#but I come from a background where It was. kettle. teapot. tea cup. like. I was told not to make tea even in the cup straight

[readingwriter92]

Okay I can’t tell if this is a thing that’s just a joke

Do people actually microwave water to make tea?

#This is such a dumb q probably but I’m curious how y’all make tea #like I’m not gunna completely knock it since I’ve never tried it #but I come from a background where It was. kettle. teapot. tea cup. like. I was told not to make tea even in the cup straight #let alone making it without a kettle #I make it in a cup now bc I never usually have more than one cup at a time. tea pot is for when I’m making it for more people #but does that work? I always wait for my tea to not be hot can you get less hot water that way?

[my-arlington-academia]

Cliffany part 2

O-kay, and that’s it! I don’t know if I’ll write a continuation tbh since it was just a silly little idea that came out of nowhere. (Although I did have some ideas for more!) I haven’t really been active on my fanblog lately so it’s not like it’ll make much of a difference though haha. By the way, I’m thinking about making my blog more "Dulcet-oriented" rather than just SE. I hope you guys don’t mind? Recently, I’ve been getting more and more into Black Tarot! So expect my blog to change a lil 🔮🕯🌌

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It had been a couple of days now since Tiffany’s last interaction with Claire, and while she was still ignoring her like before, Tiffany’s efforts in doing so had increased. The moment she spotted her in the corner of her eye, she would move at a faster pace, as if running away. Was it guilt after all? No, she just didn’t have the energy to deal with Claire’s annoying and unnecessary empathy. The empathy that she knew she didn’t deserve which made her feel even more frustrated towards Claire.

All she should be worried about right now is getting more followers on Instaglam, not avoiding a nobody like the plague. On that note, spring was coming soon, the flowers started to blossom and the days were getting longer which meant... that the "cottagecore" tag on insta would go trending soon, no doubt! And of course, living on the Arlington campus as one of its students, this gave Tiffany the access to its beautiful garden. Although honestly, she only ever went there to take pictures and this time wasn’t any different. She had prepared some tea sets and dresses for the occasion, all of which she would throw away once spring went away along with its "trends."

Carried by her confident footsteps, she walked to the garden. That confidence was only a facade though. She knew exactly what kind of people and who in particular went to take strolls quite often in this goddamn garden. But hey, it was 7pm and the sun would soon start to set. Knowing that Claire always arrives 15 minutes in advance to any meeting and most likely always wakes up at 6am, there was nothing to be worried about. Chances are, she was either doing her homework before going to bed like a goody-two-shoes or watering her weird-ass plants. Tiffany always had the horror of seeing these at Raquel’s parties. It just didn’t fit at all with the rest of what was going on in the room and ruined the whole "party" vibe.

In any case, there she was, searching for a good spot to take pictures and set up a fake picnic. That basket filled with different colored blankets, tea sets, biscuits, tea and a pie was way heavier than Tiffany had initially thought. Maybe she really should’ve asked for collab pictures with Trisha from the fine arts department. She didn’t really like her but when it came to follower count they were surprisingly close, although Tiffany was still number one of course. Still, if she had asked for a collab they could’ve carried those heavy props together.

After finding a good spot next to the pond, Tiffany set everything up in an aesthetically pleasing manner and got down to taking the pictures. She was taking different shots to post them one by one throughout the week and give out the illusion that she was taking those the same day she posted them. She was ready to upload the first one, call it a day and go back to the dorms without touching any of the tea or cakes. It’s all just useless calories anyways. As she was putting the tags on the picture, she started wondering what were the names of those flowers in the background.

"Ugh, fuck. What are those orange shits called again?"

"Marigolds."

"Ah right, thank y-"

Tiffany immediately snapped her head back. This annoyingly gentle voice could only belong to one person.

"...What the fuck, Claire. Where did you pop out from?!"

There’s no was she was there the whole time, right? It’s true that Tiffany could get lost in what she was doing once she was focused but it wasn’t to the point where she became completely unaware of her surroundings.

"I came by a few minutes ago... Y-you looked so invested in what you were doing that I didn’t want to bother you! I didn’t mean to pry."

Well, Tiffany could always upload those damn pictures from her room. Claire’s arrival just meant that it was time for her to leave. However, seeing that Tiffany started packing up her things, Claire panicked thinking that it’s her fault. Which was in fact, her fault... in a way.

"O-oh! You’re not going to finish your picnic? I’m so sorry, I’ll just leave! Throwing all of this good food away would be such a waste-"

"Are you fucking dumb?"

Did she not get that this was all only a set-up for taking pictures? It was obvious that Tiffany didn’t have any intention of eating or drinking any of that. Not to mention that after everything that happened the other day, she was still not scared of approaching her?

"I don’t give a damn about the food, it was just for my social media accounts you dumb bit- ... dimwit. I was already done anyway so you don’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m leaving."

"I see! T-then maybe I can help?!"

Help? What did Claire even know about- Actually, on second thought. This whole "cottagecore" shtick was a great fit for Claire. She probably already had all of the things Tiffany bought last week for those pictures, even better and more authentic-looking ones probably. This was maybe the one and only time Tiffany would let Claire "help" her. But from her point of view, she was mostly just using her.

"Hm. Is that so? How can you help me then... Claire."

"Wait just a second! I’ll be back right away!!!"

She ran immediately towards the dorms. Well, she'll probably bring a bunch of random stuff. In the end, Tiffany was really torn between the idea of staying and waiting for who knows how long and the idea of leaving right now. Surely, Claire would make a hilarious expression when she’d realize that she was played with and abandoned. While trying to laugh it off, Tiffany accidentally remembered what happened a few days ago, along with Claire’s crying face. Damn... Okay, fine. She’ll wait for her but only because it would be annoying if she bawled again like a damn toddler.

And so she waited until, from the corner of her eyes, she saw a girl with a pink dress running towards her. That girl, of course, being Claire. She carried a picnic basket with her too, but much bigger and more practical. For half a second, Tiffany thought that Claire actually looked maybe, just maybe, a little bit pretty. She erased the thought in a hurry, covering it with harsh words as usual.

"Wh-why did you change your clothes? You think I’m gonna take pictures of you?"

"Ah, no, well..."

Claire looked at the beautiful picnic set-up and the cyan dress Tiffany was wearing.

"I just wanted to fit in with the rest of what you put up, I guess. Also, don’t you think that we kinda match? I brought some of the cookies I baked and my favorite teas and tea set. I think mine will look better with your picnic blanket! Uh- N-not to say that yours looks bad!!!"

She was trying so hard to make herself likable that it was painful to see... and kinda cute. God, Tiffany was really hating her thoughts today. She was just going soft because of Claire’s aura or something. Again, this was definitely the first and last time she was letting Claire help her with anything. I’d be bad if she turns completely brain-dead and clueless like her.

"...Whatever. Show me what you got. I’ll decide if it’s good enough."

Claire was pulling everything out of the basket one by one. Everytime, better and better items were pulled out after the other. Her cakes and cookies gave off a "homey" feeling which was more fitting with the aesthetic rather than Tiffany’s store bought patisseries. Claire was staring at her, wide-eyed and excited.

"W-what do you think, Tiffany? It looks good, doesn’t it?!"

"Uh. Yeah, it’s fine, I guess. I’ll take a few pics."

That was a lie. This looked so much better than the try-hard bullshit Tiffany had done. She was good at riding on the "trend wave" but Claire was a natural when it came to this one specific thing. Tiffany was trying to look as poker-faced as she could so as to not show her satisfaction, but clearly, her apparent enthusiasm for each shot was  betraying her. Sometimes, she would accidentally take one with Claire in the shot and ask her to move.

"Hey. You’re ruining the picture with your ugly fac- dress. Move to the right."

Before Tiffany could even do anything about it, Claire was already pouring some tea into 2 cups.

"Woah woah woah, put the teapot down. I didn’t agree to this."

"But...This is a kettle, Tiffany. Not a teapot."

"Oh, shut it!"

Claire gave off such a dejected face that Tiffany, once again, felt like she was kicking a poor puppy to the ground. She held back on going off on a rant.

"But we’re already here and the weather is so nice! It would be such a shame not to use any of this at all..."

Claire looked around, observing this beautiful setting, not to mention, the sun was finally starting to set. Going home right now would be like an insult to the utter beauty of this scene, it almost looked like it came right out of a fairy tale picture book. Without mulling it over any further, Tiffany took a sip out of her cup.

"I’m only doing this because I feel compelled to, got it?"

Claire’s eyes lit up nonetheless.

"Alright! Please try out my cookies too!"

Tiffany contemplated them for a second... is it true that home-made stuff is more healthy? Surely, that’s just a myth, right? A cake from the store and a home-made cake will have about the same amount of sugar in them regardless of who made them and how. Well, she did see Claire share her food from time to time with her friends and while she would never admit it, it is true that she was a bit curious about trying them herself. What was the last time she had eaten anything "home-made"? Or did it ever even happen?

"...Okay, whatever. I bet they taste shitty."

Tiffany reluctantly took a bite... It was surprisingly really delicious!

"It’s bad."

"R-really?"

As much as she wanted to lie about it, she couldn’t after seeing Claire make that dejected face again.

"Uhhh. No, um. Hmm... On second thought, it’s pretty average. It’s okay-ish."

Tiffany really hated herself right now. Being mean has never been this hard before. She couldn’t wait for the moment where they would be done with this ridiculous play-pretend and go back to her room. She tried drinking and eating as fast as she could without making it look like she was in a hurry to run away from this awkward situation. And God, it was so fucking hard...

Unsurprisingly, they were both pretty silent the whole time. Well, it wasn’t like they had anything to converse about or things in common. Right as Tiffany was about to get up and pack up her belongings, for real this time, Claire spoke up. Nervously fiddling with the hem of her dress.

"Um. So you know, I have something to confess to you, Tiffany."

Oh God, not now. As much as Tiffany found this timing annoying, she couldn’t help but poke fun at that poor choice of words.

"Confess? Oh my, so you like me in that way, huh? That explains everything."

"Wha- N-no! That’s not it! I mean, realistically speaking, t-that would never even happen!"

Was she implying that she could never like someone like Tiffany? Well, Tiffany herself was the one who brought this up but she was a bit offended at that statement. Regardless though, the way she was trying to deny it so hard was kinda cute. No. Not cute at all! If this went on, Tiffany would really become crazy before the end of this day.

"Last time, you said that I was only being kind towards others to profit off of them and I didn’t say anything but... that wasn’t true at all! I always wanted to help you because I thought that you needed it, I swear. Not to satisfy myself! ... Well. Except maybe..."

"Except...?"

"T-today. I admit that I kind of had ulterior motives."

Now that piqued Tiffany’s curiousness right away. Suddenly, she didn’t want to leave as much anymore if it meant that Claire would finally admit that she did some things for her own benefit. Why was it? Did she want to post a picture of herself on Tiffany’s Instaglam to fish for compliments, knowing that she had a lot of followers? Claire hid her face behind her hands and muttered a few words.

"I... wanted you to warm up to me."

"...Huh?"

That’s it? That was it? Claire’s ulterior motive was for Tiffany to "warm up to her."?

"So like, you want us to be friends or some shit?"

"Oh no! Not necessarily that far, just... good acquaintances!"

Is she stupid? There’s no way that she genuinely thinks those "motives" are bad. Tiffany sighed in exasperation.

"Listen. I’m just really tired right now, I don’t have the energy to assimilate all the shit you’re saying. I’m packing all of this up and going back to the dorms."

In complete silence, they gathered all of their belongings and walked to the dorms while keeping a fair distance between the 2 of them. As if to say, "we’ve got nothing to do with each other." Surprisingly, Claire didn’t try anything anymore. Didn’t even wish for a "good night" or a "good evening" which was weird to say the least. Tiffany tried to ignore it and when she got back and unpacked all of the props, she noticed something that didn’t belong to her. One of Claire’s lunch boxes with cookies in them and... a note?

Here’s my number just in case ;3 Please give me my lunchbox back once you’re done eating the cookies!♡

"...Your note makes me wanna barf."

So that’s why she didn’t try anything. That sneaky little... she must've slid that into the basket when they were packing. She already knew that Tiffany would eventually be forced to talk to her again... as if! Who says she’ll return it? She can just throw all the cookies away along with the box... Or so she thought. Tempted, she took a bite, then another one. And another one. Her diet was ruined for sure now. Damn you Claire and your stupidly great cooking skills, as if you needed another skill to be better and more perfect than you already are. Tiffany put the box away, trying to forget the delicious taste and smell. Back to Instaglam she goes. Uploading the picture while adding the "marigold" tag on it. Going through the pictures again, she noticed that some of them had Claire in the corner. She was thinking of deleting them but... well whatever. She can just crop her out later if needed. Her dress looks pretty so it’s fine even if she does appear in the pictures. All we see is a bit of her hair, as long as her face isn’t visible, it’s okay. Yup. It was totally not because Tiffany was slowly starting to feel something towards the girl she was trying so hard not to get involved with.

#sweet elite #claire durand #tiffany #cliffany #crackship #fanfics

[shaydeoffical]

Christmas Under the Lights: Denki Kaminari x Gn! Reader

Summary: (Y/n) is just coming home from a long day at school. They left their partner, Denki Kanmiari, home along for the whole day, and Denki has a surprise for them for the holidays

Word Count: 1.4

Warning: None, fluff, soft, domestic 

Author’s note: This was for the Secret Santa event in the BNHA Sanctuary Server. I got permission to share the Y/n version for you all, and I hope you enjoy! 

Denki Kaminari xGn Reader

Dancing Under the Stars

Letting my shoulders dip, my backpack slid into my hand and nearly dragged on the street. The snow had been brutal, filling up the sidewalks and creating a dense screen that wouldn’t let me see more than a few feet ahead at a time. My phone buzzed in my pocket, the familiar sound of Electric Love, making me want to dance in the street, played. Covering the screen with one hand and bring it close to my eyes, I accepted the call.

“Hey love,” my lips quivered, “did you make it home safe?”

“You’re not home yet?” His voice picked up; shuffling could be heard in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m by the old bakery. Where are you?” I gripped the front of my coat tighter, the wind picking up.

“I was home, but I had to go pick up something.” Keys jingled, and the front door slammed. “I’m coming to get you, just find a place to shelter down.”

“Babe, it’s too dangerous to drive,” I argued, tucking behind a tree for the moment. “I’m close enough to home. It’ll be fine.”

“If you’re so close, then let me come get you.” The car door shut, and I heard the heater turn on.

“I don’t think arguing with you is going to work.” Leaning against the tree, I tucked my head deeper into my hood. “Just be safe.”

“You got it.” He hung up, and I knew he’d be here in just a few moments. He’d always be my personal hero, no matter how large or small the task was. There he’d be, chasing away the crowds or opening pickle jars for me. It was the small gestures that assured me I was loved. He did grand acts for the public almost daily, but I was the only person he sang to sleep at night.

The cold was less bitter as my heart raced. He was a simple man, easy to please, even easier to make laugh. There was no one else I wanted to see at this very moment. Closing my eyes, I thought back to meeting at the grocery store. He had the goofiest smile as he asked for my number. If he hadn’t been so charming, I would have turned him away, but he was a cutie. I’m so glad I did give him a chance; while the life of a pro hero was hard to deal with, we made it work.

A honk caught my attention, and the blonde jumped out of his car, carrying a blanket. “There you are.” He wrapped me uptight and kissed my forehead, his lips like fire on my icy skin.

“On second thought, I’m glad you came to get me.” He took my school bag, and we piled into the car. The heater was going full blast and was still warm from when he had run out earlier. “Thank you, baby.”

“Of course,” he tapped my leg, pulling onto the road and taking it nice and slow.

“I’m glad to be out of the storm.” I checked my phone now that snow wasn’t in my eyes. “Oh, I missed your text earlier. So you have a surprise waiting for me?” I hummed along to the song on the radio.

“Yea, it was my first day off in a while, and I wanted to do something special. Though it was more difficult than I imagined it’d be.” He pulled into our driveway and walked around to get my door.

“Thank you, baby.” We entered the house and began to remove all the winter layers.

Denki reached forward and undid my scarf. “This is the one I got you, right?”

“It is. I wear it almost every day.” I bopped his forehead, sliding off my boots. “Did you just notice?”

“No, I just. I’ve been thinking about how terrible my gift was last year.” He kept smiling, but I could see the sorrow in his eyes.

“I love my scarf.” I squished his face between my cold hands, his blush dissipating.

“You went all out for my gift. Scarf pails next to a nice electric guitar.” He shuffled to the kitchen, working on some tea for the both of us.

“Well, that was a gift for me too. I love to hear you play.” I perked on the kitchen counter, sucking in my lower lip. “Besides, the first year a couple is together, their gifts are normally a little underwhelming.”

“But yours wasn’t.” He set out the cups, focusing on the stirring spoons.  

“Well, I’m sure you’re going to blow me away this time.” I took his hand and ran my fingers over his knuckles. He perked up at the mention of this year.

“Yea, I’ve made up for it this time. I know it’s early, but I’m so excited to show you.” The teapot was ready, so I poured it while Denki got the bag ready to be steeped.

“Well, now, I’m curious.” I humored the blonde from time to time, but I had a feeling this was about to be impressive. “We can look after we warm up a bit, okay?”

“I don’t think I can wait that long.” He hugged me from behind, his body radiating heat. “So I’ll have to warm you up faster than the tea.”

“That’s one way to do it.” I hugged his arms, both of us swaying back and forth. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and see the surprise. “Okay, let’s see it.”

“Yay,” he held my hand, guiding me to our bedroom. “You’re going to love this. Close your eyes.”

I did as asked, the soft hum of old music began to pour from the room. Stepping into our bedroom, I could sense the plush carpet under my bare feet, and I wondered why there were little hard pieces under my toes.

“Open.” It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The whole room was blacked out, our drapes tapes down, and the little red light from the tv is gone.

“What’s going on?” I reached out, trying to find out where my boyfriend was, but I couldn’t find him. Lights suddenly came on, the ceiling full of Christmas lights.

“It’s the constellations!” he beamed, coming from the power strip I could barely see on the floor. “We live in the city, so I know it’s hard for you to see the stars. I wanted to bring them to us.”

“Denki.” His name fell from my lips, a smile growing the longer I looked at the detail. There weren’t just Christmas lights but glow in the dark stickers, fairy lights, and a galaxy projector in the corner. He flipped a switch, and the whole room looked like the milky way. “I’m speechless.”

“So you like it?” He pulled me close, swaying with the music that played. Listening closer, I suddenly realized it was the music they played to the rovers on Mars. Resting my head on his shoulder, I inhaled his cologne and tried to remember how it felt to be in this moment.

Being pressed against the person I loved most, dancing under the stars. His hands tapping against my lower back, his breath tickling my ear, the faint outline of his grin, all making my heart pound. I wanted to live in this exact moment forever.

“I love it.” I leaned back, spinning him. “This might just be the best gift of all time.” Hyping him up, he spun me this time, laughing.

“Hey, next year will be even better.” He assured me. “I’m going to take you to see the real stars, far away from the city lights.”

“That sounds magical too.” I gripped his chest.

“I have one more thing I want to do.” He suddenly stopped, squaring his shoulders and nodding. “May I have this kiss?”

“Oh,” if my heart wasn’t already soaring, it was now bouncing it’s way to my throat. “Of course.”

“Merry Christmas (Y/n), I love you.” He bent down, our lips meeting in a soft peck. I could taste the peppermint from our tree that he had been sneaking. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m just thinking about how cute you are.” I gripped his cheeks, going in for a deeper kiss. When we pulled apart, he was putty in my hand. “That’s the spirit.” I pushed his hair back, the static giving me a familiar shock. “I love you, Denki.”

Bonus:

“Ahhh, the teas cold.” Denki was crestfallen coming back into the kitchen. After some debate about how much those lights would affect the electric bill, we decided to discuss it over our tea. More time had passed than we realized, and the water was, at best, tepid.

“It’s okay, we can make some more.” I chuckled, getting the kettle back on. “How about hot cocoa this time?”

“Sounds great.” He perked back up at the mention of cocoa, his eyes going to the tree. “I know I’ve already eaten half the candy canes, but can I have just one more for my cocoa?”

“Go for it, babe.”

We fixed up our mugs and cuddled on the couch. Both of us tangled into our blankets, a movie on in the background. It had been a cold day, but my hero had shown up just in time. There was the warmest aura in my chest, and I knew it wasn’t from the cocoa. I held Denki’s hand and kissed his knuckles. He was the best gift I could ask for, any day of the year.  

#bnha x reader #bnha imagines #denki kaminari #denki x reader #pro hero denki #pro hero chargebolt #christmas #Christmas special #holiday #x reader #x body neutral #ambershaydeoffical

[argent-vulpine]

Play Stupid Games...

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Rating: G

Characters: Sylvain/F!Byleth

Read it on AO3

He’d gone to bed alone for once, ignoring Felix’s dour stare and slipping into his room, decidedly not slamming his door behind him. Sylvain could admit to himself – and only to himself, in the privacy of his own room – that he’d messed up with the professor. And he’d messed up badly.

This was worse than the first time the professor had caught him mid-break-up with a town girl. At least then he’d only made a fool of himself by blatantly flirting with her, meaningless as it may have been. She was more than nice to look at, he had to admit, and it was worth a shot even if he knew it would go nowhere.

This, though… this was just… bad.

His mask had slipped. It was difficult to keep it up, but it was even harder to do around the professor. Something about her made him want to relax, and in that moment of honesty… he’d panicked.

Sylvain strongly doubted that she took it as a joke, even if he’d claimed it was. They both knew he’d been serious.

Groaning, he put his head in his hands and flopped on the bed.

He didn’t bother to get up or uncover his face when he heard the door crack open; there was only one person awake at this hour who would even bother.

“You’re an idiot, I hope you know that. Pull yourself together.”

Sylvain peeked through his fingers in time to see a dark head of hair turning away, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Shit. Had Felix overheard his conversation with the professor? That was doubly bad.

Sure, he was jealous of the professor. Growing up as a mercenary, protected by the Blade Breaker, living life away from the church and nobility – all while having one of the most powerful Crests in existence! – and not having to worry about the sheer politics involved with it… she was lucky. And he was jealous of that luck.

Jealous because the Crest system had made his brother despise him. It had ended with him having to kill his own kin. It meant growing up being told how he had to choose wisely in order to pass on the Crest to a worthy heir.

And… a part of him really did mean it when he’d said he would make her pay. Collect on that debt. But another part…

Another part was calling him worse names than Felix ever did, because despite himself, he liked the professor. He admired her, even. Sylvain flopped onto his side, staring at the wall and really thinking about what he’d said, what he’d done… why he cared.

The professor had a solid tactical mind. Her refusal to use the Sword of the Creator unless absolutely necessarily was beyond admirable; she refused to rely on her Crest or the (dubious) perks that came with it. Her swordsmanship was excellent – he’d heard Felix attest to that on numerous occasions – and even her magic was solid, though he doubted she’d ever be – or want to be – as proficient as, say, Lysithea or Annette or even Dorothea.

She liked tea, played board games, was an overall amazing instructor, even so far as going out of her way to learning other styles of combat in order to better teach her own students. She didn’t mind going out of her way to returning lost items to her students; even Sylvain had found himself the recipient of such treatment, though he had to wonder, sometimes, how she’d known when an item was his.

And lately, he’d gotten better at reading her micro-expressions. Maybe it was because of being friends with Felix; you just had to learn to read the subtext, but with her, it wasn’t so much what she didn’t say, it was her eyes, the subtlest quirk of her lips when she smiled, the slightest tightening that was her frown.

Sylvain had come to value her smiles, rare as they might be, and today all he’d done was earn not just that frown, but a disapproving stare, and the narrowing of her eyes that he knew meant trouble.

He grabbed his pillow and pressed it against his face, releasing another long groan of annoyance with himself.

And the worst part was… he knew he wasn’t going to be able to suck it up and apologize. He’d just have to continue the charade he’d started.

No one could possibly have predicted the events that happened next.

In the wake of Jeralt’s death, the professor’s quest for revenge against Monica – or Kronya or whatever her name really was – and the girl’s sacrifice by Solon, sealing the professor in darkness only for her to cut through the sky and step out a changed woman (literally), there was no time to really apologize even if he hadn’t been so bent on sucking it up and playing the philandering asshole he’d been for so long already.

Then had come the disaster in the mausoleum, Edelgard’s betrayal, and… war.

He found himself at the professor’s door two days before the Imperial troops were set to arrive, a board game tucked under one arm and a pouch of tea in hand. Sylvain drew a breath, wondering to himself why he was even here, and knocked.

The door opened a crack, then widened when she saw who it was. “Hello Sylvain. Is something wrong?”

“Ah… no, Professor, not… not exactly. Are you free? I brought tea,” he said, lifting the pouch, “and a game.”

Her vibrant green eyes (he was still getting used to those) flickered down to see the game tucked under his arm. “Sure,” she finally said, opening the door fully and stepping aside to let him in. Her room was less than immaculate, which was a bit of a shock. Papers were strewn about the desk, map figures knocked over or placed haphazardly.

It was in complete disarray, and he knew he was right to come, despite his own misgivings. Was she nervous? It was almost too unreal to believe.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the little table in the corner. At her nod, he set the game on it and moved the entire thing to the middle of the room, somewhere between her bed and her desk, giving her the option of where to sit.

She’d already pulled out her tea set, setting out cups and saucers on the table once he’d put it into position. The professor even pulled out a small box of shortbreads she must have had tucked away, adding that to the growing collection of items on the little table.

Sylvain poured water from a pitcher into a kettle, heating it with a touch of magic before pouring hot water and tea into the teapot to steep.

The professor had chosen… the desk chair, to his surprise, which left him the only other seat available in the room: her bed. He swallowed a lump in his throat and settled down onto it, angling himself so that his long legs wouldn’t disturb the table between them.

The door, of course, remained open. No doubt a requirement by Seteth, but Sylvain was glad for it for once.

They set up the game in silence while the tea steeped, the professor arranging the board just so. Nervous fidgeting, he guessed, watching her tweak the board into position. He let the silence drag on for a while longer, carefully setting the pieces up.

Perhaps King’s Table wasn’t the best choice of games, all things considered, but he liked games of strategy, and the professor seemed to enjoy them as well. And this way, she could still strategize and hopefully relax a little all the same.

Why do you care? came the voice inside his head. He didn’t have an answer to that.

“King or attackers?” he said instead, gesturing to the board once it was set up.

“Attackers,” was the prompt reply. Sylvain was surprised, actually; she usually took up the more defensive position of the king. But he nodded and settled in for the game, pouring the tea for the both of them when it was ready.

They stuck to lighter topics, for the most part. Places they’d visited or wanted to, sweets they enjoyed, jokes they’d overheard. The professor’s sense of humor had surprised him, once, having been convinced she didn’t have one at all. The fact that it was somewhere between dry and bawdy had frankly been the most startling to him, but once he considered her mercenary background, it made a lot more sense.

She was relaying a tale from her days with her father’s mercenary band when she suddenly stopped, shooting him a puzzled look, her brows furrowing rather adorably. “Sylvain, are you okay?”

He blinked, then flushed when he realized he’d been staring. “Ah, yeah, sorry… you were saying about the horse?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if gauging him, before she launched back into the tale, pausing only briefly to move one of her pieces on the board.

He glanced down as she finished her story, too shocked to register its end, though he knew it was amusing. He would have laughed, even, had he not seen that her finger rested on top of the king piece. When she knew she had his attention, she very carefully knocked it over.

He’d been surrounded and hadn’t even noticed.

“Sylvain, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I need your head in the game. I… I’m counting on you.”

He dragged his eyes back up to hers, clearly shocked at the admission. “Why?” She tilted her head, questioning. “Why me? I’ve done nothing but antagonize you all this time. Why would you count on me for… anything?”

The professor began to straighten the board, putting the pieces back into their starting positions, while she considered his question. After what seemed like an agonizing amount of time – though he knew it was only a few seconds – she spoke. “You try to hide it from the others behind this façade of yours, playing the fool, but every time we have tea, you play board games with me. Not easy games, either; you always bring something that requires serious thought, strategy, technique. You’ve even beaten me on numerous occasions.”

She toyed with her teacup, her thumb stroking along the handle absently as she thought of what to say next. “You – despite all your efforts to show otherwise – are one of the best tactical minds I have available. I think the only person who beats you, really, is Claude, and that’s just from how willing he is to play dirty.” A pause and then she sighed. “Okay, maybe Yuri as well, but for the same reasons. The point is, Sylvain, I need you. I need you to have your head on right for what’s to come, because I’m counting on you.”

The professor stood then, pacing around the little space in the back of her room. “Yuri has his orders; he’s preparing escape routes in Abyss for us, just in case we need them.” That drew a frown from Sylvain; it was the first he’d heard of that kind of contingency which meant…

“And Claude’s schemes can only get us so far.” She was worried. More worried than he’d thought.

“Professor…” She stopped her pacing and turned to face him. “I get it. I really do.” He gestured at the seat across from him. “Your tea is getting cold. We’ve got time for another round, don’t you think? Attack again. I think I know where I went wrong.”

This time, he paid more careful attention, knowing that this was, in a sense, another way for her to impart a lesson on him. She’d chosen to be the attacker for a reason, and he’d realized that too late.

She was counting on him to keep their people safe when Edelgard’s army attacked.

The thought sank into his gut, leaving him with a feeling of unease for the battle to come.

“Sylvain, find Claude! He knows the way to Yuri. Get everyone to safety!” It was the last thing the professor had said to him before she’d run off, sleeves flapping in the wind, sword glinting in the light as she cut down foe after foe, headed toward something that shouldn’t have been possible.

He did as she’d asked, herding his classmates, his friends, after Claude, lingering just long enough to see her fall. His heart clenched, a pang of grief he hadn’t expected, but he tamped it down. She was counting on him, after all, and he would not let her down.

#sylvain jose gautier #byleth eisner #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #Golden Deer Sylvain #Golden Deer #mentions of C support #mentions of B support #Sylvain has FEELINGS

[iliveiloveiwrite]

I say a little prayer...

A/N: okay! so another remus fic. I can't help it, I love him. It isn't very long at all, but I was listening to Dionne Warwick, and bam! this idea came to me and what can I say? I'm a sucker for anything remotely domestic. Feel free to like and reblog! My inbox is always open so feel free to message with any requests or if you just want to chat! Thanks!

Title: Dionne Warwick - I Say a Little Prayer

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: Breakfasts with you and Remus. 

Requested: Nope. 

Warnings: nope.

Word count: 961.

The radio is playing softly in the background as you begin your day. The kettle is boiling, the teapot is waiting, and the bread has just been placed in the toaster.

Taking a minute to yourself, you stare out of the kitchen window, watching the morning birds fly around your garden eating the bird seed you religiously leave out for them. You think of the man you love, who should hopefully be still in bed. It wasn’t a particularly kind moon this month and you know he’s still feeling the aftermath. You can’t help but think of Remus; he has been on your mind since you first accepted your crush on him in your second year of Hogwarts. It took him until fifth year to ask you out, and that was it. You were both done; you had found each other – your other halves. There would be no-one else for you, and no-one else for him. You have started to mould a life together now, and mornings had quickly become your favourite part; you always woke before Remus and you gave yourself a few minutes each morning to look at him – to see how young he looks in his sleep. Before you head downstairs to start breakfast, you always place a kiss to his forehead.

Smiling to yourself, you turn towards the kettle and begin pouring the water into the teapot – making sure to place the lid on the pot to make sure of a stronger brew. A good cup of tea is essential to your daily life. The world can be put to right over a good cup of tea.

The toast has popped out of the toaster, and you head to the fridge to grab the butter. The radio has finished with its adverts and its back to playing your favourite station – golden oldies. Music from the sixties to the eighties; artists ranging from Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons to Genesis.

Remus comes downstairs as you’re finishing buttering the toast. He pauses at the doorway to take a moment not unlike the one you took earlier at the window. He leans against the doorframe and lets himself fall in love with you all over again. He can’t help but thank every god and deity for bringing you into his life; you both fit so well together. He is absolutely certain that he finds another reason to love you more every single day he is with you.

At this point, you haven’t noticed Remus’ presence at the door. Instead, you are quietly singing along to Aretha Franklin’s ‘You Make Me Feel (like a natural woman)’ – swaying along in time to the song as you grab bites of your toast.

As the song finishes and Remus has had his moment, he enters the kitchen fully.

“Morning, my love.” He greets, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before grabbing a mug for some tea.

“Mmm morning. Sleep well?” You ask.

“Always with you there. You?”

“I’m the same – a great night’s sleep is to be had when you’re there.” You stand up from the kitchen table just as Remus sits. You place a kiss on his cheek before putting your plate in the sink to be washed later.

“What decade do we have today?” Remus asks, nodding his head to the radio where The Temptations were finishing playing.

“60s today. Very good songs so far.”

Remus doesn’t answer. He watches you instead – you’re putting some more bread in the toaster and going to the fridge to get some jam for his toast. He never asks you to make breakfast for him; it is something you automatically do. Making sure he eats before starting his day marking essays and such.

It is as the toast pops out of the toaster that the song starts playing. Dionne Warwick’s, I Say A Little Prayer begins, and you start to sing along.

Remus loves these mornings. When there is nothing to do but to watch you sing and to love you wholly. He could spend his life doing that. He wants nothing more than to spend his life doing that.

You have turned to Remus now; a plate of toast in your hand (enough for two), a smile on your face and singing the song word for word.

Remus can feel himself start to blush at the attention you are giving him, but he loves it. he loves you. An eternity, he could spend with you like this. Both of you have bed hair, only just onto second cups of tea but entirely happy. Mornings with you mean music, kisses and love, and Remus would do almost anything to ensure he has it. Remus has an idea as he’s watching you; it involves a jewellery shop, a ring, and the perfect opportunity. But Remus knows that the perfect opportunity would be on a morning like this.

You place the toast in front of him, but he doesn’t start to eat. Instead, he grabs your hand, stands up and pulls you into him. Your hands automatically settle around his neck; his on your hips. After a few seconds of swaying together like this, Remus switches you into a dancing frame but he keeps you close – chests practically touching.

You’re looking up at him; your eyes taking in every wrinkle starting to form, every grey hair, every scar from a bad moon – every inch of him that you love and adore. The song is coming to an end, you’re singing the final lines to him – “I’m in love with you…”

The song doesn’t finish with a flourish. Neither of you stop dancing but Remus bends down to kiss you. Your lips touch, you both smile into the kiss – and the day has truly begun.

#remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #the lightning era #fluff #cute #marauders fanfiction #remus john lupin #remus lupin

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead

Summary: Steve goes back. Some things are the same. Some are different.

AO3 link here.

The problem with deciding not to come back from returning the stones is that he has no one to consult about what exactly that means. Bucky, the only one who knows, the only one who guessed, has no expertise in quantum physics or advice about what exactly he’ll be doing to the timeline.

“You’re taking all the stupid with you,” he’d said, and part of what he meant was this: going off half-cocked as always, Rogers. Seat of your goddamn pants. He isn’t wrong about that part. For a strategist, Steve spends a lot of his time winging it.

(He tries not to miss Sam. He misses Sam.)

Even once he’s taken the leap, used the Pym particles to land himself so far back that he’ll only make it to the twenty-first century again by living through until then, he doesn’t precisely know what to do about it all. He spends a week alone, and then another. He does odd jobs to make money for food and a room to sleep in. He’s forgotten how different something like finding work had been, in the days before resumes and networking and the necessary google of someone’s name and background. People look at his eyes and assume he’s a vet, they look at his arms and assume that he can lift and carry things; they’re right on both counts, and that’s enough.

He already took the chance, just coming back here, but he worries about what he might do to Peggy’s future - her amazing, groundbreaking future - if he tries to slip back into her life. But he is also so tired, so encompassingly tired. He has helped to hold the world up for what feels a lifetime: Atlas with arms exhausted and shaking. He imagines how sweet it will feel to rest with her beside him. He knows he has to try.

(He must have known it all along. He brought himself to Washington D.C. in 1949. Peggy’s lived here for just over two years.)

He knows her address. He can remember the exact pattern of the heart monitor, the precise places where she laughed as she told him about the K Street apartment that had first been rented for her.

“Ghastly place,” she had said, smiling even as she did. “Everything dark wood, with barely a window for a bit of sunlight. And practically on top of scandal: I couldn’t go out my front door without thinking of Teapot Dome! So I had the housing stipend rerouted to a lovely little place on 11th Street and things worked out rather nicely. I didn’t feel quite so miserable about coming home, and there was a grocery and a café right across the street.”

He waits for her in the café, tucked in the back. Peggy comes in promptly at seven in the morning. She speaks to the woman behind the counter, a young black woman with a wide, sweet smile, and carries a cup of tea over while her breakfast is being prepared in the kitchen. She sits down at one of the tables entirely automatically, picking up a newspaper and not even looking as she slides into the booth seat facing toward the door. Her regular spot, then.

(Nat always said he made a terrible spy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be observant.)

He means to come sit on the seat opposite from her. He pictures it minutely, down to the way the vinyl will rub and give as he slides across, but he finds that he cannot picture how she will look at him, what she will say. In the moment, he freezes. He ends up looming awkwardly over her for long enough that she looks up at him, a polite smile on her face as if she expects to be handed a plate of bacon and eggs, or perhaps to need to turn down a request for a date.

But then she takes in what she’s seeing.

She breathes in a sob. Her teacup is already sitting on the tabletop, but she sets down her folded paper as carefully as if it were made of porcelain too.

“Steve?” He feels the echo of the fragile word through decades. He thought he knew, when he saw her for the first time barely able to lift her head from her hospital bed, when he found the photograph that she kept so boldly on her SHIELD desk twenty-five years after he'd been gone, that they would be like this in any time. Apparently he didn’t truly know until he hears it. He is shaking.

She stands abruptly, pushing herself out of the booth and catching his hands in hers. She is so very close to him.

“Am I going to have to murder Howard for keeping secrets?” she asks quietly. He shakes his head. She traces over the skin of his forehead, no longer as smooth as it had been. She runs fingers through the front curve of his hair, strange to her, with such perfect delicacy that he almost flinches away.

“No,” she agrees quietly, and takes her handbag from the table. “Come with me. I have to set a terrible example for my employees.”

Later, after Peggy calls in pretending to be sick to a Howard simultaneously suspicious (when was the last time Peggy was ill?) and totally heedless, probably already thinking of what kinds of explosions he’s going to be taking on today, she makes them fresh tea. He can tell that it’s just a distraction. The kettle is whistling for nearly a minute before she breaks their gaze and goes to pour the water.

When they are across from each other at her small kitchen table, she says, “Tell me,” and he does, a bit.

When he has finished his brief sketch of things, she takes a sip of tea. “So, the future,” she says, her voice musing rather than judging.

“You seem to be taking this pretty well,” he tells her.

“Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure that this is real, you see,” she explains.

He looks out her nice little window for a moment; when he leaves, he’ll have no memory of the kind of view she has. “If I’d showed up and said that I’d been dug out of the ice and came to find you, would you have believed it more?”

“Perhaps,” she admits. She looks into his eyes, though, and adds quietly, “But perhaps not.”

“I understand. Even where I’ve been, time travel is a pretty new development.” He pushes back from the table, carefully so as not to rattle Peggy’s pretty blue-edged china. He looks down at her, and she looks back, a bit of tilting evaluation in her eyes. “The Dodgers are going to lose the Series to the Yankees, four games to one. It’ll all be over Sunday night. The score of the last game will be ten to six.”

She swallows. “Then I suppose I shall see you Monday morning?” Her hands, with their neatly manicured nails, rest solidly on the table in front of her. Her knuckles are pressed tightly together.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” he says, nodding slightly to her, and sees himself out.

She is already waiting when he enters the café on Monday morning. The only clue to how she’s feeling is the way her head pops quickly up whenever the door swings open.

“I’m sorry about your Dodgers,” she says as he sits down across from her.

He shakes his head. “The Yanks will do even worse to the Phillies next year,” he says, and she covers her mouth with a trembling hand.

When she speaks again, it is aching. “Let’s go home,” she says.

“Don’t you have work?”

“I planned ahead this time. As far as anyone knows, I’m scheduled to be out of the office in meetings all day.” She examines him again. He understands the urge; he thinks at this point he could describe where each of her curls lies against her shoulders, and if he couldn’t, he’ll just need to take her in a while longer.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Of course I am.” Humor, just the most hidden hint of tears. “It seems that you’re still a bit hopeless, I see, even after all this time.”

(Tony would have said the same thing. Tony.)

“Probably.” He gets to his feet, offers her his hand. She takes it, lightly, more formality than anything else, and stands beside him. “I’ll work on it.”

“I’m sure you will.” She leads him out again, toward her apartment. “And I’ll certainly be happy to assist.”

They settle into something. It’s so easy that Steve catches his breath from it sometimes, exultation with a bold edge of fear. She goes to work, and he stays in their neighborhood. He does the shopping at the corner market and learns, after a fashion and several borrowed library books, how to cook. He does the laundry, and learns the hard way which of Peggy's suits need special care. He walks around getting to know the area.

He overhears two of Peggy’s neighbors whispering about him as he helps a little boy fix his bike chain on the street corner.

“I always thought she must have a man somewhere,” one says to the other.

“Well, he’s lucky she took him back. She’s been here two years, nice, polite girl with a good job and that wonderful smile, and he turns up now? Where has he been?”

“I’m not much sure it matters, looking at him.”

Steve tucks his head and grins.

He stops by the newsstand for a paper enough times that the owner, an older guy named Al, eventually asks if he’d like to do a bit of work. Steve knows it’s mostly pity, but he’s restless. He takes Al up on it, working pasted together hours so Al can take breaks during the day and get home a bit earlier in the evenings. He hangs around and chats other times. They talk baseball (Al’s a Chicago transplant, a heart and soul Cubs fan) and world events and dabble a bit into politics (Steve has to read the papers closely to try to keep his stories straight). Al had a son who never came home from Guadalcanal, and maybe that’s why, when he sees Steve sketching between customers, he asks him to fix up the sign above the stand, just a little refresh on the paint and maybe a nice little drawing.

Steve guesses that he does a good enough job, because the owner of the cafe and the drugstore ask for him to come over to their places, to do bigger murals inside. He starts to get asked to do all sorts of things, from house painting to pretty watercolor cards. He’s still home in time to make supper and talk to Peggy every evening.

He knows, now, that Peggy has a thick quilted dressing gown that looks like something a grandmother would wear, and doesn’t make him feel like a grandmother’s wearing it at all. He knows how she takes her tea and that she likes a square or two of chocolate at the end of the day. He knows how it feels for her to rest her feet in his lap as they read on lazy Saturday afternoons, and what it’s like to walk arm in arm back home talking about the film they’ve seen on a Sunday. He knows the giddiness of automatically calling her “sweetheart” as he asks her to pass the salt. He knows what she looks like when she first gets up, and the careful, precise order in which she applies her makeup and styles her hair. He knows what it’s like to kiss her on waking and as she leaves for work, as she arrives back home and before they go to bed. He knows what it is to fall asleep beside her, smiling.

He wakes himself up, shuddering, at least three times a week. Sometimes he is gasping. Sometimes he is crying. Most times he wakes Peggy too.

Early one Saturday morning, she switches on the light as he tries to calm himself. She rubs his arm for a moment before standing from the bed and putting on her dressing gown. He can hear the sound of her preparing tea in the kitchen, but when she doesn’t come back, he follows her.

“Sit,” she tells him, gesturing to the chair across from her at the table, and when he does, “Drink,” her voice firm and compassionate. He listens to her, taking a sip and then staring into the depths of his cup. She’s put in just the right amount of sugar.

After a moment, she says, “I haven’t asked you very much about where you’ve come from, but I think we both know how untenable that is. You need to talk. I’d like to hear it.”

He takes another sip, then a third. Finally, he hoarsely, “I don’t know if I can tell you. I’ve already changed your life just by coming here. I don’t know how much I can do without ruining things.”

“Steve.” She leans across the table, touches his arm, his face. Her disheveled hair falls forward a little, framing the warmth of her eyes. “You are the best man I have ever known, and perhaps the strongest. And I don’t think you need to go through this alone. Let me help you.”

He almost laughs. How many times did he say something like that to people grieving a disaster that won’t happen for decades? How many times did he ignore his own advice? He thinks, again, of Sam. “Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it.”

He thinks that Sam also meant that sometimes you find someone to carry it with you.

They don’t get out of their pajamas until well into the afternoon. Once Steve starts talking, he finds that he can’t stop. He tells her about Hydra (“Get up with bloody fleas, I told them”) and about Bucky. He tells her about Korea and McCarthy and Vietnam and the civil rights movement, about Betty Friedan and President Kennedy and President Nixon, about AIDS and global warming. He was in the twenty-first century for over a decade. He reads fast and doesn’t sleep much, and his memory is excellent.

He tells her about the snap. He tells her about his friends.

Finally, with darkness outside their windows, he says to her, “I keep thinking about Maya Lin. She’ll be an architect and a designer. She becomes famous for making the memorial for the war in Vietnam. I know it’s right to do what we can to avoid that war, to minimize that damage. Making that choice could be wrong for Maya Lin. It will change her life. How do we know which strings we can pull without letting everything fall apart?”

Peggy looks down at the notes she has started taking. She flips over one page, then another. “Well, we shall think and strategize and try our best to do the best for the most people.” She taps a finger on one paragraph. “I think that this is one string we should start tying up as quickly as we can.”

"If I see a situation pointed south, I can't ignore it," he told Tony once, and that was true. It still is. It's just harder when south isn't a clear direction on the compass, when trying to fix things could only make things worse. This is why Steve could tell her, why he had to. Because he believes in her mind, in her ruthlessness and her clearheadedness, but in her goodness too. He doesn't think he could have done any of this alone.

(He must have known he would do this all along. He brought himself to Washington D.C. in 1949. Zola was brought here just over two months ago.)

They tell Howard. Partly because they need him, to provide documentation for Steve, for resources, for cover. Partly because Peggy says that he’s a friend and he’s trustworthy, and Steve trusts Peggy. For his own part, though, Steve needs to work to remember how much hasn’t happened with Howard. He hasn’t become who he’ll become yet.

Steve sleeps better knowing that they’re doing something. He doesn’t sleep well until they have Bucky back.

“Any idea what he’ll be like after rise and shine?” asks Howard, checking once again the pulse of the man lying unconscious on one of his many guest beds. To everyone else, Bucky’s hair is long, unkempt. For Steve, it’s shorter than he’s used to now. The arm, high tech for this time, looks especially ugly and primitive.

Steve thinks back to all the information they gained after the fall of the Triskelion. Nazi records have always been blessed and cursed. “He hasn’t been under for too long. It won’t be pretty at first, but we’ll be able to get him back.”

In bed that night, Peggy holds his hand beneath the blanket and whispers, “Hopefully we’ll get him back back without you trying to sacrifice yourself,” and he doesn’t know whether she’s talking about Azzano or the helicarrier, and he likes that she has the option for either.

They count on the minimization of Hydra’s influence to help stabilize things, and they’ll prove to be right. Peggy also cultivates herself a reputation for sound, nearly prescient, advice to other agencies. It will help them influence things they need to in the future, but it’s already believable, based on a solid foundation. No one suspects the man who’s occasionally seen on her arm at functions or visiting her office - bearded, older, bearing only a passing resemblance to the lost Captain America - of having anything to do with it. He barely talks shop with the guys, usually ends up recommending recipes to the wives.

“I do prefer you in an apron and pearls,” Peggy says as Steve rubs her feet after one such night out, her heels discarded beneath the kitchen table.

“It’s the natural order of things,” Steve tells her solemnly.

“Too right, pal,” Bucky calls from the bathroom. (He heard from Al at the newsstand that they were having trouble with their sink and came over to help rather than let Steve take care of it. “Flood the whole place, more like.”)

Neither of them quite knows who proposed to whom. Steve claims he did it, Peggy attests with equal vehemence that she took the initiative. Neither of them much cares when it comes down to it.

They invite the Commandos to the wedding. Or, rather, Peggy invites them, and then when they all show up with faltering, incomplete smiles, Steve comes over to say hello.

“If it was anyone else but the two of you, I don’t know that I could believe it,” Monty says, dazed.

Dugan wants horse racing tips. Morita wants to know if he ever makes it with Ava Gardner. “Already tried asking that one, pal,” says Howard sourly.

“Sometimes you just have to live it,” says Steve, and goes to take another turn on the floor with his wife.

They move to Jersey in ‘52. Steve’s afraid that Bucky’s going to have an aneurysm over the betrayal, but the commute’s easier on Peggy now that SHIELD’s working out of Camp Lehigh most of the time.

(Buck ends up living in Brooklyn near his folks and goes back to school to get his engineering degree. Howard says he doesn’t care, he knew how much schooling Bucky had when he offered him the job, but Bucky wants to earn it, and he likes to learn.)

Somehow, it takes three days to pack up the apartment in DC and three weeks to unpack in their cozy little house in New Jersey. Peggy’s pulling late nights all the time as she gets things put together, but she refuses to let Steve do much during the day: they both have extremely strong opinions about every little thing, and she wants to be there to decide which cupboard the glasses will go in, or how far the sofa will be placed from the window and how far the armchair from the sofa.

They finally get things sorted one Saturday when it’s nearly autumn. They leave the door open to let in the air, still warm with just the beginnings of a chill. Peggy stands with her hands on her hips in the middle of their living room. Steve watches from the doorway, loving the way the light filters over her hair, loving the way he already knows exactly how it will.

He steps into the room with her, selects a record and sets the needle carefully. He holds out a hand to her.

They’re practiced at this now. They’ve been to the Stork Club and danced at their wedding and done a thousand other things in between. Peggy jokes that Steve only breaks her foot once a month now, twice if she’s very lucky. But there’s no showing off today. He holds her in his arms and they sway, turning in slow circles, the music washing over them as they stand in their new home.

“The war's over, Steve. We can go home. Imagine it,” she had once said to him in a vision that had taken his breath, a vision that might never exist.

He doesn’t have to imagine it anymore.

#Endgame #Endgame spoilers #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #Steggy #Steggy fic #things left behind fic #If Markus/McFeely and the Russos can have entirely different understandings of their whack time travel notions #I can do whatever the hell I want with it #(To be clear I'm siding with the Russos and their delightfully chaotic multiverse/alternate timeline.) #There might be another chapter to this but my relationship to fic these days is so extremely fraught that it's all entirely ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[lenaisanerd]

won’t you come on over

In which Izzy and Magnus hang out in the aftermath of swing a little further, paint their nails, and talk about relationships.

Read on AO3.

Listen on Spotify.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog!

Thanks again to my friends and editors @disaster-lesbiab, @raisehades and @beesarekind, who let me text them in the middle of the night to discuss this fic. I love you!

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Magnus Bane. Please don’t leave a message at the tone. I’m centuries old and even I think it’s outdated.”

“Magnus, it’s Izzy. Listen, we need to talk. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

A click resounded in Magnus’ ear, signalling the abrupt end of Isabelle’s message. The warlock stared at his phone in bemusement when next to him the coffee pot on the stove began to make gurgling noises. Magnus turned off the heat and divided the coffee between two cups, then added milk to one of them and handed the other cup to a very sleepy Alec, who had just walked into the kitchen. Alec took a careful sip and pressed a warm, coffee-flavoured kiss to his boyfriend’s lips. He pulled back, smiling softly, his hand resting on Magnus’ waist. Then he turned and padded out of the kitchen again.

Magnus followed to find Alec sitting at the table in the living room, looking out of the window at the thick clouds gathered over the East River and the Manhattan skyline. He had decided a while ago that he would never fully understand Alec’s enjoyment of rainy or gloomy weather. Admittedly, the steady patter of rain was soothing, and he even enjoyed the cool air flowing into the room through the open balcony door after the last few weeks had been relentlessly hot and humid. But rain like this, unending and monotone, just depressed him after a while, not to mention that leaving the house always meant getting ever so slightly wet, which was not one of Magnus’ favourite states of being.

Alec, however, seemed to delight in every rainstorm or light drizzle. It made him calm and he loved the fresh, cool air and the smell of rain on asphalt that permeated the city. In the soft grey light of the early morning his hazel eyes looked almost entirely green, framed by dark lashes still heavy with sleep. Magnus smiled fondly. Sometimes his boyfriend’s beauty still astounded him.

“I should call Isabelle back. Whatever it is sounds important.”

Alec’s brows furrowed. “Izzy called? On a Saturday, before 8 a.m.? Is something wrong?”

“Don’t worry, she didn’t seem too concerned. Besides,” Magnus said with a wry smile, dialing his phone, “she only called once and is not currently barging through the front door, so I expect she does not require immediate assistance.”

The phone rang one, two times, then Izzy’s clear voice came through the speaker: “Magnus, hi!”

She sounded out of breath, and in the background Magnus could hear the clanging of wood and metal echo through what must have been the Institute’s training room.

“Hey, Isabelle, you called earlier? Said you wanted to talk? I’m sorry, we just got up. You know how your brother is before he’s had coffee.”

Alec pulled a face at him. Magnus grinned.

“You… oh fuck, I’m sorry, did I wake you two up? I didn’t think about the time, I’ve been up for hours--”

“No, no, don’t worry, you didn’t disturb us. What’s the matter?”

The line went quiet for a moment. “Um, well. I was wondering if we could hang out today? Just the two of us? Of course if you want to spend the day with Alec, I completely understand, forget I asked.”

Normally, Isabelle Lightwood was a good bit more eloquent and less apologetic than this. Something is bothering her, Magnus thought. Well, there is only one solution.

“I would love to spend time with you. When should I expect you?”

Izzy seemed momentarily taken aback, but quickly caught herself, sounding carefree as ever. “Let me shower and get ready first, I’ll be there in an hour. See you then. Say hi to my brother dearest for me.”

“I’ll do that. Goodbye, Isabelle.”

 Alec got up and finished the last of his coffee just as Magnus hung up.

“Your sister sends her greetings, and herself. She’s coming over.”

“Then I guess I should make myself scarce for a few hours?”

 Magnus wrapped his arms around Alec’s waist, who returned the embrace.

“Gotta say, it’s pretty cold of you, just kicking me out like that,” Alec said with a completely straight face.

Although he would never tell him that, sometimes Alec’s deadpan humour almost fooled Magnus, with the Shadowhunter’s uncanny ability to instantly switch from sincere to sarcastic.

“Well, it’s for a good cause. And we’ll have the whole afternoon and evening to ourselves. We could order some food, watch a movie. I would even,” Magnus said with deliberation, “go on a walk with you. In the rain.”

Alec relented and his expression softened. He sighed.

“I still have some work to do back at the Institute anyway. I’ll go in now and when I come back,” he smiled deviously, “I’ll take you up on that walk offer. No umbrellas.”

Magnus leaned back against the safe grip of Alec’s arms, raising one hand to his temple and fluttering his eyelids with dramatic flair.

“Oh, what have I done to deserve such a merciless lover? Will he never let me rest?”

Alec giggled and pulled Magnus back up so the warlock could kiss him languidly, until Magnus finally let go to allow him to get his shoes and jacket.

“I’m just saying, if you think that Cate Blanchett is not the hottest person on screen at any given time, you are wrong! Wrong and blind!” Izzy said between sips of tea.

“Are you kidding me? This movie gives you Rihanna, Anne Hathaway and Richard Armitage and you go only for Cate Blanchett? You are limiting yourself.” Magnus gestured pointedly at her with the nail polish brush he was holding.

Izzy scoffed. “Richard Armitage was barely in this movie, and you want to tell me he’s more beautiful than Cate Blanchett? Please. He’s like a snooty Hugh Jackman. Don’t tell me you think that’s attractive.”

Magnus raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Instead he concentrated on applying a clean second coat of polish to Isabelle’s toenails. Her leg stretched almost the length of the sofa, with Magnus sitting on the opposite end, her foot in his lap. Almost two hours after Izzy had arrived at the loft the coffee table was crowded with snacks, a teapot and cups, and several bottles of nail polish. Isabelle’s fingernails were already coloured a deep violet, and she was holding her teacup gingerly to not mess up the paint job. A Bangles album was playing softly on the stereo, the beat intermingling with the sound of raindrops hitting metal roofs.

“There, Mademoiselle Lightwood. All done,” Magnus said as he performed a small flourish with the brush on Isabelle’s nail.

Isabelle sat up and pulled her knees to her chest to admire his work. The whole time she had spent at his apartment, Izzy had not dropped even a hint regarding the topic she had been so eager to discuss this morning on the phone. This was a fact Magnus was keenly aware of, and he was itching to ask her about it.

But a lot of experience interacting with the Lightwood siblings had taught him differently. They could rarely be pushed into talking about a specific thing and would only say something when they were absolutely ready for it. Which of course didn’t mean they were always graceful about it. Alec had a habit of stumbling over words when he tried to get something out of his system as quickly as possible and hadn’t really thought about what he was going to say.

With Izzy, however, it was the opposite. She would decide she had to talk about something, but then spent anywhere from ten minutes to the next few hours talking about anything_ but_ what was on her mind originally, until she felt sufficiently prepared to do it, at which point she would change the topic very suddenly. Attempting to hurry that process along would cause her to clam up immediately.

So the only thing to do was to wait. And Magnus was no stranger to waiting after all the time he had been alive, but that didn’t mean he liked doing it.

“Flawless, as always,” Izzy said, still examining her perfectly manicured nails. “Who knew 800-something-year-olds had such steady hands?”

“Well, let’s see how steady your hands are, young whippersnapper,” Magnus shot back with a smirk, “you’re doing mine next. But first--” he stood and picked up the tea tray--”I’m making some more tea. Any requests?”

Izzy smiled magnanimously and finished her cup. “Surprise me!”

Magnus nodded and turned towards the kitchen. As he measured tea leaves into the pot he heard steps behind him, and then a soft thump. The warlock looked up to see Isabelle perched on the counter next to where he was standing, her bare feet dangling above the floor, dark eyes watching his motions intently.

“Already bored without me?” Magnus asked, only half joking. Izzy could have something of an impatient streak, especially when there was something on her mind she’d rather not think about.

“Hmm?” Izzy made a distracted little sound and looked up at Magnus. “I was just wondering if you needed some help, that’s all,” she replied, in a tone that was so casual it was almost conspicuous. “Feels weird, suddenly doing nothing after all that work at the Institute. The last week was hell.”

Magnus sighed in sympathy. “Tell me about it. I was doing work for clients all week, otherwise I would have come to help you with that demon infestation. Why is it that people always decide they want something from you when ten others decide the same thing?”

“Right? If I ever have to fix some kids’ stele again it will be too soon. I’m pretty sure we didn’t break our shit this often when we were junior Hunters.”

The kettle whistled. Magnus took it off the stove to fill the tea pot with hot water. “What did you do back then?” He chuckled to himself. “I don’t know if I can imagine you and Alec running around killing demons when you were children.”

“That’s basically what we did though. Training, going on missions. Nothing big, obviously. We were all around 12, maybe 13 years old when we got our first runes, at that age you bust up a few lesser demons, maybe investigate some minor cases, and you’re done for the night.” Izzy grinned. “We used to come home after missions at like 3 a.m. and just fall into bed. Of course that meant the mission report usually got handed in late, but sometimes if it was really important and Jace and I begged him to do it, Alec would stay up and finish it. God, we were horrible.”

Although she seemed to remember all of this fondly, Magnus couldn’t help but feel a sort of protective instinct for the younger versions of Izzy, Alec, and Jace. Shadowhunters had truly strange notions of what was an appropriate task for a group of literal children. He rarely saw the youngest of the Shadowhunters at the Institute or out on a mission. But when he did spot some he wanted to take them all aside, give them some chocolate, a glass of milk and a sandwich, and send them all home to bed. They were just so young. Hell, Magnus wondered sometimes if Alec running an entire Institute at 23 was taking on a heavier duty than what he could, what he should have to endure. Dying young was no excuse to raise children as soldiers first, people second.

It was probably best not to think about that too much right now, though. That would just make him angry. And sad.

“You probably were. Then again, in my experience, most teenagers are horrible to a certain degree.”

Izzy nodded in agreement. Over the last year, an ever increasing stream of stories about the youngest Lightwood, Max, had reached Magnus, and judging by the tales of his exploits, the little terror was at least as much of a troublemaker as his older siblings. Which, of course, didn’t stop them from being frustrated and concerned.

“Alec wasn’t though. Horrible, I mean,” Izzy said fondly. ”Sure, he stuck too close to the rules. He’d act like Mom. He seemed to hate fun. But he was always looking out for me and Jace, often taking the heat for the stuff we’d done. And when he couldn’t keep us out of trouble, he would join in.”

“What sort of trouble?” Magnus was genuinely curious. Alec didn’t actively avoid the subject of his teenage years, it just didn’t come up often. Especially not the no doubt adorable stupidities he and his siblings had committed.

Isabelle thought for a moment, pursing her lips. “I remember we snuck out of the Institute once to go to some party, and it was summer. We were on our way back, it was really late, it was getting light. Alec wanted to hurry back home, because people would start waking up soon, and they’d notice we were gone. But Jace decided it would be fun to go swimming.” She grinned. “He might have been drunk at the time. Anyway, so we’re walking through Central Park, and Alec keeps trying to tell him it’s a bad idea, and Jace just takes off running and jumps over the fence into the Reservoir.”

Both of them burst into sudden laughter. Magnus thought that he had never heard something so distinctly Jace.

“Of course he got scratched up terribly by the bushes and trees on his way down the bank,” Izzy said when she had calmed down a bit, her shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter, “and the water by the shore is way too shallow for swimming, so he just wades in, trying to get out into the deeper parts, and he is just covered in leaves and twigs and mud. He looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

“And what did you do?”

“I joined him, of course. I just had the sense to take off my clothes first. And I didn’t just vault over the fence, I chose a spot where the bank was clear and the water deeper. So I swim out a little ways, and Alec is still standing on the pathway. I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, I was too far away, but he was probably trying to get us to come out.”

Magnus had no trouble imagining Alec as a lanky teen, exhausted after an illicit night out and exasperated with his siblings’ antics.

“Did you do as he said?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Izzy grinned. “Like I said, we were horrible. We just swam out further.”

“And Alec?”

Isabelle was silent for a moment, letting the suspense build.

“He jumped in after us.”

Magnus let out a laugh. “No!”

“Yes!” Izzy, too, was laughing again. “He undressed, and just jumped in. I guess he gave up, or maybe he decided he’d have an easier time getting us to come out from the water, or maybe he was fresh out of fucks to give about getting back home on time or reigning us in. So there we are, me and Alec in our underwear, and Jace still dressed, boots and all, swimming in the Central Park Reservoir at dawn. It was amazing.” Her laughter trailed off, the last tremors of it still clinging to her lips. “We were in so much trouble when we arrived at the Institute early in the morning, with Jace dripping wet.”

“You got grounded?”

“Yeah, and we were on cleaning duty for the next month. But it was worth it.”

Chuckling, Magnus transferred the pot onto the tea tray, and they made their way back into the living room. The rain dampened the noise of the traffic outside. Although it was still before noon, the thick blanket of clouds meant the daylight was weak and gloomy, and with a flick of his hand Magnus turned on several lamps strewn around the loft.

Isabelle had grown quiet, her arms wrapped around her torso as she sat down. As Magnus leaned forward to fill their cups, he heard her deep intake of breath, felt the nervous bounce of her leg on the sofa.

“Do you ever-- I mean, have you-- do you think there’s a difference, between dating men and dating women? Have you ever noticed something like that?”

Izzy had spoken very quickly, almost as if she was ashamed of the question. Now, however, she was looking resolutely ahead at Magnus, her insecurity betrayed only by her teeth digging into her lower lip.

Magnus considered the question for a moment.

“When one has lived as long as I have, these differences even out more and more. Every relationship is different, because every person is unique. In my experience, at least, a partner’s gender doesn’t matter much. What matters is whether or not there is a connection.”

“Like with Alec?”

Magnus nodded, a tiny smile sneaking onto his lips.

Izzy didn’t look entirely satisfied with this answer.

“I might not be the best person to ask, though,” Magnus admitted. “After all, my love life isn’t exactly what you’d call a universal experience.”

In response, Izzy uncrossed her arms. She inhaled deeply again, almost steeling herself to talk.

“It’s just-- I don’t know. For me, being with guys feels… different? Not bad, definitely, just a different sort of connection.”

“I would say there’s nothing wrong with having a preference, or feeling a difference. Being bisexual is not the same for everyone all the time.”

Her eyes wandered through the apartment and out of the window. “Yeah, I know. But I’m wondering if a relationship with a girl can work, if I can make it work. I guess I just realized that don’t have much experience being in serious relationships with men, but I have even less experience with women.”

Ah, Magnus thought. There it is. This was what Isabelle had been so anxious about. Of course it was a matter of the heart (it nearly always was in such cases).

Best to go at this gently then. “I’m guessing there is one specific reason you’ve been thinking about this?”

Like a deer caught in headlights, Izzy’s eyes snapped back to Magnus’. She swallowed hard.

“I might have… a crush. On-- on Clary.”

Magnus had to admit, this took him slightly aback. It wasn’t a complete surprise, though. Ever since the group of young Nephilim had first come to him for help Isabelle and Clary had seemed particularly fond of one another, their comradery resembling that of Alec and Jace even though they had only known each other for a few days. Over the following year this initial bond had grown into a deep friendship. Now that he thought about it, the two of them exchanged quite a few lingering looks, casual touches. No, this hadn’t come out of nowhere.

“And you haven’t told her?” he asked in a soft voice.

“No!” Izzy said loudly, and then quieter, “I needed to talk to someone who’d understand, who would know what to do. To you.”

Deep in his chest Magnus felt a warm rush of affection for his friend, mixed with more than a little pride that out of all her family and friends she would turn to him for advice on this, that she would share such an intimate secret with him.

“And anyway, I don’t even know if she feels the same way. What if I tell her and it breaks everything we have?”

She crossed her arms again and tucked both feet up onto the couch, curling up into herself more and more.

“I haven’t exactly had the best track record with relationships either, if you can call them that. Don’t get me wrong, I was never unhappy. But… well, most of them didn’t end well, if they ever really started. I don’t want that. For me or for her. Again, if I ever tell her and she likes me back.”

Isabelle’s voice had grown ever quieter while she talked. Now she was staring down into her lap, thick black hair falling forward over her shoulders and into her face. The music had stopped a while ago, and the rain was coming down harder, roaring in Magnus’ ears almost as loudly as the sudden stillness that had settled over the room. He shuffled down the length of the sofa until the side of his leg rested reassuringly against Izzy’s shins. Leaning back into the couch pillows he cleared his throat.

“You know, I’ve never told him this, but when I met Alec I was not sure he was interested in me,” he said softly. He felt Izzy’s gaze shift up towards him, but he looked down at his hands, playing absentmindedly with one of his many rings. “I know, in hindsight I must have seemed absolutely confident that he would fight for this, for what we have now. And sometimes I was actually convinced he felt the same about me as I did about him. Sometimes that confidence was real. But other times… it felt like I was on a fool’s errand. Like I was chasing this boy who would never admit to himself who he was. Like I couldn’t help him. Like I would run myself ragged trying to do something I was stupid to even try.”

He looked up at Izzy. “Over the years I have had quite a few crushes that went unreciprocated. It always hurts, even when you expect it. But being with Alexander has been worth a hundred times the fear I felt that he would reject me. Don’t run and hide, Isabelle. You’re a warrior. Fight for love.”

Isabelle said nothing, her deep brown eyes scanning his face. Then she sat up, unfolded her legs and put her feet back on the ground, and wrapped her arms around him. She relaxed into him as Magnus hugged her back, and they sat still like this for a moment. When Izzy drew back, Magnus could have sworn her eyes were a little misty.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice mostly steady. “I think… well, I’m not gonna pretend I know what to do now,” she let out a shaky little laugh, “but you definitely helped. So much. Thanks.”

“It was my pleasure. And thank you, for bringing your problems to this ridiculous, sappy old warlock,” Magnus replied with a grin. Izzy laughed again, longer and surer this time.

“Now,” Magnus continued, “tell me: Why Clary? What do you like about her?”

As Isabelle launched into a long list of her favourite things about Clary, starting with “her smile” and ending somewhere around “the way she frowns when she doesn’t like the song that’s playing, but doesn’t want to skip it because she knows you like it”, Magnus settled into the couch and snapped his fingers to turn the stereo back on. The music and the rain ran together into a melodious background hum as Izzy talked and Magnus listened with interest, occasionally offering up remarks. The tea on the coffee table grew cold. The wind blew coolly through the curtains.

When Alec got home that afternoon, Izzy was just on her way out.

“Alec!” She beamed at him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and drew him into a hug. This burst of affection and happiness was a little surprising; after all, Magnus had said she had sounded anxious on the phone this morning.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at her as she released him. “Everything okay, Iz?”

“Yep, I’m great now. Thanks for letting me borrow your boyfriend, big brother. I’ve hogged him for long enough, so I’d better leave you two lovebirds alone.” She smirked as he rolled his eyes, and after a quick “bye” in the direction of the kitchen she slipped out of the door.

Following the sounds of dishes clattering, Alec walked through into the kitchen, where Magnus was busy putting away a clean teapot and cups. He walked up to the warlock and wrapped his arms around him from behind, resting his chin on Magnus’ shoulder. Magnus tilted his head sideways so their cheeks touched and let out a contented hum.

“Izzy seems happy,” Alec said after a minute. “What did she want to talk to you about?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. But,” Magnus replied with a smile, “I expect you’ll find out soon enough, if Isabelle takes my excellent advice to heart.”

Alec’s curiosity wasn’t satisfied, but he knew when to stop prying. Instead he remembered his boyfriend’s promise from that morning.

“So. About that walk.”

Magnus gave a little sigh before he turned around to kiss Alec. Pulling back, he took Alec’s hand and walked towards the door, stopping only to grab his jacket on the way out.

When the door clicked shut behind them, the loft was quiet once again, filled only with the rustling of the curtains in the breeze coming in through the open balcony doors, the noise wafting up from the busy streets of Brooklyn below, and the ever-present, quietly insistent sound of the warm summer rain, falling.

#shadowhunters fic #clizzy #izzy&magnus #isabelle lightwood #magnus bane #malec #shadowhunters #sh writing #shadowhunters fanfiction #clary x izzy #my writing #fanfuckery #i am so tired of tumblr's bullshit i had to edit these fucking links 20.0000 times and IM DONE

[classywastelandbread-blog]

Things Soothed By Tea

All the pretty girls said “pick me up at 8” All the pretty girls said “I’m headed to LA” All the pretty girls said “I hate my hair” Talking to the mirror in their underwear

~All The Pretty Girls by Kenny Chesney

Li Xuan-Feng’s hands shook.

They ran their fingers over the bare flesh of their ribs, feeling the natural divots of bone and the unnatural curve where a broken rib had healed badly. The soft morning light did them better justice than the harsh fluorescent bulbs in the lamp beside the mirror, which would more highlight the play of light and shadow on their pale golden skin. On a good day they would appreciate the sharp lines they cut against their thin body, how the bright glow turned their skin shades lighter than it really was.

…but this was not a good day.

Today they wanted the soft natural light of the sun to cast charcoal fingers, try to hide the visible curve of their ribs and diaphragm, the hollows of their collarbones. One sat strangely, not quite symmetrical with the other and the pale pink scar along their shoulder seemed like the leering grin of a hungry demon.

So reminded of scars, their eyes caught the signs of the others, some healed and nearly-invisible, others more obvious than the others. They all seemed grouped, clustered, drawn to their ribs like a magnet. On a good day they would find this amusing but again, this wasn’t a good day.

Their fingers, still shaking, left the unnatural curl of their ribs to trace one such scar: a knife wound from a misspent youth or perhaps one could say it was simply from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had dodged the initial lunge for the most part, but the knife had sunk an inch into the skin and muscle. The worst of the damage had been done when their assailant had pulled the knife out – the serrated blade had scored a deep line in their ribs.

There was another one: a whip weal of all things from a child who thought they were cool than they truly were for having one and cooler for using it to strike a freak of nature like Li Xuan-Feng.

Their hands were shaking, their fingertips becoming cold – colder because they always seemed to be somewhat chilled. Turning from the mirror, they got dressed.

Today it was in an old English style like their foster-mum had worn on such days: thick leggings, a long wool skirt, and a long-sleeved button-up. Makeup as well – just enough to cover their pallor, the shadows beneath their eyes; red lipstick to give the impression of more confidence than what they felt.

The phone rang (big surprise there) as they were locking the door behind them. “Hai, moshi-moshi,” they said absently as they wrestled the key from the lock.

“Good morning!” Aimi-sama said in rough Mandarin. It had been her goal to learn their native tongue but it was difficult going since she had half-learned Cantonese from someone named Herbalist Tang – she kept confusing her words in either language which to her sounded more or less the same.

“Good morning, Aimi-sama,” they replied, glad to hear that their voice didn’t waver. The hand not holding the phone still shook and they clenched their fist in the silk-lined pocket of their pea coat and ordered it – as if it would listen – to stop. “How may I help you this morning?”

Not ready, the small, childish voice buried deep at their center said. Not ready, not ready, not ready. It was a voice that they were fairly certain would stay with them forever; they simply learned to ignore it because the Shimadas were more important, more interesting than the doubt-ridden voice.

“I was hoping that you would join us for tea this morning,” Aimi-sama said, switching back to Japanese. “How would I say that?”

The enormous torii gates rose in the distance, the start of the grounds of the Ueoka-Shimada shrine. Lao Fugui, the owner of a small teashop nearby, waved as he caught sight of them down the hill. Absently, Li Xuan-Feng repeated the phrase for her in Mandarin, and then again, slower, so she could hear the accents better.

Lao Fugui, hearing them as they approached, rolled his eyes. With their free hand, they held up a fist with their thumb and little finger extended; Lao Fugui prepared the requested amount and traded it for the bills Li Xuan-Feng held out.

“I’ll need to work on that,” Aimi-sama said.

In the background of the call, Li Xuan-Feng could hear Jesse say, “Is that Li?” but with the cowboy’s accent, it sounded more like Lĭì which made them, seemingly against all odds, smile. “Annyeonghaseyo!”

Li Xuan-Feng smiled so widely that Lao Fugui looked suspiciously at them. Still, he waved politely and then made a rude gesture as if to shoo them away. Ignoring him, they continued down the path toward the shrine gate.

“He’s very proud of himself,” Aimi-sama said in Japanese, most likely to spare Jesse the embarrassment of knowing they were gossiping about the accent that pervaded all of his words.

Li Xuan-Feng chuckled and even the doubtful voice was mollified a bit. “Baby steps. I just bought some tea from Lao Fugui,” they added. “Enough for all of us.”

“Lovely!” Aimi-sama said, switching to English, most likely for Jesse. “Hanzo is making breakfast. Have you eaten yet?”

Not ready, not ready, not ready, the voice inside them moaned.

“What about me?” they heard Jesse ask in the background.

Distantly, they heard Hana-chan say, “You’re eating all of the fixin’s!”

“Am not!” they heard Jesse argue. Then, “You’re eating jus’ as much as me!”

Talking over them, Aimi-sama said, “About how far away are you?”

“I’m just exiting the first courtyard,” Li Xuan-Feng told her, their pace subtly quickening. They stopped beside one of the many stone gardens, startling the miko tending to it. Such a novel experience, to be so excited for something so simple, they mused to themselves, giving a short bow to the miko in apology. Chihiro-san rolled her eyes but returned the bow with a sly smile and returned to her work. “I will be there in a few moments.”

The water was already boiling in the old-fashioned kettle on the stove, which they could faintly hear whistling, when they took off their boots at the door, and Hana-chan was there at the shoji door to greet them excitedly. Proudly she showed off her makeup – she kept the two triangles on her face like down-turned whiskers, colored in with the bright pink pencil they had both gotten at the store. They were more or less symmetrical, but her eyeliner almost wasn’t, one eye being slightly darker than the other and one upturned point slightly longer than the other side.

Smiling, they gently wiped the longer side to make it more even and cupped her cheeks in their hands.

They realized that they were still shaking minutely when she covered their hands with her own and squeezed them gently. There was a sad kind of understanding they didn’t expect to see in an eleven year-old but then, Hana-chan was far from your typical child. “Come on!” she said excitedly in English. “Hanzo’s almost done! He made enchiladas!”

Still holding their hands, she tugged them into the main part of the house where Jesse, under Aimi-sama’s direction, was just pouring boiling water from the kettle into the teapot to serve. He nearly spilled it when he looked up and tried to wave but caught himself at just the last minute. Aimi-sama slapped his shoulder for his inattention when he put the heavy kettle down but the cowboy only laughed, carrying on as if it were a mortal wound.

Hana-chan tugged them toward the table with the tea. “Will you show me how to make tea correctly?” she asked but despite the phrase and inflection it was very much a demand. They handed over the tea they had bought and Hana-chan let them hide their shaking hands under the table as they instructed her.

Not ready, not ready, not ready.

They watched Hanzo emerge from the kitchen, a steaming dish in their hands. As he passed Jesse he paused for a kiss and Aimi­-sama rolled her eyes fondly at them. Jesse set out plates and utensils while Hanzo carefully placed the hot dish on a metal cooling rack; Aimi-sama brought out small dishes of onions, more cheese, refried beans, olives, shredded lettuce, and diced tomatoes. No one let them get up to help and Hana-chan claimed that she needed them next to her to make sure she didn’t ruin good tea.

As the youngest she poured first for Aimi-sama, then for Li Xuan-Feng – as the guest of honor, she explained – then Hanzo, Jesse, and finally herself. She leaned rudely over them too, to make them a plate – before Jesse eats it all! She had explained as the cowboy protested – but they couldn’t find it in themselves to mind even a little.

The family’s chatter washed over them as they curled their chilled fingers around the heavy ceramic mug painted with a smug cat’s smile. The childish, doubtful voice still whispered, not ready, not ready, not ready, but it was easy to drown it out with Jesse’s booming laughter and hooked syllables, with Hanzo’s dry humor, and Hana-chan’s childish glee.

Aimi-sama smiled at them across the table and toasted them quietly with her own mug. Smiling, they returned the gesture, their shakes more under control, and sipped their tea.

I’d been struggling to find a way for Li Xuan-Feng enjoy their tea and isn’t that the saddest thing? But on the way in to work this morning I heard this on my usual country station and realized that despite how confident, personable, and competent they seem, they are still plagued with the usual insecurities - more so in some ways. 

#Good Directions #LXF enjoys their tea #I have no idea why they're eating enchiladas at 8am but there you go #DC writes

[sceawere]

another time pt. 4 | alfie solomons

you get two parts tonight to make up for waiting two months for an update

[part one] [part two] [part three] 

Alfie’s place was not what you expected. He sniffed and mumbled to himself as he shuffled his way down the thin entrance way while you marvelled at the beautiful stained glass doorway he’d just walked you through. His driver – because he had one of those, and a car, you noted – had brought you across Camden to the little flat tucked onto the back of the canal. Alfie had pointed out things as you’d driven around, telling stories of childhood antics, trying to make you less twitchy.

“Come on in, love, you’re making me feels at odds in my own home here” echoed down the hallway.

You followed after him, stepping out into a hallway and not sure which way to head.

“I’m down here” you turned your head but couldn’t see him, following his voice into a little kitchen. There was no door, just an archway, so you hovered there. He was pottering around the little room, readying a teapot and trying to light an un-cooperative stove.

“Fucking thing, nuisance this is” he muttered to himself, bending back to see if the flames were under the pot yet. A smile crept over your face at the sight, a man who’d threatened to shoot you not an hour ago making tea in a cosy little kitchen. He sniffed and righted himself, wiping his hands over his waistcoat before he unbuttoned it and turned to you.

“How’d you have your tea, love?”

“Uhh…”

“Cos I like it so strong you might as well’ve licked the bag, you know?”

You laughed as he fished a container off the little shelf attached to the wall, flowery ceramic with a wooden lit that didn’t quite fit.

“Yeah, sounds perfect, Mr Solomons”

He hummed to himself, pulling open the little fridge and you noticed how cute it looked, the earliest version you’d seen.

“Have we got- yes, milk” he knocked the door closed and set the bottle on the counter, shrugging off his waistcoat and stepping to go past you.

You stepped back into the hallway, flattening yourself to the wall as he passed. You watched him walk down the corridor and open a door, the edge of a bed peeking out through the way. He threw the bundle of cloth in his hand onto the end, opening drawers and pulling out bundles to replace them.

“Keep an eye on that kettle for me, will you?” he tossed over his shoulder, right before he pulled the edge of his shirt from his waistband and began to lift it over his head. He had an undershirt on but you turned your head anyway and stepped into the little kitchen. The sudden thought that if events were to play out as they ‘were supposed to’ this would be your kitchen hit you. This man would be your husband. The thought didn’t terrify you as much as you thought it should. It felt right, standing here. As though you were meant to inhabit this space.

You toed off your shoes, kicking them out into the hall, then thinking better of it and retrieving them. You shot a look down the hall as you bent to pick them up but Alfie has disappeared into the room, where you couldn’t see. Music started playing lightly as you toed your way down the hall, scratchy and warm. You listened as you dropped your heels around the corner in the entryway, where he wouldn’t trip over them. Your hands trailed over the patterns in the wallpaper as you made your way back. You liked it, this place. The cosy little flat on the canal. It didn’t seem like the kind of place an old time gangster lived. You laughed to yourself a little as you wrapped a linen around the kettle handle and moved it carefully from the burner onto the wooden block on the counter.

“You laughing at my house now?” Alfie asked as he appeared in the doorway, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. You curled your toes on the cold tiles, dragging the cups over and filling them. You smiled back at him as you settled the kettle down and swiped a cup over towards him.

“I like your house. Did it start raining when I didn’t notice? Stick your head out the window like a puppy, did you?” you teased, nodding to his damp hair.

“What – a man’s not allowed to wash off a long day of saving stray women now, eh?”

He brought the towel from where he’d let it slump on his shoulder to snap at your bare thigh and you squeaked, jumping back. You caught your arm on the edge of the burner as you went, the metal grilling still hot to the touch and it broke your laugh into a hiss as you lifted it away.

“Ah, shit” Alfie surged forward, bringing the wet towel to your skin in a second “Fuck, sorry love”

“Ah, nonono don’t worry” you broke back into laughs, sniffing and squinting.

“You’ve been here five minutes, I’m already scarring you for life”

You smiled up at him, peeling the towel away to show him the little pink mark on your forearm.

“See? Didn’t even burn it properly” he settled but didn’t move away “Mr Solomons, I’m really-“

“Alfie. I’m at home, don’t want none of that ‘mister’ here” he reached to properly wet the towel under the tap and hold it back against your forearm “hold it there a bit longer, go on”

You wrapped your fingers over his and he made sure it was secure before he pulled his hand back.

“Right, sit yourself down” he motioned towards the table tucked into the corner and you pottered over, shuffling into the seat. It was in fact raining now, you realised, as you looked to the window at your side. The net curtains transformed the low beams of light into lacey patterns on the table, on your arm. The music built up in the background and you smiled again. God, you loved this place already. Maybe…if you had to be stuck somewhere, at least it was here.

“What you smiling at while you got half your arm hanging off? You going delirious on me?” Alfie asked as he placed your cup before you, dropping himself into the seat opposite you.

“I really like this house, Alfie”

He rested his elbow on the table, his fist against his jaw. He looked up at you and you realised now he looked as tired as you felt.

“First place I ever bought with my own money this” he lifted a finger to motion to the ceiling, keeping his eyes to you “yeah. Lived her when I first started out. Haven’t stayed here in a while though. Have the boys keep it stocked for when I need to drop in, pressing business and the like”

“You worried I’ll think you’re not a big shot because you didn’t bring me to a mansion?” you teased him, eyes fluttering as your lethargy caught up to you again. It’d be a long, draining day but if you didn’t just want to sit here all night, in this kitchen.

“No, no. I do have one though, put that on the record” he brought his hand down to tap at the table and you smiled. He smiled back, bringing the hand up to lift the cup to blow air over the steaming liquid.

“It’s cosy in here” you snuggled against the wall as you spoke.

“You say that like you’re surprised”

“Wow, excellent perception there, Mr Solomons”

“What have I told you about that?”

You let your eyes shut for just a moment.

“I am – surprised”

“Why?” he settled the cup back down, running a hand over his chin.

“You don’t imagine you to live in places like this”

“Whose ‘you’?” he lifted his eyes to you and you turned you head slightly, blinking.

“Club owners” you said slowly, with a tone that both of you recognised as sarcastic. He blinked back at you, lifting his cup again. You hadn’t pissed him off.

“What do you think we live in?”

“I think you live in houses, just not…homes? I don’t know ‘domestic gangsters’ isn’t a combination I often think of” you rolled the towel back to check your arm, the pink mark still there but not worrying you. You let it fall into a heap and swapped your hold to that of the cup.

“Everyone of ‘em I’ve met has had a mother at some point, most of ‘em have wives, some of ‘em even have kids”

“You got a secret family tucked away in that mansion of yours, Alfie?” you met his eyes, blowing air over your own tea. You meant it as a joke but suddenly the realisation hit you. What if he did? His scoff settled your nerves.

“Nah, darlin’. Can’t find no-one to put up with me” he finished his cup, walking it over to the sink.

“Oh, well then” you lifted yourself and mimicked his actions as he moved out of the room, pointing back at you.

“Get that towel off that table. Bring it with you, not having you littering up the place” he ordered.

You rolled your eyes, not that he could see as he was already off down the corridor. The towel slid off the table, trailing behind you, and you stumbled after him. The music was coming from the open living room, tucked in next to the bedroom. You noticed the player resting on a cabinet as you walked past, spinning away in the empty room. You took in the space, like a scene from a museum.

“You gonna stand there all night? I’m trying to be hospitable here. Got a shirt laid out for you and everything, caring host as I am” Alfie appeared in the doorway next to you and you look up at him, the music spilling out into the hall with you both. He furrowed his brow as you blinked up at him, smiling.

“Oh, will you stop it” he moaned at you.

“What am I-?” you raised your arms in protest.

“You, looking like you’ve never seen the inside of a house before. Have…are you-“

“We have houses in the future, Alfie. I just really like this place” he nodded as you spoke, arms resting on the doorframe.

“Right, well. Stop being cute and get in here” he stepped back into the bedroom and you lifted your eyebrows, rolling your lips between your teeth. After a few moments, he stepped back out.

“What I mean is-“

“No, you were clear”

“No, I think I may have-“

“Cute girl reporting to your bedroom, Mister Solomons” you shuffled past him and he sighed, making a grumble in his throat that made you laugh.

“Couple hours ago you were terrified and now you’re acting like you run the place. How soon can I shove you back through whatever tunnel brought you here, eh?” he teased back as you dropped to the end of the bed. He frowned when he caught your face drop.

“I was kidding, love”

“No, it’s-I haven’t…I don’t know if I can go home. I don’t know how I got here, so I can’t…I don’t even know if I want to go home yet” you whispered the end to yourself, something in your chest twinging at the thought.

“Well, you can’t stay here, can you sweet?” he didn’t sound fully convinced himself as he perched himself against the cabinet opposite you “This ain’t your time, what you gonna do? Start from scratch?”

“Why not?” you questioned and he paused for a moment “your mum didn’t have nothing when she started here. She made a life, didn’t she?”

You caught the tug of his lips as he nodded back to you, the glint in his eye.

You thought back to the photos in the cases. The marriage certificate with both your names on it. At some point in time – the thought nearly made you laugh – you’d lived here. Lived a life here, with the man before you. Lived another life in another time.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go home.

#|writing #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders imagine #alfie solomons

[apkilby]

Monday mornings are no exception to the rule. I guess like most I’m up early; around 5 AM, to let the hurricanes out for their morning tinkle before their breakfast. This usually constitutes a “One Eye Open Policy” due to the light as it burns through my retinas as I open the door.

My home for the most part during the night hours, is protected by blackout curtains/blinds, to filter out the light pollution that surrounds most urban lived areas these days. I’m both gifted and cursed as I see better in the dark and in the light, as most do who are Photophobic.

Anyway I’m digressing.

After closing the door on a yet to be woken world, all five of my hurricanes sit looking at me “Waiting!”

As soon as I pick up their bowls to weight out their food, the sitting stops and the parade of excitement ensues until the bowls are placed in front of them.

Giving me their paws in eager anticipation, their feeding frenzy begins.

  After my quick morning yawn as I commit to the day, my morning ritual begins; You know the usual things that happened during mornings…

On goes the kettle out comes the cup, okay so I’m not sure but I think, most people here would be making coffee (usually with a fanged-dangled machine, from the likes of Nespresso, oh don’t get me wrong I have one of those, but I’m not a fan of coffee at all!)

So instead I grab a teapot and my jar of loose tea from the cupboard and well, I’m pretty sure you know the methodology after that for making tea.

Moving on after clearing the pots is a shower; it wakes up all the sleepy senses and prepares my body for the onslaught of the coming day.

By now a couple of hours have passed and I’m dressed and about to continue with my ritual morning routine.

My first tasks of the day are to check emails, social media and catch up with the world. (Although if I am to be totally honest here I get a little frustrated with the news and social media) I generally spend about two hours of the morning reading and replying to emails. I much prefer however the opening of letters especially the handwritten types, and as long as my regular post-persons are doing their rounds, my post usually arrives as I just finish up with my digital mail.

The patience of Tempy, Kodi, Izzy, Lexi and River is now wearing a little thin and the excitement starts to build as they pace around knowing it’s ‘Walkies’ time.

Having five dogs is no easy task especially when they’re all tentative and running about the place, but honestly I couldn’t ask for more well-behaved companions.

Apart from writing which is a true passion and an absolute favourite pastime of mine, not to mention a compulsive part of my hypergraphia, my absolute most favourite thing in the world to do is to take the hurricanes for their walks, in fact spending any time with them is my favourite thing to do.

Again I’m starting to digress, sorry.

So…

The doggies have been for their walk and are now settled, at least for a few hours.

It’s now time to start my working day, if of course you can call it that. It all starts with a box folder, I have many box folders filed all over the place.

  (I have two different types of box folder, one is black the other is a natural cardboard colour, this for me is a kind of code system, it tells me the type of work it is)

I also have many current projects on the go, so after choosing which current project I want to work on at this time, I read my catch up notes. I then open the notebook enclosed in the folder to find the last page I was working on.

I should have really mentioned before, but in between all this I set up my desk for the day, this in itself is a multi-integral manoeuvre of a task consisting of quantum space mechanics.

No seriously.

I use a multitude of tools to write, most of which are usually in the background doing something mundane while I scribbled in an open notebook.

My working day has finally begun.

This is just a typical Monday morning for me, I do try to not plan much for Monday’s, for most people it’s a very stressful return to work after the weekend, and to be honest it carries an infectious toxic attitude when people have a negative thought towards Monday and the beginnings of the week. Plus I feel if I can accomplish a lot on Mondays I can do it all through the rest of the week.

  A few hours have passed, several thousand words have been scribbled and typed and the doggies have woken from their slumber.

Play time…

I cherish this above just about everything else, with the exception of cuddle time. I get such an overwhelming joyous feeling when they’re all getting excited their tails wagging and toys in mouth. It’s then they begin their harmonious playful chaos.

I’m sure most including myself see this as procrastination, but it is something I promised myself when they’re little paws first crossed the threshold of my heart.

“There is nothing more important than spending time in braced in love and family and they are my family, most of all they fill me with love and almost certainly one of the main reasons I live my life. No matter the circumstance, time or feeling all they have a show is love and loyalty; so they deserve every minute of my time and my unconditional love and attention.”

  That being said because of this, they are the only thing that can snap me out of a hypergraphic rage.

The day has now started to slip by and it is now well into the afternoon, it is at this point I start to question if I’m hungry or not either way it’s time for a cuppa.

Brief intermission… (Consisting of a cup of tea and biscuits, to which the hurricanes  will have too)

Several minutes later..

Okay so where was I?

Oh yes cuppa.

Tea is a must, as mentioned I’m not a coffee drinker, I have tried but it must be an acquired taste because it’s just not for me. It is around this time while drinking my tea that I usually check my emails again, more than likely there is a few that need a response and I’ve put them on a checklist to do later. As you can imagine after checking emails the dogs have once again settled and entered the Sandman’s realm.

It is at this point I usually change to a different box and a different notebook. Then my writing continues throughout the afternoon and into the early evening.

Being hypergraphic this means that my writing continues without interruption. (As long as the dog sleep of course.) 

I won’t bore you with the details of me sat in front of a computer or a notebook scribbling away or typing away so I’ll just fast forward a few hours.

I’ve fed the Hurricanes their dinner and I’ve had an hour watching YouTuber’s. (I’ll explain the YouTuber’s thing later, as I’m going to do a separate blog thingy on its own about my down time).

It’s approaching nighttime, it’s already dark due to Spring (and the changing to BST). Spring starts here in the UK on 21 March (and just for reference purposes Summer starts on the 21 June, Autumn 21 September, and winter doesn’t actually start until 21 December.)

This is when I actually come into my element, ‘Night Time!’ 

This is normally when I plan excursions with the dogs such as midnight trips to the beach, walks along the cliffs, rambles down to the valleys and anywhere else we can explore, to be honest it gets me away from my home and desk for just a short period of time. This also gives me time as a writer to rejuvenate myself, give me new ideas, new concepts, it also give me an opportunity to write in a completely different location and surroundings; while enjoying the little things and the playful attributes of my three hurricanes.

I know it sounds silly doing fun playful things during the night, but this truly is the best time, hardly anyone is around, and the doggies get to enjoy a lot more freedoms they wouldn’t get during the day.

Once back home, around quarter-to-one, I get in the shower (yes another shower) before jumping into bed.

Now truth be told bed doesn’t mean sleep for me it’s just another location to write. However while writing in bed, I’m usually joined by orchestral snoring from the rest of the household. By the time I put my pen and paper down it may be around 3:30 AM this is about the time I may just put my head down to go to sleep, but to be honest my brain rarely switches off and so some nights I don’t even put my head down at all, I just spend the night writing, ah the joys of hypergraphia and the midnight disease.

However during the period of the 4 AM miracle this is when I get to write whatever my torrid imagination wishes and that’s it my typical Monday early to rise and like to bed and I’m pretty sure everyone’s got a similar story right?

Early to rise, late to bed. Monday mornings are no exception to the rule. I guess like most I'm up early; around 5 AM, to let the hurricanes out for their morning tinkle before their breakfast.