#but there will be a greenhouse post in the future! :)

[hedgehog-moss]

My second pasture down near the torrent is too overgrown to be used as a pasture, and I've been cutting some trees in order to rehabilitate at least half of it, so I can use the grass to make my winter's supply of hay at some point in the future. Some of the logs I cut were really heavy and I could only carry them two at a time at most (and it's uphill) so I finally decided to ask Pirlouit to contribute.

I say “finally” because my donkey is afraid of everything so it was a very long journey to get to this point! When I got him he was almost a feral donkey and at first I could barely approach him, he’d just run away and hide. After a few months of hanging out in his pasture, looking harmless and not bothering him, I was allowed to stroke his nose but only if I was simultaneously offering him treats (progress! he used to stretch out his neck and lips as much as he could to catch my treats while maintaining a prudent distance.) After maybe a year he started consistently walking up to say hi of his own free will when I went into the pasture, but if I had a rope or a halter with me he’d run and hide. It took nearly three years for him to come to me willingly even when he could see I meant to catch him. I kept our outings pleasant, like taking him to a nice spot in the woods to eat brambles while I sat nearby and read and didn’t ask anything of him (beyond basic landscaping services.)

But I have a lot of heavy logs to carry up a steep slope all the way to my woodshed, and the time has finally come for Pirlouit to get a job.

Pirlouit: "Oh no"

There were a lot of preliminary steps here as well, like showing him the bag I meant to use to carry the logs and waiting patiently for Pirlouit and the bag to get acquainted. (Initial reaction: “AAAAAaaaahhhhh a big red bag” evolving into mere distrust then extremely wary nose-poking, then, when bag failed to attack, serene indifference.)

Pirlouit: "I've always loved this bag. Don't know what you're talking about"

I don’t have a girth to keep the bag in place on Pirlouit’s back but with a balanced weight of logs on each side it was quite stable. Pirou grudgingly tolerated having the bag on his back while standing still, but started freaking out when asked to walk with it. Maybe he felt that the logs were heavy cylindrical children who had been entrusted to him and he feared that they would fall down—he refused to walk if I didn’t keep my hand on the bag to stabilise it. The problem is, he also refuses to walk (in general) if I’m walking next to him rather than ahead of him. And I can’t hold on to the bag if I’m not next to him.

Dilemma.

(“He refuses to walk if I do [X] but he also refuses to walk if I do [opposite of X]” is a very donkey-owner problem to have.)

So, I walked ahead of him but at first we literally moved one small step at a time. Eventually when he realised the bag was solidly weighed down and didn’t wobble from side to side or slide off his back, he started walking more trustingly. (We went up the hill in a wide zigzag rather than straight ahead so the bag wouldn’t slide backwards.) At times he seemed to forget about the bag, then suddenly remembered its existence and stopped dead and became anxious again. It was a slow progress across the pasture, but then we crossed the road and reached Pirlouit’s own pasture, and he relaxed a bit.

The llama children were intensely curious as always and I think Pirlouit felt quite flattered. He didn’t stop walking and didn’t freak out once as we walked up to the house; the llamas followed us admiringly and Pirlouit walked confidently as if to say “Look what I can do.”

Since this experiment proved successful I will try to find some sort of girth to attach the bag (would love to have a proper pack saddle but they’re expensive...!) We made a couple more trips the next day—I was wondering how Pirlouit would greet me, because when he doesn’t like something we’ve done he straight-up sulks for a few days and refuses to let me come near. He did that a lot when I was starting to get him used to the halter. But the day after his first log-carrying mission he came to greet me as usual and let me halter him without a fuss, so he didn’t mind being hired to do this.

A round of applause for Sir Pirlouit, a donkey with a job!

#crawling along #in the background of the video you can see my greenhouse's skeleton! #it should have been completed by now but one of the two people who were supposed to help build it got covid #i am a bit cursed with this greenhouse #but there will be a greenhouse post in the future! :)

[solarpunkswy]

Remember that our future doesn't have to be terrible! We're creating it and we should take action to create the future of our desire. Try to make the world a better place each day for yourself and others.

#solar punk #solarpunk #optimism #positivity #punk #future #earth #gardening #guerilla gardening #greenhouse #peace #planting #plants #small post for today because of school

[artharakka]

May’s Patreon sketch reward 🌱

#posting with the patron's permission #this might be a little more complicated with coloring than the future one's will be #cottage #magic #greenhouse #fantasy #d&d #dnd #ttrpg

[magnoliae]

no offence but I dont give two shits how big a carbon footprint inhalers and other medical equipment have when theyre keeping someone alive. like sorry you shouldnt feel guilty over the medical device that allows you to breathe when shell can guzzle oil directly into a birds mouth and nothing happens

EDIT: yes this post is about plastic but its not just that. I'm talking about any waste, any environmental impact. MDIs release greenhouse gases but its worth it to keep even one person alive. we cant live in a future where lines are drawn over what is "too much". carbon footprints will be the death of us

#wee woo wee woo psa this user is not an american 😃 #environmentalism

[fleuraliasave]

❤ Version 7.0 Fleuralia Save File ❤

Download link down below (please read entire post before installing)

This save file uses all EP’s, GP’s (not Journey to Batuu), SP’s and most of the kits (Country Kitchen, Blooming Rooms, Incheon Arrivals, Retro Fit, Industrial loft, Moonlight Chic, Little Campers, Pastel Pop, Everyday Clutter, Bathroom Clutter, Simtimates Collection, First Fits, Desert Luxe, Modern Luxe, Poolside Splash, Book Nook, Basement treasures, Greenhouse Haven, Pastel Pop and Bust the Dust).

What’s new in this update?:

Chestnut Ridge and Tomarang have been completely redone, added multiple new lots, updated other lots and provided make-overs for the households.

Added new households (when living in world; with jobs, friends, preferences etc).

Added rental lots in multiple other worlds outside of Tomarang (Brindleton Bay, Henford-on-Bagley, Britechester and more).

Spooky Fall Festival has been moved to Chestnut Ridge (bigger with haunted house ride). The old lot in Brindleton Bay has been changed into a cemetery.

Current Status of Worlds:

Finished worlds: Willow Creek, Oasis Springs, Newcrest, Magnolia Promenade, Windenburg, San Myshuno, Forgotten Hollow, Brindleton Bay, Del Sol Valley, StrangerVille, Glimmerbrook, Sulani, Britechester , Evergreen Harbor, Mt. Komorebi, Henford-on-Bagley, Tartosa, Moonwood Mill, Copperdale, San Sequoia, Chestnut Ridge (NEW!) and Tomarang (NEW!).

Finished vacation worlds: Granite Falls and Selvadorada.

Finihed other lots: Hospital, Science Lab and the Police Station.

To be updated: the Magic Realm, will either be included in a future update or on the gallery (OriginID: fleuralia)

What do you get with this save?:

For my save file all lots are either completely new builds (almost all) or renovations, ofcourse created by me. Exceptions: I have added the official builds for the releases of the Paranormal SP by Dr Ashley and the Dream Home Decorator GP by Deligracy to this save, since I thought they deserved a spot. These two are therefore not my own creations, credits are given in the description to Dr Ashley and Deligracy. Mt. Komorebi, Henford-on-Bagley, Tartosa, Moonwood Mill, Copperdale, San Sequoia and Chestnut Ridge lots are largely created by GameChangers. Most lots have gotten smaller updates, others are completely new builds by me.

All the townies had make-overs plus I added new families to spice it up a bit. Some of the townies are made by other creators, who are given credits in the description of the household. All the townies in the different worlds have a story, some include sentiments and adjusted relationships to the story.

Added plenty of community lots to give your Sims something to do (YAY!). Almost every world has one restaurant, but it also includes festivals that represent the four seasons (park lots) and a fully functional shopping street in Magnolia Promenade (toy store, bridal store and more).

I have added rental lots so you can go on vacation in more worlds. For example in Sulani, Willow Creek and Windenburg.

Other details:

As mentioned at the beginning, this save uses almost all packs (except Journey to Batuu and some kits). This means that if you download it without owning or installing most of the packs a lot of objects will disappear from the save, but if you are not bothered by this you can still download and play in it.  

I disabled the autonomous fame gain and neigborhood action plan voting/environmental changes, you enable them again in the pack settings menu.

I would love to add some households in this save created by all of you! Add your household under the hashtag #fleuraliatownies in The Sims 4 Gallery, you can add a storyline and world in the description but thats not obligatory. If I respond on your creation it means that I have incorporated it in the save for the next update.

Sadly every game update comes with a lot of bugs. I suggest before reporting problems in the save to me, to check on forums if its related to a general bug/glitch or to mods (if you use them).

Questions and supportive feedback are always welcome, you can reach me here via a comment on this post, an ask or through a DM 😁

How to make it work in your game:

Download the save file from the link below.

Drag it in your saves folder under: PC/Documents/Electronic Arts/The Sims 4/saves.

Change the numbers if you already have a save with the same name.

It should now show up in your game as: Fleuralia Save Version 7.0.

DOWNLOAD (SFS) / Alternate (GD)

!!Don’t re-upload or claim as your own!!

Future updates will follow after each pack release (if it includes a world). The time the update will be uploaded after each release depends on how much I have to change and on my work schedule around that time.

Last but not least, enjoy and till next time! XX

Fleuralia

Feel free to support me ❤️: Ko-fi account

#fleuraliasave #save file #update #sims 4 save file #fleuraliatownies

[hamsterclaw]

Bloom

Bangtan Christmas 2023 drabble 2 - read the rest here.

In a post-nuclear war world, all you have is your son Jiwon. You'd do anything to keep him safe, including putting your trust in your new neighbour Kim Namjoon. You hope you haven't made the biggest mistake of your life.

Pairing: Namjoon x f! reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Dystopian future AU, smut, single mother reader

Warnings: Sex, swearing, violence

Word count: 7.5k

With thanks to @vyduan for helping me work out the kinks (heh) in this story. Love you, Vy.

Author note: Written in response to an ask I got early in the year - a story I've kept chipping away at and now it's finally finished. Anon, I think about you often and I hope you and your kids are doing well. I hope you've had time to heal and no longer think of yourself as a heartbroken single mom, because you are and have always been more than that.

Your breath comes out in puffs of white as you carry an armful of logs to the furnace powering your greenhouse.

Inside, the air is humid, warm, perfect for the vegetables you’re carefully cultivating. Outside, the cold of a perennial winter’s seeped into your bones.

Nothing grows outside, not since the Great War. 

You wonder why they call it ‘great’ when everything is worse now than it was before the war.

You’re emerging from the greenhouse, wiping your hands on a soiled rag, when you hear your new neighbour singing softly.

He’s got a melodious voice with a gorgeous husky tone. You smile to yourself as he sings a tune you know.

Suddenly he stops. ‘Oh shit!’

There’s a clatter of metal against worksurface, the unmistakeable sound of breakage.

You walk up to the wire fence and call out. ‘Need a hand?’

There’s another clatter, then the door to the greenhouse opens and you meet your new neighbour face to face for the first time.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, with a face that makes you wish you’d bothered to comb your hair before you stepped outside this morning.

‘I — uh— heard the noises and just thought I’d check if you were ok,’ you explain.

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. ‘Do you have a spare pot? I’ll get you a replacement today, but right now my chilli plant is all over my worktable.’

‘Oh,’ you say, quickly turning. You enter your own greenhouse and emerge with one of your own pots.

‘Here,’ you say, holding it out to him. Your fingertips brush as he takes the pot from you, and you hope you don’t look too flustered.

You say, waving a hand, ‘Don’t worry about a replacement.’

‘My chillies and I thank you,’ he says, so solemnly you laugh.

He smiles warmly at you, and dimples appear in his cheeks.

The juxtaposition of his large frame and his delicately pretty dimples is doing something odd to your fickle heart.

You clear your throat. ‘I’m Y/N,’ you say, suddenly feeling shy. 

‘Namjoon,’ he replies. 

You turn as your son Jiwon approaches, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

You pull off your coat and wrap it around him. 

‘Come on, let’s go inside before you get too cold, ok?’

Jiwon, wrapped in your coat, looks curiously at Namjoon.

‘This is my son, Jiwon. Jiwon, this is our new neighbour Namjoon,’ you say.

You put your arm around Jiwon and lead him back to the house.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ you call over your shoulder.

When you look back, Namjoon’s still standing by the fence, looking at you. 

He waves, once, then turns to go back inside.

***

Jiwon regards you over the porridge bowl you’ve made for his breakfast. 

His eyes are serious, too serious considering he’s barely eight. 

You wish there was a way to protect him from the world.

Instead you make sure he eats, and drinks, and wears his warm coat, because the world may be fucked up but your son isn’t going to go without, not on your watch anyway.

You wonder where Jiwon’s father is now but can’t muster up any emotion about it. The burning desire to watch him suffer faded long ago, leaving nothing in its place.

A blank where your perfect life used to be.

You clear away the plates and pull on your coat. 

‘Ready?’

You walk Jiwon to the single room, little more than a shed, where the makeshift school now is, and as you kiss him goodbye and promise him you’ll pick him up later, you wonder whether things will ever change.

It’s been five years since nuclear warfare destroyed the world, four since Jiwon’s father left, and you’re still waiting for life to get better.

Lost in your thoughts, you nearly bump into a uniformed guard.

You bow and apologise profusely.

You can’t see any of the guards’ faces, but you know they make liberal use of their steel batons. 

The pain of a physical beating, though, would pale in comparison to being detained by the intention readers.

You could recover from a beating, but not from being thoughtwiped.

You shiver and resolve to be more careful as you walk the rest of the way to the community gardenhouse to start your work.

***

You glance at your watch and pick up the pace. You’re late to pick up Jiwon. There had been a raid at the gardenhouse just before you were due to leave, and you and the other gardeners had been searched for contraband.

You arrive at the schoolhouse just in time to see Jiwon being questioned by a guard.

Your heart stops, and you hurry forward, already apologising to the three guards standing over your son.

He’s slight, small for his age, and he looks even smaller surrounded by guards.

You step in front of Jiwon, putting your arm out to keep him behind you.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, bowing low.

The cold steel of a baton nudges under your chin, hard enough to lift your head.

Terror slices through you as the guard stares down at you, but you try your best to keep still.

The other guard says, ‘Hey, Jaebeom. The General wants us back. Let’s go.’

The baton stills, then the guard withdraws it and holsters it.

He turns away without another look at you.

You grasp Jiwon’s hand, and you don’t let go until you’re safely home.

***

The thin light of dawn’s cutting into the horizon when you emerge from your front door.

Snow’s been falling all night, is still falling now, piled up on your short garden path. You lift the shovel off the hook by your door and get to work clearing the path.

This early, the snow’s still icy and hard to shovel away.

You’re breathing hard by the time you get to the gate, arms aching, face damp with sweat.

Your neighbour Namjoon’s front gate swings open and he walks out, wrapped up warm.

He slows down when he sees you but doesn’t stop. 

You give a small smile which he returns before walking off.

You watch him go and wonder what he does to be leaving so early. 

You see Jiwon’s light come on and hurry inside to make breakfast.

***

There’s blood in the snow when you arrive back home with Jiwon at the end of the day, drops of red splattered in a trail to your neighbour’s door.

You herd Jiwon safely inside and your conscience gets the better of you.

You walk next door and knock.

It’s a while before Namjoon answers, but as soon as he does you know you’ve done the right thing coming over.

He looks terrible, pale and wincing in pain. There’s a wound in his shoulder, his chest is bare.

You say, ‘let me help,’ and then he’s stepping back, sitting heavily down on a chair. 

He’s so tall you barely have to lean down to look at his shoulder.

‘Can you stitch?’ he asks, voice tight, body taut.

‘I’ll patch you up,’ you tell him.

You worked in a field hospital during the War.

Namjoon grits his teeth, pale and tense, whilst you patch his wound.

By the time you’ve dressed it, there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

You don’t like how pale he is.

‘I have to get back to Jiwon,’ you tell him.

He nods.

Something about the way he slumps back in his seat, quiet and exhausted, makes you say, ‘I can stay overnight to watch you, if you have a spare bed for Jiwon to sleep in?’

Namjoon stares at you for so long you make the decision for him.

‘Come on, let me get you to bed,’ you say.

He staggers as he stands, and automatically you slip an arm around his waist.

He leans heavily on you as you take him to his bedroom and help him onto the bed.

He lays down, eyes already closed. 

You wait until his breathing eases and then you go to get Jiwon.

By the time you get back, Jiwon in tow, Namjoon’s dead asleep.

You make Jiwon comfortable in the adjoining room, hoping Namjoon won’t mind, and set your alarm to check on him periodically.

He sleeps most of the night, waking up once to stumble to the bathroom.

You get up to check on him. ‘Are you all right, Namjoon?’

Thankfully your presence doesn’t seem to alarm him. 

‘I’m fine,’ he says, but you can see the sheen of sweat across his forehead.

You fetch a glass of water and some pain meds from his kitchen. He’s still awake when you knock on his door.

He gulps the water and swallows down the medicine gratefully and lays back. 

There’s something about the irregular rhythm of his breathing that makes you offer your hand.

‘The meds will kick in soon,’ you promise him. You squeeze his hand gently. 

He murmurs a thank you. When his breathing evens out and the grip of his hand eases, you pull the blanket over his chest and make your way back to the other room where Jiwon is.

It’s sometime just before dawn when you wake. Namjoon’s extra bedroom has a pretty view of his backyard, his greenhouse. The rolling hills in the distance are bare in the winter cold, starkly beautiful.

For the first time in a long time, you wonder where Jiwon’s father is, how he’s doing. If he ever thinks of Jiwon, or you. Beside you, Jiwon stirs. 

‘Mama?’ 

‘Yes, baby?’

‘I’m not a baby,’ Jiwon says indignantly.

‘Ssssh, you’ll wake Namjoon up. Are you hungry?’

Jiwon yawns a little. People have always said he doesn’t look like you or his dad, but in moments like this you can see yourself in him.

‘Come on. Let’s go home and I’ll make breakfast, ok?’

You check on Namjoon as you pass his room, only to find he’s already dressed.

He stands when he sees you, and you’re reminded of the height difference between you.

You step back. ‘Sorry, I just wanted to make sure —‘

As though he’s aware of how his height and size intimidate you, he stops where he is.

‘I want to thank you for looking after me last night,’ he says. ‘Will you have breakfast with me?’

Jiwon marvels so openly at the sugary cereal Namjoon produces from a cupboard you can’t help but smile.

Single parenthood in a post nuclear war world has been challenging, and you’re scared about how many E numbers it’s taken to produce a cereal this unnaturally bright, but Jiwon’s so excited it’s worth it. 

Namjoon offers you some, and you accept with a smile. He smiles back at you so warmly that you drop your eyes.

Even injured and tired, your neighbour is the kind of handsome man you don’t think would look twice at you normally.

You cover your skittishness by staring down into your cereal as if fascinated.

By the time you gather the courage to look up, Jiwon’s finished his food. 

You’re about to get up to take him home when Namjoon puts out a hand to stop you. ‘Finish your breakfast,’ he says quietly. 

He gets up. ‘Come on, Jiwon, I hurt my shoulder yesterday, can you help me in the greenhouse until your mum finishes her food?’

Jiwon falls into step beside Namjoon so naturally you have no qualms about letting them go together. There’s a funny lump in your throat as you watch them walking together through the kitchen window. 

You tell yourself sternly to keep it together and not to assign a romantic narrative to your handsome neighbour who’s clearly just repaying your kindness from yesterday. 

By the time Namjoon and Jiwon get back, you’ve finished your breakfast and washed up. The kitchen looks like you and Jiwon were never there.

‘Thank you,’ Namjoon says. ‘For looking after me yesterday.’

‘It was no bother at all,’ you tell him, sincerely. ‘Thank you for breakfast.’

You nod to his chest. ‘You should get the wound checked out at the clinic today.’

‘I will,’ Namjoon promises. He waves goodbye to Jiwon and you, standing on his doorstep until you’ve rounded the fence to your side.

***

You’re walking with Jiwon back from school when you realise there’s someone waiting at your door. You can’t see clearly in the evening light, and you tuck Jiwon closer into your side as you approach.

You call a greeting, and a moment later the person steps into the light and you realise it’s Namjoon.

‘Hi,’ you say, unable to hide your relief.

‘Hi,’ he replies, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just by the river and I passed a cart selling these and I thought Jiwon might like them.’

He holds out a paper wrapped bundle of bungeoppang, still warm despite the cold.

Jiwon’s reached out, already thanking him, and you look up at Namjoon.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you, they’re his favourite.’

‘There’s enough for both of you,’ Namjoon says.

He’s stepping away, halfway down your yard when he stops. 

‘Your gate lock’s broken,’ he says. ‘I can help you fix it if you want.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ you say hastily. The lock’s been broken for a while, you’d meant to fix it but it’s been a busy month at the communal greenhouse.

‘It’s not safe,’ he says gently. ‘Not with both of you in the house.’

His words, though gently spoken, send a flush of shame through you.

He must think you’re such a mess, incapable of even keeping yourself and your son safe. 

He doesn’t give you time to answer. ‘I have tools. I’ll come over tomorrow and fix it, ok?’

‘Thank you,’ you say. There’s a quiver in your voice, you hope he doesn’t know you well enough to hear it. 

You open your door and usher Jiwon in from the cold.

***

You’re clearing your garden path the next morning, shovelling snow, when Namjoon comes to fix the gate. 

He nods politely at you, then gets to work. He doesn’t seem to want to chat, particularly, but that’s fine with you as you’re out of breath from clearing the path anyway. 

Namjoon disappears briefly once the lock’s fixed, comes back with a bag of grit over his shoulder. 

‘Let me grit your path,’ he offers, and you let him as he’s already brought the damn stuff over.

You invite him in as you prepare Jiwon’s breakfast.

He sits at your table, looking big in your small kitchen but not out of place.

There’s a picture on the wall of you and Jiwon’s father, from the Christmas that Jiwon turned two.

You can see him looking at it as you pass him a mug.

Namjoon asks, ‘Is that Jiwon’s father?’

You look at the photo. In it, you’re holding Jiwon up, and Hiro, Jiwon’s father, is laid on the floor, tickling his feet. There are the trappings of what Christmas was like before the war scattered all around you.

Luxuries that weren’t until everything else was taken away. 

‘Yes,’ you say. You lean against the kitchen sink, hold up your own mug. ‘He left after the war.’

‘I’m sorry.’ 

He looks like he means it. 

‘It’s ok,’ you tell him, honestly. ‘We’re doing ok, and Jiwon doesn’t remember much of him.’

There’s a moment of silence, then you hear Jiwon’s footsteps coming down the stairs. 

He greets Namjoon with a total lack of surprise at seeing him at the breakfast table. You’re amused at the nonchalant way Jiwon greets Namjoon, and then you realise it might be because of Namjoon’s calm, gentle manner.

For all his size, you find it difficult to envision Namjoon ever hurting anyone or anything. 

***

The guards come for you a few weeks later, late at night when Jiwon’s asleep. You’re putting away the washing up when there’s a knocking at the door.

Impatient, demanding.

You crack the door open only to have to step back quickly as the door is pushed inward, towards you.

The two guards who enter have epaulets on their shoulders signifying them as of a low rank. 

Any rank can detain a civilian for thoughtwiping, though.

The chill in your spine is only partially environmental.

‘Are you the wife of Hiro Kwon?’ 

You keep your tone calm, steady. ‘We’re estranged. I haven’t seen him in years.’

‘We have reason to believe he stole a very important pre-war relic from General Dei.’

You know where this is going.

‘My son is sleeping upstairs, can I take him into the greenhouse whilst you search my house?’

The guard closest to you gives you a hard stare. 

‘He has nightmares,’ you say, pleading. 

You fetch Jiwon, get him dressed and take him outside whilst the guards search your house. He leans against you, quiet. You hate that events like this are a part of his life.

Next door, Namjoon’s light is on. 

When the guards come out to tell you that you can re-enter your own house, you hear Namjoon’s door opening.

He walks up to the fence, and your heart stops.

He’s wearing full guard uniform, with epaulets that show he outranks the guards questioning you.

Sweet, gentle Namjoon from next door is a high-ranking official in the guard.

And you? You’re the biggest fool alive.

He’s looking at you and Jiwon, face impassive, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he takes you in.

Beside you, Jiwon’s shivering, and automatically, you slip your coat off to wrap around him.

You turn back to the guards. You’re still struggling with the weight of recent revelations but you need to get Jiwon back inside.

‘May we go?’ 

The guard stops you, drawing his baton, and you freeze.

‘He can go. We have more questions for you.’

You can’t look at Namjoon.

‘Of course. Let me take him up to bed and I’ll answer any questions you have.’

The walk back downstairs after you put Jiwon to bed feels like your feet are too heavy for your body.

You cast an eye at the mirror in your hallway. Your expression is a perfect blank, unreadable. You already know the lengths you’ll go to, to keep Jiwon safe.

The questions start innocently enough.

When did you last see your husband?

When did he last try to contact you?

You’re asked differently worded versions of the same questions repeatedly.

Your answers get shorter as the questioning goes on, and then the baton comes out even though you haven’t moved.

It raps on the table next to your hand, and you can’t help it, you startle badly at the sound.

There’s a knock at the door, then.

You look to the guards, and the younger one gets up to answer.

He returns with Namjoon. 

Namjoon’s face is impassive. He gives you a once over, then nods to the two guards. 

‘Leave us, I’ll handle this.’ 

The tension in the room ramps up as the guards leave, and by the time the door closes behind them, it’s taking all your strength to stay still. 

Namjoon, as though sensing your turmoil, takes a step back, away from you. 

His voice is low, quiet, but you have no difficulty hearing him. 

‘Did they hurt you?’ he asks. 

You look up at him, trying to read his expression. ‘No, they didn’t,’ you answer. 

He lets out a breath that sounds relieved.

‘Have you heard from your husband?’ he asks.

‘I told you, we’re estranged,’ you reply.

You can hear Jiwon moving upstairs. You turn back to Namjoon.

‘Can I go to him? I’ll come back down, I just want to make sure he’s ok —-‘

Namjoon’s expression changes. He looks stunned. 

‘Of course, I wouldn’t stop you.’

When you come back down Namjoon’s still standing where you left him.

‘It’s late, you should go to bed,’ he says. His eyes search yours.

You look back at him, at the epaulets adorning his broad shoulders.

He must have earned them somehow. 

The thought makes you avert your eyes, set your chin.

‘I will,’ you say, neutral, cool. 

Namjoon waits like he’s got more to say, but when you look up, he’s headed to your kitchen door, letting himself out.

You lock the door behind him and breathe out, fully, for the first time in hours.

***

You wake the next morning to sounds outside your window.

There’s a man in your garden, and you’d be alarmed if Jiwon didn’t have a similar profile.

It’s Hiro.

You open the back door and gesture him in.

He looks older, thinner, but he still has the spark in his eye that drew you to him. You’re surprised to find you don’t feel anything about his sudden appearance apart from the faintest pleasure of seeing someone who was once dear to you.

You moved on out of necessity, and there’s no going back.

‘The guards are looking for you,’ you say, once you’ve made him a drink.

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I need somewhere to stay. Do you have any money?’

‘Not much,’ you tell him. ‘I can spare some.’

Hiro touches your hand, on the table in between you, and you pull back, startled.

You get up, gather the banknotes you’ve saved, and give him what you can.

‘Can I see him?’ Hiro asks.

You don’t have it in your heart to say no. ‘Don’t wake him.’

You take him upstairs to Jiwon’s room, let him peer through the crack in the door.

When Hiro turns back to you, there are tears in his eyes.

You have nothing left to say.

***

The raid on the communal greenhouse today was unexpected, and you weren’t quite quick enough to get out of the way of a wayward baton strike.

Your wrist throbs dully, your fingers are swollen, and the painkillers you dry-swallowed are only just about taking the edge off. 

You’ve sent Jiwon to bed and are trying to dislodge the sack of fertiliser from the top shelf of your greenhouse one-handed, panting at the effort, when Namjoon’s porch light comes on.

Startled, you lose your balance and fall off the crate you’re balancing on, just about managing to protect your wrist as you land.

The noise you’ve made draws Namjoon to the fence.

Thankfully, he’s not wearing his guard uniform.

When he sees you on the ground he disappears, appearing a moment later on your side of the fence, breathing hard from rushing over.

‘Are you ok?’ he asks, helping you up.

You’re about to answer when his face darkens. ‘What happened to your hand?’

Your hiss of pain when he reaches for you makes him flinch.

‘Here,’ he says. 

He cups a hand under your elbow gently, helping you back into your kitchen.

He frowns even more when he sees how swollen your wrist is.

‘We need to get you to a clinic,’ he says.

‘I can’t leave Jiwon, I’ll go in the morning,’ you tell him.

‘You can’t leave this overnight,’ Namjoon insists. 

He runs a hand over his face. ‘I’ll call my friend.’

‘I’m fine —‘

‘You aren’t,’ Namjoon says, the shortest he’s ever been with you. ‘I have a friend who’s a nurse, I’ll call him.’

You sit quietly in your kitchen as he makes the call. 

‘Jimin will be here soon,’ he tells you when he returns.

You’re too on edge to ask about Jimin.

You want to tell him that you’re fine, but when you open your mouth, you say, ‘Hiro, my ex husband, came here yesterday asking for money.’

Namjoon considers this in silence.

‘If the guards find out —-‘

‘I’m sure as hell not going to tell them,’ Namjoon says, sharp. ‘And neither should you.’

‘You’re a guard,’ you point out. 

‘And you told me because you know I’m not like them,’ Namjoon says. His voice is neutral, without inflection. 

‘I told you because I don’t want you to get into trouble because of your association with me. Especially after they came looking for Hiro,’ you argue. 

You get up. ‘And yes, because you aren’t like them.’ 

As soon as you say the words you realise they’re true. 

On some level you know, from the sides of him he’s shown to you, that Namjoon isn’t like the guards you’ve seen. 

Namjoon rubs his eyes. He looks tired. 

‘My father was a commander in the first generation of guards,’ he tells you. There’s a note of bitterness in his voice. ‘That didn’t save me from being thoughtwiped.’ 

You stare at him in shock. 

‘I have all the right decorations,’ Namjoon continues, gesturing to his shoulders. 

He meets your gaze. ‘I can’t excuse the things I’ve done in the past to earn them. I was young, eager to please my father, eager to keep my mother safe, and there’s nothing safer than being a guard.’

There’s bitterness in his voice now.

‘I had my limit though, as warped as I was, and I protested against an order I was commanded to carry out.’ He pauses. ‘I couldn’t do it.’

‘Your past is a fog once you’ve been thoughtwiped, but it comes back slowly, in flashes. Like a puzzle that’s incomplete.’

You’re so caught up in Namjoon’s story you’ve forgotten about the pain in your wrist.

‘This isn’t about me but I told you this because I want you to trust me,’ Namjoon says. He touches your arm, gentle. ‘There’s no threat to you, from me.’

You believe him.

You’re about to say so when there’s a knock at your door.

Namjoon gets up and returns with a man with kind eyes who introduces himself as Jimin.

He tends to your wrist with a gentleness that almost brings you to tears, binding it and placing it in a brace that eases the pain a little.

‘It’s probably broken,’ Jimin tells you, ‘but this is the best I can do until you can get to the clinic.’

You thank him gratefully. 

‘Namjoon says you have a son. If you bring him to my clinic I’ll do a health check for free,’ Jimin offers.

You can’t thank him enough for his kindness.

After he leaves, Namjoon says, ‘Do you have a spare room? Or I can sleep on the couch.’

You stare at him, overwhelmed. ‘I don’t have a spare room —-‘

‘The couch it is,’ Namjoon says. 

‘You don’t have to —‘

‘You did it for me when I was injured,’ Namjoon points out. He dimples at you. ‘Don’t let me miss my chance to play nursemaid….’

You can’t imagine anyone who looks less like a nursemaid than your tall, broad, handsome neighbour.

‘You can take my bed,’ you offer.

There’s a beat of silence, and you realise how it must have sounded to him.

Oh no.

You splutter in your haste to explain. ‘Oh my god, I meant you can take my bed, for you, alone. I can take the couch.’

Namjoon looks like he’s holding back a smile.

‘I’ll take the couch,’ he says, very gently. ‘Now you should go to bed, you look very tired.’

You take yourself off to bed before your mouth betrays you again.

***

You wake to familiar scraping outside. You get up, hissing at the dull flare of pain in your injured wrist, and head for your bedroom window.

It’s Namjoon, clearing your garden path. He pauses to wipe a hand over his forehead, breath coming out in white puffs.

You pull on a robe and head down to the kitchen, open the back door.

‘Hey,’ you call.

He turns immediately, face creasing in concern. ‘How’s your wrist?’

‘Still broken,’ you say cheerfully.

A dimple flashes in his cheek.

‘Go sit down, I’ll finish this and make us breakfast.’

Despite Namjoon’s instructions, you start on breakfast anyway, you’re used to looking after you and Jiwon.

‘I’ll walk Jiwon to school so you can go straight to the clinic,’ Namjoon says.

You look at Jiwon.

Jiwon’s bright smile is all the answer you need.

***

You wake in the dead of night, heart thumping, blood rushing in your ears.

You’re up and out of bed before you’re fully awake, hand on Jiwon’s door, when you hear it again.

The same noise that woke you up.

The creak of your front gate.

You hear footsteps to your front door, then the knocking starts.

You wake Jiwon, wrap him in his coat, wishing you’d remembered your own.

‘Open the door, by the order of the guard,’ shouts a male voice, making you stumble in fear, making your adrenaline surge.

You glimpse the grandfather clock on your landing as you hurry through to the kitchen with Jiwon.

It’s 2am.

You doubt this is a routine interrogation.

It feels more like a raid.

You grab Jiwon’s face, make him look at you.

‘If we get separated, run through the gate and into Namjoon’s greenhouse. Don’t wait for me.’

Your voice is calm, your eyes serious, and Jiwon, with the wisdom of a much older child, nods.

You pull his coat closed, and take a breath, gathering your wits about you before you pull open the back door.

There’s no one there. The guards are still at the front of the house.

You hold Jiwon’s hand, tight, and step into the night.

***

You make it into Namjoon’s greenhouse just as your kitchen lights come on.

Your heart pounds like drums in your chest, insistent, so loud you’re worried anyone within a half mile could hear it.

You tuck Jiwon into a corner between sacks of fertiliser, stacked up, and listen intently.

There’s shouting, the sounds of doors slamming.

You hope it’s snowing hard enough to cover the tracks you and Jiwon made.

There’s nothing you can do about it now.

You wait, Jiwon tucked as far back as you could put him, hands gripping the shovel you grabbed from the back of the door. 

Beams of light bounce over the glass wall, freezing you into position. You close your eyes.

The door creaks open, and you stop breathing.

Steps, then in your terror it takes you a while to recognise Namjoon’s face.

Your eyes meet.

Namjoon holds up a hand, the barest of movements, then he shouts, loud and clear, ‘They’re not in here.’

Your heart pumps, and you start to breathe again. 

***

It’s hours before Namjoon returns to the greenhouse, face drawn and tired.

He says, ‘We need to go.’

‘Where?’ you ask, when you’re really thinking, ‘We?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

Namjoon scoops Jiwon into his arms like he weighs nothing, and you follow.

Your limbs are stiff from the cold and the tension of waiting to be caught, but you make them bend to your will, keeping up with Namjoon’s longer strides.

‘I’ve got a car, a mile from here, can you walk?’ Namjoon asks, terse.

You notice the backpack he has slung onto his shoulders. 

‘I can carry something,’ you say, ‘Give me the pack.’

Namjoon’s tense expression softens, just enough to be perceived, as he glances at you.

‘Keep pace with me,’ he says.

It takes you a quarter of an hour to reach the car, parked alongside a warehouse. 

Namjoon places Jiwon in the backseat, tucks a blanket over him, unlocks the trunk to place the backpack inside.

You climb into the front passenger seat, watch as he starts the engine. His hand curls around the gear shaft, and you put your hand over his. 

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ you ask.

There’s no going back from this. It’s one thing to not report you to the Guard, it’s completely another to help you get away.

Namjoon looks at your hand on his for a moment.

‘I haven’t felt this strongly about anything in a while,’ he says.

He looks up at you. ‘This is the only right thing I’ve done in a long time.’

He puts his other hand on top of yours briefly, then pulls away to start the engine.

He drives.

***

Dawn’s breaking by the time you reach your destination, a cabin deep in the mountains that you access via a narrow road buffeted with snow drifts.

Namjoon cuts the engine, sits back, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks tired.

‘Are you ok?’ you ask, tentative. 

‘Better now,’ he says, some of the tension leaving his expression. ‘Better now that we’re here.’

Jiwon’s stirring now that you’ve stopped, looking at you and Namjoon with a quiet resignation.

You hate that he’s grown to accept his world constantly being turned upside down as his due.

Namjoon turns back to look at him, a dimple popping in his cheek as he smiles.

‘Hey, are you hungry, Jiwon? I have some cereal in the cabin.’

Your heart teeters at Namjoon’s easy kindness towards your son, about to fall.

You’re about to fall for this man who you owe so much to, fool that you are.

You put your hand on Namjoon’s arm, eyes alight with gratitude. ‘Thank you,’ you tell him.

Namjoon glances at you, hesitates. 

‘You don’t have to thank me,’ he tells you. ‘I — I wanted to help.’

You think about his words as you help Jiwon out of the car and you head for the cabin together.

***

Jiwon’s asleep, you make sure he’s tucked in warm before you go into the main part of the cabin. 

Namjoon’s standing by the window, his large frame taking up almost all of it, face tilted up, like he’s looking at the sky. 

He turns when he sees you. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll get the generator working tomorrow.’ 

There’s a fire in the hearth, not quite enough to light up the whole cabin but it’s warm enough. 

‘Don’t apologise,’ you tell him. 

You can’t see all of his face in the shadows, so you step forward. 

‘Jiwon and I wouldn’t be safe, here, if it weren’t for you.’ 

‘It was a woman and her son,’ he says, a change of subject so abrupt he’s lost you for a second before he continues. 

‘They wanted me to thoughtwipe her because of something her son did. Something stupid, meaningless.’ 

He turns to look out the window again. ‘I refused.’ 

‘That’s when they thoughtwiped you,’ you say. It’s not a question. 

He laughs, short, harsh. ‘And then they thoughtwiped her anyway. Last I heard she and her son were separated, sent to different sectors.’ 

You step forward again, wanting to see his face. 

‘You’re a good man, Namjoon,’ you tell him. ‘You can’t be responsible for everything.’ 

‘I should have done more,’ he says, flat. 

‘You’ve done a lot for us,’ you point out. 

You still can’t see his face, but you can see the sadness in the line of his shoulders, poignant and beautiful. 

You take another step forward, cup his cheek. His skin’s warm, and there’s the faintest pressure against your palm as he leans into your touch. 

You shiver a little, more from the feel of him than from the cold, but he’s quick to react, slipping the fleece off his broad shoulders and placing it over yours. 

For a moment his arms are around you, and you’re within a breath of turning away, would have turned away if you hadn’t felt the shift in his weight.

He’s leaning on you.

You curl your hand around his neck, and he leans down with the faintest pressure from your fingertips.

A thrill races through you as his lips brush yours, blooming into a pulse, heady and throbbing as you tilt your head to kiss him again.

He’s slow, so gentle it takes you a while to realise that his kisses are robbing you of your breath.

The tip of his tongue flicks at the seam of your lips, a question you answer by parting them.

Letting him in.

His hand travels down your side to land on your hip, tentative.

Another question.

This time you slide your arms around his waist, under his top. The warm skin of his back is smooth under your hands.

He grunts softly as you pull him closer, comes willingly. 

He kisses you again, firmer this time, and you melt into him. 

Gradually, in stages, closer and closer until you’re so close you don’t know where he ends and you begin. 

He cups the back of your head, pulls away just enough to say, ‘The couch.’ 

You follow him to the couch, and he tilts his head for another kiss. 

You put a hand flat on his chest to steady yourself, and he puts his own hand over yours, covering it completely, anchoring you to him. 

‘I haven’t done this in a while,’ you tell him. 

‘Me either,’ he says. 

His dimple flashes. ‘We can remind each other.’ 

Namjoon’s a patient man, you knew this about him already. 

You hadn’t expected him to be quite this patient though, not pushing you even though you can feel how hard he is under you.

‘Do you want to keep going?’ you ask.

‘So badly,’ he tells you, huffing out a breath, tilting his head back. His throat bobs as he swallows, hard.

You lick a stripe along his neck, and he shivers, gripping your shoulder. 

‘Do it again,’ he says, voice dropped low. ‘Can I touch you?’

‘Please,’ you say, and to your delight, his hands drop to the front lapels of your (his) shirt.

‘You look good in my clothes,’ he murmurs. He kisses down your chest, slow, open-mouthed, and by the time he gets to your breasts you’re vibrating with need.

He takes the tip of your breast into his mouth, sucking delicately at first, then more strongly when you moan his name.

Every pull of his mouth makes you pulse and tighten, and you don’t realise you’re grinding against him until his big hand grips your hip.

‘Stop, or I’ll come,’ he warns, voice thick, gravelly now.

‘Take your clothes off,’ you say.

He undoes the fly of his jeans, and the damp patch you see where his cock’s tenting his boxer briefs makes your mouth water.

He stops you with your hands on your own sweatpants, says, ‘Let me.’

Before you realise quite what he’s doing, he’s slid onto his knees on the floor, has tugged your sweatpants down to reveal your thighs, the hot stickiness between your legs.

He hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties. Poises himself, open mouthed over your core.

Looks to you once, eyes hooded, and whatever he sees in your face makes him bend down and put his mouth to you.

You cry out, muffled behind your own hand, and he stops instantly. 

‘Is this ok?’ he asks.

‘Yes, yes, please,’ you tell him.

He watches you as he slides his tongue over your slit, eyes hooded and hot.

He’s good with his tongue, you realise dimly in the back of your mind as he laps at you. He swallows audibly, and your hips dance under his mouth.

‘Joon,’ you moan, and he hums, deep voice vibrating against your skin.

‘Joon,’ you moan again. His hand splays on the curve of your hip, fingers tightening on your flesh.

This time, he moans in response, and you cry out, throaty and hoarse, as he sucks at your clit with renewed fervour, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

‘Joon!’

He pushes a finger into you, and you come with a gush of wet, walls tightening around him, your entire body tensing for a glorious instant before giving way to waves of pleasure.

Namjoon groans, deep in his chest, and you reach out and grip his hips, guiding him between your legs.

‘Wait,’ he says, touching your face, gentle though you can feel him hard as steel at your entrance, the blunt fullness of his cockhead nudging, seeking. ‘Are you sure you want this?’

‘Yes,’ you say, ‘yes.’

Namjoon groans again, pressing into you, filling you so well your body arches like a bow against his.

‘Feel so good,’ he utters, jaw tight, voice raspy.

He moves strongly within you, taking control with a confidence that thrills you to your toes.

He says your name as he moves, guttural and wanting, the slide of him into you making sparks bloom behind your eyelids.

He grasps your hand, fingers knitting with yours, as you writhe and moan underneath him. 

‘Sound so pretty,’ Namjoon groans. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t —‘

You grip his shoulder. ‘I want you to come, Joon,’ you breathe, mouth by his ear.

He groans again then, circles his hips, and then thrusts deep, spilling his warmth inside you. 

He’s still for a moment, breathing hard against your ear. 

You turn your head to kiss him. 

You’re still holding his hand, and it’s a while before either of you let go. 

***

You pour out a mug of coffee from the pot Namjoon’s brewed, go out to where you can hear Namjoon chopping wood outside. 

He’s concentrating, splitting chunks of wood with a careful precision. 

He looks up as you approach, and his smile warms you. 

‘Hey,’ he says. 

You’d ended up sleeping tangled up with Namjoon. Some time during the night you’d woken to find him pushing your hair back from your face. 

You’d pulled him down on top of you, taken him in again, slow, languid, bodies moving together until you’d gasped and come, muffled against his chest. 

‘Hey,’ you reply. 

‘Jiwon still asleep?’ he asks. 

‘He’s exhausted,’ you say. 

‘Glad we didn’t wake him,’ Namjoon says. 

‘He’s a pretty good sleeper.’ 

Namjoon glances at you, and you flush. 

‘I didn’t mean —’ 

He laughs at how flustered you are. 

‘Good to know he sleeps well,’ Namjoon says. There’s a spark in his eyes now, dimples flashing in his cheeks. 

For all his size and height and seriousness, your handsome neighbour looks like a little boy trying to get a rise out of you when he’s like this. 

He watches, amusement in his face, as you sip the coffee to try to hide your discomfiture. 

When you look back at him, he’s gathering up an armful of wood. 

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘When Jiwon wakes up I need to talk to both of you.’ 

***

The sun’s high in the gloomy sky by the time Jiwon wakes, lured by the smells of breakfast and the warmth of the fire in the fireplace. 

After breakfast, Namjoon clears the table, and then sits you all down. 

‘We can’t stay here for long,’ he says, seriously. ‘The guards don’t know about this place, but it’s not safe, and they’ll still be looking for you.’ 

‘There’s a place close to the border where there’s a new community, away from the guarded sectors.’

You’re looking at Namjoon, carefully, and he’s looking right back at you.

‘We could go there. It’ll be hard, probably, at the beginning.’

You turn to Jiwon.

Hard? 

Harder than the life you have now? 

If there’s one thing you know, it’s that you need to find a better future, for Jiwon. 

Stability. 

You ask the question you asked in your head when you left home with Namjoon.

‘We?’

‘Yes,’ Namjoon says. ‘I’d like to go with you. If that’s ok.’

You’re looking at Jiwon again. 

The hopeful expression on his face makes the decision for you.

***

Ten years later

You’re waiting at the train station for Jiwon.

There’s a chill in the air still, it’s cold for spring but warmer than it has been in recent years.

A lot’s changed in the last ten years.

You, Namjoon and Jiwon had moved to the new community at just the right time.

It had been hard at first, but nothing compared to the constant fear of being detained by the guards.

The world’s been rebuilding itself after the War.

With your experience as a communal gardener, you’d been able to set up your own hydroponic greenhouse, and demand built up for your produce, to the point where you’ve been able to hire your own crew of gardeners and expand.

Jiwon had thrived in the new community, and when universities re-opened, he’d been accepted as part of the first few cohorts of students. 

His university was a few hours away, but the redevelopment of public transport meant there was a regular train linking his campus and your home.

The home you built with Namjoon.

In recent years, you’ve seen more and more of the light-hearted, humorous Namjoon and less of the troubled, serious Namjoon you first met.

Your love for him has only grown.

He approaches you now, a little older, but still as heartbreakingly handsome as the day you met him.

You think the best decision you ever made for you and Jiwon was to let him in. 

And now Jiwon’s on his way back for Christmas, and your heart is full.

Namjoon hands you the coffee he bought you from the cafe, and when you tilt your face up to his he leans down.

It’s a learned response from years of adjusting his height so you can reach to kiss him.

You press a kiss onto his cheek, over his dimple, and his arm slides around you to hold you tight to him.

The train pulls into the station, and Namjoon grasps your hand as it stops.

The carriage doors open, and your beautiful son steps out.

Physically, he looks like you, but the confidence in his bearing, the kindness in his face, the roguish twinkle in his eyes?

That’s you, and Namjoon.  

©hamsterclaw 2023

#namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #bts smut #namjoon fic #namjoon scenario #bangtan christmas 2023

[reasonsforhope]

"A new community housing development in the Bronx will feature a cool piece of kit: an on-site aerobic digester that can turn 1,100 pounds of food scraps into 220 pounds of high-quality fertilizer every single day.

Built by Harp Renewables, it’s basically a big stomach filled with bacteria that breaks down food scraps and wasted food into their component parts, and in the future could be a standard part of all apartment units as the amount of food waste in American reaches 30% of the total mass of all trash collection.

The Peninsula, organized by Gilbane Development Company, will feature 740 units of affordable housing, 50,000 square-foot light industrial space and equal sized green space, and 15,000 feet of commercial space, all of which will send their castaway comestibles right into the digester...

Fast Company reports that Christina Grace, founder of a zero-waste food management company, helped plan the design and implementation of the digester into The Peninsula, and helped organize a 40% grant from the city to pay the $50,000 upfront cost.

“The goal is for this material to work its way into the community garden network in the Bronx,” [Christina Grace, who helped plan the design] told the magazine, adding that she expects it to pay for itself over just a few years. “We see this as highly replicable in both commercial and residential venues. We know there’s a need for fertilizer.”

Producing fertilizer right there in the city reduces the need for it to be trucked in from afar, chipping away, even if just a bit, at NYC traffic.

Big problem solver

Perhaps uniquely beneficial to New York City compared to other spots in the U.S. is that the digester will have a significant impact on the Bronx’s share of the city’s rodent problem.

Those who’ve watched the Morgan Spurlock documentary Rats will understand why that’s significant—while those that haven’t will have to imagine what living in a megacity where rats outnumber people by around 8 or 10 to 1 looks like.

Another big problem the bio-digesters could potentially help is pollution and greenhouse gas emissions. Fertilizer is a big emitter of all three of the most-targeted GHGs. Fertilizer, like quarry dust and ammonia is, like so many commodities, often imported from countries who specialize in its production, such as Norway, but also Russia and Ukraine, whose conflict has recently highlighted the fragility of the supply chain with sharp increases in prices...

Bio-digesters by design keep the CO2 and methane in the fertilizer produced, rather than it entering the atmosphere.

For these reasons and more, the aerobic bio-digester is slowly making its way into residential and industrial spaces around the country.

GNN reported on an enormous bio-digester at the heart of the D.C. advanced resource (sewage) recovery center outside the capital, and on the use of bio-digesters on Australian pig farms which are helping reduce the environmental and psychological impact of the effluent produced from such operations.

Harp Renewables tweeted how happy they were to have installed their bio-digester in the town of Cashel, Ireland.

Expect to see more stories like this pop up around the globe."

-via Good News Network, March 17, 2022

Note: Obviously gentrification bad and "affordable housing" is sometimes nowhere near as affordable as it should be, etc. etc. That said, this is such a fantastic use case that I felt I had to post it anyway.

#new york #new york city #bronx #bronx new york #supply chain #fertilizer #circular economy #sustainability #sustainable architecture #sustainable agriculture #united states #apartment buildings #bio-digester #good news #food waste #organic waste #hope #hope posting

[skyfullofpods]

Random Podcast Recommendations Mega-List Part 1!

Updated: 07/12/23

Collected here in part 1 because tumblr has a limit of 100 links per post of my alphabetical list are the fiction podcasts from A-M I've recommended so far for my random podcast recommendations! Part 2 is here

A A Ninth World Journal Afflicted Aishi Online Alba Salix Among the Stars and Bones Apollyon Arden ars PARADOXICA

B Back Again, Back Again The Ballad of Anne & Mary The Beacon Believer Black Friday Breaker Whiskey The Bright Sessions

C CARAVAN Chaika Chain of Being Civilized Coexistence Come On In, The Water's Fine Copperheart Counterbalance

D Death by Dying Desert Skies Desperado Diary of a Space Archivist Dining in the Void Directive Do You Copy Dos: After You Down

E The Earth Collective Echoes (In) Between Elaine’s Cooking for the Soul Electromancy The End of Time and Other Bothers Ethics Town Exoplanetary Everything is Alive

F Falling Forward Fan Wars: The Empire Claps Back The Far Meridian Fireside Folktales Folxlore Forgive Me!

G Gay Future Georgie Romero Is Done For Girl in Space The Goblet Wire Gone Great & Terrible Greater Boston Greenhouse

H Hallway to Nowhere Hand in Glove Harlem Queen Hauntingly Humdrum Hello From the Hallowoods Hi Nay Hit the Bricks Human Error

I Immunities InCo Inhale Inn Between In Transit

J Janus Descending Jar of Rebuke Joy to the World Jupiter Saloon

K Kalila Stormfire's Economical Magick Services Kane and Feels Keep It Steady The Kingmaker Histories

L The Last Echoes Less is Morgue Liars & Leeches Life On Pause Light Hearts LIMBO Lost Terminal Love and Luck

M Margaret's Garden Margaritas & Donuts The McIlwraith Statements Me and AU Mercury: A Broadcast of Hope Meteor City Middle:Below Moonbase Theta, Out

#Random Podcast Recommendations #audio fiction #audio drama #podcasts #podcast recommendations #podcast recs #fiction podcasts

[blacknedsoul-blog]

My bets on Nevermore's development

In the middle of the arc and with the White Raven divorce beginning, I think I feel comfortable betting on how all the story lines the comic has laid out so far will play out. A mixture of analysis and theories.

Duke and Montressor

I don't think Duke will die. For several reasons (one of which I'll explain below), but the main one is that Duke is a character who still has a lot to give: they've gone to the trouble of giving him a name, a past, a personality, and yet none of these things have been properly explored. The comic wouldn't really benefit from Duke dying because he still has a lot of interesting things to bring to the story.

Coupled with the fact that we're still learning how Spectres work, and with Duke unable to manifest, it's the perfect time to flesh out that part of the lore and give us a cool moment to show us his Spectre.

That said, I have a hard time seeing a way for Montressor to stay in the game once this issue is over: he's proven himself to be a menace that won't stop and an unmitigated sadist. The guy is just evil, and frankly, he didn't seem to have much more backstory or anything new to bring to the table.

My bet on him is that he'll die, maybe Lenore will go with the group in psycho-killer mode, Duke will confront him with his spectre, Morella will go against him to save Ada, Annabel will try to make merit so Lenore won't be asked for a divorce, or the Deans themselves will see him as a problem they need to take care of. If the comic thinks murder is irredeemable for its characters, maybe he'll have a Frollo-style death where it's his own ego that kills him (what if he becomes one of the creatures roaming the school?).

I think this because, besides how satisfying it would be to see him die, I think it would be a good time for the comic to show you the consequences of death within Nevermore. We know that going to the Land of the Dead is a terrible thing, but we don't know exactly what it entails. And seeing it would make any future threat seem more terrifying.

Post-Divorce

The White Raven will reconcile. This is obvious: the comic is about their relationship, the publicity for the comic has them together, and much of the appeal of the work comes from their romance. It's not a question of whether it will happen or not, but how it will happen and what the consequences will be.

Maybe some extraordinary event will happen to bring them back together, or we will have the equivalent of the Greenhouse 2.0 scene where they have a whole conversation about why, even if Lenore understands Annabel reasons, this is a situation that can never happen again.

One thing I want to point out here: I don't think Annabel did this out of jealousy. Maybe she feels it, but this story has made a consistent effort to show you that while Annabel is hypocritical, manipulative, and Machiavellian, she still has a moral compass: her reaction after when Montressor makes Ada bark and when Prospero is about to have a breakdown indicate that her limit is to hurt others gratuitously. She won't defend them if it puts her in a problematic situation, but this clearly pisses her; by that logic, it would even be out of character for her to try to hurt Duke because she's jealous, and more importantly, it would do irreparable damage to her relationship with Lenore (which is why I don't think our favorite Frenchman dies).

Understanding that, there's one thing these two haven't really talked about: for Lenore, getting her friends out of here is not something optional, she's completely determined to do it, and given this moment, it's very likely that the next step will be for Annabel to join the "save everyone" team: she thinks Lenore is capable of anything, and so she's going to put all her faith in her being able to pull this off.

Coupled with the fact that the plan to keep Lenore as a harmless figure went to hell after the incident in the tower, she's going to have to adjust things. And my theory on this is that Annabel is going to expand her rivalry plan to the group level.

I believe this because the logical conclusion after the banquet is that the Deans, for some reason, want the students to fight, to foster an atmosphere of competition among them. So far, giving them what they want has worked perfectly for them, so they would suggest that it would be helpful to pretend that things are going exactly as they think they are while they try to figure out how to get out of this place, at least until they can think of something better.

Yes, I assume Annabel will join the Misfits. She'll probably be like Zuko from Avatar, begging for forgiveness and winning them over one by one in individual arcs.

Another important development that will come out of this is that when Lenore is fed up enough with her bullshit, she will remind Annabel of her promise about how they both get their memories back: they are already right in the middle and it will be time to start putting the puzzle together.

However, I have reason to believe that Annabel will manage not to talk about the exact way they both died for a very simple reason: whether Lenore was Annabel's executioner or not, they died together. Lenore was there, and she will most likely blame herself because "if I hadn't gone looking for her, Annabel would still be alive" and for "not protecting her".

But by the time they have this conversation (or she finds out otherwise), the comic may be starting to address one of Lenore's major conflicts as a character: because of her fear of abandonment and her feeling that she is undeserving of love, she has no qualms about putting herself in danger to protect others. This is a terribly damaging perspective in the context that the Deans have created: not only is it naive to think that she can always protect her friends or Annabel from getting hurt, but Lenore unwittingly carries the feelings of the people who love her by endangering herself.

My head canon

Everything I've said so far is based on things the comic has shown and storylines that may not be explored in this specific way, but are more or less on the comic. But there's a lot of nonsense out there that I'd really like to see, even if there's little or nothing in the artwork to indicate to me that any of those things will come to fruition.

Annabel vs. Montressor

I would love to see Annabel vs. Montressor precisely because Annabel has no chance against Montressor: she has no experience in a fight, even if her spectre is a powerful one, Montressor would wipe the floor with her. But I think it would be a nice way to put a point: Annabel and Montressor are not the same.

He enjoys torturing others, she will be a villain to protect what she loves.

I can also think of two interesting things that could come out of this encounter: Lenore having her moment where she thinks Annabel is dead, parallel to the maze scene (for Lenore, Annabel is an unbeatable queen, so she could use a little reality check), and a conversation along those lines:

-L: Did you think that by putting yourself in danger like this I was going to forgive what you did?!

A: I didn't do this because I thought you would forgive me. Deep down, I know you already did, even though that doesn't mean I shouldn't face consequences for my actions.

-L: ...Then why?

-A: Because I promised you I would. I said I would distract our enemies, that I would protect you from my allies, and that's exactly what I did. I knew I couldn't handle him, but I was distracted and wounded enough to get the job done.

This would finally establish one thing that has been up in the air about Annabel: yes, she really behaves and acts like a villain. But after something like this, there would never be any doubt (for the readers or for Lenore) that she always keeps her promises.

Imagine the delicious drama that could come from establishing that so forcefully.

Eulalie is a Lennabel shipper

Come to think of it, the two of them haven't done a very good job of hiding it: we go from Lenore running all over school to take care of Annabel to watching them fight for no apparent reason.

I like to think that Eulalie seriously suspects something is going on between them, and when the Misfits inevitably find out about Annabel and Lenore's relationship, she'll be like, "Oh, you guys hadn't noticed?" while saying things like, "Oh, so you're the one who took us to the haunted mansion!"

Annabel and Berenice as unlikely friends

I love the image of Berenice physically threatening Annabel with the knife and saying something like "You're a posh bitch, but you've got style" after she doesn't react in fear. I also think Bernice would be the first to admit that while she won't easily forgive Annabel for putting Duke in danger, she wouldn't have hesitated to throw Annabel, Prospero, Ada, or Will under the bus to protect any of her group of friends if necessary.

Also, the idea of Annabel saying, "She's a violent slur. I want her around" is oddly hilarious to me.

Prospero as the ultimate "tired friend"

If Annabel takes Prospero with her, I can imagine the guy banging his head against the wall all the time because he sees all these idiots who are strangely competent when you get right down to it, but choose to spend their energy doing stupid things when no one is dying.

A terrible deal between Duke and Annabel

Remember that wonderful scene in Avatar where Katara threatens to kill Zuko if she thinks he's going to hurt Aang? I like to think that Duke and Annabel will have a scene like that:

-D: They didn't see the look on your face when they put up the wall, but I did. And I can assure you that I won't hesitate to act if I think you're going to hurt my friend or any of them, cherie.

-A: Promise?

-D: ...

-A: That you will be there to protect her no matter what, even from me. I wouldn't mind you holding the sword of Damocles over my head if it proves to me that you can protect her from any threat.

-D: You have my word.

In conclusion

So that's my bingo on how things will go in the comic from here on out. There are some things (like Morella's development, what's going to happen with Ada, or when the hell we're going to get some backstory on Will) that I don't think I have enough information on to theorize. But here it is.

#annabel lee nevermore #annabel lee whitlock #lenore nevermore #lenore vandernacht #nevermore webtoon #white raven

[sapphos-ode]

Little Cat

Part 16

Larissa Weems part 15 | part 17 | ao3

(4.2k)

~

“Take a seat Miss. Sinclair,”

Enid does as she’s told. Gingerly perching herself on the edge of the leather chair, she could feel the coolness of the material through her tights. Maybe if she doesn’t settle down entirely then meeting will be brief and she can leave. Alas it’s just her wishful thinking.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you in,” Larissa’s eyes jump from her laptop to Enid’s before going back to the screen. She has the blog up on her browser.

The lycan goes to answer but her breath catches in her throat. She has to swallow before trying to speak again, “Am I- am I in trouble?” Her brows are furled and her bottom lip wobbles.

Larissa regards her for a moment, “No.”

Enid relaxes just the slightest, but she’s still on high alert. Her gaze flies around the room as she takes in the decor — hoping to ground herself. The high ceilings and the patterned wallpaper only make her head start spin.

“But something has come to my attention which I must address,” the principal pauses. “As I’m sure you’re aware, everyone knows about your blog, and whilst I do love the community it creates within the school. Taking photos and videos of staff without their consent is highly inappropriate, not to mention publishing them to a public account.

“I’m sure it was all in good faith, however I’m going to ask that you remove them once you return to your dorm.” Larissa left no room for argument. Her word was final.

“I’m sorry Principal Weems,” Enid murmurs with glossy eyes. Her heart pounding.

“Apology accepted,” Larissa bows her head. “And going forth, please take into consideration others’ privacy, some people prefer to keep their personal lives off of social media,”

“I will, and I will delete them! But…” Enid searches the principal’s intense gaze, “just to make sure, you are talking about the video of Miss. Karnstein feeding you on your date at the Harvest festival?”

Larissa’s face falls slack as it takes on a red hue that matches the lipstick she wears.

“And then the one with a picture of you and Miss. Karnstein holding hands, and of Miss. Hansen and Ms. Thornhill dancing in the greenhouse, with the poll?”

With a tired sigh Larissa nods slowly, her eyebrows pinched together. She was hoping the elephant in the room wouldn’t be addressed so directly.

“Yes, those are the posts in question, and any others that you may have posted in the past that include any other staff member,” Larissa clarified, ensuring to prevent any miscommunication, “or fellow pupils,”

“I’ll do that right away, I’m so sorry! It’s just you guys are supes cute! I didn’t think it through!”

“It’s quite alright, just remember to give it some thought in the future, thank you, Enid. You can go now,” Larissa says in defeat.

Enid’s all too eager in jumping out of her seat and rushing to the door. She’s halfway out of it when she stops and turns back to face the older woman.

“Oh! By the way Principal Weems, you and Miss. Karnstein are still winning the poll!” She flashes a smile before slipping away.

She didn’t have detention, and that was the best outcome really. It was a shame she had to delete the posts though, they were beginning to get a lot of traction, and would have increased her blog’s reach significantly if she was allowed to keep them up.

Larissa runs her hand over her face and slumps in her chair. The silence in her office felt heavy and oppressive.

~

She’s busy wrapping up the last few emails for the day when her phone buzzes. The screen lighting up. Larissa’s eyes flick over to it — giving it nothing more than a cursory glance. She does a double take when she sees your name at the top of the notification. The email is forgotten in its entirety as she picks up the phone to read your message.

Atikah: Hey, just come over whenever you’re ready. If you haven’t already eaten I’ll throw us a quick dinner together if that’s okay with you x

Atikah: Also hope you don’t mind, I’ve already picked a movie for us :)

She can’t help but smile at her phone, her thumbs already tapping away.

Larissa: I’ll be over shortly. And dinner would be lovely if that’s not of too much inconvenience for you. Larissa x

She was hesitant adding in the little kiss, but added it nonetheless. Your response is instant.

Atikah: Can’t wait! I’ll see you soon Rissa! x

The principal sends back a thumbs up.

~

Larissa had expected you to choose some sort of trashy chick flick, or a sappy romcom. Not this. A psychological horror. She’s reading the synopsis as you busy yourself throwing together a simple pasta dish.

The blonde can hear you humming to yourself as you finish plating up the food. Her heart swells as she looks over her shoulder at you. You’re so lost in your own world and she feels honoured to be allowed to observe you being you. Still humming a tune unfamiliar to her, you pad over to the sofa, leaning down to kiss Larissa’s forehead (the blonde finds herself closing her eyes and leaning into your touch) before setting the bowls and some cutlery down on the coffee table then dragging it closer to the couch.

As you nestle onto the settee, Larissa can’t help her wandering eyes as they move from your face down to your neck. Pleasantly surprised to see her little token from earlier freed from the confines of your foundation.

“Have you seen ‘Ma’ before?” You say as you settle a throw over the both of you.

Larissa takes the bowl you offer her with a thanks, it smells heavenly, “I’ve not, no, have you?”

“Nope, it seems good from the reviews though,” You chirp, “Last chance to object,”

“I’m all good with ‘Ma’,”

Larissa didn’t mind the occasional thriller, but it wasn’t a genre she’d typically go out of her way to watch. You on the other hand absolutely loved them. They gave you a peace of mind, however contradictory that was. You still felt the actors’ feelings through the screen but they felt different as opposed to when you soaked them in from real life. You still had a disposition to less pleasant emotions and they were abundant in the world – you weren’t a mother yet you knew what it felt like to lose a child, you've felt the type of grief that tears you apart and drains any and all colour from the world. You’ve never had an unfaithful partner but from passing strangers you know the nausea and insecurity it creates within someone, the doubt in one's self worth.

The tragedies of the people you meet – or pass on the street – may as well be your own, the downside to being an empath. And sometimes it becomes hard to tell what feelings are your own, and what ones belong to someone else. In your teen years it caused you great stress, and certainly one or two identity crises. But through the screen, you can tell the difference between the characters’ fear and your own – as clear as night and day. In a way it helped teach you the nuances between them. Gave you the tools to put the burdens of others’ to the back burner and prioritise your own. It helped you recover the pieces of you from the mess of others.

You pressed play and sat back on the seat, scooching closer to Larissa – the both of you eating in an amiable silence. The movie drove on and before long two empty bowls were placed on the coffee table and Larissa’s head had found its way lying on your chest. The steady drum of your heart calming her. The movie was making her feel uneasy, perhaps it was the main cast that reminded her of the students at Nevermore, or perhaps it was the skewed mind of Sue Ann. Whatever it was, it made Larissa restless. And she was thankful you couldn’t see her face from her position.

Of course she should have known you’d catch on. You were confused at first when you felt a horrible gnawing in your stomach. But you glanced down at Larissa who had started to fiddle with your hand and then it clicked. You paused the film and let silence befall you. The blonde turned her head and peered up at you with a questioning look.

“You okay Rissa?” You coo, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Yes,” she says with confidence but you know it’s a complete lie.

“You’re not,” you brush a few baby hairs that have worked themselves free from her updo, “we can watch something else,”

Larissa wasn’t used to someone seeing straight through her. She took a moment to respond.

“Please,”

You smile and hand her the remote, silently telling her she could choose. Whilst she flicks through the different films you take to running your thumb over her cheek. Her skin is warm and soft. She lets out a yawn which she tries to stifle.

“Someone’s tired,” you sing, studying the curve of her brow and the path of her hairline. Drinking in every detail of her.

“I’m not- ” she cuts herself off with another yawn.

It’s quite late for a school night, and Larissa can feel sleep tempting her. But she doesn’t want her time with you to end — she’s pulled plenty of late nights, burning the midnight oil to crank out email after email. She could manage another one.

She settles on a romcom, ‘When Harry Met Sally’, it starts to play and she shuffles closer to you. Wrapping her arms around your waist tighter. The pair of you get halfway through the movie when Larissa can’t stop yawning, her eyes keep falling shut only for her to jerk her head up. You’ve stopped watching the film, instead watching her in amusement. It’s when she no longer looks at the tv, and is staring off at something in desperate attempts to just keep her damn eyes open that you pause the movie.

“I should retire for the night,” she murmurs.

You hum softly in agreement as you coax the both of you into a sitting position, Larissa still holding your midriff. Wordlessly you help her stand and when she goes to head for your front door you tut and guide her to your bedroom. She obliges with no protest. A blush on her cheeks and a small happy smile on her lips.

It’s an easy task, getting her ready for bed, you hand her a spare toothbrush and change into your pyjamas whilst she’s busy in your ensuite. You lay out clothes for her to change into and when she leaves the bathroom you slip in to get yourself ready.

When you emerge you find Larissa sat on your bed wearing your clothes (the sight warms your heart) with her eyes half closed. You take pity on her, and with a makeup wipe in hand you slowly strip her face. One hand holds her cheek and she nuzzles in as you wipe away the last remnants of her cosmetics.

“Thank you darling,”

A fuzzy feeling vibrates in your chest. You discard the wipe somewhere, an issue for tomorrow, then you clamber onto the bed and settle behind her.

“Just need to let down your hair and then we can sleep,” you coo into her ear, your breath tickling her. It draws out a pleased hum from her.

With deft hands you pull all the pins from her hair, each one you extricate rewards you with more silver curls that dance around your fingers — finally free of their confines — silken as always, and with the most gorgeous shine. Once all the clips were removed you run your hands through her tresses, massaging her scalp and expelling any tension. Your hands fall from her hair to her shoulders. Without thinking it through you begin to knead the muscles, working out the knots.

The moan Larissa lets out has you blushing but you don’t stop. Determined to massage every last ounce of stress she holds. Her back leans into your front, pushing you onto the bed. You laugh at her before moving the both of you under the covers.

The blonde’s arms are around you in an instant. Holding you flush to her body, she buries her face into your hair, taking a deep inhale. You smell like roses and peony blooms, the faded scent of your perfume gives Larissa a headrush, there’s a smokey undertone to it that adds a complexity to the smell. Larissa makes a mental note to ask what perfume you use.

She feels you pull back and lets you. Gazing down at you with a sleep ridden smile.

“You’re very cute when you’re tired,” you wriggle your arms around her neck.

You pull her down and closer to you. Capturing her lips with your own, savouring the feeling. It’s one you can never have enough of. You let your eyes close as her tongue slips into your mouth. Causing you to moan. The blonde pushes you onto your back, never breaking away from your mouth. She leans over you, whining at the feeling of your lips. Her eyes rake over your body and she so badly wants to take you right there. The desire behind your lidded eyes only egging her on… but she’s so tired.

Larissa lowers herself and lays on top of you. Her face buried in the crook of your neck, her warm breath brushes against your heated skin. The blonde allows herself a short moment to just lie there but when she goes to move off of you, your arms tighten around her waist, keeping her in place.

“Don’t move,” sleep begins to ebb into your voice.

“I can’t, I’m far too heavy, I’ll crush you- ”

“Shhh, you won’t…” you force down a yawn, “and besides, maybe I want to be crushed by you,”

Larissa rolls her eyes but relaxes against you. The instant she closes them she’s gone, out like a light, but not before she faintly registers you whispering sweet dreams to her.

You reach over to your nightstand for your phone and set an alarm for the morning. As you place it back down the light from it casts over Larissa’s, its screen facing down. You notice a Polaroid tucked into the case, craning your neck up to get a better look, you see it’s the one you had taken when you had played Mario Kart — you had been wondering where it had gone. Your entire body softens at realisation Larissa had kept it somewhere she could always see it. When you settled under the covers you pepper kisses to Larissa’s head.

~

Larissa watched with apprehension as Marilyn stalked over to her desk. There was an unnerving spring in her step and her smile was poorly masked. Usually it was Larissa who made people alert — she wasn’t accustomed to being on the other end. Instead of taking a seat across from Larissa’s desk, the botanist walked round to the same side and perched on the edge.

“So?”

“So… what?” Larissa keeps her tone light as she tries to brush off the expectant look.

“So…” Marilyn draws out the vowel, “are you calling everyone ‘darling’ these days or..?” She leaves the question open, suspended in the air between them.

It takes Larissa a second to catch on. She didn’t call everyone ‘darling’, occasionally she’d use the endearment for students who came to her seeking advice and needing comfort.

Marilyn thrived off of the expression Larissa made when the penny dropped. Delighted with how the principal’s eyes widened a fraction and her lips fell into a soft ‘o’.

“I suppose your darling hasn’t told you anything?”

Marilyn blushes at this, her mind running to images of Alice, “She hasn’t, no,” the redhead leans back on her palms, looking up at her reflection from the mirrors mounted to the ceiling. What an odd choice she thinks.

“Atikah and I… we- I took your advice,” Larissa fiddled with a pen on her desk, “I’m not sure what we are but, we’re something- ”

Marilyn interjects with a squeal of delight. Before Larissa can react the redhead has her arms thrown around her. Pulling her into a tight hug.

“Oh! I’m so happy for you!”

Larissa laughs gently as she returns the embrace. Marilyn smells like earth and tea, there’s a freshness to the scent, the kind that comes only after heavy rain. Petrichor, if Larissa remembers correctly.

“You should’ve seen how she looked at you yesterday at lunch! She’s a real sweet one,” Marilyn pulls back and reclaims her previous spot.

“She is,” Larissa dotes softly. “You and Miss. Hansen make quite the pair too, you’re two little lovebirds,”

“Lys is just a big softie, a little hard headed but that’s half the reason I like her as much as I do.” Marilyn can’t contain her grin, “I’m glad you cleared things up with her, Larissa, you deserve someone like her,”

The two converse for a short while, yourself and Miss. Hansen being the topics of discussion before Marilyn excuses herself, mentioning she had some plants she wanted to gift to her lycan.

~

Evening came quickly and Larissa had finished everything for the day. After closing her laptop she surveys her office — just soaking in the space and enjoying it. Her eyes land on one of the many bookcases, she skims the titles on the spines until one catches her eye, she had been gifted it one year in the staff’s secret Santa. It was a collection of classic piano compositions. Admittedly she hardly used it if at all but the gesture behind the gift was appreciated. Come to think of it, she hasn’t felt ivory keys beneath her fingers in a while.

Larissa didn’t own a piano to keep in her private quarters, as much as she would have liked to — there just wasn’t space and it didn’t go with her decor. A keyboard would be the solution but she just hated the plastic keys, they felt cheap. She knew the school owned pianos, there was one in each music classroom, and in the soundproof practice rooms — for students and teachers alike to play without fear of disturbing those around them.

Before she knew it Larissa found herself in a spare music classroom, sitting at an upright piano ghosting her fingers along the keys, the material felt sturdy and cool against her skin. With a deep contented sigh Larissa pressed on the ivories and the sound of delicate notes rang out through the room as she began to play ‘Nuvole Bianche’ by Ludovico Einaudi. The introduction was slow, the notes bleeding into the next before a momentary pause until it found its tempo. As she played Larissa let her body sway with the music, her eyes closed as she fed her soul into the keys. Lost to the world.

~

“Thank you,” you take your violin back from Mr. Hewett, a ginger man. Tall and sinewy, with his cropped hair slicked back. He looked like his limbs were too long for his body.

“Not a problem, I’m always happy to help,” He gave you a smile.

“It seems so silly now I know how to sort it myself,” you chuckled sheepishly as you placed the instrument into its case. “I was about to grab a nail file and whittle the peg down,”

“Oh goodness no! That’s blasphemy!” Mr. Hewett holds a hand to his chest, letting out a disbelieved gasp. “Thank the heavens you came to me first,”

A tuning peg had become tight, causing you grief when you had played the strings. You hadn’t the faintest clue how to fix it or the cause — and the idea of having to fork out for a potentially expensive peg replacement wasn’t appealing. Nipping down to the music wing was a smart decision.

“Thank them indeed,” you agree.

You shut the clasps on the case and turn to the man. Clad in a slightly oversized brown suit as always. You thank him again and take your leave.

The corridor was silent until you reached the end when you heard something faintly. As you crept closer to a classroom door that was left just a touch ajar you could make out the sounds of a piano more clearly. The music seemed to breathe, slowing marginally before bursting into more life only to repeat again. Whoever was playing was exceptionally skilled and curiosity got the better of you. Quietly you push the door open and peek your head in — only just silencing your gasp.

There she sat, in the dimly lit room, slender fingers dancing over the keys. The evening sun leeched in through the window, catching on the specks of dust, and shone on her like a spotlight. Diverting all attention on her. As if anyone could look elsewhere — Larissa’s entire existence was all consuming and wholly captivating. How anyone could want to look away was beyond you.

You slip into the room and close the door behind you silently. Setting your violin down on a nearby desk without a sound. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you disturbed this moment. If you tore Larissa from this state of absolute peace and serenity she had found. The blonde played the last notes — holding the keys down and putting her foot on the sustain pedal. The sound fades softly into nothingness. The air in the room is fragile like glass.

You allow a few seconds before speaking in the gentlest of tones, “you play beautifully, almost as beautiful as yourself,”

Larissa’s eyes shoot open and her head snaps round to the source of the voice. Instantly relaxing when she sees it’s you. A pink hue creeps onto her cheeks as she bows her head and smiles.

“Thank you, but it’s just a pastime of mine,”

“You’re far too humble Rissa,” you muse. Walking the last few steps to close the distance between you.

With a quick glance at the door to make sure no one was watching, you press a sweet kiss to her lips, your hands caressing her face. You can feel her smile against you.

“How long have you played for?”

When seated at the piano bench, Larissa reaches just below your lower lip. You move to stand behind her and capitalise on that fact, resting your chin on her head, wrapping your arms around her neck, letting your hands dangle in front of her chest.

“Just before I moved here to attend Nevermore,” her voice was quiet, just like the final notes she had played.

Her reply creates more questions in your mind. You want to know her life story. And so much more. But you don’t voice any of those.

You remove your chin from its perch, and lean down next to her ear, “Can we play a duet?” Your hushed voice graces her hearing.

“If I know the composition then yes,” Larissa can’t help her Cheshire Cat grin.

You hum in thought as you think of songs, “do you know ‘Time Forgotten’ by Brian Crain?”

“I do, yes,” Larissa tilts her head to the side to steal a kiss from you.

You all too happily lean into it before abruptly pulling away. Practically skipping across the room to where your violin sat in its case. Larissa watches intently as you settle the instrument on your shoulder, resting your chin on the chin rest as you walk back to her. You run the bow over the strings, your brows furrowing in concentration as you listen to the notes, an expression Larissa finds painfully adorable.

Once you’re back at her side you fiddle with the tuning pegs, play the strings again, and then make a few more adjustments until you’re satisfied with the sound.

“Ready?” The blonde asks, her fingers already poised over the keys.

“At your beck and call,” you hum, nestling the violin back between your shoulder and chin. Bow hovering across the strings.

The piano starts off the music and the violin makes its entrance shortly after. Your notes play longer, a beautiful contrast to the shorter ones from the piano. As the song progresses Larissa shuts her eyes and lets her body move in time with the song. You on the other hand watch her, you rock gently on your feet, the pair of you letting the ebb and flow of the music take over — seep into your bones and claim your beings. The song is gentle but not lacking in evoking a melancholy feeling. It’s soothing and effective in banishing any thoughts from your mind other than Larissa Weems and the violin.

The song peters out on a shy diminuendo, feathering off into the ether. You relax and remove your violin, holding it lower as you observe Larissa. Her face is relaxed, void of the usual tenseness. She sighs softly as she opens her eyes to find yours already trained on her. They’re lidded and are rife with mellowness. She can’t put into words how ecstatic she is. The music subdued her but it hasn’t dampened how alive she feels — she had dreamed of playing a duet with you. Weeks ago it was all just a fanciful dream she dared not to entertain fully. And here she sat, that daydream very much a reality.

It seems dreams really do come true.

~

Taglist - @weemssapphic @h-doodles @blessmysouljessisonaroll @eveymay @lvinhs @enchantressb @a-queen-and-her-throne @vmpnano @opheliauniverse @emsgwenstan @renravens @lex13cm @im-a-carniverous-plant

#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader

[dollya-robinprotector]

Giggling because I love making post with multiple character tags and then wait for the wrong face to be featured on all the tags ksksksks

This sydney looks soooo sillyyyy

Anw I just thought about my past so story time under the cut.

When I was in secondary school, I once knew a friend who was bullied.

For the context, it was a decent school, with 4 grades, each had 4 classes: A for lower-perform and naughty students, B for normal, C for better than average, and D for the Elites who will most definitely have bright future ahead. We are Asian children, study means EVERYTHING for us. Our worth are defined by how well we perform in school, how many awards we have and how good our grades are.

That friend was in class C. I was in class B. Normally we don't make friends outside of the class, but I once saw him being poured water on in the hallway, defended him and we became friends. Or something like that. Let's call him Z because I forgor his name now.

My parents didn't do well with the fact that I failed my entrance test and was stuck in normal class. They didn't have money to upgrade me to class C either, so they made me study extra hard. Back since I started going to school, I was being teased and harassed a lot too cuz I love to draw (what's the problem of kids being mean to artistic kids btw???). But since I was one of the best performers in study, I soon gained some respect and the soft bully subside. (I was terrible in math, but everything else were straight A okay??)

Z wasn't so lucky. I learned that his grades were terrible eventhough he was in class C. He stuttered a lot, always looks down when talking to people, never dare to engage in any conversation, etc... His appearance did not help, and he had some funny smell when I stood close to him. One thing though, he loved drawing too (urgh artistic kids again) and really admired my skill. The only times he would smile are when we talked about our fav anime. Looking back, I think maybe he had something to do with autism? I can't be sure though, but I know his parents spent a LOT to keep him in that better-than-average-class.

The bully was not too terrible, at least from what I saw and heard. He often got splashed by water, threw dirty rag or left-over food at, made fun of, laughed at, his belongings often went missing and be found somewhere dirty, etc... I used to went through all that too, so I helped him to somehow deal with them. Those sort of soft-physical bully were nothing scary once you got used to them. Just a little annoying. He got used to it too, I think, and we didn't mention those when we talk. I admit I might had some savior complex, and that friendship is not entirely friendly. It was more like I thought he would be helpless without me so I can't leave him alone.

And then one day when I was going home from school, Z approached me and asked if I want to go to his house. He said he has a very big greenhouse, and there were some pretty blooming flowers he wanted to show me. I never saw a greenhouse before and I love flowers, of course I said yes!

We rode our bicycles to his house. I've never been to his house before nor meet his parents. I didn't even ask my mom for permission to go but well, I was excited.

We went for a long time, and I started to realize he was leading me into the forest. I still went with him for maybe half an hour more, before I said I was tired and you didn't tell me your house would be this far. Then I look around and truly there was nothing bu trees surrounded the two of us. He looked back at me, clearly exhausted too, and said nothing. I started to realize the situation I was in: a 12 years old, in a forest, with no directions and a strange friend who I didn't really know. Yeh atm I was pretty scared.

I asked Z again where exactly is his house. He stuttered and said I don't need to worry, we would get there very soon. He said if I was too tired I can hop on his bike and he would get me there. Then he attempted to take my hand but that creeped me out so I stepped away from him. I turned my bike, ignored his calls, and just went as fast as I can toward the direction I thought would lead me out of the woods. He called out to me and began to chase after me too, but gave up after some times.

I then just rode my bike with full speed, somehow got out of the woods into a strange road I didn't know, asked around for direction and got home safe. My mom scolded me for being so damn late and I apologized. I never tell anybody, and never talk to Z ever again. He didn't bother me either. And that's the end of the story.

#well that still creeped me out till now #hope nothing bad happened to him tho

[wufflesvetinari]

ok here is a 1k-word preview of Astarion Holiday Son-in-Law Simulator (it will be choose-your-own-adventure once complete and posted to my ao3)

-

You are ULDER RAVENGARD. 

You have safeguarded your city against dragon cultists, Bhaalist incursions, the many-headed hydra of organized crime, and—not a year past—the absurdly apocalyptic attack of the ELDER BRAIN. You withstood the fall of Elturel; survived the Absolute’s parasitic presence in your very soul.

Your maids are fucking giggling at you. 

They flit from room to room, hanging the holly garlands and blown glass baubles traditional of the upcoming MIDWINTER festivities. They paint red stripes on wooden Canes of Frost to symbolize the aging of the year. They pose an effigy of Hroth’s surprisingly jolly and generous servant Saint Claw on the upper landing, a nod to the coming month of Alturiak, known as the Claw of Winter. 

It’s the kind of exquisite holiday detailing expected of Ravengard Manor, home of current Grand Duke WYLL RAVENGARD. Soon to host Baldur’s Gate prestigious MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL. 

But you are ULDER RAVENGARD, and the maids whisper behind their hands when you pass.

Surely this is ASTARION’s doing.

Your son is completely besotted with his fiance, but you can’t figure out the appeal. And the feeling appears mutual: the lad’s taken an inexplicable disliking to you.

Certainly not due to any action of your own.

He communicates to you chiefly in cutting remarks or cheerful anecdotes about killing people. He makes no effort to hide his fangs when lounging about the formal events you host, and he said something deeply heinous about Lady Gemilia’s parrot mere moments before you would have clinched her financial support for the Fist’s new armory. 

He’s spoiled, and petty, and seems chiefly concerned with draining the Ravengard coffers. You are, frankly, at your wit’s fucking end.

You corner a butler about the giggling servants and he mumbles something about the Duke-Consort-To-Be’s generosity with the staff: with the contents of the Ravengard wine cellars, but also—more importantly—with idle gossip. 

With stories gleaned from the new Grand Duke about his father’s youthful indiscretions. Something about the Blushing Mermaid, a monk, and a redcap. 

This cannot stand.

But you are a mature adult—a politician!—who can control his wrathful urges. Surely Astarion can be brought to heel if approached with respect and an open mind. 

Or perhaps it would be wiser to approach Wyll with your concerns. Astarion would certainly accept correction from his fiance.

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH ASTARION LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH WYLL LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

***

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH ASTARION LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

You seek out your future son-in-law after evening falls. He’s lounging about in the darkened greenhouse, sharing a bottle of wine with SNIDE-WHITE-BRAID. 

Snide-White-Braid is one of Wyll’s little friends from that time he saved Baldur’s Gate and also the world. You do not remember her name, but she is frequently in your house drinking your wine. She is either the cleric or the wizard, and you are terrified of having a full conversation with her in case you guess wrong.

Tactically, you ignore her. 

“Ah, Astarion!” you say, as though you frequently visit your greenhouse at night and have only caught him here by chance. “I was hoping to have a word.”

“You were,” Astarion says lightly. He stretches out like a cat on the—you believe the contraption is called a lawn chair, and he had it shipped in from Waterdeep at full expense. He blinks at you languidly. “Well, go on, then.”

You glance at Snide-White-Braid, who raises a dark eyebrow at you. 

“Alone?” you try.

Astarion sighs, a perfect picture of put-upon luxury, and Snide-White-Braid hums in a distinctly judgemental way before leaving the greenhouse. She takes the wine bottle with her. It is, of course, one of the good years. You will not see it again.

Business-like, you sit on the lawn chair beside him. You pick a disarming opening gambit. “Astarion, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“The wrong foot?” Astarion says, pressing an offended hand to his chest. “Whatever do you mean, father dearest?”

You fight back a full-body shudder. “Don’t—please don’t call me that.”

Astarion shrugs and sips his wine. He continues to recline, leaving you looking awkward and stiff in comparison. 

“I mean that we are very different people,” you try valiantly. “And I can respect difference. Wyll clearly cares about you—”

“Of course he does!” Astarion flutters his eyelashes, and you grow distinctly uneasy. “And he cares so much about you, as well. Even after…well, you know. All that unpleasantness between the two of you.”

“Er,” you say eloquently, your unease only growing. “Yes.” 

“So of course, I have to play nice,” Astarion says, grinning over his glass. “You needn’t fear any aggression from me. Why, I’m just happy to call you family.”

You flounder. “That’s…good to hear? Perhaps, then, we could discuss some smaller matters of—”

“By the way,” Astarion says silkily, placing his glass on the greenhouse floor. “Ser Augustus won’t be coming to the MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL after all. His invitation got mixed up in the mail somehow—instead he received the rather scathing meeting minutes from the Planning Council’s discussion of his budget indiscretions.”

Astarion covers his mouth with his hand, the picture of scandalized. 

You breathe deeply. He’s trying to bait you, the gods know why. But for Wyll’s sake—for your own dignity—you can’t let him.

“The MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL is an important political event,” you tell him calmly. “For Wyll especially, as the new Grand Duke. Ser Augustus’s presence would have been a boon to him.”

“Or at least to the Flaming Fists’ new armory fund,” Astarion says, examining his nails. “Pity.” 

You grit your teeth. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“I’ve changed the main course to venison.”

“Venison? I—Astarion, I am organizing this event. On my son’s behalf.”

“And your son,” Astarion says, his eyes flashing, “prefers venison.”

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don’t give into his petty games. Don’t let him drag you down into some insane secret war. 

“Be that as it may, venison is a commoner’s dish. I can provide better for him.”

Astarion looks at you coolly. He reaches down to run a finger over the rim of his wine glass.

“Can you?” he says.

He’s not talking about the venison anymore. This is abundantly clear. You see the distaste in his eyes—the dismissal—and embarrassment washes through you.

It’s quickly replaced by rage. How dare he judge your mistakes, when anyone can see that Astarion is a mistake Wyll is in the midst of making? It’s a father’s duty to correct mistakes.

The INSANE SECRET WAR is declared without a word between you.

You lean forward in your chair, eyes alight. “It’s good that we’re getting along so well, for Wyll’s sake. I’d hate for him to sense any discord between us.”

“Quite,” Astarion agrees with a smile. “That sweet man has enough on his mind. You have my word he will never notice an inkling of a problem.” 

“Then we are agreed,” you say.

The TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT are set. Wyll will never learn of the SECRET WAR. The war that, on your honor, Astarion will lose.

Your honor levels are not inconsiderable.

#i'm having a ball #wyllstarion #bg3 #not ulder apologism or ulder bashing but a secret third thing (ulder suffering) #redeem ulder or don't i'm not the boss of you

[joesalw]

All of Taylor's albums were tailored to the most popular aesthetic at the time. She didn't make shit popular, she just adapted. Especially when she made the transition into pop music.

True. She's currently jumping fences with rep as well. Making it out to be a goth punk moment and using trendy words like 'female rage'. The album has the most romantic songs she's ever written. C'mon now. The whole record is electropop with some R&B elements thrown into the mix.

She portrays 'Lover' as her social justice warrior era. 'If I was a man, then I'd be the man'. Yeah, we've seen it Taylor. Miss 'me becoming a billionaire is good for the world because I'm a woman'. She makes herself out to be this 'feminist girl's girl' when in reality it couldn't be further from the truth. She's not a feminist and she doesn't want to be the woman that's advocating for women's rights and leads the path for the future generation of women. She wants to be the man at the top. Her motto is literally 'gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss, greenhouse gases'.

Another thing is her queer allyship. She's mentioned it when and only when it was profitable to her. During her tour she hadn't said a thing when the number of states signed anti-trans bills and the state of Tennessee where she says she lives *according to her own documentary* banned drag. I don't think she said anything about the anti-abortion legislation either. Her activist era started and ended in 2019.

Don't get me started on her position regarding the BLM movement. She only posted something because her own fans started calling her out and then declared that she's 'ferociously anti-racist'. She positioned herself as an advocate *by herself* and then immediately dipped when it stopped being as profitable. If you don't want to be dragged for your silence about social and political crises, don't proclaim yourself as an activist. Simple as that.

I've also seen the video on Youtube about TS being a narcissist (someone posted it on your blog earlier I think). And the guy in the video brought up her guitar teacher. So I looked him up and found an article where he talks about his experience with the Swifts which he got sued for later. According to the man, Taylor's mother was interested in him teaching her daughter how to play country music and was just a stage mom in general. And TS says that she'd been begging her parents to allow her learn how to play guitar and that she's self-taught. She wants her success story to be a rags to riches so bad I can't even.

She's a woman with an extremely fragile ego where millions of people could be praising her and a single negative comment would set her off. She can't handle any form of criticism, break ups or inconveniences like a grown woman simply because she doesn't have enough emotional intelligence to do so. Her being surrounded by yes men also doesn't help the situation. If i were her, I'd rather invest in a good therapist rather than 2 PJs. She drowns herself in work and relationships so she doesn't have time to go inwards and sit with her thoughts.

I kinda feel bad for her, honestly. She's been in the industry since she was 15 and her success was almost immediate. She doesn't know what the world's like because she's been sheltered her whole life and then had other people do things for her. I don't think she has many real friends as well. By real I mean people who aren't afraid to tell you the truth and are able to call you out in your face. Instead she has a bunch of people who appease her afraid of pissing her off and ending up on her bad side and as a result her vanity grows and she completely loses any sort of perspective whether in her friendships, romantic relationships or maybe even her own family.

I also wonder what she thinks about her fandom pirating her concert film instead of paying to rent it. I sort of hope that her fans are starting to wake up to her conning schemes. I mean, you've already made a shit ton of money from the theatre release, why charging 20$ more to RENT IT?Not even buy it. Or is it another narrative about how 'no one can own my work but me'?

This woman sells well but her cultural impact is almost nonexistent. She hadn't done any good for the world causes or inspired several generations of performers like Michael Jackson has with his philanthropic endeavors and incredible performing skills. The artists like Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, Justin Timberlake (bleh) and The Weeknd were hugely influenced by MJ. These artist create their own unique legacy and impact on their communities. Especially the ladies. Gaga's been an avid LGBT+ advocate since the beginning of her career and created a foundation that focuses on issues like self-confidence, well-being, anti-bullying, mentoring and career development. She also participated in anti HIV and AIDS campaigns, spoke against immigration laws in the US, contributed to 2011's earthquake and tsunami relief campaign in Japan. Beyoncé's a huge advocate for the black community and black women especially which always finds its way in her work and visual art in particular. She's been platforming black culture and history for her whole career (2016 Superbowl and Coachella performance are the brightest examples of black american culture and releasing her Lion King album to showcase African artists' excellence). She also has a foundation where she provides black youth scholarships, clean water for communities abroad and housing to families in need in her home state.

What exactly makes Taylor Swift's cultural impact? Thousands of tons CO2 emissions? Music labels putting a clause in the contract so the artists can't re-record their material for 10 years now instead of 5? Making several versions of the same CD or vinyl so the sales are bigger? Mind you, that's all excessive plastic and paper. Some countries and US states are banning gas stoves. Her position regarding artists being paid during the early days of streaming (when the platforms were launching with a free period tial) was right but no one really benefited from it but her. She was shitting on Apple Music, then they offered her money, filmed an ad and released her 1989 Tour DVD exclusively on their platform. She shat on Spotify, then when LWYMMD came out, she was all over their biggest playlists all of a sudden and recorded Spotify Singles later on. Spotify's always promoted her every release like a motherfucker shoving her in every corner of the platform. Especially for the past 3 years. She doesn't have any memorable outfits or unique style to be called a fashion icon either. She's not a trailblazer she thinks she is. She is only popular because a lot of people *mostly ww* who peaked in high school see themselves in her. She's average in everything she does, her writing topes are also the same (only now she started using compound or uncommonly used words to mask it) but she's extremely commercially successful so that those people can see themselves in her. She doesn't have unique music style or chameleon-like discography like Gaga, Bey, MJ, Madonna, Shakira, Kelly Clarkson, Miley Cyrus or Nelly Furtado. She doesn't have a unique singing voice like Bjork, David Bowie, Freddie Mercury, Janis Joplin, MJ or Bob Dylan. She's no instrument prodigy either. And swifties say that 'Michael couldn't play any instruments'. Well, he was an exceptional beatboxer. She can strum 4 guitar chords and play basic piano, that's it. She doesn't have an outstanding dancing and/or vocal skill.

What is she gonna be remembered for? Her numerous relationships with famous men? While that might be misogynistic or sexist to some degree, she's the one who makes her relationships the centre of her music and public persona and brings them up even 10 years after they ended. Her public feuds with men and women that she can't get over years after? This woman is certainly can hold a grudge and is extremely vindictive. The leader of a parasocial cult that blindly defends her bigotry? I believe so. I don't think I've ever seen a fandom as toxic and as hive-minded as swifties. And again, it's Taylor's own creation. She's the one that constantly says 'look closely for the easter eggs' in her content making her fans theorize on every aspect of her life, or 'if you're very loyal I might invite you to MY HOUSE and you can listen to the new album early, we'll take pics and I'll bake you some cookies'. Of course they'll follow your any order. I'm glad I escaped.

Oof, I'll stop here. That's a very long one already

sorry hehe

.

#anti taylor swift #anti swifties #swifties dni

[takuyakistall]

brewing mishaps

Ace found a book containing recipes for potions. How far will curiosity get him? — Pomefiore!Ace x Reader

Note: hi.... hello........ (dusts off cobwebs) this is kinda embarrassing posting again after i said i wld no longer post 🙈

Ace had always known that Pomefiore offered a wide array of potion recipes hidden away in thick tomes that collected dust in shelves. It wasn't forbidden to browse through them, of course, it was already a given that dangerous mixes were stored away safely and away from students.

Which is why Ace was a little baffled, a little confused, as to why there was a recipe for a potion that supposedly alters one's feelings "permanently". He wondered why the text had quotation marks but quickly shook his head as he continued to gloss over the pages.

The ink was fading, he could barely make out some words or whole paragraphs. Frustration threatened to shut the book closed and shove it back to its place in the shelf until his eyes caught a few words that read: This potion... Works... Love...

"Ha?"

Hold on, isn't that basically saying this is a love potion? Permanent effects too?? Isn't that seriously bad???

The thought of asking Vil came across his mind but he shooed the thought away when he promptly put back the book in its original spot on the shelf. He shouldn't try and dabble in this sort of thing...

—or so he thought. He wanted to find out the reason why he was in the greenhouse, looking for potion ingredients.

"Get away from me." Oh, the look on his face was priceless. He was under the assumption that the potion he threw together haphazardly would work as intended. The small vial that was supposed to work as a love potion did the exact opposite—Wait, wait, wait. What's going on?

Vil called him an idiot. He was under the impression that Ace knew better than to follow a recipe for a potion whose description could be barely read with the ink fading away. He managed to exceed his expectations in the worst way and now he was facing the consequences of picking the forbidden fruit that granted him knowledge. Now that he took a bite, he was cast away.

It was curious; how far would he go to be welcomed back? It was simple. Constant begging got him somewhere with Vil who was tired and sick from his junior tailing him around the corridors and even went as far as to enter his room unprompted. Needless to say, one way to get Ace off his back was to appease him.

"Huh," was all Ace could respond with when Vil gave him the remedy.

"Don't give me that blank look? Were you expecting something awfully romantic like a true love's kiss will wake them from the spell?" Vil's tone was sharp, mostly because he was at his limit dealing with his antics. "There is no such thing as a potion with permanent effects that is out in the open in the dormitory. It was most likely vandalized."

"So you're telling me that the best I can do is wait for it to wear off?" Ace tilted his head, a little doubtful of his dorm leader's words. "Are you sure? Cause it's gonna hurt a lot if it ends up being permanent."

"It's the consequences of your actions. Deal with it. I trust that you'll know better than to make your friend drink a potion in the future."

"Yes, yes..."

Frankly, Ace didn't buy it. It was his tendency to overthink that led him to approaching you once more with his usual smile on his face, waving at you mischievously as if nothing changed between the two of you.

"Yo! What's up?"

"Ha? I told you to get away from me before." Your reply was ice cold. Ace faltered a little but he made sure to cover it up quickly with another comment.

"Aww, c'mon, don't be like that! We're best buddies, aren't we?" He tried to wrap his hand around your neck but was pushed away swiftly. "You can't seriously hate me forever because of some potion."

"Isn't this your fault?"

"Geh... Nevermind that. I just wanna focus on getting you back to normal."

"This is the new normal. Get used to it."

"Nuh-uh. Vil told me that the effects would wear off eventually so maybe talking to you like this would speed up the process." Ace grinned, clearly trying his best to look unfazed. "Maybe even doing the things we used to do would shake off the effects."

"No? I really don't want to talk to you right now. This is a waste of time— Woah!?" Getting pulled by the arm was certainly one way to bring you back closer. Ace wanted to get this over as quickly as possible and he would go to such lengths to ensure that it would happen. If this doesn't work, then he'll have to march up to Vil again and beg for another remedy.

"Prepare yourself! We're gonna do every single thing we used to do!"

#me when i said i wld no longer post but then get hit by sudden insanium #hi guys... HAHAHAHAHA #twst #twisted wonderland #twst writing #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola x reader #twisted wonderland ace #ace x reader #ace #ace trappola

[mollysunder]

I feel like we don't talk enough about the weird ways Viktor's future in Zaun is foreshadowed. When you mix every instance together it creates this weird mixture of heartbreak and terror.

For example, in the flashback when Viktor first meets Singed the entrance Viktor came through has a relief that looks like a shrouded figure. Personally, it reminds me of Huck post-timeskip.

In post timeskip Zaun there's a greenhouse called "The Herald's Palace" based on the sign that's framed with blue swirls similar to Jinx's tattoos, and it's being guarded by men wearing masks similar to the Machine Herald. The guards are even given long clubs reminiscent to the Herald's staff.

When Viktor visits Singed to share his research, when he looks into the container holding Rio, Viktor’s reflection in the fluid and glass makes him appear in better health compared to now. (Chemtech, the answer to filters in a pre-instagram world)

In the same scene, the silhouette of Rio's body vaguely resembles the outline of the Machine Herald's mask that appeared in the tarot card scene. The stand that frames the shot even resembles the Machine Herald's staff.

Speaking of the tarot card, in Viktor's "the Magician" card, the figure is holding an object that could be the hexcore. What's more interesting is that within that hexcore-like object is Jinx's champion teaser tag, it was just turned sideways to resemble the math symbol fish, ∝, though sideways it still makes Jinx's "X". On top of that both tarot cards are initialed with a "VJ", like Viktor and Jinx.

This is just a quick rundown because there's a bunch of the cosmic Void imagery that gets crossed with the human biology that will take longer to get into. It's just interesting how Viktor's story, which initially stood alone in Zaun and was largely influenced by Piltover is now becoming more entagled into the stories of Zaun's more influential champions, Singed and Jinx.

#arcane #viktor arcane #machine herald #i feel like people take lol's canon too literally and expect the machine herald to show up bcuz arcane is lol #it prevents you from really inspecting the material #the more i learn about viktor in lol the more difference i see between him and the original version #singed arcane #jinx arcane #arcane meta

[blinkngone]

light years.

Silence resides like an unwelcome guest in the Burrow. On the days he doesn’t go to the Ministry, Harry mostly sits at the table in the Burrow’s kitchen, picking the skin on his lips. New post-war commodity at the Burrow: dirty dishes populating the a sink that has always been spic and span. A glass of water on the table that he never drinks. Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World, rotting in the kitchen of a crooked, sun-bathed house. Out of the corner of his eyes, past the kitchen window, there is a blur of red and ivory. Sometimes he watches this blur flit back and forth between the frame of the window, sometimes he puts his head on the table, closes his eyes. Wills himself to remember her skin on his, the smell of her on his jaws. She feels a lifetime away. Centuries pass before he lifts his head back up again. The slant of the sun lengthens on the table. Near the edge, G.W is inscribed on the wood, below it, the initials of her brothers. These words belong to another time, when pain came from breaking elbows in the yard, gnome biting their toes, bee stings from the hives sticking to the trees. These days, pain comes from things they shouldn’t have even experienced.

“Your childhood was robbed from you,” Kingsley told Harry one time when they were repairing the greenhouses at Hogwarts. Amid the havoc of the war, green plants shot up regardless.

So much more than just his childhood was robbed from him, Harry wanted to tell the Minister. His life was almost snatched from him. His future, his people, all the love he could’ve had. He didn’t say anything, just shrugged. After, as he stood near the lake smoking a cigarette, squirrels scampered away from him. Like they knew this life he had, was more tinted with death than any eighteen year old life should be.

/

Now, the sounds from outside populate the silence of the Burrow. With Ron and Hermione in Australia, Mrs. Weasley at the Shell Cottage, and the others at the Ministry, the house seems to be an extension of the aching loneliness he feels. Lately, he is consumed by the need to do something, anything except attend hearings at the Ministry and helping at Hogwarts. There is a constant restlessness between his ribs. In bed sometimes, he cannot feel his body anymore, feels like he is becoming more and more unmoored from this plane of existence. In the bathroom that mostly smells of shampoo that Mrs. Weasley makes from the flowers from the Burrow’s orchard, he looks at the reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink, and is unable to locate himself.

Ginny, he observes, embodies his restlessness. She is wild that summer, Ginny. He sees it. She prowls around the Burrow at night, lithe and haunting. A ghost. In daylight, she is as fleeting as an afterthought. She is gone before he’s up, and thinks no one notices how she is beginning to disappear, parts of her falling off and getting lost. Untended grief settling in those empty spaces. Harry becomes increasingly concerned, but no one has taught him how to prevent another person from disappearing into darkness. Framed in the window of his room in the attic, he too, looks ghastly. If it weren’t for the throb of pain in his open wounds, the sting of summer on his red burns, he wouldn’t be able to tell if he were human, Harry thinks.

He remembers their days at Hogwarts, how she’d demand he sit against the trees and watch her fly. Eyes glinting, and a wicked grin on her face, she’d deftly braid her hair into a plait. Broom between her legs, she’d say, “Top this, Potter.”

And he watched, because how could he not. After everything he’d seen in his sixteen years of life, she was a miracle. Later, he’d unbraid her hair, lips on the column of her neck, tasting the wind on her skin.

These days, the only forms of interaction between them are: their dirty cups stacked on top of each other, strands of hair she sometimes leaves in the bathroom sink, her clothes and his tangled in the laundry hamper.

/

It happens on an ordinary afternoon. He stops a few feet away from the Burrow, near the chicken coup to smoke a cigarette. Today, he met Kingsley at the Ministry. He offered Harry a spot in the Auror Department.

They sat opposite each other at the table in the Minister of Magic’s office. He told the Minister, “I have to think about it.”

“Yes, Harry. Take your time. Maybe wait till Ron and Hermione are back.”

“Ron and Hermione, yeah,” he said. It dawned on him that he’d never taken an important decision without them by his side. He was so wholly inadequate without the two of them.

The birds chirp in the orchard now, the breeze heavy with humidity. Dragonflies buzz over his head. Hermione once told him, when she was little, she’d look out the window of her bedroom in the hopes of seeing dragonflies.

“Dragonflies mean heavy rain!” her Mum used to tell her. In his last letter, Ron wrote Mrs. Granger’s memory was proving difficult to be restored. She was still unable to remember Hermione.

It sure feels like heavy rain today. He blows the smoke out, slowly. Taps his finger against the cigarette and watches the column of ash fall away.

“What’s that?”

He turns around to see Ginny, broom against her hip, standing where the orchard gives away to tall and wide grass blades. Her voice sounds different, rusty from the lack of use.

“Cigarette,” he tells her.

“What?”

“Muggle shit.”

She just lifts her eyebrows, her mouth perched on the brink of laughter. Her hair is wild, sweat shining on her face. For a few seconds they look at each other. He is afraid to look away.

“Want to try?” he asks her.

She shrugs and steps forward. He covers the distance between them in three long strides.

/

The floating foliage of the leaves makes shadow patterns on their bodies. The sunlight feels old, slightly muted. She he likes the way the yellow light catches the tiny hairs on his arms, bringing out the dark butterscotch of his emerald pupils, makes his face look unbelievably beautiful. They pass a cigarette back and forth, the both of them lying on a patch of asymmetrical sunlight, the dew from the grass wetting the back of their thin shirts. He blows the smoke from the corner of his mouth, so that the left side of his face disappears momentarily in this white smoke, then reappears in the very next instant. She can smell the scent of her own hair, like wildflowers, and wishes he smells it, too, over the smell of his cigarette.

He doesn't speak much, nor does she. But his lingering looks burn into her skin, make her feel more than a wound that won’t scab, not even at the edges. Yesterday she took him to the pond, and they sat near the edge, with their feet in the water. Green weeds curled around their calves. Their shoulders were touching.

He said, “I thought about you, a lot. You know, when I was away.”

She blinked at him and wondered if it was too early to tell him about hurting in his dorm, seeing his face every time they shot a Cruciatus at her, willing to die than divulge any information that might be used against him.

“Oh.” She touched her chest with her palm. She looked out at the pond, listened to the croaking of the frogs on the green pads of leaves bigger than the sun in the sky. She wanted to give him her heart, knew he’d cradle it in his rough palms delicately, with the kind of tenderness that touches you once in twelve million light years.

“I stole your jumper,” she told him. “Wore it to bed.” Every night.

She turned to look at him the same moment he looked away. She caught the shy upturn of his smile sideways, for a fleeting moment, and revelled in it for the entire night.

She turns to him now, props herself on her elbows. He looks up at her. There are a million things she wants to tell him. The most important of which, perhaps, is that she loves him. Wants them to heal together.

“Harry.”

He stubs his cigarette in one quick motion. The contours of his lips, the wetness of his tongue are painfully familiar. Beautifully so.

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