#Replacement Windows Jupiter

[windowanddoorsouthflorida]

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[window-replacement-group]

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[preciouswyatt]

Making Dreams Come True: Windows and Doors Financing Options

Investing in high-quality windows and doors is an essential step towards enhancing the aesthetics, energy efficiency, and security of your home. However, the cost of such upgrades can sometimes be a concern. Fortunately, there are various financing options available to help you achieve your goals without straining your budget. In this blog, we'll explore the benefits of financing windows and doors, the different options available, and how it can be a smart investment in the long run.

The Benefits of Financing Windows and Doors

Immediate Improvement:

Financing allows you to undertake window and door replacements or upgrades sooner rather than later, providing immediate benefits in terms of aesthetics, energy efficiency, and security.

2. Enhanced Energy Efficiency:

Upgrading to energy-efficient windows and doors can lead to significant savings on your energy bills, making it a wise investment in the long term.

3. Increased Property Value:

High-quality windows and doors are attractive features for potential buyers, potentially increasing the resale value of your home.

4. Improved Security and Safety:

Modern windows and doors come equipped with advanced security features, providing enhanced protection for your home and loved ones.

Financing Options for Windows and Doors

Home Improvement Loans:

These are personal loans specifically designed for home improvement projects. They offer competitive interest rates and flexible repayment terms.

2. Home Equity Line of Credit (HELOC):

HELOCs allow you to borrow against the equity in your home. This can be an excellent option for larger projects, as they typically offer lower interest rates.

3. Credit Cards:

Using a credit card with a promotional 0% APR offer can be a convenient way to finance smaller window and door projects. However, be sure to pay off the balance within the promotional period to avoid high interest rates.

4. Manufacturer or Retailer Financing:

Some window and door manufacturers or retailers offer special financing deals, often with low or zero interest rates for a specific period.

5. Government Programs:

Depending on your location, there may be government programs or incentives available to help offset the cost of energy-efficient upgrades, including windows and doors.

Choosing the Right Financing Option

Interest Rates and Terms:

Compare interest rates, repayment terms, and any associated fees to ensure you choose the most cost-effective option.

2. Loan Amount:

Determine the total cost of your window and door project and choose a financing option that covers it comfortably.

3. Monthly Payments:

Consider your budget and ensure that the monthly payments are manageable and won't strain your finances.

4. Reputation of the Lender:

Choose a reputable lender or financing program with positive reviews and a track record of reliable service.

Financing your window and door project can be a strategic move to enhance the comfort, beauty, and value of your home. With various financing options available, you can choose the one that aligns with your budget and preferences. Don't let cost be a barrier to achieving the home of your dreams. Explore financing options today and embark on the journey towards a more comfortable and inviting living space.

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[somewhereincairparavel]

Its actually so ironic that Romans claim that they are all "loyal soldiers" but camp Jupiter didn't even TRY to look for Jason??? That man was literally a praetor and is legit the SON of Jupiter. He is so important to their camp and held so much emotional importance. He was there since he was 4! None of his friends there apart from reyna seemed concerned about him either (heck I'd even argue that reyna's concern was watered down aswell, it could've been written better, rick making her develop a brief crush on Percy seemed very ooc for her, considering that she had been pining for jason for quite a long time and was seriously confident that they'd be together, So her pushing that out the window for a new boy she met 2 weeks ago and just accepted Jason disappearance without much thought was not very Reyna tbh but it's my opinion ig) they were all just like "oh such a shame ig jason was cool"

It proves how they treat soldiers like they're some scraps of machine. Only important if they are helpful to you. But if they're gone? No big deal. We can always replace him with someone better.

If you compare this with chb, they are SO loyal to Percy, even the hunters started looking for him, even when they had little to no success, they tried anyway.

Camp Jupiter gave up pretty quickly and just considered him dead. heck, even if they thought jason was dead, why didnt they hold a funeral for him? not even a thank you for all the service he provided? it's heartbreaking. Because a part of Jason KNEW in the lost hero that nobody was looking for him the way Thalia was looking for Percy. He didn't even need his memories back to know that the people of his hometown didn't consider him as important. Fucking tragic.

In a way, I'm kind of glad Jason sort of rejected his roman life bc they did not deserve him at all (Except Reyna/hazel/Frank ofc but you get my point) atleast he had self respect to not go crawling back to a place where no one ever hesitated to replace him.

Camp half blood had done more for Jason in 6 months than Camp Jupiter had done in 15 years. To them, jason was just an asset, to the Greeks, Jason was a friend.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Bars in Palace Windows

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Hera/Juno, Zeus/Jupiter, Jason, Apollo Hera was the Queen of Olympus, yet she could do nothing as her Champion fell. @toapril-official TOApril day 21 - The Gilded Cage

As the Queen of the gods, there was little that could stifle Hera when she wanted to do something.  The minor gods had no choice but to allow her to have her way, and even her fellow Olympians were well aware that it was she who sat at Zeus’ side, at the head of the council.  They could not control her actions, either.

She was, of course, beholden to the Fates the same way the rest of the universe was, but the Fates did not often feel the need to interfere in Hera’s actions, which was a clear sign that they did not disagree with her.  They had not stopped her from her attempt to overthrow her husband when he got too power-hungry, nor had they stopped her from throwing her failure of a son off the mountain.  They also did not interfere in her machinations with the mortals.

Her husband, on the other hand, was another story.  Zeus was growing more and more paranoid by the day, although she and Juno had escaped the worst of his wrath for their scheme with Perseus and Jason – the latter of which, Juno had reminded Jupiter, had been given to her as her champion, and as her champion she was within her rights to treat him as she saw fit.

Zeus disagreed, but her actions had worked to prevent Gaia’s return and he had been forced to acquiesce to her wisdom, although she was aware that if she pushed again for the next few millennia, she would likely be reminded of the horrors of Chaos, and the excruciating terror of feeling herself teetering on the edge of unravelling, of being unmade.

Hera was not bothered by the fact that Apollo had instead borne the brunt of her husband’s wrath.  The Twins had always irritated her, not only two of the blatant daily reminders she faced of Zeus’ infidelity, alongside Hermes and Dionysus – Athena she begrudgingly accepted as being a child of his first wife, even if the goddess had not sprung into existence until after their marriage – but because they were in some ways considered superior to the child she had borne Zeus.  Artemis was the dutiful daughter, favoured by her father and given more leeway than most to cater to her own whims.

Apollo was the golden child, the one that defeated the god of war at wrestling and was beloved by many.

Leto, for all that Hera despised the titan, had given Zeus impressive children.  It was part of the reason she would never acknowledge her.

Watching Apollo struggle, stripped of his perfect godliness and reduced to an average, boring mortal with nothing special about him, was cathartic.  It was true that it also served as a reminder of what Zeus could do to them, if he deemed them disloyal or working against his idea of the good of Olympus, but Hera was not concerned about finding herself in that situation any time soon.

A goddess of marriage knew how to play the dutiful wife when it suited her needs.

Then Jason died.

Jason, her champion, the only living demigod that was hers because she abhorred infidelity and would never partake in it herself, died on a boat, stabbed in the back by an emperor-god with delusions of grandeur.  She didn’t particularly care if he became Neo Helios and replaced Apollo – at least he would not be so irritatingly perfect, and Ares would be able to dominate him in combat at any time he chose – but by killing her champion he had ensured her wrath for the rest of time.

Hera, Juno tried to save Jason.  He was hers, yet he was not her child, a loophole that once upon a time she could’ve used to get her way.  Zeus had looked the other way for her many times, knowing better than to try and stop her.

Jupiter had let his son die.  More than that, he had stopped her.

It would’ve been a simple enough interference, a lightning strike on a boat to incinerate a minor god rising above his station as Tempest rescued his master.  Nothing she hadn’t done many times before.  Nothing her husband hadn’t done many times before.

“We cannot interfere,” he told her, firmly.  “Any attempts will find the perpetrator keeping Apollo company on his quest.”

The life of a demigod was not worth a goddess’ immortality, and she seethed in rage at her husband as Jason died despite Apollo’s best efforts; to her surprise, she found herself feeling a degree of what could almost be fondness for the stepson she had hated for his entire existence.

Unlike her husband, he had not stood by idly.  He had tried, had risked everything to the point of his own existence to save Jason, and when it had ended in failure, he had mourned.

Jason’s father did not shed a single tear, did not enter any mourning rituals.  When Thalia had died, when Zeus had turned her into a tree to stop her soul from entering Hades’ domain, he had mourned as much as her husband could ever bring himself to mourn for a mortal, but for Jason he stood with his head held high and called him a good soldier.

Apollo sang a song to the heavens, grief spilling up to Olympus, and she had donned a mourning veil for the demigod she couldn’t save.

They demigod they couldn’t save.

The demigod that could have been saved, if not for his father, and Hera felt the hatred for her husband start to well up within her again, although she knew there was nothing she could do about it.  Not without risking Zeus’ wrath, and she had no intentions of finding out what it was like to be mortal.

She was the Queen of the gods, sat on her throne on Olympus, but right then, she was as trapped as she had been when the giants had caught her, before Jason and his friends saved her.

[kittywritingsonao3]

i had an idea about an AU my s-class hunters inspired debut or die so i'm sharing it ^^ i wrote it fast without thinking much so don't take it too seriously...

! there's big spoilers for debut or die novel so don't read if you don't want to be spoiled !l

like in canon, yoohyun left yoojin (for x reason) and yoojin is well, sad. Until one day he woke up in is brother body, several years in the past, with the ultimatum of debuting as an idol or he will die. Of course yoojin is not going to let his brother body die, and like in dod, every information about himself disapeared.

so like, contrary to moondae, yoojin don't know much about idol, so I had different idea to "help" him. 1, the system window is talking to him and giving advice (newcomer) 2, yoohyun was a solo idol and yoojin keeped track of him.

anyway, idol inc happens and for the group i was thinking on making a mixed group (discarding season 2 of idol inc).

for the group i imagined yoohyun(yoojin) as a leader/singer, yerim as a main rapper/dancer, noah main dancer/singer (inspired ahyeon) and then... i don't really know :/ i like myeongwoo but i can't really imagine him singing/dancing or rapping so... since the groupe is "young" i wondered if i could put soyoung too? but then i couln't do a jupiter "groupe", and at the same time having hyunjae and soyoung around the same age? weird. So yeah, apart from noah and yerim i'm not sure about yoojin's group. of course yoojin would take care of everyone and everthing, this guy don't change.

for hyunjae, well, it's easy to say he's taking the place of cheongryeo!

as i was typing i realised that myeongwoo could be a producer, like raebin. so maybe singer/producer? since there's a lot of singers, soyoung should be a rapper.

anyway, let's go back to hyunjae. hyunjae is an all rounder obviously, the king of everything, except he don't really do live and variety show. contrary to cheongryeo i like to think he would do a lot of solo stuff outside of the groupe.

talking of the group! of course mixed again. at this point i'm a bit strugling because i don't know if i want hyuna to be in the same groupe as hyunjae or another girl only group. if she's in a gg, she would be with riette and nonames. if she isn't, i like the lineup hyunjae, hyuna, taewon, evelyn and maybe riette. i don't know about making riette an idol if hyuna is with the other. she could be someone who work in the industry, and cause trouble to noah but have a good relationship with soyoung.

for the roles i'm not sure, but rapper/main dancer hyuna is good, singer evelyn, rapper taewon maybe?

going back to hyunjae, like cheongryeo he came back multiple time in the past to achieve the missions. and he would probably annoy yoojin a lot, but as time pass, they would reach a relation of trust and try to break the system together.

yoojin will remember about a past he forgot, his suicide and the other life of everyone (yerim, noah, myeongwoo but also hyuna, taewon and hyunjae) and how yoohyun saved his life with the system.

contrary to dod, i think it would be better if yoojin return to his body. and i have two ideas at how it can happens. 1 well, uh, magic. yoojin live in his body, but everybody who isn't aware of the system think that the idol yoohyun always looked like that and was always named yoojin. he kept being an idol, and his brother continue being his number 1 fan. for those who read the novel, it's like the arc "Company <System> update" where everybody forgot moondae. idea 2, since yoohyun got back in his body he became an idol, replacing his brother. yoojin became their's manager, and hyunjae always try to get him become his manager's group ;)

this is the end, my brain cannot do much more for now ^^' if i have other idea, i'll share them but for now that's all. if you got inspired feel free to write about it, just mention me that's all i ask. and link me your work so i can see it (☆▽☆)/

[kekaki-cupcakes]

Hello kekaki! Cloud you please write something for Jason with a stoic/shy body painter reader? I feel like he’d be a great model, cause he’s very patient and all. What do you think? No worries if u don’t feel like it, obvs!

I actually loved this idea and ended up putting heaps of headcanons and shit in it too because I love this kinda ask! [everyone usually just does simple stuff which is all g lol but this is so creative maybe its just cause im artsy haha] Anyway this is mixed in with an ask I got for a London Boy [Taylor Swift] type ask x Jason <3 <3 <3

There's still a trace of body paint--- Jason x Body paint artist!reader [London Boy-Taylor Swift]

»»————-　★　————-««

Jason tried not to laugh.

It was so hard though, because holy Hades the paintbrush was so cold and it was tickling his sides and he began chewing on his lip to stop himself from squirming away.

He sat as still as he could, which wasn’t hard, one thing Camp Jupiter got right was the whole soldier thing, and Jason could stand still for hours at a time without moving if he had to. And this way he was sitting on a cushioned stool watching your expression shift when you thought no one was watching you, or eating MnM’s, listening to whatever pop song came over the little radio by the open window. 

The smell of strawberries wafted through with the warm summer air from the fields a few cabins over, and it made him hungry, but he wasn’t about to get up and ruin the carefully designed strokes all down his back and over his shoulders.

He didn’t even get to know what it was until the end, apparently, which was so mean of you, but then you’d stick your tongue out while you worked a little bit in concentration and he forgave you. 

You looked up and made eye contact too quickly for Jason to play it off, and you took the tiny brush off his shoulder slowly, “what?”

“Nothing,” Jason said quickly, chewing the inside of his lip to stop his grin this time, and turned to the rest of the cabin. There was one set of bunks, but the rest of the beds were all retro hammocks hung between messy easels and tapestries and a few statues in progress. 

There was a mini fridge with a salt lamp on top, and every windowsill had little trays of incense next to the mugs filled with paint brushes or lemonade. His view was skewed when you spun the stool around a little and took another brush from the table, this time with an inky dark blue. 

Jason looked up at the roof to move his hair when the cold began to dot lightly where his neck met his shoulder. There was a big circle cut out of the white stone ceiling, replaced with glass that let the light in like a halo. It fit the whole scene though, you looked like an angel, even with the bit of melted MnM on your cheek.

“Hey,” he started, noticing the polaroid’s stuck to the wall around the mustard colored hammock belonging to you. “Can I ask..” 

“Hm?” You asked, getting a sponge and dabbing at the scars shredding up the right of Jason’s lower back. 

He wasn’t sure what your answer to the question would be, and if it was something bad, he didn’t want to make you upset, but he was curious. “How did you… how did you get here? When were you claimed?”

“Well, it wasn’t as dramatic as falling out of a burning chariot into the lake,” you muttered, wiping yellow paint from your hands onto your forehead without noticing. “My mum booked a flight to New York when I was ten, and then drove me to the borders of Camp.”

Jason looked down at his shoes, “your mortal mum?...She just left you?” 

You shook your head quickly, “oh, no, it wasn’t like that. She told me I was a demigod when I was six. Didn’t want to keep secrets. Said she went out with a lady at Glastonbury that dropped me off a few months later with a bunch of flowers.”

“I lasted a lot longer than the flowers,” you chuckled quietly, “I knew I was coming here for ages, and I knew I was a son of Iris. We didn’t get a lot of monsters in England, I’ve been attacked more by going to Starbucks on the weekends here than living in Manchester for ten years.”

Jason didn’t like talking about his own mum, but the way you smiled talking about yours, he figured you didn’t mind. “Do you miss her?”

“A lot, but Iris messages aren’t exactly hard for me,” you said with a shrug, dipping the paintbrush into the little tub Jason was balancing on his thigh. “Besides, Iris pays for my mum to fly over every summer, cause she feels bad that she had a kid with someone so far away.”

“Really?”

You smiled again, and the little shiny crystals on your necklaces clicked against the beads, “she’s a pretty great mum, as far as godly parents go. She’s gonna pay for art school, as long as I show her everything I paint.”

Jason blinked. “Does that include me?”

“Surely you’ve met her, you’ve met all the gods, right?” You asked, eating an MnM and swishing the paintbrush around in a cup. Jason was pretty sure you’d just cleaned it with lemonade, but he didn’t say anything. 

He blinked, watching the colorful stained glass of your earrings catch in the light, “Yeah, but that was before…”

Before he’d found you with Racheal using the blank stone wall of his cabin as a space for her next mural. He didn’t really care if Zeus got annoyed, because you had pink paint on your cheeks and you were using a pegasus called Clover to put all of the paint tubs on and Racheal was saying something stupid and you were laughing with your nose all crinkled up and if Zeus got annoyed by that, Jason would take the smiting himself.

Before he’d somehow ended up in the same activities together after he told Piper about you [who could convince Annabeth to do anything for her somehow, even without her mothers tongue].

Before he’d offered to sit still for hours at a time so that you could build a portfolio of paintings on his scarred skin. He’d had to ask instead of agree, because you weren’t exactly the outgoing type. Neither was Jason, so you could sit together for hours with only the sound of the tens of wind chimes outside the cabin and paint tubes being used to their last drop.

Before Jason found himself more invested in the process of the painting then the outcome. 

He gulped, and mentally shook his head, “well, I hope the art school people don’t mind scars. You’d have to use someone else.”

“I don’t care if they do. I’d still paint you,” you said quietly, looking up from the dark blue sketchy strokes Jason could only just see without his glasses. Then you looked away, changing your paintbrush for the yellow one, “unless you didn’t want to.”

“I do.”

It was silent for a moment, and then you smiled, your lip piercing shining in the sun that streamed in, “okay.”

“I’m done,” you said a few minutes later, passing Jason the rest of the MnM’s once he could move without fear of ruining the paint. He watched as you pulled a mirror out from behind an easel depicting what looked like a robot bear with square teeth and red eyes. 

Jason stared at the blues and golds with wide eyes. He didn’t want to blink, he didn’t want to not see it. He didn’t know how to put it into words. “...Wow.” 

Wow didn’t seem like enough, but you grinned nonetheless with a shy shrug, “It’s a Van Gogh, well my version of it. Everyone likes Starry night, but I like Starry Night Over The Rhone a lot more, so…” 

»»————-　★　————-««

“Is that her?”

You rolled your eyes at the question, the only one Jason had been able to ask the past ten minutes as you both sat at a park bench outside the movies, an old one near the markets that just played grainy reruns in its shabby chic theater. “If you ask one more-”

“No I think that’s Iris,” he whispered with wide eyes, “she’s staring at me.”

About to explain that the old lady with a basket of kittens and a black lace umbrella [it was sunny. She was probably a vampire] was not your mother, you turned to see the woman who was actually your mother, in her bell bottoms and matching top, hoop earrings made of tiny dreamcatchers casting colorful light everywhere. 

You grabbed his wrist, and pulled him along into her cloud of floral perfume that hurt your nose when she brought you into a bearhug. “Hi mum.”

“Darling!” She shrieked, kissing your cheeks and holding your shoulders and she shook them violently, then snuck another hug while you were making sure your head was still attached to your shoulders, “oh, how I’ve missed you!” 

“Missed you to mum,” you said, pulling away with a smile, and turned to Jason, who had the same expression big dogs get when they’re picked up. “Um, mum… this is Jason.”

“Yes, yes! I’ve heard all about you!”

“...He’s my boyfriend.” 

»»————-　★　————-««

[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter eight

[ chapter eight — 6.4k words ] [ masterlist ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven ] "well, now you know what to get me for christmas." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn warning: drugs, insects

the next day, you wake to your customary darkness. outside your window light snow whispers against your window and thick clouds beyond promise there’s more where that came from. you pull a mini pizza from the freezer, crack an egg on top and put it in the toaster oven, call that protein. boil some water in your smallest pot. pull out your favorite chipped blue mug.

the dream did come last night, but its dread was dulled by early waking. you’re grateful for that. this is about as good as it gets, you think: tea on the way, a thick stillness enveloping your apartment, the city outside preparing to sleep while you keep watch. 

but wait, the phone. 

you go into your room and kneel by the bed.

michael’s small box is half-empty now that you’ve put his shirt in the wash, so the nokia is easy to find. when you flip it open, he’s there, waiting for you—one unread text—and in the sleepy silence, a bubble of incredulous unreality balloons and then bursts. it’s not michael.

they all blur into each other like drops of blood in water: you’re crushed to find that he’s still gone, relieved he’s still gone, guilty you were relieved, relieved that richie’s texted—no, happy—no, that’s embarrassing, but you can’t help it. it’s happiness and it’s something else. happiness is the warmth by your side and something else is the radiator.

the message turns out to be a single emoji, the one with the pink tongue sticking out. definitely richie. with no idea what that’s supposed to mean, you try to think of something equally silly. failing that, you pull up wikipedia on the phone and generate random wikipedia articles until you finally come across a fragment that strikes you as too beautiful to pass up. you weren’t looking for beautiful, but what the hell, it’s charmed you. copy, paste, and send.

> it was announced on january 30, 2023, that she will be writing an original poem dedicated to nasa's europa clipper. the europa clipper will launch in 2024, and by 2030, will be orbiting jupiter. limón's poem will be engraved into the craft.

not expecting an immediate reply, you replace the lid on the box and slide it back under your bed, only to hear the vibration of the phone against the wooden floorboards.

reading what he’s written makes you smile. proper punctuation and all, mimicking you. can’t tell if it’s meant to be snide or if he’s just matching what he thinks is your mood. you’ll take it either way.

> must be a bad motherfucker, that limon.

> must be.

> is she your favorite poet or something?

you feel a dissonant twinge of pride and shame. you once had a favorite poet, but that was a long time ago.

> i haven’t decided yet. are you getting better?

> i haven’t decided yet. i had three grape popsicles in bed for my breakfast, it’s kind of hard to argue with that.

> malingerer.

> i’m actually polish.

and so on. 

when he finally says goodbye so he can go back to sleep, you’re still laughing a little to yourself, and you’ve been kneeling there beside the bed for so long that your knees ache.

.

.

.

in the days that follow, richie texts you at exactly the time he’d usually visit. you stand outside like he’s still there, have a couple cigarettes, and enjoy the nonsense even as your fingertips go numb in the cold. once, he sends a picture of a meme so italian that you don’t get it. you obviously weren’t meant to get it, either, so you respond by sending him the middle finger emoji, which he, nonsensically, hearts.

if he needs help, he’ll ask for it, you think. you hope. he seems to be on the mend. anyways, you no longer feel that fear except in dreams, and you stop wondering when he’s gonna text and start expecting it, and then, less than a week later, he shows up. you know this because he texts, where are you?

you open the window and stick your head out into an eddy of snow. sure, you’re glad to see him, but: it’s too fucking cold for this!

he waves.

man was feverish for literally days and here he is in mid december with a hoodie under his leather coat but no scarf, absolute idiot, and so you close the window, go down to meet him, and break the rule. standing there, holding the door open, you say, c’mon. 

he’s surprisingly perceptive. he walks over, but he doesn’t cross the threshold, just pauses in front of you.

i don’t think we can smoke in there, he says.

we can’t, you say, moving back one more step, making even more room for him. or at least i can’t. i don't want to get evicted. my landlady will do it too.

yeah? he says, not moving. you're scared of her?

you shrug. you've moved back as far as you can, you're letting all the cold air in, and there's nothing you can do except say please.

you say, she's like four foot tall and a hundred years old, man. women that tiny that survive that long? you should be scared of them.

as if that was the final straw—though how could it be?—richie walks inside. without skipping a beat and for no reason you can figure out, richie walks inside.

learn my ways, sweetheart, he says, touching his chest and giving you his very best look of ridiculous condescension. old women love me.

as you close the door behind him, you fend off a stray, ridiculous burst of giddiness. it's just the lobby, pale linoleum floors and a single artificial plant by the elevators, but it feels radically different from the concrete outside. no cigarettes, no excuses. he’s only there for one reason.

old women do not love you, you say.

they do!

tina loves you. the rest of them, i don't know.

he snorts. you really don't want to be standing face to face with him for however long you’ve got him, so you lean on the wall instead, and he settles by your side the same way he always does.

when he looks over at you, there’s a hint of sly mischief in his eyes that makes you say, what?

wait for it, he says, and when you open your mouth, he holds up a finger.

you roll your eyes, but you hold your tongue with no idea what this is about, undisguised curiosity, and a readiness to be delighted.

you hear that? he finally says.

wind, maybe, or the distant rattle of a train? nothing special. you shake your head no.

that, richie says, is the sound of the sky not falling. 

knowing he noticed, that’s the worst thing about being told that everything is gonna be okay. it’s also the best thing. you shove him with a bony, solid elbow. i should’ve let you freeze.

he catches himself before he can topple, his smile gone goofy and so pleased. fuckin drama queen.

full han solo style, block of ice.

it was carbonite, not ice. how do you not know star wars?

course i know star wars, you lie. how do you live in chicago and not own a hat?

i have hats. i just also have a car.

uh-huh. if he wants to trade accusations, you’ve got a doozy you’ve saved up till you could turn it on him in person.  i noticed the other day that your place isn’t exactly in a location that makes my place ‘on the way home’ from the beef. 

he’s caught, not sorry. grins. you noticed that, did you.

yeah, i might not be from around here, but i still know north from south, all that shit. 

well okay, sherlock. you wanna charge me with a crime? the challenge in his eyes says it all; he knows you’re not unhappy to find he lied. 

you still need to get a hat, you say.

well, now you know what to get me for christmas.

you’re getting jack shit.

you already know what you’re getting him for christmas. 

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.

.

kraft’s mac and cheese is a christmas tradition in a two-person slice of your family, and you’re one half of that slice, so mac and cheese is the first thing you think of when richie tells you he’ll be there for christmas eve. 

after that, it’s on to donna’s on christmas day. then i’m gonna kidnap carmy for some ice fishing, he says.

you ever been ice fishing before? you say. 

he splutters. do i not strike you as a, uh, an experienced-ass f—

no.

—fisherman and woodsman, and like—

nope.

—man of the… he gives up. whatever?

do you have a float suit? 

richie exhales smoke and fixes you with a look, annoyed but curious.

i’m carmen fucking sandiego, you say, by way of explanation. of course you’ve been ice fishing, you’ve been all over the world.  

sure you are, he says. he waves a dismissive hand. my buddy’s got all the stuff, we’ll be fine. it’s whatever, i just gotta get carmy out of the city so the only things he ends up killing are fish.

his first christmas since. you don’t have to finish the sentence.

yup, richie says.

it’s richie’s first christmas since, too, but there’s no call to say that. 

lapsing into a companionable silence and shrinking a little closer to the building as the wind picks up, you decide that you’re definitely gonna make him kraft mac and cheese for christmas eve. he wouldn’t take it as a letdown, he'd laugh at the single spinach leaf on top. he’d get it.

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.

on christmas eve, ten minutes before you’re expecting richie to show up, you get a text message.

> need u 

it’s the wrong phone, though. it’s your work phone, and after everything those fuckers have done, they can’t possibly be calling you in on christmas eve. not now. your butter’s already cut, your colander’s in the sink, and you’re stirring the pot of boiling macaroni with a couple takeout chopsticks. they can’t—

the phone starts ringing. you pick up. 

fuck off, you say.

no wait! 

the voice is familiar; it’s kevin, a man so stupid that he once introduced himself to you out of anxious friendliness even though you’ve always made very clear that you don’t want to know anybody’s names. kevin must have you on speakerphone, because in the background, you can hear the telltale sounds of somebody else cursing in a continuous wretched stream. that piques your curiosity.

thirty seconds, you say. keep it clean. meaning, don’t give me names. 

kevin says, we were doing a thing and some stuff happened. 

that’s no use. he kept it a little too clean. you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers. you were doing a thing on christmas eve?

we thought…look, can you just come? aren’t you on call? isn’t this your job?

you tell me, you say. it’s been radio silence on my phone for three weeks and i haven’t gotten paid for almost a month now. 

oh.

yeah, you say, knowing damn well that it’s not kevin’s fault, but more than happy to take this out on somebody. they fucking ghosted me.

sorry to hear that, man, he says awkwardly. 

a thought occurs to you. likelihood of the carusos being involved in some shitbrained christmas eve scheme pulled by kevin? nil.

was this even a sanctioned thing? you say. like, did—

you know what, it’s fine, kevin says hurriedly. it’s basically a flesh wound.

the guy in the background howls, i got shot in the fucking foot!

shut up, howie, kevin hisses. you hang up.

there’s no reason for you to get involved. no orders, no blackmail, and probably no money; plus, your timer is counting down the last minute of macaroni boiling and richie will be on his way soon. 

you pocket your phone, walk back to the stove, and resume stirring. 

no reason for you to get involved. your timer rings out, so you dump out the pasta, put it back in the pot with the butter, add some water and the cheesy powder, stir with an eye for sauce thickness, wait for it to settle you. it doesn’t.

the thing is, there are so many small tricky bones in the foot, and you haven’t had a real surgery challenge in ages. ever since your bosses ghosted you, you’ve just been staying in your apartment, in limbo, seeing nobody except richie and occasionally a cashier. sleeping and waking neither on your old strict schedule nor on a normal daylight one. doing nothing, worth basically nothing. 

so yeah, you text kevin.

> send me the address

then, as quick as you can so you don’t have time to overthink it, you text richie. 

> work emergency, i have to cancel. sorry. 

the response is immediate.

> text me when you get home.

you realize that you’re still stirring, and you turn off the stove. although you give him a couple minutes, richie doesn’t add anything. no joke to put spikes on the soft gesture, no expression of disappointment to make you feel guilty for canceling this late. nothing. text me when you get home, that’s all.

if you were that generous, you’d text back don’t stay up, let him get some extra sleep in preparation for tomorrow’s christmas hell. but you don’t. you want to think of him waiting for his phone to chime, staying awake for you, thinking of you, even worrying. so you react with a thumbs up to his message.

the next time your phone goes ping, it’s kevin sending you the address, and you head for the door. 

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.

.

you’re sitting on a coffee table beside the old sofa that holds your resting patient. lying on the coffee table beside you are half a dozen grape skittles, the remainder of your christmas eve meal. there’s literally baggies of cocaine sitting on the kitchen table, the tv is playing charlie and the chocolate factory, and everyone involved in this—including yourself—is so stupid that you’re all definitely going to jail. but you’re having one of your good nights.

only drugs compare to the state of pure focus that surgery grants you, and even though it’s always in shit circumstances done for shit people, you can’t help but feel like a serious machine doing all this ad hoc emergency shit. this has to be how athletes feel, after a game. it’s physical: your vision feels clearer, your hands are steady, your body’s slouched comfortable and sated. it was decent work you did, given the lack of fucking everything. you’re pretty sure howie won’t even have that bad of a limp. 

kevin finishes counting your pay and hands it over. you begin to count it again, too—twenty, forty, sixty—and then look up at him. 

what? he says.

you haul yourself up and walk over to the kitchen table, ignoring the cocaine in favor of the scale, on which you place a twenty. it comes up as 0.94 grams when it should be a single 1.0. so you throw your earnings in the sink, get out your lighter, and set it on fire.

the fire alarm! kevin rushes over to turn the tap on and put it out.

you can hear howie calling from the couch, what’s burning? 

kev just tried to cheat me. 

i did not, kevin says miserably, it was a misunderstanding. 

he pulls his own wallet out of his back pocket and starts to count the money, but you take it from his hands, sit at the kitchen table, and begin counting money yourself, weighing each bill as you go. once you’ve taken a hundred and fifty, you stand up and call over to howie, night.

yo, howie says. is my, like. what are the chances they gotta amputate?

that gets you a little, despite everything. howie spent the past few hours thinking he was gonna lose an entire foot, and he was stubbornly proud enough that he almost made it without admitting the fear to anyone. in a way, you gotta give it to him. admiration’s too grand a word, but it’s something like that. 

chances are super low, you say. as long as you follow instructions, keep an eye out for infection, and don’t get hooked on pills, you’re gonna be fine. 

for a second, there’s silence. then: thanks, babygirl.

for that, you take another forty dollars from kevin’s wallet and point them at him. asshole tax, you say.

as soon as you’re out of the house, you can hear kevin locking the door behind you. then he says, goodnight!

i shoulda robbed you, you say. then you start down the sidewalk. it’s bitter cold and you’re not a hundred percent sure you’re headed in the right direction, but just then you feel invincible. 

fuckin jagoffs, say to yourself.

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.

.

on the train home, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a herd of college girls, twentysomethings all decked out in tinsel necklaces, clearly on their way to a different party, and hitting all the wrong notes in deck the halls.

most days, you’d hate this, but in your current state of satisfaction with yourself and the world in general, their effortless enjoyment doesn’t seem to completely shut you out. they’re so young, and one of them is sitting in another’s lap while a third drapes herself over her shoulder. they smell like spiced rum, they make it hard to be a bitter old crone.

one of the carolers makes direct eye contact with you, and instead of having the decency to keep herself to herself, she extends her hand to you and sings even louder, fa-la-la-la-ing like she’s god’s gift. for a second, you let yourself mouth along, fa-la-la-ing, but then she says, come on, i know you can do better than that! and nope, nope. fuck it.

you try to look away, she yells another, come on! and you give her the death glare. surprisingly, she keeps beckoning to you—they’re stubborn, kids these days—but eventually you win the way you knew you would.

she looks away and whispers in the ear of the lap-sitter. that girl, the tiniest of them all, gives you a look that could sear meat. you could break her in half with one hand tied behind her back, she really has the build of a hummingbird, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping her.

you roll your eyes, lean back with exaggerated deliberation, and get out your phone. 

> i’m home.

you want somebody of your own, you want richie’s reply. but none comes. 

he’s not waiting for you outside your apartment building, either, so there goes that mad hope.

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.

.

when you get inside your apartment, you kneel to untie your boots and spot a flicker of movement on the floor. it’s a black ant scurrying towards your countertop. with a rising sense of horror, you straighten up and see a swarm of ants, dozens and dozens, maybe a hundred busily moving little black dots, crawling to and from the pot of macaroni and cheese on your stove. your stomach turns, and if you’d had a real dinner, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from throwing it up. as it is, you just gag. it feels like a violation, an invasion, and you’re more outraged about these fucking ants in your apartment—your fucking apartment—than you ever were about getting not paid or cheated or maybe even blackmailed. 

you go into the kitchenette and get the ant spray out from under the sink, then you stand back and spray everything in sight. the whole fucking counter, even though, yes, you cook your food on that, and the stove, and the floor for good measure. fuck them all. 

you should’ve known better than to leave food uncovered in this apartment. you’ve lived here for three years and this always fucking happens. you’d think the novelty would’ve worn off, but nope. it’s still as disgusting as it was the first time you woke up to see last night’s plate covered in black.

today, the spray isn’t working fast enough for you, so you get out a trash bag, put the pot in it, and head out for the dumpster. 

out there in the cold, waiting for the ant spray to do its work inside the trash bag, you remember that you left your lighter in kevin’s house. you tip your head back and look up at the sky. it’s so thickly smothered in clouds, there’s barely a glow of moon. 

yeah, you say. 

after a while, you untie the bag, shake the dead ants off your pot, and throw the bag away. you’d stomp on the ants for spite, but that would necessitate looking at them, and you’ve had more than enough of that. you just head back for home.

you almost make it to the front door, and then you smell it, the smoke.

well? richie says from around the corner. he must have heard your footsteps. you coming or what? 

you walk the last few steps and there, just around the corner, there he is. he has the navy hood pulled up over his head, both his hands shoved deep in his pockets, a cigarette between both lips. he looks at your pot with interest. 

after a second, you say, you’re late.

something tickles the inside of your wrist and you flinch. one last ant has crawled up the handle of the pot and onto your arm; you drop the pot in the snow and shake the ant off you. it lands by richie, and he stomps it dead matter-of-factly. 

it takes everything you’ve got not to start swearing like howie with a shot foot.

merry christmas? richie says after a second. 

merry fuckin christmas. you reach out and take the cigarette from his lips. long drag. you needed that. 

settling beside him so both of you can look out into the night, you hand the cigarette back. and that’s how it is for a while, sharing. the wind thins out, the streetlight across the way reflects in the glass of another apartment building's door.

when your body’s finally calmed down, you look over at him. i got you something.

aw, you didn’t have to, he say, a little curious and not particularly surprised. he probably thinks it’s a joke. 

you hold your right hand palm up, and he takes his right hand out of its warm jacket pocket to mirror the gesture. then you reach into your hoodie and unclasp his gift from your neck. 

the chain is gold. thick, but not so thick that it comes across comical. incongruous with you and with him, the weight of it and the shine, how new it is. when you lay it in his hand, it looks like a golden snake, intricate and flawless. 

after a second, he gives you his cigarette like he can’t both smoke and think about it. then he speaks. 

this is fake, yeah, he says.

hundred percent fake. 

actually, it’s regifted. it was originally one of your boss’s christmas bonus gifts, and given that you pawned all the other christmas bonus gifts to pay rent, you’re pretty sure that the chain is solid gold. it’s for the best that he doesn’t know it, though.

as you watch, he puts it on, fumbling a little with the clasp. looks at it for a second, tucks it back inside his coat. there goes the last 

yeah? you say, after a second. 

yeah. think i like this sugar baby shit. keep ‘em coming, he says. 

you laugh, real, so relieved that he didn’t take it weird, so relieved that you got lucky tonight and he got it the way he sometimes can, acceptance without explanation.

he lets you laugh, and then he says, mine’s better, though.

diamonds?

it’s back at my place, he says. i can drive?

you want that so bad, and you didn't even think to want it just seconds before.

yeah, you say, dropping the cigarette and stomping it out right beside the dead ant, unbothered. 

you want to take the pot up? 

you shrug, crouch down, and cover it with some snow; you’re not gonna leave him down here waiting for you, and you’re not gonna take him up to the horrorshow of dead ants either.

it’s still pretty obvious, richie says.

it’s christmas eve, who’s gonna bother digging in dirty snow to steal a pot?

this is chicago.

this is idle argument as companionship and you know that, but you're impatient. are you taking me home or what? yes, you can hear the double entendre. no, you don't fucking care.

there’s a slight pause before richie says, car’s this way.

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.

in the car, there’s crumbs but not much mess; a coupon for personal pizzas in the cupholder, and that’s it. he must have cleaned.

when he starts the engine, you say, wait, and make an elaborate show of putting on your seatbelt. then you say, okay, now i’m ready.

fuck you, he says, and he’s still smiling when he starts to drive. 

the radio is playing carols dimly in the background, and you don’t hate it. 

you doing anything for christmas day? richie says. 

i’m working christmas, you lie.

seriously? tell your boss he’s fucking barbaric.

would if you could; you’ve already tried to say as much in your many texts, but it is what it is.

yeah, you say. bunch of fuckin jackoffs, right?

jagoffs, he says, over-enunciating, frustration immediate. he really is too easy and he knows it. you’re—

jackoffs, that’s what i said, that’s what you told me—

if you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all. he has to drive with his right hand so he can make chopping motions for emphasis with his left hand, because of course he does.

you say, jackoffs.

you’re killing me. 

and yet you go on surviving. you relent. got everything you need for ice fishing?

richie scoffs in disgust. yeah, but now carmy is trying to bail on me. 

if he’s not gonna say, typical, then neither are you.

he wants to work on the twenty-sixth, he says.

oof.

yeah. like a full planning session, go over the rest of the rollout schedule with the entire staff and like… he rubs his forehead. i don’t know. like we haven’t even gone to christmas yet and he’s already, fucking. i don’t know!

i mean.

he glances over at you briefly.

carmy wants to make the staff come in on the twenty-sixth just to go over the renovation schedule again?

he’s out of his fucking mind.

you already know what you want to say, but you have to double-check it in your own head to make sure you’re not overstepping. you don’t actually know these people.

but also, fuck it. 

you know, you say, you could tell him if he acts like this, syd’s gonna quit again.

he whistles. julie with the big guns.

how i’m built, you say.

yeah, i noticed, he says affectionately. it’s okay. i’ll figure it out.

i know you will. it’s kindness, and you mean it, and you don’t take it back. 

thanks, he says. 

you lean your forehead against the cold glass of the car door and watch chicago going by, all gold and black and white.

.

.

.

after a few minutes, he parks the car in an underground garage. 

you ready for this? this is gonna rock your world, he says. 

diamonds and rubies? you say, unbuckling your seat belt.

you’re gonna be fuckin crying.

diamonds and rubies and pearls?

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.

at the door to his apartment, he says, close your eyes, hold out your hands, and wait here, so you do. when the door opens, you can smell whatever it was he made for his christmas eve dinner with eva. it smells like everything christmas eve should be, rich and homey. you could wait here for, say, half an hour. you could stretch this moment out. you wouldn’t mind.

okay, richie says. here.

when the gift touches your palm, you instinctively pull back. richie swears and catches it. 

it’s hot! you say as you open your eyes.

it’s soup, he says. you want it cold?

you look down. yeah, that’s definitely french onion soup, with a big white and brown patch of melted cheese and toast on top. it’s an echo of what you made him when he was sick. it’s him showing off his work in comparison to your two-ingredient version. it’s unfortunately perfect. there’s no way he knew that you haven’t had anything for dinner except skittles.

it smells like home.

here. you hand the bowl back to richie, but only so you can take off your coat and your shoes. 

there’s only one hook on the back of his door, so you hang your coat overtop his. as you move through his apartment, you take stock: the walls are still orange, but things are a little tidier and there are new drawings magnet-pinned to the fridge. eva’s going through a cat era, clearly. the kitchen lamp is as warm as before, and the cactus by the window has a small red ribbon on it, probably a nod to christmas. 

you sit down at the kitchen table on one of the foldable stools, and richie sets your spoon and bowl in front of you. there’s a half-empty bottle of coors on the countertop behind you, and you take a sip of that. he sits down on the chair to your left, so he’s in your peripheral. he’s next to you.

you can feel it coming.

um, you say.

he glances over, and you can feel that too. what’s up.

don’t be a dick, okay. you say it very low and very flat, not even angry, because angry wouldn’t cut it.

the pause is too long, but at least he finally says, okay.

you pick up your spoon and take the first sip. 

the bit of melted cheese hits first, warm and gooey and salty then the sweet savory richness of the broth, and yeah, okay. it’s happening. your eyes are wet.

you can feel him not saying anything about it, but before it can build up to torture, his phone rings. 

sorry, he says, getting up. it’s tiff.

he must know from the ringtone alone, but you’re not even mad at it, you’re relieved. saved by the bell, another bit of good luck. maybe christmas is real.

uh-huh, you can hear him saying. yeah. that’s— he laughs, and you know from that laugh alone it’s something about eva. yeah, put her on. a beat, then. hey, honey. no. no, she’s right. listen, santa won’t come if you spy on him. the guy likes his privacy, okay? he’s not in it for the applause, he’s not in it for the publicity. pause. well, that’s what the cookies are for. i am being serious, that’s what they’re for. okay. who—okay. he snorts. okay, you got me. don’t tell your mother, though, okay? she really enjoys it. pause. it’s up to you. okay, i gotta go. i love you. hey. i love you. 

that’s more than enough time for you to wipe your eyes on your sleeve, get all fucked up again listening to him, and wipe your eyes a second time. by the time richie sits back down, you’re basically normal.

that sounded like some saga, you say.

this jewish kid at school told all the christians that santa wasn’t real, he explains. and now she’s going around busting all the lying adults one by one. 

you laugh. 

they’re starting young, he says. when i was in school, they always used to make us wait until at least sixth grade before we could go around busting myths.

you’re jewish?

he shrugs. kinda sorta.

you see the opportunity to make another joke about him being zero percent italian, and you ignore it. did eva like the doll? you say instead. 

yeah. i mean, it was a huge hassle, it’s so expensive i had to go halves with tiff, and i nearly had a heart attack when eva said something about kirsten cause i thought i’d got the wrong one— he starts eating again, eating soup and talking, and you don't hate it. which by the way, swedes? have the most boring american history of them all, i don’t know why they’d make a doll about that, but anyways, yeah. she loved it. he reaches across you and takes his beer back so he can drink the last dregs of it. ever since the divorce, we don’t even call it christmas eve, we just call it christmas one and christmas two. as is tradition.

he says the last three words kind of weird. 

as is tradition? you repeat.

tiff and i, we don’t have a bunch of traditions from our parents, so it’s like. we make up a lot of stuff and then we say ‘as is tradition.’ cause it’s not.

i mean, you got two generations involved, so that counts.

eh, he says, drawing it out dubiously. 

i got two-generations traditions, you say.

you didn’t intend to talk about your family, you weren’t thinking about that at all, you were just thinking about richie. but now you gotta sit in the silence as he decides whether or not follow up about your parents.

finally, richie says, you got a kid? he’s doing his best to be cool about it, but his voice goes up a little crazy on the last word.

no, i mean—you’re laughing. i meant me and my dad.

oh, he says, maybe a bit relieved, definitely a bit something, you can’t quite place it. oh.

i used to make us mac and cheese for christmas. with a leaf on top, like lettuce or spinach or something. cause, you know, that makes it salad.

that’s cool, he says flatly. after a second, he adds, less flat, i don’t have any traditions with my dad. i mean, he’s dead, but like before then, we never. so i think that’s cool. 

you hate his dad. it’s a split-second decision, but you feel pretty confident about it.

two generations is all you need, you say. and you got eva. so it’s a tradition. 

heard, he says.

when you glance over, you see the chain catching the light, gold over his dark shirt. he looks at you. you both keep eating.

.

.

.

eventually, you finish off two bowls of soup and a hot chocolate too, courtesy of eva’s swiss miss unicorn package. you feel a bit subdued by the ordeal of being human, but relaxed. 

best christmas ever, you say.

really? richie says, like he believes it and feels bad for you.

god no, do you think i came out a dickens?

what the fuck is a dickens?

you’re illiterate, it’s okay. you look at him. you know that your eyes are a little red, but thankfully you can also see, reflected in his eyes, that he knows you're all right.

thank you, richie, you say. it’s all wrong, you shouldn’t be saying his name and you shouldn’t be saying thank you either, it’s thanks or nothing, but something about the formality feels a little heavier and therefore suited to the day. it’s getting late.

i’ll drive you? he says, and there’s a little extra question in it that you can’t bring yourself to consider. 

you shake your head and get up from the table heavily, feeling a thousand years old. i’m good. 

he gets up, follows you, stands there with his hands in shoved his pockets as you crouch to put on your shoes.

i wasn’t suggesting a sleepover, he says. 

no, of course not, you say, and you congratulate yourself on not making it sound bitter.

unless, richie says.

you look up at him. 

i have so many condoms, he says, deadpan. just. so fucking many. some of them are citrus flavored.

there he goes, saved it.

it’s not just tonight, is it? it’s not just tonight, it’s not just luck, it’s not just christmas; somehow, richie’s become…he’s figured it out, how to be with you. when to show up and when to let you go. not always, but more than enough, and he just. he wakes up and he struggles and he breaks shit and he irritates you and he calls eva and he watches youtube and he goes to bed and he wakes up and he struggles and he learns and you love him.

what a fucking time to find out. you look down and begin tying your shoes again.

you got pineapple flavor? you say.

in what world is pineapple citrus? richie says.

well, tough luck. you back up and turn around to put on your coat. for me, it’s pineapple condoms or nothing.

you’re a real high-maintenance fuck.

you laugh. michael used to like that about you, just how easy you were, or how easy you made yourself. buddy, you got no idea. 

it’s been such a long day for both of you, apart and together. of course you’re getting messy, of course it’s time to go. you zip up your coat, run your hand through your hair. 

let me drive you, he says again.

you wave him off. no, i need to walk. clear my head.

it’s december in chicago, fuckin pitch black— 

i’ll be fine.

it’s christmas eve, are you really gonna punish me for a fucking joke? he says, and you look up, startled; you didn’t know he was upset. in retrospect, you were just focusing on avoiding his eyes, so what did you expect?

i’m not punishing you for anything, you were great. richie. you look at him straight on and steady, so he understands. a little gentle, as gentle as you feel you can get away with. you truly have to go, and there’s no resentment in it. i just need to clear my head. i’ll be fine, i’m always fine. 

you never… richie trails off, eyes you, decides against finishing the sentence. you’re stubborn.

always. you give him a small smile. thanks for the soup.

goodnight.

that should be the end, but it feels unfinished. his blue eyes are alive to the possibilities when you reach out, but you just touch the chain with a fingertip where it rests over his collarbone. his right hand moves a little and you draw back, your other hand on the doorknob at once, already leaving.

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two days later, the cops issue a warrant for your arrest. 

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[ next chapter ] [ masterlist ]

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@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109, @shinebright2000, @scorpiolystoned — if anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.

[comtessezouboff]

La Galerie des Cotelles Set

A retexture by La Comtesse Zouboff — Original Mesh by @thejim07

At the very moment when Louis XIV wrote the first version of 《Manière de montre les jardins de Versailles》, he expressed his desire to recreate his words as images.

In 1688, he comissioned an outstanding set of 24 paintings describing the different groves in gardens with mythological allegories to be placed in the galerie at the Trianon de Marbre.

The ornamentation of the gallery linking Trianon to Trianon-sous-bois was entrusted to three painters between 1688 and 1689: Jean Cotelle painted twenty-one of the twenty-four canvases hung in this room, Etienne Allegrain two others, and Jean-Baptiste Martin.

This gallery, decorated around 1690, bears the name of the author of most of the paintings which appear there and which represent views of the groves of Versailles and Trianon, embellished with mythological figures.

This set remained in place until the First Empire. Napoleon I considered replacing them with paintings to his glory. The works will return to their original location in 1913 after being restored to 《La Colection Royale》 by Louis Philippe and can be seen there to this day.

-------------------------------------------------------

This set contains 24 paintings with the original frame swatches, fully recolourable. They are:

View of the Amphitheater of the Grove of the Théâtre d'Eau with the Toilette of Psyche.

View of the Bassin du Dragon and the Gutter of the Neptune Fountain with Apollo Slaying the Serpent Python.

View of the Colonnade Grove with Apollo Served by the Nymphs.

View of the Entrance of the Labyrinth Grove with Nymphs and Cupid Catching Birds in their Nets.

View of the Fountain of the Fifty-Two Jets, or Plat-Fond at the Trianon with Mars and Venus.

View of the Grove of l'Encelade with Jupiter Slaying Enceladus the Giant with the Feast of Lycaon.

View of the Grove of L'Étoile or la Montagne d'Eau with Diana Saving Arethusa from Alpheus.

View of the Grove of the Arc de Triomphe Towards the Fountain of La France Triomphante with Nymphs Chaining Captives.

View of the Grove of the Arc de Triomphe with Venus and Adonis on a Chariot Driven by Cupid.

View of the Grove of the Baths of Apollo or des Dômes with Diana and her Nymphs.

View of the Grove of the Labyrinth Showing the Fountain of the Fight of the Animals and the Two Fountains of the Fox and the Crane with Diana and the Nymphs.

View of the Grove of the Salle de Bal with Armide Crowning Renaud.

View of the Grove of the Théâtre d'Eau with the Toilette of Psyche.

View of the Marais or Chêne-Vert Grove with Nymphs Playing Various Games.

View of the Neptune Fountain, the Bassin du Dragon and the Allée d'Eau with the Judgement of Paris.

View of the Orangerie and the Palace from the Pièce d'Eau des Suisses with the Abduction of Helen of Troy.

View of the Orangerie of Versailles and the Pièce d'Eau des Suisses with Vertumnus and Pomona.

View of the Parterre d'Eau with the Apotheosis of Venus.

View of the Parterres of the Trianon de Marbre with Zephyrus and Sleeping Flora

View of the Trois-Fontaines Grove with Garden Loves.

View of the Trois-Fontaines Grove with Venus and the Nymphs.

View of the Feast or Council Room Grove in the Palace of Versailles.

View of the Grove of the Miroir d'Eau Fountain and the Île-Royale in the Palace of Versailles.

Perspective view of the Grove of the Galerie des Antiques.

Found under decor > paintings for 1.850§

(you can just search for "Cotelle" using the catalog search mod to find the entire ser much easier!)

Retextured from:"The virgin of the Rosary" found here

Disclaimer!

All of the paintings shown here aren't as blurry as in the screenshots and its colors are more vibrant in-game!

Cc shown here:

Walls, door and bench by @thejim07

Floor by @martassimsbookcc

Windows by @missyzim

Chandelier and garland by @hydrangeachainsaw

Pediment by Mutske (TSR)

Consoles by ShinoKCR (TSR)

Drive

(Sims3Pack | Package)

(Useful tags below)

@joojconverts @ts3history @ts3historicalccfinds @deniisu-sims @katsujiiccfinds @gifappels-stuff

-------------------------------------------------------

[asha1010101010v2]

wip wednesday—08/01

reported dead, replaced by brother:

The rain was ferocious enough to rattle the front pane of the Dorset house's door, the little chips of coloured glass in the sad window to the outside world screaming, ready to give way. Tina couldn't bring herself to cross the mat. Then, when the knock came again, she swore loudly enough the children must have heard it, and wrenched at the handle.

A hard gust of cold wind smashed it back against the wall; Theseus stepped inside.

Dripping from the storm, holding a briefcase exactly like Newt's in one hand, she couldn't bear the sight of him. Couldn't bear this taller, sharper, darker-haired version of the man she loved, slowly creating a small puddle on their welcome mat, having the nerve to look just as lost as she did.

Her first observation was the suitcase. Her last observation was the suitcase, too. At some point in their lives, the brothers must have been given the same luggage, whether for work or for pleasure or for simple inheritance.

It was the final straw.

"Get out."

"Tina—"

"No," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "Get out."

"If it really was Grindelwald that took him, we've lost months already," said Theseus, his voice infuriatingly level. "We don't know who else was a target. What else. The Ministry have already declared him dead, but they're not going to protect us because of the believed associations with Grindelwald, and I'm not stepping back from the task force."

"Your ego," said Tina. "That's it, isn't it? It's your ego."

"If I stay where I am, I might be able to find him."

"You won't. He's dead."

The tears threatened; an unpleasantly hot, prickling sensation that made her stomach swoop with shame, to be crying in front of her former brother-in-law, her former colleague. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, hard enough to see patterns. Fiachra was only ten months old. The lack of sleep was driving her mad.

"Please," said Theseus, reaching a hand out for her. Despite herself, she took it, letting him pull her up from where she'd begun to slide down the wall. Even the words—Newt, dead, gone—made her legs buckle as if it were the first time all over again.

Theseus removed his shoes, his coat. He dried himself off with a charm that left his curly hair sticking almost madly up on end, smoothing it absently with one hand. The deep frown never dissipated.

"You can't sleep here," said Tina. "There's nowhere for you to stay."

"I'll stay on the sofa."

She pushed her tongue against the inside of her cheek. "It'll scare the girls. Everything scares them.”

"Then it'll help, to have me downstairs," Theseus said, with infuriating reason. "If anything comes in…"

tag list

thank you for requesting this wip! 🫶🏽

@twyrewolf @tamsinswriting @kalira @catboy-jupiter @spindoctor3875 @stonemaskedtaliesin

[windowanddoorsouthflorida]

Install High Quality Fiber Glass Door at Affordable price in South Florida, Contact "The Window Professionals" Today.

[window-replacement-group]

Your Guide to Top-Tier Impact Windows & Doors for Florida Homes

Living in Florida means embracing stunning sunsets, vibrant coral reefs, and the occasional tropical storm. While the beauty is undeniable, hurricane season brings a different kind of excitement — one that requires preparation and resilience. For Florida homeowners, impact windows and doors aren’t just an upgrade; they’re an investment in peace of mind and property protection.

What are Impact Doors and Windows and Why Do They Matter in Florida?

Imagine windows and doors can withstand winds exceeding 200 mph and projectiles hurled by hurricanes. That’s the power of impact windows and doors. Constructed with laminated glass and reinforced frames, they’re built to deflect debris, resist shattering, and stay intact even in the face of extreme weather.

Beyond hurricane protection, impact windows and doors offer a multitude of benefits:

Enhanced security: The sturdy construction deters break-ins and provides an extra layer of protection against intruders.

Noise reduction: The thicker glass effectively blocks out unwanted noise, creating a more peaceful haven within your home.

Energy efficiency: Many impact windows come with specialized coatings or laminated glass that helps regulate temperature, reducing energy bills and reliance on air conditioning.

Increased home value: Properties with impact windows and doors are often more attractive to potential buyers, boosting resale value.

With any significant investment, concerns might arise. Here are some common misconceptions about impact windows and doors and why they shouldn’t deter you:

Myth: Impact windows are unattractive and block natural light. Fact: Modern impact windows come in various styles and finishes, seamlessly blending with your home’s aesthetic. Their clear, laminated glass allows ample natural light to flow in.

Myth: They’re difficult to open and close. Fact: Today’s impact windows operate smoothly and easily, just like traditional windows.

Myth: They’re too expensive. Fact: While the initial cost is higher than regular windows, the long-term benefits in terms of storm protection, energy savings, and security can outweigh the initial investment. Consider it an investment in your home’s safety and value.

Keeping Your Guard Up: Inspecting Impact Windows and Doors for Damage

Even the most robust windows need occasional TLC. Regularly inspecting your impact windows and doors for damage is crucial to ensure their functionality and protection. Here’s what to look for:

Cracks or chips in the glass: While impact-resistant, even these windows can suffer damage from severe impacts.

Loose or damaged frames: Check for gaps or cracks around the frame, especially after a storm.

Deterioration of weatherstripping: Worn-out seals can compromise energy efficiency and allow water infiltration.

Hardware issues: Ensure locks, handles, and hinges are functioning smoothly and securely.

If you notice any damage, schedule a professional inspection and repair immediately. Remember, timely maintenance keeps your impact windows and doors performing at their peak.

Eco-Conscious Comfort: The Environmental Benefits of Impact Windows and Doors

Beyond safeguarding your home, impact windows and doors contribute to a greener future. Here’s how:

Reduced energy consumption: Their insulating properties help maintain consistent temperatures, lowering reliance on HVAC systems and reducing energy bills.

Enhanced hurricane resilience: By minimizing storm damage, you’ll prevent debris from polluting waterways and landfills.

Durable and long-lasting: Impact windows have a lifespan considerably longer than regular windows, reducing manufacturing waste and resource consumption associated with frequent replacements.

Investing in impact windows and doors is a conscious choice, benefiting both your home and the environment.

Style Meets Strength: Popular Window and Door Styles for Florida Homes

With the need for protection comes the desire for aesthetics. Thankfully, a variety of stylish impact window and door options cater to diverse Florida home styles:

Coastal Chic: Opt for hurricane-rated French doors leading out to your patio, embracing the indoor-outdoor living Florida is known for.

Modern Minimalism: Sleek aluminum frame windows with expansive views complement the clean lines of contemporary architecture.

Mediterranean Flair: Arched impact windows and wrought iron door accents add a touch of Old World charm to your Spanish-inspired home.

Traditional Elegance: Classic double-hung impact windows with white frames maintain the timeless beauty of your historic bungalow.

[aelirus]

[for your v: repentance verse! we can workshop this further if you want--]

The guest is on his way upstairs.

ERIS EVANS hums with acknowledgement, switching the intercom off and leaning back in her office chair. Her Devon workspace sprawls before her: a space full of ornate wood furniture, sealed documents stored in ominous file cabinets, and little machine parts littering her oaken desk. The Hoenn sunlight filters through the huge glass windows, providing the former commander with a stunning view of the nearby forest sprawl, Chimney smoking in the distance.

(She's used her guile, venom, and teeth to ascend to this position. All by herself, imperious and wild on the throne.)

But when Cyrus finally appears in the doorway, Eris feels her mask slip for a fleeting moment, a mixture of emotions thrumming past her temple. A frown, a curl of the glossy lip, quickly replaced with...something more neutral. Frosty and perfect.

"...It's you," she murmurs, betraying nothing, sitting up a bit straighter. The invitation into the office is an unspoken one.

The walls of office buildings were beyond familiar for the former Galactic Boss. Sinnoh, Hoenn; they all had a sterile, hope-devouring sameness about them that he once found comfortable. Now, as he climbed his way up the stairs of the Devon building, he was unsettled to find he felt stifled.

Surely, in no way could that feeling be a simultaneous result of knowing he was about to come face to face with one of the few people in his life he'd ever considered a valuable asset. A living reminder of his failure.

He was closer and closer, now, until all that seperated them was a wall. He'd seen recent images, footage, of Jupiter-- Eris as she was now called-- but found himself unable to divorce the idea of her and her old self in his mind.

Wasn't that amazing? Space and Time, they are only what you made of them. If he stopped now, he could have that memory of her lodged in his head until it dimmed and faded away entirely. He would never have to be aware of another reality of her.

Regardless of how tempting the idea was- the ability to control life even in the most minor of ways- Cyrus couldn't hesitate. This future he was about to come face-to-face with would be yet another puzzle for him to figure out.

Let the world challenge me, he'd think. I will find the solution each time.

And then the veil, the old world, was ripped away from his consciousness, just as simply as walking through a doorway.

She looked different yet the same. The jaw, the nose, the eyes remained untouched, but her hair and outfit was so dissonant with what Cyrus knew her as. She'd find her expression reflected back at her, but it somehow gave even less insight.

"Perceptive." One would expect him to sound different after having been dragged to an alternate dimension and back... but it might be that the presence of those who he once commanded placed him in a certain mindset. Unlike with the youth that foiled his plans, he felt it inappropriate to be anything but distant with his old comrades.

His style of dress hadn't changed: business-casual wear that did just what it needed to come across formal while prioritising his comfort. The eye bags beneath his eyes were ever-dark, hair untouched. He was a phantom of the past.

The unspoken invitation into Eris' space was accepted easily, crossing the threshold and then stopping halfway into the room. Going just far enough to impose while still demonstrating his little desire for closeness.

"Are you busy?"

That was different. Instead of knowing things, or finding them out for himself, or deciding what was the best use of someone else's time- he was asking her. He must've felt unfamiliar saying it, too, because he broke his eye contact to gaze about the room. It felt "casual" in an awkward, planned way.

[heliopauseentertainments]

Branched Paths

Part of MegaSound Week 2023 - Hosted on Tumblr by @mega-wave-superior Prompt: Day 4 - Solidarity/Solitude

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Soundwave

Characters: Soundwave

Summary: In which Soundwave reflects on Megatron’s absence.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

The mottled yellow-green volcanic world of Io, backlit by the light of Jupiter’s thick, gaseous atmosphere made for lovely viewing as Soundwave stood at one of the windows in his quarters.

The day’s labors of mediating disputes and trying to increase resident morale could finally be put aside; Soundwave could appreciate the true value of a few hours of respite.

Even at the cost of being nearly alone with his own thoughts.

Sanctuary Station, orbiting slowly in Io’s gravity well, was just that… a sanctuary, free from the prejudices of their homeworld. Or at least it was in theory.

Soundwave knew that Galvatron didn’t truly believe in the core of their cause; he had merely seen an army to leverage for further conquest in the vacuum caused by Megatron’s departure. At least Galvatron had given Soundwave, with the help of Earth’s humans, much latitude to make a home for the Decepticons who were finished with all of it.

Thankfully Galvatron was rarely here, Soundwave thought, leaning his hands against the wall on either side of the reinforced glass. That Golden Age relic’s brand of loud domination wasn’t right; it wasn’t the same. He was a hollow substitute for the real thing, for the visionary he replaced.

Ravage’s reports from the Lost Light were few and far between, no sign of changed minds. No sign of remembering what they had promised each other in the dark on so many nights, hunkered down in some besieged base or tucked away into a secure corner of the Nemesis with their cables intimately entwined. No sign of repayment for Soundwave’s unerring devotion over millions of years.

But Ravage didn’t know.

Soundwave had never shared the secret and Megatron likely never would either. Ravage would become… disappointed in them both, he was sure.

The sounds of Rumble and Frenzy breaking glass in the hallway barely made it into Soundwave’s quarters, momentarily disrupting his thoughts. He ought to invest in better soundproofing.

This peace, even if it was fragile and hinged on the conditional generosity of understandably mistrustful organic aliens, was the start of what they had wanted all along. It wasn’t ideal, but the Decepticons had always been skilled at the art of “making do.”

Megatron should have been here, with him, helping him herd their soldiers into the future, into the beginnings of everything they had ever wanted.

The promise of no longer hiding their sparks in the shadows behind professionalism and the chain of command.

One of Io’s volcanoes began to smoke, indicative of an impending eruption. The lack of a thick, obscuring atmosphere meant much of the surface geological activity was visible to the optics, even from orbit. The moon’s thin blanket of sulfur dioxide gas left nothing to the imagination.

While Soundwave’s spark had not yet forgotten Megatron’s defection, his betrayal, the righteous hurt did nothing to alleviate the lonely chill without his presence.

He knew that, if the opportunity arose, he would welcome Megatron back with his arms wide open.

[thevindicativevordan]

Comics this week?

Anonymous asked: Comics this week ? Especially Ultimate Spider-Man.

Anonymous asked: What did you think about Ultimate Spider-Man?

Ultimate Spider-Man #1 - Dare I say it: Amazing. Spider-Man is back to being the best/hottest book on the market. Like the original USM we go an entire first issue without Peter even wearing the costume, but every bit of set-up here felt like it was expanding the kind of possibilities for where Hickman could go. Peter and MJ both sound and feel right in a way the 616 version do not anymore. MJ being a business owner and the real bread winner of the family raises an interesting possibility in a world where corporations run everything. How far could she possibly climb? Enough to attract the Council's attention? I called Ben living in this universe while May died, but I did not see Ben and Jonah being the best buddy duo of 2024. Love their dynamic and I really hope neither of the two die any time soon. I like what I see of Ben, he's the same principled guy as always, but he's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder here that explains why Peter usually does too. Normally we just don't get to see that because he only exists to die. Can't talk about the kids too much yet, although I want that scene of May holding the ball with the spider to be foreshadowing her own future as Spider-Girl.

Spider-Man has always been an interesting hybrid of the Superman/Batman archetypes, but 6160 Peter I think leans more towards the Superman side. Besides the obvious similarity of Peter being an investigative reporter, here being a hero is what he wants, he's seemingly motivated not by guilt like 616 Peter, but out of a sense of altruism and also a desire for more from his life. Oh and his first big foe is a bald guy who controls NYC via money. Guess the "reveal" regarding the variant covers is that Peter's StarkTech suit (can't believe Hickman went there and did it in a way I don't hate) is that it can shift in appearance between the different suits at will. I cannot wait to see the Peter and Harry dynamic play out, sure looks like we will see their friendship form from joining forces as Spider-Man and Green Goblin, only to fall apart as Harry falls more and more into madness. Now I really want to see him married to Gwen, but it seems like he's a bachelor. Perhaps Gwen is a cop in this universe and she might still enter the fray.

Responsibility is the ubiquitous theme of Spider-Man, but here it's presented in a different light. Peter had a heroic destiny taken from him, and he accepts it back willingly despite the costs it's sure to inflict. Hickman seems to be tackling the idea that the rich and powerful have robbed us of the glorious future we were supposed to have, and now the question is if there are enough good people who feel responsible for the collective good left in the world to take that future back. Certainly a relevant topic, one that puts a new spin on Marvel being "the world outside your window".

Action Comics #1061 - Timms levelled up on art and gave us one hell of a fight sequence. Poor Jupiter is down one moon. Good issue, Bizarro tapping into magic to recreate his home via replacing Superman's is an interesting premise. Aaron's got a good handle on Clark's voice and the voices of his supporting cast, think this Marvel Star writing Superman will go down easier than the last one did.

Green Lantern # 7 - Found out where the other Lanterns are and that "death" scene for Kilowag is a total fakeout with no body. Bringing Hal to Sinestro and trying to talk things out was a doomed endeavor, no way was that confrontation ending without violence.

Blade #7 - Kind of a filler issue, Hill's been uneven lately here which is disappointing because he started strong.

[shortnasties]

2867. I Don't Care, Really, I Don't

This is called "I Don't Care, Really, I Don't." Curiosity sleeps well.

Everyone knows Bob has replaced his wife with one of those lifelike dolls. Bob's wife, Margie, absconded to Mexico with a handsome stock trader. What Bob has done is, yes, unnatural, but also can you blame him?

Shhh, here he is now...

"Whatcha talking about?" says Bob.

"I wasn't talking."

"Yes you was. I seen you talking just now," says Bob. "You was talking about me, wasn't you?"

"I wasn't talking at all, Bob."

"Don't give me that at all Bob bullshit," says Bob. "You was talking about my new situation."

"Bob—"

"Fuck off with the Bob!" says Bob. "Fuck it straight to Mars and Jupiter's tits. I don't care, really, I don't. Nobody'll understand what a man feels like he has to do. Nobody should have to understand."

Bob meanders back to his yard, stopping once to wave up at an empty window.