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mariacallous · 9 months

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This is dated 12-29-2023, for the record.

It was a nightmare scenario that Ukrainian and Western officials had feared for months. Western officials have watched as Russia stacked up precision-guided munitions to launch targeted attacks on Ukrainian critical infrastructure in the winter while keeping up the pace of strikes on cities using unguided “dumb” bombs.

And on Friday morning, it became a reality. Russia conducted a hailstorm of strikes across Ukraine, hitting Kyiv, Dnipro, Lviv, Zaporizhzhia, Odesa, and Kharkiv. There were at least 158 drone and missile strikes in all, which damaged hospitals, a shopping mall, and schools, killing at least 31 people and injuring more than 160.

The numbers are still going up as search and rescue teams pick through the rubble. Russia fired its missiles with so much abandon that the Polish government confirmed one of the Kremlin’s projectiles entered its airspace. In the chaos that engulfed the Kyiv streets, one man tried to stop the fires from spreading by driving his burning car away from his neighbors.

The renewed barrages have Ukrainian officials and U.S. experts questioning how long they’ll be able to keep the lights on during winter—or hold territory—especially with the long tail of U.S. military aid running out, unless Congress acts soon.

Ukrainian officials believe that Russia’s capacity to strike is even greater than what it just showed off: The Kremlin can fire off about 300 Iranian-made suicide drones in one attack on Ukraine and about 150 ballistic missiles in one shot on Kyiv, said Sasha Ustinova, a Ukrainian lawmaker.

And with the Ukrainian counteroffensive stalled and fresh weapons not flowing until January at the earliest, how resilient will the Ukrainians be?

“The Ukrainians are heading for a tough winter, for obvious reasons,” Swedish Defense Minister Pal Jonson said in an interview earlier this month. “But I think that the Ukrainian morale is much, much higher than the Russian morale. What is crucial right now, of course, is that we all will step up support.”

But that morale is now getting tested, as Ukrainians were shaken out of bed by dozens of air raid alerts that lit up their phones. And the aid isn’t coming—at least until the U.S. Congress gets back from recess in the second week of January, and maybe for even longer.

“Ukraine needs funding now to continue to fight for freedom from such horror in 2024,” Bridget Brink, the U.S. ambassador to Ukraine, wrote in a tweet screenshotting the numerous air raid alerts sent to Kyiv residents.

U.S. officials have seen movement across the nearly stagnant front lines slow considerably in recent weeks, a trend that is expected to continue. The weather in Ukraine has hit subzero temperatures and piles of snow have mostly halted forward movement along the 600-mile front, underscoring the prospect of several months of attrition warfare. Ukraine is already making moves to lower the draft age to get more men onto the battlefield.

Ukraine doesn’t need any silver bullets, experts say. It just needs the regular kind.

“We’re clearly past the ground counteroffensive now,” said Peter Rough, a senior fellow and director of the Center on Europe and Eurasia at Hudson Institute. “Since it won’t get large numbers of longer-range precision fires, Ukraine probably needs to entrench and defend right now—and absent Congress passing the supplemental, even those defensive lines may not remain stable.”

Still, Jonson said the Ukrainian military has been getting some access to more long-range strike weapons, which has forced Russian ships and aircraft to move farther away from the front lines. But Ukraine has had to build its military while fending off the invasion: Jonson said that Kyiv is operating about 600 types of Western weapons systems, while ferrying fuel and spare parts across the front line. All that on roads that will be coated with sleet, snow, and ice.

Even with its limited arsenal of Western-provided long-range weapons like British-made Storm Shadows and the cluster variant of the U.S. Army Tactical Missile System, Ukraine has still made a dent, knocking out a Russian tank landing ship in Crimea on Tuesday. And experts believe that Russia’s fragile logistics system—which was never designed for continuous military operations across Europe’s second-largest country—is a good target.

“If they had longer-range weapons, they could completely wreck the logistics system,” said Ben Hodges, the former head of U.S. Army Europe. “I think they know this is a real vulnerability for the Russians, particularly in winter.”

But Ukrainians fear they are already running out of munitions—and time. Though Western-provided air defenses blanket much of Kyiv, they are not enough to defend against far-flung Russian attacks that could dot the country during winter. As much as Ukraine needs more air defenses to blunt attacks like Friday’s firestorm, Ukrainian officials have indicated that the falling temperatures have already shifted their priorities: Attrition warfare means a premium on artillery fire, and Europe is far behind on its target to produce a million artillery shells by March 2024.

“The biggest problem we’re going to run into is when they start shelling us heavily,” Ustinova said. “Because we will not have enough munitions.”

But Ukraine has been forced to cut military operations as aid has dried up. Ukrainian Brig. Gen. Oleksandr Tarnavskyi, who heads up a group of forces in the southern push, told the BBC this week that Ukraine is facing particularly acute shortages of Soviet-era 122 mm and 152 mm shells, which still make up a large portion of Kyiv’s military arsenal. And if the Ukrainians want to apply forward pressure in spite of the snow, they have to clear entire minefields in front of them, only for the Russians to reseed the deadly explosives from the air.

The Russian war chest is still heavily stocked. Hanno Pevkur, the Estonian defense minister, said in November that Russia still has about 7,000 to 8,000 tanks in reserve. Meanwhile, Russia has turned its sanctions-battered economy into a war economy. The Kremlin plans to spend 6 percent of GDP on defense next year. And Russian President Vladimir Putin’s deals for drones with Iran and ammunition with North Korea have indicated to Western officials that Russia’s game is quantity, not quality.

“It doesn’t matter. As long as it fires, as long as it unfortunately kills Ukrainians, it is good for Russians,” Pevkur said. “They are increasing their production, especially ammunition. They don’t care about the quality. They care about the quantity.”

Western officials believe that there are 300,000 to 400,000 Russian troops on Ukrainian soil, across a swath of occupied territory that is about the size of the contiguous Baltic states. Russian casualties have totaled about that many troops in the 22 months since the Kremlin’s full-scale invasion began. But experts caution that the cannon fodder won’t last forever. It might not have to last that much longer, though.

In November, Russian forces claimed to gain ground around the eastern city of Avdiivka, where Western officials believe the Kremlin is trying to make a pincer move to encircle the town, the site of a major coke fuel and chemical plant. They’ve also set their sights on the important railway junction of Kupyansk.

“They just keep pushing these guys into a meat grinder to convey the sense that they have endless resources,” Hodges said. “They don’t have endless resources.”

For now, though, absent Western aid, Russia’s focus on eastern Ukraine could lead Kyiv to cede more ground.

“That’s very painful for us, because we pay thousands of lives to get every single kilometer,” Ustinova said.

“They are already taking more territory,” she added. “Look at the map.”

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chronically-ghosted · 9 months

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Have Yourself a Moreno Little Christmas

rating: T

pairing: marcus moreno x f!reader

word count: 6K

summary: when the Morenos' happy Christmas is in jeopardy, you think quick and invite them on a trip to an old family tradition. If he’s grateful, would it be safe to tell him how you feel? But why do you think he might already know? What if he feels the same way?

warnings: heavily influenced by the movie While You Were Sleeping, your typical amount of angst for a romcom, mutual pining, ballet in the park, a moody pre-teen, brief discussions of losing a loved one (parent/partner), bad dad jokes, canoodling in the park, one steamy kiss and a few other softer ones

a/n: Happy Secret Santa @noisynaia! You had Marcus M as your number one Pedro boy of choice, and given that I’d never written for him before, I wanted to do something wholesome and sweet in the world of super heroes. The Nutcracker has always been near and dear to me so I hope you like this take on it! @pedrostories

This will be my last fic of 2023 so - much love, stay warm, and happy holidays! 🤍Masterlist

What do you get a man who has everything for Christmas? A tie? A money clip? Something aggressively manly that smells like woodsmoke, patchouli oil, and the raw sweat of a lumberjack after felling a thousand forests?

What do you get a superhero for Christmas? Indestructible tights? A decorative plaque for his swords? A life-time supply of gauze and iodine?

What do you get for your boss, superpowered and single, with the ability to turn a paperclip into a rose? A silver ball into a flat pancake? Decorative swords into deadly weapons? What do you get him that is even remotely useful or exciting or heartwarming when he is so busy with being a single father and mentor, a symbol and an icon, all while running the world’s foremost superhero operation?

Somehow, “world’s best boss” mug feels rather . . . subpar.

What do you get him if he’s become one of your closest friends? When you try to wiggle some sort of information out of him about a potential gift on one of the many long nights where you’re stuck together doing paperwork for the UN and the NSA – but he is annoyingly vague.

His daughter – a fiery mix of headstrong and thoughtful, soothed by a loving kindness that clearly runs in the family – is no help. She teases you with promises “oh yeah, definitely get him a new spatula” when you both know the man has never been anywhere near a BBQ grill. You give her the rest of the Reeses that didn’t make it into the community candy bowl anyway.

You can’t ask for ideas from his mother, or his teammates, the security guards at the headquarter doors, anyone with eyes (who’s not ten years old) because then they’ll know, you sure of it. They’ll see and that’s just not something you can ever, ever, ever bring up because . . .

What do you get for a man who is your boss, a superhero, a leader, a father, your boss, a very close friend, your boss, someone you very much admire . . . and as a result, have fallen deeply, painfully, achingly in love with?

Your still beating heart on a silver platter seems like the obvious choice. A bowl of your tears for unrequited love is a definitely strong second option. A lock of your hair so the FBI can easily identify you as his certifiably insane stalker – there we go, brilliant idea.

A kiss under the mistletoe? A promise for more?

That damned mug is looking better and better every day.

You knock three times, then one more before opening the door. Behind unnecessarily thick glasses, Marcus glances up, life returning to his face when his eyes fall on you.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but the president of Belize is on line one for you.”

The man with sticky, molded blonde hair sitting across from Marcus turns around and smiles. His teeth are freakishly white, all stacked together in tight, proper rows. His suit, freshly pressed and clean of any evidence of interaction with the world, carries a giant button on the lapel: Vote Tine!

“President of Belize, my, my, Mr. Moreno, you are a busy man!”

Marcus stands, his gaze peeling off you to the politician in front of him. “Mr. Tine, I apologize, but I have to cut this meeting short–,”

“Ah, it’s no trouble at all!” He stands, batting his hand through the air. “Just as long as we’ll see you at the next rally, right, Marcus?”

He holds out a perfectly square hand and with a tight-lipped grin, Marcus shakes Tine’s hand.

“We’ll see, Senator.”

“Wonderful, wonderful, alright, I’ll get out of your hair. Mr. Moreno . . .” he bows slightly before turning in the direction of the door. You catch a glimpse of him the instant the smarmy smile slides off his face as, with wolf-ish eyes, he evaluates you from your ankles to the candy-cane broach on your chest. You don’t smile as you shut the door after him – as if you’d be bothered by greasy politicians and their wandering eyes.

Marcus all but slumps back in his chair before taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his palms.

“Every time election season comes around, they all want the Heroics’ vote. Until Miracle Guy chucks Dr. Evil through the Empire State Building and suddenly it’s ‘we need these vigilantes off our streets’ . . .” He shakes his head and slips his glasses back on, watching as you take the vacated seat. “Sorry, none of this is your problem. What does the president of Belize want?”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” you say, tapping the corner of your pad with your stylus, “his slogan sucks. Justine Tine – just in time. I’m not unconvinced he didn’t change his name for the sake of a cheesy one-liner.”

A small smile cracks open the dreary look on Marcus’s face. His eyes flicker to the door. “Seems like the type, doesn’t he? I think you’re onto something.”

“So that’s item one, for the day.” You stand, curling your pad into your arms, you lean on Marcus’s desk, knee against the edge.

He stares intently at your face.

“Number two, I just checked our records and there’s no Dr. Evil anywhere in our data banks. The Empire State building is safe, for now, so you can stop worrying about that.”

You mime-checking off something on your pad and the grin on Marcus’s face softens.

“And number three . . .” you pick up the phone on his desk, that suspiciously doesn’t have any blinking red lights. Marcus frowns, noticing this for the first time, when you lift up the receiver and drop it down. His mouth parts.

“Belize has a monarchy. A king, not a president.”

The frown deepens. You wait. And light parts the sky.

“Oh. Oh – you didn’t – that’s – really?”

His eyes are round, wide, relieved, and you want nothing more than to run your hands through those curls. To rub those broad shoulders loose of their tension. But rearranging meetings and make up fake world leaders to give him a break is the best you can do.

“Yes, really. The Heroics are prepared to make a sizable donation to Tine’s cause, and he will thank us at his next rally. So, Mr. Moreno, your next meeting isn’t for another hour, how would you like to spend it?” You smile, tapping your hanging shoe on the ball of your foot. “I suggest using it to eat something. Have you eaten anything today?”

Marcus sighs, eyes falling shut for just a moment. “What, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, would I do without you?”

You avert your eyes before the heat in your cheeks climbs too high, his eyes on you, and you hop off his desk.

“Would you, hmm,” you clear your throat, your voice cracking in half, “would you like me to order something and have it delivered, Mr. Moreno?”

He’s chewing on the skin below his lip when you raise your head from the pad in your arms. Being indestructible is one thing; having his face entirely inscrutable is one of Marcus’s most impressive superpowers. He nods, the look of distant contemplation gone. He flips through a few of the notes you’ve left him on his desk – calls to return, items for next week, reports he needs to sign: busy work.

“Yeah, uh, that’s great. Pick something up for yourself too.”

The mood has soured and you’re not quite sure how or why it happened. A second ago Marcus looked like he was going to pick you up and twirl you around the room. Now, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. You nervously tap your stylus against your pad.

“Yes, Mr. Moreno.”

You turn to go, his head down, his gaze fixated on whatever isn’t you, when he calls out your name again.

“Oh, um, did you manage to get anything out of Missy abour what she wants for Christmas when she was here last Friday?”

You pause, remembering the uncharacteristically morose girl spinning listlessly in your chair while you watched from the break room as the hot cocoa warmed up in the microwave. You’d never seen so much as a pout on the girl before and no matter what you did, she didn’t crack a single smile.

“No, she didn’t tell me anything, but . . .” Now this is the part of your job that you loathe the most: trying to figure out the line. You saw Marcus as a friend, absolutely, but it’s not like you went and played volleyball on the beach with him, or went bar-hopping, or whatever it is adults with friends do. You love Missy more than you thought you could ever care about a child who isn’t your own, but you wavered how much to press her on her mood, because how did she see you? Nothing more than her father’s employee, most likely. In the end, you ended up getting one word answers from her until Marcus left his office thirty minutes later.

But here you go, overstepping boundaries . . .

“Mr. Moreno, is she alright? The last time she was here, she seemed . . . I don’t know, sad?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, his eyes sharpened. You opened your mouth to profusely apologize when –

“Fuck.” Marcus tosses his glasses onto his desk and buries his head in his hands. The instinct to put your arms around him is so strong you take a step forward before you remember exactly who you are.

How do you comfort the man you love when you shouldn’t love him at all? How do you comfort a superhero, when he’s a father first and human second?

Keeping the desk firmly between you, you drop your pad onto one of the chairs and as slowly as you dare, you touch his forearm. He leans, not away, but towards you. He lowers his arms as you keep your touch on him. You squeeze once, looking down at his hopeless expression.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen with Missy?”

Marcus shifts his arm beneath your fingers, his fingers twitching, as if he wants to take your hand but instead puts his other hand over yours.

“This Christmas has just been really hard.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them: “tell me.”

He looks up at you, eyes warm and wide in a way that only his can. Indestructible in the face of evil, inscrutable with his secrets, Marcus’s greatest weakness is Missy, and he knows it. You know you’re crossing a dozen professional lines leaning over him like you are, touching him like you are, asking him to open up. But you don’t care.

He presses his lips together, hesitant. He won’t look you in the eye. “You have to understand something first. Missy’s mom loved Christmas.”

His hand over yours tightens gently as if he thinks you’re going to pull away. You hadn’t considered it but your palm went a little damp at the mention of her.

Oh God, you’ve so played your hand wrong.

Marcus inhales, his gaze on your knuckles. “Isabel, that was her name, and every year Isabel made Christmas this big event. And every Christmas she bought Missy a little nutcracker. Missy was barely out of diapers at the time, I don’t think she even knew what they were, but she loved them. Thought they were the funniest things with their teeth and stuffy white hair . . . but he other day, going through the decoration box, Missy found them all and I guess she suddenly remembered all those Christmases with her mom and she, uh . . .”

He taps your wrist with his thumb, a tell he has when he’s nervous. The seat squeaks slightly as he adjusts himself in it.

“I haven’t been putting out the nutcrackers that Isabel gave Missy. The Christmas after she died, I couldn’t bring myself to put out any sort of real decorations, except for the tree. Missy was so young, I don’t think she cared. But as she got older, she never asked about the nutcrackers so I hoped she just . . . forgot about them. And she did, until she found them last Friday.”

“Last Friday?” You feel like you’ve been sucking on cotton. “Before she came to the office?”

Marcus nods.

“Oh, M-Mar-Mr. Moreno, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

“She was furious that I tried to hide something of her mother’s from her. And she’s right. I was a coward.”

This move is an intentional one. You slip your hand out from his and cup his fingers around yours, as if guiding him. He finally looks up at you, guilt and shame and grief streaking his face like blurry rain against a window pane.

“You are the bravest man I know, Marcus Moreno. You’re a superhero and a single father. Most people can barely handle one. She’ll come around, I promise.”

You swallow the urge to bring his knuckles to your lips, and instead squeeze both of his hands and let go. You slide away from the desk, your heart tight in your chest when his thumbs pass over the palm of your hand. The look on his face is disappointed, you want to believe.

“Thank you. For listening and, uh, everything else. You’re right. I’ll just . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do but I’ll figure something out.” He leans back, elbows on the chair’s handles. Marcus Moreno, or what you know of him, doesn’t like to dwell, so you watch some of the heaviness shift from his eyes the moment he decides to change the subject. “What are you doing for Christmas? Are you staying in town? Going to see family – or a boyfriend?”

The warm in your chest, lingering from his hands, suddenly bolts across your face. “No, no, um, no, there’s no one –,” Would it be pathetic if you fanned yourself with your pad? God, how does the man work in here for hours with no fresh air? “No, I’m not going home to anyone but I am . . .”

And suddenly there it is. A solution to your Christmas present debacle and maybe a way to save Christmas for Missy Moreno.

You shake your head, beating back the rising heat in your cheeks. “Actually, are you and Missy doing anything this weekend?”

Marcus seems taken aback from this sudden turn in the conversation.

“Um, no. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“If you’ll let me, I’d like to show you and Missy something really, really special.”

You swear the tips of his ears go pink. “Uh, okay. Sure. I-I’ll have to clear it with Missy, but yeah, alright. What time?”

“I’ll put it in your calendar.” You smile and slip your stylus back into your pad. “Have a nice lunch, Mr. Moreno.”

He shakes his head and scratches the back of his neck as you head for the door.

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me, Marcus?

You pause with your handle on the door. “At least once more, Mr. Moreno.”

The mug drops to last place.

Good news.

If you’re ever stranded on a desert island, you’ll survive because you are already intimately familiar with the taste of your own foot in your mouth.

Why did you open with “Hey Missy, your dad tells me you’ve been having a rough Christmas?” to a sullen, grieving pre-teen?

And can time actually go slower, when the air is so stifled with tension? When you’re absolutely sure you’re breathing too loud?

You’ve been glancing at Missy in the rear view mirror for the dozenth time in twice as many miles. Her face is turned towards the window so you can’t actually see the murderous rage in her eyes, but oh wow do you feel it. Nevermind superpowers, this little girl could char you to a crisp with her eyes alone. Potential step-mom failure award goes to . . .

“So.” Marcus clears his throat and you tear your eyes back from the back of his daughter’s head. The fraught silence of the car stretches just long enough after Marcus’s statement to grate ever so gently – “um, how do you, uh, know about this place? Wherever, we’re going.”

You bite the corner of your mouth. Marcus doesn’t appear angry that you’ve soured the mood with Missy before the drive even began. In fact, he looks genuinely curious, the light in his eyes bright. If it weren’t for that single line between his brows, you assume nothing is wrong, but you know that almost frown. Marcus is anxious.

Great.

You settle back in your seat, trying to look as relaxed as you can in a pillowy jacket, your hat and gloves in Marcus’s lap, along with his own. The snow outside stopped falling only a few minutes ago, lining the trees and road with a crisp sparkling white. If anything, it ended up being a beautiful day.

You flex your hand around the steering wheel, trying to summon courage up through your body like your lungs inhale air.

“It’s an old family tradition, actually. My folks would take us out here every year to watch . . . to watch the show.” You glance at him briefly before checking to see if that piqued anything from the roiling black cloud in the back. It didn’t. You hadn’t told either one of the Morenos your plans for this Christmas day. “But I haven’t been back in a while.”

“Why not? And please don’t say it's because of work.” The lilt in his voice has you looking at him, long enough to watch a small smile uncurl. You really thought it was impossible for Marcus Moreno to get any cuter, but with his woolen floppy cap covering his ears and the little white bob at the end fluttering in the warm heater air, you force yourself to remember you’re driving a 3000 pound metal death machine if you stare, starry-eyed, for too long.

“No, it’s not because of work,” you grin back and his own crosses completely across his mouth. “It’s not work related . . . but um, after my parents passed away, my brother and sister moved across the country.” Your hands crinkle around the steering wheel. “I’ve spent most of my Christmas’s alone ever since. Coming here without them, i-it felt . . . wrong.”

In the rear view mirror, you think you see her move.

“That’s terrible. I’m sorry.” The weight of Marcus’s gaze, his own planetary gravitational pull, has your nose drawing down then over. He looks genuinely regretful of your situation and you’re suddenly hit with the understanding that not only did Missy lose a mother, but Marcus lost a wife.

Hell, maybe you can just continue up the bone and eat your whole leg while you’re at it.

“Mhm hmm.”

The rest of the car right goes on in silence, except for the faint, ghost-like christmas carols playing from the speakers through your phone.

When you pull off the dirt road and park your car in the cold grass with dozens of other vehicles, you can’t unbuckle fast enough. The patches of icy dead grass snap beneath your boots as you climb out of the car, and you’re struck in the face with a chilly wind.

The words are on your tongue as you look at him over the hood of the car, the breeze snagging the little puff ball on the end of his cap, his glasses already misting over.

I’m so sorry, Marcus, this was such a bad idea.

I don’t know how to talk about my grief or anyone else's and it’s been drowning me for years but I don’t want to pull you down with me.

I’ll drive you anywhere you want I’m so–

“Is this the Stanley Amphitheater?” Marcus takes off his glasses and rubs the condensation away. “This is where they have that jazz festival every summer, right?”

You’re so surprised by his tone that all you can do is blurt out: “yes.”

“So cool! I’ve actually been dying to check this place out!”

“Y-yeah?”

He smiles at you and you have to grab onto the door frame to keep your knees from buckling.

“C’mon, Missy.”

Tugging his hat further over his head, Marcus lopes forward and then he turns and reaches out for his daughter. The moment arcs, Missy’s stone faced glare demanding that he drop his hand, that he turn away from her, an inch away from leaving a mark that aches in a way that only a loving parent can feel from their loved child –

And she takes his hand.

You watch them follow the crowd, blanket in hand, just a few steps behind them, and you breathe out.

Across the stone amphitheater, a low murmur of dozens of eager voices vibrate in the dugout cup of the earth. Children squirm with anticipation in their parents’ laps, couples share lingering gazes over steaming styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, an air of excitement and delight hovering between chapped lips and knitted gloves as the sun arcs lower in the sky. Just in front of the large stage, a live orchestra prepares, discordant cords breaking and rising like smoke.

A man in a striped hat sells buttery popcorn and sweet, crunchy kettle corn in a small wooden hut a distance from the theater. A few families wait in line, children teasing one another behind their parents, their laughter light on the breezy air.

“So, what is this?” Your head whips around at Missy’s first sentence all day. Marcus looks at you equally stunned. The blanket you’ve spread across three laps keeps you intentionally close so you have to lean back slightly to see her face.

“It’s, um–,”

“Missy, do you like ballet?” You ask

Beneath her maroon hat, her eyes lift up, her back straightening from its hunch. You wouldn’t call her look eager, but you cannot deny there’s interest.

She nods.

“Well, what we’re about to see is a very special ballet performance. Some people who have powers like your dad, they don’t go into crime fighting. Instead, they use their powers to make art.”

She blinks, eyes widening. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

The fringe smile is hidden by a curtain of hair as Missy tilts her head down to her shoes, nodding. Marcus glances at you over the wool of her hat, surprise thinning the lines around his eyes.

“It’s getting kind of cold,” he says slowly, to no one in particular. “Anyone want some hot chocolate?”

“I do,” you wave. Missy nods, grumbling.

Marcus waves over a woman in a striped hat as she wanders through the crowd. The metal box, hanging around her neck and strapped to her back reads, refreshments.

He pays for three styrofoam cups just as the lights in the back of the amphitheater flicker and the orchestra winds down to silence.

Despite the burgeoning chill in the air, and despite the grief dividing yet binding the three of you, and despite the fact that this may be your one chance for Marcus to see you as anything other than his assistant, you’re hopeful. Maybe it’s the music itself, that way that music has to ignite your soul when you need it the most, or maybe it’s the spirit of the season, but for the first time in a long, long time, you don’t feel so lonely. In fact, you can’t remember a time you’ve felt more connected than you do with the people next to you.

Missy’s eyes are bright, flitting around the stage as if determined to not miss a single thing, the cocoa in her hands leaving a dark rim around her mouth that she is blissfully ignorant of. That already full feeling in your chest expands and you want nothing more than to hug her, hug her till she’s warm and hug her till she’s happy. Behind her, her father moves and it catches your eye.

Marcus has never looked at you before the way he is now. Inscrutable, undefined, but it packs such a punch in your chest it feels like you gulped down your entire cup of hot chocolate in one go. You turn away, fearful of what he might see in your eyes, and realize the enormity of what you feel, how it’s all consuming and tugs at you when you least expect it.

The music begins to swell just as the sun sets and the lights at the rim of the theater fade. You take a shaky inhale – nerves and excitement and memories good and bad weighing on your shoulders.

And then it begins to snow.

But not from the sky and it’s not yet cold enough for the consistent sprinkle. Snowflakes tangle with your eyelashes, in the wool of your cap. Then Missy gasps as a translucent ice crystal the size of her palm trickles down into her lap. Glinting like glass, the intricate design of the crystal flashes once before disappearing – not melting – just gone. Around you, other children hold out, giggling their hands as more beautiful flakes of enormous size flutter down from the inexplicable snow drift. A few adults reach out to grab some that burst like bubbles, a wondrous awe crescendoing across the crowd.

From the wings of the stage, a man and a woman, dressed in beautiful light blues and silvers, silks glittering with inset shimmering stones, walk across the stage, their arms moving slowly, thoughtfully.

In sync, they coax the air and the snow follows in a dance of white. Delighted shouts rise up as the snow and ice spin together, arcing and weaving, capturing the essence of a winter wind. The pair on stage bend, their hands flung backwards in a bow and the ball of snow shatters in an icy solar flare, the million white flakes fluttering over the crowd.

Out of the exhilarated murmur that overtakes the crowd, one noise stands out above the rest.

Missy laughs. She laughs as she watches a snowflake melt on the end of her nose.

You wish desperately you could squeeze her to you.

The crowd applauds the snow dancers, bowing again before exiting the stage, as a woman in black steps out. Her short-cropped hair is nearly as white as the snow still melting on the ground and her eyes are crinkled at the edges. When she speaks, her voice booms without the aid of a mic.

“Thank you and welcome to another annual Stanley Kirby production of The Nutcracker.”

Missy’s smile doesn’t fall from her face. In fact it widens. Your heart is pounding in your chest, as you watch her from the corner of your eye.

“I’ve been directing this play for twenty years now and I can honestly say I find something new and beautiful about it every time. Winter is often seen as the end stage, symbolized through literature and poetry as the time when we humans grow old. But I like to think that doesn’t always have to be true. Spirit, however you like to think of it, is exactly that: an endurance, a bravery, a force greater than ourselves that we can either embrace or let slide through our fingers. We hope you leave today with a little bit more spirit in you. Thank you for coming and we hope you enjoy the show.”

She bows as two men enter in from the wings, these dressed in brown and green, the crowd clapping for both the director and the new players.

A little girl, in ballet shoes and a pink dress with ruffles, her hair down to her back and tied out of her face with a bow, joins them on the stage and sits down in the center as the heavy velvet curtains pull back to reveal a backdrop imitating a hallway. With a large door, two round, gilded mirrors and a single chair.

The orchestra begins, the dancers lifting their hands with a wave of a conductor.

Shadows flicker at the back of the theater, eliciting shocked, almost horrified gasps from the crowd. But you know what’s coming. You don’t turn around. You smile.

Beside you both Missy and Marcus stare, mouths open, as eleven foot tall wooden nutcrackers amble down the stone steps between the seats, their knees stocky, their weight uneven as they march towards the stage. Their giant mouths creak and groan as the switch on their backs moves without any visible force. The green and red paint shines in the lights from the stage, their silver buttons glowing like stars. The dancers in brown coax them closer with a curl of their fingers and a bend in their arms. They begin to sway and spin across the stage, their legs outstretched and their feet curved into satin shoes, the little girl paying them no mind. Instead, she gets on her knees and waves to the marching soldiers.

More awed gasps as now teddy bears then porcelain dolls, the size of elephants, follow the nutcrackers down the steps, the orchestra keeping time and building a sense of whimsy and joy. The little girl bounds to the edge of the stage as the first wave of soldiers approaches. With a kiss from her hand into the wind, the first nutcracker freezes and then shrinks, the dancer behind the girl flicking his wrist. The crowd hums with delight as the nutcracker, now the size of a toy, floats next to the chair. One by one, the little girl greets the marching toys just before they shrink and find a place next to the chair.

With the last doll fluttering in the wind as it settles, the little girl spins and twirls until she drops into the chair and seemingly to sleep.

The crowd roars with joy, a thunderous applause swelling in the amphitheater.

But, best of all, Missy is on her feet, cheering and clapping. Her face glows in the light of the stage, her eyes bright and hopeful, her cheeks pink and chapped. In the shadows that flicker of people moving and applauding, beyond Missy’s curly hair, Marcus stares at you in a way that makes your heart grow bigger with every beat, his own silent music swelling the cage of your ribs.

He reaches out his hand for you and you take it.

He keeps holding you long after Missy sits down and the ballet continues.

A nearby park has set up Christmas lights in the trees and on the pathway. Missy, after promising to stay close, has gone and disappeared in the dark, off playing with a few of the other children who stayed after the show was over.

Families sit on benches under covered awnings, the dark night cold but not encroaching, a food truck selling churros and Mexican hot chocolate mystifying the chilly air into white puffs as they serve eager mouths and cold hands.

You walk the lighted path with Marcus, your arm tucked up around his.

The sounds of children laughing fill the comfortable silence between you two.

“This is going to be embarrassingly underwhelming,” he says quietly, the warmth of his body enough to keep a shiver at bay. “But thank you. That was incredible. I mean, I’ve seen The Nutcracker before, but this . . .”

He trails off, shaking his head, awe curling his mouth open.

“It’s pretty fantastic, right?” You smile up at him and squeeze his arm.

He closes his mouth just as his eyebrows jump.

“Kinda makes me wonder if I picked the wrong profession, if other people are using their powers like that.”

You chuckle lowly. “Ha, as if there’s anything you could be except a superhero.”

“What do you mean?” The tone in his voice makes you pause. Just around the curve of the path, you’re hidden by silver-dripped trees and frost-covered shrubs. No children run here and the lights on the path are muffled by the overgrowth.

His eyes are dark when you look into them, but dark in the way under the covers of your parents bed is dark, or the dark in your friend’s mouths when they’re torn open with laughter. Dark in a way that holds and comforts and sinks deep. White mist puffs from his chapped lips, nose pink and cold. The lint from his scarf has stuck to the base of his neck.

“You have to save people. It’s who you are. I don’t believe for a second there’s any part of you that could sit by and watch terrible things happen to good people. Your powers don’t change that.” You swallow, fingering the snaps on his coat as you stand face to face, the decision to say the words on your tongue nearly splitting you apart. “You saved me. If that counts for anything. You saved me from being alone on another really shitty Christmas and I–,”

The soft but determined press of his lips against yours brings silence to the grove, your words dissipating into the air like snowflakes. The whole of the world narrows down to the sensation of his mouth on yours; you forget the cold, the chilly burn on your cheeks, the sweat on your hairline where your woolen cap sits. You forget the sound of people in the distance, forget the lights in the darkness. He kisses like he works, methodically, confidently, and with intention.

His well-kept mustache tickles your nose, his lips a little torn from the cold, but the heat of his mouth warms you to your core. He holds you, his scratchy mitten against your cheek, the rest of him staying perfectly still, letting you savor his touch, commit the shape of his mouth, and by the quietest of moans rumbling in his chest, you think he might be doing the same.

In the split second where you think he’s going to pull back, he cups the back of your head in his glove, sealing the hair around your shoulders to the collar of your jacket. Emboldened by your soft inhale, he turns his head, opening his mouth and more of himself up to you, and you, in turn, run as far as you can with this. You slip your arms around his scarf, trying to get at the heat of his throat, as he gathers as much as he can of you into him.

You aren’t sure who eases you both back down from the clouds, who lifts hands and pulls apart, but your mouths separate, your noses inches from each other, and great plumes of white mist rise from your heated gasps.

“So I’m not crazy,” he murmurs, his eyes nearly completely hidden behind condensation. “There is something here. You feel it too.”

“Yes, Marcus, God, yes.” You close your eyes and bump your head against his as he sniffs in the cold, his cheeks flaming.

“That’s what it takes to get you to call me Marcus, huh? A kiss that knocks your socks off?”

You shake your head, laughing, your nose seeking out the solace of his warm skin. “‘Knocks your socks off’, you’re such a dad.”

“Yeah, I am. And you made my daughter happier than I’ve seen her in weeks. I’ll never forget that.”

The heavy rasp of his voice has your eyes seeking out his. You can’t quite find what you’re looking for behind the glasses, but his relaxed open mouth, the tilt of his head down to you, begs for more.

“W-wait – wait, Marcus.” You fight the sudden spark of images flying across your mind; his bare hands, free of gloves and mittens and wool, lifts your shirt up and those soft lips imprint themselves on the curve of your stomach; scorching water turns his back bright red as he tugs your knees tighter around his waist don’t worry I’ve got you; waking up to him stretched out naked and loose and finally relaxed. Your heart squeezes at the mere fantasy. Everything you’ve ever wanted, inches from your outstretched fingertips. “Are you serious about this?”

Marcus grins, kisses your nose, and pulls you in by your scarf, as if you could possibly get any closer.

“Yes, I’m sure. Very sure. I haven’t made a choice this easy in years. Wait, I want to look you in the eyes when I say this.” He lets you go only to smear the condensation away from his glasses. Remind him to wear his contacts the next time you go out in the snow.

Next time next time next time

“There.” He slips those thick-framed glasses back over his nose and then takes your hand. He holds it near his heart. “I like you and my kid adores you. I’ve been slowly going crazy at my desk, hoping that the way you smile at me is only for me, and that you don’t know anyone else’s coffee order by heart.” You huff a laugh, if only to loosen the knot in your throat. “What? I’m serious.” He chuckles with you before taking you into your arms again. His lips are warm against your forehead. “I’ve had it bad for you ever since you started, but I never said anything because I knew you were new to the city and you didn’t need your boss crypt-keeping on you.”

“I think the correct term the kids use is just creeping, but I get your point.” You tilt your head up into his waiting gaze. Warm like chocolate. Warm like the sturdy earth. Warm like . . . “And if my employment is the only thing keeping us apart, then I totally quit.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re totally fired.”

You both laugh into each other, mist rising from your mouths, the corners of your mouths splitting in the cold. The temperature is steadily dropping, but you can’t seem to care. In fact, one big gust of wind could blow you away, suddenly lighter than air.

“So does this mean I don’t have to get you a World’s Greatest Boss gift?”

He kisses your cheek and you feel it in your toes. “You’ve already given me exactly what I wanted.”

“Merry Christmas, Marcus.”

“Merry Christmas, baby.”

#pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories #noisynaia #marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno fanfiction #marcus moreno x you #marcus moreno fic #marcus moreno fluff #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character #marcus moreno x f!reader

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grantmentis · 9 months

Text

2024 u18 Women's Worlds Information

What: The biggest junior tournament for women's hockey, featuring the top players from 8 of the best IIHF countries

When: January 6th to January 14th

Full schedule available here (it will even convert to your time!) Since this takes place in Switzerland, most of these games will be early morning for North American's, but there's a few afternoon starts.

Where: Zug, Switzerland

Where to watch: The following will host at least some of the games. Sadly a lot are only showing games in their country and medal games (for example, in the round robin, TSN and NHL Network are only showing USA, Canada, and Slovakia.) There are also some alternate sources to watch if you do not have access to these channels, and I'm happy to connect if you're an active account on here if you DM me

TSN

RDS

NHL Network

SVT Sweden

Discovery Finland

Swiss digital / ringier sports

Format: There is an initial round robin round among each of the two groups, group A and Group B.

Group A contains Finland, Canada, Czechia, Germany

Group B contains Sweden, United States, Slovakia, Switzerland

After that, the teams will play a cross-over Quarter-final game in the following format (via wikipedia)

Who: Below the cut is the rosters for each team, a few notable players, and what the main goals for each team will be

Switzerland

(Text version available here and here)

2023 Finish: 7th place

What to expect: Switzerland has had a rough few years in the tournament, having had to play to avoid relegation the last two years. If they can stay out of the relegation game

Players to watch: Ivana Wey had 4 assists last world juniors, and is currently playing on a beyond stacked SWHL B team where she's seen a lot of ice time and scored a lot of goals. 15 year old Norina Müller is one of the youngest forwards on the roster, and has seen some time in a SWHL A team this year, which is impressive experience especially at her age.

USA

Text version of roster available here and here

2023 finish: 3rd place/Bronze

What to expect: USA was upset by Sweden in last years semifinals, and is hoping to make it back to the medal game and upset the favorites and their rivals in Canada

Players to watch: Captain Maggie Scannell is in this tournament for a third time and was one of the best players last year, with 8 points in 5 games. 17 year old Boston College commit Ava Thomas is one of the many excited prospects coming out of the Philadelphia Jr Flyers program in recent year. She has dominated in many national tournaments before with speed that she utilizes well, and is a must watch as she makes her intentional debut.

Sweden

2023 Finish: silver

What to expect: Last year, Sweden had a huge victory over the USA to make the finals only to experience a disappointing 10-0 finish. This year, they will want revenge and a gold medal, maintaining a lot of the same group.

Players to watch: Hilda Svensson was the top scorer on the team and she has only gotten better, as one of the top scorers on SDHL team HV71. Isabelle Leijonhielm is playing in this tournament for the third time, and has taken a pretty big step at the SDHL level this year despite being on a struggling team and has a knack for getting shots through traffic

Slovakia:

Text version available here

Last year: 6th place finish

What to expect: Hope to continue to build on last year, but unlikely to move much in the standings, and show more depth

Players to watch: If you don't already know about Nela Lopusanova, you should look her up and instantly see what a sensation she is. Won best player of the tournament last year after scoring 9 goals and 3 assists in 5 games including a michigan goal, and has spent the past year at one of the best prep schools in north america. Her teammate, Ema Tothova, has also spend the past year getting better, and is one of the top scorers in the EWHL. The two will almost certainly be linemates and a must watch for this tournament

Canada

Text version can be found here and here

Last year: First/Gold

What to expect: Last year, Canada steamrolled everyone to victory, and much of the same roster is back and expecting to do it again. People have named this as one of the best u18 rosters we have seen.

Players to watch: Caitlin Kraemer had 10 goals last tournament, so eyes will be on her to repeat that great performance. Defender Chloe Primerano will be making her exciting u18 worlds debut after dominating the CSSHL U22 by having one of the best season ever recorded and becoming the highest scoring defender of all time in the league in just 45 games

Germany

Text version available here and here

Last year: Was in u18 Division I group A and was promoted!

What to expect: Germany will mainly be trying to avoid relegation and stay in the top division, a lot of the key player that helped with promotion have aged out sadly

Players to watch: Anastasia Gruß was one of the top scorers last tourament with 5 points in 5 games. Emilija Birka and Mathilda Heine will be two of the youngest playres at this tournament at only 14 year old, so it will be interesting to see how they impact the roster

Finland

Text version available here and here

Last year: Fourth Place

What to expect; This is a team that wants to medal, and has more depth than teams like Switzerland or Slovakia, but may not have the star power to fully compete for a medal. Sanni Vanhanen aging out is a huge loss, and don't have some of the elite goaltender prospects to make up for that like they have in the past. That said, it's still Finland, and there are many players poised to break out. Such as the following!

Players to watch: Emma Ekoluoma has been great both in the Finnish top League (naisten liiga) as well as in international competition this year. Nelly Anderson is a 16 year old defender who made major steps this year and was impactful as she played more games in Naisten Liiga, and I'd expect her to get some big minutes

Czechia

Text version here and here

Last Year: Fifth Place

Expectations: Medal! There's a lot of reason to believe this group can take a big step this year as Czechia has reaped the rewards of investing in their women's program the past few seasons

Players to watch: Adéla Šapovalivová was the top scorer for Czechia last year, and this year she enters as one of the top scorers in the SDHL where she plays against many senior level players. Same for Tereza Plosová, a university of minnesota commit who has already been a consistent producer in the SDHL and played on the Czech senior team. Goaltender Daniela Nováková looked good in an extremely small sample size at last years tournament, so we will see if she can build on that

#hockey #women's hockey #u18 women's world

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bluejayblueskies · 1 year

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Song Number Three | shadow0haven

[ID: Three photos of two hand-bound books. In the first, one book--which is approximately a quarter of the size of the other--is stacked atop the other book. The spines are facing the viewer. The binding style is exposed-spine coptic, and the folded edges of the paper are exposed as well as the stitching. The stitching is half green and half yellow on the bottom book, as if the book has been cut in half vertically. This stitching matches the bookcloth on the covers, which is green with mushrooms on the green stitching side and yellow with bees on the yellow stitching side. Paper wraps around the covers with the title, Song Number Three, and the author name, shadow0haven, on them as well as green and yellow patterns. On the top book, the stitching is a dark green and the cover material is maroon with a tree root pattern on it. There is a silver, maroon, and green braided bookmark sewn to the top with a bronze bead at the end of it.

In the second photo, just the bottom book is shown, standing upright with the spine facing the viewer. In this position, we can see that it is a tete-beche binding, with one cover right-side up and the other upside-down so the book can be flipped over and read from both directions. In the third photo, just the top book is seen, standing upright with the spine facing the viewer. /End ID]

I had the pleasure of binding Amai (@shadow0haven)'s fic Song Number Three for the 2023 @malevolentbigbang event! It's a separate-bodies omegaverse AU where John undergoes a type change from beta to omega, and I wanted to represent that in my bind, so I decided to do a tete-beche binding with two different typesets and cover designs for the story, placed back-to-back in the same book. You can read it, then flip it over and read it again from the other direction!

The designs for the two sides of the book are inspired by the scents for betas and omegas, which feature in the fic. Betas are described as having a grassy, earthen scent, while omegas have a sweeter scent, like vanilla and orange. Alphas additionally have heavier scents, like spices or oak, which is what the additional mini bind of the fic is inspired by! I wanted to complete he trio, so I did another bind of the fic in a smaller size that fits in the palm of your hand.

In addition to the visual design, there's a component to these books that doesn't photograph: they're scented! I mixed essential oils into the glue used to construct each side's coverboard--orange and vanilla for the omega side with the honeybee fabric and moss and dirt for the beta side with the mushroom fabric. The alpha book has spice and teakwood scents infused into it. I was really excited to experiment with scented books (as strange as they may sound), and I'm very happy with how they turned out! The scents are subtle enough not to be overpowering, but they're very much present and distinctive.

More information about the bind and photos of the typeset beneath the cut!

Each typeset is designed so that it is distinctive from the others but with certain shared elements to tie the three versions of the story together. Each title page of the tete-beche book uses the same two fonts in different combinations, and the petite book borrows certain fonts from the tete-beche book while also introducing new ones.

Each set of images has, in order from left to right, the omega typeset, the beta typeset, and the alpha typeset.

[ID: Three photos, each of which shows a different style of title page from a hand-bound book. All three title pages have the title, Song Number Three, and the author name, shadow0haven, on the righthand side of the righthand page. In the first picture, the title is in a sans serif font and the author name is in a script font, and there is a watercolor image of oranges on the lefthand side of the page. In the second picture, the title is in the same script font as the first picture and the author name is in the same sans serif font as the first picture. There is a watercolor image of ivy on the lefthand side of the page. In the third picture, the title is in a sans serif font with extra lines along some of the letters and the author name is in the same script font as the first image. There is a watercolor image of an oak tree on the bottom lefthand side of the page. /End ID]

The summary pages are also similar, with the same body font used for the summary (and the rest of the typeset) and different images used for each typeset.

[ID: Three photos, each of which shows a different style of colophon page on the left and summary page on the right from a hand-bound book. All three colophon pages have copyright information about the fic and the publisher, Blue Skies Books, as well as a description of which fonts were used in the bind and where photos were sourced from. All three summary pages have the same summary of the fic on them in the same font. In the first picture, there is additionally a watercolor image of a vanilla flower on the summary page. In the second picture, there is additionally a watercolor image of a mossy rock on the summary page. In the third picture, there is additionally a watercolor image of oranges, cinnamon, and star anise on the summary page. /End ID]

I wanted a washed-out watercolor vibe for all of the images, and I'm really happy with how they turned out!

[ID: Three photos, each of which shows a different style of chapter header page from a hand-bound book. All three chapter header pages have the same text from the beginning of chapter two in the same font, the word 'Two' at the top of the page in differing fonts, and drop caps at the beginning of the chapter in fonts that match the font that the word 'Two' is in. In the first picture, the word 'Two' is in a sans serif font and there is a watercolor image of oranges in the top left. In the second picture, the word 'Two' is in a script font and there is a watercolor image of ivy in the top left. In the third picture, the word 'Two' is in a sans serif font with extra lines around parts of the letters and there is a watercolor image of an oak tree branch with acorns on it in the top left. /End ID]

The fonts used are:

Body: Perpetua

Titles: Raspberry Brush, Aura, Neon Magic

And most images are sourced from rawpixel and are public domain or creative commons.

Finally, here are some face-on images of the covers for the tete-beche book. The title and author are printed on a piece of cardstock, which was then wrapped around the cover and glued together on the inside. I wanted a way to put the title and author on the cover of the book without directly committing it to the bookcloth, which consists of two very busy patterns, and I like the look of this! And they're removable should one desire to remove them and just have the bare book covers.

[ID: Two pictures of the double-sided book, each of which shows a different cover. The first shows the cover bound in green mushroom bookcloth with a strip of paper across the middle that has the title, 'Song Number Three,' in a sans serif font, the author name, 'shadow0haven,' in a script font, and a green floral pattern. The second shows the cover bound in yellow bee bookcloth with a strip of paper across the middle that has the title, 'Song Number Three,' in a script font, the author name, 'shadow0haven,' in a sans serif font, and a yellow flower-like pattern. /End ID]

#mbb2023 #malevolent big bang 2023 #malevolent #malevolent podcast #bookbinding #fanbinding #jay's bound books

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year

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Cooking by the Book

Part 1 (ft. Riddle and Silver) I Part 2 (ft. Trey and Kalim) I Part 3 (ft. Jade and Lilia) I Part 4 (ft. Deuce and Jamil) I Part 5 (ft. Ruggie and Malleus) I Part 6 (ft. Cater and Rook)

In which Gordon Ramsay-kun is isekai’d into Twisted Wonderland. Part Food Wars, part Hell’s Kitchen, all Master Chef—Night Raven College isn’t ready to take on this Michelin Star celebrity!!

You’ve got to do the cooking by the book! ... But with Floyd and Sebek, that’s an impossible task. Between noodle sourcing squabbles and differences in their approach, how can GR ever rein these two loose cannons in?

dbjsbskdne I was so excited to write this because I love both Sebek and Floyd 😌 They make for a fun dynamic, especially when mixed in with GR~

I was busy around the initial release of this event months ago, so I’m releasing this SUPER late (but it all ends up working out, since a character cameoing in this fic is one of the new Master Chef units for May 2023). I’ll get the Idia and Ace with GR one out in a week or two 😭 Please bear with me!!

Imagine this…

If teaching the Master Chef course at NRC had taught Gordon Ramsay one thing, it was this: the kitchen was an active battle zone, and weapons of mass destruction laid in wait around every corner. It was all open flames and pointed tools... but the most dangerous thing of all to his health and his sanity?

The students.

He had dealt with his fair share of arrogant, ill-tempered chefs. Professionals who thought themselves too good to take advice, newbies who believed they were better than they actually were.

The NRC boys were a whole new ordeal altogether, Gordon realized.

“IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

A bloodcurdling shriek resounded in Ignihyde’s halls. It bounced off the cold polished floors and the metal beams and wires that stitched everything together.

At once, Gordon snapped to attention, pushing himself away from the wall and rushing to the scream’s source. The door snagged, refusing to open--he cursed loudly, slamming his palms against it and roaring, “WHAT’S GOIN’ ON IN THERE?!”

Behind the door, the wailing escalated. There was crashing, screeching, sobbing, begging. His worries ramped up, his pounding, harder and more frantic.

“I THOUGHT I COULD LEAVE YOU TWO UNDERSUPERVISED FOR ONE BLOODY SECOND!!”

Gordon’s palms were raw now, crying out in protest--and, for a wild moment, he considered ramming his entire body against the door. Just as he was preparing to throw himself at it—

Click.

Like magic, the door suddenly swung open. Sebek’s proud face appeared, wearing a smug, triumphant expression. Not good, Gordon thought.

“Rejoice, human!!, Sebek thundered happily. “The merman and I have successfully liberated Ignihyde of its excess of flash fried noodles!! We shall have plenty to use for our cooking lessons!!”

“You did WHAT?!”

“Hmph! Witness our bountiful spoils for yourself!!”

Gordon lifted his head and stared past Sebek.

In the back of the room, Floyd was squatting by Idia’s closet, packet of instant ramen in hand. Boxes and boxes of noodles—rummaged from the deepest recesses of Idia’s mancave—laid in haphazard stacks beside him, teetering precariously atop one another.

Ignihyde’s dorm leader sprawled on the floor, humbly prostrating himself between tears.

“Oi, Firefly Squid-senpai,” Floyd said lazily, using the butt of his frying pan to poke Idia on the head. “This all you got? You’d better tell the truth or else Crocodile-chan and I will squeeze you senseless~”

“Y-Yes, yes, that’s everything!!” Idia squeaked as he cowered in terror. “Y-You’ve already cleaned me out of house and home...!! J-Just take the noodles and leave this nerd alone!!”

“Hmmm...” Floyd laid his frying pan on his shoulder and contemplated. “’Kay! I don’t feel like haulin’ more stuff back to the kitchen anyway.”

“The FUCK is happening here?!”

All eyes landed on Gordon as he stormed in looking none too pleased. Veins bulged on his forehead, and his entire face creased with rage.

A mistake made on his part; he should have known—the students of Night Raven College were the most dangerous aspect in all of cooking.

It had been a sly suggestion from Floyd that started this whole mess. “I heard from a little octopus that Ignihyde’s loaded with noodles. We should go there to pick some up.”

And so Sebek and Floyd had been allowed to go off to collect the ingredients. When they didn’t return in a timely manner, Gordon’s suspicions had set in and he went to Ignihyde himself to investigate—only to stumble upon that shocking scene.

He left fuming, dragging his problem children of the day with him (Floyd) flailing and (Sebek) protesting.

“I said you could get ingredients, I didn’t say you should rob the man blind!!” Gordon grunted, shoving them both through the kitchen doors. “Right, we’ll make noodles by scratch then. Hope you boys remember what you’ve been taught.”

“What? But I don’t feel like it.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you pissed on my mood. To your stations,” their instructor barked, “now!!”

“Maaan... This sucks.”

They reluctantly slunk off, fetching flour, salt, and eggs along the way. Just as Sebek popped open a jar of white granules, Gordon shouted, “Make sure it’s not sugar this time, Zigvolt!!”

Sebek’s cheeks flamed. He shot a fierce glare back, bellowing, “I KNOW THAT!! I don’t need to be told twice! I’ve been expanded my culinary repertoire considerably since the start of this semester!!”

Floyd’s eyes shifted to Sebek’s station. A nasty plot bubbled to the surface of his mind, encouraged by the volatility of his junior’s attitude.

“Ehhh, you sure got guts snapping back to the teach, freshie,” Floyd grinned crookedly as he leaned forward at his counter. “How about you talk big when you can actually own up to it? At least I can cook without a recipe. You’ve been making little mistakes even with a recipe.”

“WHAT!! The only reason we’re even IN this predicament is due to YOUR lapse in judgment!! You INSISTED it would be more cost effective and time efficient to procure noodles in bulk from Ignihyde!”

“You’re the one that went along with me. If you were really smart, you’d have stopped us.”

“Grk…!!”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough out of the both of you!!” Gordon interrupted. “Focus on your pastas instead of stirring the pot here.”

“Tch!! I’ll show him!!” Sebek gruffly tore into a bag of flour at his table. A cloud of fine white powder filled the air, sending him into a coughing fit.

Floyd snickered—he had already shifted his own flour and salt together, forming a well in which he had cracked an egg.

Gordon raised a brow. “… Well? Get on with it then.”

The merman’s lackadaisical smile turned sharp-toothed at the suggestion. “If you say so.”

Without hesitation, Floyd stuck his entire hand into his mound of ingredients, fingers clenching around egg and flower. The yolk burst, viscous yellow coating his hand and flour flying in all directions. A stray speck flew across the aisle and hit Sebek’s forehead.

A low grow came from his throat.

Gordon scowled at Floyd. “That’s not an acceptable mixing technique.”

“That’s right!” Sebek called haughtily. “You should know better!! You’re meant to break the yolk with a fork, then steadily incorporate it into the...”

A fistful of flour suddenly exploded across Sebek’s vision. He jerked back, now boasting a flour-covered face, appalled and mouth hanging agape.

Across the way, Floyd unabashedly smirked. He waggled his yolky fingers at his classmate, incriminating himself. “Oops, my hand slipped.”

“YOU VILE KNAVE!! THIS INJUSTICE WILL NOT GO UNPUNISHED!!” Sebek shoved a hand into his own bag of flour for a counterattack. He raised his arm, and Floyd cackled, knowing his target had taken the bait.

Gordon instantly clued in on his intentions.

This was it: Floyd’s escape from the order to make noodles, to do something more fun.

“TIME OUT!!” The chef abruptly stepped between his students, forming a physical barrier between the two--but alas, too late.

The declaration of war had been made.

There was a battle cry, and then flour flying at him. Gordon fell back, grasping at his face. The world blurred into a white mess, filled with the clanging of pots and pans and erratic shouting.

“Where are you?!” Sebek demanded between coughs (most likely preparing another projectile). “COME AND FACE ME, YOU FISHY COWARD!!”

Shuffling came from within the flour haze, metal and wooden implements rolled or tossed to the floor to attract Sebek’s attention. Wherever Floyd was in the kitchen, he was a master at avoiding detection.

All the while, Gordon swatted at the air and bellowed, “Stand down, get back to work. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, YOU FUCKING DONKEYS?!”

The startled cries of the cafeteria ghost chefs started filtering in.

“G-Goodness, what’s happened here?!”

Gordon lurched out of the kitchen, clinging to the doorframe to keep himself upright. He spat up a breath, then dragged a hand over his face to wipe it clean of flour. The man looked simultaneously infuriated and exhausted, the lines on his face seemingly more prominent than they had been before.

“Mr. Ramsay!! Are you alright?! What’s become of the kitchen and the students?!” one of the ghost chefs asked worriedly.

“The students,” Gordon said wearily. “That’s what happened.”

#twst #twisted wonderland #Floyd Leech #Sebek Zigvolt #twisted wonderland imagines #Gordon Ramsay #Gordon Ramsay in Twisted Wonderland #twisted wonderland scenarios #something no one asked for #imagine this #disney twisted wonderland #Idia Shroud #twst scenarios #twst imagines

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bookshelf-in-progress · 9 months

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A Song of Starlight: A Starfall Story

For the 2023 Inklings Christmas Challenge at @inklings-challenge, he's a story set and posted on December 28th--the Feast of the Holy Innocents.

A Song of Starlight

Johannes had once considered Oskar Abel a friend. The bright young manager who ran the theater, concert hall, and opera house funded by the Diriks starfall had secured Johannes the audition with the symphony orchestra, where he'd risen to first chair and featured violinist in this Christmas season's concerts. Now, as the slim, balding young man sat stiff and stone-faced behind the paper-strewn desk in his wood-paneled office, he looked like nothing but a toadying, soulless businessman.

Through the cracked-open window, Johannes could hear the daily rumble of the city street--the rattle of carriages, the distant chime of church bells, the shouts of girls selling stardust and boys selling newspapers. An entire world unaware that this supposed friend had just sent Johannes' world crashing down.

In a low voice, Johannes asked, "What do you mean, dismissed?"

Abel straightened a stack of papers against the top of his desk. "Lady Diriks has ordered that your employment with the Diriks Symphony Orchestra come to an end."

"Now? Three days after Christmas? In the middle of concert season?"

"Our patroness saw no other alternative." Abel pushed up his wire-rimmed spectacles. "I'm certain you're aware of the theft of one of the stars from the chandelier."

"Aware? The entire orchestra's been talking about nothing else since Christmas Eve!"

"I'm afraid suspicion has fallen on you."

Johannes' blood ran cold.

The star chandelier had been planned as the crowning glory of the Diriks family's new concert hall. Their mountain starfall was the prime landing place for solara stars--the largest and brightest stars that gave off the purest white light--and the intricate silver chandelier would hold a thousand of them. Lady Diriks' own son had supervised the construction, cutting every facet of every star himself. The day before its grand unveiling, one whole star had gone missing. Lady Diriks was out for blood.

Johannes had never dreamed it would be his blood.

After the shock passed, Johannes' temper rose. "What does that have to do with me? I've never seen the star! I barely walk past the workroom!"

The manager polished his glasses. "I'm afraid the circumstantial evidence against you is strong."

"What circumstantial evidence?"

"Several witnesses maintain that you were the last one in the building before the star was stolen."

"I stay late every night. I'm the featured violinist! This could make my career! I can't practice at home when I've got two sleeping daughters."

"You have recently purchased notably more expensive clothing."

"One suit! That I've been saving up for since July! I can't play for an audience of starfall elites in my old Sunday clothes."

"Stardust has been found in your dressing room."

"Cufflinks!" As the manager's face twisted in confusion, Johannes explained, "I can't afford real star fragments. I bought glass beads filled with stardust. They look almost like the real thing, but they shattered the first time I fastened them."

None of his explanations had any effect on the manager's placid face. "Nevertheless," Abel said, putting his glasses back on his face, "until a more thorough investigation can determine the star's whereabouts, Lady Diriks has deemed it best that you not be allowed on the premises."

"And how do they plan to give the Christmas concerts? Who else is supposed to play my solos?"

"Lars Henning is quite familiar with the music."

"Henning!" Johannes spat. "He's the one who accused me, isn't he?"

The manager blinked and did not speak.

The delay, the hesitation--he might as well have said it aloud.

Henning had hated Johannes since the day he had been given first chair. Johannes had seen the contempt and envy in his eyes every moment of every day. Henning couldn't accept that a starcatcher's son could rise above a scion of one of the city's wealthiest houses.

Johannes snarled, "And he's believed because his father owns a starfall while mine only gathered the stars that fell on it!"

Abel straightened his spectacles. "I assure you that no individual witness had any effect on our patroness' decision."

It would have made all the difference in the world. Starfall stock held fast to their own.

Johannes felt like the floor was falling out from under him. His anger turned into desperation. He leaned over the desk looked into the manager's eyes. "Oskar," he said, man to man, friend to friend, "you have to help me. I've worked for years to get here. I have a wife at home. Children. They need me to bring in--"

The manager's face softened. "A man of your talent will find employment in another company."

Johannes barked a humorless laugh. "A suspected star thief? Accused by Lady Diriks herself? They won't let me near the footlights!"

The manager sighed, and for a moment, he looked almost human. "I'm very sorry, Vinter, but the decision is out of my hands."

If he were sorry, he would have done something. Instead he'd caved to their patroness' demands without question. The odious, spineless, toadying pencil-pusher. A man of business in a house of art. If Johannes shook him, his brains would probably clink like coins.

Johannes picked up his violin and stormed toward the office door. "That'll be a comfort to me when my children are in the poorhouse, I'm sure."

Johannes refused to slink out of the theater like a disgraced criminal, so he put on his hat, overcoat, scarf, and gloves with professional precision, took up his violin case, and strode through the main lobby of the Diriks Concert Hall. The silver chandelier sprawled overhead, its million arms curling like ocean waves. In the light of day, its thousand stars were shuttered in closed lanterns that could be opened with the turning of a single lever. The masterpiece of Lord Bastiaan Diriks himself. Johannes hoped he'd go blind from it.

A single star missing out of a thousand, and Johannes' life was destroyed--his dreams, his hopes, an entire lifetime of work. Johannes' father had nurtured his talent for music, working double shifts to pay for his music lessons and later, to cover the costs that came even to students who went to the music schools on a full scholarship.

You're made for more than the starfields, his father had said. Find a job where they don't search your pockets for stars at sunrise like you're a common thief.

Now here Johannes was, a rising violinist in a prestigious symphony orchestra, cast out for the theft of a star. He could have laughed at the irony if he'd had any heart for it.

Outside, the sky was bright but overcast, sending down a light shower of snowflakes. Carriages rattled past, horses' hooves clattering on the cobblestones. The sidewalks were crowded with the skirts of window-shopping ladies, their children gazing in awe upon the the beautiful theaters. Johannes had hoped to bring his children here someday to see him play. Clara was almost old enough to come. She and Dorit would stay home this year, but his wife Agathe had tickets for the front row on New Year's Eve.

He couldn't face them yet. Couldn't come home in the afternoon when they wouldn't expect him until after midnight. He couldn't go into a tavern or cafe. He didn't dare to waste money on dining or drinking, and had no wish for company who'd know his face and want his story.

So he walked. Up and down the streets of the cruel stone city that had once been the fulfillment of all his hopes. Past markets filled with the luxuries he'd never be able to buy his children. Past houses owned by people who didn't know what it was to struggle and scrimp and have all your dreams destroyed. Past towering churches that seemed to laugh at all his prayers.

Night came early this time of year, and soon the city was darkening to match his mood. The lampkeepers emerged to uncover the streetlamps and unveil the common yellow star fragments within. High above in the clear, cold sky, a million stars, white and distant, seemed to mock him. Johannes knew the old tales of stars falling down to make the fortune of the penniless, virtuous hero who stumbled upon the treasure. If those stories had ever had any truth to them, they were only fantasy now. Should the largest, brightest star in all the heavens fall at his feet, Lady Diriks and her like would see him thrown in prison for touching it.

Ragged urchins came out of the shadows to gather stardust that had fallen from the lamps, or to offer it as heat or light to passersby. Johannes took a pinch of warming dust offered by a dirty-faced girl, placed it in his gloves, and immediately regretted the eighth-krenin he tossed her. He was like her now--always had been, he supposed--living off whatever scraps the rich saw fit to spare him, and he could spare few coins now.

Children shouted as a carriage sped through the streets--large and glossy, with gilded scrollwork and four of its very own star lamps. Through an open curtain, Johannes glimpsed a woman in a red silk gown who wore a dozen colored star fragments as jewels in her hair. Late to the theater, no doubt.

Were Johannes still with the orchestra, he'd be tuning up now. About to play one of the finest symphonies ever written for a crowd of the city's elite--people who'd paid hundreds of krenins to hear him play.

Johannes' temper rose. Lady Diriks had money enough to keep the world's finest musicians as trained pets, and keep the music they played as a luxury for the rich. All these people in the streets around him--good-hearted housewives, grocers, seamstresses, lampkeepers, even dustgirls--could not dream of such wonders.

Johannes could give them the symphony--his part of it, at least. His violin was tuned, his fingers were trained. He could give these people music that the wealthy of the city spent hundreds to hear. If Lady Diriks didn't want him, he would give her music away.

Johannes strode into the pool of yellow light cast by the nearest star lamp. With brisk motions, he set down his case, removed his gloves, picked up his violin, and began to play.

Birgit rushed toward the shining pile of stardust near the lamp post. She knelt on the frozen walkway and tried to gather the glowing treasure into Mama's little clay jar. Mama said falling stardust was the cleanest--Birgit should have been here when the lampkeeper uncovered and cleaned the lamp--but maybe Birgit could wash it in the fountain near the church. She'd watched Mama do it a hundred times. Stardust floated, and she could skim it up with her cloak. Then she could take it to the glassmaker on 42nd Street. He was kindest and gave the most coins.

Birgit had to sell all the stardust she could. Stardust meant coins, which meant clothes and bread and maybe a bed. There was no Mama to get these things. Mama was cold and white and stiff, and Birgit was too afraid to go in the room with those open, frozen eyes.

The memory of this morning put tears in Birgit's eyes. She wasn't crying. She was too big to cry--nearly six years old. But with no Mama--there was no Mama--Birgit felt very small, and the world felt very big and dark and cold. The icy wind sent cold knives through Birgit's threadbare cloak. She huddled against the lamp post and felt too sad and afraid to move.

In the light of the next lamp, a man stopped. He wore a thick brown coat and had shiny black boots. The lamplight made him glow, like the angels holding stars in the big church. Birgit sat up and watched.

The man set a case on the ground and pulled out a fiddle. Then he began to play.

Birgit had heard fiddles before, in taverns and on street corners, but this fiddle sang as those fiddles never had. Its voice was sweet and soft, rich and pure, like angels or lullabies. It sang to the stars, its voice reaching, stretching, quavering, making Birgit think of being warm in Mama's arms.

The song became louder, faster, richer, warmer. It made Birgit think of dancing, of candles, of the big church on Copper Hill. The cold, dark world fell away. Birgit forgot who and where she was. She knew only the music, beautiful and bright, so real that everything else seemed like shadows. Her spirit swam, soared, and danced, following the song high and low, happy and sad, joy and sorrow and so many feelings that Birgit thought she might burst. Stars surrounded her, all sizes and colors, coming down from heaven to hear the music with her.

After eternity had come and gone, the song slowed and faded away, and Birgit was herself again--cold and alone, but no longer afraid.

The music was a warm and glowing treasure in her heart, a bright, beautiful secret that no one could take away from her. And on the ground, in the lamplight, was money. Big silver coins and little copper ones, sitting in and around the man's black case. The stars had brought it, Birgit knew. She knew the stories, had seen it herself. They had come to the call of the music and turned into money. Money that meant clothes and fire and bread for sad and lonely girls.

Birgit forgot to be tired and rushed toward the money. It had fallen from heaven, so it was free to take, just like stardust. She gathered handfuls of coins, holding them close against her dress.

And then a shadow blocked the starlamp, and Birgit remembered to be afraid again.

Johannes saw the stars surround him as he played. At Christmastime, everyone who owned anything with the faintest claim toward being a piece of star jewelry--whether it was a fragment in a necklace, a shard in a ring, or even just some stardust on a hair comb--would wear it on the street. The people that surrounded him wore stars in all colors and sizes, but he could barely do more than glance at them, because the music had him in its thrall.

When Johannes emerged from the song, he was surprised to see the coins at his feet. At first, he was ashamed--he, classically trained, being thrown coins like a common beggar. But that was what he was now, or would be. Once the story spread, respectable people might refuse to give him even coins.

A small, ragged form darted out of the shadows started swiping coins from his case. Johannes' blood rose. The dirty little urchin! Were the creatures everywhere? A plague, an infestation on this city, stealing food from his children's mouths.

Johannes lunged for the coins, prepared to fight off the thief.

The thief looked up, and they met, face-to-face. She was young. A child. As young as his little Clara--no, younger. With sunken cheeks, unbrushed brown hair, bony hands, fingers and nails blue from the cold. Her little gray cloak was thinner than his shirt. Her shoes, scuffed and tattered, barely fit on her feet.

She had nothing, this tiny girl, fighting for her life in the cold, hard city. And he, with a thick overcoat, new shoes, a warm house, and a violin worth a small fortune, had been prepared to fight her for a handful of krenin. Johannes was ashamed of himself.

As the child stared at him, frozen with terror, Johannes gathered a handful of coins and dumped them into the girl's lap. He placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

"Little girl," he asked. "Do you have somewhere to get out of the cold?"

Agathe, bless her, understood everything. She gave the child--Birgit--a warm bath and a clean set of clothes--Clara's smallest were still too large on her--while Johannes told her what he had gathered of the girl's history. Her mother dead just this morning--frozen to death, by the sound of it. She had no lice, thank goodness, nor signs of any catching disease, so they gave her a cot near the kitchen stove, after feeding her what they thought she could safely stomach of thin porridge and plain bread.

As Birgit curled up beneath a pink-and-white patchwork quilt, she looked something like a kitten snuggling before a fire, not so different from Clara at that age. She clutched the cloth bag full of coins--she insisted on calling it "star money"--to her chest like a rag doll

"We could take her to the sisters in the morning," Agathe said. "They'll know what to do with her."

"She may have family still living. I could make inquiries."

He'd have time to, now that he was not needed at the concert hall.

"I should have been playing onstage just then," Johannes said. "If I hadn't been there, what would have become of her?" He had a sudden vision of that little face, white and frozen in an alleyway, unseen by dozens of comfortably prosperous people passing by.

Agathe took his hand. "You had far more important places to play tonight."

Johannes looked down upon his wife, the lamplight giving her brown hair an angelic glow. He'd been so concerned for himself--his loss of status, the death of dreams--and so afraid of disappointing his wife and children. Yet his saintly little wife saw only the good this disaster had brought.

"What about tomorrow?" Johannes asked softly. "And all the days after? The story will spread. I may not get work with another orchestra."

"People know you," Agathe said firmly. "They ought to know that the man who'd take in a starving child would never steal a star. If they don't know it, you don't want to play for them."

"Who else can I play for?" Johannes asked. "We can't raise two girls off of coins from the street. I have no other trade."

"Talent like yours will find release. On another city's stage. As a teacher. Even if you only play at home, it will do some good in the world. Whatever happens, God will provide." She squeezed his hand. "It is nice to have you home at Christmastime for a change."

In the distance, church bells chimed the hour. Snowflakes fell softly outside the window. The white walls of the kitchen were bright and clean, the room warm and cozy. This was more pleasant than a practice room.

Boards creaked heavily in the hall, and two small, bleary-eyed girls in white nightdresses peered into the kitchen.

"Girls," Agathe cried, moving toward them. "What are you doing up?"

Clara and Dorit raced past her, their faces alight with joy. "Papa!" Clara shrieked, throwing her arms around his waist. Dorit pressed her face against his legs. Johannes crouched to gather them in his arms.

"You're home early!" Clara said as Johannes pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I couldn't spend another night away from my girls," Johannes said.

Birgit started awake, sitting upright and wide-eyed as she goggled at the riotous little intruders.

Dorit tugged at Johannes' sleeve. "Who's that?"

How to explain a dustgirl--unimaginable poverty and desperation--to such innocents? "She's a little friend who needed a place to sleep. I met her when I was playing my violin on the street."

Clara seized one of her Johannes' wrists and tried to drag him toward where his violin case sat on the kitchen table. "Can you play for us, Papa? We haven't had any Christmas music yet! You give it all to everyone else."

Johannes was startled. When was the last time he'd played for the girls? He'd spent so much time practicing at the concert hall lately, living deep within the symphony, that he hadn't considered how little music they had in their lives.

On the cot, little Birgit sat with tangled hair and dark circles under her eyes. Johannes told his daughters, "Maybe tomorrow. Our guest needs to sleep."

The girls broke into an outcry of, "No!" and "Please, Papa!"

To his surprise, one of the voices was a small, raspy one from the cot.

Johannes crouched beside the little dustgirl. "Would you like to hear some music?"

The little girl's eyes glowed with wonder, as if he'd just offered to do magic. "Please," she whispered.

Johannes clapped his hands against his knees. "Very well." He sprang to his feet and removed his violin from its case with a flourish. It glowed golden-brown in the lamplight, and seemed to be quivering--almost alive--beneath his fingers. He placed the rest between his chin and held the bow over the strings.

He basked in the glow of in his warm little kitchen, with snowflakes falling outside, surrounded by the shining eyes of his wife and daughters and one adoring little dustgirl. He was home with his family instead of hidden away in a practice room. A child who might not have survived the night was now warm and safe. What were concerts, accusations, and even Lars Henning's jealousy, compared to that? All troubles could wait until morning. For now, Johannes would be grateful.

With a smile, Johannes touched his bow to the strings and played a song about a Christmas star.

#the bookshelf progresses #starfall #inklingschallenge #inklingschristmaschallenge #inklings christmas challenge 2023

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thevalkyriesshadow · 8 days

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The fandom is so lucky to have you! We appreciate having you here and all that you contribute to it ❤️❤️

What brought you into the fandom?

What character(s) do you feel the most connected to and why?

Out of all of SJM’s books, which one means the most to you and why?

Out of all of the SJM couples (fanon, canon, endgame, etc) which one means the most to you and why?

Keep doing you ❤️

AWWWW thank you anon 💖

What brought you into the fandom?

I joined the Maasverse fandom a little over a year ago in August 2023. I had been in a major reading slump for a few years and my friends told me I should read ACOTAR and that I'd love it and it would bring me out of my slump...

And gods be damned it worked 😅

Now here I am writing fanfiction and gushing over fictional faeries lol

What character(s) do you feel the most connected to and why?

I connect to Gwyn on some level, because like her, I have a bubbly personality and I don't like giving up, even when all the odds seem stacked against me. I was diagnosed with cancer in 2016. I've been in remission for six years now, but it's the surviving afterwards that no one really prepares you for. I have medical ptsd from it and just reading about Gwyn's determination to over come her own obstacles was inspiration for me as well.

"I am the rock against which the surf crashes. Nothing can break me."

This is a mantra I live by, that I will always live by!

Out of all of SJM’s books, which one means the most to you and why?

Silver Flames: for the reasons listed above as well as for the friendship that was forged between Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie. I love their friendship. It reminds me of the relatiuonship I have with my friends. It feels like the most realistic friendship in the story and one I can relate to.

Out of all of the SJM couples (fanon, canon, endgame, etc) which one means the most to you and why?

💖 Azriel and Gwyn 💖

I think they're going to have a beautiful story to tell. They're going to be there for each other, listen to each other, help each other heal and it's going to wreck us all (in the best possible way of course!)

#thanks anon!#gwynriel #pro gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #acotar #the valkyries #pro valkyries

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aurorawest · 8 months

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2023 Reading Wrap-Up

Is it February of 2024? Yes! Am I still going to post my favorite books that I read in 2023? Also yes!

Ginn Hale's Cadeleonian Series, the second half of which I read in 2023: Champion of the Scarlet Wolf, Book Two; Master of Restless Shadows, Book One; and Master of Restless Shadows, Book Two

This series begins with Lord of the White Hell and continues with Champion of the Scarlet Wolf, then concludes with Master of Restless Shadows. Each duology follows a different set of characters, but it's a true series so you need to read them in order. It's a toss-up for me whether I preferred Champion of the Scarlet Wolf or Master of Restless Shadows. Both are fantastic duologies. I particularly loved getting Atreau's story in Master because he's sort of an unlikable playboy-esque character in the preceding books...but wait! Turns out there's more to him after all.

After Francesco by Brian Malloy

Who would think a book about living through the AIDS epidemic in NYC in the 80s would be as funny as this book is? It will also tear your heart out and stomp on it. Also takes place partly in Minneapolis (and is by a Minnesotan author).

Silver in the Wood by Emily Tesh

Folklorist meets the Green Man and they fall in love. This is the first half of a duology, the second being Drowned Country, which I just finished today so can't included it on my 2023 wrap-up. All the dark and violent whimsy of the mythic past and the most brutal versions of fairy tales, plus a lovely romance.

Some Desperate Glory by Emily Tesh

Imagine the love child of Lost, Person of Interest, and Battlestar Galactica, but queer and with multiverse shenanigans thrown in (the author has cited Ender's Game as a huge influence). I don't want to say anything more than that, because I feel strongly that you need to go into this book knowing nothing. The twists and turns are so good, the main trio are wonderful, complicated characters, and the world is super cool.

The Bedlam Stacks by Natasha Pulley

In some ways the most heartbreaking of Pulley's novels. Also probably her most dreamy and magical. It's my least favorite of her books, but my least favorite Natasha Pulley book still ended up on my best of 2023 reading list.

The Half Life of Valery K by Natasha Pulley

This book awakened in me a latent love of Soviet queers. You'll see this book filed under sci-fi by booksellers, but it isn't really—it's historical fiction about a very real nuclear disaster in the USSR that was covered up for decades. Like all of Pulley's books, the characters are deeply complicated and flawed. The pleasure is really in reading the way she tells a story and her beautiful use of language, so even if you're not interested in Soviet nuclear disasters, I absolutely recommend you read this. Also, you'll probably be interested in Soviet nuclear disasters when you're done.

The Lost Future of Pepperharrow by Natasha Pulley

Haha, you thought The Watchmaker of Filigree Street punched you in the chest with feels? Get ready for the sequel, which will have you Curled Into A Sobbing Ball On The Floor™. Join Thaniel Steepleton, Keita Mori, and their adopted Waifish Victorian Orphan, Six, as they go to Japan, where things are weird, there are ghosts, and Thaniel and Mori still somehow don't understand what they mean to each other.

The Kingdoms by Natasha Pulley

"What if France won the Napoleonic Wars because of time travelers" shouldn't have shattered me the way this book did, but of course it's a Natasha Pulley novel so it absolutely did. Missouri Kite is the most Gay Little Man™. And Joe, poor Joe. The PINING. The YEARNING. When the reveal happens, I had to go back and read prior sections of the book and good god do they hit different. Different and SADDER. This book is my favorite of Natasha Pulley's novels.

Tommy Cabot Was Here and Peter Cabot Gets Lost by Cat Sebastian

The first two books in Cat Sebastian's The Cabots series. The books are historical fiction that follow various queer men in the Cabot family. The Cabots are one of those old money, liberal New England families—think Kennedys. Both books are about Sad Gay Men™ finding love in soft, tiptoeing Cat Sebastian fashion. Peter Cabot is a road trip romance and a bit longer, so the characters have some time to breathe.

Something Wild & Wonderful by Anita Kelly

This was probably a Stucky fic at one point, right? I mean. No shade though, truly! This was my favorite romcom that I read in 2023. It was also a comp for Strangers to Husbands, haha. I love the setting—hiking the Pacific Crest Trail—and I love the main characters, Alexei and Ben. Alexei came out to his family recently and got rejected, while Ben is from a big, accepting Portuguese family. Funny, touching, and an excellent love story.

Cattle Stop by Kit Oliver

Looks like a romcom but will stab you in the heart repeatedly. Kit Oliver has a gorgeous way with words and captures the dynamic between two people who have no idea how to talk to each other so well. I'm also a sucker for farm settings.

The Sugared Game and Subtle Blood by KJ Charles (The Will Darling Adventures)

I've read almost all of KJ Charles's books at this point, but the Will Darling Adventures are my favorites (I read the first book in the series in 2022). I love the combination of romance and action/adventure. I've never met a m/m book set in the interwar period that I haven't loved. Will and Kim are wonderful characters, and sometimes I think about what other adventures they had after book three ended.

Honeytrap by Aster Glenn Gray

An FBI agent and a GRU agent get assigned to work a case together in 1959 and they fall in looooove. There's a road trip, a family dinner, and FEELS. I'm not sure I've ever had a time skip hit me in the gut so hard. Remember how I said I love Soviet queers? Here's another example.

Wranglestone and Timberdark by Darren Charlton

What if the real dystopia isn't the zombie apocalypse, but "normal" life? I don't know if I've ever read a YA series that sucker-punched me as hard as this one. I know I've never read a zombie book that sucker-punched me as hard as this one. I don't think these books have even been published in the US (only in the UK), but if you can get your hands on them, they're worth it. Really beautifully written in a style that evokes the emptiness of the great national parks of the American west.

Honorable mentions:

The Charioteer by Mary Renault

The Scottish Boy by Alex de Campi

A Power Unbound by Freya Marske

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taylorswiftstyle · 9 months

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Favourite Outfits of 2023: Taylor Swift Style

Events

EB Denim, MTV VMA after party

Oscar de la Renta, Eras Tour premiere

Balmain, Renaissance premiere

The Row, Poor Things premiere

Taylor’s major event appearances this year came in threes: a trio of movie premieres (Eras, Renaissance, Poor Things) and award shows (Grammys, iHeartRadio, MTV VMAs).

If there were a unifying theme (that also extended to her street style) it was a more concerted approach to glam. Whether that was in oversized jewelry like the doorknocker Lorraine Schwartz earrings at the Grammys. Or her heavy stack of necklaces (Joseph Saidian & Sons and Anita Ko) and bracelets (Foundrae, Jacquie Aiche) and rings (David Webb, Ita Jewelry, and that one onyx Van Cleef & Arpels ring #iykyk) at the MTV VMAs.

Or even in more subtle, but still elevated, ways. Like Cartier diamond tennis jewelry at the Eras Tour premiere (a move I like to call ‘spoken word luxury’ - not loud and self-aggrandizing, but not quiet either) or the glam Hollywood glove-like fit of a Balmain gown that was thoughtfully on theme for a night celebrating Renaissance silver, or even a slinky all black look by The Row at the Poor Things premiere that had me whispering “You must be the woman who’s been screwing my husband” under my breath for all the very best reasons.

Photos by Matt Winkelmeyer, Kevin Mazur, and Gotham via Getty Images.

#tss 2023 outfits

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sara-scribbles · 2 years

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hi! i know its way off but would you write idia sharing a new year kiss with his crush?

To Start the Year Off

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Idia Shroud/GN!Reader Word Count: 1,267 Notes: Just something quick and simple. Ortho being a good wing-man ;D Hope everyone has a great 2023! Warnings: Idia being self-deprecating

Idia nervously paces his room while biting on the nail of his thumb. He isn’t sure why he even went through with asking you to spend New Year’s Eve with him. Well, actually he knows why, and that reason is happily pinning up decorations around his room.

Ortho had needled Idia into asking you to join in on a very small celebration. Literally so small it’s only the two of them; and now you. How could he say no to his cute little brother? And, if Idia is honest with himself, he wants to spend more time with you.

You’re what he would consider an extrovert. And oh does he hate socializing with extroverts! Yet, you’re not as draining as the other extroverts at NRC. You seem to understand when to step back and give him space. You’re patient with him and don’t mind when he would rather stay in his room while you talk to his tablet. You’ll listen to his tirades on the latest anime, game, or his favorite idol group.

How could he not develop a major crush on you?

Unfortunately for him, you’re also pretty popular. Somehow you’ve amassed a gaggle of friends. Some are just normies, like the two knuckleheads from Heartslabyul. But when he found out you managed to snag the ultra rare UR Malleus Draconia, he nearly fainted. Of course you of all people would befriend one of the most powerful beings in Twisted Wonderland!

With all these better people around you, Idia can’t help but think you’re only friends with him out of pity. He can’t offer you much beyond new gadgets or superior wifi. Hell, he can’t even go outside like everyone else. That usually isn’t an issue for him, but ever since you arrived, he kinda wants to do normie things with you. Not like you’d ever want to do anything with him.

“Big brother, stop overthinking,” Ortho orders, his voice breaking Idia out of his mental anguish.

Realizing he’s gnawed off the nail on his thumb, he stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt. “What if they don’t come? What if they’ve been invited to a party and decided they'd rather go. Someone like that is bound to be invited to multiple events and w-”

There’s three rapid knocks that interrupt his spiraling. “Idia? Ortho?”

“(Y/N), is here!” Ortho eagerly opens the door. “You made it!”

You’re grinning ear from ear. “Of course! I wouldn’t want to miss starting the new year with the opening of the newest MMO game server.”

Idia inwardly cringes as he remembers the reason he gave for throwing the impromptu New Year’s Eve celebration. He had hastily told you to arrive ten minutes before midnight if you wanted to get all the new login bonuses. Could he be any more lame?

Ortho hands you a silver party hat, which you gladly put on. Despite how goofy most people would look, you manage to pull it off. Now that all three of you are wearing party hats, you settle on the floor. From your backpack, you pull out a handful of snacks.

Thankfully Ortho had convinced Idia to clean up a bit. Most of the things were thrown in his closet or stuffed in the boxes that were now neatly stacked. His computer screens had been rearranged to accommodate the extra person.

“D-do you want a pillow?” He holds a cushion out.

Leaning against the frame of his bed, you accept the offered cushion. “I bought a few things. I wasn’t sure what would be fitting for a New Year’s Eve party, but I made sure to grab your favorites!”

As Idia sinks down near you, he hands a controller over. “T-thanks…” The intro screen to the new game lights up the room.

You hum along to the music as you both wait for the server to open. “So, what class do you plan to go for?”

A safe topic to discuss, Idia lets out a sigh. “Probably a mage reaper. Distant combat but also close combat just in case to cover your bases. Being able to heal yourself was life changing in the previous games. Plus, you can iframe attacks using reaper specials.”

“Hmm, good choice. I might go for paladin gunner. Plenty of defense while fighting midrange sounds sweet.” You happily munch on some cookies. “Ortho, are you joining us?”

Idia realizes his brother had been hovering the entire time. The younger Shroud smiles. “Actually, I need to make a quick stop at Sam’s. I forgot to prepare the necessary refreshments.”

Eyes widening, Idia can only manage to sputter out a few crumbs before Ortho leaves. The door closes with an ominous click. Suddenly, he feels like he’s too close to you. Every time you’ve hung out with him, Ortho has been there. Or you’re in a public place. Idia has never been alone with you.

Until now.

Eyes darting around the room, he wonders if he can spontaneously combust. It would be better than facing his very real feelings for you. Feelings that will definitely not be reciprocated. From the corner of his vision, he can see that you’re unfazed. You’re busy fiddling with the control settings. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

The silence seems to drag on forever as Idia can’t seem to unfreeze himself. You set down the controller, before turning to him. “You can use your tablet if you want.”

He blinks slowly. You turn back to the screen. “Or if you want, I can go back to my dorm, and we can do this through chat.”

Ah, you’re trying to make him feel more comfortable. Always the accommodating one. You never seem bothered by it either. Most people would get annoyed or exasperated over his reactions. But you understand.

Slowly relaxing, Idia picks up his own controller. “N-no. I’m okay.”

Focusing on the screen, there’s a minute before midnight. “Hey, Idia?”

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause before you speak again. “Would you mind if I gave you a kiss for the new year?”

He swears he hears something crack. He’s suddenly very aware of you once more. “I-I…k-kiss? M-me?”

“There’s a tradition to ring in the new year by kissing someone. I just thought it might be something nice to do with you,” you explain, keeping your tone even and calm. “It’s okay if you’re not comfortable with that.”

Thirty seconds.

He can’t believe his ears. You want to kiss him? Of all people? Really???

Twenty-five.

Swallowing nervously, Idia decides to gather all his courage. This is a once and a lifetime special event. Who knows when he’ll ever get the chance. “Y-yes, I’d like that!” he manages to squeak out.

Eighteen.

He keeps his gaze glued to the screen, afraid he might pass out if he even looks at you. He can hear you shuffling. From the corner of his vision, he can make out your hand. You shift closer to him without a word.

Seven.

Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe!

One.

“Happy New Year, Idia. I like you alot,” you whisper in his ear. He instinctively squeezes his eyes shut at the last second.

You press a gentle, warm kiss to his cheek; you linger before moving away. Eyes popping open as the game music opens, he turns to you. The tips of his hair have turned a shade of light pink. His mouth opens and closes like a fish as you smile back at him. Your eyes glimmer brightly with such emotion, it’s almost too much for his poor heart.

What a way to start the year!

#twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #idia shroud #twst idia #idia shroud x reader #idia x reader #reader insert #scenario

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