#speaking of he has this cousin who is four years old and I was on FaceTime with her

[malcriada]

if you are looking for verified campaigns to help out Palestinian families, please check out this amazing spreadsheet by @/nabulsi and @/el-shab-hussein:

i also have a list of verified fundraisers that were vetted by Palestinian users on tumblr in my verified tag

PLEASE NOTE THAT I DO NOT VERIFY FUNDRAISERS MYSELF AS I AM NOT PALESTINIAN NOR DO I SPEAK ARABIC

lastly, here are four campaigns i especially wanna bring attention to: 1.) my friends Alaa and Bilal (@alaajshaat) who need help evacuating from Gaza. they are #95 on the spreadsheet linked above. they are incredibly dear to me and i urge everyone to please give to their campaign. they had to restart from scratch and have opened up a new campaign!!

2.) my friend Siraj (@siraj2024), who is #219 on the spreadsheet linked above, his lovely wife and their three children who need help because they want to rebuild their beautiful home that took 10 years to build. i want to urge everyone to not only give to evacuation funds but also campaigns that have the goal to rebuild homes and stay in Gaza as is their right! Siraj also documents happenings in Gaza on his blog and i highly recommend following him.

3.) Firas and his sister Nisreen (@firasmuhaisenn), verified by @/90-ghost here, two first-year medical students who are currently studying in Egypt while their family is stuck in Gaza. they are not only trying to raise funds to pay for their university fees but also ultimately get their family out of Gaza to safety. these two students have an immense amount of pressure on their shoulders and it is up to us to help them out.

4.) my dear friend Bilal (@bilal-salah0) who is currently living in germany and tries his hardest to get his family to safety. he not only has to manage this fundraiser but also deal with repression from the german government and is facing deportation. it is imperative his campaign reaches its goal as fast as possible.

[chaosandmarigolds]

siedem 🚑🚑

EMS AU thingyyy!!!

summary: Simon is hopelessly in love with the newest paramedic on base, however he just has the social skills of a five year old…plus what could he deserve someone like you? tw: mentions of a shitty bf and girl code kicks in strong

For the record you had two relationships in your past, however one was from kindergarten and the other was a little high school relationship so weren't sure if those could count lord knew with paramedic school and then the military you weren't exactly...seeking a romantic partner.

however, the terrifying lieutenant seemed to catch your interest. Much to your dismay because he seemed interested as well and that would be a bad thing but- well, you were sure if he did actually or if…maybe he’s just weird.

"Men are shit." The girl next to you had down at least five beers in the past ten minuets, however she seemed somewhat stable. So from where you kept your face buried within your arms you look up from the bar counter.

she looked around your age, if not you if you had the guts to wear a dress like hers- never thought a little black and shiny dress would do you any good. Either way, off topic, you were more concerned with the laceration on the side of her head- habit you supposed.

see person = trauma assessment or something like that so with a little grumble you push the vodka soda had been nursing for the night and look at her. “What happened to your face?” That…sounded so much meaner than you intended it too. The words a bit grumbled together and sleepy.

the girl looks at you and flashes a giddy smile, “You should see the other guy!”

you blink slowly, “There’s a other guy?”

She tilts her head to your remark and then brings the glass to her perfectly painted lips, “You’re not bright, are ya? No, my boyfriend sucks ass and threw my purse at me-“

“that’s mean.”

“men are mean.”

To that you hum and grab a napkin, splitting it in half as you move to stand to the side of her. “M a paramedic, m gonna help you.” she lets you dab the napkin on the small cut, the cloth sticking to it, “Honey bun, how many have you had?”

that was weird question, so you blink and then turns slowly to the glass, “Tw…thrr…four? No…I dunno. A few.”

the bartender chimes in- two vodka sodas and a shot of tequila. So the girl gives a laugh and then hops off of her seat, her heels making her a foot taller than you. And she pats your shoulder, “Let’s get you- oh.” As she tried to redirect you back to your seat and turned she was met with a man.

you let out a laugh, a beaming and giddy grin on your face, “Oh my god!! Lieutenant freaking- oh I shouldn’t say freaking, sorry uh- Lieutenant Riley! Hi!!”

the girl glances to you and slowly moves to make a small barrier, his overall deamor not exactly putting her to ease, “Hi. I’m Genny- and my cousin, Allie.”

What?

to that the lieutenant leans over to catch your eyes and to that you give an exaggerated look of confusion, and he speaks, “You have a cousin?”

you huff and shake your head, tapping the girl on the arm, “She’s jus being nice; this is- this is my boss, kinda sorta but he’s super weird but like…I dunno, but I’m his boss and he’s my boss.”

“You’re not my boss.”

“But Mary-!”

Simon looks to Genny and then gives a brief explanation on who he was and who you were, “Thank you for trying to protect her. But we have a meeting’ at 0600 tomorrow nd’ I need to get ‘er home.” He then looks to you, “C’mon.”

(I’m just yapping. Idk. Idk. Comments and feedback mean so so much, tootles!!)

[biwitchenergyz]

A House of Blood and Fire

Chapter One: The Heirs of the Dragon

<-Teaser Next Chapter->

In the future, many years from now, when you await the gods of old Valyria or even the Stranger (hopefully on your deathbed), you may look back on the choices you have made and wonder where you went wrong. Perhaps your death will be less peaceful, perhaps it will be bloody, but you hope that whatever gods watched over you were not the merciless ones Queen Alicent Hightower often wept too.

The world is silent, your room is quiet, and you know the sun will shine soon. Not that the sun has ever done anything good for you. Most people fear the dark but forget all the snakes who love to bask in the sun's light. You often find yourself surrounded by those very snakes, but now, sitting alone in your chambers on Dragonstone, you wonder if the sun purposefully evades the gloomy island. Your lady's smooth voice accompanies the squeak of your door opening.

"Darling girl, I hoped we could talk before our departure." Princess Rhaenyra hardly asked for company; she was surrounded by people at all times, whether that be her children, her lovers, or her court. When she wanted to speak with someone, it was an honor that few could refuse. She moves to sit beside you. Her nightgown is sheer and delicate, with its lacey decorations pooling at her feet as she lifts them onto your bed.

"I was worried that this trip may take a toll on you," Rhaenyra whispers when she is finally sitting at your side, "If you want to stay back, I am sure my father would understand." The silence speaks for itself when Rhaenyra finally hears the irony of her words.

When has Viserys ever been understanding of you? Though the two of you were cousins, his age made him dismissive and ignorant of your plight as a young woman, while his gender gave him a sense of superiority that oozed from his every word. Rhaenyra was lucky to be his eldest daughter because she alone was immune to his cruelty.

"Viserys has been asking me to return, and now he demands it. Even you cannot protect me from that." The older woman's eyes soften at your cynical words. Your arrival at court was, unfortunately, amidst a troubling time for House Targaryen. The Princess and the Queen were constantly at odds, and it seemed that their children were following in their footsteps. With the court jester banished and the king's mood souring, you made for a perfect scapegoat. Had your mother, Saera, been living, she would never have allowed your humiliation. But she was gone, and her reputation fell like an anchor on your head.

"For the past four years, I have found any excuse to keep us on Dragonstone. First, it was my pregnancies, then Daemon’s injury, and Luke’s sickness. I am sorry that my father was not kind to you. However, he has grown ill, and his mind has been sullied with milk of the poppy. All my father wants is to see his family again. We have missed four of his birthdays, and I fear there may not be another. We will leave at dawn." Rhaenyra left no room for argument, so you let the discussion drop. Your mind returns to the reason you must sail for the Red Keep.

"The boat ride will take longer than Dragonback. I may miss dinner entirely." You warn Rhaenyra as she prepares to leave your bed chamber. She turns then, the realms delight, with the brightest smile you had ever seen as she laughed, "There is more than enough room for you on Syrax." Then she left as the sun seeped in through your windows.

• • • • • • •

In the end, you refuse to ride on Dragonback. You have declined it during all the years you have lived in Westeros. The boat ride is hardly uncomfortable, but as you watch Syrax's daisy-colored form fly over you, you wonder about the freedom you miss. Occasionally, the Velaryon boys will fly their dragons down closer toward the water, and your boat shakes at the power of their dragons' flapping wings. Even young dragons have that power. During the journey, Rhaenyra and her family split from you as they head towards King's Landing, and for a while, you are left with only yourself and the Princesses' other ladies as company. "Sit down, Princess. Join us in crafting our favors. You will become seasick if you stand so much." Elinda Massey lectures as you stand staring out the window of the old ship.

Elinda, with her dark hair and darker eyes, never fails to worry. She awoke in the morning with worries, and every night; she went to sleep worrying about how much Rhaenyra and her children ate at dinner and whether or not they would be starving. Her worries for the royal family also extend to you; even the old king's exiled granddaughter was worth her many troubles. Despite being your age and both of you being the youngest of Rhaenyra’s ladies, Elinda had a pious nature that led to her acting as a mother for the other girls, yourself included.

"Lady Massey, I can assure you I will be fine standing. The ship should dock soon anyway." Elinda frowned at your response, but she knew better than to argue with you when your mind was made.

You hurry to the deck of the ship, hoping to see King's Landing in all its glory, when your eye is caught by the enormous shadow that hovers above your boat. A dragon, as dark as an emerald and as giant as the Dragonpit, flies above you with a slow flap of its wings. Vhagar, you think you knew that dragon by heart and the old beast had not changed in the years since you left. Her rider may not be on her back, but you feel like he is for a second, his eyes piercing you from a place hidden from your view. Myranda Strong, with her twin Alyssa, approaches you from behind.

"Lady Massey is talking to the captain. The princess will send us a carriage, but we will still need someone to bring our luggage." Myranda tells you as her eyes also lift to watch Vhagar. Alyssa ignores the dragon, focused on the men preparing to moor the ship.

True to her word, Rhaenyra has sent a carriage for the four of you. It is grander than most carriages but still simple enough in its design to reflect your status as ladies-in-waiting. Inside the carriage, you bump into Alyssa at every dip in the road, but she merely smiles. "The men of the Red Keep will be a great exchange for those in DragonStone. New faces are just the change I need." She laughs with you as you agree to her lust-filled words. "It is the eldest prince that I am most excited to see. The rumors say that were he not a prince; he would certainly be the lover of a Lysinian mistress, or worse, a madame." You go silent at her words, but Elinda quiets the other girl.

"I can assure you we will not be anywhere near the drunkard prince." Her words are brusque, and they silence Alyssa for the rest of the ride. The silence is deafening until the other strong girl finds her voice. "Where is Saagael, my princess?" Myranda asks you even though her dark eyes are locked on her sister. You cannot stop your smile at the mention of your beloved pet. "He will be brought with our luggage. I had to cage him for the journey so the Hand would not know his presence. Saagael is not supposed to be here." You whisper the words with delight as you discuss how you have snuck your cat into King's Landing. Your company finds humor in this, but the rest of the ride is silent until the carriage doors open, and Rhaenyra takes your hand to help you step safely onto the dirt.

"My Princess! You did not need to come get us." Lady Massey exclaims in delight as Rhaenyra helps her down as well. "I thought that at least the four of you should receive a warm welcome. It seems that courtesy is not felt amongst the court." Rhaenyra sneers before she links your arms and leads you through the halls of the red keep. In the light of the setting sun, the halls look more burgundy than the bright red they are known for. Rhaenyra is silent as you both walk arm-in-arm through the bustling castle.

Servants, nobles, and knights alike stop to stare at the Heir and the formerly exiled princess. It has been many years since the Realm's Delight has been home. They watch her with curious glances, trying to dissect this new woman who walks amongst them. Has the Realm's delight turned cruel, or does she remain the sweet girl beloved by all? You can see the hesitance in their eyes as they bow to her passing figure. Rhaenyra, for the most part, ignores all the attention as she begins to tell you what has transpired today.

"A meager servant was sent to greet us. Our first homecoming in five years and we are treated like mere ambassadors. However, I believe that even ambassadors are treated better. I expected to see my father upon my return, but the king is not currently receiving company. Otto Hightower has practically barred the doors to my father's chambers. " The princess can't help but ramble. It is something she often does in your company for whatever reason. You think it is because, despite her estrangement from her siblings, she craves a relationship of equals rather than one of husband and wife or mother and child. She has always been alone in ways her sons and husband never have. The thought tugs at your heartstrings, and your grip on her arm tightens. "I am sure he will be at the tourney. It is in his name, is it not?" You try to ease her stress, but when it is time for you to go to your chambers, Rhaenyra keeps her hold on you.

"Will you stay with me? Your support would make this whole thing feel easier." Silence fills the halls outside of your chamber. Her Majesty, Queen Alicent, chose the room assigned to you. It is within a forgotten tower just behind the Royal sept, the only chamber completely secluded. Unlike the towers that occupy the hand and the royal guard, which all contain more than one room, your tower has only one other room relatively distant from your chambers. The royal library is at the end of the hall and one must pass your rooms to get there. Thus, for the most part, your halls are silent. Rhaenyra uses this silence to talk freely, so you do the same.

"My Princess, the children of Her Majesty will also be in attendance. I hardly think I will be any help when I am already so anxious to see them. I haven't been here since Helaena disappeared." You pick at the skin around your nails, a habit inherited from your mother, Saera. Rhaenyra watches you look away from her gaze while shuffling uncomfortably back and forth. Aegon and Aemond Targaryen were your friends once, more Aegon than Aemond. But the night Helaena vanished, many incidents occurred that forced you to flee for DragonStone. Not only had Alicent suspected you of helping Helaena escape, but so did her two oldest sons, and when you left, never to return until now, they grew to resent you. That's what you thought, although you never had any clear evidence besides the heated conversation that night four years ago.

"Darling, I want you there, but I will not beg," Rhaenyra stated plainly. Her royal demeanor inspired you to lift your eyes. Her violet eyes gleamed with a reserved strength that she took no measures to conceal. "I will go." You decided.

• • • • • • •

The tourney was to begin in less than an hour, but first, you wanted to make sure your pet was settling into your chambers. Saagael paced back and forth, his body more extensive than a house cat, as dark as a moonless night sky, and his paws hit the floor like an elephant on the march. “I didn’t want to leave you alone.” You try to reason with the cat, but he will hear nothing of it. He turns to leap onto your chair, making it seem like a doll’s chair with his big body taking over the furniture. His paws knead into the soft fabric, but he does not rip it. You knew the risk of returning him to the red keep would be significant, but you reasoned that he would be safer with you than left alone on Dragonstone. At least here, you could watch him and protect him. The thought of losing your beloved companion was one of the many fears that kept you up at night. Saagael was all you had left of home and your parents; without him, you would be truly lost. Even in moments like this, when his attitude was at its height, you took comfort in his presence.

“Fine. I will bring you a whole salmon from the kitchen! All you have to do is stay here and be good.” You pleaded with the grumpy cat. Saagael’s ears perked up at the mention of his favorite treat. Finally, he left his chair to curl up at your feet. You scratched his neck, making him purr contentedly. With a few more pets, you got up to leave him. As you opened your door, you jumped back in shock at the sight of Alicent Hightower standing outside. Her delicate hand was raised as if she was going to knock upon your door. The both of you seemed startled by the presence of the other, but neither of you spoke for a moment.

Alicent breaks the silence, “You have grown quite a lot in these years.” Her voice is gentle but still royal, showing her hesitance to appear as anything but regal in front of you. “Please do come in, your majesty!” You stumble over yourself to bow appropriately in the older woman's presence. Alicent walks in, taking in the room to find it, the same as when she first had it decorated for you.

Saagael is perched on the bed with no interest in moving, but Alicent strokes his fur, and he suddenly sits up and is very interested in the queen. “Is there a purpose to your visit, my queen?” Slowly, your feet move to the Queen's side while watching her admire your beloved Saagael. “My father hates this cat.” The queen muses instead of answering your question. The room falls to silence again until Alicent finally speaks. “I have been begging Viserys to bring you back home, and finally, you are here. I came to apologize to you, dear girl. When my daughter…left…I placed my blame onto you when you have been nothing but loyal to me and my children since you arrived at the Red Keep. I hope you can forgive me.” She turns to you, and you see the young woman you grew up with, who took you in along with Rhaenyra when you needed guidance.

Her big brown eyes glisten with unshed tears, but over time, you realize that Alicent's eyes are always sad. With a boldness you didn't realize you had, you step forward to grasp the Queen’s hands. “All is forgiven, Your Majesty.” Alicent smiles as she rubs her hand over your own, pausing at the rough skin around your fingernails. It is inflamed from being picked at, and Alicent notices it instantly. Gently, she touches your skin before looking back into your eyes.

“My sons, they have missed you greatly. I know they will be glad to see you. Please forgive them of their standoffish nature.” You nod at her words, knowing you have missed her sons just as much as Helaena. A bell chimes from the royal sept, and its echo fills your quiet room. Alicent responds instantly, dropping your hands and heading to the door before turning and saying, “The king wants his entire family at dinner after the tourney. I hope that you come.” She leaves the room with urgency, and for a fleeting moment, you feel like a twelve-year-old again, spending the winter in the Red Keep playing with Helaena and Aegon while a silent Aemond watches on in Amusement as Alicent gently scolds you and Aegon for roughhousing.

Jace and Luke are the ones who come to escort you to the King’s birthday tourney. You link arms with Jacaerys while Luke fiddles with the ring on his finger. It is a matching one Rhaenyra gave him for his tenth name day, valyrian steel with a single onyx crystal in the middle of the circlet. You all walk in silence, having nothing to say to each other. When you reach the doors that lead into the courtyard, you stop to turn to Luke, who is beginning to look faint. “Luke, you look as though you have seen a ghost. What troubles you?” You rest your hand over his own to stop his fidgeting. Luke smiles at you even though his eyebrows furrow in thought. Jace keeps his hand on your arm but uses his other hand to pat Luke’s back. Then Luke looks up at you with a strange determination on his face. “Are you on our side?” You drop his hands in shock. With a quick glance around, you see that nobody is in the halls besides two guards who stand watch at the doors to the courtyard. You gather the skirts of your dress and bend slightly to come face to face with Luke.

“Little Luke Velaryon, what are you talking about?” The words come out as a whisper, unnoticed by the guards, but Jace and Luke hear them loud and clear, and they do not back down. “Our uncles call us bastards. The whispers of the court say that it is Aegon who should be our grandsire’s heir. Do you stand with us or with them?”

Luke is bolder than Jace. He always has been. Unlike Jacaerys, who strives to be the perfect dignified gentle-lord, Luke is proud like the Velaryons and does not hold his tongue.

“I am my mother's daughter; Saera Targaryen would see no value in such disagreements. I do not wish to fuel a fire that is already roaring. The politics of Westeros are still strange to me, but my position here is not. I have no right to say what should happen to the iron throne, but I assure you that I love you and your mother very much. That is all I can say.” Luke nods, his youthful face looking mature for the first time. He seems as if he will argue, but he holds his tongue because of a lack of response. Jace takes your arm in his again, and as you wait for Rhaenyra and Daemon to join the three of you, Jace talks to you in whispers.

“Even you must feel the division of the court.” He shows no signs of discontent, but Lucereys is still mulling over your response. “Trust that I feel the division like a knife in my back.” Your stare rises to meet his eyes. For a moment, he is silent, but his eyes are loud enough. The conversation ends there as Rhaenyra and Daemon approach to lead the family to their carriages. You watch the doors open but stop before crossing them; Jace pulls you through.

• • • • • • •

[igetthedisneybox]

Zoe Madrigal

Inspired by @hannahhook7744's Encanto AU, and her own character headcanons.

Third image made using https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1558575

Fourth image made using https://www.dolldivine.com/la-colombiana

Fifth image is a model of one of the Encanto kids I edited.

Zoe’s full name is Zoe Carina Madrigal.

Her first name means “life”, and her middle name means “beloved”. 

She is the last adopted child of Luisa Madrigal and Juana Aguado.

She has straight dark brown hair, light brown skin, and brown eyes.

She is five years old.

She has two older brothers by five years, Tomás and Rómulo.

She is currently uninterested in romance and sex.

Her gift is object personification. Any object she wills, will come alive. Any object she wants to un-personify, she can. If it has a face, it will speak. She just received her gift, and doesn’t understand why the townspeople find her gift odd and disturbing.

Her door portrays her smiling, with her hands at her sides, surrounded by a variety of household objects, like a candelabra, a clock, a teapot, and a plate, all with smiling faces.

Her room looks like a princess castle, with a grand four-poster bed with a thick rainbow canopy. All the furniture is teak wood, painted beautiful colors. She has just about as much random stuff in her room as Carlos, and it’s all been personified. The objects are her best friends, and anything she personifies that she wants to keep, she steals takes to her room. 

Her symbol is the alchemical symbol of life, an upside down greek omega.

Luisa is an anxious and overprotective mother, which Zoe doesn’t mind. She basically worships both her parents, and loves snuggling with them. 

Juana is the mom who tries to get Zoe out of her shell, and interacting with other kids.

She has no memory of her birth parents, but she does remember her grandfather, who raised her until she was four. When he fell ill, Luisa and Juana volunteered to take her in, so she wouldn’t be alone.

Zoe looks up to her two brothers, and wants to have adventures like them when she gets older.

She ends up hanging out with the other “outcast” cousins: Sofía, Fuega, Andrés, Hugo, and Óscar, because the Encanto people find her gift horrific.

She gets along best with Julieta, Mirabel, and Hugo. 

She used her powers to bring a huge group of potatoes to life, and has dubbed them her “potato people.” Isabela ended up loving them so much, Zoe gave them to her as a gift.

She also used her powers to bring Bisabuelo Wilmar's taxidermied animals to life, and they end up with the ability to speak like humans. Everyone in Casita refused to let her change them back.

She has a special love for machinery, as her biological grandfather was a mechanic in the city. Her best friend is a tiny radio she named Katalina.

She likes to hear stories. Her favorite is the creation of the Encanto, as told by Alma.

She loves to sleep, and takes naps regularly. Curiously, when she’s asleep, all her personified objects sleep as well, and can’t speak or move.

Her favorite colors are pink, red, light yellow, and rainbow.

[yuesya]

Xiao straightens, and flicks his spear.

The downed form of the man-shaped demon before him fades slowly, crumbling motes of darkness drifting up and gradually vanishing in the air. It’s not dissimilar to the demons of Liyue that he’s familiar with –the demons that Xiao has spent so many centuries hunting and slaying in an endless, eternal cycle– but at the same time, he is able to discern the difference.

This demon was not one born of the restless grudges of fallen gods that refused to accept their own deaths. If anything, its origins seemed more… but no… no, that was preposterous. Surely it couldn’t be–

A monstrous roar sounds behind him; Xiao whirls around. There’s another demon left, struggling futilely in a pool of its own blood. The signature of its energy is far weaker than the one that he’d just fought, and all four of its limbs have been broken… and yet it’s still alive, and struggling to crawl forward on its belly.

Xiao exhales, raising his spear–

–and pauses.

There’s a pale hand that rests upon the bladed edge in a clear gesture for Stop. Xiao looks up sharply.

“You intend to let it live?” The girl –yet there is no doubt that this is no mere mortal girl– doesn’t say anything, but presses insistently upon his weapon. Please stand down, is her unmistakable, unspoken request.

The only reason why Xiao doesn’t point his spear at her in turn is because he knows that she actively fought the demons long prior to his arrival. It’s the only reason why there are humans who managed to escape this catastrophe.

Her appearance… Xiao does not recognize her. He admits that she looks similar to the snow women yokai of Inazuma, white hair and pale skin and clothed in Inazuman dress as she is. But she does not bear any powers of ice nor snow. If anything, the way the sword in her hand cuts through every obstacle without pause reminds him of the whispers of kunado-no-kami. But to his knowledge the last of them had died along with the Watatsumi Omikami that they served.

Regardless, Xiao does not intend to allow the current situation to go unanswered. If she was present here, fighting those strange demons that were decidedly not of Liyuan origin, then surely she knew how this incident came about in the first place.

“Explain,” Xiao says. He banishes his weapon, allowing it to dissipate into motes of golden light. “How did this situation come to be? Has the war in Inazuma worsened to such a state that it’s no longer able to contain malicious spirits within its own borders?”

The girl opens her mouth–

Oh.

Xiao blinks, genuinely surprised and caught off-guard. Her words…

“That’s a dialect I haven’t heard for quite some time.” He doesn’t have a perfect understanding of what she’s saying, especially given that the last time he’d heard this was… during the time of the Archon War, perhaps?

Xiao tilts his head. Is he looking at a survivor of the kunado-no-kami? … So far from the shores of Inazuma?

I apologize. I don’t understand what you’re saying.

Luckily for them both, Xiao is also old enough to know of the dead language that she speaks and discern the general meaning of her words, if not the precise details. Although Xiao is a Liyuan adeptus who has never once left the land in the thousands of years he’d lived, he has encountered gods of other lands, so he is not unfamiliar with other tongues.

That she is apparently unfamiliar with the language that is spoken in the present…

“Thank you for your assistance,” the kami bows. Polite, graceful. Xiao folds his arms across his chest and waits for her to explain. “… I’m afraid that this also came as an unexpected situation to me. I didn’t think that there would be a long-distance transportation array, and the barrier should’ve… no, I suppose that’s unimportant.”

She shakes her head.

“I was investigating a matter that was entrusted to me by my cousin, and ended up being ambushed by cursed spirits. Four total, the last of which you just slew,” she nods towards the fallen demon beneath him. “There was also a curse user, but he doesn’t seem to have been transported along with us. Ah, he would be the one responsible for teleporting us here. He needs to die.”

The words are spoken calmly, serenely. Xiao is aware of the dissonance here, but it’s not as if he disagrees. The regrettable casualties and wanton destruction around their current surroundings speak for themselves.

“And the demon you wish to spare?”

“Demon?” The kami blinks, then instantly understands what he’s referring to. “Ah, Muta-san? I’m afraid I can’t allow him to die yet, he’s the one I’m supposed to investigate. Although, given his current state I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to interrogate out of him…”

“I cannot allow such threats to remain within these lands.” It is his contract, and the duty that he must uphold as one of Rex Lapis’ adepti and his last yaksha.

“I understand,” she nods. “We will depart as soon as possible. If I may ask a question of you, where… are we?”

“You are within Dihua Marsh,” Xiao answers. Pauses, upon the uncomprehending way she looks at him, and elaborates, “Located upon the Bishui Plains.”

“… Did Not-Geto teleport us to China?” the kami mutters. “An entirely different country?”

Xiao stares at her. “This is the country of Liyue.”

The kami falls silent. Then, proceeds to take out a small pouch from her sleeve, and procures a strange device from it –a rectangular piece of metal that lights up with an artificial glow when she taps at it. There’s a small frown on her face, before she wipes the expression from her face with a long sigh.

“By any chance, do you have a name for this continent?”

Continent?

“… If you mean this world, it is named Teyvat,” Xiao says slowly.

Going by these questions… this is very likely not a kami of Inazuma who stands in front of him.

[gorgxoxus]

Ranking the Bridgerton books:

1. The Viscount Who Loved Me - 4 ⭐️. Kate and Anthony’s book is number 1 because the characters were true to themselves throughout the book, I understood their motives and that made them amazing characters to follow as they fall in love with each other. It’s a great rivals to lovers, and seeing their love grow is beautiful. It made me giddy with happiness, kick my feet, cringe and made me almost cry. The angsty first time sex scene was everything I needed it to be. Season 2 was amazing, and the book is almost better!!

2. ⁠When He Was Wicked - 4⭐️. Side note before I get into it: I loved Micheal’s familial relationships in this book, as he grew up with his mother and Johns mother as parental figures, and I consider those two lesbian icons.

I loved reading Francesca and Micheal’s story. When you meet them before their story begins in earnest you see their friendship, and they immediately jumped out of the page as two people who have a fun and interesting connection as friends and ‘cousins/ family’ (they’re not actually cousins, Micheal is John’s cousin). When you meet them four years after John’s death, they have to work to become friends again. In the midst of that you see that Micheal respects Francesca as the countess of Kilmartin as he left her in charge as he left England for four years. Because Michael and Francesca are technically family (Micheal becomes the new Earl of Kilmartin when John dies) and share some residencies the lack of propriety is expected so they are alone together. It brings them together and it lets them do wicked and sexy acts to each other, especially when the story moves to Scotland and they are alone together in the Scottish country-side ( and Francesca’s been married, the power dynamics in the bedroom were 🥵🥵❤️❤️). It was beautiful to see Francesca experience love and desire after loss, and after expecting to get married again just to produce a child (and also keep the Kilmartin name and estates she’s run for years, and her connection with Micheal and John).

3. ⁠ It’s in His Kiss - 4⭐️. Hyacinth and Gareth are the most well matched characters in the series. Hyacinth is such a riot and never shuts up and Gareth is her match. The banter between them is amazing. Hyacinth and Gareth have a shared goal in the book which makes it interesting and gets them into all kinds of trouble. As Hyacinth is a person who knows who she is, that also translated to the best first kiss and first time, as she was taking as much control as she could. There is some dodgy lines of consent in this series, and I appreciated the full and out loud consent Hyacinth gave at all steps. They’re great characters to read about, and Lady Danbury plays a prominent role which is so much fun.

4. ⁠Romancing Mr Bridgerton - 4⭐️. Colin and Penelope’s story ranks fourth because Colin is one of the worst men in this series, with his anger and resentment and hurt he causes Penelope both emotionally and physically were hard to read. I love Penelope in the book, 28 year old her is quietly confident and has some of the best lines of the whole series. This book also highlighted friendship, between Pen and Lady Danbury, Pen and the Bridgertons especially Eloise and Hyacinth and Pen and Colin. I also appreciate this book as the Lady Whistledown plot running parallel to the love story gave it intrigue and drama, and made up for the fact that the romance was very middle of the road.

5. ⁠To Sir Phillip, With Love - 3⭐️. I was nervous about reading Eloise and Phillip’s love story because I had heard bad things about it, but it was fine. Phillip is a bad man, but all the men are in this series. I appreciated that Phillip knew he was bad and wanted to change himself and started to make changes in the small amount of time we had with him in the book, I respected his growth. Eloise is great, of course, speaks her mind, is talkative and interesting. I don’t think they are the most well matched couple but I had an enjoyable time reading the book and I think when they did communicate it did work. Phillips kids from his first marriage are a riot and very well written as children in my opinion. I do read Eloise as queer in the books, she literally runs away from home to a guy she’s never met because Penelope, her bestie she was planning to grow old together as a spinster, got married.

Side note: Penelope, Eloise and Francesca (to Micheal) get married in the same year and month in the books, poor Violet.

6. ⁠On the Way to the Wedding - 3⭐️. Gregory and Lucy had an interesting story (there was action, twists and turns, guns, blackmail, a gay character), but I don’t think they are well matched. Gregory believes so much about true love after watching the rest of his family marry for love, and Lucy values looking after her family and order. They didn’t convince me they were meant to be, they clearly loved each other but was it enough? I was definitely getting jaded near the end of reading the series. And I kept thinking that Lucy is like 17 (she’s the youngest of all the wives by a few years) and Gregory is 26, their age gap really took me out of the story.

7. ⁠The Duke and I - 2.5⭐️. Just watch season 1, the book is almost the same with a little less characterisation and less exciting and beautiful sets and costumes. I respected Simon’s hold on his values, but it definitely conflicted with Daphne’s. I wanted to smash their heads together to communicate. As with the show, the best part is when they are fake courting.

8. ⁠An Offer from a Gentleman - 1.5⭐️

Benedict and Sophie’s story ended up being my least favourite. I actually think Benedict and Sophie are well matched, but some of the things in this book really annoyed me. Benedict is the worst Bridgerton man/ sibling because of inexcusable actions he made in this book. I respected and enjoyed Sophie until she did something totally and completely out of character and then I stopped respecting her. My favourite part was when they met, my least favourite part was almost everything else.

[georgeclarkewifey]

Inconvenience | g. clarke

Chapter 3 - Ikea Trip

Summary: four boys and noa in ikea, what could go wrong?

Word Count: 1.1k+

Warnings: swearing, George being a dick

noamurphy

liked by chrismd10, arthurtv and 13,473 others

noamurphy literally got halfway to Ikea before they demanded to stop for food

comments open

chrismd10 well we were hungry what did you expect?

⮑ noamurphy wait??? to get Ikea meatballs???

⮑ gkbarry_ noa speaking facts as usual

⮑ noamurphy love you babe x

arthurtv but we wanted hot dogs

⮑ noamurphy yeah and I wanted a successful football career but we don’t always get what we want

⮑ arthurhill just saw chris choke on his hot dog after he read this

⮑ fan new Noa lore?????

fan1 she’s so real for giving us this

⮑ fan2 mother really fed us today

⮑ noamurphy I worry for you guys sometimes

fan3 Ikea vlog 👉👈🥺 pls

⮑ noamurphy arthurtv ?

⮑ arthurtv 🫡

“Thank fuck.” Noa muttered, as the car finally pulled into the Ikea store parking lot. Somehow, their half an hour journey had doubled in length when Arthur TV declared that he was hungry and wanted to get hot dogs. “Honestly, all you guys do is think about your stomachs.”

“But I was hungry-“

“Well aware of the Television, maybe you should have had breakfast.”

“I had two Costco cookies!”

“Is that really what constitutes as a healthy breakfast these days.” Noa replied, rubbing her temples. “C’mon, let’s get this show off the road and into Swedish Heaven.”

Noa managed to herd the boys into the showroom area without much fuss, but once they were inside was where the real trouble began.

Arthur, who had decided to vlog the entire trip was running round the bedrooms with Chris, deciding to tumble out of a wardrobe every five minutes to declare that ‘they weren’t in Narnia any more’, which not only drew the attention of all the other shoppers, but some of the workers as well.

“Dixie! Please hold yourself together for five minutes, please? Just five minutes so that I can choose a bed frame and wardrobe…preferably one that you and Arthur haven’t tried to jump out of.” Noa pleaded, examining a black wooden bed.

“What colour do you want everything in? Because that will narrow the search down.” Chris said, before gazing at a set of bunk beds. “You know, if you ever wanted to have more than one person stay-“

“I’m not getting bunk beds Chris.” She sighed. “I’m not seven years old. Or making a nerf war sequel with my cousins.”

Starting to turn red, as the others snicked, Chris shook his head. “I was a kid okay? And at the time it looked good and we had fun!”

“Is anyone feeling thirsty?” Arthur TV asked, a slow grin starting to form. “I could go for a can of quick revive.”

Chris groaned in frustration, throwing his hands in the air. “Children, I’m friends with actual children.”

The four looked at each other, processing what he had just said, before dissolving into fits of giggles. Realising what they had interpreted, Chris shook his head and began to walk off. “Great, now they’re going to joke that I’m a nonce. Wonderful, just what I needed today, really, really it is.”

“Oh come on Chris, we know you don’t like kids. George, on the other hand-“

“Nope not even starting that conversation.” George grumbled, beginning to play with the drawers of one of the bed. “Why would someone want drawers on their bed?”

“If they don’t have enough room for a wardrobe I’m guessing. Not everyone has YouTuber money you see.” Noa replied, raising her eyebrows at him to reinforce her point. George just rolled at her and walked away, causing Noa to turn to the two Arthurs.

“Okay, what is his problem? Was it something I said? Or did?” She asked, moving to go inspect the next set of beds.

“Uh, we don’t actually know, we’re trying to figure it out too.”

“So he hasn’t even told you guys? Don’t you have like, guy time where you air all your grievances about stuff, and then bark like dogs at the end of it?”

Arthur (Hill) snorted. “No, you’re thinking of the Diamond Dogs, from Ted Lasso.”

“Shit yeah I am. Point still stands, he hasn’t said anything?”

“Not to us at least. And then I’d guess nothing to Chris either, because Chris then would have told us.”

Noa sighed as she ran her hand over a wooden bed frame. “Great, so one of your closest friends is pissed at me and I don’t even know why.”

“I’m sure he’ll come round, don’t even worry about it.”

“Thanks.” She muttered. “You know what, I think I’m gonna get this one. It’s cute, it’ll fit in my room, and I’m pretty sure there’s a matching desk and wardrobe.”

Grinning wickedly, Arthur (Frederick) beckoned Chris and George back over to join them. “You know, I reckon you need to test it, just to make sure that you like it.”

Noa smiled and flopped onto the bed. “Happy now?”

“Nah, I reckon you need someone to test it with you know? Just in case you ever find someone, or get lucky on a night out.” Arthur said, turning his head slowly to look at George.

“Why are you looking at me?” He asked, a small undertone of disgust in his voice, causing Noa’s eyebrows to raise gently.

“Well my shoes are muddy, so that’s a no. And Arthur and Chris are like her brothers, so I wouldn’t ask that of them.”

“But you’d ask that of me.” He grumbled quietly, moving to stand next to the bed. George sighed. “Move over then.”

Noa did so, smiling apologetically at George, before shooting a glare at the other three, who had all whipped out their phones.

George bit his lip as he laid down next to Noa, and began glaring daggers at the back of her head. He was hating every second, especially the fact that no matter where he looked, all he could see was Noa. From the top of her head all the way to where her hair fell on her back, obscuring the graphic print on the back of her hoodie. For a second, he wasn’t sure if he was in Ikea or his own personal hell, crafted for him by Arthur Hill.

“Wait, Noa you gotta make sure you’ve got enough room to roll over.” Chris added, throwing the couple an enthusiastic double thumbs up.

“I’m gonna kill you.” Noa said, only loud enough for George to hear, as she narrowed her eyes at Chris, who was too busy grinning from ear to ear, along with the two Arthurs.

George saw this and averted his gaze, doing everything he possibly could to avoid meeting Noa’s eyes as she faced him. He resisted for as long as he could, but eventually caved.

Luckily, he didn’t meet Noa’s eyes, as she had presumably fazed out, gazing at the geometric pattern on the pillow. George’s stare softened slightly has he studied her features, noticing the faint freckles that dotted over her nose, as well as the small circle of amber that added contrast to her icy blue eyes.

George wasn’t sure how he had been staring at her, but he was saved from any further embarrassment by Chris clearing his throat. “Glad that’s over.” He said, immediately sitting up and fixing his hair, leaving Noa behind.

She coughed, rubbing her face as if it would absolve her of any feelings of uneasiness and embarrassment. “Thanks for that.” She muttered to the two Arthurs. “I’m sure that really helped the situation.”

“I reckon so yeah.” Arthur Television agreed happily.

“Being sarcastic Artie, being sarcastic.” She sighed, patting his shoulder.

chrismd10

liked by noamurphy, arthurhill and 386,820 others

chrismd10 can’t buy an ikea bed without testing it first

comments open

fan1 noa??? and George???? what is going on right now???

⮑ fan2 I was there and I don’t think they’re a thing bc Arthur asked them to do it

⮑ fan1 but why would he do that if not for…?

noamurphy hate you arthurhill

⮑ arthurhill love you too

maxbalegde can’t believe my mans in bed with someone else

⮑ noamurphy not my fault I promise he’s all yours x

fan4 I know they say that there’s nothing going on but look how close they are!!!! really confused rn

⮑ arthurtv Watch my vlog and then you’ll be fine

gkbarry_ omg who’s that fittie in bed

⮑ georgeclarke yours truly

⮑ gkbarry_ ew no not you

⮑ chrismd get roasted George

⮑ georgeclarke shut up hobbit

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Improper - A Luca Changretta/Reader One Shot Story.

Ahhh, this took me back to my youth, besties, writing the experience of a first time with a first love! So yes, as I mentioned yesterday, this features a young!Luca, he and reader both losing their virginity to one another ahead of their wedding. Because they're naughty. Haha! Enjoy :)

Words - 3,750

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

He was always the handsomest boy in school, with the darkest hair and the most irresistible, peridot flecked eyes, the Italian blood running through his veins giving him something extra where appearance was concerned. Nobody else looked anything like Luca Changretta. He was tall, too. Even at twelve when you both left the classroom behind, but god, what four years did to that handsome boy, turning him into the most gorgeous young man you’d ever laid eyes upon.  

He knew it, too. Knew what he had. Knew he looked more like a twenty-year-old than a kid of sixteen. Knew there were grown women in their early twenties who – as they put it - ‘wouldn’t half give that Changretta lad a run for his money, I can tell you!’ as they viewed him with lust in their eyes, their improper thoughts spoken in hushed whisper. After all, for a lady to speak that is wholly uncouth, but you could scarcely blame them. He is magnificently handsome. 

Luca doesn’t want them, though. His desire only has eyes for one. You.  

Mills & Floss is a small factory operation right on the boundary between Small Heath and Bordesley Green, where you’ve found work as a sewing machine operative. From seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, your fingers feed delicate fabrics into a sewing machine. Curtains, tablecloths, cushion covers, everything relating to home furnishings. It’s tedious work, but it’s a wage, a few vital shillings to go towards your mother’s pot at the end of every week to pay your keep.  

In your household, you either worked or you married. The latter was going to happen, too, your parents and Luca’s arranging everything, a summer wedding scheduled for that year of 1896. With just weeks to wait, it will be simply wonderful; no longer seeing him under the supervision of a chaperone, free to do whatever you want with the boy who has enamoured you completely.  

What you want above all? Well, it’s what all young people wish for secretly, beneath the veil of modesty and properness. As it turns out, you will receive it much sooner than your wedding night, too.  

“’Ere! Your young man is waiting for you outside, (Y/N)!”  

Your head shoots up from where you’ve been retying your bootlace, the boom of Victoria, the loudest of the sewing machine operatives reaching you from the window she peers out of. Bustling over to her side, your grin widens in an instant to see your love there, the women all cooing softly as they notice the rosy blush flushing your cheeks.  

“No chaperone either, ooh! Now there’s a thing!” Elsie, a girl of your age whispers, all the women giggling. 

You wave a dismissive hand. “There is bound to be one. His cousin will be milling around somewhere, he always is.” Indeed, your meetings with Luca are always supervised, that supervision usually coming in the form of both of your parents when the families meet for dinner, or Fabrizio, Luca’s cousin, who watches you both like a hawk should Luca call to court you away from either of the family homes.  

Even a simple stroll around the centre of Birmingham, or a visit to the park to spectate at the band stand, and you must be escorted by a third.  

It is a surprise to have your love meet you from work, even more so that when you peer into the street below, there is no sign of Fabrizio. You were expecting them both a little later to call upon you at home, Luca mentioning something about a walk to the local boating lake.  

“He’s probably gone to buy cigarettes.” You decree, feeling a little uncomfortable about the connotations of it, your love waiting for you with no chaperone in sight. What would people think? Moving away, you collect your little lacy shawl and wrap it around your shoulders, lifting your dress as you take the stairs down to the bottom floor, past the rows of sewing machines now come to a still, the factory about to close for the day.  

“Afternoon,” Luca greets you with casually, chewing on a matchstick nonchalantly, removing it to take your hand and kiss it. “You look beautiful, as always.” 

Oh, his charm. He’d be insufferable with that little slither of arrogance, if he wasn’t so damned cute with it, too. It's the little hint of boy there still lurking within the tall, gorgeous young man that sets your heart to flutter every single time.  

“Thank you,” you smile, “and you appear to be missing a cousin.”  

The way his lips curl into a grin has your insides melting. He never fails to make you swoon. “I am. Do you want to know what else I’m missing?” he asks, loosely draping his arms around your waist. 

“Go on,” you urge. 

He leans to your ear, fingers teasing a little circle over the boning of your bodice. “Parents at my house. They’re out until later tonight, Angel is god knows where, so I have an empty house and beautiful girl I want to take back to enjoy it in.”  

Your gasp has him laughing softly. “Luca! You don’t mean...” 

“I do.” He continues to laugh as you take his arm, walking away from the factory. “You need to stop with that prim and proper demeanour. When Fabrizio left us alone last time, the way you kissed me said loud and clear exactly what you wanted.”  

You can’t help but tease a little in the face of his cockiness. “And what do I want, Luca?” 

“Me,” he begins, leaning in close, “naked against you, pushing my nice, thick cock right up into your...” 

“That’s enough!” A slap hits his chest, your love laughing loudly. “At least in public.”  

Those words put a definite spring in his step as you walk towards the horse tram stop. Luca’s house isn’t too far, but with an added urgency to return, a faster means of transportation than mere feet upon cobblestones is required. He pays for you both while you greet the two beautiful, black shire horses with a stroke upon their velvety muzzles, climbing aboard to sit at the rear.  

The tram moves off after a few more people have climbed aboard, and for the entire duration of the journey, you are beside yourself with nerves and excitement in equal measures. Sex before marriage is scandalous, shocking behaviour, definitely not to be partaken of. Your love is not the type of man to be so dissuaded, though. He’s rebellious through and through, and that in itself makes it all the more exciting.  

You’re about to go and partake in something very enjoyable; the reality that you both know you shouldn’t be doing it only adds to the thrill. As does the fact that he sits with his hand rested upon your thigh, fingertips gently squeezing.  

“I can’t wait to take this dress off of you, peel away your underwear and kiss you all over, my sweet amore,” he whispers, kissing the side of your neck, making you shiver as you try not to grin. There’s an older woman sitting nearby, looking at you both with utter distain for such public displays of affection. “And I do mean all over.” 

To kiss him right now would be enough, but hearing how he wants to place his mouth all over you has heat gently misting your skin, the confidence he shows over what’s about to happen adding to the heady rush. He’s never done it before, or at least if he has, he fibbed to you when he said that he hadn’t.  

He speaks with all the confidence of a man who has enjoyed a woman, though, and goodness how it turns your senses inside out. It makes you feel daring and full of zest, enough to take your fan from the small bag you carry and flick it open, giving yourself a liberal wafting before holding it in front of your face, boldness ensnaring you, pulling him into a heated kiss behind it.  

Those kisses have you tingling between your thighs, his tongue nudging and swirling with yours, pulling away from him before it gets a little too heated. You shan’t disgrace yourself publicly, although the move did attract a few negative eyes. All except for one lady, surprisingly the most elderly upon the horse tram, who chuckles to herself as you blush a little.  

“Oh, ‘tis young love!” she admonishes the whispers of the other passengers. “Leave them be, for heaven’s sake!” Shaking her head, she turns to you. “These pompous women here, acting as if they never kissed a boy behind a fan. I certainly did when I was a girl.” She then stands, smoothing her billowing skirt, ready to alight. “Enjoy your afternoon, my darlings.”  

“We will.” Luca chimes brightly, nudging your side. Oh, he truly is pure devilment. Those women still view him with utter distain, your love smirking, eyeing them back with defiance until they look away. They’ve picked the wrong lad here, if they wished for him to feel shame. You’re quite certain that Luca doesn’t know the meaning of the word.  

Four stops later and you are climbing from the tram, taking his arm once more and walking a little further up Coventry Road, towards the townhouse the Changretta family call home. It is a stark difference to your own residence, your family not poor but not as wealthy as his, your home above the pub your parents run much less spacious. Luca even has his own bedroom, a foreign concept to you entirely, having to share with your younger sisters.  

That bedroom is where he takes you after entering the empty house, removing your boots at the door as per Luca’s mother’s wishes, passed on through him. The anticipation ramps up with every step you take up the steep staircase, your heart thrumming as the nervousness of it winds through your belly.  

Entering the room, you glance around, taking in your surroundings. The bed is actually a double, Luca having told you that already, that he enjoys spreading out as he sleeps so nagged his mother into it. It’ll be coming with you to your new home once you are married, along with all the dark, carved wooden furniture. Vincente and Audrey have been very generous in purchasing a little back-to-back for you to begin married life in, and you cannot wait until you are carried over the threshold in your wedding dress. 

The only dress on your mind at the moment is the one your love’s hands smooth over as he stands behind you, fingers pattering over the fastening of your bodice as you remove your shawl, feeling the lacings binding you tightly begin to loosen. He pauses, and you feel him stiffen a little. He’s never undressed somebody before, of course.  

Turning to him, you reach behind yourself, loosening the fastenings further, allowing you to wiggle yourself free of the tight restrictions, pulling the ribbon that ties your underskirt as well, the masses of fabric pooling in a froth around your ankles as you step from them. His eyes ink with lust at seeing you there before him only in undergarments, your hands still toying, unhooking your brassiere before revealing your breasts to his hungry eyes.  

“I think the rest should be easy enough for you to take off yourself,” you speak, reaching for him.  

His hands roam over your skin for the first time, and your heart pangs a little to feel them tremble against you, a little slip in the bravado he’s show so far. Unless those shudders are excited energy. Perhaps a little of both as he steps nearer, nuzzling you softly before his mouth covers yours.  

The kisses you share are urgent, but not frantic, building steadily as you move with him to the bed. He sheds his jacket, your hands taking up the task of undoing his tie and shirt, the movements all a little awkward as he removes your undergarments. Seeing what lies beneath his clothes is a sight that you shall never forget, a beautiful, lean body ridged with slender muscles, smatterings of dark hair flecking his chest and belly, his light olive skin celestial soft and blemish free.  

Your hands explore him, nails softly grazing, your lips pressing kisses against his chest. His skin is hot, sumptuous in feel, shaky hands wandering as you finally dare to lower your gaze. Oh, wow. So that’s what a cock looks like, swollen and hard, begging for your hand as it bobs a little. You’ve no clue what on earth to do with it, but the grasp and gentle tug as your fingers close around it pulls a soft groan from him.  

He remains standing as you seat yourself on the edge of his bed, your hand running from the base to tip of him, tongue licking over the line of dark hair running down from his navel. A shy smile spreads across your mouth, tongue circling his navel, watching the way his hips tremble. You have him at your mercy, and the brand-new sensation of sexual power over him is a strong current that runs right through you.

“If you wanted to put your mouth where your hand is, I wouldn’t stop you,” he speaks, voice deepened a few octaves, that gravelled rasp making your cunt twitch.  

Humming a chuckle, you flicker a lick over the head of him, his breath catching in his throat. “I bet you wouldn’t.” Participation is learning, you figure, guiding that silky skin covered steel to your lips and closing them around the head, sucking gently, his knees almost buckling. A little more pressure has him panting, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling the combs that keep it in its neat updo free to tumble, groaning as he watches himself vanish in your mouth.  

“Fuck,” he grits, the cuss making your insides tighten pleasantly, “that’s so fucking good.” His praise spurs you, pausing to trail your tongue all over his hardness, your nails gently grazing his chest. You can feel his heart pounding hard, excitement that you are the one evoking such tingling over your bones as your eyes find his.  

“I love the way it feels in my mouth. It’s bloody beautiful. I’ve heard the girls at work call them ugly, but yours isn’t.” You praise, licking the head with a little flicker, his moans deepening so much, you do it again. Trembles wrack his muscles, goose pimples rising over his skin, his hips beginning to sway back and forth, cusses falling from his mouth upon every groan until he pulls away suddenly, pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Feels too good. Don't want to be spent before it’s even begun.” His lips meet yours, his body pinning you down into the bed, the heat of his skin wickedly beautiful as it presses to your nakedness. Hands and mouths wander, the exploration so shiny and new, flocks of butterflies blooming into flight in your belly, his mouth delivering keen kisses to your neck.  

You inhale a sharp breath to feel the heat of his mouth suck upon your nipple, Luca shifting off you a little, access to stroke your body granted as his hand lowers, your thighs parting. That first stroke through your folds causes the breath to hitch in your throat, his lips finding yours, both panting against the kisses you share. You almost feel shame at how wet you are, a little embarrassed at the keenness your body shows, but the way his fingers feel as they glide over the silky petals of your cunt quickly diminish that.  

He plays with you gently, each stroke lowering, a finger breaching you. You feel beautiful to him, slick and hot, heavenly upon the inside as your walls pulse upon his finger, adding a second, slowly pushing them back and forth. The pleasure of it darts hot beneath your skin, the sensation of a part of him within you, the intimacy of it, stroking his face as your hips buck up against his touch. On instinct, his fingers curl a little, and it sends lightning flickering up your spine, whimpering as he kisses your neck, his mouth descending as his body shifts down the bed.  

His eyes shine with arousal as he finally reaches your sex, his fingers replaced, steering a firm lick between your folds. You whimper, that first contact so good, your legs close tightly around his head. 

“Sorry,” you offer as he pushes them apart, Luca laughing quietly against the slick wet of you. 

“At least I know you like it.” There’s an upside to being clamped between two thighs, you suppose. Another lick gilds you, sends warmth rushing over your skin, especially when you feel his tongue nudge at your little bud, your back arching as you gasp. 

“There,” you pant, practically writhing before him. “Oh, right there!” 

He seeks it, the tip of his tongue snaking back and forth, smiling as your reaction delights his ears, those sweet moans and cries like celestial music. He can’t get enough of how you feel against his mouth, the taste of you intoxicating as he laves thirstily, sucking, kissing your tender nub, tongue flicking over you, your nails trawling his scalp as he gives you exactly what you crave. The nectar of your cunt floods his tongue, and it makes his heart skip a beat, the intimacy of it, how much it arouses him to have his mouth all over your most sacred of places, the noises it draws from you making his cock throb. 

“You taste beautiful.” he murmurs, arms winding beneath your thighs, gripping them, treating your aqueous slit to long, firm licks, evoking quivers that shiver you from head to toe. He grants no clemency from the hypnotic beat of his tongue over your bud, tasting your hot, pink folds with swirls and flickers as you gush onto his lips.

You twitch against each lick, every carefully administered circling of his hungry tongue, your hands gripping his slender shoulders, your hips keening against the utter glory of what his mouth conjures. He draws cusses from you as you pant, your body spasming so hard as he begins to suck your bud that you’re unsure if your response is of pulling away or shunting closer, crying out as you’re eaten with ruinous gusto.    

He’s certainly thriving on doing this, and lord, how it shows. 

He has you beginning to spark against each well-placed lick, his mouth making you tighten, your walls in full clench, only sated by the arrival of his fingers into your slick, raking firmly, a smile playing his lips as he watches you tremble.    

The heat of his mouth has you literally melting for him, Luca panting against your dewy folds as he assails your clit with firm circles, driving out pleasure from the very root of you, skittering through you as your hips purl and flex, the waves of your release washing over you ceaselessly, leaving you a panting, shaking wreck. So, that’s what it feels like to come for somebody. Goodness, it felt like absolutely nothing else you could ever compare it to.  

Pulling his head from between your legs, you fight for breath, your love leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses up your body until he’s claiming your lips once more. Reaching between you, he positions his cock at your still fluttering opening, nuzzling you sweetly, pushing until he slips in with ease.  

Your body tenses for a second, expecting pain. You’ve heard that the first time hurts, but you feel absolutely nothing even remotely close to discomfort at taking him inside you, stroking one another tenderly as you kiss, your mutual gaze so loving and fond.  

“Ahhh, fuck. You feel incredible,” he groans, stroking your face. “Does it feel okay? Not hurting you, am I, amore?”  

His care touches you deeply, running your fingers through his soft, dark hair. “No, you feel perfect. You and your beautiful cock.” you chirp, making him laugh softly, that chuckle turning into a groan as he pushes a little deeper, filling you. The warm pool of syrupy heat bathing his cock sends little shocks skittering through him, the feel unlike anything else, ecstasy raining comets to burn his blood as those same little hails of light flicker through you.  

It's a sensual, blooming rush of pleasure, your arms entwining one another, your bodies moving a little awkwardly together to begin with until the rise and fall is met with perfect sync, his mouth placing tender kisses at your neck. Every ridge of his cock scraping against your tender walls feels wickedly decadent, pleasure coiling tightly, his body quickening as you wrap your legs around his slender waist, nails digging into his back. 

“Oh my god, yes, fuck me!” you wail, clutching on around him as he pounds you into the bed, head lowering to suck your nipple with a deep, gritty groan. The heat of it burns like a furnace, that pleasure winding ever tighter as you feel yourself escalating, your nails grazing down his back as your spine-melting release rushes like a spring breeze over your nerves. It’s white hot and consuming, feeling his cock twitching as his teeth clamp on your nipple and he floods your cunt with cum, leaving you dizzy and panting.  

It feels like your entire body is a garden bursting into bloom beneath him, the sweetness of your release still tingling through you as you kiss him, feeling his cock gently twitching within the snug clasp of your sodden cunt. Oh, how you can barely wait to be his wife, and enjoy what you just did with him whenever you want to. You must admit, though, the fact that you shouldn’t have done it was half the fun of having sex with him in the first place.  

Still, nothing can take the sheen of it away. That sheen lasts right up until your wedding day, hardly able to wait until he carries you across the threshold of your new home, placing you down in the lounge.  

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he sighs against your neck, unfastening your wedding gown. 

You can’t help a little sarcasm. “Oh yes, those three weeks truly were an eternity, weren’t they?” 

“Shut up,” he chides, slapping your bum. “Of course, they were. I knew how good what I had waiting for me was.” 

It’s even better the second time around.  

[zilabee]

Just stumbled on this brilliant post over on Meet The Beatles For Real. It's a german article in Bravo Magazine interviewing the women that worked at Apple. The wonderful keeper of mtbfr then typed the whole lot out and google translated it into english - all love to her for the wonderful work she does on that site.

I've not copied all of it over here, just my favourite bits... but that is most of the bits.

Janet Lumley - Kitchen maid (16) I have been cooking for the Beatles for half a year.   It is fantastic.   I cook just as carefully for the four of them as I do for my own family. John is the pickiest, he is vegetarian. Paul is the hungriest and has even brought his plate back to tell us how good it tasted to him.

Sally Burgess - Press Secretary (21) John, Paul, George and Ringo only have young, funny and talented people around and it flatters me to be a part of it. Although we work hard, the atmosphere is casual and fun, better than any other company in the world. And every day something new happens.  You must learn to quickly adapt to any situation. Once however, it even became too much for me and I just crawled under my desk.

Debbie Wellum - Receptionist (20) I have decided that I have the most exciting Apple job. I have to catch all the teenagers who want to speak to my bosses.  Recently, a group of Italian scouts were here, all of whom claimed to be cousins ​​of George Harrison.  But I didn’t fall for such a dirty trick.  I wouldn’t trade in my bosses for anyone else in the world, even if they had really had so many cousins!

Sally Reed - Secretary (20) I've been a Beatle fan before I started here eight months ago. The four are no longer for me, but I've learned to respect them as businessmen and superiors. I work in the production department; the Beatles are always nice and easy going, even if everything else is wobbling around them. They have a professional attitude which is a very different attitude to these things than a normal human; sometimes I wish I could have some of that.

Dee Meehan - Assistant (25) I have to listen to all the tapes that are sent to the Beatles from people who want to make a career out of music.   A tough job, but whoever has worked in the pop industry, knows what is going on, especially if you have the Beatles as bosses. Paul is the best; he always knows exactly what he wants. George and Ringo are always nice and polite, but sometimes John gets on my nerves. But he has improved a lot recently.

Amanda Hull - Tea cook (39) I am responsible  for tea and coffee, which  is used a lot with us, because Apple is a hospitable house. In a little chamber, I have a two burner stove, on which is always a pot of water and a pot of coffee standing. The tea is always fresh, otherwise it will be bitter. With Paul, I make sure that he does not get too much sugar. This is not good for his future children.

Linda Bristow - Assistant Publisher (22) I work for Apple music publishing. Of course I'm a Beatles fan, but I do not fall into a swoon every time they come through the door. Just to be a fan is not enough for a job at Apple. There is plenty to do and you have to know something too. But as for us, we are paid well and have the best bosses in the world. My favourite boss is George. He is for me the most beautiful thing. But I cannot tell him - because he would be pissed.

Carol Padden - Press Secretary (23) Of course, I'm a Beatles fan. Who isn’t? It's easy to work for such pleasant, young handsome men instead of old thick, bad-tempered men who are constantly, trying to flirt with you. Such a thing does not exist in the Beatles.   I have never heard any girls complain that one of the Beatles had flirted with her!

Barbara Bennet - Secretary (24) My best experience with Apple was when Paul gave me a little Yorkshire terrier.  He had heard me gushing to a colleague about this breed, and a few days later he had one in tow. But once when I visited my friend Colin Peterson the terrier ran into the city by himself.  I never saw him again, although I'd put up a lot of ads.

[philtstone]

jaime/claire -- holding the other's chin up

after literally one million years i finally finished this. this is not technically an om-shanti-om au but it's not not one, either

On Wednesday morning, Jamie and his Ghost had a row.

It is now Thursday afternoon, and Jamie is sitting in a hospital room, covered in muck from head to toe and wondering if this isn’t God’s great punishment for daring to leave his bloody flat.

He’s not sure when he started referring to the Ghost as his. Traditionally, if you’re the sort to believe in such things, ownership of ghosts runs through 1) ancestry or 2) a familial home. His aunt Jocasta, for example, had an ornery old Frenchman in the cellar of the MacKenzies’ old brick tower who had no relation to any of them, but wouldn’t let the damned house go generation after generation; Jocasta claims the bastard had been the mysterious lad who seduced that one grand-cousin of theirs into batting for the other side, which led to his divorcing his wife and moving to Cuba – and who is Jamie to have his doubts, really, when he’s got a ghost of his own.

The argument could be made that Jamie’s ghost has taken up residence in his flat — hence his turn of phrase. But he’s only renting after all, and more than that, he’s got a weird feeling she never snooped through the previous tenants’ bookshelves or sock drawers or anything either.

Now she won’t speak to him. It is four months to the day Jamie moved in, and, not two hours later, made her acquaintance while having an angry cry on the toilet. It’d been a rough go of it – between the accident and Jenny and Da —

Jamie had, at that time, resigned himself to the inevitability of his flunking out of graduate work before he’d ever started it. He’d barely been making it to his physio appointments when the Ghost appeared, let alone his classes; either he wouldn’t answer Jenny’s calls or she wouldn’t answer his; and in the twenty four hours he’d been in his new flat, the upstairs neighbours had already had audibly angry sex twice, which was two times too many for Jamie’s fragile mental state (not to mention his resounding lack of girlfriend). It was amidst all of this that The Ghost materialized.

The Ghost glows like a firefly, speaks like she stepped out of a World War Two-era black and white film and can’t seem to stay in one spot long enough for Jamie to see her face properly. She hasn't got a name, has given no indication of a family, and won’t tell him how and where she died. She’s miserable when she isn’t cracking laughs out of him by snooping through his old copy of Descartes and wondering aloud whether he actually reads the books he owns. She herself has no patience for reading (though she accidentally knocked a lamp over exclaiming at his battered copy of Lord of the Rings), endless patience for his sporadic monologues on morphological theory, and a complete fascination with his mobile phone. Also, the soapy mess that is Grey’s Anatomy, which was playing on the telly once. 

“How old were ye,” Jamie asked one day, blowing on his instant noodles, which the Ghost had been eyeing with great skepticism for the latter half of the last fifteen minutes. He supposed she had every right to judge, if she were once a twentieth century housewife, but very little about her suggested an abundance of housewifely skills.

“What are your thoughts on knitting?” asked the Ghost, apropos of nothing.

“I asked first.”

“Did you.”

“When ye went, I mean. How old were ye?”

For a moment it was hard to look directly at her, because she was suddenly far less clearly formed than before. Then, quick as a wink, she was young and mostly corporeal again.

“Terribly,” said the Ghost. “I had white hair and everything.”

He mulled this over. “I can imagine it must’ve been quite somethin’ tae behold,” he says. “Sorcha.”

She smiled, all brilliance, all tenderness – very different from the sadness that lingered around her otherwise. Slowly she floated over, under his silent observation, and with hands that were not fully there and made of the stuff of nightlights cupped his face, lifting his chin. There in his sad little kitchen she glowed. Jamie kept blinking behind his glasses, like maybe if he did it hard enough, he could finally see her. Did she have a husband she missed? Jamie thought. Was it paining her something awful to be stuck in his sad little studio, with the two plants left living and the little grey cat no one in the building would properly claim ownership of? 

Then, “Knitting,” she said. So Jamie confessed what little his Mam had taught him as a kid.

She knows all the scientific names of the bones and ligaments and tissues in his body that were damaged in the accident, and – perhaps due to her ghostly nature – can preternaturally guess when each thing is paining him. It upsets her to realize that her hands are not solid enough to sooth the hurts, and gladdens her when he assures her companionship is taking his mind off things a bit, before – incomprehensibly – she looks miserable again. She swears like a sailor and would probably fart in her sleep, were she not an incorporeal being with a transmutable form not in need of traditional rest.

She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. Nevermind he can’t really see her; Jamie just knows. Her hair is one large amorphous cloud of curls and she stares at him with such unspeakable sadness and makes a little humming noise when she’s at rest, like the singing of a hundred little stones. And there is a soft sort of buttery halo around her, which was enough to stun him into silence at their first meeting and has become oddly soothing now, enough that he gives her that silly little nickname, and he’s lonely, something feckin’ awful. 

It’s not like he’s not self-aware. Problem is, now she might be gone forever, and it’s all his fault.

He keeps playing it over and over in his head. He might’ve been a little churlish, sure – he was tired from his early lecture, he’d kept his contacts in too long, the anniversary of Da’s passing was coming up on Friday and Jenny kept insisting that he ought to come for a visit …

That was it, wasn’t it? Jamie didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to go home, and the Ghost in all her sort of sad floaty care for him snapped in the way of a brittle little twig. She had an awful temper sometimes. He’d heard her yell at the kitchen wall once when she found she couldn’t float through it. 

“James Fraser,” she said in her posh little accent, “are you going to continue wallowing in this miserable fucking flat or are you going to get up off your arse and face the bloody world like a man?”

Jamie found this somewhat infuriating. He had left his flat, thanks very much – he went to class now, and he was making real progress in physio, and, well, sure, he’d turned down the lads the last few times they invited him out for a match, but maybe he’d go this time – there was no proof he wouldn’t! So it wasn’t feckin’ fair of her, to talk down to him so. Jamie refused to be called a coward in his own flat.

By a ghost, no less.

“It’s no’ like you ever leave either,” he’d snapped in response, the discomfort of being seen rankling under his skin and sharpening his tongue into something rude. 

“I’m dead,” said the Ghost.

“Aye,” muttered Jamie mutinously. “Well.”

“Don’t be an arse.”

“Ye’d be fair lonely wi’out me here tae keep ye company, would ye no’?”

“I’d – read your books,” she defended, unbelievably. “You – you just – don’t you want a happy and vibrant life?”

“What do you think?” he picked up his books, which were strewn over the living room couch, for something to do.

“Well, I don’t know! You keep hiding!”

“I’m no’ hiding!”

“Yes, you are!”

“Mary, Michael and – why do ye care so much, ye irritating apparition!”

“I care because I bloody well have to!” 

Had he not been so caught up in his own irritation, he would have noted the odd strand of desperation in her voice. 

“Fine,” said Jamie, waving about An Introduction To Language And Linguistics, Third Edition with finality. “Well. I’ve plenty of reasons to be a homebody, ken -- right ones, real ones. But if that’s the case, then yer whole existence is sad.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Ghost. 

“Aye,” Jamie was really working up to something, he’d thought, “Ye clearly havenae anywhere else to be, hangin’ about this dump.”

“Where else would I bloody well go?”

“I dinna ken, do I?” He couldn’t see her properly – the details of her face were always a mystery, but now she kept glowing in and out of focus as a general ill emotion build within her in the far corner of the room, “as ye tell me nothing about yerself and spend half the day actin’ like a time traveller and the other half the day lookin’ at me like ye’re about tae cry! I don’t think I’m the one wallowing here, Sorcha, and at least my presence is wanted by the feckin’ landlord! No one asked you tae show up!”

Perhaps he had gone too far; something about the Ghost’s presence blanched, like he’d given her a true fright. Then, after an awful moment of strangulated silence … she snapped back.

It devolved pretty quickly from there. In between the mutual screaming, Jamie got the feeling that she would have thrown things, could she have gotten her incorporeal hands on them properly enough to harness physics.

At some point, he had run out of steam, stormed out, and slammed the door behind himself, intent on finally taking up the offer of rugby with his friends.

Too bad about the torrential downpour. Too bad Rupert tackles like a giant lout, and Jamie slid five feet on the grass before slamming down directly on his shoulder and popping it out of socket.

He sighs, miserably. The hospital room is cold, mostly because he remains so thoroughly damp; his hair is plastered to his forehead and his jeans cling to his legs. So much for going out and partaking in the wide human world like a man properly recovering from a year’s worth of back to back traumas. Hmph. Jamie sniffs and wipes at his glasses (smudged) with his free and un-dislocated arm. He supposes he is recovering, sort of. It’s been easy to miss, given how simple the Ghost has made everything feel, but he feels exceptionally more human now than he did mere months ago. Jamie of September would never have dislocated his shoulder, because he was too busy being depressed.

He squirms in place. He ought to go home and check on the Ghost. What if all the yelling caused her to simply vanish? What if she’s hiding from him, indefinitely? He doesn’t think Edinburgh local business bureau has any reliable sort of ghost hunting service listed on its website. When Angus stopped by to pick up Jamie’s laptop so he could at least get his readings done for class tomorrow via hospital room, he responded to Jamie’s possibly-deranged Ghost-related line of questioning with an honest, “I’ve looked everywhere, mate. Cannae see hide nor hair of any ghostly lassie. D’ye think she’s gone tae her sister’s, perhaps?”

Even if this were a helpful question, Jamie hasn’t any idea whether the Ghost has any siblings at all.

Shite. He groans. It’s bad enough the shock’s worn off, and his shoulder is starting to properly hurt now. He hangs his head and leans his forehead against his uninjured wrist, squeezing his eyes shut against the mess everything’s become. He’s still facing the ground with his eyes shut when the faint sound of heeled footsteps swells louder and turns the corner, entering the room with a neat swish of hospital bed paper and curtain.

“Mr. James Fraser, is it?” says a light, distinctly British female voice, evidently scanning over whatever chart they’ve got set up for him, “that’s a nasty glenohumeral dislocation you’ve got there. You wouldn’t have happened to be playing rugby in the rain like an idiot, would you?”

Jamie cracks his eyes open specifically to roll them. He doesn’t get very far: the doctor standing in front of him is a tall young woman, with a mass of thick, dark curly hair tied out of her face, wry laughing eyes and an upturned little mouth that makes it very clear they are both supposed to be in on whatever joke she’s trying to make. She has a slender neck, a very competent set to her brows, and could be described as somewhat twiggy in figure save for her wonderfully curved arse, which Jamie gets an unexpected view of as she leans over the chair in the corner to close the bed’s curtain properly.

Jamie unsticks his throat with a bit of effort. “Hm?” he says, very eloquently.

“I asked, are you feeling dizzy at all? Nauseous?”

“No, I feel fine. ‘Tis just my arm, Sassenach.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Between the dislocated shoulder and the woman in front of him it could really be anything that’s causing his complete discombobulation – enough to put his foot in it, it seems – but something about the tone and inflection of her sharp little question has Jamie’s head spinning more than the rugby tackle.

“Er – Doctor Sassenach, I mean. Or rather – jest Doctor, but I didnae mean it as an offense – it was just an observation. Granted, we’re in Edinburgh, so it wouldn’t – but I’m from – that is, my family, I grew up far North, so …” he trails off; she is now very industriously poking and prodding at his collar bone. Oh, right – he does remember her saying she was about to do that. “I meant no offense,” he concludes.

“No offense taken,” says the Doctor. She sounds like she’s on the verge of laughing, this time at him.

“Ye’ve got a very gentle touch,” Jamie says, like a right idiot.

“Thank you,” says the Doctor. “Now, I’m going to reset your arm – there’s nothing else for it, it’ll hurt like hell for a minute. But you’ll be alright Mr. Fraser.”

They go through the motions together; Jamie follows her instructions, marvels at how strong and precise she is with skinny arms and small hands, and only blacks out a little when his shoulder pops back into place.

“God,” he gasps, blinking. In front of him, the Doctor is looking over him with concern. 

“Everything alright? How are you feeling?”

“A little bit like someone’s punched my lights out, I willnae lie.” She laughs, but her hands remain on him, gentle first on his chest, then neck, pushing him upright.

“An expected feeling,” she says. “Hold still a moment, I’m going to properly check you for a concussion.”

And before Jamie can protest that he’s fine, she has taken his chin in both hands and gently tilted his face up towards her, so as to better shine the little flashlight into his eyes.

It’s as if a giant multi-metric tonne train has slammed into Jamie at twelve hundred kilometers an hour. The nice Sassenach doctor is glowing like a firefly and eyeing his ramen with skepticism and asking him about knitting and crying and yelling and touching him so gently because now her hands can actually touch him and he knows her, he swears he knows her deep deep deep in some inner place inside of him and quite possibly he is in love with her, and maybe has been, forever.

Jamie comes back to Earth. She is making an altogether undignified face as she moves his chin back and forth and examines his reaction time. Her tongue sticks out a little. Bits of frizz have popped out of her ponytail and are decorating her hairline like a halo.

“Hi,” Jamie says breathily, like a fool.

She stills, and looks over to meet his eye, and for a moment they stare at each other like that, nose to nose. 

“Hello,” she says. 

Then she pulls away and marks something on her notepad; the interaction is all but over. Off to her next patient, probably. “Alright. Well, no concussion, from what I can tell. I’ll ask you to self-monitor, though, and I’ll prescribe you some pain meds for the shoulder. I’d go home and get some rest if I were you,” she hesitates, and in a curious sort of way adds, “is everything alright, really?”

“Fine,” says Jamie. “Only, just now I felt like I’d seen a ghost.” He laughs, and it’s an overall strangled sound, which can and should be forgiven. “Ye ever felt anything like that, Sassenach?”

She is halfway to the door already, and he’s sure she will call him a nutter on the way out, even if in that wry way of hers. But she stops. Turns back. Smiles at him – not quite radiant, nor tender, but curious and familiar.

“You know … I think I do?”

“Aye?” 

“It’s Claire, by the way.”

He blinks. “Your ghost?”

“No,” and now she really is laughing at him. “My name. Dr. Claire Beauchamp. But if you must call me an outlander, James Fraser whose family lived in the North, then I suppose I am alright with that, too.”

She leaves Jamie grinning more widely than he has in months. He’s got the odd feeling that whenever he gets home, his flat will be empty. Strangely, this is not an upsetting premonition. He’s more concerned with somehow getting Dr. Claire Beauchamp’s phone number – and somehow, he’s pretty sure the Ghost would approve.

[welcomingdisaster]

Full Scene Friday! tagged by @zealouswerewolfcollector to share a little bit of a random WIP. here's the beginning part of a WiP i'm kicking around. I have realized that I have absolutely no idea where it will go. It's tonally all over the place and I'm splitting it into two different fics. SOO probably won't get finished any time soon unless I have an epiphany, but have this bit.

Maedhros wakes, and no one is there. 

He learns the news in the disconnected, half-alive state that seems to accompany one’s return from the Halls. 

Maglor never came, dead or alive—they say perhaps he’s wandering, in spirit or flesh, along the coasts of Middle-Earth or beneath the depths of the sea, where the Gap has fallen, or maybe he’s faded and there’s nothing left of him but his voice, which sings out laments of great sorrow, or maybe he’s settled down somewhere in a little cottage and taken a Sindar wife and had three beautiful daughters who speak only in riddles or maybe he’s setting himself up to be the next dark lord, terrible and beautiful to behold, or maybe he laid down in a ditch somewhere and didn’t get up the next morning. 

And Fingon had been here, returned from the halls. Some three or four hundred years ago. Just missed him, really. He waited around some while; maybe three dozen years or so. Couldn’t Maedhros have gotten reembodied sooner? 

His mother has gone to seek solitude in the mountains, and does not wish to be disturbed. Out of his close kin only his nephew—whose death he had not lived to witness—has returned, and taken on an apprenticeship with Aulë. He has no words for Maedhros, nor Maedhros for him. 

Of his remaining cousins only Ar-Feiniel will see him, at first, remembering something of their friendship, and Felagund, who has ever had more pity than sense. His uncle, too, will speak to him, bound by old ties of loyalty and favor, though his face is drawn. 

Aredhel offers him honeyed wine speaks not of the past; Finrod swears by the justice of the halls and the Valar and laughs his sad bell-like laugh and talks so much Maedhros need not. 

tagging! @eilinelsghost @polutrope @melestasflight @outofangband @meadowlarkx @theghostinthemargins @grey-gazania & anyone else who wishes!

[wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart]

no because I spent less than a third of my school years in Brazil and yet whenever I do maths in my head I still always resort back to Portuguese

no because I always speak Portuguese with my mom and we almost exclusively listen to Brazilian music at home but the first time we went back to Brazil after covid just listening to all the people around me casually speak in Portuguese almost made me burst into tears

no because one time I was sleeping at my grandma's and I still hadn't completely woken up and the birds were singing (we used to have australian budgies) and for a moment I thought I was still living there, at my old apartment. I don't even know how many years ago this day happened and my memory is absolute shit but I still remember the feeling of bittersweet grief when I woke up properly

no because I always get so hyped whenever I hear someone casually speaking Brazilian Portuguese like even if I don't outwardly acknowledge them just hearing it always fills me with so much joy

no because whenever I forget another word in Portuguese my heart breaks a little

no because even if I do my hair the exact same way here and there it still comes out with a completely different texture (it looks better over there in case you were wondering btw)

no because I mostly speak Portuguese with my mom and I didn't even realize that some of the words I use are actually super outdated

the point being: I really appreciate that there are so many characters that come from different countries in Stormlight Archive, and that Sanderson has clearly thought a lot about their different cultures and religions and politics and worldbuilding in general. however. i don't think he quite realizes how personal a place and a language can be. like obviously my experiences are far from universal, not to mention very different from theirs (much much less trauma for one lol), but especially when we get a pov from one of those characters I can't help but think that there is always something.... lacking? missing?

let shallan complain about her hair and skin routine not working the same anymore ever since she moved away from her home. let lunamor be a bit resentful of his new family for not even trying to learn his real name. let The Lopen forget more words in alethi now that he's surrounded by his herdasian cousins again. let shallan not be able to properly talk about her drawings in the way she wants to whenever adolin asks because she learnt all the proper words in her vadan art book. let there be foreign members of bridge four who adore alethkar and those who hate it and those who feel a bit of both at the same time.

dunno. i know these are just small details, but i noticed that these are small details that matter to me (and I can imagine that many people with a foreign background may feel similarly?)

[captainmera]

Hi Mera, long time no see 💙 You know... I have a q u e s t i o n 😂

No, but really - I just need my daily dose of IBWR knowledge

Sooooo... Can you say something more about selkies? I JUST LOVE SEBASTIAN, OKAY? I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT HIM MORE

Ofc, no pressure, if you want us to find out about things through your comic in time!

Hiii Angieeee 😂💙

I can! :) I'll share a bit about Selkies and Sebastian!

I'll put it under a read more though!

SEBASTIAN RUSSWAL: "Mark my words, one day, I'll be great with this big brain of mine."

A nineteen year old peculiar, a selkie, who loves to read everything. Everything. He grew up in his parents bookstore, he works there in-between jobs. And he has had a lot of jobs. He knows a bit of everything, comedically so.

He's a dictionary with legs and a mouth; if you do the mistake of asking, he'll explode everything he knows into your lap. You will always get a bit more than you asked for.

Sebastian's mother is Irish! His father Spanish! They are both selkies!

His father, Samuel (Sam for short), aside from running the bookshop also have a side gig at the Gladiator club. He takes bets during the fights when there's an audience.

That's how Oliver and Sebastian know one another. They met via Sam.

His mother, Erin, has five sisters and each of those have four children, and each of those children have cousins on their father's side as well. Short in short, Sebastian has a lot of cousins (mostly women) and extended family! If you bump into an Irish selkie in London, chances are, they're a cousin of his!

Which has helped him get his various of jobs.

SELKIES

Selkies are a Beast-type peculiar! Categorised this way due to their aquatic and seal-like appearances.

In Asia, they would be called kappa, and in Africa they're simply known as mermen. In Sweden they would be called sälkies (with an ä instead, as säl means seal). In Scotland, the spelling is selchies.

Selkies main "power" is their skin! Or rather, the patch of darkened skin on their back referred to as a pelt.

Selkies are known as the cowards of peculiars due to their power. The pelt, when their adrenaline is high, hardens into an armour. This can happen rather easily for them. But the "cowardness" comes in with that, it often happens when they are afraid, anxious or feel threatened. They're known as runners, not fighters.

Selkies secondary "power" is how they are always levelled with the temperature outside. If it's cold, their body heats up. If it's hot, their body cools down. This is so that they can be in any body of water for an extensive amount of time. You may also not want to be bitten by them, as their teeth are all fangs built to be able to break through hard shells and fishbones.

Speaking of water; their lungs are better than anybody else's. They can hold their breathe for up to 20 minutes. When a selkie is underwater, they get their nictitating membrane activated (if you don't know what that is, basically it's a third eyelid that is transparent and protects the eyes from dirt.)

This makes them, of course, excellent swimmers and even better fishermen.

Selkies often have jobs involving the sea, lakes, fish or other such things. They also prefer living near bodies of water, harbours or coves. Water is also the best hiding place from hunters and witches.

Selkies don't really have a "need" for anything like other peculiars do. They just really, really, really, like fish. But it's not something they need or they'll go crazy. It's just.... THEY LIKE FISH.

And they will eat fish raw, cooked, boiled, with or without head or tail-- they like fish. If they share fish with you, you're a friend.

PECULIAR CULTURE: BEAST TYPE

Beast type peculiars are known for their physical appearance similar to animals or fantasy beasts. This has created a culture of either trying to lean into the animal association or distance from it.

Selkies, generally speaking, leans into it. They are so dependent on water, both ability wise and what they associate with HOME, that it is honestly rather difficult for them not to lean in a little bit.

The art of conchology has always been a selkie household craft. But it became a fad in the early victorian era, and it does pop up in late victorian once again as a fad. Conchology, for those of you that don't know, is when you take seashells and make literally anything out of it. A box for jewellery, a lamp shade, the frame of a mirror, a CHAIR, maybe glue shells together into a miniature statuette to mimic the fancy porcelain figures in rich houses.

(Sebastian's mum loves seashells. They used to collect them as a mother-son activity when he was little.)

(it was huge and they keep it in a special place)

Selkie culture also has this adorable thing with seashells that.. When you feel serious about someone (romantically), you typically give them the nicest seashell you can find to give your sweetheart as a way to ask if you may court them romantically. It's not a proposal, but it's a "wanna go out with me?" gesture.

The BWOOOOOOHHHH thing! Ah yes, the call of joy. "Bwoh!" is the sound they make when exclaiming surprise, joy, or excitement. It's just what they do. Who knows why or how it came to be, but no matter where a selkie is from, there is the "bwoh." Amongst selkies, bwoh is also a way to say "Hello! :D"

Aaanndd... I think that's all I'm gonna give for now! :) Or this will get too long!

Oh and.. Sebastian's surname is just Walruss flipped around into Russwal.

[oddduckthatgirl]

Title: Seconds Are Welcome

Pairings: Daemon Targaryen x Lannister!female

Warnings: period typical misogyny, arranged marriage, period typical gender roles

Summary: Everyone talks of girls coming of age. No one speaks of when the girl doesn’t desire to be less than who she is.

A/N: this is slightly AU-ish. For this story, Daemon was named heir, not Rhynera (not hate, just a plot). Changed some Lannister names. It’s just a story, let’s not dissect too much. This story will have multiple parts.

Casterly Rock was the ideal hold for any man to feel like a king in his own keep. Jason Lannister attended to his family home with all the devotion any lord would. He has four children. His two sons, James and Jonathon, are both married, each of them having apartments within the walls with their lady wives. Also within the walls are his two unmarried daughters, Jasline and Jaylon.

Jaylon Lannister wasn’t as she appeared. She looked every part a Lannister. Her eyes were such a light shade of blue that they appeared gray in a certain light. A long flowing mane of pale blonde hair. She had a very lean figure, but muscular. She had been tutored all the ways a proper lady should be. She also could read and write seven languages. She and her sister Jasline received the absolute finest instruction befitting their stations. While her sister had to work for every lesson, Jaylon found academics to be simple. As such she had time to learn other lessons.

She spent some afternoons learning about all things equestrian. After all, horses are what helped her family amass their fortune. She wanted to know everything. From an early age, her father Jason indulged her curiosity. He had even found it quite endearing. However, since she was now eight and ten years old and not married he seemed to be irritated by it.

What raised his ire more was her interest in sparring with her brothers. She often would sneak out with them in the evenings so they could instruct her. Until one evening they had been discovered by their father. He hauled her into his study and told her that was not her place as a future lady of a fine house.

“I’m your youngest child Father and your second daughter. I could only hope for a match so great.”

“You will still have a husband to protect you.”

“What happens if he is killed? Who protects me then? Or if he did save my life, now he’s owed a debt. A Lannister always pays their debts.”

Begrudgingly, he relented but insisted on having her train with her brothers. To give her the same teachings. In truth, she was a far more elegant fighter and understood how to use her femininity to her advantage.

Jasline was far more calm. The eldest daughter who had understood her role. She was the picture of a proper lady. Everything a lord could want in a wife. She didn’t argue, she kept her opinions to herself and she could smile all day while appearing to not have a thought in her head. With her temperament, one would wonder her connection to the Lannister name if not for the blonde hair. Most described her as quite pleasant company.

Dull. Jaylon thought of her sister.

She could never live that life.

Jasline had been married to a nice lord from House Blackwood. They had a longer courtship than usual due to some haggling over the dowry. During that time there had been a small uprising that was beginning to become serious. Eventually, it was decided that Jasline and her lord should be married quickly so he could set out with his lord Father to right their lands.

They were wed in a small ceremony. Jaylon was her attendant while he had his cousin. They didn’t even consummate the union before he had to set out.

Young Lord Blackwood never returned. Jasline was a widow before she even had lost her maidenhead.

It made it difficult to find a match for her. So many questions. During the months after, Jasline had occasion to make acquaintance with Thomas Baratheon. They appeared to have a genuine affection for each other, so Jaylon thought, however it would seem their Father didn’t think the young lord, a second son, worthy of his eldest daughter.

Jaylon almost wished her father had those thoughts for her. Once she came of age, her father had her see every eligible second or third son in all of Westeros. She would do her best to be a proper lady but then they would ask her opinion and she would always answer honestly.

“Jaylon, they are not interested in what a lady thinks.”

“Well Father, perhaps they should be.”

She would tell her father about these young lord’s opinions on battle or horses or wine.

“How am I, a Lannister, to sit there and listen to them be so mistaken? They would make a fool of me and by extension, you.”

Jason Lannister was a proud man. He knew his youngest was correct but he would never give her the satisfaction.

“Why must you insist on such obstinate behavior?”

“I believe it is inherent.”

This would most assuredly have her father avoiding her for days on end. Which was fine by Jaylon, more time to devote to sparring and to horses. More time to think of the many ways to make the next suitor for her recoil in disgust. If it wasn’t their misguided crowing about how honored she should be to be their wife and welp their children it was their leering. She even had the moment to strike a young lord who commented on how strong her thighs were from riding.

It was a quick reaction. Truth be told, it was probably the first broken bone the young lord had ever suffered. Judging by his lewdness, it wouldn’t be the last.

Every day is the same. Until it wasn’t.

There was a new tutor. Some Septa sent to them from King's Landing. He told Jasline and Jaylon they were to have lessons in High Valyrian. The girls exchanged a look and knew what that implied.

A Prince was interested in a Lannister wife.

Lucky for Jasline, even more lucky for Father, Jaylon mused. She was just enthusiastic about another language to learn. More than likely she needed to do her best to master it so she could help Jasline. It wouldn’t do her well to not understand it. Jasline focused all her attention on it, while Jaylon made sure to note her struggles.

Jaylon had heard the rumors as had her sister. She could even see the fear in Jasline’s face when people spoke of Prince Daemon. The girls spent hours at night discussing him, his temperament.

“I hear he’s roguishly handsome,” Jasline sighed.

“He’s a Targaryen. Of course he is. And a prince,” Jaylon collects herself, “I suppose if you’re attracted to that sort of person.”

Jasline smirks, “and he’s a wonderful fighter. Quite a quick wit as well.”

Jaylon nods, “much to the annoyance of the small council I hear.”

Jasline shifts to face her sister, “do you think the other whispers have merit?”

“Did you mean the piece about the street of silk or the piece about him murdering his lady wife?”

“Jaylon Lannister! That is treasonous,” Jasline’s face flush.

“Sweet sister. He is a prince. He does as he chooses. He was commanded into marriage, so the story goes. A young prince who didn’t want such a wife. So he did as he pleased. Perhaps he was simply bored.”

“Jaylon. I would bore him so,” she gasped, “you should put yourself in his way.”

Jaylon laughed loudly, “Father wouldn’t dream of that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not you, Jasline. I’m not the first born. I’m just the spare.”

Jasline sighed, “perhaps marriage to the Prince isn’t what I want.”

“Thomas.”

“I love him, sister.”

“I know you do. But we are just women in this world. We are at the whim of every man,” Jaylon reclines and gazes out the window, “and Father knows best for us.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Jasline settles herself in her bed, “I would suppose it’s easy to be so placid; the eyes of a dragon aren't fixed upon you. But they should be.”

“Oh Jasline, marriage is an arrangement. You smile, you nod, you bear his children. Everything else you will sort out.”

“I have sorted it. He needs to wed you. You are one of the greatest beauties in all of Westeros. You are intelligent, strong, cunning and most importantly you are not easily swayed by the opinions of others.”

Jaylon rolls her eyes, “sleep sister, you’ll need your strength.”

Jasline settles into bed, “yes I will. I need to convince His Highness of all your virtues.”

Jaylon leaves her sister to rest and makes her way to her room for the night. She laughs thinking over her sister’s suggestion that she be put in Prince Daemon’s way. Her father would never allow it. She imagines the look of rage that would take him over. How he would have to obey the command of his Prince, if he did want her instead. That would raise his ire even more.

She couldn’t help the smile at the thought. Fun but a fool’s wish.

She sat and brushed her hair, staring at her reflection. She wonders what it is about her that these lord’s find appealing. She’s just a young girl, who knows about horses and wine. That reads whatever she can so she wouldn’t be left behind in the conversation of men. Her understanding that information is the greatest and most valuable commodity.

This is how she gathered what she could on the Targaryen prince. She wanted her sister to have every advantage. She also didn’t want to displease the man herself and squander all the work that has gone into this endeavor.

Before she drifted to sleep, she imagined what a conversation with him would be like. Would he be intimidating? Would he be kind? She also hoped for the chance to see his dragon. That isn’t a sight she would soon forget.

[troublesomecousin]

@part-time-pinball-wizard cont'd from HERE

Miracle. The word focuses and blurs before his eyes. Tommy tries not to think too hard about the idea of it. He searches Kevin’s face, trying to find some mockery in his expression. He’s not used to people’s faces; he’s not used to them looking at him like he’s something other than an object.  He was left alone too long with only heat and cold and sensations and a four-year-old mind that somehow remembered what the meaning of death was, and now—he reflects as he looks up and out the window—he doesn’t know what a person is supposed to be.  He glances over at Kevin again, still unsettled at the look that could almost be considered concern on his cousin’s face and the silence that he’s let drag on for far too long to be considered comfortable. “Sometimes I think that I did die,” he says, not because Kevin has asked for an explanation but because Tommy feels the grit of it on his skin and Kevin is the only person he can talk to who really remembers him before the miracle. “Or some version of me did, at least.” And Kevin looks back at him, unblinking, and Tommy feels a sinking in his stomach, because he doesn’t know how to explain the way he sees himself as a child to Kevin. That when he tries to remember, he sees a wholly different boy than who he is now. And that he thinks that boy is dead.  Because Kevin wouldn’t understand that, most likely, and even if he did Tommy doesn’t need to give him any more reason to think Tommy is absolutely mad. And Kevin is still looking at him like he might collapse, like he’s some glass vase, like he’s breakable—which is more than a little ironic, considering what Tommy remembers of everything Kevin put him through—and Tommy is there on a train, listening to the music of the rails and seeing the light glint off Kevin’s buttons.  So he only smiles, wondering how sad he looks to Kevin. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For still thinking I’m a miracle.” 

Kevin feels something that might just be a pang of guilt. After all, when they were kids he only just barely perceived of his cousin as anything but an annoyance, a burden that got all the attention from the adults and more than a little resentment from his older cousin. But well, with some added years came added maturity, though not very much in Kevin's case, and with Tommy actually able to properly communicate again it was much harder to ignore the fact that he was a person and not just some toy.

It's a conclusion he probably should have arrived to sooner, but he'd gotten there eventually.

Still, he hardly had time to sit with his own feelings before Tommy continues to speak. It was such a heavy subject to have anywhere, but somehow having it on the train made it weigh that much more heavily. Kevin couldn't just walk away from it, and he was surprised to find that he didn't want to. Tommy had decided to be honest with him, and he couldn't help but feel important. It didn't make it any easier to understand exactly what his cousin was trying to express to him, but it did stroke his ego enough that he felt like maybe he was the right person to be hearing this.

He nods as Tommy speaks, hoping that conveys the appropriate amount of understanding and thoughtfulness. Maybe with time he'd figure out how to do it for real, but for now, he could only parrot the things he'd seen others do.

"Maybe that death isn't too terrible. I've heard people talk about killing parts of themselves all the time. Getting rid of parts of themselves they don't need anymore. It's like lightening a load or...something like that." Tommy's smile stirs something in him. A fondness he hadn't intentionally fostered but had found a space inside him nonetheless. "You know, maybe miracle isn't the right word. You're more like a phoenix...wait, do you know what a phoenix is?"

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

Hunger Games & Descendants crossover

Aka me showing Descendants characters into vaguely hunger games setting because it sparks joy. Keeping one (1) Hunger Games character: Ceasar Flickerman, for the reason that Descendants Verse moderator (Snow White) would faint within a minute of having to share a stage with exhibitionistic pirates.

Also. Haymitch. I feel like he and Harriet & James Hook should meet.

Anyway.

(I hope you don't expect any plot)

The Hooks are the Fourth District. The sea side one. Uma, too, and the Smees.

James Hook is a Victor long past, and he lost a hand in his games. He had it replaced by a hook, because he's committing to the bit. Drama queen. He's a Capitol favourite and still very much haunted by the children he fought in his arena. (He's so perfect for this au, I can't)

Harriet is also a Victor, from two years prior.

She volunteered and didn't have a good time ever since. (Didn't have a good time ever ✨)

She didn't lose a hand. This does not stop the Capitol from styling her with a hook.

Both of them are rather heavy alcoholics by this point.

Harriet was a difficult Victor. Stubborn and way too happy to speak her mind. It took Capitol pointing at her siblings and going „If you don't shut up, they'll be next“ to get her to cooperate.

She shut up. She was not happy about it but she's not letting her siblings die in the arena – or otherwise.

Either way, after her, the Capitol needed a Good Victor (tm). They found their Victor in Claudine Frollo, a brainwashed career from District One.

She was ready to lie on her knife for her (District) people rebelling against the Capitol, but her Games were pretty heavily rigged. She was not allowed near sharp things by the gamemakers.

Her trauma from the arena is unsurprisingly not helping. Claudine gets unresponsive for huge amounts of time, and she's still not allowed near sharp things.

„You were raised in a fucking cult!“ „...oh.“ This conversation between Harriet and Claudine definitely happens. Harriet is this close to snapping at Claudine at live TV.

Either way, deal somewhat holds, right? Younger Hook siblings are not reaped.

... wouldn't be the Hooks if there wasn't more chaos, okay?

Next year, Uma is reaped, and there is no way Harry is letting her go alone. He volunteers before the boys are even reaped, threatening murder to career girls who didn't take Uma's place and career boys who would take his in the same breath.

This flies, because Capitol lives for drama.

Also, surprisingly, Uma's reaping wasn't rigged. And even if it was, she was not a part of any deal.

Ursula was an actress, a singer, dragged to Capitol from District four and tossed back when they got bored; when she got too old or otherwise unsuitable. She blames Uma for this. Her most famous role was that of a Sea Witch because Why Not.

Uma wasn't a career, but Harry was. He didn't graduate yet, and his older sister insisted he doesn't volunteer.

Anyway. Since this is AU, I feel like it should be possible for the Games to have multiple Victors if the people like them enough.

It's not something common, but it can happen. It has happened before.

Mulan and Shang pulled it off. Mulan while posing as her brother or male cousin all the while. It was one of the earlier games, but people loved it. (Consequently, their son got reaped the year before Harriet. Pure coincidence, you see. He survived, though.)

The other people winning together were Raya and Namaari, because I said so. They had no children for reasons called "they're lesbians, your honour."

And Uma and Harry are gonna win together too because this is MY self-indulgent AU with zero actual plot.

They're having way too much fun on the stage. Survival instinct (the bit that Uma has) gets overshadowed by the need to a) shock as much people as possible and b) drama✨

They end up making out at the tribute interview. Ceasar is having the time of his life. He hasn't had this interesting tributes since Harriet Hook and Ivy de Vil.

(they obviously make out at the Victors interview too)

De Vils now, yeah?

Third district. Technology, for Carlos. They're inovators, the driving force.

Cruella, much like Hook, is a victor of long past. She went mad in her Games. Her victor talent is fashion, obviously, and Capitol has no problems with the more unethical aspects of her designs.

Her reaping-age relatives have the unfortunate tendency to, well, get reaped. She lost a brother, two nephews and a niece this way.

You see, de Vils are rebels. They need to stand out, they need to be heard. (Much like Hooks, but in better clothes, thank you for asking.)

Ivy was the last one reaped. Now, she knew her odds – one in twenty four and worse yet. The Capitol is not letting a de Vil win again.

Consequently, she might have started riot on her tribute interview. I mean, what are they gonna do? Kill her?

Yeah, I thought so.

I'm getting lost, aren't I.

Tremaines. Officers family from District Eight that thinks themselves way too important (they really aren't). All accusations of Anthony's reaping being rigged will be denied.

Anthony is in the same games as Uma and Harry because Drama.

His stylist is Audrey Rose who got caught high in public one too many times. But hey. They're vibing. Also, this conversation:

Anthony, talking about Harriet: "... she's just so pretty-“

Audrey, an aro ace, just trying to do her job: „...I suppose? She could use to wear something different than the red, and a bit less eyeliner...“

(Ginny, barging in: „YES SHE IS.“)

(I'm projecting on Audrey and you cannot stop me.) (She isn't being mean, she's just struggling to see it.) (Struggling in general. Girl is dissociating more than not, but actually trying her best as a tribute stylist.) (She and Claudine should meet. Attend some therapy together.)

Ginny is Capitol, too. She's a medical student, a medic apprentice, whatever you want to call it. Aesthetics and cosmetics surgery specifically. She's shadowing some doctors at tribute-victor-centre.

Which, let's be honest, mainly means that she, Anthony and Harriet can meet ✨

Like Anthony, she thinks that Harriet is gorgeous. She thinks the same about Anthony.

She flatlines Anthony's medical tracker while he's sleeping but still very much alive in the arena. This goes unnoticed because Harry and Uma are kicking up too much drama. And Ginny and Anthony are pretty good at disguises.

Faciliers. They live in Capitol. With documents that are certainly both legal and theirs.

But hey. No one is gping to kick them out. They smuggle in expensive drugs and absinth and other interesting stuff.

They also know way too much blackmail.

Celia and Freddie have accidentally befriended the gamemakers while making deliveries and now the gamemakers let them play a bit and design new fun mutts!

(Stuff of nightmares, I tell you)

Mal is a way too Capitol-propaganda enthusiastic Victor from one of the poor Districts.

Jay is from District Two, a secret rebel. Jade died in the Games.

Oh! CJ sneaked into the Capitol with her older siblings despite being specifically forbidden to do so, and is now setting something on fire. Ceasar practically gave her a permission by calling her "a little firecracker" in the interview with Harry.

The Smees were supposed to watch her, but the Smees couldn't be paid enough for that.

I'm almost certain I forgot someone. Please, ask if I did or if you find something interesting and want me to elaborate?