfortunately, the deal busted and so they had to terminate the contract. Aizawa began to tease her about Shinsou ever since; he suspected there was something ‘blossoming’ between them but of course Yaoyorozu would scoff every time.

It had bothered her however. Recalling that every time Shinsou had come, Aizawa and the former would always politely greet each other but something about the conversations between them had displayed a familiarity between the two. Yaoyorozu never asked but she had a feeling they had known each other for a long time.

“….I knew you’d bring it up.” Yaoyorozu said, walking beside her mentor.

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s getting phone calls from that guy still.”

“Shinsou and I are STRICTLY business. ONLY.” She emphasized, raising her index finger. Yaoyorozu had met Shinsou for dinner once (on friendly terms) but she wasn’t going to let anyone know that other than her best friends. Aizawa shrugged.

“There’s no conflict of interest by the way, just looking out for my favourite student!”

“Oh please…curl back up in your worm suit and take a nap to rewire your mind.” Yaoyorozu stuck her tongue out childishly at her mentor and took a step towards her desk. She sat down and kicked off her heels and changed to her Tory Burch flats. “Feel free to ask admin to stock up on the white chip macademia cookies in the pantry, I may need some sugar for the weekend.”

Aizawa saw the spark in her eyes. “Sure, you got it,” he said and left.

Yaoyorozu licked her bottom lip and stretched, curling her toes inside her shoes. Cracking her knuckles, she straightened herself in her ergonomic chair.

The designer was starting this project with a bang.

~~

“So?” Kendou asked. She walked over to the table next to the couch to stack the Elle magazines back into a neat pile. “The designer’s going to come in on Saturday, when?”

The sun was setting, casting shadows over Kendou’s perfect bright ponytail and the streets were beginning to fill with crowds of the after-work drinking group. There were quite a few hang out dens  around this area which was something that benefitted Todoroki. He’d often meet up with his longtime friends after his shift.

Todoroki cracked his neck and leaned over the counter with a mug in hand. He was now back in his suit which had cracked Kendou right up because of their contrast. She was wearing an Ivy Park tank with leggings while he looked like he was ready to hit up a gala.

“She’s free any time but I told her to come at 3 since we’d be done by then.”

“Okay, sounds good. Any idea what it’s gonna look like after?”

“It’ll be traditional Japanese-inspired, something I’ve thought about since before our latest renovation.”

“Which may I remind you was only a year ago.”

“Right.”

Kendou cocked a brow, strolling back the other way to grab the purse locked under the front desk. “So what made you suddenly feel like we needed a makeover again? I don’t think we ever got to that.”

The doctor took a sip of his drink, avoiding eye contact.

“There’s never a bad time to make our patients feel at home you know.”

That answer was awfully suspect but Kendou knew there was no point in interrogating the doctor about it. The clinic is his after all and no one but him would know how he wanted to envision the place.

The girl looped her arm through the handles of her canvas bag. “May I also remind you that I doubt anyone’s homes look like a ryokan except for yours?”

Todoroki gave a chuckle, lips resting to a small smile. He looked almost proud. “Yes of course. I guess I wanted to make sure the patients feel like they’re at my home, alright?”

Kendou laughed. “Making jokes now are we? You’re in a chipper mood, doctor. I’m heading out. Tetstutetsu and I are getting yakitori so I’ll see ya tomorrow!”

“See ya.”

With that the orange haired girl hopped out of the clinic with a skip in her steps.

Todoroki’s shoulders slumped a little when he turned his gaze back to the front desk. His eyes landed on a nearby medical poster and he curled his fingers around his mug once more. The office was silent except for the bustle of people’s laughter and chitter seeping through the door and he casually strolled over to switch off all the lights on his right.

The phone beside the mug began to shake and vibrate, then ‘X gon give it to ya’ started booming from it. Todoroki’s brow twitched a little seeing his screen brightening.

It was Bakugou.

“Yea?” Todoroki answered in a monotone voice, lifting his phone to his ear, “What’s up.”

“I hate hearing your voice too, half-n-half,” Bakugou grunted.

Todoroki exhaled a little, chuckling, “Need me for something?”

“No..well yes. But no, not me. Harry Potter says he’s planning a surprise party for his girlfriend uh…you know, what’s her face. Purple hair girl. He wanna check if ya can come with. I don’t wanna go but I will just because I’m feeling generous.”

“What a sacrifice,” Todoroki retorted, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder, “When is it?”

“This Saturday.”

Todoroki thought for a bit. If Yaoyorozu came around 3:30, he’d be able to make it.

“Sure.” The doctor grabbed his mug and swallowed the last drop of Milo, “Who’s going and when’d you become Kaminari’s secretary.”

Bakugou cursed into the phone. “Fcking bitch is having a panic attack about his cake or whatever that sludge he’s baking. Fcking even gave him the recipe and helped him with most of it and he can’t even squeeze icing properly.”

“You? Baking?” Todoroki said incredulously, “Never thought I’d see the day when you’d bake.”

“For your record, I can fcking C O O K.”

“Yea, I definitely know now.”

Todoroki heard a weensy bit of Kaminari’s whining at the back and Bakugou grunted again.

“Bring some peeps if you want, the dolt over there wanna fill up the apartment, though it shouldn’t be that fcking hard since it’s a two by two square.”

Todoroki gave a half-hearted hum. “I’ll think about it. But tell him I’ll be there.”

“K, bye.” And with that Bakugou hung up. Todoroki stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Walking to the bathroom, Todoroki rinsed his mug in the sink. His reflection caught his attention, seeing his Tom Ford suit reminded him of Erase.

Yaoyorozu.

He eyed the ceiling a bit and back to the mirror in front of him. Fixing his collar with a tug, a thought sprang like ripples on water.

He wondered, would it be crazy to invite her to Jirou’s party?

~~

“JIROU, IM GOING TO PLAY THE MOVIE!!” Ashido’s shrill voice startled Yaoyorozu and the latter quickly turned to her friend.

“We have ears you know.”

Ashido gave a small ‘hehe’ and Jirou snarled at her when she appeared behind the couch. “And some of us have REALLY sensitive hearing.”

“Sorry, just making sure you don’t miss anything. I love this movie!”

The three were chilling together in Yaoyorozu’s house with fuzzy pyjamas and slippers. The fleece blanket that Yaoyorozu so adored fell across Ashido’s lap and Jirou plopped a bowl of popcorn overloaded with butter between them.

“Extra extra greasy?” Ashido said as she stuffed a bunch of popcorn in her mouth and Jirou repeated after her.

“Yes, extra extra greasy. I’m scared for all our arteries.”

“Just do 3 laps tomorrow and you’ll burn it all out.”

This was the designer’s usual entertainment, her friends’ constant bickering.

“….or we could ask Dr. Todoroki for some advice.”

At his name, Yaoyorozu coughed out half-chewed kernels, eyes watering. Jirou quickly handed her water, though her hands were shaking from laughing at Yaoyorozu’s immediate reaction.

“Oh, so now we can’t even MENTION his name?” Ashido guffawed, kicking her legs up and down as the movie’s opening song began to fill the air.

Yaoyorozu squinted her eyes. “I’m going to kick you guys out if you keep at it.”

“Ashido started it!”

“No I didn’t! WAIT SHH the movie!”

Jirou tottered her legs on the couch for a bit as Shrek 2 began and stood up, “Wait can you pause, I have to go washroom.”

The pink-haired girl flicked a popcorn at her and licked her fingers before reaching for the remote. “Ugh why didn’t you go earlier. Fine, we’ll wait.”

When they heard Jirou slide the door to a close, Ashido quickly leaned over to the designer who was leisurely skimming through ASOS.

“Ohh! That top’s really cute Yaomomo! But wait I need to tell you something.”

Yaoyorozu reeled over at her friend who was acting suspicious as if she had a secret and put down her phone.

“What is it?” She asked confounded.

“Kaminari and I are planning Jirou’s surprise Birthday, it’s going to be Saturday.”

“Oh sounds fun! Where?”

“It’ll be at his place, can you bring some snacks?”

Yaoyorozu grinned, “Of course I can. Anything else you guys need help with?”

Ashido twirled at lock of hair playfully. “Nope I think we’re all good. Show up at 7, we’ll all hide and wait for Kami to bring her in.“

“I have a client to see right before but I should be there on time.”

Seeing the way her friends’ eyes glistened, Yaoyorozu could tell she knew who ‘the client’ was.

“Oh…come on, bring the doctor.”

“What! I’ve only talked to him twice. That’s absurd. He would think I’m interested in him.”

“Hey, all relationships starts off with friendship of some degree. Fine, bring Shinsou then.”

Yaoyorozu rolled her eyes, “No and no.”

“Aww…come on…we need some hotties in the room, well other than us of course.” Ashido burst out giggling at her own humour, “I did hear that Kaminari’s bringing a bunch of his friends over so it’ll be sooo much fun, I can’t ---“

“WAIT..she’s back!” Yaoyorozu whispered and the two girls quickly retrograded to their previous positions. Jirou walked in, not suspecting a thing.

“So ready for some Shrek?” Ashido asked, reaching out for the glass of lemonade slicked with condensation. It was a good thing Yaoyorozu and her had fast reflexes.

Jirou jumped back onto the couch, “Yup, ya betcha!”

~~

Watching her work so precisely and meticulously, he found himself feeling as though he was intruding. Yaoyorozu was prisoned in focus – perhaps in her own world where nothing mattered except to make her designs come to life.

The doctor was curious, careful eyes admiring how she’d measure every obscure thing in his office. Every angle should direct the audience to a certain highlight, Yaoyorozu had explained. He just nodded as if he understood.

Todoroki made sure to give her enough space so she can do her work.

“Mm, maybe if I put that over here…” The designer muttered to herself, tapping her chin. Forming dialogues in her head while working was a habit of hers.

Todoroki noticed Kendou mindlessly wiping her computer monitor, but the receptionist’s gaze was towards the designer.

“If you keep that up, your monitor’s going to break.”

Kendou snapped out of it and smiled sheepishly.

“It’s after hours, you can go you know.”

“Oh I know,” Kendou said, now directing her gaze at him. She walked closer and whispered, hand cupping her mouth slightly. “I remember her now. She’s gorgeous, I can’t believe she’s so talented as well. Ugh, look at her dress, I want that sense of fashion.”

Todoroki shifted his attention to the designer. Yaoyorozu was donning a tight crew neck black top with an A-line skirt painted with bright patterns. Her hair was up in her usual pony tail though it looked curlier than usual. Large round hoops hung on her ears, glinting gold, while the watch she had on was one with classic black leather straps.

“Hm.” Was all Todoroki said.

Kendou huffed. “Oh you boys don’t know what fashion is.”

The doctor ignored her snarky comment, hands shoved back into his pockets and began to walk over to the woman who was now packing up her materials.

“So, I assume everything’s done?”

Yaoyorozu swiveled around, finding herself staring into gunmetal and cyan. His minty breath too close.

“Um---“She ended up stuttering, taking a step back, “Yes, almost! I’ve got what I need for the most part, I will be coming back quite often however. What’s your schedule? I’d suggest 2 months of closure so by mid-October at the latest?”

“That sounds good.”

The clock on the wall read exactly 5 p.m. and the designer found herself feeling relieved. Plenty of time for her to go back home and freshen up before the party. Kendou was now waving her goodbyes and heading out, leaving the two lost for words at each other’s company.

Todoroki rested a hand on his neck, scratching the area right around the nape and exhaled.

“Are you busy tonight?”

The woman puckered her lip.

“Tonight? I have plans with my friends.”

“…I see.” His chest sank, though keeping his voice light. Nonetheless the woman could sense the disappointment.

“Is there something you wanted to do? If you want to talk about the project, I’d be happy to discuss.”

Todoroki shook his head, the little pieces of white hair hanging right between his brows. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh.”

Things went quiet between them again. The rustle of Yaoyorozu’s purse that squished between her arm was the only distraction before the designer decided to head off.

“Thanks, I’ll see you—“

“Soon.” He finished for her in haste and meekly smiled at his outward response. Yaoyorozu reciprocated the gesture before the phone in her purse began to vibrate.

“Sorry I have to take this.” The woman said, pushing open the door. She added cheerily, “Bye doctor!” With a wink she left, the last sound of her heels’ clicking echoing away.

Though he was slightly disgruntled at his failed attempt to invite her to Jirou’s party, Todoroki’s heart skipped a beat. Not that it was his first time hearing anyone call him doctor. But what was it that made her saying it so….enticing?

[blueincandescence]

“Homecoming” — Diana Prince & Steve Trevor

WonderTrev Week Day 4: Fanfic prompt domesticity

Summary: When Steve arrives unexpectedly to 1984, Diana takes him home. If you can call it that.

Word Count: 1330

Note: Made it with seven minutes to spare! I’ll try to catch any grammar stuff when I post on ao3 tomorrow. Night all and happiest of WonderTrev weeks!

Homecoming

Nowhere else to go, Diana brings Steve to the apartment ARGUS lent her. Homebase, the head officer called it. It feels as foreign to Diana as it must to Steve. Stark white. High ceilings. Steve looks up and around, his hands propped on the belt of his fanny pack.

Diana gestures. “It’s very modern. All the latest—” The bareness of the room makes her falter. “Everything.” Her rooms growing up had always been tidy but full of treasures. Woven blankets and blown glass figurines and weapons hidden from her mother, as cared for as any of her dolls or books.

Steve picks up a hardcover from the glass coffee table and thumbs through it. Sword to her throat, Diana couldn’t have come up with the title. ARGUS enjoys their props—of which, Diana has come to understand, she is a favorite.

Diana crosses to open the balcony doors. Sheer curtains lay flat and still in the humidity. “In springtime, there’s a breeze from the river. Autumn, too, they tell me. I haven’t been here long.” She doesn’t know why she is apologizing. What precisely she is apologizing for. 

The smile Steve gives crinkles his eyes, but his curved lips are pressed. He must have so many questions. He keeps them to himself.

While Steve does a circuit of the kitchen, touching dials and spinning knobs, Diana makes a phone call. Secured line, seven layers of code. She gives her account of the incident and the presence of a World War I veteran presumed dead sixty-six years ago. The clipped edge to her voice catches Steve’s ear. Diana stretches the phone cord around the wall separating the kitchen and the hallway and makes her briefing even briefer.

She glares into the living room. “It’s all wrong,” she tells her ARGUS contact. She means the attack, the motive they’re dreaming up, but also this place. If Diana had it to do again, if she’d taken an interest, she would have chosen a brownstone. Something turn of the century, half a century of renovations under its roof with mismatched furniture and a wall of books. Things she could point to as a clear line from Steve’s time to this one.

Diana disconnects the call. The cord vibrates. Steve is sheepish, caught in the act of plucking it. Diana hands him the receiver. “Press all the buttons you like.”

Clearing his throat, Steve instead places the receiver back in the cradle and takes his tour of the 1980s to the hall. He hangs onto the doorframe as he dips his whole body into the bathroom. He looks back at Diana, his lifted eyebrows a sweet complement to his awe-tousled hair. Steve points in the general direction of the toilet. Diana nods.

Diana retreats to the sofa to blow out a breath. There is so much she should be doing. So much she doesn’t understand.

Dear Etta, Diana narrates in her head, a habit she’d held onto for decades. I found Steve Trevor in the mall today. He remains as miraculous as ever.

“Lots of art.”

Steve’s voice startles Diana to her feet. “Excuse me?”

“Sor—” They’d exchanged so few words he needs to clear his throat. “Sorry. Lots of, uh, art.” Steve points backward with his thumb toward the cluster of Georgia O'Keeffes peeking out of her open bedroom door. 

“Those are mine,” Diana says brightly, grateful to have something. Diana ushers Steve to stand in front of the paintings. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

“They certainly are, ah, evocative,” Steve says, eyes crinkled. He inclines toward her, almost close enough to press foreheads. “Clio would have liked them.” 

Diana laughs. “Well, you know how I feel about censorship in art.”

Steve’s hesitation is a palpable thing.

“The National Gallery. Remember? You would like it even better now. No figleaves. So fortunate they rebuilt after the air raids.” 

“Air raids?” 

Too late, Diana recognizes Steve’s expression has slid from confusion to alarm. “Not our war,” Diana reassures him. “The one after.”

Steve looks down at his shoes. His toes flex beneath the white leather. 

Diana slides her hands into her trouser pockets to keep from pressing them through the wall. “Etta took me to the National Gallery,” she states, unnecessarily. Not Steve. He had taken her to Selfridge Department Store, Westminster, Paddington Station. To the pub where she would meet with their friends every Armistice Day for forty years. 

There was a time when Diana could have recalled each minute she spent with Steve Trevor in perfect clarity. The years had not blurred the memories. Diana had. Counting minutes only proved Steve right. They hadn’t had enough time.

The bright colors of dear Georgia’s work blur at the edges. How many more minutes had Steve’s return bought them? 

And at what cost?

Beside Diana, Steve holds himself still, but she can sense his eyes moving to her nightstand. In it, he would have found a watch she can’t bear to return, not until she knows—more. What Steve is looking for is not on her nightstand or her dresser or her walls. He’s looking, Diana realizes, for something missing.

“Bad luck,” Diana tells Steve. He should know that better than most. When he turns a questioning look on her, Diana explains, “Photographs. I rarely pose for them.” She rarely keeps them outside of a lockbox in London. Her memory is difficult enough to contend with. She gestures back toward the hallway. “I prefer my privacy.”

Steve nods and Diana closes the door behind them. Her hands tingle with adrenaline. So much she should be doing. So much she doesn’t understand. Diana follows Steve back toward the kitchen, lingering in the entryway. 

“Coffee?” Diana offers. “There might be something in the refrigerator.” She points. Diana winces when Steve opens the door, exposing little more than the light. “I’ll call for delivery before I go.”

The refrigerator door shuts. The freezer opens, blocking the clenched jaw Steve clearly does not want Diana to see.

Sighing, Diana rests her back on the wall, unable to face anything but the balcony. “I’m sorry, Steve.” Diana means it. She tries on an ironic little shrug. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know.” Steve’s voice is subdued, but he manages to hit that note of humor Diana missed. The freezer door shuts. The cabinet opens. “I know you have important things to do—that I’m—in the way. Like a child. Trailing after you. Pressing buttons.”

“Steve.” Diana angles back toward the kitchen. She hates that she didn’t anticipate this pain, head it off for him.

The silverware drawer rattles. “You were so much better at this than me. You strode down the streets of London with a sword. I have this—” The zipper of his fanny pack squeaks—“ridiculous thing.”

“Steve. Please.” Diana longs to comfort him. She can’t even look at him.

“I know I don’t belong here.”

Diana laughs. Shakes her head against the corner of the entryway. “I don’t either. Steve. You see that I don’t.” As quiet as Charlie in a confessional, Diana says, “And I’ve had a lot more time to adjust.” 

The shame of it stings. But telling the truth is its own kind of balm.

Steve leaves her to her quiet. The only sound from the kitchen is the clack of metal on glass. 

Curiosity and a moment to compose herself is enough for Diana to come into the kitchen. Steve sits at her table, waiting for her with a smile and a bowl of vanilla ice-cream. He pushes the bowl to the middle of the table and offers her a spoon.

“I should have looked in the freezer first,” he says. 

Diana accepts the spoon from Steve, her own smile spreading to match his. 

As they share the ice-cream, appreciative noises and clanking spoons and huffs of laughter as they duel for the last bite fill the apartment’s cavernous space. 

Diana doesn’t belong in this world. Steve doesn’t belong in this time. 

But eyes color of Themysciran waters and fingers caressing that secret spot below on her wrist is home enough while they have it.

[anjana-sen]

Sapphire Lodge - Quaint & Haunted with Fjord View

Sapphire Lodge - Quaint & Haunted with Fjord View

by Dr. Anjana Sen

I am staying at the Sapphire Lodge by the Mirage Valley overlooking the Mist Cavern in the outskirts of Magnolia fjord. The Lodge is halfway uphill, with 500-700 meter high cliff lines both at the back and frontside.

I wanted to stay by the onset of spring-time, before I make a decision to purchase (and thereby squander a fortune). Spring comes quite late here, and unusually late this year. The lodge seemed a bit atypical to me because of its combined stone-log structural built. I have a great fascination for stone-log cabins, particularly in the wilderness.

However, this is way far from being called a “cabin”. Idyllic, remote, secluded, rocky, rugged terrain with foggy cedar-birch forest, far away from 10th floor board meetings and financial district mayhem. But not just bleak emptiness.

What a coincidence,…..Silver and Sapphire. Magnolia and moon. These have long been the theme of my life. And weeping willows suit perfect with my solitary disposition.

I visited this place last autumn. The guards and caretakers keep this place securely locked up. That might have saved this classic treasure from vandals, paranormal-enthusiasts and explorers but upgraded very little in the renovation efforts.

The North-West part of the mansion was in relatively poor condition.

Conversely, the South-East wing of the mansion, “The Sapphire Lodge”, where I will be staying for now, is in much better shape and safer as well.

Last year when I took a very brief tour inside the mansion, I felt like verging on getting lost in a labyrinth. Its perplexing floor-plans seemed to be a complex series of countless doors after doors, rooms after rooms, lounges, parlours and salons, porticos and windows, galleries and libraries, lobbies, terraces, secret chambers, assembly halls, banquette halls, ballrooms, frequent staircases after staircases, endless corridors after corridors, covert tunnels and lavishly decorated ceilings and walls.

The North-West wing is mostly full of abandoned clutter, antique handicrafts, sculpture, art objects, ornate rugs, lamps, wall brackets, crockery, damaged paintings, ancient wood doors, windows, monographs, daily-life items, and more.

What distinctly mesmerized me was the wine-cellar with its exquisite wood-carvings, and the remarkable collection of vintage wine; now merely a dilapidated crawl-space almost obliterated by cobwebs.

“Tomorrow I am planning a whole day on a library ladder somewhere in this wing of the villa, devouring hardcover treatises from another century”, I promised to myself. I can hardly wait.

That time I spent half an hour at the most, and made a rushed assessment. The libraries and chandeliers in the mansion particularly attracted my attention, as always, and distracted me, to be honest. So I had to draw a rather vague floor plan in my head, which I noted down on paper ......back home.

The North-West wing is colossal and spread out in an L-shape. Considerably larger than the South-East part. I explored the North-West wing in the past, when it was in better condition, not as perilous as it is now.

This mansion is a hidden gem, architecture-wise, but nobody is interested to purchase it. It used to be frequented by hunter groups using it as a hunting lodge. Rumors of haunting and mysterious spooky incidents that go on in this villa have kept people away for decades. Now its glorious past is forgotten. It’s abandoned. Wild grove has taken over. Nobody stayed here last 15-20 years.

On my long drive here, a nebulous crescent moon in the background of hazy grey-peach sky on its way to the direction of the South-West was staring down at me. The location and timing indicates that it’s a waxing crescent.

I relished a spectacular sunset through the askew terrains and hills in nuances of dark olive and sepia, even though I heard on the radio about the quickly approaching bad weather in the late evening today.

I passed through wide uninhabited natural forest areas of 20-30 meter high nearly 200 year old murmuring cedar and birch trees, from the foothills all the way up to about 2000 meter altitude.

On arrival, a very familiar fragrance of high-quality cheroots, incense sticks, wild flowers and lime oil gave me a nostalgic feeling, and I almost heard a sort of hypnotizing whispers in my ears, as if the lodge is saying it’s my long-lost home. It wasn’t an uncanny feeling, but a mystifying ambience.

Large glass windows along with the sliding glass door from the ceiling to the floor are occupying the entire front-wall of the living room.

In front, far off on the remote shore, dense forest borders the landscape in conjunction with the cove on the right corner (South side), whereas, on the East side (left corner), the old lighthouse is not clearly visible at the moment because of the thick mist in the background of deep murky birch and spruce forest, under the gloomy sky, which is gradually turning into an appearance of smoked silver.

In the late afternoon, I settled down in an antique bamboo armchair by the fire. A light knitted blanket is loosely spread on my feet. The wood-burning fireplace is on its way to succumb to ashes, leaving a pleasant fragrance and more of a smokey shadowy surrounding.

On the corner table, an antique lantern of hazy glass lampshade is giving dim light from its quivering flame.

The heavy curtains were slightly open for me to look out to the dreary weather. Light sleet has started silently. To my dismay, this seemed to be utterly contrary to my plan and expectation!

I frowned, since I was really looking forward to gaze at a picturesque panorama view of starry night, a dreamy setting moon over the fishing boats, canopy of arctic willows, listening to cicadas. Well…..apparently not today.

I turned my attention from outdoor to the interior. Other than armchair, foot-rest and lantern, there are velvety sofas, low sofa-table of glass, heavy rugs, few faded oil-paintings depicting seascapes, lighthouses and hillside farmhouses, also wicker sideboard, bookcase, glass-cabinet and grandfather floor-clock, which must be the leftover that didn’t qualify for last year’s auction.

Suddenly through the corner of my eye, it appeared to me as if the glass-cabinet door is moving. Well,…it looked like an apparition standing in front of it and is trying to shake it open! As soon as I chuckled, “Here we go……..”, a knocking sound started behind the fireplace, but only a few times, then it stopped! What was that about?

By now I have realized, absolute tranquility that I was expecting does not exist. Incessant rounds of violent gusts are blowing through the dense forest, almost to the extent of harsh disruption. And the forest is waking up from its hibernation, responding back with a jarring sound, leaving a whispering echo, which I am listening to with my eyes half-closed.

I noticed now, the line of horizon distinguishing between the remote coast-line and the sky has started to disappear behind the grey mist, becoming more and more obscure, and soon invisible.

When I started to feel sort of a damp chill in the air, I shivered and pondered, should I bring more fire-woods and enjoy a little bit light reading or get ready for bed. I rummaged through the bookcase only to find old magazines, catalogues and news-reviews. I frowned, I feel like reading something else.

I turned to the rear side of the ground floor and stepped outside the drawing room area. After two dark corridors, right turn at a half-empty gallery and two small steps up, there comes ground floor’s large bedroom first, then kitchen and bathroom farther back. Staircase to the upper floors is located next to the kitchen, and at the side of the bathroom, a dark narrow hallway leading to the North-West wing of this villa. This passage is actually “blind”. In order to block direct access, it’s most certainly kept shut at the other end, even though that cannot be seen from here.

The ground floor bedroom looks charming but outdated, it has a large four-poster bed with silk brocade frills. Hmmm,………..I contemplated the choice of floor and choice of bedroom. I never liked the idea of ground floor bedrooms. This is something that has always made me uncomfortable for some unknown reasons. I took the stairs to inspect further upstairs. I can see it’s not an open staircase. The door at the top end of the staircase is locked with a padlock.

The floor plan drawings in my head are rather vague. This is unexpected, but anyway. I came back down to find the keys. The first place I would look is the top of the fireplace. And…yes! There it is. A large key ring of total…. 7 keys. After trying 4 keys, the fifth one opened the padlock. But I wasn’t ready for what was coming next.

As soon as I pulled open the door, I’m sure I heard a sort of a creaking sound, as if somebody is tiptoeing in there on the old wood floor. But nobody is supposed to be here,…..or anywhere in this villa at the moment. The staircase door was locked until now, and I just opened the lock 5 seconds ago !!! There is no other access route, as far as I know. I froze at the doorway and the sound stopped. Burglar? I had an eerie feeling, and it made me worried.

Oh no,…………I didn’t have my flashlight in my pocket. Should have brought the oil lamp from downstairs. But soon I noticed a dim ray of light as I stepped into a lounge area. The first floor in this section seemed to have an open lounge area with assorted dining furniture and glass walls on both South and East sides, opening to an attached covered terrace on the South-East corner.

Obviously there is nobody in here. I had no idea why the wood-floor made that creaking sound even before I stepped on it. Must be some other very familiar sounds caused by very common things, like the water-droplets trickling down the chimney, or the wind blowing into its top. I didn’t feel like thinking too much about that right now.

There are two additional bedrooms on either side of the first floor, one of them being relatively larger than the other. Another elegant bathroom at the rear side as well. The dim quivering light rays were actually coming from the corner room, which turned out to be a medium size library. Yes, I remember now.

I can see that, one bedroom has the view of the cavern in the fjord, and the other, the larger one is overlooking the lighthouse. Moreover, this larger bedroom overlooking the lighthouse also has a fireplace itself! “Superb!” I mumbled to myself. Then there is no point of staying by the fire downstairs. I will bring up some fire-woods upstairs, start this fireplace instead and sleep in this cozy bed.

OK perhaps I need the blanket from downstairs. First I wanted to check out the library. There is an antique oval center table and a similar lantern is sitting on top of it. Who lit this lamp in here, while this floor was locked?

All the walls are filled with large bookcases containing old hardcover classics. There are also some paperbacks and some handwritten manuscripts. “Hurrah!” I mumbled again. Surrounded by antique furniture and hardcover classics in a quaint mountain lodge and shopping at the farmer’s market would be paradise for me.

I quickly set down the large key-ring from my hand on the center table next to the burning lamp in the library, and went back downstairs to fetch the blanket, which was now hanging at the back of the sofa in the ground floor living room. Is this the way I left it? Hmmm…… I am getting confused again. OK, never mind.

When I went back to the bedroom upstairs with the blanket, I felt stupid. Only if I opened the small closet in this bedroom sooner. There are two thick soft quilts in there. Those I could use on the bed. There are extra pillows as well in a wicker chest in the other bedroom here.

Abruptly, I caught a glimpse of something white, and a faint scent. My eyes fell upon a small pile of gardenia flowers, which were lying on the small bed-side table !!! No, not artificial ones, they are real ones. Fresh and wet. I can swear they were not there when I first time came in to this bedroom a few minutes ago. And how would someone know about my fascination with gardenia?! How would someone even obtain those tropical beauties in this part of the globe?! Ok, whatever.

As I was closing the wardrobe in the bedroom, suddenly something caught my eyes through the bedroom window. The steady illumination from the lighthouse is still piercing through the bleak weather, as usual, but….what’s that over there?!! Some strange light out in the pitch-dark gravel path……almost like a group of fireflies. Not only that,…….a dark figure (a person?) was walking towards the lodge.

Who’s out there in this weather in this remote solitary region that does not even have a railroad or a post-office whatsoever? That eerie feeling is back again. One of the watchmen perhaps? No, not before the season starts. Even the lighthouse-keeper’s cottage is empty, and that’s a long walk from here.

It’s hard to see because of the tall dense foliage of the high hedges along the pebble-fence in the premises, and 10-20 meter high Rhododendrons, which are almost guarding or hiding this villa from the outsiders. I went down all the way to the ground floor living room, but by that time that obscure figure had disappeared or perhaps turned around the left corner.

The main entrance port is not really on the ground floor level, it’s located halfway below, on a semi-basement level, with a few stone-steps leading to a foyer, so that the real ground floor is elevated to a rather higher level, making me unable to see all the way down beyond the turns of the gravel path. I am absolutely certain that I locked the main port properly myself, and the port is considerably robust.

“Don’t worry about that”, I assured myself, “I was mistaken.” Now I need to go get some fire-woods from the utility-shed at the back of the lodge.

I pulled out my flashlight from my overnight-case, ran upstairs again to fetch the key-ring from the library table, opened the back-door of the ground floor, sauntered through a dark hall-way, took a few stone-steps, and arrived in front of the boiler-room-utility-room area at the end of the hallway. This annex area, built adjacent to the main structure, is not totally indoor, not totally outdoor either.

The drizzle was brutally whipping me. Thank god I didn’t have to go out for fire-woods. According to the weather report, this drizzle is going to turn into heavy downpour of hail after midnight. The dew drops at dawn are definitely going to form ice crystals.

Right behind starts a wide expanse of backwoods and plantation. I stood there for a while and fantasized about a perfect blend of North and South, Besalύ and Undredal.…..a backyard, pink-purple lupine and rhododendron, fragrance of lavender, gardenia, magnolia, …..blended with intoxicating smell of lime leaves, coriander, basil, eucalyptus, faint glow of moonbeam,……ahh.

Both utility-rooms were locked with padlocks. I unlocked the rooms, filled a large pale with fire-woods, checked that there is plenty of hot water for my night-time shower and then locked the rooms. On my way back through dark hall-way, just by chance my eyes suddenly looked up to the direction of the North-West wing, and my jaws dropped. There is a bright light in the attic room and a silhouette figure is standing there!!!

The South-East wing, where I am staying, does not have any attic room, but the middle part of the North-West wing is a colossal three-and-a-half floor building with that attic room on the top. The North-West wing is not safe to live in, and hence barricaded by the authority. All the rooms, corridors and access-tunnels have old-fashioned padlocks on. It’s practically impossible for outsiders or criminals to…..just barge in.

I looked again. That head, that build, form and shape of the body have a creepy likeness to something very familiar to me. Cannot figure out what at the moment. It was quite baffling, and I was apprehensive, but not really panic-stricken. Not yet anyway.

I shut the back-door carefully and went back upstairs feeling a little bit jumpy. What’s happening? I went into the bedroom to start fire in the fire-place. Suddenly a metal-glass clinking or rattling sound in this mute deserted villa startled me and made me look up, and I noticed that the chandelier is now swaying like a pendulum, as if mild earthquake is going on, or somebody smacked it. There was no reason for that kind of movement. I told to myself, “Who’s trying to scare me off ??” I went back to the library.

And I froze once again.

I can swear I saw the hurricane lantern of hazy glass lampshade was the only thing that was sitting on the oval center table, and I can swear I left the key-rings right next to it. Oh yeah, I also came second time to fetch the keys. But now,… there is something lying next to the lantern on the table. It looked like one of those hand-written manuscripts from the shelves over there by the East-side wall. And it’s lying open.

I am now leaning forward on the table. No, I am wrong! Not manuscript. It’s actually a sort of ancient diary. Sapphire colored soft cover with gold borders. Not turquoise, not aquamarine, Sapphire! And the ancient yellow-brown water-damaged pages of fibrous pulp. Moreover, as I notice now, the page that was open, is 30 April ! Today! 200 years ago!

My freezing cold trembling fingers hesitantly picked up the diary. Somebody has written in violet ink, which is mostly faded but legible, “The gardenia in the bedroom cheered me up today.” “I saw a dark shadowy figure in the attic. Then I discovered a dead-body lying in the South-East corner library floor.”

I felt my arms and knees starting to get severely debilitated and getting almost paralyzed. Reminiscence flashed in my eyes, and certain words started ringing in my ears, “my long-lost home”, the words first came to my mind the very moment I entered Sapphire Lodge !

I warily turned to the East wall, and now………there is no shelf anymore. The whole wall has now turned into some kind of glossy shiny plate, like a home-movie. An entity, sort of two-dimensional, is appearing, but my eyes failed to recognize what it is.

I came out of the library like a zombie, petrified and traumatized. On my last visit, I made sure to note down all access tunnel-routes / passage-ways in my head. And I am 200% sure, there was absolutely no access to this floor area from the other parts of the mansion. But….now….I can clearly see a pitch-dark tunnel has appeared on the right side of the staircase. And it’s connecting directly to the North-West wing. It didn’t even exist few minutes ago, when I carried the pale upstairs!

My blood has turned into ice. Right in front of my blurred eyes, I now see that dark shadowy entity is emerging from the North-West end of the tunnel and sauntering towards me!

Now there is no doubt why this physical structure in the attic looked so familiar to me, when I first saw it while carrying fire-woods. It’s me, no doubt. Only difference is, the face is upside down !!!

I staggered back in to the library, stumbled and collapsed. Fragile yellow-brown pages turned into crisp beige, faded ink turned into bright violet, 200 years’ ignominious past disintegrated and vanished mercilessly in dismal emptiness, as deluge of hail started.  

[strangedreamerprince]

How did you solve these problems when installing the fresh air system?

When it comes to air purification equipment, the fresh air system must not be mentioned. The fresh air system can be said to stand out in this group! It can efficiently replace indoor and outdoor air, clean bacteria, remove dust, and reduce noise. It is hard not to attract people's attention. Therefore, many people will choose to install a fresh air system in their homes, but a series of problems will appear every time they are installed. What are the common problems? How are they solved?

 Common problems and solutions for fresh air system installation:

 1. Can the fresh air system be designed and installed by purchasing materials? What problems should I pay attention to if I install myself?

 When designing the fresh air system, the air volume, wind speed, and pipe size are all strictly calculated, and good airflow organization should be considered in the air distribution and air position. Without professional knowledge, it is generally difficult to achieve better results. In addition to the performance of the fresh air equipment itself, the construction quality also has a greater impact on the system effect. It is recommended to choose a professional company.

 2. If the fresh air system is not installed, does the indoor air smell smell if you buy an independent air purifier in each room?

 Yes, the air purifier can filter indoor particulate matter, and it can only be effective in local spaces, and is more suitable for confined spaces where the room is not often open. But there is noise, running in the bedroom will affect sleep, and can not supplement the outdoor fresh air, the indoor CO2 concentration is easy to rise, the human body will feel uncomfortable, and in severe cases, it will feel dizzy, nauseous and nauseous.

 3. How to renovate the fresh air system in a hardcover room without destroying the decoration?

 For finely decorated rooms to install fresh air systems without destroying the decoration, wall-mounted fresh air equipment and window-type fresh air equipment can be used. This type of approach only requires opening a hole in the wall or changing the window, which is a partial transformation.

 4. How to clean up the post-maintenance problems of the fresh air system, such as dust in the pipeline?

 The cleaning of fresh air ducts is a more troublesome problem. Large air ducts can be cleaned by pipe cleaning robots.

 5. Does the open kitchen need to be equipped with fresh air supply and return air outlets? How to reduce the influence of the range hood on the fresh air flow during operation?

 According to specifications, the kitchen and bathroom need to maintain negative pressure. Therefore, it is not recommended to install a new air outlet.

Do not design air inlet and return air ducts in the kitchen. It is troublesome to get soot into the fresh air and air outlet ducts, and it is difficult to clean and not applicable. When the range hood is working, it discharges large amounts of indoor air. It is recommended to open the outer window of the kitchen to a certain gap for natural ventilation.

 The above are some common problems of the fresh air system and some suggestions for solutions. I hope it will be helpful to you who install the fresh air system. For more questions about the fresh air system, please visit the official website of Mia Fresh Air System.

[recentanimenews]

Akira Art Of Wall Art Book Review

From May 2017 to August 2019, 4 different sets of giant murals featuring the art work from Otomo Katsuhiro’s groundbreaking manga Akira were displayed outside the construction walls of Parco Shibuya as it underwent renovation. 2019 is a year of special significance as it is the year where the events of Akira takes place.

I visited the location a couple of times since 2017 and the photographs I took can be seen here, here and here.

To commemorate the completion of the newly renovated Parco Shibuya shopping mall, a special exhibition Akira Art Of Wall was held at 2 galleries located in the building, as well as the release of this special art book.

The book set comes delivered in a shipping cardboard case (above), and the books themselves are housed in another thick cardboard slipcase as seen below. The whole package was quite a bit heavier than I expected, which is a nice surprise.

(above) Design on the back of the cardboard slipcase. (below) The 4 volumes as housed in the case.

The contents of the box – 4 hardcover volumes and one A2 foldout sized poster.

(above) The A2 size poster. This was the first mural that was put up on the construction wall of Parco Shibuya back in 2017.

Volumes 1, 2 and 3 of the books collect artwork from the 3 different sets of murals that were on display at Parco Shibuya from 2017 to 2019.

(above) The full spread of the pages ( front and back ) come up to a whopping 9 metres in length for Vol 1 ( 7 metres for vol 2 & 3 ). There are art work printed on both sides of the paper.

(below) My room isn’t nearly big enough to take a picture of all the art work fully spread out, so these are truncated views. If one is big enough of an Akira/Otomo fan, they can purchase two copies of this art book ( since the pages are double-sided ) and them assemble all of them to reproduce a sprawling wall of Akira art.

Vol 4 is the “making of” book, and includes interviews ( in Japanese only ) with Katsuhiro Otomo and Kawamura Kosuke.

This Akira Art of wall book set is a spectacular, larger than life collection of some of the most iconic images from Katsuhiro Otomo’s groundbreaking manga. The print quality of the images are exceptionally crisp, sharp and full of contrast, and the paper stock used is thick, which explains why the whole package is pretty heavy.

This would make for a most excellent gift any day for any manga fan, especially if one enjoys Akira. The price is not cheap, but in my opinion a fair price to pay for a high quality collector’s item. If you’re keen on obtaining a copy, I suggest purchasing one before it goes out of print. My highest recommendations.

“Akira Art Of Wall” art book details :

Dimensions – 30 x 18 x 5 cm Full color, In Japanese & English

Buy From Amazon.com | Buy From Amazon CA | Buy From Amazon UK

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The post Akira Art Of Wall Art Book Review appeared first on Halcyon Realms - Art Book Reviews - Anime, Manga, Film, Photography.

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Related Posts:

Akira Art Of Wall – Otomo Katsuhiro/Kosuke Kawamura Exhibition

Akira Art Of Wall Art Book Preview

Akira Art Of Wall Exhibition Preview

Akira Murals at Shibuya Parco, Tokyo June 2019.

Akira Murals at Shibuya Parco, Tokyo June 2018.

By: yonghow

[nettlestonenell]

Never forget, this is for @jammeke.

I have begun posting this to FictionPress. (It’s not caught up with all my postings here, yet)

Find the earlier bits here on my tumblr.

Part XIII - The Day Of

Toronto – some weeks later - Ada Covington pressed the accelerator down in her elder brother Roger’s pickup, trying to lose the cars, and several motorcycles’ worth of paparazzi, now in swift pursuit of her on the QEW.

Her eyes stung with tears she was doing her best to hold back, and prevent them from impeding her ability to drive, leaving her eyesight clear enough to show her that she hadn’t enough gas in the pickup’s dual tanks to evade them for long—certainly not enough to get back to the relative privacy of the farm without stopping to fill-up.

She could not stand the idea of pulling into a gas station only for them further mob her there.

She needed, and quickly, to find a restricted, non-public space they couldn’t follow her into, a friends’ house—not the law offices—she couldn’t stand being trapped in them for even ten minutes longer. But she knew no one in the city.

She sped past a billboard advertising the University, and had to correct herself. Yes, she winced, she did know someone.

Conrad Bierkut was not usually home at his townhouse this time of day, but circumstances had conspired for him to need a plumber, and so here he was, waiting.

When his bell rang, he had expected it to be said plumber. Not at all a very upset Ada Covington, her jacket pulled up over her head like a murder suspect trying to avoid the press.

“Ada!” he exclaimed, upon opening his front door. It had been some weeks since he had silently excused himself from her farm following the explosive (and seemingly intimate, or post-intimate) pictures of them running in the Sun tabloid. He had no false illusions that she had any wish to ever encounter him again, though their day in court was soon to arrive.

“Please,” she said, “please—I beg you—have me in, quick as you can—“

“Yes. Yes!” he agreed, moving to the side so she could dive into his short front hall.

“Are you—is everything alright?” he asked as he shut the door.

“Yes. No. I mean—of course not. Why else would I come here, without even trying to contact you for an invitation?"

Conrad restrained himself (not without feeling the unintentional humor in her question) from reminding her of him being in that self-same situation arriving at her farm one rainy night not so long ago.

"They’ve been at chasing me for almost an hour. I could think of nowhere else to go, and Roger’s truck needed gas. I—it’s outside. Probably not parked very well.”

Conrad looked out through his front door's Judas window to the street beyond. She was right. Roger's truck was not parked very well, but it was so large with its doubled rear tires and wide bed it was at least partially shielding his townhouse’s front from the photogs camped-out in the small neighborhood park located on the street’s opposite side.

Conrad shepherded Ada Covington through his short entry hall and into his front room. She noticed the wood blinds in the street-facing windows were all but closed. No one—no drone, even, could see in.

She collapsed into the nearest chair, still in her jacket.

“Can I get you something?” Conrad asked, not quite sure what to do next.

“Don’t let me keep you—from whatever you were at doing,” Ada said, looking like she was still teetering on miserable. “You needn’t treat me as company.”

“Oh, well…I was just,” he pointed up, “in my office.”

“Go on, then. I’ll be fine alone,” she told him, asking, “Do you have anything to read? Perhaps something to watch?” She looked about the room for such things.

“Well, I’ve—“ he pointed out several scholarly journals artistically strewn about here and there on end tables. “But no, no proper television. Why don’t you let me show you around for a moment, help you get your bearings before I leave you to…” he didn’t know what to call it, he lightly shrugged, “your solitude.” He was not so unobservant to think that she had come here actually looking to spend time with him.

Ada followed Conrad Bierkut through a tour of his modest townhouse. The majority of rooms of the 1920s-era now-renovated home looked like they belonged in a glossy mag that sang the praises of open floor plans and modern design.

Except the last room, which she had expected to be a bedroom--his bedroom, as the only other bedroom he had shown her housed but a just-shy-of-monastic-looking twin-sized bed, and she had taken that space for a guest bedroom.

But this last room was, in fact, his office, and it shared almost nothing in common with the house it sat within. Books were everywhere: stacked high upon any flat surface. Windowsill, fireplace mantel, floor, desktop, chair seat, bookshelf, sidetable, rolling box heater.

A very old-looking divan, its upholstery as dark as its wood frame, was relatively free of books, but draped in several older-looking quilts. Four hardcover books stacked under its left front leg (broken and missing) helped attempt to keep it level. A bed pillow at one end added to her impression that this was quite possibly where the master of the house did most of his sleeping.

The wood floors in here were not refinished, the wood trim unpainted, the furniture old and some pieces, like the divan, in rough repair. In the introducing of it, Professor Bierkut didn’t show any self-consciousness.

“You’ve no computer?” she asked, noticing its lack.

“Not here, no. Sometimes I bring home my laptop.”

“Sometimes?”

“It’s only good here for typing, anyway. I’m not wired for internet access.”

“Not wired?”

“No. I don’t pay for access.”

Ada stared. The entire farm had gone wireless (with only occasional outtages) three years ago.

“I’ve got my phone, if I really find I need it," Conrad tried to explain, himself as mystified at her flummoxed response to his confession, as she was to his confession. "I’ve got it at my university offices.” He struggled on to make sense of it to her, “My field—it’s a book-based field, really. That, and journals,” he shrugged. “I handwrite a lot of things.

“Of course you do,” he heard her say, and it raised something of a hackle within him he had not felt rise in a long time. Not since Julie.

“Why are you come here, Ada?” he asked, baldly and abruptly. Surely not just to devil me? he thought, to himself.

At his unusual-for-him biting response, Ada stopped short from where she had been walking away from him, ready to leave the room and return downstairs. “I made a bad decision,” she said.

“In coming here? I don’t think you did,” he said, the edge of his earlier annoyance only slightly receding in response to her honest answer. “Did you have anywhere else in the city to go?”

“No,” she confessed. “I needed somewhere I could be invited into a private home where they couldn’t follow me.”

“Then you made a good decision—the right decision.”

“No,” she again disagreed, and sat down (her action like one plunking down an over-heavy suitcase one has been carrying too long) on his top stair, without his inviting her to do so, her back now to the railing.

“I didn’t tell Roger, you know," she said, without contextualizing the remark to Conrad, "in the way you don’t tell people you love when you’re about to do something they won’t approve of. In the way you know you might not do it if you have to confront their disapproval. And I wanted to do it. I’ve wanted to do it forever, I think.”

“Do what?” Conrad asked, thoroughly confused, seating himself on the stair nearby her, their knees now almost touching, concerned that his continued standing might track as a position of judgment, a feeling he did not care for, no matter his momentary sniping.

Ada sighed. “I’ve been searching for my—for our--birth mother. This week the agency I'd hired told me they’d found her, and she was willing to meet me. So, I came to the city today to meet her for the first time. But I wasn’t at the agreed upon spot fifteen minutes, waiting, when they showed up. So many of them, snapping shots, yelling at me.”

She had not been looking at him as she said--as she confessed--any of this. She stared at the wall ahead of her, and occasionally to the ceiling. “And she didn’t come,” she concluded.

“They scared her off?” he asked, his own eyes never off what he could see of her face, now only in profile.

“I don’t know," she shook her head. "Maybe she was never coming. Maybe she lost her nerve before she saw them. I only know, if I’d have seen them, I’d have lost my nerve.” The final words of her sentence came out half-hushed, in the way coming-on tears can often bring about.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mean to be so upset,” she said, tears starting as she spoke about the experience and she finally turned toward his face, so close beside her, but a step and riser below. “It’s just, you know, it’s your worst fear, that after all this time you’ll find them—the one who gave you up--and still-still they’ll turn away from you.”

Her tears were silent, and without sobs. She was very still. He thought maybe he would have preferred sobs.

“I’m sure she just got spooked, that’s all.”

“And then I think about—“ she stalled, and looked away from him. “I think about the baby,” she had never been one to speak so, “is this what’s in store for her? Dogged by photographers at every turn? Constantly reminded no one in her family wants her? Finding our two faces in newspaper archives—seeing all we wanted was to be well shot of the legal case, of her future? Believing she isn’t worth anything because the court system had to be called in to decide who, of the many people trying to avoid taking her on, is obligated to?”

Her eyes were again upon him. Their now-familiar blue swam in tears. Why did she do that? Turn toward him like he had the answer--a good answer--any answer?

He squinted. “Don’t talk like that. That’s not gonna happen," he felt worthless in this interaction, clumsily guiding someone through heartbreak, all platitudes and reassurances, and no wisdom. "Let’s get you downstairs, let’s call your family, let them know where you are, that you’ll be along home later. I can drive the truck and get it filled up.”

Her eyes were now straight on him, her confessional for the moment done. “It’s a stick.”

“O-ookay," he made the adjustment. "I can find someone to take the truck for a fill-up, and get you on your way.” He pulled out his phone.

She did nothing to conceal her worry. “Who are you calling?”

“Plumber,” he said.

“What?” a half-hysterical edge threatened to come into her tone.

“I’ve got a plumber coming," he said it like a throw-away line in a play, Ada thought. Like it was the most normal and routine thing in the world.

"Did you want some lunch?” he went on to ask, “I haven’t got much here—I’ll have him pick something up.”

“You can't seriously have invited someone into the house—while I’m here?” Hers was not a pleasant tone.

“No worries. He’s a friend. I’ve used him forever. He’s not gonna photograph us together for a quick buck. I trust him, one-hundred percent. He’ll gas up your truck for us, too. Promise,” Conrad said, and the smile he gave her she could hardly naysay.

The plumber came, and with him dinner for two, and ten gallons of fuel for Roger's truck. The paparazzi expended several hundred pictures each before assuring themselves he was no one important come to call on the couple dubbed The BabyMakers.

While the plumber fixed the pipes in question, Conrad fell to eating in his study, as was usually his way, hunkered over whatever text he was at presently dissecting. Ada avoided the second floor, the plumber worked. Hours passed.

When Conrad came down to the kitchen to settle up with the plumber, he found Ada taking something out of his rarely-used oven. "What's this?" he asked, curiously bemused.

"I thought, you know, as a sort of thank you, for the lunch and all," Ada said, taking what looked like fresh-baked bread out of a loaf pan Conrad, honestly, did not even know he owned. "One for you, one for your plumber."

"You--you're--baking down here? With what?"

"Oh, I found some things in your pantry."

"I can't imagine what," he said.

"The only truly fresh thing was yeast," she said.

"Yes, well, I had been mulling over trying out a thirteenth century brewing recipe for honey mead," he said, smiling with the recollection of yet another of his one-time plans eternally unfulfilled. "I had almost forgotten about that."

The aroma of the bread and whatever ingredients she had put it in was pungently alluring, almost heady. It was not a feeling he generally associated with this kitchen. He may have just eaten, but it worked to awaken what he had thought was his appeased appetite immediately. "Do you bake a lot?"

"What?" she asked, poking around for something to cool the loaves on. "No, I, I mean I do lots of things when I'm, when I'm--"

"Distressed?" he offered, not having forgotten the disastrous non-meeting with her birth mother.

"I usually play my viol, or knit. Sometimes I knit. But baking, you know, baking works, too."

"I clean," he confessed. "Lots of chemicals, scrubbing. Once, for a week I thought I tore my rotator cuff working on a stubborn tub ring. That was the week of my doctoral thesis presentation, which went only slightly better than the Battle of Monmouth."

"You'll have to tell me about that some time," she said, smiling, as though they might schedule another visit later in the week, or meet-up somewhere for drinks. Neither of which, of course, would they do. She did not specify if she meant the thesis presentation or the historical battle.

"I called home," she said. "Roger's rung some of his army buddies that live in the city. They're going to come by and, well, they won't come in. But they'll make sure the photographers keep their distance."

"Roger was in the Army?"

"Special forces."

"Right. Gina, too. It's where they met."

"Gina?"

"Of course! Have you see her arms?"

This question now had him smiling. "You'll be leaving, then?" he heard himself ask, "Since Tim brought you gas for your truck."

"It wouldn't start for him, though,” she told Conrad. “He tried it for me, you know, get it running and then I could run out of the house and be on my way. We both of us, Tim," she used the plumber's first name, "and I, have our suspicions."

"You think the guys camped out did something to keep it from running?"

She gave a light shrug. "Who wouldn't consider a little theft, a little vandalism when a million-dollar picture is almost in your grasp, just across the street?"

Conrad nodded. "You may well be right. Perhaps Roger's friends might ask them about it."

"I have every expectation that they will."

"You don't seem as upset as I would expect you to be," he hazarded saying, noting her lack of fury at the newest roadblock she had encountered into leaving him, and his home, and returning to the safety of her farm.

"To be honest, with you and with myself, I'm tired. To the bone. Could I stay? Please? I just--I don't feel ready to walk out that door into--everything."

"Of course," he said, "of course you can stay. I insist on it as a doctor," his small joke was rewarded by the slightest beginning of a snicker. "I've know just the thing for supper later. You've made the bread, I've got the cheese."

"Can we maybe, I mean, I'd just like to watch something. Take my mind off it all for a bit. But you don't--you don't have any way to do that, do you? I could bake more," she cast her eyes around his kitchen, knowing at this point she'd made use of just about anything that might be used. "I have to confess, your--magazines--"she referenced the academic journals lying about here and there, "well, I think I've gotten just about everything from them I could--without writing a term paper."

He nodded. "Give me a minute," he said, and disappeared back upstairs.

Shortly she heard furniture creaking and a stack of books falling over, before he came down the steps. He was holding a thirteen-inch CRT television that something told her was also going to be black-and-white. It had a built-in VCR.

She now recalled having seen it squirreled away in one of the corners of his office.

"Fooled ya," he said brightly, "I do own a TV!"

"I stand corrected," she replied, watching on, slightly amused, slightly horrified as he got down on the elegant, reclaimed hardwood floor of his modern, stylish front room and searched for a wall plug to plug it into.

He popped up, "there!" he said, claiming triumph as the elderly screen sizzled and fuzzed to life. "We'll have to...drag some pillows down here," he did the job himself, taking the couch apart into its pillows and strewing them on the floor in front of the tiny screen. "No, no," he told Ada, sounding as cheery as someone organizing an Easter Egg hunt, "wait right there. I'll be right back."

She waited. He returned, bounding down the stairs this time, and into the kitchen, where he came out with her bread and a sizeable cheese.

"What is it?" she asked, looking at the unfamiliar-to-her golden rind.

"It's a Boerenkaas," he said, no small amount of pride in his tone. "Helped make it myself."

"You're now a cheesemonger? As well as an aspiring brewer?"

There was no overlooking the pride in his voice as he spoke, nor the nostalgia. "Writing my last book, I was in the Netherlands," he said, "excellent country, fascinating agriculturally. I stayed for about a year on and off--I also traveled and lectured--with a family on their farm. They had about half a hundred red Friesians. They let me sit in on their cheesemaking--their farm is four centuries old--it literally sits on a dike--"

Ada didn't mean to be, but now she was smiling, too.

"--they were utterly committed to sustainable production, they make cheese every day."

"So, you speak Dutch?" she asked, already mostly knowing the answer.

"Not as well as I'd like," he said. "I'm better at reading Old Saxon texts than, say, being conversational."

"I suppose they were sorry to see you go?" Ada asked, imagining a dock-full of mournful Dutch girls weeping at the handsome American professor taking his leave.

"Maybe a little. Mostly I think the old couple were relived at not having to share my name with their neighbors."

"What?"

"Oh, I'll just let you Google that when you're back online," he said, half in throwaway line. "I found this. It's all I've got to watch."

He sat down the cheese, knife, and bread on the floor near the pillows and produced an old VHS clamshell case. "Bye Bye Birdie" proclaimed the movie poster facsimile on the cover.

"My mom, you know, I said. Musicals. I found this in her things after she passed. It's the only sort of movie I've got." He gave a shrug. Would she accept it as entertainment? Or tell him he had to be kidding?

"When was the last time you watched it?" she asked, gingerly taking the case from him.

"Oh, I dunno. Year or two, probably. Does it matter?"

"I'm just wondering," her eyebrows raised, and one of her eyes threatened a twinkle, "if the tape itself hasn't turned to dust."

"Only one way to find out," he answered with a smile. Taking the tape out, and feeding it to the machine.

Conrad found himself so engrossed with the film, and his personal nostalgia surrounding it (and one did have to watch very closely to follow it on the tiny monochrome screen), he was surprised to turn at one point fairly deep into the narrative and find that Ada had nodded off.

He had to force himself to turn back to the screen, his attention no longer fully with the film. He reminded himself that the woman that had shown up without fanfare on his step that day had little enough privacy, without him invading it when she had let her guard down.

Yet it was no easy thing to look away.

Ada was in and out. Perhaps it was the pillows so casually on the floor, perhaps the teeny black and white screen she found it so hard to see. Perhaps, simply, for the first time in a very long time she was in a spot where her exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she let it.

Half-dream, half-memory, she relived Garrett’s recent farewell. He’d been offered a job in the Pacific Northwest, head arborist. A job that before all of this the two of them had jointly dreamed of for him. His face showed her how happy, how hopeful it made him.

But she hadn’t managed to match his pleasure. She was suddenly far less certain she was ready or willing to leave the farm and travel west with him.

He mentioned Conrad Bierkut’s name.

She told him not to be ridiculous.

He looked sad.

“It’s not that I think you’re with him—“ he said, referring to the phony story the tabloids tried so hard to keep alive; that she and Conrad were now a couple. “It’s only, Ada, you’ve never seemed upset enough.”

There had been no argument. She wasn’t sure how, even, to argue such a point: not upset enough? She felt terribly upset all the time. All her anger, she thought it was apparent, wore the handsome face of Conrad Bierkut. That didn’t mean that she wasn’t pleasant to Professor Bierkut when he’d showed up at the farm. That she couldn’t share a laugh, or a conversation with him. Who else, after all, might understand even a fraction of this absurd and taking-over-everything situation she’d been unfairly thrust into?

If you don’t want to go with him, Mum had said, and he doesn’t want to stay here with you—there’s your answer, isn’t it? As to whether you two still love each other?

Garrett had left two days ago. He’d extended Ada an offer to join him. But he’d also said he didn’t honestly expect to see her, said that if she couldn’t decide to come within the next two weeks, she never would.

He was right, she thought. Two weeks was long enough for anyone to make up their mind about just about anything. But she didn’t need that long. A few years ago, yes, Garrett and that job in the PacNor had been among her dreams. But her dreams now were of the farm, her land, her business. She didn’t want to leave, and it appeared that this was a two-for-one decision: that she also, no longer wanted Garrett, who very much still did want to leave.

She awoke occasionally to volume fluctuations on the small screen. Several times she sneaked the opportunity to watch Conrad as he watched the screen. How his expressions tracked with the film the way a child’s might. Perhaps, as a child with his mother, his had also done.

A few moments at that, and she would nod off again.

Finally, she awoke to find Conrad Bierkut also asleep, the film still playing near the beginning, as the tape must have rewound and re-started.

She must have fallen over in her sleep, and him as well, for they both lay now face to face (though some distance apart, their feet at opposite ends of the room). She let herself examine his upside-down features as he slept (and thankfully did not snore. Oh! Had she snored?) ‘Never seemed upset enough’, she thought.

He was a nice person, Conrad Bierkut. The papers pairing her with him was annoying, the attention unwanted, inconvenient, but it wasn’t improbable, was it? That she, Ada, might to the mind of a reasonable person, be involved with an accomplished, kindly man such as Professor Conrad Bierkut?

I mean, the too-poor pantry would have to improve, she thought. The teensy monk-sized rack bed would have to be banished, and perhaps over time his backward attitude toward technology would get up to speed—or she would (in this wholly fictional future) come to find it endearing. But really, was it such an impossible thing to believe? To root for, even? He brought his tiny TV/VCR downstairs for her, didn’t he? And his mum’s film to watch? A person could be phenomenal on paper—book title in Dutch and all—and still be decent company, couldn’t they?

Before she had a chance to answer her half-asleep self, she fell fully asleep, without even the chance to contemplate what price such a photo of her and Conrad now, asleep together among pillows on his living room floor, might bring on the national tabloid market.

(next Part is the FINALE!)

[theillustrationconference]

We're not leaving anytime soon: a conversation with ICON11′s PR/Communications Chair, Kayla E.

Kayla E. is a queer Latina artist, editor, and designer. A graduate of Harvard University, Kayla holds a BA in Visual and Environmental Studies. She is the founder of Design Altar and works as Editor-in-Chief and Art Director of Nat. Brut Magazine. She has been profiled by NPR, The Huffington Post, Design*Sponge, and The Establishment, among others. Her work was selected for the annual hardcover edition of American Illustration 37, and she serves on the board of directors of ICON 11. Originally from Texas, Kayla lives with her fiancée Laura Bullard in North Carolina.

What's your favorite memory from past ICON conferences?

Esther Pearl Watson invited me to be a mainstage speaker for ICON9, which was, in and of itself, an amazing experience. I've been a fan of hers for years.

Right before I was going to walk onstage, I was so nervous that I felt like I was going to pass out, and Esther came up to me and gave me a big hug and a little note.

It said something sweet like: "You're doing great!" and she told me to put it on the podium next to my notes.

I almost keeled over from fear, but her kind, generous, and thoughtful gesture helped me make it through.

Tell me about your practice!

I am a cartoonist and painter, but I also do performance work surrounding the main character of my cartooning practice (her name is Kayla, and she's me). I also run my own graphic design firm, and I am the editor in chief and art director of Nat. Brut, an art and literary magazine.

What is your studio/office space like?

My fiancée Laura and I live in a small town in North Carolina and recently bought a house. We've had a ton of fun renovating it, and I've made myself a little chapel/studio in a weird room that is either a big closet with some windows or a tiny bedroom without a closet.

It's painted deep indigo that looks like dark green in the right light. I've hung up a lot of plants, some religious iconography, a few wooden crosses, and a lot of old toys. I have a computer and some paintings I’m working on in there, too.

What's your hometown and where do you currently live?

I grew up in a trailer park in DeSoto, TX, a small town south of Dallas. I currently live in Burlington, NC, by way of Beaufort, SC.

I love tiny places in the Deep South. The past is always present here—the violence, resilience, and resistance permeates every aspect of daily living.

As a queer Tejana in the arts, I like reminding people that folks like me are here, we've always been here, and we're not leaving anytime soon.

Who are some of your favorite emerging creatives?

My favorite artist right now is Amanda Baeza. I can’t get enough of her work!

[timeplayed]

POINT- Boredom on Wall Street, Chapter One

After school, I had gone home with Avery. Ezra and Edna had to do chores when they got home, but Avery and I didn't. We had both offered to help, but they declined our offer.

I needed someone to hang out with, and I guess Avery's easier to talk to. Edna and Ezra are a bit protective with me.

Anyways, we got to her house. It was a light green, two-story house. Her family is actually a bit of a higher class, but with the way she acts it's a surprising fact.

Her parents are a bit like her. Laid back and pretty fun. I like talking to them, which is surprising, since I don't normally like interacting with people.

Avery opened the door. "Misters first."

I giggled and walked in.

Avery followed in, closing the door and locking it. "Home sweet home!" she exclaimed with an almost fake happiness.

I grabbed her hand and dragged her upstairs, making her yelp. I could navigate through all of their houses easily, so I found her bedroom and walked in. She trailed behind me, an exasperated look on her expression.

Her room was painted green with a signed My Chemical Romance poster. Her brother had originally owned it and gave it to her for her on her birthday. She was young but she liked the same songs he did. At the moment, he's at San Jose State University. He visits when he can, though he's usually swamped up with work and school.

There was also a Nirvana and a Led Zeppelin poster. I haven't really listened to either. I've listened to a bit of Nirvana, though. Heart-Shaped Box, anybody?

There was also a Panic! At The Disco poster. I got her into Panic!, actually!

I looked around. She had surely made a few renovations to the room.

She got a black desk next to her bed, her nightstand on the other side. It was a bit disorderly, but good overall.

She also had a music cabinet, filled with records, CDs, CD players, et cetera. She had the recorder (is that what it's called?) on top of it with a MP3 player on it.

Avery sat on her bed, and I sat next to her.

"So, how are you doing?" I asked casually.

"Good, you li'l love bug."

I rolled my eyes. Avery was the only one who knew that I had a crush on Ezra in the whole entire school, and she constantly teased me for it.

It was a bit irritating, but it's fine. She once teased me in front of Ezra, which made me go bright red.

Oh! There are around five-hundred seventy-six people at our school. Twenty-two of them are homoromantic and/or homosexual. Two (including me) are transgender, five are panromantic and/or pansexual, and three are genderfluid.

I have calculated this (in my room, there's also a chalkboard for all of this).

Sorry, I got off-track.

Ezra is the only one who is polyromantic. He likes girls, boys, and agender people, but that was about it.

He's also pretty open about it-- maybe that's why I like him. He's outgoing and a bit adventurous, and he's filled with courage and bravery.

Now, Avery was waving her hand in front of my face. "Hey, love bug, you awake?"

I blinked stupidly, my thoughts clearing. "Yeah . . . I am . . ."

She laughed. "That's a lie."

Avery is sarcastic and a bit of a sassy person. She loves to tease everyone, but a few people have seen her darker side. When she's angry, she turns manipulative and more of a liar. She's also pretty ambitious about her goals, which is fun. She's definitely one of the more prideful students.

I guess I should go over Edna as well.

Edna is sweet and caring, and quite the lover of jokes. She is also loyal and would die for anybody at our school. Anybody. She tries to do the best she can to make everyone feel safe.

"So, how are you and Ezra? Got any chemistry?"

"I've gotten no romantic reaction from him," I answered. "Though, we did blow some stuff up in science."

Avery laughed. Her eye was covered, as usual.

Would you like to know why?

So, if you watch the Sanders Sides series, you'd probably know Deceit.

Well, she has something a bit like him.

Her left eye has a snake eye. It's pretty cool, though no one knows how it formed to be like that.

It freaks a lot of people out, so she's usually hiding it. She keeps it in place with a black baseball cap.

Her whole get-up makes her look ten times cooler, so I wonder how she even became my friend.

She has a black crop jacket on either a black crop top underneath. The hood of her jacket has a bit of an aviator look on the end-- basically, the fur parts.

She has black, distressed (like me!) jeans with a chain. She is usually wearing black leather boots, and she looks so cool.

Whenever she's not wearing her boots, she's exercising, riding her skateboard, or just sitting at anybody's house.

She still looks cool.

Well, anyways, she was waving her hand in front of me again.

I blinked in surprise. "Sorry . . . I keep spacing out."

"No, duh, love bug," Avery groaned, laying flat on her bed. She grabbed a pencil from her desk, handing it to me.

"What do I do with this?"

"Wait a moment!" She professionally grabbed a piece of paper from the drawer under her desk, giving it to me. Then, she handed me a hardcover book. "Draw something."

"Like what?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Like, Ezra. I don't know!"

I laughed softly. "All righty!"

I started sketching the portrait out. It was only a sketch, meaning I did not have to be super detailed at the moment. I finished with the outline, then starting the darker drawing. I made a few edits to the picture, then adding some shading and details. After around half an hour, I finished, holding the picture up.

"How is it?" I asked.

"It's great!" Avery exclaimed.

My phone started to ring, and I looked at the caller after pulling my phone out. Edna was calling me.

I picked up.

"ADRIAN? AVERY? IT'S EZRA. HE HAD TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL."

"WHAT?!" Avery and I exclaimed simultaneously.

[darlingpetao3]

An Accidental Seduction (H.R. Wells x Reader, Part 1/2)

Rating: T

Summary: While attending bestselling author H.R. Wells' reading of his book, a misunderstanding hurtles you, the Reader, to some one-on-one time with your favourite writer.

Cancel this.

Reschedule that.

Rain check them.

That was never going to happen, anyway.

Your entire schedule was renovated upon learning that Central City's own claim to fame (in almost a decade), H.R. Wells, bestselling author, was giving a special and surprise reading of his latest steamy novel at Jitters tonight. Naturally, everything would take a backseat to this event, because not only were you a massive fan of his writing (you own his entire works, but his Romance series being your unabashed favourite ever), you were pretty sure you were in love with him. You've seen H.R. in interviews and at other book readings, and boy is he a charmer. So full of energy, a bright puppy dog smile, and God-perfected blue eyes that pierce your very soul. Word on the street has been that he's extremely “friendly” with the ladies. And the ladies are always more than “friendly” back. To say that H.R. Wells had fangirls was an understatement. More like he had fanwomen. He had them, alright. Had them begging.

What you wouldn't give to have his attention for only a minute...

You dismiss the thought because, as if. If only you were that lucky.

You make sure to bring your hardcover copy of the novel he'll be reading from, The Streak vs. Mr. Reflecto. Though H.R. has never outright mentioned it, you are convinced he uses moments from real life experiences from his past from working with The Flash eight years ago. The Flash used to be called The Streak when he first started saving Central City citizens. In the series, each book features The Streak battling a foe, always with a name similar to one belonging to a real life villain that once terrorized your city. Mr. Reflecto in the latest book has basically the same powers as Mirror Master, a horrible man who still runs around town tricking innocent people with his reflective powers and his vertigo-inducing lady friend in tow. You almost feel like a detective when putting these pieces together (rather than the journalist you really were), and you're sure none of his groupies are even paying attention to that kind of information he incorporates into his work. They just want to get in his pants.

Not that you could blame them.

Jitters was, well, jittering with anticipation and overpowering hormones. The entire crowd was women (plus a perfectly groomed man) in low cut, short skirts and dresses to accentuate everything they have and wish to offer. You seem to have missed the memo, what with your skin being covered and blouse actually buttoned up.

Oh look, a spot in the second row is still open!

You shuffle your way past all the bare legs and manage to snag the last seat in the second row, behind a woman in a ruffly green dress. She's rather tall, and as you try to see past her fresh blowout, she turns around in her seat. She eyes you up and down, with your copy of H.R.'s book clutched at your chest.

“Can you see, sweetie?” she asks.

“Well, not-”

“Aw, too bad. Should've gotten here earlier, I guess.” The woman smiles an evil smirk and faces the front again. You couldn't help your jaw drop, but really lady? Where's karma when you need it? The lights dim and the room fills with gasps and squeaks. A voice from the speaker system comes alive.

“Ladies! You-”

A male cough interrupts.

“Ladies and gentleman! You know him from his runaway hit The Future Ain't What It Used To Be and, of course, his bestselling children's books McSnurtle the Turtle and ABC Labs. Tonight he's here to read from his latest installment of the popular H.R. Romance Series, The Streak vs. Mr. Reflecto. Let's give it up for Mr. H.R. Wells!”

The room erupts with applause and wolf whistles as the man of the hour walks out on the little stage. He's wearing a gorgeous maroon blazer, his hair is swooped to perfection, and his grin? Heart stopping.

“Good evening, you lovely, lovely people. I'm glad you could make it out tonight for little ol' me.”

“I love you!” a female voice shouts from the back of the room.

“And I love you, random woman!” he shouts back. “I love you all. For without you,” H.R. scans the room, giving everyone attention it seems, but you. “I would be no one.”

Cue the sighs and twirling of hair.

“Let us begin! Which scene do you propose I read first?”

“The one where Florence first bumps into Terry Fallon,” someone suggests.

“Where Florence kisses The Streak in the rain!” yells another.

“When The Streak and Mr. Reflecto have that sexually charged moment!” calls out the only male fan.

“I don't remember writing it that way...” second-guesses H.R. Then Green Dress in front of you chimes in.

“I think we would all enjoy the scene where The Streak saves Florence for the first time.”

“Excellent choice,” he praises her. Ugh. It's a good thing you like that scene, too.

“Just as the villain was about to go in for the fatal blow,” H.R. reads. The room is captivated like never before. “Florence felt strong hands around her waist, lifting her like she was a feather. She was whisked away, the wind blowing through her hair, as her mystery hero finally set Florence down on a mountain top. I love that part. I was in the zone...” H.R. chuckles at his own writing, which is beyond adorable. If it was literally anyone else, you would think this behaviour pretty lame. Green Dress clicks away on her phone in front of you. How rude! You feel like confronting her, but then you hear a buzz come from the table beside H.R. He becomes distracted and fiddles with his phone. Absent-mindedly, he continues reading with a coy smile.

“Uh huh, hmm... She uh, Florence, was um, at the mountain top. Back to the mountain top.”

Green Dress's fingers begin typing again down by her side. H.R.'s phone vibrates again. Wait. No! You peek around her and see she's been texting him!

I want you, she had texted.

I know, he replied!

I have to have you *now*

“O...kay,” H.R. says closing his book. “We should do something else. Quick coffee break?”

A text shows up on GD's phone: How did you get this number? Not that I'm complaining...

Oh God. What is going on? While the ladies and man disperse to mingle, H.R. leaves to get himself a drink from the back (an espresso probably, it's his favourite). A burly man opens the entrance door and shouts, “Hey, anyone own a red Prius? It's being towed right now.”

A cry of anguish followed by a “you gotta be shitting me!”

Green Dress immediately makes a break for it out the door, and now you're mentally cackling like how you imagine Mr. Reflecto does in the book because that karma is a bitch. And right now, a blessing. Something buzzes on the floor near the stage.

No way.

This is too good.

Apparently, GD didn't realize her phone dropped out of her bag. You make a quick grab for it before anyone sees. Another reply shines brightly on her abandoned phone: Are you here tonight, stranger?

You notice that it's possible to reply without even unlocking the phone. Feeling brave, you type: Maybe.

Another reply: Oh, now you're playing hard to get. I like that.

You should probably put the phone down now. You don't want to be caught holding that chick's phone when she comes back. Before you can do anything though, you feel a presence behind you.

“It was you.”

Spinning to face the voice you know all too well, your heart practically stops. H.R. looks down at you with curiosity.

“I would never have guessed,” he says. You stare back in a stunned silence for a moment. Quick, say something back!

“I... suppose I couldn't help myself.”

“Understandable. My work has that effect on most,” he says with a wink that might as well have been a love arrow to your chest. You give an awkward little giggle.

“What say you to getting together after this?” His eyes are seriously hypnotic, pouring into you. Like you ever stood a chance against that question-and-eyes combo.

“I'd love to.”

The rest of the book reading made you feel like you were on fire. Since H.R. had believed it was you who sent those first texts, he couldn't take his eyes off you while he was trying to read. Sometimes he'd stumble over his words, look at you, and everyone's eyes turned to you and shot daggers. What a rush.

After the event, he snuck you out the Jitters' side exit and proceeded to, wait for it... his place. His midtown apartment is furnished elegantly, a major ladies magnet. Instantly your attention is captured by a bookshelf near the fireplace. Here lies each of his famous books and various plaques and awards for his writing.

“Wow. Very impressive,” you say almost in a hushed tone. “I hope to be as successful as you one day.”

“Ahh, you share the gift of the written word?”

“I'm a journalist at CCPN, but on the side, I'm trying to write my own novel.”

“Get out of town!” His face is so animated it's like he should have his own Saturday morning cartoon. He pats the cushion of his sofa. “Tell me all about it.”

The two of you end up spending hours talking about writing, each other's pasts (of which he is vague for most of it), and Big Belly Burger secret menu food items.

“You know, it's funny,” he says. “I've met a lot of women being an author, okay no, not a lot a lot, several maybe? Some?”

“H.R.” you bring him back to Earth.

“Right, anyway. None of them have intrigued me like you do.”

“I bet you've said that to all of these 'several' women.”

“I haven't.” His stare is fixed on you. Serious, which is very unlike him. It has you frozen in place. “No other woman has sat with me for hours to talk about writing, not to mention fast food!” H.R. scoots a little closer to you and drapes an arm across the back of the couch. “There's usually never much talking. Not much substance.”

He searches your face for a moment before leaning in to kiss you. His lips meet yours, soft and slow.

What. Is. Life?

For some reason your brain cannot comprehend, you break the kiss. You're a little flustered.

“I, um, it's really late. I have work in the morning. I should go.” And then it hits you. You need to leave because you don't want to be like those other women. One night with H.R. only to leave you the next day for someone new and interesting and better looking? That's something you could never bear. Not with the way you feel about him. It's better to break it off now than to have your heart broken later.

“Really? So soon?”

“It's 1 a.m.” You grab your jacket hastily.

“Can I call you sometime?”

In all your haste to save your heart from breaking, it would appear that H.R.'s is the one in danger of breakage. His normally bright face has fallen. You might as well have kicked a puppy. Maybe he's serious about getting to know you and only you. Could he leave his life of groupies to explore something with you? To quote a line from the second novel in his series, "The power of love, in all its mystery, is life changing."

“Sure. Give me your phone.” His eyes light up again at the hope your words brought.

“I believe I already have your number.”

Shit. No, he doesn't.

“Oh no, that was a friend's phone I was using. Mine's in the shop getting fixed. Here, this is the new number.” Saved it! H.R. pulls you in close to him and gives you a more than pleasant goodbye-for-now kiss. You could get so used to this kind of thing.

“You never told me how you got my number in the first place.”

“Let's call it fate and leave it at that.”

Part 2

[ceceis]

California Cottages

Jason and Jenny are in town! On Sunday we gave them a representative tour of the neighborhood that began with Timeless (coffee, pierced hipsters) and ended at an estate sale in Piedmont (voyeurism, dying artists). We arrived within the last two hours of the last day, so it was mostly slim pickings of nondescript enamelware, crumpled dinner jackets, doodads without charm. :(

LUCKILY though (and there is always unexpected luck at estate sales), there were piles of architecture and design reference books in a back room. The manager had the gall to try to charge me $5 each for nine hardcovers. In my head I was like -- bitch are you nuts it’s the end of the day and these wouldn’t sell for more than a dollar elsewhere! I reduced my haul to six and told her all we had was $6.55 in cash.

"That's all you can come up with across the four of you?" she scolded.

"We're crappy millennials who don't carry cash.” I replied, not lying.

“Really,” she muttered. And then after a beat, “Ok, give me what you got.”

California Cottages was one of the books. It was published in 1996, when decadent French Country formed a base for everything (much like Midcentury Modern does today). But many examples were actually more free and natural, which I liked:

The book’s introduction offered some nice words about how people could achieve such loveliness:

“One note design, or decor that looks as if it all arrived on a truck on the same day, are not concepts I admire or encourage, and they are not found in these pages. It takes confidence to make a personal room for day to day events and reject design by rote.”

“The approaches to renovation that worked best were referential — and somewhat reverential. If a house was changed drastically, it was to take it back to when it had been its best. The plan was to give it integrity, structure, and form, never to ‘modernize.’”

...and how those people might justify such a navel-gazing hobby:

“I grew up in New Zealand and have roamed the world ever since, so I hold great affection for those who make building and designing a house a kind of exploration — of the world and of themselves.”

“The most individual and memorable houses are produced by people with singular tastes and unerring devotion to their own truth.”

[dontshootmespence]

Forevermore

A/N: An anon request for a Spencer x Luke wedding and night of! They will be separated so anyone who doesn’t want to read the smut can just read the other part. Also, does Luke have a brother? I don’t know if it was ever mentioned. He has a brother now. LOL Enjoy! <3 @coveofmemories

P.S. The Spanish used was done from Google. I hope it’s mostly correct.

P.S.S. The smut/night of is under the STARRED page break for those that want to avoid that.

                                                             ----

It seemed a tradition in the BAU. Having a party? Do it at Rossi’s place. Getting married? Do it at Rossi’s place.

“Thanks again, Rossi,” Luke said, looking up at the archway he’d built as a surprise for his soon to be husband. “There’s no way we would’ve been able to pull this off without you. 

Rossi clapped the groom on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t imagine it any other way. You two are stupidly great for each other. And after all Reid’s been through, it’s amazing to see him so happy. This looks fantastic by the way.” For weeks now, Luke had been scouring used yard sales for hardcover books he could use. Once he found what he needed, he spent a week assembling them into an archway for them to get married under. The books were all different sizes and splayed at different angles, so it was truly unique. Spencer had no clue. Luke hoped he’d love it. It was Luke’s wedding gift to his new husband.

“Still,” Luke said. “I’m fairly new to the team, as Garcia always likes to point out.” Since the day he started, she’d called him Newbie. It had been two years. She’d never let it go.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re one of us now. And Reid loves you.” Rossi’s warm smile could’ve thawed the coldest of hearts.

The girls were inside fawning over Spencer, and Rossi and Walker were outside with Luke. All of a sudden, they heard faint footsteps behind them. “Woah, does Pretty Boy know about this archway?” Spencer’s best man, his best friend Derek Morgan had just arrived. Luke turned around the pull him into a hug.

“No, he has no clue. And you lost out,” he smiled. “He’s my Pretty Boy now.” Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed his own wedding ring to give to Derek to hold for Spencer. 

Derek laughed just as Savannah and baby Hank walked up from nearby. “I’ve never seen him so happy. Hurt him and I’ll kill you.”

“Duly noted,” Luke replied. 

Derek examined the wedding ring, a plain platinum with an inscription inside - I love you 5.1.19. - today’s date. “His say the same thing?” Derek asked.

Luke couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “No, his has today’s date and ‘I know’ written on it. Derek looked confused for a second until a smirk formed at the corners of his lips.

“Star Wars reference,” he said happily. “You’re both dorks.”

That was one of the many reasons Luke loved him. Together, they were still completely themselves. 

---

When Luke finished up with the archway, he went to go get changed. Spencer was already ready, but he was threatening to sweat through his suit. He loved Luke - so much - but he was an inherently nervous person. “187, you’re gonna be fine,” Garcia said. “Don’t worry that beautiful little head of yours.”

“I can’t help it,” Spencer smiled, falling backward onto the bed in one of Rossi’s spare rooms. He was dressed in his own black and white suit. Only difference was that Luke would be wearing Captain America cufflinks and Spencer would be sporting Darth Vader. 

“Wearing the mismatched socks?” Tara asked. It was a well known fact that Spencer never matched his socks, but today’s pair was special. 

Taking his hand off his face, he reached down and pulled one pant leg up, revealing a Captain America sock. The other one had Star Wars on it. “What do they say?” JJ asked, her smile threatening to crack her face in half. She couldn’t contain how happy she was for one of her best friends in the entire world. He had been through so much and waited for so long for someone that loved him inside and out, and then Luke came along. They were perfect for each other. 

“The Star Wars sock says ‘I know,’ and Luke’s says ‘I love you.” A tiny, almost imperceptible smile came to his face thinking about his perfect match. “And the Captain America one says ‘I’m with you’ and his says ‘Till the end of the line.’

“Oh my god,” Tara sighed happily, clutching her heart. “That’s too cute, I can’t take it.”

It was nearly time. Everything was set up and his mother was just about ready to walk him down the aisle. She’d already threatened Luke with death on numerous occasions if he were to ever hurt her boy. “You ready?” Garcia asked. Her smile could’ve pushed everyone else out of the room it was so wide and bright. Excitedly, she clapped her hands and pulled Spencer off the bed. “Here you are Mrs. Reid.” 

The ladies made their way outside, leaving Spencer and his mother ready alone. “You ready?” Diana asked, pushing a strand of hair out of her son’s face. “As much as I threaten him, I really do love that man you chose. He’s a good man.”

“He is,” Spencer replied. He took his mother’s arm and started walking outside. Hopefully, once he saw Luke, he’d gain his footing again, because right now, he felt like a baby giraffe learning to walk for the first time. 

---

As Pachelbel’s Canon started playing (they’d nearly gone with the Imperial March), Luke watched as Spencer walked out of the house with his mother next to him. He always looked amazing, but he had to stifle the welling tears as his soon-to-be husband made his way toward him. 

Spencer on the other hand smiled wider than he ever thought possible. Luke was crying. He could see it. And it got him going in return. “You look amazing,” he said when Diana hand her son over. “And don’t worry,” he said in her direction, “I’ll never hurt him.”

“I know you won’t.”

It was at that moment that Spencer got a good look at the archway. “We can’t get rid of this,” he said as a tear rolled down his face. “This is amazing and I want it in our house forever.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Luke laughed as he grabbed his hand. For a second, they just decided to look around. It was a small group. Diana, Luke’s mother, father, and two brothers, as well as the members of the BAU. Morgan was standing at Reid’s side. Prentiss, JJ, Garcia and Tara were sitting next to Walker and Rossi. There were a few people missing they wished were there, especially Spencer, but he wouldn’t let their absence keep him down - they wouldn’t want that. Other than everyone’s dates and children, that was the extent of their gathering, and it was perfect. 

The officiant started up, saying a few words. “I am so glad to be here with all of you celebrating the love between Spencer Reid and Luke Alvez. Everyone they love is here, but like them, I’m sure you all want to get to dancing, drinking, and eating, so we’ll make this short.” It was true - they just wanted to be married already. It had been long enough. 

After Luke said his vows, barely getting through them without tearing up, he slid the ‘I know’ wedding ring onto Spencer’s finger. And then it was his turn. Although it wasn’t a surprise to Luke that Spencer spoke Spanish, he was taken off guard when his native tongue fell so beautifully off Spencer’s lips.

“Luke, hoy te tomo por mi esposo. Te prometo amarte sin reservas, consolarte en tiempos de angustia, animarte a alcanzar todos tus objetivos, reírte contigo y llorar contigo, crecer contigo en mente y espíritu, ser siempre abierto y honesto contigo y Te acariciará mientras sigamos viviendo.” 

Spencer finished. And when he looked up Luke was crying harder than before. He always thought he’d be the one to be crying incessantly. After he slipped the ring on Luke’s finger, the officiant pronounced them married. “You may now kiss your husband,” he said, looking between the two. As their lips met, their ears were infused with the whooping, hollering and clapping of their friends and family, as well as the river of tears coming from both mothers.

Finally, after all they’d been through - they were married. Forevermore, they would dedicate their lives, not only to others, but to each other.

                                                              ****

The ceremony had gone off without a hitch. The reception was filled with well wishes, dancing and laughter. But now it was time just for them. In the months since they’d gotten engaged, Derek had renovated a house for them. They decided that the night they got married would be the first night they spent in that house.

“God, I love this,” Luke said, staring at the perfectly-shined hardwood floors of their new living area. “I have to thank Derek for the fiftieth time.”

Absolutely. Spencer made a mental note to call Derek in the morning and thank him again. He also had to get the book archway that Luke made for him because it was without a doubt going in their living room. “Me too...Ready to go upstairs?” he smirked. “Because I am.” 

Luke bit down gently on his lip before pulling Spencer toward him and tangling his hand in his hair. He crashed their lips together, their tongues battling for space in each other’s mouths before he took his hand and ran him up the stairs. “Mine!” he laughed, pushing Spencer onto the bed. 

Spencer fell back with a laugh, smiling into Luke’s neck as he crawled on top of him, but within seconds, a need took over them both that wiped the smile from their faces. “Need you,” Spencer breathed, pulling Luke’s suit jacket off of his broad shoulders. “Right now.”

“You have me,” he laughed. He kneeled up and pulled Spencer with him, tossing his suit jacket to the side as well. As he undid his buttons, he grazed his teeth against Spencer’s collarbone, sending a shiver through his husband’s spine. “Forever. You’re stuck with me.”

After divesting themselves of the rest of their shirts, Spencer grabbed Luke by the back of the neck and brought him down flush against him. While one hand grasped him against him, the other traveled down to just belong his belt line. Luke had a great ass. “That’s kind of the point,” Spencer laughed. “This ass is mine forever.”

Luke opened his mouth against Spencer’s neck and traveled downward, peppering his chest with kisses and he removed both of their pants. Before taking him, like he knew Spencer wanted, he had to tease him a little bit. Spencer made it so simple.

He heard him huff as Luke licked and sucked at the skin traveling down to his groin. That got him going in a matter of minutes on a normal basis, but tonight, Spencer was needy. “You tease,” he moaned. “You’re gonna get it when we go on vacation next week.”

“Counting on it,” he laughed, taking Spencer’s length in his hand and placing his lips over the tip. He reveled in the way he could get him hard in seconds. For a few moments, he swished his tongue over the length of him, but even he couldn’t take the teasing for that long - and he was the one doing it. 

They’d gotten all they ever wanted and they needed each other desperately. Quickly, Luke moved back up the length of Spencer’s body and took his mouth in a passionate and all-consuming kiss that sent their souls on fire. Spencer could taste himself off his husband’s mouth - and the feeling was intoxicating. He had someone to love for the rest of his life. 

Luke speedily reached over to their night stand drawer and grabbed the lube they’d need. After applying it to himself and Spencer, he placed himself at his entrance and gently pushed inside passed the tight ring of muscle. Both men groaned at the feeling, and within seconds they’d found their rhythm again. 

While Luke moved inside him, Spencer reached between them to touch himself. A few strokes of his length was all he needed. He arched his head back for Luke as he kissed at the soft skin under his ear. “I love you,” he moaned from above. 

Spencer squirmed slightly and ran his hand up Luke’s back and into his hair while Luke thrusted in and out of him at a pace that they’d perfected over their few years together. “I love you, too,” he breathed. Spencer’s muscles began to spasm and after another few thrusts, he cried out, exclaiming into Luke’s neck. 

As Spencer came down from his high, Luke fell over the edge, taking his husband’s lips in a searing kiss that muffled his own cries. “Married sex is great sex,” he laughed, pulling out of Spencer and falling to his side.

His husband chuckled turning into him and biting down gently on his lower lip. “I’d have to say so,” he breathed heavily. “Here’s to great married sex for the rest of our lives, okay?”

“Sounds great to me.”