thatsneath-blog

[izzyspussy]

sorry to everyone who tried to join the Q&A about the technical difficulties. i presume it's too late to try again now? interest check?

[transvampireboyfriend]

Had this “Steve only hates impersonal nicknames” idea in my notes for a while and then after seeing @cholvoq​ ‘s wonderful art I had to turn it into a real thing for Valentine’s Day. This is 2.4k, i’m SO sorry edit: you can now read this on ao3 :)

Eddie’s a nickname guy. It’s always Dusty this and Gare-Bear that and JeffJeff here and Bobbie there and it’s Mikey and Maxxii and Nance-pants and Johnny and… big boy?

Him being a nickname guy makes it near impossible to hide his crushes. Thankfully, Steve had been really cool about it. Sure, he seemed a little stunned, but Eddie still had all his teeth in place by the end of that interaction, so he had called that a win.

He hadn’t known then that Steve was… different. Or he was starting to see it but what he thought was shocking then had really been just the tip of the iceberg. He hadn’t expected Steve to be nice. Or funny, or caring, or protective, or understanding.

He had learned all of that after everything. During chats on Hellfire nights while the kids cleaned up after themselves, during hangouts at the diner with Robin and Nancy, during Saturday afternoons when he went to pick out a movie only to end up talking with Steve, their conversation flowing until it was cut short by Steve’s shift ending.

After some time, Eddie had gotten to know Steve even more during long weekday nights when one came over to bring the other something they left behind, or to share a record, or to demand the beers the other owes or to show the other a stupid article in a stupid magazine only to end up making dinner together and watching a movie afterwards.

They stopped making excuses about two weeks ago.

Eddie had asked “do youuu… wanna come over?” on Saturday night, while nervously twirling his keys as Steve locked the front doors of the Family Video.

The evening chill had cut right through Eddie’s leather jacket as his keys clanged against his rings. But Steve had nodded with a smile and asked “pizza?” on their way to their cars, and Eddie had forgotten all about the cold.

Point being, Steve had been just fine with ‘big boy’ when it happened. Eddie’s a nickname guy. Him and Steve are hanging out more now, and so, Eddie’s been calling him more nicknames. Some of them are very intentional, others come completely without thinking, and it turns out, Steve takes issue with a few of them.

The first time it happens, Eddie’s underneath his van trying to get the damn thing to cooperate, the recent winter was tough on it, and it keeps dying out on him.

Steve sits nearby perched on a little stool, wearing his Family Video vest since he came by right after finishing his morning shift to see if they could make plans for lunch. Eddie suggested they grab something at the diner if and when he finally gets the van to start back up and Steve had agreed to wait.

He’s been telling Eddie about tonight’s basketball- game? match? super bowl? Is there such a thing as the major leagues of basketball? Eddie’s not sure, but he adores the sound of Steve’s voice and he’s kind of invested in the drama of players switching teams and retiring and whatever else Steve wants to tell him about. So, he’s been listening, not really bothering with asking for clarification for what he doesn’t understand yet. He’ll figure it out as they go.

He's blindly patting the floor around his legs for his rag, when he feels Steve put it right in his hand.

Eddie’s relieved. "Thanks, bud!" he says, the nickname just rolling off his tongue effortlessly, no meaning attached.

It gets kind of quiet all of a sudden. After about five seconds of Steve not talking, Eddie comes out to check on him, and finds him frowning at his legs.

"Don't call me ‘bud’" Steve requests, looking up at his face, his tone just a tad harsh. Eddie would think he ran into King Steve if he didn't know any better.

As it is, Eddie gets Steve probably thinks the nickname is childish or patronizing, so he doesn’t think twice of it, just gets a little sheepish and says "sorry, Stevie".

Steve smiles at that, a little cocky. He does his little mean girl shaking his head thing like he just got exactly what he wanted. Eddie feels his face twist a bit in confusion, but he likes it when Steve gets a little mean so he doesn't say anything about it and just dives back under his van as Steve resumes their conversation.

 The second time it happens, they’re outside the supermarket. The kids shot out of the van as soon as it rolled to a stop, Steve calling out a warning after them while still listening to Eddie explain why Star Wars and Star Trek are actually very different but really good in their own way. Their conversation carries on as they hop out of the van, lock up and walk to meet at the front.

“I’m telling you, Star Trek is great. You would love it,” Eddie says, “you just have to give it a chance”.

Steve rolls his eyes at him, but Eddie can see his smile.

“Ok, alright,” Steve answers, “you can show me tonight then”, it’s almost too nonchalant. Eddie has to hide his grin.

Steve’s been suggesting they hang out more and more lately, and he can’t help but feel a bit hopeful. They clearly enjoy each other’s company, their time together is never dull, Steve seems to be really comfortable around him and maybe, just maybe…

“Should we get beers then?” Eddie asks, excited at the prospect of some more time alone with him.  They haven’t had a weeknight hangout since Eddie fixed his van last week. He kinda misses the very specific color of Steve’s eyes in the Harringtons’ yellow living room lamplight.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his eyes get soft in a way Eddie only started noticing a couple of weeks back, “we can watch it at my place” he adds. Eddie thinks he definitely hasn’t seen him look at anyone else like that.

To shake himself out of the spell of the prettiest boy he’s ever met making the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen at him and ONLY him, Eddie grabs Steve by the wrist and starts marching them towards the supermarket’s front doors.

Without thinking, Eddie says "c'mon man," as they go.

Steve, who started easily following him (like he always does these days), suddenly stops in his tracks. Eddie gets pulled back and almost stumbles on top of Steve. He'd get flustered if Steve wasn't frowning at him like he’d just said the most insulting thing he’d heard this month.

"Don't call me ‘man’" Steve says. Eddie feels his eyebrows raise a bit.

He debates asking why but doesn't question Steve in the end. He’d rather offer understanding than judgement to him any day.

So, Eddie takes advantage of Steve's wrist in his hand, and squeezes there a bit, says "I'm sorry sweetheart" sincerely, looks into Steve's eyes so he can see Eddie means it.

Steve blushes a bit then, not really used to the nickname yet, Eddie just got the balls to start using it last week. Eddie himself is not really used to seeing Steve blush, and at something he says? It’s too much power for one metalhead.

But he gets distracted from Steve’s blush because it happens again, Steve basically preens like a peacock once Eddie switches nicknames. Looks smug, like he has Eddie wrapped around his finger and well, Eddie guesses he does, so, no arguments there either.

He just smiles back at Steve, really, has no other choice, it’s not like he can control how he reacts to the most gorgeous fucking face the universe could ever come up with. But he tugs him along again, Steve happily following this time.

The next time it happens, Steve’s leaning against his kitchen island, with Eddie leaning across from him against the counter.

The party is watching a movie in the Harringtons’ living room and at some point, Eddie got up to get himself another soda, Steve not so subtly followed after him, taking the empty popcorn bowls to the sink. He struck up a conversation and there they stayed.

Eddie’s been turning the small gesture around and around in his head. Clearly Steve’s not shy about seeking him out, and he’s obviously good with the party knowing, which means a hell of a lot because those are Steve’s people, that’s his family.

Eddie’s honestly running out of excuses to not ask him out. Seeing him reaching out to bump his sneaker against Eddie’s boot when he says something funny, laughing just a little too hard at Eddie’s dumb joke; seeing his eyes widen a bit when Eddie compliments him; seeing him notice when Eddie is holding back from talking too much, and not letting it go until he thinks Eddie’s shared all of his opinions on the subject; Eddie thinks maybe he can be brave, when it comes to Steve.

And this week might be the perfect time.

Here they are still, the movie long ended and several easy conversations floating from the living room to the kitchen, where they’re still engrossed on their own.

“I mean I taught the kid how to do his hair for god’s sake!” Steve is saying, Eddie’s laughing easily, and he has a slight suspicion Steve’s acting way more annoyed than he really is because he knows Eddie dies laughing every time Steve roasts the kids.

“Just, if he’s gonna give me hair advice, he should work on that goddamn tone. At the Very Least.” Steve finishes, Eddie giggling all the while at his Annoyed Mom tone.

"Yeah, dude!" Eddie agrees, wanting to egg him on, but Steve's face suddenly falls and whatever remark Eddie had locked and loaded just fades away.

Eddie blinks perplexed; he’s getting déjà vu.

Steve frowns at him, says "Don't call me ‘dude’".

It’s eerie, only he sounds a bit annoyed this time.

Eddie thinks, maybe someone called Steve ‘dude’ before in an unpleasant way, so he doesn't pry.  Instead, he takes the chance to call him a nickname he likes more, and says "Sorry, pretty boy", his heart fluttering in the milliseconds he has to wait for Steve’s reaction.

And it happens one last time: Steve absolutely beams at that one, his smile so bright it makes Eddie want to jump in place.

He leans further back on the counter returning the smile, not noticing the common thread in Steve’s reactions to him switching nicknames.

But then the glint in Steve’s eyes suddenly brightens a dim corner of Eddie’s brain. He gets this feeling that reminds him of a perfectly set up riddle or finding that one perfect note for his latest song. It’s like everything suddenly just makes sense.

Eddie feels realization dawn on his face as he pushes himself off the counter to walk right into Steve’s personal bubble, grabs both of Steve's hands.

"Steve" Eddie says, not even caring that he sounds like the name is dripping in honey when it comes out of his mouth. With how sweet Steve is, it might as well be.

Steve just looks at him a little stunned, but doesn't say anything. Eddie draws circles in the back of his palms to reassure him.

"Why don't you want me to call you ‘dude’?" Eddie asks, trying to find out if this whole thing is what he thinks it is.

Steve looks down at their joined hands,.

"You call Nancy that sometimes..." Steve mumbles.

His answer would sound inconsequential to the unsuspecting, certainly would have to Eddie as late as last week, but Eddie thinks he’s finally getting it, and he hums his understanding.

"How ‘bout ‘man’?" he asks

Steve replies "You call Robin that sometimes..." his eyes still on their hands.

Eddie nods his agreement.

"I call everyone those things" he points out.

Steve agrees. "Exactly" he says, finally looking at him again, sounding annoyed and confirming Eddie’s suspicions.

Eddie feels his face split into a smile. He wants to grab Steve’s beautiful freaking face and just plant one on him.

"Can I still call you sweetheart?" he ventures instead. The nickname brings the hint of a smile to Steve's face but then he seems to realize something not so pleasant.

"Do you call someone else ‘sweetheart’?" Steve asks in return.

"No one" Eddie says, shaking his head, his tone vehement.

"Then yes" Steve finally answers. Eddie's heart wants to beat right out of his chest.

He interlocks their fingers to ground himself, Steve looks down at their hands and smiles at the sight.

"So, you don't want me to call you something I call someone else?" Eddie states, more than asks, calling Steve’s eyes back to his again.

"Anyone else" Steve confirms, holding his gaze.

Eddie lets out a small shuddering exhale and feels his heart fluttering in his throat, he really cannot believe this boy.

"Steve" Eddie drawls, dripping in honey again, his hands coming up to cradle Steve's face because he really can't resist anymore "Sweetheart" he says.

Steve's eyes grow a little wide and he starts blushing so much that Eddie can feel it in his palms.

"Steevieeee" Eddie sinsongs, squeezing Steve's face a bit "Pretty boy" Eddie calls him. Steve just keeps looking at him and a small smile blooms in his pretty, pretty face.

"Would you let me take you out to dinner this Friday?" Eddie finally asks him, his fingers curling to the back of Steve's head to play with his hair there. Steve's eyes get even wider.

" 's Valentine's this Friday" he points out. Eddie knows.

"Mmhm. Want you to be my Valentine." Eddie tells him, tugs his hair gently, "How's that sound?" he asks, bold in a way he never has been before. Steve blushing does things to him.

"Sounds nice" Steve answers. He smiles and nods while his hands hook on Eddie's belt loops.

"Then it's a date?" Eddie asks, trying not to sound too eager. He thinks he fails spectacularly but Steve beams and pulls him in to kiss his cheek.

"It's a date" Steve tells him, his breath ghosting on Eddie's cheek and making him shiver.

Steve pulls back, lets go of Eddie’s belt loops and tugs on a strand of his hair gently, smiling like the cat that got the cream as he walks back out into the living room.

Eddie’s gonna make this the best Valentine’s Day date Steve has ever been on.

[mega-pixie-dream-girl]

Making Space - Part II

1990

❣ I am still very new at writing these! I know I am long-winded... I could probably edit even more and make small moment high-intensity fics, but this is sort of my style ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and I have decided to make this story more of a chap book. Note: I leave some details in brackets when I don't want to associate a real name/place/thing, fill it in madlibs style ❣

Pairing: Dave Mustaine x f!reader

Summary: Y/n is a musician--well, sort of. She is getting back into it when she meets Dave who has a practice space she can use. She wasn't looking for a muse... just a spark to ignite her creative passions. But falling for another musician is like playing with fire–falling for the frontman of Megadeth, that's like playing with an a-bomb.

𝓦𝓐𝓡𝓝𝓘𝓝𝓖𝓢: power dynamic/mentorship, size, fluff, smut, angst

read Part I here

.・。♪.・゜✧・.♬・☆・゜・。. • ✧ ♪ . ° .• °:.♬ *₊ ° . ✧.・。♪.・゜✧

I drank more that weekend than I had drank in a month–which wasn’t hard since I didn’t really drink much. I had gone back to the Diamond Saloon Saturday and Sunday, hoping I might run into Dave. No such luck. Monday–my first day with my rehearsal hours in Dave’s practice room–came and went, the little folded up envelope of cash I brought to pay him feeling heavier in my pocket knowing I still had not seen him again since that night he disappeared to talk to some record exec right before we almost got drinks together. Ugh. Was I torturing myself? Perhaps setting myself up to be the character in an old sci-fi mystery show where every time I was close to getting to know him, something cataclysmic would get in the way? 

But Tuesday would be 1 week since we met at Diamond Saloon–surely he would be there again–but… he had another show tonight so maybe not. I could go see him play… but maybe he was already over it, over me.

The night was mine and I wore my favorite mini dress. There was no way I was going to be caught dead chasing a guy who had left me outside a venue like a half-empty bottle put down and forgotten. I went to the bar down the block from where he was playing to preserve my dignity. 

Sitting at the bar I felt like I was still in transit, like I hadn’t arrived, the emptiness of something missing I tried to quell, perhaps the bar will pick up in half an hour, or maybe it’s the wrong night–but deep down I knew I was waiting for someone who wasn’t there. My heart sank as I walked past heads that turned, none his, even though I knew he wouldn’t be here if he was playing down the block. It was like the night was slipping out of my grasp.

I sought the liveliness of the night I had dreamt up, relying on a change of scenery to fill in where my own lack of chatter failed. Changing bars, once, twice, I found myself at the diner, chicken soup at 2am. I had a habit of turning every page of the book-like menu even when I knew what I wanted and the waitress knew too. The noodles and salty broth felt like a hug, my own little place as other patrons laughed with friends.

"...Well, if Junior here hadn’t helped that old lady with her bags, she wouldn’t have stolen his wallet, and if she hadn’t stolen his wallet, we would have been able to replace the drum kit. I guess we just won’t be playing there for a while…"

It was fate.

I heard their footsteps get louder.

"Alright. Alright. Just fuck karma, right? It’s totally my fault Nick was drunk, missed his most important entrance, and broke the kick…" Junior responded annoyed.

They kept walking, except for one. Dave paused.

"Hey." His tone was suddenly softer. The rest of the band scooted into a booth.

"Oh, hey."

"Um… The other night–I–"

"It’s fine. Whatever."

"No–um… Sorry…" He said, looking down. "Can I make it up to you? I’m not [Jazz Guitarist], but maybe I could give you a lesson? We could go back to the studio–we could go now–" He said, lips parted, "if you want…"

"I was actually planning on heading out–"

"I can drive you back after?"

I paused. I wanted so badly to be aloof, to not betray my pride, but his red lips were frozen slightly apart as if waiting for me, for the smoke of my coquettish veil to lift. Imagining feeling them on mine I felt my own lips tingle, if only he would pull me close to him now. His eyes narrowed slightly as if he could already read the subtext of my heart between the lines of my mind. The night was mine again. I nodded in agreement. He held out his hand to steady me as I left the booth I was in.

"How was the show?" I asked as we walked toward the rehearsal space.

"Terrible."

"Why? What happened?"

"Everything."

"It couldn’t have been that bad."

"Just… everything was just… off."

I wanted to cup his cheek and tell him not to worry.

"You just need to clone yourself and master each instrument."

He smiled at my joke. "Sure… 4 drunk assholes instead of 1 drunk asshole and 3 drunk dumb asses… Totally would solve it." He mused back.

When we got up to the rehearsal room it felt different–the string lights glowed in the dim room with only another lamp on in the corner alight. Dave made an effort to kick aside more of the beer cans that had accumulated, brushing away the soot of an ashtray too small to contain its usage. To my surprise, he pushed aside the stool too. Shuffling through the shelf of gear and oddities, he pulled out a woven blanket and some pillows and placed them on the ground picnic style. He set up 2 guitars, placing them down on either side of the blanket.

"Do you want a beer?"

"Sure."

Hand me a cold can of beer from the faux wood-grain mini fridge that closed with a clap.

We sat down on the blanket, facing each other, each taking a guitar into our laps. His magnetic eyes were soft but firm and like his hair, they lit up almost golden in the dim, warm light. It felt as if he was looking at me with x-ray vision and I felt my heat wet in the silence as his eyes calmly raked over my body. My heart felt almost at peace, finally having his undivided attention. I felt twisted up inside, wanting to learn from him but also wanting to move in closer to his toned body and take the guitar out of his arms so they would be free to embrace me.

"Can we work on [song name]?" I asked.

"Sure." He nodded.

He showed me some of the riffs, then played the chords so I could practice over them in time, keeping his eyes on me, as if his hands were someone else’s or his mind completely split from them to let his sultry, piercing gaze stay on me as he played. I kept looking down at the fretboard to make sure my fingers were in the right places. 

Losing track of time, the only eon that mattered was the length of this song, the repetition as we felt out each riff along the fretboard, each breath subtly punctuating the articulation of the notes, his slowly curling smile making our steady rhythm feel faster as it mixed with my heartbeat. 

We didn’t need to talk to know what was next–I plugged into his movements, copying his own and when I played it right he went faster, then he moved to the next one, then we connected them. Maybe it was his talent as a guitarist–how intimately he knew the instrument–but I felt like he was learning me instead, becoming in tune with my movements as he coached my fingers, pushing me harder just enough to get me to the edge of losing it before I reached the satisfying peak of playing each riff correctly over and over.

When we came to the end of the song, Dave sipped his beer. "You play pretty well." He complimented.

"Thanks, you're a good teacher."

"I’m actually impressed. You’re good." He set his guitar down and looked at me, leaning slightly against a crate behind him. "How old are you?"

"24."

"You’re young." He smiled, tilting his head a bit. "Are you a vocalist, or just play guitar?" 

"Both." I answered, nonchalantly.

"Looks like we have something in common then." He smirked, before picking up his guitar again. "I’d like to hear ya. Can you play your favorite song?"

I think for a moment, I felt a pang of nerves and excitement–I'm actually a great vocalist, I just really want to be better at guitar. This is my chance to actually impress him. "Um…" I nodded and started playing and singing. I started with my favorite bossa nova song, playing the chords and starting to sing, my voice like cool rain cutting through the warm hum of amps and the growing tension between us. He jumped in accompanying me on guitar, jamming along, his chin leaning slightly closer as he listened intently. Then I gave a bit of a curveball, switching into a rock song. He followed, my vocals now switching from mellow bossa nova jazz to soulful rock.

I couldn’t help but glow as his eyes gave away his subtle amazement, not once looking away. His fingers moved with ease, picking up the chords by ear and filling in with little riffs. 

"Damn, you have a hell of a voice, sweetheart."

I grinned, enjoying my moment to show off, but his attention was almost too much.

Smiling, he chuckled a bit, his guitar still in his lap. "Why the bashfulness,? You’re amazing."

"Thanks... I-I guess I haven't sung in front of someone I know in a while."

He gazed at me so warmly, his smile radiating from his eyes most of all. "Oh yeah? Who was the last person you sang to?"

I paused. I didn’t really want to think about it–about my ex. "Just someone I knew…" 

A glint of curiosity sparked in his eyes. "Your voice is beautiful. I’m surprised you’re not in some well-known girl band or something. Also… you are very confident… but nervous at the same time… Do I make you nervous, sweetheart?"

I felt like I could sing in front of him forever. "I–no–it's just–"

He smirked as I stumbled over my words, giving little else away on his face.

"I think you're really talented." I say, avoiding admitting my crush on him.

He didn’t buy it. 

"Your turn. Will you sing something for me?" I tried to pivot the conversation. 

He seemed a little surprised at first. "Yeah, of course. Any requests?"

"Your favorite song."

I already knew he sings well, but his normally rough-around-the-edges voice was smoother than usual, sultry, taking over the whole room. His hands moved over the chords, every note articulated perfectly yet so relaxed. It was a passionate song, clearly a love song–a softer song from a harder band–but something about the way he looked at me, combined with the lyrics, made it feel like it was meant for me.

"Not what I would have guessed" I muse.

He chuckled. "No? What did you expect me to sing? Something more heavy metal?"

I shrugged. "Yeah. But you are really good at this too."

"I have range, too, you know." 

For a brief moment, his gaze flickered down to my lips before returning to my gaze. His eyes searched mine, almost as if he was looking at me with hunger, as if he was restraining himself, gulping as if to swallow his desires, keeping his demeanor composed. I felt like I was winning a week-long game of tug-of-war.

"It’s getting late." I say, desperate for his next move as his gaze seemed like it could hold me for eternity.

"Yeah… it is." He said his jaw shifting a bit.

Reaching out he brushed a stray hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear, just grazing my skin. "Are you sure you wanna go home?"

I knew that I could ask him to teach me more, but the temperature in the room had risen with the electrifying current between us.

He continued to lightly stroke my hair tucked behind my ear.

"I think I need to get home." I finally said, still feeling a bit slighted from the other night. "Maybe I can see you again?"

He swallowed, a flicker of disappointment going through his eyes, simply nodding and withdrawing his hand from my face.

"Of course, Sweetheart." He said, forcing a smile, "Anytime you want."

As we left the studio we were greeted by the damp early morning air on the deserted street, quiet and still. It must have been nearly 4am–a light drizzle raining on our skin and wetting the streets so that even the cars a few blocks away sounded like velcro pulling apart as they drove. Dave walked alongside me, but the connection we had while playing felt like it was worlds away. I reached out and held his hand as we walked, interlacing my fingers with his. He immediately gave my hand a gentle squeeze in response, as if silently communicating that he was still there, still thinking about me, in spite of walking in a sort of quiet awkward silence a few blocks towards his car. 

The rain started to get a bit heavier. My breath did too, as he started to rub my hand gently with his thumb. Lightning flashed above us and with a clap of thunder it started to pour.

Dave swore under his breath and looked up, realizing there was no way to avoid the downpour. He stopped, gently pulling me closer to him until I was nearly pressed up against his body. Eyeing a shop awning, he moved quickly, pulling us under the awning to get out of the heavy rain and turning his body to shield me from the brunt of the storm as best he could. He was pretty soaked now, his long hair sticking to his face and shoulders, his arms on either side of my head, effectively pinning me in place. 

His back breaking the pummeling rain, his white t-shirt began to become more transparent clinging to his toned body, emphasizing the muscles beneath the thin, damp fabric as his chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the rain as it came down in sheets before his eyes returned, lingering on my wet face. I felt the heat rise within me, my heart pounding against my chest. I let my gaze fall to his perfect red lips, his muscular frame keeping me safe from the storm.

Every breath as his eyes enjoyed me between the wall and his chiseled form felt like a flash of lightning, illuminating the lust behind his dark gaze. He leaned in a little closer, "Sweetheart…" he whispered, closing the space between us so that our noses almost brushed, his voice was low, filled with a hint of huskiness, and a gentle fondness. "You look beautiful…" he murmured, much softer than the man I had first heard walk into the diner tonight.

Our bodies arching together, he closed the gap between us, his lips capturing mine bringing an overwhelming flush to my face as his hand began to gently trace up my arm, bringing his electric touch up the side of my heated cheeks, fingers tangling into my hair. He kissed me like he’d been yearning for the past 20 hours all at once, his body pressing against me like I might disappear if he didn’t hold onto the moment. He let out a small exhale as I hooked my fingers through his belt loops, pulling his body tighter against mine, his hips instinctually leaning into my touch and pinning me against the wall completely. His touch was firm yet so gentle all at once as he slid his hand down, brushing the side of my breast and coming to rest on my hip, leaving a trail of fire on my skin.

The kiss slowly became softer and gentler, his hand wandering from my hip down my leg. But slowly, his hand started to move to the underside of my dress, fingers tracing up the skin of my thigh with a feather-light touch.

My breath hitched in our kiss as he started to trace the edge of my lace panties before slipping his finger between the fabric and my heat.

"Sensitive." He chuckled, taking in the image of my pleading eyes. He took his time, slowly exploring the contours of my intimate parts. I couldn’t help but grind into his touch, arching my back as his muscular torso stayed firm against me. His gaze drank me in with a look of both affection and heated desire as he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me in closer.

"Impatient, darling?" He teased, his brows raising a bit.

"Like I said, you’re talented." I replied breathily, knowing he saw through it the first time. He huffed out a soft laugh, his hand on my back rubbing in a gentle circle. He grinned, his eyes sparkling with a combination of amusement and affection.

The sound of rain began to soften and the small amount of pelting on the awning slowly came to a pitter-patter. It was as if the world had hushed to a near-silent still. He took a moment to look around.

"Looks like the storm's passing." He hummed. He hadn't moved any further away, his hand still on my back while the other continued to tease and explore. "Don't suppose you want to forget about that going home part, hmm?"

.・。♪.・゜✧・.♬・☆・゜・。. • ✧ ♪ . ° .• °:.♬ *₊ ° . ✧.・。♪.・゜✧

...to be continued... read Part I here

[hekkoto]

Should I make more works like this? Simple, kinda like emoticon but also animated~? You can leave your ideas in comments :3 Hello my darklings, Im alive :D hope you missed me (✧ω✧) this cold kept me dead for a bit longer but Im almost 100% fine now :> still coughing a lot but I dont have fever and I again have energy. I kinda messed my sleeping schedule so I need to work to get it back on track. But overall Im doing good and hopefully I will be back for real ^^ oh btw, I gonna pack and send Patreon prints in next days, damn, I still need to draw one for this month, it sucks so much that I was feeling super depressive and then caught cold :/ like my life is joke I missed drawing and creating so much that I drew this knife and made gif from it aaaaand then I made few color versions from it ;p overall I have 18 files to upload >XD I just found my old pastel knife emoticons and decided recreate it as bigger gif in same vibes. Tho I have them in regular colors, not pastel ones. Of course I can always make more >XD Im super motivated to create again, I cant say how much I missed drawing and recording ;-; I was kinda dying from boredom in last days lolz I have a lot ideas what I wanna draw ^^ so stay tuned~ oh and my bday are in 3 days :D 20th June I will be 27 yo >XD I totally dont feel like Im getting any older to be honest ;p I guess my mental issues and such might limit my point of view at world and passing time. Oh and I have great news! I will be getting some psychiatric examinations so hopefully I will find out what exactly is wrong with me >XD few daysa ago my husband told me that he thinks if Im actually able to love which made me think that it can be some issue cause for example I dont miss people. No matter how long I didnt saw them or talked to them I just... welp, kinda dont care as I dont feel anything wanna support my evil dark empire? Im accepting souls on Patreon and Ko-fi! -> Hekkoto Huge thanks to all of my Patrons and people who donate <3

[carmenized-onions]

Zero Pulse. | Oven Hotfix

logline; It's Friday.

[!!!] series history, this is the tenth; You're gonna need to check to make sure you're caught up babe because there's a LOT of context behind this one.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. Wish you could sort by emotions, on playlists, but this is really a very good playlist i think.

portion; 12.5k Jesus Christ, new record.

possible allergies; Incredibly excessive hateful self-image, very frivolous way of talking about mental illness/death/Mikey, I'd say just like ? stress? BLOOD ALSO !! minor cut dw

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets she/her'd into oblivion this round, mb)

said it before i'll say it again, this is the new best and longest chapter i've written-- of all time now. and im being so fr if i don't get actually like harassed in my inbox with the amount of people chattering about this i will WALK INTO THE PIER BITCH

It’s Friday morning, and today is the first day in possibly years that Carmen has actually snoozed his alarm. Opting to sleep in for an extra hour, despite how uncomfortable his whole body is where it lays. He’s trying to avoid waking up today— Because he knows, he can tell: Today is just not going to be his day, today. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, today— Not even—

He fell asleep on his couch, last night. His TV is still on and when he turns it off, it sizzles from being on the stupid Cooking Channel for so long. He’s covered in crumbs, hands coated in chip dust— Chin and neck sticky with spilled Diet Coke. Just don’t wake up and you won’t have to clean it. The day can’t get him, if it never starts.

But then his alarm rings again, for maybe the hundredth time, and there’s no real reason as to why this time is different from the other times, but he suddenly remembers why he fell asleep on his couch, last night. Why he had such a difficult time crawling just fifteen feet further when he got home last night. His face grows hot and red with shame and embarrassment, like a child.

A plate was sent back. A plate he made, was sent back.

Most would find it too dramatic, but he really did almost throw up. Syd gave him an antacid— From a pocket pack that you gave her. Did it help all that much? No. But at least he kept everything down. He just heaved a lot, in the walk-in. Probably good that he didn’t eat much of anything, yesterday.

He’d been thinking far too much. Spent way too long thinking about what to make for you, tonight— Which is fine, you’re inspiring— But he should’ve been keeping those thoughts to pen and paper. But he was making the stupid fucking roux for the stupid fucking order and his autopilot system got all mixed up and suddenly he was making a fantastic Montmorency, but an awful roux. Fucking brain dead, Berzatto. Talentless. Can you not handle this?

How is it possible, to fuck up that bad? You’re terrible at this. His instinct— Everyone’s instinct was to tell the patron to get off their fucking high horse. There’s always that one guest, that thinks they own the goddamn place. But then the dish came back to the kitchen, and everyone just stared. Silent. He was mortified. Is it too much for you? Practically unrecognizable, from what was ordered. It was entirely his fault. Dumb fuck. So fucking slow.

What happened to him? Seriously, what the fuck happened, to him? How could he possibly forget what’s important here? What’s at stake? He can’t look himself in the eyes when he brushes his teeth. Why are you so fucking slow? You are bullshit.

Regrettably, you happened to him; in a good and bad way.

He sighs, washing your conditioner out of his hair in the shower. Scrunching it, as you’d directed. He listens, he does. He takes direction well. Go faster, motherfucker. And he likes you, Carmen does. You are not tough. And he doesn’t fault you for being a good person, no, he faults himself.

He’s not meant to be a good person, he’s meant to be a good chef.

He’s not meant to be a good work partner, with Syd— That doesn’t get results. Everyone thinks they’re happier when he’s happier, sure, but they’re in the red. They’re not gonna be so fucking happy when their cheques start bouncing. It doesn’t matter how good a person he is— What matters is what he’s actually capable of providing— And it’s not amusement or enjoyment— It’s fucking talent. But he sought out your affections, your approval, in a key moment, in every moment— In place of who he should’ve— A Michelin Inspector.

He's let himself forget, what it meant, what it takes, to get a star.

And that made him fuck up a dish— A simple fucking dish. Again, not your fault, his. But God, he wants both. Carmen needs both. He can have both. You should be dead. He just needs to lock it in, keep it tight, push it down, comb it back, you should be dead—

He needs to spray his hair with rosemary, it’s looking thin. The basil on his balcony is coming in nicely, though.

It’s just hit four o’clock when you’re mostly finished getting ready— Well, you are ready, but, y’know, final checks and all that. You smooth out your palazzo pants. Gotta look presentable. Or at the very least, normal.

The Bear is high-class, you’re not going there as a repairman, tonight, for once. Plus, Richie wears suits twenty-four fucking seven now— So you need to dress accordingly, or he and every other guest there are going to look at you like you’re some broke freak. Which, like, not inaccurate, but still hurtful. You’ve broken out the good but not too good jewelry. Money talks, wealth whispers, or some shit. Black turtleneck, blue pants— To match the stupid fucking Executive Chef’s eyes, or whatever, shut up! The pants are not actually that bright, but you think they’d still pair well with Carmen. And even if they didn’t, they match The Bear’s aesthetic, and you like to remain on theme, even when there isn’t really at all a required theme.

Not like you’re going to be seeing much of Carmen tonight, anyway. As much as you’d like to see him, he didn’t send you his Connections, this morning, not even after you sent yours, and you’re taking that as a sign that today is probably rough. And not in the way that can be helped by talking to a person, either, in fact, probably the exact opposite.

You debate whether or not to wear Carmen’s jean jacket. This is a thin turtleneck, and it’d go really well with the whole outfit, and like, Sydney already caught on— It’s only a matter of time before the whole kitchen clocks it.

Yeah, fuck it, hard launch this situationship. You toss it over your shoulders. Okay, okay, one last last final fit check. Hm. Yeah, you’ve definitely gotta put the necklace away. You kiss the plastic pendant for good luck, before tucking it under your shirt. Not ready for that story, just yet. You will be, eventually. But you certainly don’t want Carmen to notice and ask about it. Soon, though. You will, soon.

You grab your purse, your keys, your finished art piece— Wrapped, neatly, in brown paper, with a little card taped to it. Okay, that’s everything. One last last last final review. Makeup? Great. Hair? Perfect. Outfit? Stunning— Fuck, what shoes are you going to wear? Fuck fuck fuck—

Alright, you know it’s not the shoes you’re worried about. Just get out the door, Chip. It’s gonna be fine, Chip. Dinner’s gonna be good, and normal, actually, because two people having their first real one-on-one conversation after their mutual best friend killed himself just under a year ago is historically always super calm and chill and normal, actually. That’s how that works. It’s not gonna be tense, at all.

This is immediately so tense. “Hey. Good to— Good to see you.”

You go in for the hug, so does Richie, only then do you both realize how full your hands are. And then it becomes a weird side hug from you combined with a full hug from him. It’s terrible, this is terrible, this is so tense. Maybe you can still run and have it not be weird, somehow.

“You— Too.” Richie clears his throat, “Cousin.”

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen each other since, no, you’ve seen each other thrice now, but it was different all those times. You were helping Carmen escape a freezer, or having an episode over a broken toilet, or delivering a baby— It wasn’t awkward all those times because it couldn’t be. You didn’t have time to be awkward, they were always emergencies.

“So uh, Fak’s gonna be our, our server?”

“Yessir.”

“He any good?”

“No-sir.”

But this meet up is intentional, booked. It’s got a point to it, and both of you know what it is. You’re just anxiously waiting for the other person to be brave enough to bring it up. Thankfully, neither of you have to, just yet, as Fak sidles up to the host stand.

He’s pushing so many buttons on the P.O.S. before even speaking to either of you that you’re starting to believe he doesn’t know what the fuck the buttons he’s pushing are doing. Based on the way Richie starts to lean over the stand to see what he’s doing, you’re pretty sure you’re right.

“I— I got it, man.” Fak puts a hand up, defensive. Richie backs up, then gestures for Fak to get the fuckin’ show on the road. He does.

“Table for, for uh, how many are you?”

“Oh wow.” It comes out of you instantly, in a true state of shock, at how bad this is already going. You cover your mouth, uh oh, inside thought became outside thought. “Sorry!”

Richie loses it, next to you. You slap his shoulder with your free arm, but you’re laughing too. “Don’t be mean!”

“You’re the one bein’ mean, Chip!”

“I didn’t— He’s trying.” You turn your head back to Fak. “I— Table for two, darling. M’sorry.”

Fak is quick to fold and forgive you, you’ve just called him darling— If a siren ever called to him, he would be dead. “Right, right this way— My name is Neil, I’ll be your server, tonight.”

You follow him to a table that lets you see pretty well into the kitchen. It’s a decent trade-off for not getting a cozy little booth. You look into the window, everyone’s far too focused to know you’re here, right now, but that’s okay— It’s not rushed right now, though, so that is a little… weird.

Richie pulls out your chair, fake Italian chivalry, and what not. When you’re half way through sitting down, a few things are realized instantly, and all three of you speak simultaneously.

“Oh, I should drop this off in the back, first.” Your art piece, you mean.

“Is that Carmy’s?” Your jacket, Fak means.

“You’re fucking Carmen?” What the fuck else could Richie possibly mean.

“I—” You pause, pointing to Fak, first. “Yes, it is.” Then pivot to Richie, “No, I’m not. It’s more like a reservation—”

“Don’t talk about your sex life like it’s a restaurant.” He waves his hand in the air, immediately regretting asking. Listen, it was just the first metaphor on the brain.

“You fuckin’ asked! And we haven’t done shit yet— Not even a fuckin’ date, a’right? Technically not even dating.” It takes maybe, two seconds, in the presence of Richie, for you to go full Chicago accent. It’s unhinged. You have to stand up. “I’m gonna drop this off, in the back.” You lift up the wrapped piece. “I’ll be back, don’t be weird.”

As you walk off, you do your best to pretend you don’t hear Fak mumbling, “Bet it’s one of those sex paintings.”

But it’s very hard to do so when Richie all but booms out a resounding and genuinely baffled, “...What?”

As much as you’d like to continue to hear that insane conversation, you swing through the door, and it’s thankfully a pretty soundproof divider, considering all the yelling you know happens in here.

“Chefs, table twenty-four, two people.” “Yes, Chef.”

Or… Maybe… It’s instead, weirdly subdued? In a tense way, not a calm way. Like when a knife falls off a table, and you’re not sure if it’s going to stab you in the foot and there’s no time to pull back.

“Twenty-one, four people.” “Yes, Chef.”

That kind of quiet. The calm before the storm, maybe. The fall before the blood, you think may be more accurate. God, Syd looks exhausted and it’s only half past four. The rush hasn’t even started yet. Why are they pushing so hard, right now?

Carmen’s on expo. Which, based on the night terrors he told you about, seems like a recipe for fucking disaster. Again, he’s not yelling. His voice is monotone, it sounds dead, frankly, and you’re wondering if you would prefer him screaming, actually.

There’s a mantra, amongst first responders, that it’s better to hear screaming than silence, because then you know they have a pulse, they’re drawing breath, they’re able to feel. You can’t honestly tell, with Carmen.

Syd hands off a plate to expo, to Carmen. He calmly, quickly— And like, really quickly, barely more than a two second glance is given, to the dish, before he says, “Refire, Chef.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Not your business, not your restaurant, don’t overstep. But God, it hurts to watch the order hit Syd in the face, like a splash of cold water. She repeats, in disbelief. “Refire?” The dish looks fine to her— And it sure as fuck looks fine to you.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Why, exactly? Chef?”

Carmen does not look up from his system, he does not watch what is practically heartbreak, mortification, tempered anger, play out on Syd’s face. “Not perfect. Fire twenty, twenty-five— Two waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

“Heard!”

“Not perfect?”

He looks up, finally, at her. You can only see the back of his head, so you can’t tell the look. “Sauce is broken.” It’s definitely not. Well, at least to your untrained eye, it’s not. “We don’t serve what’s not perfect. Do we, Chef?” He slides the plate aside, deading it.

“Do you want your star, or not?” You don’t think he means to be antagonistic, or at least hope he doesn’t, but it really comes off that way. He rubs his chest, but his tone lack empathy.

Syd closes her eyes, taking a breath. She has so many words, for this man, but she holds her tongue. She does not rub her chest in return, she just restarts the dish. “Yes, Chef.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

There’s a lull in orders, for the moment, so you very gently place your hand on Carmen’s back, to make him aware of your presence. As gentle as you try to be, he still flinches. Anyone over his shoulder would make him flinch right now, but it’s you. “Oh—!”

Now, do you let out a small yelp, inadvertently, when he turns to look at you, and you see him as he is right now? Yeah, yeah you do.

“—Good to— Did you just scream, at the sight of me?”

Syd puts a hand over her mouth, heavy exhale of laughter still escaping through her nose. Schadenfreude.

Your mouth hangs open, for a second, squinting, goddammit, inside thought got outside, “…No?”

“What— What, I look bad?” He’s immediately looking over himself, trying to find the culprit. And though the emotion he’s feeling right now is insecurity, you feel relief that at the very least, the glow of anything is shining through him, right now.

Doesn’t make you a fan of the slicked-back hair look, though. That’s what made you yell— Like when a dog or a baby doesn’t recognize their parent. Like when Mikey shaved for the first time after you met him, and you considered him completely unrecognizable. You practically ignored him until some stubble came in. What did he expect?

You also just don’t like it. Clean-Shaved Mikey nor Hair-Gel Carmen. The pomade is overpowering your shampoo, and now he doesn’t smell like you. Doesn’t smell like him. His curls are all gone— Man, his pattern was just starting to revive, too. He looks just too clean, too cookie-cutter, too… Someone else. He just doesn’t look like— “No, Bear, you look good— I just— You look— Don’t look like the Carmy I’m used to, is all.”

Who are you to tell him what he looks like? You don’t know why, but the energy today is just making you feel like… You’re intruding, you’re stepping in on a space that has nothing to do with you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth, right?

He nods, compartmentalizing, only acknowledging that you’ve said he looks good. “You look nice.”

“I clean up.” You shrug, it gets a nearly imperceptible smile out of him. Hm. Where’d your Carmen go? He’s really making you work for it, tonight. You gesture to your painting, holding it by your knees. “Not here to disrupt, M’just gonna put this in your office, for later.”

“Painting?”

“Incredible guess.” Again, that smile and that exhale of laughter, thin. “Yes, it’s the piece— Wait ‘til close, to open it, please.”

He nods, when you start to walk off, he grabs your arm. “Ah, uh—” He lets go. “Can I, uh— I planned— I planned an off-menu main, for you, is that, that okay—”

“It would always be okay, yeah.” You nod, reassuring. It would be more than okay, if Carmen decided and designed every meal you ever had for the rest of your life, you think. “Trust you— With, with my taste buds.”

You’re not sure if it’s the right move, but you awkwardly step forward and kiss Carmen’s temple anyways— In his hairline. He seems to care a lot about appearances, right now, so you don’t want to get lip gloss on his forehead. Despite your quickness, there is still a very childish ‘ooooh’ reverberating throughout the kitchen. But he’s ignoring it, so you ignore it too. Carmen, more than anything, would like to reciprocate, but he’s running a kitchen, and he cannot let himself nor the crew get distracted. He nods, smile small, and turns back to his station.

“Waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

You don’t take it personally; the guy is busy, what can you do? You drop the painting off in his office, leaning it against the table for Carmen’s perusal after close— It’s not the kind of piece he should look at during his break— Who are you kidding, you saw him, he’s not taking a break tonight. God, he might hate this piece. What if he hates this piece? It’s a risk you have to take, it’s art. Hopefully the card will help smooth any questions over. You’re clearer over text, you think.

On your way out of the kitchen, you nod to Marcus and Tina. A sign of ‘Hey, I’m here, I know we can’t talk, but I’m here.’ They nod back. When you pass Sydney, you take a moment to squeeze her shoulder. That star thing was rough, but you don’t know enough about cooking to intervene— It’s not your place. Still feel for your girl, though. Awe, you’ve only just noticed, she’s wearing your collar pins. She puts her free hand over yours, squeezing it in return, just for a second. She doesn’t turn to face you, but the silent encouragement and sympathy is exchanged. She gets back to work, and you get back out to the front.

If there was time for it, you’d be her designated coach and cheerleader, find a motivational bookshelf to carry somewhere again and give a speech, but there’s not. So, this will have to do, for now.

Fak is absolutely bombing every step of this introduction, when you sit back down. The second-hand embarrassment is truly eating you alive, as he stumbles through today’s specials, which, you’re pretty sure is not the order these things happen in—

“Hey, uh, Neil, wasssit?” Richie scratches his nose, attempting to play the part of blind customer. “How ‘bout drinks first, bud?” He’s trying to keep a sympathetic attitude, which is making all of his pointers come off as extremely passive aggressive.

“Yeah, for sure, right, yeah— What’uh— What can— Drinks? Hey, hey you want? Drink?”

You cup a hand over your mouth, to block your mortified expression. “Yeah, yeah, Neil, I’ll just have a water.”

“Water!” Fak yells back, way too fucking emphatically, “I— I love water, that’s so crazy.”

“Jesus Christ.” Richie holds his face in his hands, elbows on the table. “I’ll get a fuckin’…” He lifts a hand to wave in the air, willy-nilly, still not looking up. “Chippy, name a wine.”

“Red?” Richie usually doesn’t have wine. It’s the rich man’s beer. But when he does, it’s red.

“Mhm.”

He’s probably gonna get steak, just go with a safe bet, “Cab Sav, for the gentleman, please.”

Fak writes it down, but seems bewildered and confused, staring at it. “You want a taxi?”

“Oh my god.” You and Richie are in unison. Two very different tones, though. You sound baffled, he sounds like he’s two seconds from lunging.

Which, isn’t an entirely unfair reaction, Fak has been training for this moment for a month. Rich thought he’d at least be ready to start with you. You’re the least intimidating person he knows, you wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe that’s what makes it so difficult? That you’re too nice? Even still, Fak should at least know this, not choke as hard as he is, right now. It’s embarrassing for Richie, when his staff are flailing this bad, especially in front of the people he loves and admires.

Rich wrings his hands together, looking back up to you. “I fucking taught him this, just so y’know.”

You nod, looking to Fak. You’ve just gotta get him out of here, honestly. “Cabernet Sauvignon, baby— Just a glass, not a bottle. We’ll look over our menus, in the meantime, maybe?”

The sleeper agent line has been spoken, and the server autopilot in Fak’s brain finally turns on. “Right. I’ll just give you lovely two a second to look over your menus, alright, haha, be safe— Be back with your drinks, folks.”

The delivery may need a little work. Though you think his edits should probably start with the way he walks backwards, eye-contact unyielding, and almost trips as he pushes backwards into the kitchen door. That might be considered bad, to some.

“Trainwreck.” Richie presses his palms into his eyes. “M’fuckin’ sorry, Chippy, Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, leaning back in your seat. “I don’t see a problem, it’s dinner and a show, baby.”

Richie laughs, at that, after a few seconds of silence, he adds. “He’s not gonna fuckin’ last.”

“Probably not.” You shrug. “But it was worth a shot. N’ he’ll do in a pinch, if you’re ever short-staffed.”

“We are always short-staffed.” Richie grumbles. “Do fuckin’ servers ever actually stage? Need the free labour.”

“What the fuck is stage?”

“I honestly still don’t know.” You both laugh. “I fuckin’ did it and I still don’t know.”

“What have you been up to, besides uh, staging?” You finally open Pandora’s box.

Well, it’ll stay small talk for a little bit, to be fair, gotta warm up to the real stuff—

“Tif’s getting remarried.”

“—Oh, holy shit.”

He nods, looking aimlessly nowhere, certainly not your eyes. “Engaged, at least— Haven’t gotten a fuckin’ invite, or anythin’.”

“You think she’ll invite you?”

“She asked.” He closes his eyes, for a second. This has been hanging over his head, all day. “Called, this uh, this morning, cause of Cousin Vinnie n’ Mira—”

“She comin’ to that?” You’ve never actually met Tif. They were on the rocks when you’d come to The Beef, so it was mostly just waves through car windows, if anything. It might be better if it stays that way, you think.

He shakes his head, “Someone’s gotta take care of Eva, n’ she’s got work. But the invite made her think of my invite, and uh, if I’d want one, come when it may.”

These are the moments you wish you had a glass of water, so you could sip and do something with your mouth and hands, as you think of what to say. He continues, because he knows you’re going to ask, “Said I’d think about it.”

“I think it’s okay, if you don’t want to.” You lean forward, as a show of sympathy. “That’d be a fuckin’ lot, for anyone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but it’s uh, it’s— I’m good, Chip.” Richie leans back in his seat, swiping at his nose. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready, and you know that. He makes eye-contact, again, finally. “How’ve you been holdin’ up?”

You bite at your lip, alright, its fucking game time, this is what you’ve been prepping for, time to tell him everything you’ve been thinking about, for the past year, time to tell someone other than your former therapist what the fuck is in your head. “I—”

“Drinks! Hyah!” Fak busts through the door, far too boisterous. It scares a few patrons, and honestly you, a little bit. He returns to your table, pitcher and bottle of wine on a tray— Hey, it actually is a Cab Sav, he did it! Gotta celebrate the victories, here.

You can’t help but notice, as Fak pours your glass of water and attempts small talk, that he seems a bit more distressed than he did before he went in the kitchen. You crane your neck to peek through the window. Hm. Syd and Carmy are not where they were before. They’re talking. It doesn’t look like a fight, though. Let it lie. You’ve really got to let it lie, because Fak is in front of you, staring straight forward like he’s in a catatonic liminal state, not acknowledging either you or Richie with his gaze. A touch disconcerting, possibly.

“So, hey, you guys, you guys like food?”

Your lips form a line. “Fak, are you okay?”

“I’m great—” His voice cracks, oh dear. “Am I doing great?”

“You’re certainly trying—” “You’re fucking this up tremendously.” At least Richie is honest, and usually you are too, but, when it comes to a trainwreck, you’ve gotta tell the train they’re doing a great job. You just can’t bear to let it know it’s on fire.

When your glass of water starts to overflow, you take the pitcher from Fak’s hand so he can’t keep overpouring it in his fugue state. Jesus Christ, what happened in the kitchen? Who died? Actually, probably don’t joke about that.

It’s in within this moment that you learn a lot of things very quickly. First thing you learn, Sweeps is a server now, you guess. He’s in the suit, coming out of the kitchen, terrified, serving tray in hand, two champagne flutes wobble upon it. Second thing you learn, Sweeps is not a good server, or at the very least, isn’t right now, he’s too shell-shocked to keep any level of awareness of where he’s going. He bumps into Fak’s back. Third thing you learn, Richie has great reflexes, he catches the wine bottle from Fak’s tray. You have decent reflexes, managing to reach an arm out in time to keep Sweeps from entirely falling over and eating shit.  

You were however, not able to keep the champagne flutes from elegantly flying off of Sweep’s tray, and falling to the ground, shattering. Sonofabitch.

There’s a silence, then an overlapping chorus from the two distressed servers, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it—” That’s the fourth and last thing you’re able to clock immediately. These two know serving is not for them. They do best sweeping or fixing, not fucking talking to people. Breaking something and needing to clean it up is like a gift from God, to them, they’re genuinely fighting to be the one to clean it up. They end up tag-teaming it, as they feel Richie’s quiet glare burn into them. He’s gotten very good at silently laying down the law. They apologize, scramble to clean, hastily apologize, and rush back into the kitchen as soon as possible.

Fuck. It’s like Richie texted, Fak has shit the bed, and that almost certainly means your dinner is gonna get cut short. You’re not going to get the chance to tell him everything— Let alone anything you wanted to get out. You won’t get to apologize properly, and then he’ll head right back on his shift, and you’ll just be the kitchen’s friend that’s taking up a table. Fuck, you’ve got to try to stumble something of note out.

“I missed you, Rich.”

The man in question turns his head from looking through the kitchen window, back to you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I was here.” Could’ve visited.

“I know.” No, I couldn’t.

He nods. The unexchanged words are still understood between the both of you, somehow. You fiddle with your fingers, gearing up to just say your big speech, you practiced it in the car ride here, if you just cut it down to the key bullet points, you can probably get it all out.

“Richie, I’m sor—”

Once again, Fak interrupts, door swinging open, he looks extremely panicked this time, tripping over nothing, sweating like it’s a million degrees, looking to both of you, alright the kitchen situation seems to have escalated. It seems like he’s about to scream to you— But then remembers that there are guests other than you and Richie, in the front of house, and so he speed walks to your table.

Richie is the one to ask this time, “Are you fuckin’ good—?”

“Uh-uh.” Fak shakes his head, in repetitive, tight small swivels. His posture militantly straight, taught, eyes darting everywhere, like there’s spies lurking in the booths, watching him. He speaks through tight teeth, to hide his words from onlookers. “Bad. Bad bad.”

“Bad bad?” You repeat after him, waiting for him to lend any explanation to the subject, he doesn’t really.

“Need you.” He nods to Richie. Then nods to you. He looks… Disdainful? Remorseful, maybe. To be doing so. “You too. Bad.”

Richie looks to you, letting you make the call, here. You look at him and sigh, your plan has been utterly ruined, your speech— Dashed. He adds. “Intermission?”

There’s no way this is just going to be an intermission. “Intermission.”

You both stand, he takes his wine glass, then takes the bottle, a bit more realistic. You take your water. Cheers, and into the cesspool you go, abandoning your table, for what Richie hopes is for an interim, for what you both know is for the night.

The first thing you notice, Carmen’s not at expo. No one’s on expo, actually. Which feels like a problem. The second thing you notice is where Carmen actually is— In the walk-in— Not locked in, no, not this time. No, you notice he’s there because he’s yelling, better than zero pulse, but you still wince. All yelling makes you wince.

“Who was on veggie prep today?! What is this dice, Chefs!?” He storms out, large deli container of onions in his hand— He’s bringing it to his station— Which was Syd’s station, but he’s now co-opted it, seemingly, as she’s not there. However, in her stead, are five more containers of pre-diced veggies— You imagine Carmen brought those out, too. “We are not serving fucking sandwiches, anymore, Chefs—”

Carmen stops short of his aggression, when he sees you. You can’t tell if you like that. You’re pretty sure you don’t. What’s that stupid idiom? Mean to the world, good to your girl? Don’t like that. Don’t like two faces. Don’t like the shade on the old sandwiches— Mikey’s sandwiches, either.

Carmen doesn’t move to you, or anything like that though, no, he’s busy— With what exactly, you’re not sure. No fucking way he’s redoing all the prep right now, right? That would be insane. The dices are fine, and they can’t just waste food right now with their budget nor their time— Fucking Christ, he is actually redoing the prep and making Tina use the old for broth— Oh dear God.

The third thing you notice is where Syd really is, in lieu of her station. She’s having what looks like a panic attack with Sweeps by the ovens. Your legs move to her before your brain really registers anything else, and you can hear behind you that Richie has gone to Carmen and is handling expo. Fak did not need to tell either of you what your jobs needed to be back here, you just know.

“This is, this is just fucking great—” Syd heaves, holding onto the handle of the oven. Next to her, Sweeps is still in his hosting attire, but he’s mopping up water by Syd’s feet. There’s a tipped over mop bucket on the ground. He looks significantly more comfortable now, but still equally as distressed as the rest of the kitchen seems to be.

You put a hand on Syd’s shoulder, leaning down to her level. “Bubs, what’s going on? M’here.”

“Fucking everything is going on.” She starts to catch her breath; she brushes your hand away. You know it’s because she has sensory overload, it still kind of hurts, though. “Carmen’s fucking freaking…”

“No shit.” You step aside and lift your left foot, when Sweeps needs to mop by your feet. “Why, though?”

“On our opening night, he had a fuckin’— Episode, I dunno.” She’s still keeled over, hands on her knees, but she’s breathing. “N’ he had this like— Like saw this guy, who wasn’t actually there. Out—” She nods her head to the window to the front of house. She stands up, again. “Out there.”

“His, his old Executive— Chef.”

“Oh.”

The night terrors. The oven. The fire. The wanting it to happen, even just a little bit. The man who’s in his head, talking to Carmen, every night. The man he saw on his opening night, apparently. Your poor Carmen.

“Yeah, yeah he was like— Apparently kind of a dick—” Understatement of the century. “But like, so is he.” Syd nods to Carmen. You can’t completely deny that. You wish you could. “Anyways, he called.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I fucking know.” She nods, emphatic. She then realizes that this story is going to take a second, and gestures to the oven behind her. “This won’t turn on, spilt water on it.”

“Oh.” You take a beat, then remember this is what your job is, “Oh!” You feel around the pockets of your pants. Should’ve expected to bring a screwdriver, at the very least, it’s The Bear. Get with the program. The tools are in your car, to be fair, but for a quick simple check-up—

You call out, “Yo, Fak—” “Yes?”

You jump, he’s standing a mere inch behind and adjacent from you. You hold your heart, stepping back from him, just a touch. “…Do you… Have a screwdriver?”

Neil leans back, like he’s tough, like he’s sizing you up. “Something broken?”

“Tryin’ to figure that out.”

“Cause you’re a repairman.”

“Cause I’m a repairman, yeah.”

“You got a degree?”

“Just give her the fucking screwdriver!” Syd yells before you can answer. Fak begrudgingly and with a lethargic show, hands you the screwdriver from his chest pocket.

Jealous, is he? Oh, that’s cute. That’s very cute. He’s the one that said he wanted to host— Whatever, no time to tease or bicker, you’re pulling the oven out, trying to lift as much as possible with Syd’s help, to keep from scrapping tile, but it’s inevitable.

You kneel down, taking the screws out the back, “So Exec dude, he called?”

“Uh-huh.” Syd focuses on her pan on the oven next to you— Thankfully that one did not get fucked in the crossfire— so they’re short but not fucked, just yet, at least. “Called Carmen, said he’d heard about the opening— That he wants to come try the place.”

“Right, but he’s from New York, isn’t he, you’ve got time—”

“He already took a flight here; he’ll be here in thirty.”

“Oh, my fucking God.”

“I fucking know.” Everything is going on. It’s all starting to make a lot more sense now. The kitchen’s general distress, Fak and Sweeps dropping shit from anxiety but also an inadvertent way to guarantee Richie does not table them with the fucking guy, Carmen’s sudden paranoia over someone noticing a decimal less than perfect dice— Because he would, he will.

The man in Carmen’s head that’s been torturing him has at the very least been confined to his head. And now he will be materializing, before his family, to dress him down at any opportunity, in thirty fucking minutes. Oh, your poor Carmen…

“And this guy—He’s like, like fucking big, if he likes the food— Likes The Bear— We might end up getting an inspector, in here.”

You lean out from the back of the oven, practically being swallowed by it. Confused. “Getting an inspector is a good thing?” To your knowledge, inspectors are what shuts down restaurants.

“A Michelin Guide Inspector.” Oh, fuck.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, I fucking know!” Syd replies, emphatic, Richie calls out an order to her, from expo. She clears her throat. “Heard, Chef.”

A Michelin Guide Inspector. What’s that mean? Well, if you’re thinking correctly, it means a star. It means accolades. It means recognition. It means money. It means 800k. It means not going under. It means clawing their way back out of the woods. It means everything. Oh, fuck.

“So, anyways—” Syd sautés, violently. “Carmen fuckin’ finishes that call, storms out the office, and like demands shit to be perfect— Which like— Like it should be, I know, but like— Tellin’ me to fuckin’ mop already perfectly clean floors, is like, like fucking stupid— Especially when I’m fucking cooking here, like what?”

It’s amid this retelling, as you stand, that you notice Syd’s hand— The left one, the one on the pan’s handle, is bleeding, two of her fingers, cut. “And I— I fucked up, like, like I know I did. I dropped the mop bucket, n’— n’ now my fucking oven won’t turn on.”

You take her hand, she tries to rip it away, you don’t let her. “I cut it on the edge of the bucket, stupid sharp plastic, I’m good—”

“Lemme just bandage it.” You’re already fishing through your pocket, with your free hand.

She’s quick to shake her head. “You need to figure out how I fucked up the oven.”

“I already know what’s wrong with the oven.” You pull out your wallet, flitting through the bill fold with your fingers— You keep band-aids there, in case of emergency, because of course you do. Syd tries to tug her hand away, again. Her blood is rubbing onto your fingers. It’s not a big cut, but it’s enough. You can’t help remember the ye old days of you as teens, hearing about the concept of blood brothers for the first time, and genuinely considering going through with it. Funny what time does. Funny who it brings back.

“Then fix the oven.”

You mumble, tearing the paper open with your teeth. “This first.”

“I’m fucking good, Tony.”

“Don’t bark at me.”

She grimaces when she notices they’re children’s band-aids, with goofy little cartoon heroes on them. “I don’t fucking need—”

“Sydney, I love you.” There is no subtext, behind it. You look her in the eyes, stern. Tone inarguable. It catches the words in her throat, and keeps them there.

“Will you let me?”

She shuts her eyes, tight, for a second, and just looks away, hand going limp in your grip. Which means okay, I love you, too. She does not need to say it. You wrap two band-aids, one around each finger that got cut, and let her go.

Syd takes a second, to look at it. She looks at you.

“The Miles Morales feels racially targeted.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.” You point at her, you both break into laughter. Richie barks out another slew of numbers and orders, and it’s like getting caught talking in class. She goes back to her cast-iron, you start walking off to Rich. From behind you she mumbles.

“Love you, Inky.” Oh my God. Chippy’s a flashback, Inky is like a history textbook.

“Love ya, Squid.”

At expo, Richie’s sweating, he turns to you, and you speak at once.

“Carmy give you the run down?” — “Syd tell you the bullshit?”

You both nod. You’re first to ask, “Fuck dinner?”

“Raincheck. Let’s say.” He shrugs. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t need to be.” You nod to the oven. “Thermocouple in your oven’s broke. I have backups in my car.”

“You have backups in your fucking car?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of the one hyper-specific part we need?”

“Yeah, the timing is crazy—” “Ey, when’d you get a fucking car, Cousin?” Richie realizes a discrepancy he simply always forgot to ask about for the past few weeks.

“Early this year. It’s a piece of shit. It works.”

He nods. “Hands!” Fak, swings by you, grabbing the plate from Richie, “Got this!”

Richie nods, smiling, very clearly fake, turning his head to watch Fak walk all the way out and have the door swing shut behind him. When he’s sure Fak can’t hear him, his head snaps right back to you. “We cannot let any of my fuckin’ staff near the fuckin’ big shot.”

It’s honestly nice that dinner is over, despite how bad you wanted to talk because now it’s this. Now it’s nostalgic. Now it’s comfortable— Distressing— But it’s you two, again. You nod. “So you’re gonna run expo and serve him at the same time?”

“What, you think I can’t?”

No, you don’t. “Of course you can, you’re Richie Jero—Uh, whatever the fuck.” You’re already walking to the back door to grab your tools.

“Jerimovich, Chippy! Not that fuckin’ hard!”

You should put oven expert on your business cards, when you eventually get to making new business cards. This is like, the third oven fix you’ve done in two weeks? And you just changed a thermocouple a few days ago! It takes you maybe five minutes tops, to switch the old wire for the good one.

When you push the stove back against the wall and test the burners— It works, thank God. You might’ve hyped yourself up a little too much before even checking that. Once you do, though, before even saying it’s fixed, Syd violently shakes your left shoulder, as a point of approval. Tina, on your right, slaps you on the back several times as her vow of praise, too. This is like riding a roller-coaster, and not in a good way.  

But it ends soon, as they’ve got to get right back to work, since Richie calls out—

“Guys fuckin’ here!” That’s like, ten minutes early, bullshit— “He brought a party of five—” Are you fucking kidding— “Booth Twelve— When I say booth twelve, don’t fuck up booth twelve, a’right, Chefs?”

“Heard!”

Where’s Carmen, right now? You look around— He’s at his station, on the final part of the line. He’s simultaneously making a dish completely on his own and doing the final touches on plates before they get sent out. Alright, okay, so maybe it’s best expo doesn’t get foisted on him, right now. But fuck, how is Richie gonna serve five and run this fucking kitchen?

Tina claps your back again, bringing you out of your state of worry. “Baby.”

“Yeah, T?” She turns your attention to a big pot of stock, on the burners that now work, thanks to you.

“Can you just stir this, f’me, for just a minute? Make sure the—”

“I’ll get the brown off the bottom yeah.”

She slaps your cheek, approving, “That’s my baby.”

And so, you stir. It’s an easy job, it just takes time— Time this kitchen doesn’t have, time you’re happy to give. Tina rushes over and takes over expo, while Richie moves out to take in stupid fucking booth twelve.

This kitchen is dysfunctional, the constant switches of expo require everyone to find a new rhythm, every time, and T needs to play catch up. Tina, Carmen, and Richie run expo just a touch differently from each other, since it’s a pretty cookie cutter job— But those minute differences change a lot. The tempo and tonal switches throw everyone off just slightly. They’re small mistakes, like a poor aesthetic sauce splatter, like Syd cutting her hand, like Marcus fucking up his saffron placement like five times in a row— It takes seconds off, it takes time. Time you do not have.

But what can you do? It’s all hands-on deck. Except for Fak’s hands. Get that man a water and a corner to sit in. He needs a second. So does the rest of this kitchen.

When Richie comes back in, it’s with a whine, he’s already so tired of this stupid fucking Michelin Exec. “—Wants to see a fuckin’ wine menu, do we have a fuckin’ wine menu?”

“No, Chef!” Syd and Carmen both chant out from other sides of the kitchen. Your ears perk up. They could’ve just asked you to make one, you would’ve. But, guess you don’t work here, technically.

Richie grimaces, “I know fuck all, bout wine.” He takes a swig of the red wine he left sitting on the expo podium. “Tastes fuckin’— Red, I dunno.”

Finally, something you can actually help with, in a critical way— Well, you just fixed an oven, but that doesn’t count, in your head. Most things you do don’t count, in your head. “T! Switch!” You whistle to her, and though she doesn’t love being ordered around, you’re already walking away from the pot, so you don’t really give her a choice.

“Rich, let me take it.”

Richie looks at you like you’ve grown two heads, but also, he finds those two heads very amusing. “Chippy...”

“I fucking know wine. I tend. I’m personable, I—”

“You don’t know how to kiss ass.”

“But I could.” You’re already peeling off Carmen’s jacket— Hey, thank God you dressed on theme, right? This could absolutely be a server’s fit. “Under duress.”

If it were up to Richie, you would already be out there. But his name is not on The Bear, as much as he’d like it to be. He looks to Carmen, who’s been staring at the both of you this entire interaction. Which is kind of concerning, he should probably be focusing on his three-quarter dice or he might to chop his fucking fingers off. No, he’s wouldn’t. He could probably do it with his eyes closed.

Carmen looks from Richie, who’s silently asking him for permission, to you. “Y’sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod, tucking his jacket under the expo podium. You don’t catch the way his face hardens, just a bit— Because you turn your gaze to Richie. “I’ll just do the drinks part, like an actual somme— Warm him up, f’you, when he’s ready to order. Let you stay on expo, longer.”

Richie rocks his head back and forth, considering it. You tack on, “I’m stage— What the fuck did you call it?”

“Staging.” Carmen answers.

“That one.”

Carmen stares at his cutting board, thinking and working, working and thinking. He does not look up at you, when he makes his decision. He just nods, “Okay.”

You nod back, happy. You don’t wait for him to change his mind. You take one quick overview of their wine rack, noting what they do and don’t have, and then you’re off, out the door, to the front of house, to a warzone.

The motherfucker at Booth Twelve sticks out like a sore thumb. There’s something about the aura he radiates, that tells you immediately that it’s him, despite not knowing his face or name. Bet it’s fucking Tony, somehow.

He’s doing his best to peer into the kitchen window without being obvious about it, which, he’s currently failing at that. Richie sat his party in a good booth, it’s just the worst booth for a good view of the kitchen. Smart. This guy is an asshole, and it’s clear from his stupid equally punchable looking friends, that he’s doing all of this on purpose.

The big party, unexpected. The him, unexpected. The asking for a wine menu. He wants you all off guard, he wants Carmen off-guard, he wants Carmen’s breath to hitch, he wants Carmen to sweat, and most importantly, he wants to watch.

You stand in front of his view, on purpose. “Hi, pleasure to serve you lovely people tonight, I’m—” No shot you’re giving this guy your real name. “—Jack, I’m your sommelier. I heard you wanted to look over a wine menu?”

“Yes,” His voice is just as stupid as you expected it to be. This is the fucking voice Carmen hears? God, lock it in, bite your tongue. “And I see you are not holding one.”

“Well, actually, we don’t carry a wine menu because we at The Bear believe in a personally curated dining experience.” You don’t miss a beat, you don’t hitch, he hates this and you can tell. “I like to think that I’m your wine menu, flip through me at your leisure.”

Your eyes crinkle, as you do an expert customer service smile. This stupid fucking table laughs at the lukewarm joke, he just smirks, because rich men don’t have time for laughter. So, their cronies do it for them.

“Well then,” He gestures his hand, giving you the floor. “What’s the menu?”

“Ah, well, was there anything on the main menu that caught your eye, so I can best pair you?”

“Hmm…” There’s a glint in his eye, and you know you’ve just expertly set him up to say ‘No.’ And then you’ll have no fucking comeback. You’ll probably throw up on the table, fuck fuck fuck— “Yes, actually.”

Oh, thank God. “The Wagyu steak with wild mushrooms and hazelnut-gruyere croquettes?”

Oh, that’s the one Carmen made for you, weeks back, you know that one. “Ah, one of my personal favourites. I’d recommend a young Pinot Grigio, maybe a 2006 Gravner?” How the fuck did you remember that? Doesn’t matter. What matters is this motherfucker is not getting under your skin.

“And what about the braised oxtail wellington?” The hot pocket, he means. You’ve had that, too.

“We have a fantastic Barolo Brunate to pair with that, Giuseppe Rinaldi 2019.” You have no idea if it’s fantastic. Who fucking cares. It’s expensive, you know that much. You only bothered to review the top rack.

“Lot of Italian vineyards.” A woman next to him comments.

“Well, we are Italian owned, so.”

It does not end there. No, why would it? No, he and his compatriots go about naming every single fucking thing on the menu, asking you to pair it. And not to toot your own horn too much, but this is, really, the one job you feel the most trained to do. All those games with Syd, all those men at Eden’s, all the parts and tools and forty different types of wrenches you have to keep track of and memorized as a repairman— Your brain is trained for this. This isn’t easy for you, sure— But you are maybe more equipped for this than any other person you could possibly think of. Good think you don’t have to think of people, you have to think of wines.

Once you survive the gauntlet, his ‘friends’ order their actual wines— Each by the bottle. Alcoholism in the food world is crazy. Also, how are you going to carry four to five full bottles here? Dear God. Whatever, you’ll live, and make insane bank— Or, The Bear, will, rather. That’s like a thousand on wine alone. When you get to Him, he puts his menu down and sighs, it’s very clearly fake.

“Can I be honest with you?”

“I’d want for nothing more.” You’d want for a lot more; actually, you’d want for him to shut the fuck up. But this is kind of a good thing. They’ve wasted a solid ten minutes just talking wine— Giving the kitchen ample time to catch up. This guy just shot himself in the foot with the sweat plan.

“This is a fine menu, but as you said, The Bear believes in a personally curated experience.” Fuck. “I don’t know if you know this, but I have a very personal relationship with the owner.” Fuck. “Would you hate me, if I asked for you to… Surprise me?”

He doesn’t need to ask for a surprise for you to hate him, is what you want to say, but instead you just smile, appeasing, kissing ass. You hate yourself just a bit for it. “I’ll see what we can do, sir. And so, you’d like a surprise wine, as well then?”

He does a customer service smile right back. You’re both passively cursing the other. “If that’s no trouble. Oh—” He tilts his head, cocky attitude really coming to a head now, “And budget isn’t a problem. Just the best.”

“I couldn’t imagine giving anything less, sir.” Another coy smile from you, before bowing and leaving their table. Your tight shoulders fall as soon as you walk back into the kitchen.

“I want him dead.”

“Agreed. Temp check?” Richie hums flitting through his notes, “We’ve got five steaks all day, Chefs, kill two. Fire now, Chefs.”

“Yes, Chef!”

You sidle up next to Rich, “They’re trying to make us sweat with quizzes. Just know your shit and they won’t be able to touch you.”

“Heard.”

“They ordered like five fucking bottles of wine.”

“Christ.” He turns to you, at that. “You upsell?”

“Didn’t have to. Named the most expensive bottles and they didn’t give it a second thought.”

He daps you up, it is difficult to hide your pride. “That’s my fuckin’ Chippy!”

You quell your smirk to the best of your abilities, especially since it isn’t all good news, “I think they’re ready to order, one problem, though.”

“Problem?” That’s when Carmen tunes in. He hands a finished plate to Richie, who hands it off to Sweeps, who begrudgingly heads out to deliver. “What’s the problem?”

“He says he wants to be surprised.”

“Like fucking Ratatouille?”

Carmen squints at Richie, for this, incredulous. You cannot back up your man, in this case, fully on Richie’s side. “Don’t act like you didn’t fuck with Ratatouille.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t see it?!” Carmen’s always liked it, when the two of you speak in unison. Carmen hates it, when you and Richie speak in unison. “You’d love it, Carm.”

Any other time, he’d love to entertain you, on this, but he can’t. It makes you both feel very cold, when he brushes past the idea. “I’ll think’ve something.”

You nod, already moving to the wine cooler, sorting out bottles. “You have time, I’ll stretch out serving them—Richie, help me bring out bottles? Take their orders? Two birds, one stone?”

“It’s bullet.” “It’s not.”

The wine pouring is nothing to write home about.

“Don’t mind us tag-teaming, didn’t want anyone to feel left out for a minute!”

But is definitely a weird vibe, when you and Richie serve this table. You’re both equally personable— Though, going as fast as you can without making them feel rushed. Richie needs to get back on expo A-S-A-P.

Despite the fact that both of you are just as nice as the other… This fucking guy is absolutely giving Richie more attitude, in comparison to you. You have a feeling the only reason he didn’t shut you down earlier with the menu is because you’re a hostess. Yeuch. Gross man senses are tingling, but maybe it’s just you.

Richie whispers to you, when you’re walking back to the kitchen, “He’s a fuckin’ creep, eh?”

Okay, not just you. You know it’s bad when another man notices it. “Yep.”

Whatever. Use it to your advantage, in this case, if possible. Not like you have anything to worry about, just about everyone in the kitchen would jump him for you, upon request.

Would Carmen?

It’s a weird thought to have, but it’s a thought you can’t seem to stop yourself from having. Would Carmen choose your safety and comfort, over the chance to get a chance to get a star? …He would, right? He’d choose you, right?

“M’sorry for derailin’ dinner with our bullshit, Chip.”

The door swings open, Richie lets you in first. “You kidding? No where I’d rather be, than in your bullshit.”

Maybe this is better, than any apology you were planning to give. Better that you show with your actions, that you’re both actually back. That it’s you two, again. That you’re not going anywhere, this time. That even if you did leave, Richie’s gotta know, with a certainty, you’d rather be here.

Richie smiles, and you think you’re right. While he’s shouting out Booth Twelve’s orders, Carmen hands a plate to expo. You tilt your head, curious. He slides a folded-up card, with it. You don’t recognize the plate at all from the menu.

“S’yours.” Is his simple answer, already getting to work on Booth Twelve. He’s scribbling down notes and quick sketches of what surprise dish to make for the Exec. On the front of the card, it says ‘won’t have time to do it myself’, alongside a smiley face, for levity.

You open the card, flitting vision between the dish, the note, and Carmen. Digesting the recipe he’s written for you and your eyes, only. He knew he wouldn’t have time to explain it verbally, so he wrote it down for you. You could throw up, honestly.

This is, the sweetest, most thoughtful, most complex thing, anyone has ever made for you.

You have done your damndest, to almost never be the one to instigate a kiss, not a real one, with Carmen, because he asked for distance, so you try to give it. But right now, more than anything, you’d like to assail this man to the floor right now with your affections.

But you can’t. Because he’s busy, and he needs this, not you. Carmen needs this to go well. He needs this guy to like the food, he needs the inspector to like the food, he needs a star. Fuck, even without the prospect of an inspector looming over him— He needs to prove the man in his head wrong. There is no time for any of the love you have to give.

…Did you just think love?

Gotta table this, for now…

“Thank you, Carmy.” His movements relax, when you say it. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t pivot to you and confess some long-standing prose of love, but he nods, and his shoulders untense. That’s practically the same thing.

His phone, laying on the expo podium, rings. Sug. You furrow your brows. “Carmen.”

“Hm?” He’s tense, and still not himself, but he sounds so sweet, when he hums.

“Nat’s calling.”

“Let it go to voicemail.”

“She’d know you’re working, right now.”

“She’s got mom brain.”

“Mom brains’ aren’t dumb.” You frown, a touch worried. Always doting, aren’t you. “Could be an emergency.”

Carmen wants to say it’s not a big deal. That there’s bigger fish to fry. That if he fucks this dinner up, it could mean Nat won’t have a job to come back to. That with all the love in the world, he does not have time for this, right now. And then he thinks of his brother, and suddenly he has time for this, right now. He picks up his notepad and pen, he can work anywhere, it doesn’t need to be at his station. “Give me.”

He takes the phone, shouting to his crew, “Taking two minutes, Chefs!”

There’s a half-second of complaints before a resounding, “Heard!”

Carmy points to you, as he walks to his office, “Eat.”

“I will.” You nod, and lie.

You won’t be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you.

You already made your decision, when you saw the plate. When you read the note. When you saw the frantic scribbles at Carmen’s station, loose pieces of paper everywhere, all crumpled. He can’t come up with shit for the man in his head. You already made your decision, when the four other plates showed up on expo for his table, and all that’s left is the surprise dish, for The Man.

You will not be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you. The man out front, the man in Carmen’s head, will.

Carmen needs this.

Your heart just short of breaks, when you put it on the serving tray, handing it off to Richie. “What’s this one?” He asks, not knowing, not having paid attention. He would’ve refused, if he did.

Syd was, though. She looks like a puppy watching another puppy get kicked. You swallow the feeling down, ignoring her stare. You don’t need to reread the card, it’ll stick in your head, for the rest of your life.

“Lamb saddle, roasted, pink. Aigre-doux eggplant, means sour sweet sauce, with lamb confit, fresh spring garlic, Montmorency sauce— It’s a dark red cherry sauce, topped with cherries and baby basil.”

You wouldn’t know any of the French terms, if they weren’t defined for you in the margins. There’s a parenthetical, next to the lamb— Mentioning that it’s roasted, explaining why saddle is a superior cut of lamb, noting why it’s best served pink— Mentioning that it’s similar to pork. Your favourite. There’re exclamation points next to the cherry additions, because it’s your favourite Italian ice flavour. They need to be emphasized, in the recipe. There’s another parenthetical, next to baby basil, ‘(yours)’. It’s your basil, from your balcony to his, now to his kitchen, now to your plate.

In spades, this is the best gift anyone has ever made you, and you watch it leave, through the swinging door. You can’t stop your expression from twitching, falling into a frown. Your heart sits heavy in your throat. When Syd silently stands next to you, taking over for Richie on expo, she returns your tiny container of Tums. You take one, eyes distant, looking at the kitchen, Carmen’s kitchen, biting down on the antacid.

Cherry.

This isn’t sad. It’s just a plate. It’s literally just a plate. Carmen can make it again. Carmen can make it a million times over again. So why does it sting like this? Why does it carve its way into the pit of your stomach? That was yours. Carmen— Carmen’s plate was yours, and you had to give it up. You want nothing more than to rip the dish from the stupid fucking Exec’s greedy fucking hands, take it for yourself, eat it whole, in one bite— Decree that he can’t fuck with Carmen anymore, that he holds no ownership anymore, that he is not the be all end all, that he is not the gavel and the sound block.

But he is. It hurts, because he is. Carmen is still under him, and so, you, being by his side, are under him too. You know you made the right call, giving the plate up, but the meaning behind it all hurts insurmountably.

Syd takes your hand; the wrinkles of her band-aids are a nice texture to return to. You appreciate that she’s comforting you, but you can’t help but notice, “Uh, uhm, let’s fire table twenty-five, twenty-eight, and— And fuck, twelve, Chefs.” She’s not great at the whole expo thing. She’s fast as a cook, she’s slow as a speaker.

You take a look over the book on the table, and bump her aside with your hip.

“Chefs, I’m gonna need ‘ya to fire six fish all day— ‘kay?”

“Heard, Chef?” The crowd is confused but they’re not gonna stop you.

“Good, good.” You note the dead plate by you, “This asparagus is fuckin’ dead can I get hands on flashing it, please, Chefs?”

“Yes, Chef!”

Syd eyes you, on the sidelines, perplexed. You shrug, “You and Carmen are not the first people that tried to get this fuckin’ kitchen in order, check yourself.”

You didn’t do all the French bullshit, but some days at The Beef definitely ran better when they had a former Lead EMT barking at them— With love, though. Always with love. Syd just laughs, shaking her head. It’s a delight, to always be learning new things about you. How overarching your handful of talents are. You really are a Jack of All Trades.

You run things a little differently than a typical actual expo would. But sometimes, that’s kind of a good thing.

“Baby, where are we at with table twenty?!”

“T,” You say names, instead of Chef, more often than not, “If you yell at me like that, I will, what—?” Your call and responses, are a bit different. “Start crying, yes, thank you, Chef. Table twenty’s plated, we’re just waiting on placement from Syd, take your time but not too much, babe.”

“Heard!”

Levity, temperature, ease. It’s what you bring to the table, in everything you do. And sometimes, yeah, that’s not what you need. But right now, that’s everything this kitchen needs.

When Richie eventually comes back, handling front of house almost entirely by himself, he’s relieved to see you on expo, and the kitchen functioning, but he seems a little thrown. Off his rhythm.

You put a hand on his shoulder, as he stands next to you. “You good, Cousin?”

He sighs, he’s not good. “M’good, Chip.”

“Can I get an all-day on pasta, Chef?” Marcus’ voice doesn’t really occur to you, in the background, right now. You’re all about Richie.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothin…” He kisses his teeth, “S’just, man’s a real piece of work— N’ I can’t— Can’t give it back to him.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just, just kinda… Made fun ‘a—” Richie pauses, clearing his throat. “He made fun of my voice. To his fuckin’ friends. Called me unprofessional, said the suit’s prol— Probably a knock-off— Which, it is, but—”

“Chef, pasta?”

“One second, Marcus!” You call out, quick, not taking your eyes off Richie. You hate to hear him attempting to switch, all the syllables fit uncomfortably in his mouth. You frown. “He’s an asshole. Don’t listen to ‘em. You should bite back a little, I think.”

Richie hums, arms crossing, guarding himself. He sighs, finally voicing the worry. Son of a bitch, this guy’s in Richie’s head now, too. “…D’you take me serious, Cousin?”

You soften, while simultaneously growing so angry, at how quickly Richie’s become demoralized, “Richie— Cousin, of course I take you seriously.”

The moment is cut short, however, by a reasonably frustrated Marcus, at his limit. “Tony, all-day pasta, shit, c’mon!”

About a minute or two earlier, Carmen went into his office to take a call. He’s still jotting down notes, trying to come up with a recipe, not knowing the effort is meaningless now.

“Everything alright, Sug?”

“Hm? Yeah, everything’s good, I just wanted to call ‘stead of text ‘cause my hands are full of baby.” He told you so, not an emergency. “You guys busy?”

“Yeah, actually, s’maybe I’ll call you back, after?”

“Sure, sure, yeah, I just wanted to let you know I didn’t get Tony’s invoice.”

He pauses, no longer writing. “What’d’you mean you didn’t get her invoice?”

“She said you took care of it.”

“She told me you took care of it.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, as Natalie thinks, trying to recount. “Well, maybe I’ve just got mom brain, but I swear she told me you covered it, thought I wrote it down…”

“Yeah, you did.” Carmen flits through the folder he was looking at yesterday, finding her sticky note. “You wrote down to ask me for her invoice.”

“Yeah, so I could get a copy for our records. Maybe I just got mixed up and left it somewhere— Just double check before you ask her for it again, I like her, Carmy, I don’t want her to think we’re unprofessional.”

“We are unprofessional.” And you like them anyways. He pops open the desk drawer, flitting through folders, most of them labeled ‘stuff’ ‘shit’ ‘bullshit’ ‘bullshit stuff’. Carmen loves his brother but sometimes he curses the fucking sky. There’s every chance Sug slipped your invoice into one of these by mistake.

“Yeah, but I don’t want her to know that.” Carmen can hear little baby Michaela murmuring on the other end of the phone. “Tell her to come see the baby, by the way.”

“I will. I’m plannin’ on it.” After dinner. Maybe when he opens up your painting and he forces you to tell him ad nauseum what you thought of the cherry and lamb dish. Your dish. That shit is never getting put on the menu, no. It’s a lot easier to think of plates when they’re for you, it’s fucking impossible to come up with a dish for his old Head Chef— He really needs to get back out there, actually, he’s out of thinking time, he just has to throw shit at the wall.

But then he sees a folder he’d never paid attention to, before. ‘ICE Chip’s’. Another one of Mikey’s extremely confusingly titles. Carmen always figured it’d been a weird way of naming a folder meant for bulk orders of ice for drinks or for the walk in— But now, Carmen knows better, Carmen knows you. No harm in looking, right? He’ll take a quick peak, see it’s actually for ice, and then he’ll go back out there, rip his hair out, and put it on a plate for the fucking man out front that talked to him during his entire morning routine, today.

Except there’s not invoices for ice, in this folder.

“I’ve been reading her Frog and Toad, almost every night, by the way, Mickey loves it.”

No, it’s you, in this folder. Carmen wants to throw up. He’s being dramatic, he needs to relax, the blood in his veins is freezing and boiling at the same time.

And maybe if Carmen's day had started off a bit better, if he was acting like himself today, and not the man in his head, in his restaurant— Maybe he'd be a little more reasonable, right now. Maybe if he ate family earlier, instead of skipping it to re-tape all the containers in the walk-in, he'd feel a little more forgiving. If he wasn't so tired, if he wasn't so hungry, if he wasn't shaking off a minute cold he got from walking to your house past midnight, a few days ago, he'd be a bit less inclined to spiral.

But there’s a handful of film photos with the two of you— Just the two of you— Richie’s in one or two, but it’s mostly just you and Michael. His arm, over your shoulder, in again, most of them. Mikey looks non-plussed in half of them. You’re always holding some sort of cupcake or cake, in all of them, and there’s always a numbered candle, being blown out. There’re a couple different times there’s a One candle, a few Twos, only one Three.

You knew Mikey for two to three years, didn’t you? Anniversary photos?

Carmen is going to fucking throw up. Why are there multiple ones? One week-iversary? One month-iversary? He has never imagined his brother to be some fucking sap sentimentalist, and it’s making his skin crawl. You dated his fucking brother? He is just a fucking gap filler, he is.

There has got to be another reasonable explanation, for this. You wouldn’t do this to him— Someone would’ve said something to him— Richie would’ve at the very least made some sort of stupid fucking derogatory comment about him getting sloppy seconds— There is no fucking way you dated his fucking brother—

‘I’m with you Bear!!’

‘Just one more, Mikey’

‘love you’

Sticky notes. Your handwriting. There are sticky notes with your handwriting in this forsaken fucking folder. Telling Mikey you love him, and to keep going— You called him Bear. That makes sense, everyone calls all three of the kids Bear— But that was— You— He needs to throw up. It cannot stay in his throat; he cannot let this stay in his throat— ‘We go under together’ — And yet he cannot stop reading them. ‘Same team.’

Same team. You’re on the same team. With his brother. Isn’t that fucking sweet. Isn’t that just adorable. Isn’t the fucking photo booth strip of you two, clearly taken after seeing a movie, fucking precious?

The last thing in this folder is the nail in the coffin, the knife in the hand. Paperwork. Not an invoice, no. Not the fucking thing he was looking for. No. An old agreement form.

A joint bank account. Wells Fargo. Signed by both of you. Photo IDs photocopied, side by side on a black and white piece of paper, stapled onto the end. This feels more intimate than any piece of paperwork that has ever existed. Even a fucking marriage certificate can’t hold a candle to this. You had a joint bank account with a fucking two-bit junkie—

You fucking trusted him with your credit score— You loved Mikey enough to ruin your life— You wanted to go under together. That’s what you fucking wrote, isn’t it?

Every fear Carmen ever had is more than affirmed. He is here to fill a void, he’s here because his brother isn’t. He is nothing but a series of stories his brother has told you, to you. Nothing but another Berzatto man that you desperately try to rehabilitate and fix and inevitably fail with, because they’re all fucking hopeless, before moving onto the next.

He doesn’t even need to kill himself, this time, no— You’ll realize he’s a lost fucking cause when you realize he’s nothing like his brother, when you find out he’s sharp and rendered, that even if he was a good person, he’s still him, and that’s a rot that not even you can fix— You’ll leave him unfinished like all the projects in the corners of your apartment. Because that’s what he is, to you, a project, something to fix. He’s like all your other jobs. He’s a job. Just another distressed restauranteur. Nothing but a fucking replaceable part, that you’ve got ten more spares for in your car.

Carmen doesn’t need to be fixed— He’s perfectly fine the way he is— He was fucking great before you showed up, actually— No, he wasn’t happy, but he was talented, and he wasn’t so brain-dead that he’d fuck up a basic meal thinking of you, he wasn’t so stupid that he’d speak out of turn and call you pretty, he wouldn’t have gotten a cold walking to your house in the winter, he would’ve just taken a hot shower until it hurt, without you— Carmen was— is— A Two Michelin Star chef, he’s fucking great without his brother— He runs The Bear without him just fine, he did everything without his fucking brother just fine, it didn’t hurt when Mikey stopped picking up the phone, Carmen doesn’t need his fucking brother, so he certainly doesn’t need you.

“Carmen?” His sister is still on the phone. Waiting for him to respond. Waiting for him to entertain the idea of being a good uncle. He doesn’t need his sister, either. He hangs up without as much as a simple ‘bye’.

He hears Marcus, yelling for an all-day, yelling Tony. Even still Carmen’s expecting Richie’s voice to reply, but instead, it’s yours that reverberates in past the office door.

“Aye, Marcus! We’ve got three alfredo, two cannoli, one gnocchi, okay, sweets? Same team, right?”

“Same team, Chef.”

Oh, so it’s a fucking Beef thing, too? That’s so fucking cute. It’s so cute, how you’re everywhere, in everything. It’s so goddamn tender how he finds you carved into tables, finds you in filing cabinets, finds you under his booths, finds you in his walk-in, finds you in his shower caddy each morning, finds you on his balcony in a plant pot, finds you in his fridge in a spray bottle, finds you with Syd, finds you with Richie, finds you with Tina, Marcus, Jimmy, Mikey.

So cute. So fucking cute, that he’s gonna see you out there, running his kitchen, fixing everything you deem wrong with him.

Carmen Berzatto doesn't need anyone to ruin his own life except for him. He'll prove it.

i know i know i know i know--

I said it wouldn't be that much of a cliffhanger but when i got through writing the last fourth of this chapter i was having a lot of trouble because pace wise it just really really needed to be a separate part-- and this way, i get to do a fun format style change that i planned but thought i wouldn't get to do TURNS OUT I DO GET TO!! yeehaw

so much happened this chapter, like while writing it, when i'd go back to edit, i was like oh my god that was this chapter?? jesus christ. I was really waiting for y'alls reaction to this one, so please do harang me wherever you feel comfortable ranting to, i love to see it.

But yeah, really fuckin brutal, eh? And a lot of half lore dumps! You think they dated? You think it's something else? The RichiexTony and SydxTony crowds are eating fucking good tonight, also. Love those cuties and their friendships.

We've got a taglist now, I'm bad at keeping track of it, but remember if u wanna be added to this silly little thing you need to hand in an essay (more like a cute lil paragraph) tellin' me what you thought! And also ask. Duh. BUT YA GOTTA DO BOTH!~

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin

Next Part

[ramayantika]

Namaste hello inspired from @navaratna gothic romance mood board I got an idea to form a story. *fingers crossed that this turns out to be good one*

A/N: This story contains pieces of odia royal history too. Gajapatis, Routray, Kataka and Udaygiri are all taken from Odia history. And yeah this might turn super cliche too so be prepared. Also this is dialouge heavy but it will get better with time.

Ahem ahem presenting

Ch-1: History project, Old mansion and Horror stories

"And then Nandini transforms into her real form as the witch of Kedargaon. She bares her teeth and with her long nails tears open the chests of her victims who in this case were her friends," said Sonalika, her voice low and raspy to create an eerie ambience in her bedroom. 

"Bas ho gaya. If you narrate another horror story, I will take the next train home. Yaar aaj mereko hanuman chalisa lagake sona padega," said a visibly terrified Anika, clutching the purple bed sheet tightly in her fist. "Since when did you get so involved in haunted places and creepy stories?"

Sonalika laughed and flicked a stray hair strand away from her cheek. "I was secretly obsessed with them since school time and it's now that you get to know about this. Also, did I ever mention my supposedly haunted mansion?"

Sonalika was the descendant of the Routray dynasty who once ruled Kalinga, now presently called Odisha. The Routrays were celebrated kings under whom art, culture and military flourished. Among the east Indian dynasties, it was said that the Routrays possessed the best army. 

Anika frowned and looked at her friend. "Why is it that all the haunted places are large bungalows and mansions? I don't see ghosts lurking in huts. But anyway, tell me about your mansion and I hope there isn't a very dark story behind the haunting."

"It's a love story, my friend." Sonalika smiled and sat up on the bed, her head against the headboard. "Our history books never recorded this incident. We, the Routrays, lived in Udayagiri where my haunted mansion still exists. Later, after one incident which I shall tell you in the story after some time, we moved to Katak and shifted our capital there. You can even look up about the Udayagiri mansion on the internet though there are many rumours and tales about the palace saying that there was a tantrik who practiced black magic and had cursed the dynasty to leave the place."

"But your mansion is well decorated and maintained. It doesn't look like a haunted place at all. If I am not wrong, a part of it is also a heritage hotel," said Anika.

"Yes, it's true. A part of it is a heritage hotel. That part was later renovated and maintained. The palace stretches over the entire Udayagiri hill. The heritage hotel is over the east side of the hill while the west side is in ruins. It is now a hot spot for paranormal investigators and young teens who want something adventurous."

Anika slid down the mattress and rested her head on the pillow, covering almost her entire body except her face, and said, "Tell me the story now."

"It was my dadi who told me this story who herself heard it from her mother. Generations ago, when the Routrays lived in the Udayagiri mansion, a handsome prince was born to them who was named Kavindra. His older brother, by two years, was Ravindra. The kingdom rejoiced on the birth of both the boys. Both the boys grew up to be fine men. They were trained in weaponry and holy texts by a famous guru. The people loved both the princes. 

The second prince, Kavindra was attending a court meeting with his father and older brother when it was announced that a young veena player would grace the court after the meeting. The Routrays were the biggest patrons of the arts and always encouraged young artists. Kavindra enjoyed music the most and was looking forward to listening to some melodious music of the veena." Sonalika turned her body towards her friend, keeping a hand under her head, continued with a smile, "Little did he know that he would lose his heart to the veena player."

Anika removed some of the bedsheet from her body. "This sounds like those romance books you know. Prince falling in love with an artist and all that. What was the name of the veena player?"

"Eager I see," Sonalika chuckled. "Okay, so the name of the Veena player was Ragavathi. Beautiful name isn't it? Just like her beautiful name, she played the veena beautifully too. Her debut performance was at the court where she had enthralled everyone present there. Turns out that everything was beautiful about her. Her name, her music and her looks. The young prince's heart skipped a beat when he saw how the young lady smiled shyly at her audience before playing the veena. Later he was mesmerized when he saw her getting lost in the music she played on her instrument. By the time she left the court, she had taken a part of the prince's heart with her. She was then asked to perform for a big festival in the kingdom. Kavindra was ecstatic to hear that, and secretly hoped to steal some time and strike a conversation with her. Now, my friend, guess what happened next?"

"Kahani bata na tu yeh suspense nahi badha," said Anika, a frown adorning her forehead. 

"Haan thik hai bata rahi hu. The festival takes place and our Ragavathi gives a brilliant show. Lucky for the prince, for he sneaked out from the company of his family and friends and walked to her to compliment her performance leading to a blossoming friendship. The king being highly impressed with Ragavathi often called her to the court to perform. Kavindra and she would then discreetly meet in the palace after her performance. Kavindra soon began to fall in love with her and so did Ragavathi, but they never brought up the topic of love during their conversation." Sonalika pressed her lips into a thin line. "And this is where the tragic part starts." 

Anika opened the window behind her letting some of the nightly breeze in and sighed, waiting for her friend to continue the story. 

"Months passed by. The prince was deeply in love with her. Sure, she was beautiful, but it was her music, her words and her thoughts that made her fall for her more. Being in the arts, she naturally possessed a very creative mind. She would show some of her own compositions to him and tell him about her ideas. She was also a very compassionate lady. Ragavathi too had fallen for the prince. But like every famous love story where the protagonists won't tell their feelings to their partners, our prince and veena player too did the same. One day, there was a huge birthday celebration for the eldest prince, Ravindra. Naturally, Ragavathi was also called to perform. But someone had casted an evil eye on the family. That day, their rival kingdom with some traitors in the Routray family lit the palace on fire. The celebration was taking place on the west side of the palace where even the royal family was present. It was a sudden fire and everybody panicked. The soldiers were helping the royal Family to escape first, but they stepped back and asked them to save the other commoners and guests first. They thought that it was an accidental fire, but it was a deadly ploy. The rival kingdom had sent soldiers to finish off the royal family in case they escaped the fire. The king and queen were shot dead with arrows. Ravindra had gone to help the women and children escape the fire and the soldiers. Kavindra went to find Ragavathi but somehow she was already escorted out of the palace by a soldier. Her veena burnt in the palace fire. The prince did not know that she was safe so he went to search for her desperately. But, fate did not support him and he was soon surrounded by soldiers of the enemy kingdom. He put up a brave-"

Anika interrupted her. "Wait. Don't tell me that the prince died."

"Sssh." Sonalika placed a finger over her lips. "Now this is a real story so I don't get to change the plot. He put up a brave fight but one man cannot win against five men so he was killed. By the end only, Ravindra survived with a handful of the noblemen. They then shifted to Kataka. Ravindra was made the king. He then married someone and the progeny of the Routrays continued."

"What happened to Ragavathi?" Anika asked with a sad pout. 

Shrugging her shoulders, her friend replied, "Some say that she married someone later. She must have had a broken heart when she got to know that the prince was dead. However, she continued her life and music in Katak."

"And what about the haunting?"

"So many people died that day, but it is only the prince who haunts that side of the palace. I have read on a few blogs where people have posted saying they heard a manly voice cry at night and the sound of some notes on a veena. People say that the ghost has never troubled anyone but the sounds of him crying and the veena definitely spook them out. Some say that since the prince's love was incomplete he haunts the palace hoping for Ragavathi to come."

Both the friends then grew silent. Anika looked at the ceiling. She arrived in Cuttack, previously called Katak today morning. She was a history student at Ravenshaw University and had a project for her second semester. She had to present the culture and history of any kingdom from any part of India. She had a hard time deciding which dynasty she would work upon for she was searching for a dynasty that wasn't mentioned much in history yet had good amount of information on them. 

An idea clicked her. Immediately she turned towards Sonalika. 

"You remember I was telling you about my history project for college. I think I will do it on the Routray dynasty. I was thinking of doing the Gajapatis but they are already well known. Will you help me?" asked Anika. 

Sonalika nodded her head excitedly, "Of course I will. You are my friend and also a project on my dynasty. Why will I refuse? Since I am the descendant of the Routrays, I can even take you the palace, the heritage hotel one. There is a lot of stuff there which I believe will help you."

"Thank you so much Sona. You are the best." Anika hugged her tightly. She was happy to gain access to the heritage hotel side, but her mind wavered to the west side of the palace. For some unknown reason, she wanted to look at the ruined palace. 

"Chal ab sone ja. I will tell Maa and Bapa tomorrow in the morning about your project. They can also share some things relevant for your work and we will go to the palace right after breakfast. 

Anika smiled and pulled the bed sheet over her face, excited for tomorrow. But little did she know that she was going to discover a lot more information about herself. 

***

Tagging the peeps: @ma-douce-souffrance navu you are already tagged and @rasode-waala-cooker (okay tumblr tag nahi krne de rha :(

[danses-with-dogmeat]

I'm feeling a little melancholy at the moment, how would Hancock comfort/cheer up a lady sole survivor who is feeling down in the dumps? This can be a headcanon or a drabble, whichever your muse wishes to write and it's a romantic Hancock who's pining for the sole. Both have low self-esteem and sole is shy. Thank you in advance!

Thank you so much for the ask, anon! I love this prompt, and I think I’m going to do headcannons for all the companions based on it at some point, but for now, here is a drabble! Hopefully this is the kinda thing you were looking for, I think I might’ve gotten a little carried away, but I hope you enjoy!

Hancock surveyed his bar, looking over the patrons, and back up to Magnolia as she began her rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night,” and the ghoul's smokey gaze once again fell to the seat in the corner of the Third Rail. 

She was there, nursing an iced beverage in her hand; the amber liquid appearing to be whiskey.

"Tell me Fahrenheit, do people drink whiskey when they're happy?" He turned to the redhead lounging on the couch beside him.

"Depends how much." She stared ahead, absentmindedly swirling the gin and tonic in her hand.

"Three or four glasses in the last hour." He said. She followed his gaze to where it rested, rolling her eyes at him.

"You've been staring at her for the past hour? Tell me, why haven’t you gone over there yet? I know you enjoy a healthy dose of masochism every once in a while, but the self-induced suffering seems pretty constant whenever she’s involved.” Fahrenheit gestured with her glass towards the corner by the bar, where Sole was seated, already close to being finished with her beverage.

“Always so quick to judge. Sole’s a popular gal, I thought she might be waiting for someone. If that was the case, then who am I to-”

“Ugh, if you don’t get your ass over there and talk to her, I’m locking you out of the State House.” Hancock’s hat tipped forward as his gaze migrated to the floor of the bar.

Fahrenheit shifted to sit up from her lounging position. “Alright, what the hell is it with this chick? It’s like she turns you into that kid on the radio. All scared and awkward.”

“I know. Listen, I don’t know what it is either. She’s just… different. I actually give a shit about what she thinks of me, you know? And I don’t wanna lose her as a friend because I was coming onto her too strong.”

“I think you’re just being a pussy about having real feelings for someone.”

“Shit, red, that’s cold. Even for you.” At that, Hancock pushed his hat back to its correct position on his head and stood, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to face the person he had “real” feelings for.

“Fine,” he turned to glance back at Fahrenheit one more time, “You win. But if this goes south, I’m holding you responsible.” He turned and started towards the bar.

“And what it if it goes north?” Fahrenheit called after him, uttering a soft chuckle as he walked away. 

Hancock noticed Sole’s eyes fall on him as he approached the bar and tried not to be too obvious as he ordered another whiskey on ice for her, and one for himself. He was still coming off a mentats high, but he needed something to take the edge off. Grabbing the drinks, he turned deliberately to her.

“How you holdin’ up, sister? You looked a little low there.” He gestured at her now empty glass, reaching out to hand her the new drink.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” She said, smiling weakly at him as she took it.

“That seat taken?”

She looked to her left and shook her head.

“All yours, if you want.”

“Course I do, who wouldn’t wanna sit next to a lovely little thing like you?” She let out a feeble chuckle at his words, and the ridge above his eyes knitted together as he noticed the lack of light behind her eyes as she stared down at the floor.

He took a swig of his whiskey, draining half of his glass in one gulp. Sole looked over and drew her own glass to her lips, grimacing slightly at the bite of the whiskey. The two sat in silence for a bit, listening as Magnolia’s song came to an end and the conversations around the bar grew to a dull roar. 

“Sorry I’m not better company, Hancock.” She uttered quietly. 

“Nonsense. I could sit silently beside you all night, and you’d still be better company than half the commonwealth. But hey, if you wanna talk about it, I know it doesn’t look like it, but I got two good ears over here.” She laughed a little more genuinely at that, and Hancock felt a little flutter in his chest.

“Thanks, but really it’s- Okay, it’s just… nothing.”

“Hmm. Yeah, seems like it. Real convincing there, sister.” She finally looked up to meet his gaze. “C’mon, Sole,” he whispered softly, “it’s okay, you can tell me. After all I done, you think I’m in any position to judge you?” Sole looked away and downed her drink, before placing her fifth empty glass on the table beside the others. He drained the remainder of his own beverage in response, hoping the gesture might help settle her nerves a bit.

Sole took a deep, shaky breath. 

“It’s not… something.” She stopped, looking at him with desperation behind her eyes, willing him to understand without her having to say it. Hancock was many, many things, and he would become almost anything if it meant pleasing Sole, but he wasn’t a mind reader. Instead, he smiled at her and nodded for her to continue.

“It’s… God, it’s just everything. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I used to feel like I had made it so far. When I saw the world after leaving that vault, I just, I don’t know, I just adapted. I moved on and I survived. Even when I learned that 200 years had passed, and I realized that everyone I ever knew was dead, I persisted. I pushed through. I was sad, of course, but at least I could function. Then, when I found out about Shaun and the Institute, when I saw him and... and he was older than me, when I found out how he felt about me, the way he saw me as nothing more than an experiment, I just…” Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, punctuating the end of her sentence. No words were needed now, he understood. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his arms and hold her tight, to let her know she wasn’t alone, that he was here for her, and would be as long as he was living. Instead, he reached a scarred hand towards her own that rested on the arm of her chair. She shuddered slightly as his fingers made contact with the back of her hand, and he was afraid she would pull away. But she just dropped her gaze to watch as he settled his hand atop hers, his thumb gently stroking over her knuckles.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re goin’ through, Sole.” He said, his dark eyes meeting hers, “But no matter what, I’m here for you. Anything you need, it’s yours, you hear?” She sniffled slightly, and Hancock thought he heard a soft “thanks,” but he couldn’t be sure.

“You remember the day we met?” He said, his thumb still brushing softly over her hand.

“How could I forget? You killed a guy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I sure did, heh.”

“What was his name again?” She asked him, a little bit of life returning to her strained voice.

“Finn.”

“Oh yeah, I remember now.”

“Yeah, real jackass, he was.” Sole grinned at that, and Hancock's eyes lit up, reveling in the fact that his words managed to bring a smile to her face, meager as it may be, it beat tears any day.

“You remember why I killed him?” He asked her.

“Cuz he was a jackass?” The ghoul chuckled at that, his hand squeezing hers ever so slightly.

“Close, but that’s not all of it. He was a jackass to you, sweetheart. And that didn’t sit right with me, even then.” Her eyes met his as she began to understand where he was going with this.

“But lemme tell you something, how I cared then? Shit’s nothing compared to how I care now.” He whispered the last sentence, leaning in closer to her. Hancock willed himself to say more, to tell her how much he cared for her, tell her everything he would do for her, he wanted to make a move to hold her hand tighter, or to lean into her even further, to eliminate the gap between them altogether, but he was paralyzed by her unbroken gaze.

“You mean it?” She whispered so softly, he almost didn’t hear it over the buzz of the bar.

“You kiddin’? Every damn word. And just for the record, there’s nothing wrong with the way you’re feeling right now, Sole. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, and if anybody else went through the shit that you have, they wouldn’t have made it through day one. But you? You haven’t just survived out here, you’ve made a difference. You didn’t have to, background like yours, you coulda become a fuckin raider or crime boss or some shit and I wouldn’t have blamed you, but no. Here you go, one-upping everyone else who thought they had a tragic backstory and becoming the best damn person in the Commonwealth. Really ruins it for the rest of us rabble, you know.” Sole’s eyebrows creased together and her eyes began to glisten again as tears threatened to spill over. Shit. What did I say? Hancock’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried desperately to think of a way to undo whatever he just did. That feeling soon vanished as Sole fell forward, arms draping around Hancock’s shoulders, as she buried her head into the crook of his neck. He released the breath he had been holding and brought his own arms around to envelop her, squeezing tightly as warmth spread through the expanse of his chest.

“Thank you.” She whispered softly. And Hancock was sure he’d heard it this time.

[novaiya]

The Girl from the North Country - Arthur x Reader (NSFW)

Summary: While snooping through Arthur's journal, Karen finds a portrait of a woman who draws her attention. After being caught and reprimanded for her actions, she can’t help but ask who the woman was. Just the mention of her portrait puts Arthur years in the past, right to the very night the two shared.

Words: 3,229

Warnings: F!Reader

A/N: When describing how Reader and Arthur met, the Reader will be referred to in third person (she/her), but when the main action and smut starts, it'll be back to second person (you)

It was not uncommon for Karen to take a peek into Arthur’s journal from time to time. Despite Arthur being protective of his journal, the only place in the world where he could be himself, he couldn’t always keep it on him. Sometimes when he went to bathe in a river nearby, or when he was doing chores around the camp, he would leave it in his satchel in his tent. He trusted his fellow gang members to not snoop around his belongings. The temptation to get a close look into the mind of the stoic gunslinger, however, was too much for Karen, so she would occasionally sneak a peek into it. She would find everything from doodles of animals to portraits of people to sketches of towns and forests. Some pages were filled with tales of the gang’s excursions, the gruesome details of their doings could rival those in crime novels that Hosea read from time to time. Others were filled with more mellow and intimate details of Arthur’s life, and despite being curious, Karen often skipped those, feeling as if reading those pages would cross an imaginary line she set for herself.

On one of these occasions, when she was flipping through the pages of Arthur’s journal as if through a newspaper, she came upon a portrait of a woman. It was the most detailed, carefully drawn picture out of all she has seen Arthur draw in his journal so far. The woman’s hair was spread over her head like a halo, and her unclothed bosom was thrusted upward, making it seem like she was in the midst of taking a gulp of air. Her eyes looked hazy, drowned in pleasure as they looked out from the pages of the journal, and Karen could feel herself grow embarrassed under the mystery woman’s stare.

“What are you doing?” Arthur’s gravel voice sounded behind her, and before she had a chance to say or do anything, the journal was pulled from her hands.

A wave of embarrassment and guilt came over her, and she could feel her face grow hot in seconds. She stammered for a few moments, trying to gather her courage, but no words came; she couldn’t defend herself, for she was clearly at fault.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said as she kept her eyes on the ground, too ashamed to look at Arthur.

Arthur didn’t reply. He moved past the girl to his cot where he satchel laid. He picked it up and put his journal in it before dropping it back on his cot.

“Enjoyed the reading material?” Arthur said with clear mockery in his voice. A mix of anger and embarrassment filled him. He felt very exposed, knowing that someone read through the pages he thought he was safe in. The journal was the only thing in the world to know the real Arthur Morgan. Everything that happened to him throughout the years, good and bad, was recorded there. Sometimes he felt that there was more of him in the journal than there was in himself.

“Arthur, I’m sorry!” Karen cried as Arthur walked away, back to his chores. He didn’t turn around at her voice, so she ran up to him. “Please, Arthur,” she said, bringing her hand to his shoulder to turn him to face her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

As he looked at her, he could see tears threatening to spill from her eyes. He was still angry, still disappointed and upset at her for what she did, but he found himself feeling bad for her, and angry at himself for being the cause of her tears. He shook his head before enveloping the girl in his arms, trying to calm her down. “It’s okay, you’re alright.”

The two of them were back in his tent, with Karen still apologizing to Arthur, and the latter assuring her that it truly was all right. Finally, after some time, when Karen felt back to herself, she sheepishly asked, “Who was that woman?” She knew that she was pushing her luck by asking such a question after what she’s done, but she couldn’t help it. The image of the woman hasn’t left her mind since she saw it, and she knew there must be an exciting story to accompany an equally exciting picture.

He didn’t need to be shown the picture, he knew instantly which she was talking about. Karen watched Arthur after asking the question, and she could see that the mention of it put a certain look into his eyes. Just the mention of her image could put him years into the past, right to the very night they shared. Sometimes, the memory felt like it was from another lifetime; yet he could always remember it with fine details, from the feelings of her skin against his own, to the smell of her hair and the warmth of her breath.

.

Arthur paused in surprise. The woman across the room stood leaning against the wall, one of her hands in her pants pocket, the other holding a shot glass. The air around her was thick with ease and independence and it seemed that everyone around was affected. The men who sat not far from her were turning their heads, trying to catch a glimpse of her face from under the brim of her hat. The barmen tried, and failed, to serve the patrons and keep his eye on the mystery woman at the same time. The woman in question though seemed to either not be aware of the effect she had on people, or didn’t care. As Arthur pushed past the saloon doors, she lifted her head, meeting his eyes, and he too, fell prey to her stare.

Despite being a grown man, he felt like a school boy as he tried to muster up the courage and introduce himself to the woman who seemed to have a strong hold over everyone in the establishment. As he downed a shot of whiskey, ready to make his advance, the woman was already by his side, introducing herself with easy and grace that enchanted him for years to come. The two spent a few hours together, getting to know each other. She was a bounty hunter, traveling from state to state in search of adventure and excitement. Each little bit of information that she fed him only made him hunger for more, and he felt that he will never be satiated.

The two promised to meet again, and that they did. On more than a few occasions, Arthur accompanied her to one of her bounty hunts, helping her despite both of them knowing that she could manage alone. What started as accidental meetings soon turned into planned ones, and a few times the two even went on jobs together, robbing coaches and homesteads. The time they spent together did nothing but make her hold over him stronger. Whenever he was away from her, he found that she was still with him, filling his mind with images of herself and the sound of her voice.   Everything about her attracted him, from how different she was to any person he’s met before, to her effortless smile and to her beautiful name. He was caught in the gravity of her and he let it take over. Realizing that he didn’t want to count the days until their every meeting, a silly, boyish idea popped into his head that he knew he had to ask her the next time they met.

“I told you Arthur, I can’t,” you said as you jolted from the chair you were sitting not a moment ago, shaking your hand and walking over to a window on the other side.

He followed you right away and said, “Well why not?” and motioned around with his hands. You turned around to look at him, holding his gaze for a moment, seeing the fierceness and passion in his eyes that threatened to burn his cornea out. The two of you have been arguing for the last ten minutes. After yet another successful coach robbery, you went back to your hotel room to relax and celebrate the winnings. As you shared drinks and conversations with each other, Arthur was gathering the strength to ask you something that he’s been meaning to for the past few weeks.

“Would you want to come back with me, to my gang?” he said, catching you off guard and making you stop breathing for a few moments.

It was only natural that he would ask you something like that. With how much the two of you have been working together, you were practically already part of his gang in some way. Still, you couldn’t walk the final step and fully commit. You’ve been alone for the better part of your life; The ease of having no one to report to, and needing to worry about yourself only was something you weren’t willing to give up. You told him as much, and despite thinking of himself as a calm and collected man, he couldn’t accept your answer.

“I told you why,” you said, your voice now lower than it was a moment ago. Your eyes turned to look out of the hotel room window into the distance, past the small establishments that littered the main road. On the horizon, the sun was setting. The day was coming to an end, and so was your peculiar relationship with Arthur. You knew that at some point he would want more. There were the long gazes across the campfires, the occasional, drunk make-out sessions that never went too far. You knew that you were playing with fire with how long you stayed in the town, but it seemed that Arthur was not the only one to be caught in the gravity of the situation.

He came up to stand next to you, the proximity of his body making your stance weaken. “That ain’t good enough reason,” he said.

"It is for me,” you replied.

As if just realizing how pushy he has been, he stepped back, feeling embarrassed that his emotions, something that he thought he’s learned to control, got the better of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said and shook his head. He took a deep breath, trying to compose both himself and his emotions, carefully picking out the next words to say. “I just don’t wanna lose you. Each time we split, I’m afraid it’s for the last time,” he said, taking a small pause after each sentence, the silence in between emphasizing the weight of his words.

Despite working with, and being in close proximity to Arthur for the past few months, you’ve never seen this vulnerable side of him. You could see how hard it was for him to say what he felt. He didn’t seem like someone who often expressed his feelings orally, and it made each word mean so much more.

“Arthur,” you spoke his name, and reached out with your hand to touch his cheek. He leaned into your touch immediately, like a child into the loving hands of their mother. He craved the warmth of your touch, and the knowledge that right now, you were still here, still with him.

He said your name, his voice still quiet and mellow, and said, “Stay with me.” The tone of his voice kept the sentence teetering somewhere between a question and a statement and you didn’t reply anything in return, instead moving closer, and pressing your lips against his.

At the feeling of your lips against his own, he could feel every fiber in his being wake up to life. He could feel his heartbeat all over his body; in his chest, his throat and his hands, which went immediately to your hips and brought your flush against him. The feeling of his body against yours was intoxicating, and your hands immediately went to explore every inch you could get to.

He was slowly pushing you backwards, small, careful steps towards the bed in the back of the room, till you hit it with the back of your knees. Without breaking the kiss, you fell into the bed, pulling Arthur down with you. Everything about this moment was beautiful, from the feeling of your body under his, the movement of your lips against his own, to the warmth of your skin against his. He wished for this moment to never end.

He broke the kiss, only to instantly move his lips to your neck, peppering it with kisses and light nips. The sound of your voice, sighing and moaning his name only spurred him more and more, and before long he was talking off your top, revealing your chest to him. For a moment, he stopped his movements and admired your beauty. You were like a nymph, mysterious and hypnotizing. Everything about you drew him in, from the shape of your lips, to the hazy way you looked at him. You were too beautiful to be real, and he was afraid that if he closed his eyes, you would disappear like the dream you were.

The two of you were far too starved for each other’s bodies to prolong the inevitable for much longer, and were quickly pulling at each other’s clothes. His hands were working on the buttons of your pants, while yours were pulling down his suspenders. He was pulling down your pants while you were pushing open his shirt. Before too long, the two of you were naked before each other. You reached out with your hands, running it down his neck to his muscular chest and his stomach, down to his hard member. Your mouth salivated at the sight of him, and you licked your lips, suddenly thinking that you’ve never been with a man as arousing as Arthur was. With your carnal desires taking over you, you parted your legs, inviting him in. His mind was too clouded by lust to act civilized or gentleman-y, so he quickly took the invitation and settled between your legs. He dropped down to capture your lips once again, before taking a hold of his member and slowly pushing in. Even through the kiss, you could hear the sound of your combined moans as the two of you became one. All your thoughts were centered on how good it felt, on how good he felt. Arthur stilled for a moment when he was all the way in, trying to compose himself. He took a deep breath, but the feeling of your walls enveloping him, and your hands now holding onto his forearms made him shudder, and he lost himself, setting a steady rhythm which left you a moaning, writhing mess under him.

Everything meshed together as the two of you lost yourself in the pleasure of each other’s bodies. His lips were on your neck, kissing your soft skin, while his hands were on your hips and your waist, relishing in the curves of your body. Your legs were hooked over his torso, holding him close to you, while your nails dug into his back, holding for dear life and leaving crimson marks behind that hurt just enough to make Arthur crave more.

You couldn’t tell whether hours or seconds passed when you felt yourself near the peak. All your energy and attention centered on where the two of you were connected. Arthur felt you tighten around him, could feel the warmth of your ragged breaths. He sneaked a hand between the two of you and found your clit. The feeling of his finger on you was the last thing you needed to come apart, and with a moan of his name, you did. Your legs trembled and your voice rose an octave or two as immense pleasure ran through veins, filling all of you with its warmth.

Arthur wasn’t far behind, and after a few more thrust, he succumbed to the pleasures and pulled out, releasing himself on your stomach.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, he found your lips once again. The kiss was slower, more sensual than the one you shared in the beginning. The kiss spoke more than the two of you have been for the past few months. He confessed his love for you with the way he bit your bottom lip. With the flick of your tongue, you said “Me too”

His mind was blank as you laid on his chest, asleep. For the first time in a long time, he felt content and relaxed. One of his hands was on the small of your back, keeping you close against him, while the other played with a strand of your hair. After a few minutes, he gently pulled himself up and took a satchel that laid on the bedside table. He pulled his journal and a pen out and started drawing. Whether you were going to come with him or not, he wanted to always have an image of you with him, to remind him of the woman that you were. With the sketch done, he put his journal back into his satchel and turned around, capturing you in his hands and with a small yawn, fell asleep.

He woke up, but instead of finding the warm, desired body next to him, found emptiness. He looked around, the room was bare; her clothes, guns and bags were gone. He pushed himself from the bed and went to look out of the window to where their horses were hitched last night and found only his own there. He closed his eyes and stood still for a moment. The hotel room suddenly felt too big and empty for him.

Just like her, the conclusion to their peculiar relation left him with many questions that he knew would torment his mind for months to come. He wondered if it was a mistake to ask her to come with him so soon. Should he have waited a bit more? Or should’ve he just enjoyed what they had and see where it would take him? With these thoughts, he packed his things and left the hotel room.

.

“And that’s all there is to it,” Arthur said, turning to look at Karen. The girl, after hearing the entire story, was left with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide. She could see, with the way Arthur talked and the way his eyes looked out into the distance, that despite years and distance, the woman still had the same hold on him. She wanted to ask him if he ever tried to find her, but she felt that she already opened up too many old wounds. Instead, she thanked him for sharing the story with him, and promised to never look into his journal again.

With everyone asleep and the main campfire empty, he found himself in his cot, unable to fall asleep. He could feel the weight of her head on his chest, the feeling of her hair in his hand. He wondered if she thought of him as much as he did of her. With years, the memory of months that they shared together was becoming more fuzzy, and sometimes, he wondered if they happened at all. The only thing he had to remind him that it was all real was that portrait and the feelings he still had for her.

[kingstylesdaily]

Playtime With Harry Styles

via vogue.com

THE MEN’S BATHING POND in London’s Hampstead Heath at daybreak on a gloomy September morning seemed such an unlikely locale for my first meeting with Harry Styles, music’s legendarily charm-heavy style czar, that I wondered perhaps if something had been lost in translation.

But then there is Styles, cheerily gung ho, hidden behind a festive yellow bandana mask and a sweatshirt of his own design, surprisingly printed with three portraits of his intellectual pinup, the author Alain de Botton. “I love his writing,” says Styles. “I just think he’s brilliant. I saw him give a talk about the keys to happiness, and how one of the keys is living among friends, and how real friendship stems from being vulnerable with someone.”

In turn, de Botton’s 2016 novel The Course of Love taught Styles that “when it comes to relationships, you just expect yourself to be good at it…[but] being in a real relationship with someone is a skill,” one that Styles himself has often had to hone in the unforgiving klieg light of public attention, and in the company of such high-profile paramours as Taylor Swift and—well, Styles is too much of a gentleman to name names.

That sweatshirt and the Columbia Records tracksuit bottoms are removed in the quaint wooden open-air changing room, with its Swallows and Amazons vibe. A handful of intrepid fellow patrons in various states of undress are blissfully unaware of the 26-year-old supernova in their midst, although I must admit I’m finding it rather difficult to take my eyes off him, try as I might. Styles has been on a six-day juice cleanse in readiness for Vogue’s photographer Tyler Mitchell. He practices Pilates (“I’ve got very tight hamstrings—trying to get those open”) and meditates twice a day. “It has changed my life,” he avers, “but it’s so subtle. It’s helped me just be more present. I feel like I’m able to enjoy the things that are happening right in front of me, even if it’s food or it’s coffee or it’s being with a friend—or a swim in a really cold pond!” Styles also feels that his meditation practices have helped him through the tumult of 2020: “Meditation just brings a stillness that has been really beneficial, I think, for my mental health.”

Styles has been a pescatarian for three years, inspired by the vegan food that several members of his current band prepared on tour. “My body definitely feels better for it,” he says. His shapely torso is prettily inscribed with the tattoos of a Victorian sailor—a rose, a galleon, a mermaid, an anchor, and a palm tree among them, and, straddling his clavicle, the dates 1967 and 1957 (the respective birth years of his mother and father). Frankly, I rather wish I’d packed a beach muumuu.

We take the piratical gangplank that juts into the water and dive in. Let me tell you, this is not the Aegean. The glacial water is a cloudy phlegm green beneath the surface, and clammy reeds slap one’s ankles. Styles, who admits he will try any fad, has recently had a couple of cryotherapy sessions and is evidently less susceptible to the cold. By the time we have swum a full circuit, however, body temperatures have adjusted, and the ice, you might say, has been broken. Duly invigorated, we are ready to face the day. Styles has thoughtfully brought a canister of coffee and some bottles of water in his backpack, and we sit at either end of a park bench for a socially distanced chat.

It seems that he has had a productive year. At the onset of lockdown, Styles found himself in his second home, in the canyons of Los Angeles. After a few days on his own, however, he moved in with a pod of three friends (and subsequently with two band members, Mitch Rowland and Sarah Jones). They “would put names in a hat and plan the week out,” Styles explains. “If you were Monday, you would choose the movie, dinner, and the activity for that day. I like to make soups, and there was a big array of movies; we went all over the board,” from Goodfellas to Clueless. The experience, says Styles, “has been a really good lesson in what makes me happy now. It’s such a good example of living in the moment. I honestly just like being around my friends,” he adds. “That’s been my biggest takeaway. Just being on my own the whole time, I would have been miserable.”

Styles is big on friendship groups and considers his former and legendarily hysteria-inducing boy band, One Direction, to have been one of them. “I think the typical thing is to come out of a band like that and almost feel like you have to apologize for being in it,” says Styles. “But I loved my time in it. It was all new to me, and I was trying to learn as much as I could. I wanted to soak it in…. I think that’s probably why I like traveling now—soaking stuff up.” In a post-COVID future, he is contemplating a temporary move to Tokyo, explaining that “there’s a respect and a stillness, a quietness that I really loved every time I’ve been there.”

In 1D, Styles was making music whenever he could. “After a show you’d go in a hotel room and put down some vocals,” he recalls. As a result, his first solo album, 2017’s Harry Styles, “was when I really fell in love with being in the studio,” he says. “I loved it as much as touring.” Today he favors isolating with his core group of collaborators, “our little bubble”—Rowland, Kid Harpoon (né Tom Hull), and Tyler Johnson. “A safe space,” as he describes it.

In the music he has been working on in 2020, Styles wants to capture the experimental spirit that informed his second album, last year’s Fine Line. With his debut album, “I was very much finding out what my sound was as a solo artist,” he says. “I can see all the places where it almost felt like I was bowling with the bumpers up. I think with the second album I let go of the fear of getting it wrong and…it was really joyous and really free. I think with music it’s so important to evolve—and that extends to clothes and videos and all that stuff. That’s why you look back at David Bowie with Ziggy Stardust or the Beatles and their different eras—that fearlessness is super inspiring.”

The seismic changes of 2020—including the Black Lives Matter uprising around racial justice—has also provided Styles with an opportunity for personal growth. “I think it’s a time for opening up and learning and listening,” he says. “I’ve been trying to read and educate myself so that in 20 years I’m still doing the right things and taking the right steps. I believe in karma, and I think it’s just a time right now where we could use a little more kindness and empathy and patience with people, be a little more prepared to listen and grow.”

Meanwhile, Styles’s euphoric single “Watermelon Sugar” became something of an escapist anthem for this dystopian summer of 2020. The video, featuring Styles (dressed in ’70s-­flavored Gucci and Bode) cavorting with a pack of beach-babe girls and boys, was shot in January, before lockdown rules came into play. By the time it was ready to be released in May, a poignant epigraph had been added: “This video is dedicated to touching.”

Styles is looking forward to touring again, when “it’s safe for everyone,” because, as he notes, “being up against people is part of the whole thing. You can’t really re-create it in any way.” But it hasn’t always been so. Early in his career, Styles was so stricken with stage fright that he regularly threw up preperformance. “I just always thought I was going to mess up or something,” he remembers. “But I’ve felt really lucky to have a group of incredibly generous fans. They’re generous emotionally—and when they come to the show, they give so much that it creates this atmosphere that I’ve always found so loving and accepting.”

THIS SUMMER, when it was safe enough to travel, Styles returned to his London home, which is where he suggests we head now, setting off in his modish Primrose Yellow ’73 Jaguar that smells of gasoline and leatherette. “Me and my dad have always bonded over cars,” Styles explains. “I never thought I’d be someone who just went out for a leisurely drive, purely for enjoyment.” On sleepless jet-lagged nights he’ll drive through London’s quiet streets, seeing neighborhoods in a new way. “I find it quite relaxing,” he says.

Over the summer Styles took a road trip with his artist friend Tomo Campbell through France and Italy, setting off at four in the morning and spending the night in Geneva, where they jumped in the lake “to wake ourselves up.” (I see a pattern emerging.) At the end of the trip Styles drove home alone, accompanied by an upbeat playlist that included “Aretha Franklin, Parliament, and a lot of Stevie Wonder. It was really fun for me,” he says. “I don’t travel like that a lot. I’m usually in such a rush, but there was a stillness to it. I love the feeling of nobody knowing where I am, that kind of escape...and freedom.”

GROWING UP in a village in the North of England, Styles thought of London as a world apart: “It truly felt like a different country.” At a wide-eyed 16, he came down to the teeming metropolis after his mother entered him on the U.K. talent-search show The X Factor. “I went to the audition to find out if I could sing,” Styles recalls, “or if my mum was just being nice to me.” Styles was eliminated but subsequently brought back with other contestants—Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, and Zayn Malik—to form a boy band that was named (on Styles’s suggestion) One Direction. The wily X Factor creator and judge, Simon Cowell, soon signed them to his label Syco Records, and the rest is history: 1D’s first four albums, supported by four world tours from 2011 to 2015, debuted at number one on the U.S. Billboard charts, and the band has sold 70 million records to date. At 18, Styles bought the London house he now calls home. “I was going to do two weeks’ work to it,” he remembers, “but when I came back there was no second floor,” so he moved in with adult friends who lived nearby till the renovation was complete. “Eighteen months,” he deadpans. “I’ve always seen that period as pretty pivotal for me, as there’s that moment at the party where it’s getting late, and half of the people would go upstairs to do drugs, and the other people go home. I was like, ‘I don’t really know this friend’s wife, so I’m not going to get all messy and then go home.’ I had to behave a bit, at a time where everything else about my life felt I didn’t have to behave really. I’ve been lucky to always feel I have this family unit somewhere.”

When Styles’s London renovation was finally done, “I went in for the first time and I cried,” he recalls. “Because I just felt like I had somewhere. L.A. feels like holiday, but this feels like home.”

Behind its pink door, Styles’s house has all the trappings of rock stardom—there’s a man cave filled with guitars, a Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks poster (a moving-in gift from his decorator), a Stevie Nicks album cover. Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” was one of the first songs he knew the words to—“My parents were big fans”—and he and Nicks have formed something of a mutual-admiration society. At the beginning of lockdown, Nicks tweeted to her fans that she was taking inspiration from Fine Line: “Way to go, H,” she wrote. “It is your Rumours.” “She’s always there for you,” said Styles when he inducted Nicks into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2019. “She knows what you need—advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl; she’s got you covered.”

Styles makes us some tea in the light-filled kitchen and then wanders into the convivial living room, where he strikes an insouciant pose on the chesterfield sofa, upholstered in a turquoise velvet that perhaps not entirely coincidentally sets off his eyes. Styles admits that his lockdown lewk was “sweatpants, constantly,” and he is relishing the opportunity to dress up again. He doesn’t have to wait long: The following day, under the eaves of a Victorian mansion in Notting Hill, I arrive in the middle of fittings for Vogue’s shoot and discover Styles in his Y-fronts, patiently waiting to try on looks for fashion editor Camilla Nickerson and photographer Tyler Mitchell. Styles’s personal stylist, Harry Lambert, wearing a pearl necklace and his nails colored in various shades of green varnish, à la Sally Bowles, is providing helpful backup (Britain’s Rule of Six hasn’t yet been imposed).

Styles, who has thoughtfully brought me a copy of de Botton’s 2006 book The Architecture of Happiness, is instinctively and almost quaintly polite, in an old-fashioned, holding-open-doors and not-mentioning-lovers-by-name sort of way. He is astounded to discover that the Atlanta-born Mitchell has yet to experience a traditional British Sunday roast dinner. Assuring him that “it’s basically like Thanksgiving every Sunday,” Styles gives Mitchell the details of his favorite London restaurants in which to enjoy one. “It’s a good thing to be nice,” Mitchell tells me after a morning in Styles’s company.

MITCHELL has Lionel Wendt’s languorously homoerotic 1930s portraits of young Sri Lankan men on his mood board. Nickerson is thinking of Irving Penn’s legendary fall 1950 Paris haute couture collections sitting, where he photographed midcentury supermodels, including his wife, Lisa Fonssagrives, in high-style Dior and Balenciaga creations. Styles is up for all of it, and so, it would seem, is the menswear landscape of 2020: Jonathan Anderson has produced a trapeze coat anchored with a chunky gold martingale; John Galliano at Maison Margiela has fashioned a khaki trench with a portrait neckline in layers of colored tulle; and Harris Reed—a Saint Martins fashion student sleuthed by Lambert who ended up making some looks for Styles’s last tour—has spent a week making a broad-shouldered Smoking jacket with high-waisted, wide-leg pants that have become a Styles signature since he posed for Tim Walker for the cover of Fine Line wearing a Gucci pair—a silhouette that was repeated in the tour wardrobe. (“I liked the idea of having that uniform,” says Styles.) Reed’s version is worn with a hoopskirt draped in festoons of hot-pink satin that somehow suggests Deborah Kerr asking Yul Brynner’s King of Siam, “Shall we dance?”

Styles introduces me to the writer and eyewear designer Gemma Styles, “my sister from the same womb,” he says. She is also here for the fitting: The siblings plan to surprise their mother with the double portrait on these pages.

I ask her whether her brother had always been interested in clothes.

“My mum loved to dress us up,” she remembers. “I always hated it, and Harry was always quite into it. She did some really elaborate papier-mâché outfits: She made a giant mug and then painted an atlas on it, and that was Harry being ‘The World Cup.’ Harry also had a little dalmatian-dog outfit,” she adds, “a hand-me-down from our closest family friends. He would just spend an inordinate amount of time wearing that outfit. But then Mum dressed me up as Cruella de Vil. She was always looking for any opportunity!”

“As a kid I definitely liked fancy dress,” Styles says. There were school plays, the first of which cast him as Barney, a church mouse. “I was really young, and I wore tights for that,” he recalls. “I remember it was crazy to me that I was wearing a pair of tights. And that was maybe where it all kicked off!”

Acting has also remained a fundamental form of expression for Styles. His sister recalls that even on the eve of his life-changing X Factor audition, Styles could sing in public only in an assumed voice. “He used to do quite a good sort of Elvis warble,” she remembers. During the rehearsals in the family home, “he would sing in the bathroom because if it was him singing as himself, he just couldn’t have anyone looking at him! I love his voice now,” she adds. “I’m so glad that he makes music that I actually enjoy listening to.”

Styles’s role-playing continued soon after 1D went on permanent hiatus in 2016, and he was cast in Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk, beating out dozens of professional actors for the role. “The good part was my character was a young soldier who didn’t really know what he was doing,” says Styles modestly. “The scale of the movie was so big that I was a tiny piece of the puzzle. It was definitely humbling. I just loved being outside of my comfort zone.”

His performance caught the eye of Olivia Wilde, who remembers that it “blew me away—the openness and commitment.” In turn, Styles loved Wilde’s directorial debut, Booksmart, and is “very honored” that she cast him in a leading role for her second feature, a thriller titled Don’t Worry Darling, which went into production this fall. Styles will play the husband to Florence Pugh in what Styles describes as “a 1950s utopia in the California desert.”

Wilde’s movie is costumed by Academy Award nominee Arianne Phillips. “She and I did a little victory dance when we heard that we officially had Harry in the film,” notes Wilde, “because we knew that he has a real appreciation for fashion and style. And this movie is incredibly stylistic. It’s very heightened and opulent, and I’m really grateful that he is so enthusiastic about that element of the process—some actors just don’t care.”

“I like playing dress-up in general,” Styles concurs, in a masterpiece of understatement: This is the man, after all, who cohosted the Met’s 2019 “Notes on Camp” gala attired in a nipple-freeing black organza blouse with a lace jabot, and pants so high-waisted that they cupped his pectorals. The ensemble, accessorized with the pearl-drop earring of a dandified Elizabethan courtier, was created for Styles by Gucci’s Alessandro Michele, whom he befriended in 2014. Styles, who has subsequently personified the brand as the face of the Gucci fragrance, finds Michele “fearless with his work and his imagination. It’s really inspiring to be around someone who works like that.”

The two first met in London over a cappuccino. “It was just a kind of PR appointment,” says Michele, “but something magical happened, and Harry is now a friend. He has the aura of an English rock-and-roll star—like a young Greek god with the attitude of James Dean and a little bit of Mick Jagger—but no one is sweeter. He is the image of a new era, of the way that a man can look.”

Styles credits his style trans­formation—from Jack Wills tracksuit-clad boy-band heartthrob to nonpareil fashionisto—to his meeting the droll young stylist Harry Lambert seven years ago. They hit it off at once and have conspired ever since, enjoying a playfully campy rapport and calling each other Sue and Susan as they parse the niceties of the scarlet lace Gucci man-bra that Michele has made for Vogue’s shoot, for instance, or a pair of Bode pants hand-painted with biographical images (Styles sent Emily Adams Bode images of his family, and a photograph he had found of David Hockney and Joni Mitchell. “The idea of those two being friends, to me, was really beautiful,” Styles explains).

“He just has fun with clothing, and that’s kind of where I’ve got it from,” says Styles of Lambert. “He doesn’t take it too seriously, which means I don’t take it too seriously.” The process has been evolutionary. At his first meeting with Lambert, the stylist proposed “a pair of flares, and I was like, ‘Flares? That’s fucking crazy,’  ” Styles remembers. Now he declares that “you can never be overdressed. There’s no such thing. The people that I looked up to in music—Prince and David Bowie and Elvis and Freddie Mercury and Elton John—they’re such showmen. As a kid it was completely mind-blowing. Now I’ll put on something that feels really flamboyant, and I don’t feel crazy wearing it. I think if you get something that you feel amazing in, it’s like a superhero outfit. Clothes are there to have fun with and experiment with and play with. What’s really exciting is that all of these lines are just kind of crumbling away. When you take away ‘There’s clothes for men and there’s clothes for women,’ once you remove any barriers, obviously you open up the arena in which you can play. I’ll go in shops sometimes, and I just find myself looking at the women’s clothes thinking they’re amazing. It’s like anything—anytime you’re putting barriers up in your own life, you’re just limiting yourself. There’s so much joy to be had in playing with clothes. I’ve never really thought too much about what it means—it just becomes this extended part of creating something.”

“He’s up for it,” confirms Lambert, who earlier this year, for instance, found a JW Anderson cardigan with the look of a Rubik’s Cube (“on sale at matches.com!”). Styles wore it, accessorized with his own pearl necklace, for a Today rehearsal in February and it went viral: His fans were soon knitting their own versions and posting the results on TikTok. Jonathan Anderson declared himself “so impressed and incredibly humbled by this trend” that he nimbly made the pattern available (complete with a YouTube tutorial) so that Styles’s fans could copy it for free. Meanwhile, London’s storied Victoria & Albert Museum has requested Styles’s original: an emblematic document of how people got creative during the COVID era. “It’s going to be in their permanent collection,” says Lambert exultantly. “Is that not sick? Is that not the most epic thing?”

“To me, he’s very modern,” says Wilde of Styles, “and I hope that this brand of confidence as a male that Harry has—truly devoid of any traces of toxic masculinity—is indicative of his generation and therefore the future of the world. I think he is in many ways championing that, spearheading that. It’s pretty powerful and kind of extraordinary to see someone in his position redefining what it can mean to be a man with confidence.”

“He’s really in touch with his feminine side because it’s something natural,” notes Michele. “And he’s a big inspiration to a younger generation—about how you can be in a totally free playground when you feel comfortable. I think that he’s a revolutionary.”

STYLES’S confidence is on full display the day after the fitting, which finds us all on the beautiful Sussex dales. Over the summit of the hill, with its trees blown horizontal by the fierce winds, lies the English Channel. Even though it’s a two-hour drive from London, the fresh-faced Styles, who went to bed at 9 p.m., has arrived on set early: He is famously early for everything. The team is installed in a traditional flint-stone barn. The giant doors have been replaced by glass and frame a bucolic view of distant grazing sheep. “Look at that field!” says Styles. “How lucky are we? This is our office! Smell the roses!” Lambert starts to sing “Kumbaya, my Lord.”

Hairdresser Malcolm Edwards is setting Styles’s hair in a Victory roll with silver clips, and until it is combed out he resembles Kathryn Grayson with stubble. His fingers are freighted with rings, and “he has a new army of mini purses,” says Lambert, gesturing to an accessory table heaving with examples including a mini sky-blue Gucci Diana bag discreetly monogrammed HS. Michele has also made Styles a dress for the shoot that Tissot might have liked to paint—acres of ice-blue ruffles, black Valenciennes lace, and suivez-moi, jeune homme ribbons. Erelong, Styles is gamely racing up a hill in it, dodging sheep scat, thistles, and shards of chalk, and striking a pose for Mitchell that manages to make ruffles a compelling new masculine proposition, just as Mr. Fish’s frothy white cotton dress—equal parts Romantic poet and Greek presidential guard—did for Mick Jagger when he wore it for The Rolling Stones’ free performance in Hyde Park in 1969, or as the suburban-mom floral housedress did for Kurt Cobain as he defined the iconoclastic grunge aesthetic. Styles is mischievously singing ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” to himself when Mitchell calls him outside to jump up and down on a trampoline in a Comme des Garçons buttoned wool kilt. “How did it look?” asks his sister when he comes in from the cold. “Divine,” says her brother in playful Lambert-speak.

As the wide sky is washed in pink, orange, and gray, like a Turner sunset, and Mitchell calls it a successful day, Styles is playing “Cherry” from Fine Line on his Fender acoustic on the hilltop. “He does his own stunts,” says his sister, laughing. The impromptu set is greeted with applause. “Thank you, Antwerp!” says Styles playfully, bowing to the crowd. “Thank you, fashion!”

[officerjennie]

Goodbye Kisses

(Prompted by myself on my birthday because help, I love them so much T^T) (Ko-fi and commission info in my blog header) 

--

It mattered not how many times they said goodbye, each time still broke another piece of his heart.

There were times Jaskier had ample warning. Days or even weeks to steel himself, to play the brilliant actor he prided himself to be. Ample time to remind himself quite sternly what he was to his witcher, his noble white wolf, the man who had swept into his life with all the flair and cheer of a beaten and tired mutt and had promptly and oh so very rudely stolen his heart.

A heart that many had attempted to steal in the past, might he add.

Those blessed days, hours, weeks - whatever time he had to fish his heart back from his sleeves and shove it back in his chest to be guarded like it had never wanted to be - they were all that saved him from certain embarrassment and rejection. For every single time, no matter that he knew it would end, he allowed himself to be a fool and believe that their journey would go onward. That every morning he could wake up bleary and far too late to his witcher grousing over their late start. That every afternoon would find him practicing his lute and songs while he danced his way down whatever trail laid before them, following after Roach’s twitching tail and the regal visage of Geralt, the most dearest man to his heart.

It was not one of those times, however.

“Leaving,” was the only grunted explanation he got as Geralt brushed past him, Jaskier left blinking after him where he stood still in the doorway to the room they’d planned on sharing for the next few days at the very least. It took far too many seconds for his thoughts to catch up to him, the silly grin he’d had frozen on his lips, laughter caught and dying in his throat.

“Wh- hold on, wait! Garelt!” Jaskier danced a little in the doorway, unsure of whether to take off after his companion given his own stuff was still strewn all about their room - everything but the lute strapped to his back and the smaller of his coin purses that he’d kept to collect the connected bar’s patron’s generous donations at his performance. With great effort he stopped staring after him, sweeping wide eyes about the room, already mourning the loss of what he couldn’t grab in the next 30 seconds: the blackberry wine he’d been planning on breaking out this very night would have to be abandoned, as well as much of his clothes - oh, it would cost him a small fortune to replace them all, and his heart cried even as he ran about and scooped up what little he could before stumbling right back out the door, regretting that last pint of ale as it left him fumbly and even dropping some of the precious few things he’d managed to stuff in his arms.

It was a miracle in and of itself that he didn’t bumble into anyone on his rush down the hall and stairs, and another that he managed the door by himself with his hands and arms otherwise occupied. At least no grace from the gods was required to find Geralt, all Jaskier needed to do was head straight for the stable that was attached to the inn.

“Geralt!”

He spotted his witcher just as Geralt was swinging his leg up and over Roach, the mare already saddled and packed and grouchy from being awoken far too early for her liking. She tried her best to reach back and nip at her burden even as Geralt nudged her forward, stopping her only after a few feet when Jaskier stumbled in front of them.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Gesturing with his arms so full of precious belongings was a bad idea but that didn’t occur to him until after he’d already done it, and attempting to catch the turquoise and emerald silk shirt only made him drop something else. “Dropping everything I own in the muck and grime is what I’m doing apparently - that was a gift, you know! A gift from my mother on her sick bed. Sure, sure, she recovered, but that’s not the point of things, Geralt, some warning would have been nice!”

“I’m leaving.”

“Oh, well darling, I didn’t notice, what with the whole storming out and straddling Ms. Nips-A-Lot - hey! No!” Roach knew exactly when he sassed about her and proved the name right, Jaskier barely dodging one of her hard nips that was aimed at his shoulder. It was luck and luck alone that kept all the rest of his things in his arms and far away from the mud below. “I meant advanced warning, Geralt, half a minute is not enough time for me to pack. And the least you could do is help me!”

Geralt grunted at him, and it was only thanks to their years of travelling together off and on that Jaskier could recognize it as his impatient grunt - which only made him want to huff indignantly, considering it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get ready at the drop of a hat. But before he could properly huff at him Geralt slid off of Roach to help him.

Or...not. Instead of taking any of his stuff, or maybe opening one of the packs Roach was carrying, Geralt just oh so helpfully clapped Jaskier on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as he leaned down to meet Jaskier’s gaze - and just that simple act of holding his gaze had Jaskier’s heart in his throat. Melitele help him but those eyes would be the death of him. He could drown in the abyss of them, captured and held prisoner but hardly against his will, lost in a sea of amber and warmth many would think so unlike his dear withcer-

“I’m leaving, Jaskier. Not you.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, the fluttering thing in his stomach dropping like a stone. Well. Just like his witcher to put a damper on things.

“Too dangerous.”

“How is it any more dangerous than what we’ve already been through together?” Jaskier tried to not get too distracted when Geralt’s hand slipped from his shoulder and down his arm, still firm on him, making it unfairly difficult to muster up a decent argument as Geralt took his elbow and started to guide him back to the tavern entrance. “When we met I followed you straight towards a devil, remember? Sure it wasn’t an actual devil but neither of us knew any better-”

“Devils aren’t real, Jaskier.”

“-and I still followed you right along, and ended up perfectly fine! Oh, and remember the dragon? A dragon, Geralt, how on earth could anything out here in the middle of bloody nowhere could be more dangerous than a DRAGON?”

Geralt gave him a look that suggested he was being difficult on purpose. “I don’t slay dragons. There was never going to be a fight.”

Any further protests were put to a stop before they could continue, hardly even a stammered out start passing Jaskier’s lips before Geralt was opening the tavern door for him, giving a squeeze to his arm before dropping the contact between them. “Stay here, and out of trouble if you can manage it. I’ll come back.”

Normally, Jaskier would have made a fuss over the insinuation that he might gravitate towards trouble - because, really, it was the other way around. Not that the end results mattered much which way it worked. It came down to semantics, really, but Jaskier still would not have taken the insinuation without at least trying to set the record straight a little. But…

But his heart had not been normal of late, nor had his mind. And with no time to prepare for Geralt’s rather sudden departure he’d had no time to school his reactions, no time to remind himself how he’d normally do things: what he’d say, how exactly his hand or arm would flourish in gesture, what emotions he should allow into his tone without raising any sort of suspicion.

So it wasn’t exasperation that colored his tone, no played up hurt nor frustration to punctuate his words when Jaskier half-turned to look up at his witcher, breath almost catching at how even on a dreary day like this Geralt managed to look neigh on ethereal in his beauty - when all Jaskier managed to ask him was “When?”

When would he again be allowed to get lost within that heated gaze, time having little meaning, the world fading into the distance? When would his nights end in laughter rather than the drop after a performance, his high from the crowd leaving him at an incredible low, alone without his dearest witcher to keep his thoughts at bay and far away from the darkened sea they went to on their own? When would he know beyond a shadow of a doubt that his Geralt was safe and relatively unharmed, unmaimed at the very least, able to return to him at all?

“When I’m done.”

Ever the romantic to match his thoughts. Jaskier huffed out air through his nose, readjusting his grip on the mountain of things in his arms, Geralt’s blunt honesty cutting through his rather melodramatic mode decently enough. Not well enough to have him rid of all the rather sticky feelings that loved to pop up unbidden, but without the clouds that usually left him dampened in their presence all those sticky feelings left Jaskier feeling rather...wistful, and, dare he say, whimsical.

Perhaps his mother was onto something when she said his moods changed less like seasons and more flittered by like insects swarming in the summer heat.

If he had had perhaps even an hour to prepare for this goodbye, Jaskier would not have done anything so far removed from their normal interactions and behavior. But that time had not been given to him, and the warmth from Geralt’s hand could still be felt on his arm, and Jaskier’s heart was skipping beats in his chest knowing it was concern that had his witcher so set on going it alone - and seeing it clear as the dawn itself in those beautiful eyes of gold.

With as much grace as he could muster with his arms ladened so, Jaskier closed the short distance between him and his friend. He couldn’t tell if it was shocked surprise that held Geralt still or not, or what kept him from jerking away as he’d always expected him to if Jaskier had ever dared to be so bold, but Geralt did not move back - and Jaskier found his lips brushing against the silver stubble on his cheek, rough against his own chapped skin but it barely registered against the thundering heartbeat that sounded in his ears.

A light kiss to his cheek was all he managed, and it amazed him long into the night that he found his voice past it all. “Be careful, darling.” Being so close to him Jaskier saw Geralt’s breathing stutter at the endearment, and like a good storyteller he took careful note of that and squirreled it away for later, leaning back away just enough to look up and catch the way Geralt was looking at him. “I’d hate to be a bard with no company.”

Upon reflection, getting to see his oh so completely and frustratingly composed witcher shift his weight nervously after such a simple thing was more than worth the slip in his own emotional composure. Even the muddied belongings were worth it when weighed against the delayed grunt of response, the flickering gaze towards Jaskier and away again, and the sudden start to Geralt’s movements that finally started him back towards Roach without another word.

Maybe goodbyes weren’t the worst after all if they involved such an adorably flustered boy (and, Jaskier thought, his own gaze flickering downward shamelessly, it never really was a burden to watch him walk away).

[lingthusiasm]

Transcript Lingthusiasm Episode 52: Writing is a technology

This is a transcript for Lingthusiasm Episode 52: Writing is a technology. It’s been lightly edited for readability. Listen to the episode here or wherever you get your podcasts. Links to studies mentioned and further reading can be found on the Episode 52 show notes page.

[Music]

Gretchen: Welcome to Lingthusiasm, a podcast that’s enthusiastic about linguistics! I’m Gretchen McCulloch.

Lauren: I’m Lauren Gawne. Today, we’re getting enthusiastic about writing as a technology. But first, do you wish there was more Lingthusiasm to listen to? Even though this is Episode 52, we have almost a hundred episodes of Lingthusiasm. Some of them exist as bonus episodes over at our Patreon.

Gretchen: If you want to listen to those and have more Lingthusiasm in your earballs, you can go to patron.com/lingthusiasm. This also helps keep the show ad-free. If you like listening to a show without ads, help us keep doing that.

Lauren: The Patreon also fosters this wonderful linguistics enthusiastic community. In fact, we have a Discord server, which is basically just a wonderful chat space for people to talk about linguistics. There are over 350 people on the Lingthusiasm Discord right now.

Gretchen: If you wish you had other lingthusiasts to talk to to share your interesting linguistics anecdotes and memes and general nerdery, and you want more people like that to talk to, you can join the Patreon to also get access to the Discord. We launched the Discord community just a year ago, and it’s been really fun to see it grow and thrive and take on a life of its own since then. If you are already a patron, and you haven’t linked your Patreon and Discord account together, it’s there waiting for you. Feel free to come join us.

Lauren: We have Patreon supporter levels at a range of tiers. Some of them include additional merch. One of my favourite perks is the very scientific Lingthusiasm IPA quiz where we send you a short quiz and then we give you your own custom IPA character which is enshrined on our Wall of Fame.

Gretchen: It’s a fun quiz. We have fun looking at people’s answers.

Lauren: Our most recent bonus episode is a collection of some of our favourite anecdotes from interviews and from other episodes that didn’t quite make it into the original episode. We’re delighted to share those in that bonus episode.

Gretchen: You get to see a bit behind-the-scenes with that episode. Also, do you want more linguistics on your favourite other podcasts?

Lauren: Always.

Gretchen: Constantly. We’re also very happy to do podcast interviews on other shows about various topics. If there’re other podcasts that you like that you wish would do a linguistics episode and interview one of us, you should tell them that! We’re happy to come on. Tag us both or something on social media or tell your favourite podcasts that they could do a linguistics episode because we’d be happy to do that.

[Music]

Lauren: Gretchen, do you remember learning how to read?

Gretchen: Not really. I mean, I remember encountering the alphabet chart in my first year of school, but I already sort of knew the alphabet at that point. I guess there was some point when I didn’t know how to read, and there was some point when I did, but I don’t really have concrete memories of that. Do you remember learning how to read?

Lauren: I feel like I have more memories of learning how to write, just because that’s such a mechanical thing. I remember sitting there writing out a row of As. I definitely wrote the number “five” backward for way longer than I probably should have, which is a really common thing that happens when kids are learning to write because it is a combination of brain skills and fine motor skills. But reading in English is something I feel like I’ve always just been able to do. I mean, I guess in comparison learning to read Nepali, which is written in a different script – it’s written in the Devanagari script – I have more memories of that because I did that in my 20s. Even now, I still feel the real disconnect between being relatively able to chat and really struggling to read and write. I still have to put my finger under the words as I’m going through, whereas with English it just feels like the words are beaming straight into my brain because I learnt to read that language so early in my life.

Gretchen: Yeah, I read at this automatic level. I can’t see a sign that says, “Stop,” on it and not read it in Latin script. But in undergrad I took both Ancient Greek and Arabic. In Greek, I got to the point – because the script is sort of similar enough and I was familiar enough with the letters previously-ish – that I got to the point where I could very slowly sound out words as I was reading them out loud because we had to do a lot of reading aloud in Greek class. But in Arabic, I was very much at that hooked on phonics level where you’re like, /p/-/t/-/k/-/a/. There are a few words that I have as sight words in Arabic. One of them is the word for “and,” which is “waa”, and one of the words for “the,” which is “al”, and one of them is the word for “book” because “kitaab” just shows up all the time. But most of the words I had to painstakingly sound out each letter and then listen to myself as I was saying them. I’d be like, “Oh, it’s that word,” even if I knew it, which is this process that I must’ve gone through in English, but I don’t remember doing it for the Latin script.

Lauren: I think that is one of the things that makes it really hard for people who grow up in highly literate, highly educated societies to tease writing and reading apart from language. But actually, when you step back, you realise that writing is actually super weird.

Gretchen: It’s so weird! It’s this interesting – it really is a technology. It’s a thing you do on top of language to do stuff with language, but it’s not the language itself. There are thousands and possibly millions of languages that have never been written down in the history of humanity. We have no idea. We’ve never met a society of humans, or heard of a society of humans, without language. But those are spoken and signed languages, which are just kind of there. Writing, by contrast, was invented somewhere between 3 and 4 times in the history of humanity.

Lauren: That we know of.

Gretchen: That we know of.

Lauren: There might’ve been a society that did a very ephemeral form of snow writing that we have lost forever. But we have records of 3 or 4 times.

Gretchen: It’s been invented a handful of times. There are a few other cases where there are scripts that haven’t been deciphered by modern humans. Maybe they’re scripts, maybe they’re not – it’s not quite clear. But it’s definitely a handful of number of times. And then once other cultures come in contact with the technology of writing, they’re like, “Oh, this is cool. Let’s adapt this to our linguistic situation,” and it gets borrowed a heck of a lot. But it only got cemented a few times.

Lauren: It’s worth saying that “3 to 4” is a bit squishy because it’s not entirely clear if cuneiform, which is a very pointy form of writing from Babylonia, somehow inspired the Egyptian system that became what we know as the hieroglyphs or if they just happened around the same time by coincidence are something we may never really fully put together. That’s a very contested situation. That’s why we can’t even pin down the number of times we think it was invented.

Gretchen: Cuneiform is the one that’s made with the sharpened reed that you push into your clay tablets or, if you’re some people on the internet, into your gingerbread because there’s some really excellent examples of cuneiform gingerbread tablets people have made, which I just wanna – yeah, it’s really great. The Egyptian hieroglyphs people have seen. But yeah, it’s unclear whether they were in contact with each other and kind of heard of each other in a very loose sense and were inspired by each other because there was some amount of contact between those two areas, or if that was elsewhere. The other two – one is in Mesoamerica, in modern-day Mexico and that area, where they had a writing system there that, again, developed into lots of different scripts as it got borrowed from different areas, of which the best deciphered is the Mayan script from the 3rd Century BCE. There’s also the Olmec script, which is probably the oldest. The Zapotec script is also really old. There’s a bunch of scripts in the modern-day Mexico area that also developed independently.

Lauren: Then the final system arose in China around the Bronze Age a couple of thousand years BCE. Because this script was mostly found in its most earliest forms on oracle bones, it’s known as the “oracle bone” script.

Gretchen: What is an oracle bone?

Lauren: They are turtle bones that are used in divination.

Gretchen: Oh.

Lauren: Yeah.

Gretchen: And, again, the Chinese script, once it developed further, it was also, yeah, influenced a bunch of the other writing systems in the area.

Lauren: I find it super fascinating, with absolutely no historical knowledge or insight to bring to this, that in these three different places that were completely separate and going about their own cultural lives writing arose at a similar time around 3,000 to 4,000 years ago.

Gretchen: Yeah! You wonder what was in the water or something. Well, and it’s partially, I think, that there’s a certain level of writing makes it easier to do things like administrative bureaucracy if you’re trying to keep track of whether people paid their taxes or – it’s a very empire-y thing to have is to develop a writing system.

Lauren: Oh yeah. And it’s absolutely worth stating that it’s not like three people in these three different locations all woke up on the same Tuesday 4,000 years ago and were like, “I’m gonna write a long letter to someone.”

Gretchen: Did they have Tuesdays 4,000 years ago?

Lauren: What you see is this emergence of, “I’m just gonna make a couple of notes so I know how much money you owe me.” Some of the earliest cuneiform tablets we have are just, like, beer supply stock takes.

Gretchen: Like, “Three oxes and this many baskets of grain” or whatever.

Lauren: I feel like it’s very human to be like, “We love writing because it’s poetry, and I can send letters to people I love,” and it’s like, no, it’s actually, “I just wanted to know how much you owe me.”

Gretchen: The king just wants to know if these people have paid their taxes.

Lauren: So, what you get is – although I’m like, “Oh, it all happened within similar millennia,” it is actually centuries of development from just keeping tabs on a few items to a fully fleshed out written system.

Gretchen: What types of things people thought were important to write down – things like legal codes and stuff like that – one of the interesting things that I came across when I was looking this up was that there’s a person named Enheduanna, who is the earliest known poet whose name has been recorded. She was the high priestess of the goddess Inanna and the moon god Nanna in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. There we go. But authorship shows up much later than some anonymous civil servant keeping track of who’s registered which grain or some anonymous priest or something keeping track of who’s made various offerings. This idea of like, “Oh, you’re gonna write poetry,” is a step later.

Lauren: Filing your tax is what is actually one of the best links you have to those ancient civilisations.

Gretchen: There’s this Egyptian named Ptahhotep – that’s “Pta,” P-T, even though I know I’m not pronouncing it that way – he was a vizier in Egypt. He’s also one of the first named writers, the first book in history – or people call him the first book in history – because he wrote these Maxims of Ptahhotep. There may have been people who were writing on more perishable materials that didn’t get recorded and stuff like that. It’s this whole process of, “Okay, I’m going to draw these little diagrams of oxen or something or draw these little diagrams of this plant or this animal or whatever to record what types of things get recorded.” But then in order for it to actually become a writing system, there’s also this step of abstraction that has to happen. This is when you start saying, “Okay, well, the word for this very easily visualisable thing” – so I’m thinking of oxen because the word for “ox” in one of the Semitic languages, I think, was something like /alef/. And so, this “ox’s head” gets transformed into, “Okay, what if this is the sound at the beginning of the word for ‘ox’s head,’” which is /alef/, and it gets transformed into our modern letter A, which is “alpha.” “Alpha” in Greek is just the name of the letter. It’s not “an ox’s head” in Greek anymore because the Greeks borrowed it form the Phoenicians. This level of abstraction that has to go from, “Okay, I’m gonna draw an ox’s head” – if you turn a capital A upside down, it kind of looks like an ox’s head.

Lauren: It’s got its little horns, which are the feet of an A.

Gretchen: Yeah, and there’re all these related languages. You know, Arabic’s got alif at the beginning, even though it doesn’t look like an ox’s head anymore. Hebrew’s got an alef, and Greek’s got an alpha, and all of these alphabets that begin with A. It’s this level of abstraction where you can use this thing to stand for this thing that was associated with an ox.

Lauren: There’re a couple of main different ways that you can relate these abstract images that you’re putting down in writing to the language that you are trying to capture. Of course, being a linguistics podcast, I was gonna bring this straight back to the structure of language.

Gretchen: Well, I think it’s interesting to look at the structure of languages in different areas of the world, and how people reflect those in the writing systems that are developed for those languages. When they borrow a writing system for a language with a very different structure, they end up doing certain adaptations to account for not just like, “Okay, languages have different sounds,” but also those sounds are organised and structured in different ways with relationship to each other. The writing systems often reflect some of that history.

Lauren: The Latin alphabet that both of us are most familiar with has a very approximate correspondence between each character of the writing system and a sound in the language. And I say “approximate” because English spelling is a wonderful historical record of how some of those sound changes have changed over time. I’m just gonna keep this upbeat. You can fall down a giant well of English writing system problems, but to get to a point where the majority of letters have a pretty stable correspondence to sounds that we recognise as phones in the language, and that allows us to write out the words of English.

Gretchen: One of the things that’s true about a lot of the Indo-European languages is that they have a particular ratio between consonants and vowels in the words, where they have a fair bit of consonants in relationship to their vowels but not a ton. You can see this in the writing system because the writing system represents consonants and vowels separately. And yet, when the Greeks were borrowing the alphabet from the Phoenicians – Phoenician is a Semitic language like modern-day Arabic and Hebrew – that alphabet only had consonants in it – letters for consonants – because the vowels were not that important. This is still true of modern-day Semitic languages is they’re often written in writing systems that don’t represent the vowels or kind of optionally represent the short vowels, or sometimes they represent the long vowels, but they’re often written in writing systems where the vowels can be omitted. That’s not really a thing you can do very well in Indo-European languages and still have things understood because the vowels carry enough information that you need to represent them somehow.

Lauren: Even when you have a phonemic script, it’s not necessary to always represent all of the sounds to convey the language.

Gretchen: Right. Then conversely, there are other languages where the vowels are even more important and, in fact, every consonant comes with a vowel or virtually every consonant comes with a vowel. In those, you often get what are called “syllabaries,” where they represent one syllable at a time, because why bother with representing each of these things separately when in every context where you have a consonant there’s gonna be a nearby vowel – or in virtually every context there’s gonna be a nearby vowel – and so you can have a symbol that just represents the whole syllable there. That’s also a structure that doesn’t work very well for Indo-European languages because they don’t have that many vowels. There’s this spot of like they have important enough vowels that you need to represent the vowels somehow but not so important are vowels that you have to represent lots of vowels all the time, whereas languages like Japanese or Hindi – well, Hindi’s Indo-European, but it’s got more vowels, I guess.

Lauren: The Devanagari writing system is inherently focused on the syllable, which is a very different approach to reading. Each character of this writing system, if there’s no vowel specified, it just comes with a bonus vowel. It’s like, “Buy this consonant, get this free letter A sound.”

Gretchen: Right. That’s partly a feature of the writing system, but it can only be a feature of the writing system because it’s already a feature of the language. A similar thing goes for a language like Chinese, where a lot of things are based around a syllable.

Lauren: Then you can go a level of abstraction further where your character in the writing system represents a word-level thing and doesn’t have a direct relationship to the sound correspondence, which is what happens with the Chinese script.

Gretchen: I think it’s important to recognise that there is a phonetic component to Chinese characters. They often make use of – especially for words that are more abstract – it’s not just like, “Oh, here’s a bunch of little pictures that we’ve drawn,” because that’s not capable of conveying abstract concepts like grammatical particles and words for things that don’t come with easy pictures. And so, making use of, “Okay, a lot of our words are one or two syllables long, so here’s a word that’s relatively easy to visualise that sounds very similar to a word that is not as easy to visualise.” We can just add a thing to be like, “It sounds like this, but it’s got a meaning more related to this,” and you can be like, “Oh, it must be this more abstract word.” The classic example, which I’m definitely gonna do the tones wrong on, is that the word for “horse” is /ma/, and the word for mother is also /ma/ with a different tone, and you can add the little horse semantic component with the woman semantic component and be like, “Oh, it’s the word that sounds like ‘horse’ but has to do with something with a woman,” and then you end up with “mother.”

Lauren: This works for languages in China because they tend to be not as long as words in English. We like to add all these extra bits of morphology within our grammar, whereas, again, you get – not a direct rule force – but you get this general tendency where the writing system kind of fits with the vibe of the grammar of the language.

Gretchen: One example of that is in Japanese where they were heavily influenced by the Chinese script, but Japanese actually does have suffixes and other little grammatical words and things you need to change about words. They made some of the Chinese characters that had formerly only had semantic things into just like, “Oh, this makes this sound, and this makes this sound,” because they needed to be able to represent that morphological information that’s not super important in Chinese but is very important in Japanese. You end up adapting a script into something else when it gets borrowed in a different context. Another interesting example here is Farsi or Persian which is an Indo-European language that’s conventionally written with the same script as Arabic except it’s also had a couple of additional letters added because Persian has a P and Arabic doesn’t. They had to create a symbol for the sound P, which is why you get “Farsi” instead of “Parsi” because Arabic doesn’t pronounce that P. So, it makes the P into an F. Sometimes you get people adding additional letters like adding a letter for P. Sometimes you get adapting whole sets of a script.

Lauren: Sometimes you lose letters. English had distinct characters for /θ/ and /ð/ until it was technologically easier to just use the characters in the printing press that English had borrowed. It’s makes me a little bit sad. But also, it makes international people – maybe it’s a little bit easier.

Gretchen: We used to have a thorn for the /ð/ sound, but those early printing presses from continental Europe didn’t have thorns on them. I mean, Icelandic still has thorns. One of the things that I think is more interesting in the closer to modern era – not strictly modern era – is cultures and peoples that are familiar with the idea of writing yet take the idea of writing and say, “We’re gonna make our own homegrown script that actually works really well for our particular language.” One of my favourites is the Cherokee syllabary, which was invented by Sequoyah, who was a Cherokee man who didn’t know how to read in English, but he’d encountered the Latin-based writing system in English. He thought it was cool that the English speakers had this, and so he locked himself in shed for several years and came up with a syllabary for Cherokee. Some of the symbols on the Cherokee syllabary look something like Latin letters, but they stand for completely different things because he wasn’t just learning to read from English. Some of them are completely different. This became hugely popular among the Cherokee in the area. There were newspapers in this in the 1800s. There was very high literacy in Cherokee country. It was really popular. It’s even still found on modern-day computer keyboards and stuff like this. You can get Windows and stuff in Cherokee. It’s this interesting example of that’s one where we can say a particular person was inspired by writing systems but also created his own thing that became very popular.

Lauren: The thing that makes Cherokee so compelling to me is not only did he come up with an incredibly elegant, well thought out, suits the language system, but that he actually got uptake as well – that the community decided to use this as the writing system that they would learn to read and write in, and that it had uptake. It’s very easy to come up with ways of improving the technology of writing but, as I think you’re fond of saying, language is very much an open-source project. You can come up with really elegant solutions, but if no one else is gonna take them up, that’s not gonna be very helpful. So, Sequoyah’s work is doubly amazing for that reason.

Gretchen: People actually made printing presses with the Cherokee symbols and were using those. Another interesting case of this disconnect between a person or people coming up with a system and actual uptake of it is Korean, which has what I think linguists generally agree is just the best writing system.

Lauren: Yeah, we’re like, “Writing as a technology is amazing. All writing systems are equally valid. But Korean is particularly great.”

Gretchen: “But Korean’s really cool.” The thing that’s cool about it from a completely biased linguist perspective is that the writing system of Korean, Hangul, the script, is not just based on individual sounds or phonemes, it’s actually at a more precise level based on the shape of the mouth and how you configure the mouth in order to make those particular sounds. There’s a lot of, okay, here are these closely related sounds – let’s say you make them all with the lips – and you just add an additional stroke to make it this other related sound that you make with the lips. Between P and B and M, which are all made with the lips, those symbols have a similar shape. It’s not an accident. It’s very systematic between that and the same thing with T and D and N. Those have a similar shape because they have this relationship. It’s very technically beautiful from an analysis of language perspective.

Lauren: I love this so much that when we were prototyping a potential script for the Aramteskan language for the Shadowscent books, when I was constructing that language, I also started constructing a script that we never used anywhere, but it was helpful to think about how the characters would write and what writing implements they would use. If you look at the script, you’ll notice that the letter P and B are very similar, but B has an additional stroke. T and D are very similar, but D has an additional stroke. Very much feature driven. And then for the vowels – it’s roughly a quadrant in the writing space – the /i/ vowel is in the top left of the quadrant, the /u/ vowel is in the top right of the quadrant, the /a/ vowel is in the bottom left of the quadrant.

Gretchen: So clever!

Lauren: It was actually just for really selfish reasons that I decided to go with a feature-based system, and that is that it was easier for me to remember if I used the features of the language and made sure that the voiced sound was always identical to the voiceless one but just with an additional stroke. It meant that I only had to remember half the characters.

Gretchen: That’s very elegant. The easy to remember bit is also true about the Hangul script because it’s got so much regularity. The famous quote about Hangul is something like “A wise man can learn it in an afternoon and a foolish man can learn it in a day.”

Lauren: So catchy!

Gretchen: There’s probably a better version of that quote. What’s interesting about it from an adoption perspective is that Hangul was invented by Sejong the Great.

Lauren: Appropriately named.

Gretchen: Who has a national holiday now because of the script. But it was created in 1443. It’s not quite clear whether it was him personally doing everything or whether he had an advisory committee of linguists, but it’s really extremely well-adapted to the linguistic situation of Korean in particular. Even though it’s just also really cool for how it represents the inside of the mouth, but it’s really well adapted for Korean. It was invented in 1443, but it wasn’t popularised in use until several centuries later because for a long time Korean was also using, like Japanese, this adapted version of the Chinese script or adapted version of the Japanese script because of the cultural influences. In the early 20th century, they were doing a much bigger literacy push in Korea to be like, “What want everyone to learn how to read.” And they said, “Okay, we’re gonna have an orthographic reform, and we’re gonna use this script which has this very nice historical pedigree but also is much easier to learn than this complicated thing that we had done that wasn’t really designed for Korean.” It’s got this historical antecedence but also it came back in the modern-day. Now, everything in Korean is written in it. It’s because it’s really easy to learn how to read and write in. The historical uptake wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t during King Sejong’s lifetime where they were like, “Oh, yeah, now we’re all gonna use his script,” people were like, “Okay, king, you’ve got this hobby,” but it wasn’t popularised until later.

Lauren: Even when there is really strong abstraction, humans have this unavoidable tendency to think about the relationship between sounds and other senses. In sound-based writing systems – Suzy Styles, who has been on the podcast before and works on perception across the senses, did an experiment alongside Nora Turoman where they looked at whether people can guess, for writing systems they’re not familiar with, which character was the /u/ sound and which character was the /i/ sound. They found that for a whole variety of scripts there is a much higher than chance – because there’s only two choices. If was completely arbitrary, it would be 50/50. But people do tend, across the evolution of sound-based writing systems, to have /u/ that has a more rounded, bigger sound has properties in the writing system that re-occur. People continue to unavoidably link the sounds of the language to the written properties of the script in a very low-level way. I’ll link to that study. It’s really great.

Gretchen: That’s interesting. It’s not gonna be 100%, but there’s this slightly better than chance relationship.

Lauren: Yeah.

Gretchen: Visual representation of physical information is also something that shows up in ways of writing signed languages.

Lauren: Yeah. Everything we’ve talked about so far, I think, we’ve talked about for spoken languages, but it is possible to write signed languages as well.

Gretchen: There are several different systems in place. Some of them are language-specific like, “Oh, this is the system for writing ASL in particular,” and some of them are kind of like your linguist, International Phonetic Alphabet trying to provide a language-agnostic way of writing signed languages for research purposes but, in a way, that’s sort of impractical, like the IPA for general use. There’s an interesting set of systems. There isn’t as much agreement among representers of signed languages in writing which amounts of information are crucial information that has to be written down and which are optional bits of information that the reader can fill in from their own knowledge of the language and the signer.

Lauren: I think it’s worth flagging that that’s not just a discussion that arises for signed languages. It’s just that those conversations got thrashed out for spoken languages four millennia ago, and we weren’t around when people were arguing about whether intonation had any role in the – or people probably were arguing because it was an emerging thing.

Gretchen: Well, when people were arguing about like, “Do we write vowels or not,” which was a big thing. Do we write vowels? Do we write intonation? And punctuation followed quite a bit after – you know, punctuation wasn’t as much of a thing for several of the early centuries and millennia of writing. They didn’t do punctuation. There’s some level of ongoingness that’s still there. If you think about the internet efforts to try to write tone of voice very precisely and communicate sarcasm and irony and rhetorical questions very precisely, there’s some level of ongoing debate that’s still happening in the spoken language context but not nearly as much as is still happening in the signed language context.

Lauren: Also, just because of the way that signed language communities tend to be embedded within larger spoken language communities, people who sign as a primary language tend to also be educated in the mainstream spoken language, and so literacy gets developed in, say, a language like English.

Gretchen: I think that’s the case for a lot of smaller spoken languages as well where sometimes there’s this imperative of, “Okay, we want to be able to write things to each other” or something, but if there hasn’t been a history of a lot of published literature in that language that you’re trying to read, then it becomes a question of, “Should we teach this in school,” because there isn’t literature there, even though there would be oral literature. It becomes a chicken and egg problem of which comes first, or which do you start teaching first, when you’re constantly comparing stuff against a few very large spoken languages that have this very long writing tradition. It shows up in languages with a newer writing tradition.

Lauren: Education systems have a massive influence there. My grandmother, actually her strongest written language is German. Even though she and her sister speak to each other in Polish, they would write to each other in German because that’s the language they had been educated to write in. Even with people who don’t speak minority languages, the influence of the education system there is so massive.

Gretchen: Reading and writing, they’re separate skills even though they’re often taught together. Sometimes you can read a language that you can’t write or something like that. But it’s a big question. With signed languages, because video technology is now available, if we’d had good audio recording technology 4,000 years ago, the pressure to develop writing systems for spoken languages might not have been as strong – probably wouldn’t have been as strong – even though there are other useful things that writing can do even in the audio-video era. It’s easier to be like, “Well, you can just make a video of the signer,” and then you’d know exactly what they were trying to say and exactly how they wanted to say it. You wouldn’t have this level of abstraction of are you gonna try to write it down in a way that imperfectly represents what a person is gonna do when they’re producing it. It is still interesting looking at some of the signed language writing systems. Some of them, like Stokoe notation and HamNoSys, which stands for “Hamburg Notation System,” they try to very physically represent the characteristics of the signer – where their hands are, where their face is, and things like that. There’s another one that I can’t find the name of that is based on the ASCII alphabet, so you can type it into search engine boxes, which has some advantages as well but represents things more abstractly. It’s got this link with Korean, which was representing this very physical aspect of what the mouth is doing. Several of the signed language writing systems like Stokoe and HamNoSys also have this very physical representation what the body’s doing when it’s being produced. But I think they’re more popular among researchers than they are among actual D/deaf users who tend to use video a lot.

Lauren: I encounter Stokoe and HamNoSys in the gesture and signed linguistics literature. I haven’t really seen them too much outside of that.

Gretchen: I think that it’s easy to conflate a language with its writing system because we’re so used to thinking of English as sort of inextricably linked to the Latin alphabet. But there isn’t a reason, in theory, why you couldn’t write English in the Greek alphabet or in the Arabic alphabet or in a very adapted version of Chinese characters where you’d have to do a lot of adaptation. The same thing is true when you write languages that don’t originally use the Latin alphabet and you have romanisations of them. Writing systems are just as much political and contextual. Some of them have this very tight structural relationship to the properties of the languages they represent and some of them have looser relationships because they’ve been adapted to it later.

Lauren: It’s this slightly looser relationship to language as it’s spoken or signed that means that linguists don’t always include writing systems in, say, an Introduction to Linguistics course. We don’t often talk about writing systems. But when we were putting together the Crash Course series, we ended up making writing the topic of our final episode for the series.

Gretchen: I think partly because people are really interested in it, so why not do something about writing, and also because I think that you can use writing systems as a window into some of the interesting structural features of different languages and how the writing systems represent that. As somebody who’s really interested in internet linguistics and the rise of informal writing and how we represent tone of voice and things like that in modern-day writing, and that’s still a moving target evolutionarily speaking, I think it’s interesting to give that linguistic lens on writing systems even though they are imperfect representations of the languages that they represent.

Lauren: “Writing Systems” is Video 16 of Crash Course linguistics, which is wrapping up this month. If you’ve been holding out to watch all 16 of those episodes, you’ll be able to do so very soon or perhaps even now thanks to the temporal vagueness of podcasts.

Gretchen: Crash Course is the YouTube series that we’ve been working on basically all of 2020. It’s especially popular with high school or undergraduate teaching. If you know people that age, or who teach people that age, that may be a useful thing to send to people. We hope that people find it useful as a resource for self-teaching or for instructing in various capacities.

[Music]

Lauren: For more Lingthusiasm and links to all the things mentioned in this episode, go to lingthusiasm.com. You can listen to us on Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Spotify, SoundCloud, YouTube, or wherever else you get your podcasts. You can follow @Lingthusiasm on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Tumblr. You can get IPA scarves, “Not judging your grammar, just analysing it” mugs, and other Lingthusiasm merch at lingthusiasm.com/merch. I tweet and blog as Superlinguo.

Gretchen: I can be found as @GretchenAMcC on Twitter, my blog is AllThingsLinguistic.com, and book about internet language is called Because Internet. Have you listened to all the Lingthusiasm episodes and you wish there were more? You can access to 48 bonus episodes to listen to right now at patreon.com/lingthusiasm or follow the links from our website. Patrons also get access to our Discord chat room to talk with other linguistics fans – like, do you remember learning how to read – and other rewards as well as helping keep the show ad-free. Recent bonus topics include an AMA with a lexicographer and our favourite stories and anecdotes that we just didn’t have time for in some of the earlier episodes. Can’t afford to pledge? That’s okay, too. We also really appreciate it if you could recommend Lingthusiasm to anyone who needs a little more linguistics in their life. And, hey, tell your other favourite podcasts that they could a linguistics episode, and get us on! It’d be fun.

Lauren: Lingthusiasm is created and produced by Gretchen McCulloch and Lauren Gawne. Our Senior Producer is Claire Gawne, our Editorial Producer is Sarah Dopierala, and our music is “Ancient City” by The Triangles.

Gretchen: Stay lingthusiastic!

[Music]

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP meme from Scream Queens Ep 12 "Dorkus"

"I think you did it."

"These morons need someone to tear them a new one."

"I am going to write the missive to end all missives."

"I don't want your first time to be with a murderer."

"I love you. I would never, ever hurt you."

"I promise you're safe. That was part of the deal."

"You could never be touched."

"How many lives could you have saved?"

"Our mission never involved killing anyone."

"And it's not just wearing raw chickens on their heads and calling each other gay slurs while jumping around naked."

"It was a conspiracy."

"Stop rationalizing it. You killed people. You are not allowed to just say, "yeah, but I had a super good reason for it."

"Who did you kill?"

"What, are you gonna kill me now?"

"I would never hurt you. I just can't let you leave."

"If you could just stop, hear what I have to say, to understand---please--why I did what I did, you could still love me."

"Don't try to justify it all after the fact."

"They showed up one day thinking that I was a double agent, that I couldn't be trusted. They were going to kill me."

"Hey, hey, you can trust me, you can trust me! Ask me and I'll do anything. I'll prove it."

"Don't you see that they did that on purpose?! They knew that if you actually killed someone, you would be their slave!"

"We were the good guys. We were in this together!"

"I did this for you. Don't you understand?"

"The more I hear about this whole thing, the more I'm starting to think the idea that there are good and bad people in the world is just something adults use to get children to stay in line."

"I mean, aren't we being naive?"

"You took me literally?"

"You are already a murderer, [NAME], you don't have to be a douche as well!"

"This is not a philosophy course. This is murder-- serial murder!"

"I was so young and desperate to be special and loved."

"I never had a real girlfriend before."

"I was vulnerable enough to share my darkest fetish with you, and now you're making me feel self-conscious."

"Just come in and take me now."

"You are ridiculously and laughably gullible."

"What self-respecting man wouldn't do anything to get revenge for being degraded like that?"

"Unfortunately, I don't have great aim with a crossbow and I can't see anything in that mask."

"I don't want to be here anymore."

"I feel sick. This isn't what I wanted."

"Don't judge me for what we both know had to happen."

"You know what? Let's just run away together. You and me. Forget everything."

"Don't you see what I'm willing to do for you?"

"No! I don't want to speak to your supervisor!"

"I've gotten zero swipes on my profile!"

"Do you remember any aspect of this super simple plan?"

"I literally think you should consider undergoing a surgical procedure to remove your ovaries/testicles, thereby sparing human race exposure to your DNA."

"I mean, I'm all for public shaming. I practically invented it. It's the sign of a healthy culture. But not when I'm the one getting shamed."

"I wanted to be famous, but not like this."

"To all the so-called mainstream media, including weird web sites that nobody has heard of who have used my name as clickbait, and to all the relentless unwashed hordes on Twitter, who have taken every opportunity to mock and attack me mercilessly from the safety of their stained futons, I offer the following heartfelt sentiment. You can all suck it!"

"Despite my outward bravado, I was dead inside."

"I knew my glamorous reign of terror was over."

"I ordered an asp online so I could kill myself like Cleopatra, and now I'm just waiting for it to sense my body heat and come out and bite me so this will all be over."

"I understand that what you're going through is really intense. And I know you and I haven't really always seen eye to eye, And you say crazy-mean stuff to me all the time. And I have a real problem with your casual racism,

which is something we need to work on. But, girl, I promise I got your back."

"You're young, smart and beautiful, and you got a lot of living ahead of you."

"Maybe this is one of those teachable moments, you know? Like my grandmama says. Maybe this is where you learn the lesson that words really mean something and they can hurt people, so you just can't always say the first horrible thing that pops into your head all the time."

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Get me out of this suit!"

"What the hell is going on? Who is that guy?"

"Everyone on campus but me is a dork!"

"I'm gonna explode."

"When I woke up, I was wrapped in dynamite!"

"Oh, my god, it's a bomb."

"Yes, a totally innocent man who seemed super nice and probably did nothing wrong at all just got blown up in our living room. Bummer. Now, let's honor his memory by moving on."

"Can you not make it about you for one second?!"

"Stop wallowing and start concentrating on what's really important here--restoring my reputation."

"I need to go on an apology tour. You know, like celebrities, when they say something offensive, they just go on tv and apologize, and everybody forgives them, even though they don't mean it at all."

"I'm gonna fake apologize, you'll record it, we'll post it online, and it'll all be fine."

"But I thought that you said that you weren't the person who put the acid in the spray tanner."

"Why do you think the devil let me live?"

"I think you saw what you wanted to see."

"You can't kill people from a loving and positive place."

"Invasion of the dad bod snatchers."

"If it's good enough for the CIA, it's good enough for me."

"Get ready to make the most important playlist of your life."

"Well, I decided to stop denying what you and I both knew the minute we laid eyes on each other. And once I did, something inside of me, I don't know, it just, just clicked. And I guess I just wanted to get a little crazy."

"So you just decided to break into my house in the middle of the day?"

"I've been a very bad boy."

"I'm just trying to figure out what your angle is. What are you trying to get out of this?"

"You know what I'm trying to get? 45 minutes alone, so I can go crazy on you."

"Turn out the lights!"

"These are my minions."

"Those are the hounds."

"How do you know I'm not the killer?"

"This whole file is made up."

"Somebody just swiped right on me on Tinder."

"Any guy swiping right on you is a miracle."

"You want a drag?"

"That was the best sex of my life."

"I think you're just relieved to find out that intercourse doesn't have to be followed by hours and hours of crying and a weird purchase of an engagement ring."

"Look, I never knew sex could be like that. At first, I was like, I was like, "wow, she's being really loud. Are the neighbors gonna call the police?" And then I was like, "wow, now I'm being really loud. why am I screaming so much? They're definitely gonna call the police." And then I was just stunned at how flexible you are. I mean, I thought you had to be a gymnast to get both feet behind your head."

"I just think that maybe you and I were meant to be together after all."

"I find her unbearably annoying."

"I recognized the island splash scent of that douche you use."

"What movie are you even referring to?"

"Don't patronize me. I look like a monster."

"Well, have you thought of a little plastic surgery?"

"What are you doing? I thought you came here to apologize."

"I apologize for nothing."

"All evidence points to you."

"I know it was you. Have fun in hell, bitch. And fyi, this is probably gonna hurt a lot."

"Stop recording!"

"I knew that bitch was a nut burger the minute I met her."

"But remember, she's armed and dangerous."

"Oh, please tell me you did not bring your insane and obviously blind Tinder hookup back here."

"I lost my virginity to a Nickelback song."

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Along for the Ride

Dean Winchester x Reader

Words: 3007

Summary: When you first started hunting with Dean Winchester, you hadn’t expected it to last this long. Together, you face all kinds of ghouls and basically become the ultimate badass couple. But when you start to think you’re just another fling for him, he has no trouble correcting you. 

Notes: This is meant to be a fluffier Dean piece, but you know me, I have to have a bit of angst. I am trying to break up Dean’s darker imagines with fluff, so be prepared for Friday. 

Special shout out to my amazing beta reader Sarah, @suckmysupernatural​ . I love her so much and honestly, she’s helped me so much in getting these imagines out for you and she has some absolutely killer writing of her own!

Want more Supernatural? Find it HERE

-

You swung your knife hard into the blood-sucker’s neck, his head rolling across the warehouse floor. You turned to see Dean saw off another one himself, blood covering both of your clothes. 

“That’s the last of them.” He groaned, lifting up his shirt to examine the bruises and cuts. “That son of a bitch really put up a fight.” You wiped your stained blade off on your jeans and opened the warehouse door, basking in the autumn sun.  Dean shook the dust and dirt off of his jacket and wrapped his arm around you as you both walked to the Impala. 

“I think this calls for a beer,” you noted and he nodded in agreement. The two of you just took out an entire nest of vamps, a little celebration was deserved. And after a few bottles of beer, Dean texted Sam and told him that you would be a while and the two of you had an entirely different kind of celebration back at the motel. 

-

The two of you laid together in a comforting silence, your arms wrapped around Dean as he stared up at the ceiling. This was pretty routine for your relationship. You had each other’s backs during a hunt and you were there to help each other unwind afterwards. Poor Sam usually just went and got something to eat by himself. You wrapped your arms around Dean a little tighter, that part of you close to your heart wishing that this was more than it was. But you could never tell Dean that you loved him. That wasn’t part of the deal. 

“What’s on your mind?” Dean asked, feeling your shoulders tense. 

“Pie.” You lied, laughing as he leaned over you, chuckling deeply in your ear. His green eyes- god, those eyes- stared at you intensely. 

“I’m serious. What’s up?” 

“Nothing, Dean.” You were usually a great liar. It was a skill that was required in your particular profession. When it came to Dean, however, you were totally transparent. You decided to change the subject to hopefully get him off your case. “Do you want some coffee? I’m dying for some caffeine.” You slid into your jeans and stole his flannel before he could grab it. 

“That’s my shirt.” He huffed, finding his pants. 

“I like you better like this.” You grinned, tracing a hand over his bare chest. “Besides, I look better in it.” Dean pulled you in for a rough kiss, nearly falling back on to the bed. You laughed as you pushed away. “Easy, tiger. We should go meet up with Sam. He’s probably been sitting in a diner somewhere all alone.” 

“Yeah, yeah, poor Sammy.” You ruffled Dean’s hair and grabbed his keys with a devilish grin.

“First one to the car gets to drive.” 

“Oh hell no.” Dean practically lunged at you and you squealed as you jumped out of the way, sprinting out the door. 

-

“I would ask what took you two so long, but I really don’t want to know.” Sam took note of your change in clothes and put the pieces together. He had been typing away on his laptop looking for a possible new case for the past couple of hours. Luckily, most of the patrons of the diner just thought he was writing a horror novel. 

“Find anything good?” Dean asked, motioning to the waitress for two cups of coffee. You couldn’t help but notice the way she leaned over the counter just so, flipping her hair over her shoulder. 

“Did you want any sugar, sugar?” You rolled your eyes, but Dean, being Dean, smiled at her. 

“No thanks.” She winked and strut off, her hips swaying more than you thought was humanly possible. Your eyes fell to the counter. Sam, having noticed your reaction to the encounter, started to list possible cases to distract you. He knew that Dean wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. But he also knew that Dean didn’t always realize when his harmless flirting wasn’t harmless anymore. 

“There’s a group of campers that disappeared in the Rockies, all that was left in their camp was a couple of demonic symbols carved into the trees.” 

“Sounds a little more like a prank than our kind of thing.” You noted, looking at the screen over his shoulder. “What about this one?” You pointed to a possible poltergeist case in Tulsa. “Four women over the last ten years, each found in their locked apartments with the words “Not Enough” carved into their chests.” The three of you collectively grimaced. 

“Hell hath no fury.” You muttered and the boys voiced their agreement. 

Sam was driving, so you flipped a coin to figure out who got shot-gun. A string of curses came from Dean as he climbed into the back seat. You smirked with victory and blew him a sarcastic kiss. 

“Real cute.” He barked and you and Sam shared a laugh. You started to scour records from the town to see if you could find any strange or violent deaths. One in particular fit the bill. You motioned for Dean to look and his fingers grazed your shoulder as he pulled himself forward. 

“Look at this. Martha Greenburg; 25. Ten years ago, she threw herself off of a bridge and wrote in her suicide note that she wasn’t enough for him. The police concluded that she was talking about her fiance, Haris, who broke her heart the previous day.” 

“Not enough.” Dean repeated, grabbing your phone to get a better look at the story. Your eyes lingered on him with a sad expression. Something about the words hit you harder than you would admit. You didn’t see Sam’s eyes dart over towards you, a deep frown appearing on his face. Dean returned your phone. “So, heart broken Martha kills herself and now she wants other women to feel the pain she felt?”

“That makes some kind of sick, sad sense.” You sighed, resigning to looking out your window for the rest of the trip. 

When you got to another motel, Sam suggested that Dean go in and get a room while the two of you bounced some more theories back and forth. As soon as Dean was gone, Sam turned to you with a serious, empathetic expression. 

“Is everything okay, Y/N?” His hand found yours in that classic Comfort Mode Sam way. 

“Of course.” You faked a laugh, but it didn’t work. “Look, I’ve just had a few stupid ideas running through my head lately, but I’m sure they’ll pass.”

“What ideas?”

“Seriously Sam, it’s nothing.”

“Seriously Y/N, it clearly isn’t.” You accepted defeat and took a deep breath. 

“I’ve just started to wish that it all meant more, you know? To him.”

“Did something happen between you and Dean?” Sam actually looked ready to smack his big brother upside the head. 

“No, no, not exactly. I forgot what we were, that’s all.” You watched Dean come back out of the motel with a heavy heart and a sad smile. “But hey, I’m just happy I get to be along for the ride.” 

Dean got back to the car before Sam could respond. He just looked at you with a sympathetic sadness that made you feel even worse. You should have just kept your mouth shut. You rolled down your window so Dean could talk.

“You two ready to change and head to the coroner’s office?” He noticed the change of tone in the car and scoffed. “Man, you two make ghouls look excited. Let’s go.” You gave Sam a pleading glance before grabbing your bag from the back and going in to change into your pantsuit. Sam and Dean found their bags and Sam punched Dean’s shoulder.

“What did you say to her?” He asked angrily. 

“What are you talking about?” Dean snapped back, rubbing the now sore spot. 

“To Y/N? What did you do?”

“Sammy,” Dean’s mouth formed a suggestive smirk. “I think we all know what Y/N and I did.”

“God, Dean that’s not what I meant.” Sam shook his head and slammed the trunk shut. 

-

There was an odd tension between the three of you as you left the coroner’s office. Every bodies’ insides were basically mush, as if they’d hit a wall at 100 miles per hour. A strange burn marked their hands. Their lungs were also filled with water. Oh, and sure enough, every single one had the words ‘Not Enough’ deeply carved across their chest. Every woman was engaged, and from the reports, they were happy. Martha’s distorted jealousy took that from them. It made your skin crawl. 

“Hey,” Dean said suddenly, pulling you to the side. “Are you okay?” You tried to hide all of the turning in your stomach. 

“Are we really going to do this again?” You laughed, but this time, it wasn’t as convincing. “Dean, I’m fine.” His stupid green eyes were doing that thing they did when he was trying to get you to tell him something. So instead, you kissed him very, very convincingly. Sam cleared his throat and you pulled away. 

“Martha was cremated. So salting and burning the bones is out.” He informed, giving you a strange look. Dean composed himself, still a little stunned. “We’re back to square one.” 

You all wracked your brains to figure out what the spirit could be latching onto. You remembered something about the crime scene photos. Something about their hands. 

“I know what it is.” You marched back into the morgue and pulled back the tarp covering the woman’s body. “Look at her left hand.” A band was burned around her finger- where her engagement ring would have been. “All of the women had this burn. What if they all had the same ring?”

“It could be worth looking into.” Sam noted, still giving you that annoyingly concerned stare. You tried to shrug it off. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” You brushed past Dean and rushed out to the impala. 

“This is what I was talking about.” Sam hissed at his brother. “Dean, you need to talk to her. She…” His voice trailed off. You would kill him if you found out that he told Dean what you said. 

“She what?” Dean really sounded worried. If something was wrong, he wanted to know. 

“She thinks she’s just a fling to you, Dean.” He blurted, checking to make sure you were gone. “She said she wished that what you two have meant more.”

“Why would she think that?” Now he sounded hurt. Couldn’t you tell how much you meant to him? Sure, he wasn’t super vocal about his affections, but he always figured you knew.

“I don’t know but she said she’s just happy to be ‘along for the ride’.” Sam sighed, leaving to join Y/N in the car, but Dean stayed back. Along for the ride? What did that even mean? He thought what the two of you had was real, which was not something he was used to, but did you think this was all some prolonged one night stand? With all of his questions, he did know one thing. He loved you- as sappy-romance-movie as that sounded- and he was going to make damn sure that you knew it this time. 

-

Dean did not like this plan. Looking down at the small box in his hand, he shuttered. He really really did not like this plan. You and Sam were waiting in the car in an uncomfortable silence. 

“Did you get it?” Sam asked as Dean climbed into the driver’s seat. He gave his brother a scowl. 

“I don’t like this.” 

“Dean, everything is going to be fine.” You assured him. “I’ll be the bait and once Martha pops in to carve me up, you guys will burn the ring.” 

“Why can’t we just burn it now?” 

“Because if we summon her, we can be sure that we killed her.” You knew that it was dangerous, but it could be your only shot. Sure, you were scared, but you’d never let the boys know that. 

The three of you drove to the spot where this all started; the old bridge that Martha took the dive off of. The bridge had been closed for years, so traffic wasn’t a problem. You got out of the impala, listening to the river flow beneath your feet. You kept a brave face, but Dean could see your nerves. 

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean protested, holding the box in his hand. “We could just torch this thing right now and be done with it.” 

“She only shows up when the ring has a hand, Dean.” You held up your left hand and held out your right for him to give you the box. Instead, he took the ring out himself. 

“You…” He paused, looking for the right words. “You know that I care about you, right?” You stepped back.

“Of course, Dean.” You looked over at Sam, but he was too busy loading the rock salt to notice your frustration. He must have said something. “Look, we don’t have time for this. Let’s just gank the ghost and get out of here.” Dean saw through your toughness, of course, but he didn’t argue. He did, however, lean in for a kiss. It was a different kind of kiss than you usually shared. It wasn’t lusting or rushed. It was slow and sweet and perfect. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead rested against yours. 

“Be careful.” He whispered and slipped the ring onto your finger. Immediately, he was thrown backwards, having to catch himself on the railing to keep from falling over the edge.

“Dean!” You screamed. Martha’s apparition appeared in front of you, her hair wet and matted and her face stained with eternal tears. 

“He’ll never love you.” She croaked, water pouring out of her mouth as she spoke. You braced yourself. There was nothing she could say that you hadn’t already thought of a million times. 

“Let’s dance, bitch.” 

The ring on your hand started to burn and you cried out, trying to take it off. Her hand latched around your throat and dragged you to the side of the bridge, hanging you over the railing. 

“Y/N!” Sam shouted, aiming the salt loaded rifle at Martha. She flicked her wrist and sent the weapon flying into the water. 

“It isn’t real.” She groaned, tightening her grip on your throat. “He doesn’t care. He’d rather roam around with waitresses and bartenders than be shackled down with you.” You tried to block her out, but her words sunk into you. “Because you’re not enough. You will never be enough.” Yout felt a sharp pain scrape across your chest as she started to carve her words into you. Through the pain and your screaming, you were able to tear the ring off of your finger. 

“Dean.” You choked out, tossing the ring to him as Sam started the fire in a trash can that you’d stolen from the motel. Dean threw the ring into the flames before sprinting across the bridge towards you. 

Martha let out a blood curdling scream as her image slowly burned away, her hold on you releasing, sending you tumbling over the edge. Hands latched around your ankle as you swayed over the rushing waters, blood seeping through your t-shirt.

“A little help, Sam!” Dean grunted, your foot slipping slightly in his hand. Sam grabbed your other ankle and the two of them were able to get you back on the bridge. Dean didn’t even let your feet touch the ground before he wrapped his arms around you, holding you as close to him as he could. You winced when his chest pressed against your new wounds. “Oh, crap, sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” You pulled the collar of your shirt down enough to see that Martha had only gotten a few letters before she burned. “Great, now I’m just going to have ‘no’ scarred on my chest.” Dean let out an exasperated laugh, pulling you back to him. 

-

You were packing up your things back at the motel when Dean asked Sam to give him a moment alone with you. You leaned against the hood of the impala, knowing exactly where this conversation was going to go. 

“Do you believe what she said to you?” Okay, maybe you didn’t know where this conversation was going. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Y/N, we all heard what she was saying.” Dean ran his hand down his face. “She said that I’d rather be off with some waitress than be with you. That you’re not enough for me.” 

“Dean, I’m sure she says that to every-”

“Do you believe her?” He repeated, this time he sounded more upset. When you didn’t answer, his face changed with hurt. “Do you really think that little of me? Of us?”

“I’m in love with you, Dean.” You blurted. “That wasn’t part of the plan, but there it is.” Dean stepped closer to you, cupping your cheek. 

“You aren’t just a fling, Y/N. I love you.” Dean cradled the back of your head in his hand as he pulled you in for a kiss. A slow and sweet and perfect kiss. But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. He had to show you that he meant it. He broke the kiss, those green eyes melting your heart completely. “Let’s get married.” You froze. 

“What?”

“Let’s get married.” His face broke into a nervous grin. “Come on, Y/N, we already fight like a married couple. Sam treats you like a sister. I love you more than any girl I’ve ever known. Let’s do it.” The shock of his words faded just enough for you to respond. 

“Okay.” You said breathlessly. Dean scooped you up in his arms and you laughed. 

“I’m glad you two figured it out.” Sam smiled, throwing the last of the bags in the trunk. Dean gave his brother a beaming grin, setting you back on your feet. 

“Come on, Sammy, we’ve got to get a non-haunted ring this time,” He exclaimed, giving you one more kiss. “We’re going to Vegas.” 

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto;

Supernatural: @desimarie12; @deandreamernp​

[mochegato]

The Illusion of Innocence

Written for Jasonette July’s “Innocence” prompt.

 “That was… cute?  No rough.  That’s the word, rough.  That was incredibly rough to watch.” Tim said moving to lay his arm on Jason’s shoulder.  “When did you become such a wimp?”

“What the Fuck, Replacement?” Jason tore his eyes away from Mari’s retreating figure to duck away from Tim’s sudden appearance next to him.  His eyes quickly, discretely returned to Mari.

“Wow.  Just wow.” Tim shook his head.  His hair was going to look like Jason’s if he had to continue to watch these two.

“Fuck you”

“Just ask her out already.  It’s torture watching you two dance around each other like this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Jason said finally turning away and seeing Tim’s deadpan expression.  “I don’t want to ask her out.  If anything, I’m trying to figure out how to get her away from us so you aren’t putting her in danger.  There is no reason she had to know about us just to make us some suits. We could have come up with some bullshit excuse why we needed them to be Kevlar lined.”

“Maybe not.  But she will if she’s going to help us in the future.”

“What!?  Fuck that shit.  You should’ve discussed it with us before you decided to bring in an innocent. She shouldn’t be involved with that or with any of us at all.  You’re endangering a civilian just by letting her know, let alone whatever the fuck else you have planned.  She is going to get killed helping us,” he growled out at Tim.  “AND, she is sweet and innocent.  We should be helping to protect that in people, God knows Gotham destroys it enough, and I’m not going to let you destroy it in her.”

“Okay, first Mari doesn’t need you to protect her.  I know her a lot better than you do and she can do just fine on her own.  Second, that’s just stupid.  Third, she knows what the risks are and agreed to help.  Fourth, since when do you think before you decide to go after someone you like?  Or was it just a gut reflex, ‘what is that feeling? I think it might be real happiness. I could actually build a future with this one.  Well, let’s nip that shit in the bud.’” He said in a deep voiced imitation of Jason. “Fifth, even if you were right, you’re not, but even if you were, I’ll make sure you’ll be there to protect her the first few missions.  You’re welcome for that opening, by the way.  Sixth, you’re an idiot, a continuation of two really, but needed to be reiterated.  Seventh, talk to her before you decide to harass her out of our lives.  Ask her about her… miraculous record.  It’s going to come out pretty quickly, but you might want to be up on it sooner.  Eighth, eighth?  Yeah, eighth. Man this list is getting long. Eighth, Bruce knows and agreed already. Ninth, refer back to numbers two and six, they are really important.  And finally, you think Mari is innocent? That's hilarious." Tim doubled over in exaggerated laughter, pretending to wipe away a tear and clapping Jason on his back, “Oh, my sweet summer child.”

“Okay, A I don’t talk like that. B ‘miraculous record’? What the fuck does that mean?  Who talks like that?  You’ve been watching too many of those magical girl shows.  C you might think you know more than the rest of us but we still should have been involved in this decision.  D what do you mean you ‘know her a lot better’?” He narrowed his eyes at Tim and moved into his space, towering over him.

“You did it that way just to be an ass, another reflex for you.  But, God I wish I could have recorded that to play back to you later.  And right, since when had Bruce ever consulted with us before making a decision?” he scoffed.  “And I mean I know her like I know Steph… Barbara!!  Like I know Barbara. I absolutely trust her, absolutely platonically.” He said attempting to placate Jason.  “I am not in your way.  You are wide open to ask her out.  Or to chicken out, like a little bitch.”

“Screw you, Timbers.”

“I’m not the one you want to screw,” he sing-songed jumping away to avoid Jason swiping at him.

  Marinette had had enough.  She and Red Hood had been standing on the roof of Wayne Enterprises for the last half an hour, which should have been extremely enjoyable.  But instead of their usual easy, flirty banter and lingering looks, Jason seemed to be avoiding looking at her.  When he did happen to look her way his whole body seemed pained and uncomfortable.  When he actually gave a response to her attempts at conversation, it was in short, curt responses.  

Letting out an aggravated groan Marinette finally spoke up. “Okay Jase.  What is going on?” she demanded.

“Red Hood,” he muttered back at her.  He continued to look out over the city pretending to focus on patrol.

“What?”

“When we are in the field you are supposed to use our codenames, not our real names.  How are you going to manage in an actual mission if you can’t even remember the basics?” He bit out a bit more aggressively than was necessary. He finally turned to face her with… a glare? Maybe?  It was hard to tell with his helmet on.

She stared at him in shock for a few moments before responding. “Oooo, you’re being extra assholey tonight. It must be something really bad,” she bit back.  “Also, if you’re going to yell at me, at least have the decency to take off the helmet. It’s degrading to have it on when you’re starting a fight.”

He yanked the helmet off violently leaving just the domino mask to protect his identity.  She could now see the anger radiating off of his features. “I’m not being an asshole.  I’m taking my job seriously.  I’m concerned we’re bringing an innocent into all this. A civilian that is not remotely prepared for it in any way.  I’m frustrated that I’m going to have to spend my time protecting and worrying about you whenever you are helping instead of doing the mission, which is a really good way to get killed, for both me and for you,” he growled out stalking closer to her with each sentence, forcing her back to avoid him physically colliding with her. “And, you and Tim are making plans to get you in the middle of all this shit and you can’t even remember basic protocol for keeping yourself and us safe.  You’re going to put us all in danger, including yourself.”

Marinette reeled back like she had been slapped.  “Says the guy that called Red Robin by his name before he left,” she returned angrily. “Who asked you to worry about me? I don’t need or want you to worry about me instead of focusing on a mission.  That’s on you.  That’s your fucked up priorities, not mine.  And what makes you automatically assume I’m not prepared for any of this?”

“You can’t possibly be prepared. You can’t possibly understand what it is like.  I know you think it will be just a bit of an adventure, but it’s dangerous.  You could die or end up in a wheelchair like Barbara.”

“You think I don’t know the risks? I’m well aware of what is on the line, but I can’t stand by and watch bad things happen and not do something about it, not when I’ve been given the chance to act.  Not when I’ve been asked for my help.”

“Yes you can!” He voice getting louder again.  “You can when the alternative is you die.”

“I know what I’m doing Ja… Hood,” she corrected herself.  “I know what I’m getting into and I’m willing to take on the risks.  Paris had our own supervillain for years, you know.  I know how to protect myself.”

“No, you don’t.  I’ve seen you trip over air.  This isn’t a Disney movie, Pixie!  People die.  I’ve died! Most of the Robins have.  I don’t want you to, too.  I know you believe that good always wins and the bad guys always get punished, but that isn’t the way the world works.  Bad guys win sometimes, frequently.  Good guys die, frequently.  This is a terrible world that destroys people.  You don’t have to be a part of it.”

“Okay, I’ve seen you accidentally swing into a billboard, so you might want to be careful casting those clumsy stones.  And, I’m a part of it already whether you want me to be or not.  You think I don’t know the consequences?  Do you think I’m an idiot?  I see the consequences every day.  I have for a long time.  Years before I even came to Gotham.  I know this isn’t a Disney movie.  If it was, those rats over there would be singing right now.  Do you hear singing?  I don’t, so it must be real life.”  She stopped for a beat to think about what she just said.  “Actually, I’ve seen rats singing in real life so that’s not such a good gauge,” she added shuddering.  “Remind me to tell you about Mr. Rat sometime.”

“This isn’t a joke, Pixie. I know you’re not an idiot but you are naïve,” he gave her a gentle look and reached out to touch her cheek.  “You are still determined to see the best in people. You still have a chance to keep your innocence and that childlike view of the world.  You can stay naïve.  You deserve to.”

She looked at him in shock, her jaw falling open.  What the hell just happened?  She took a breath to think about what to say next and how to respond to whatever that was that just happened.  The condescending jackass.  Naïve? She wasn’t the one that was naïve. And he wasn’t the one that knew more than her.  Is that really what he thought of her this whole time?  Now she was livid.  That arrogant, patronizing asshole.  She was not stupid or naïve.  She slapped his hand away to growl out, “Believing that people can change does not make me naïve. Believing there is good in this world does not make me some wide-eyed, ignorant airhead.  I’ve seen good in this world.  I’ve even seen it here in Gotham.  I’ve seen it in you, despite being the egotistical, disrespectful bastard that you are.” She looked back up at him and gave him a wicked smirk.  “Also, it’s cute that you think I’ve never died.”

“Excuse me?  What does that mean?”

“There’s something you should probably know.  We were going to tell you soon anyway, but I think you might need to hear it now.”

“Okay…”

“Hmmm… I don’t think I want to tell you here though.  I think I want to tell you over there,” she said pointing to a building across the street. “There’s something poetic about revealing your secrets surrounded by gargoyles, don’t you think?  And somehow, Gotham seems to have more of them than Paris. That’s just weird,” she frowned at the thought.

“Pixie…” he noted the determination in her eyes and decided this particular argument was less important than the larger battle.  “Fine! Just let me get my grappling hook out and we can swing over.” He said reaching for it on his belt.

She looked over at him and grinned, a dangerous glint in her eye, “No thanks.  I have my own ride.  Race you!” She took off like a shot running to the edge of the building then jumped off the edge.

Jason’s heart stopped.  What was she doing?  What the hell!?  Jason took off after her.  Was she expecting him to rescue her?  What if he couldn’t get to her in time?  This was a stupid and beyond dangerous game she was playing.  After he saved her he was going to kill her.  

He pulled out his grappling hook as he ran and leaped after her streamlining his body so he could fall faster. She had the audacity to be smiling at him as she fell.  He was almost close enough to grab her.  His eyes left hers looking up to find the best target for his grappling hook.  He noted a flash of pink in his vision’s periphery but ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.  Nothing else mattered but saving Marinette.  Finally finding the best option, he turned back towards Marinette and stretched the last final inches to grab her but found Marinette was no longer there.  Instead there was a woman dressed in a deep red and a mask.  The woman grabbed his waist and launched a… was that a yo-yo?... toward the same spot he had identified earlier.  

Suddenly he was tugged up as they arced to the roof of the building.  They landed on the roof with a thud, rolling to a stop in a tangle of limbs.

He pulled back slightly to stare down at her in confusion, not able to form coherent thoughts yet. After what seemed like a few minutes Marinette finally broke the silence.  “Hood?  You going to survive this, handsome?” she asked with a smug grin.

Jason’s brain finally caught up with what was going on and his jaw dropped, “Mari?” He asked incredulously.

“No names in the field, remember? How are you going to survive any missions if you can’t follow basic safety procedures?”

“What the fucking fuck, Mari!!” He looked at her again running his hands along her face, trying to confirm what he already knew.  It was her.  Marinette was safe… and a superhero.  He let out a breath he had been holding since she jumped and shook his head.  “You’re terrible."

“I thought I was innocent and naïve?”

“No, you are a terrible, evil person.  That jump proved it.  You almost killed me all over again.”

“You deserved it.  You were being a condescending ass.”

He let out a huff, “Please never do anything like that again” he begged softly, lowering his forehead to hers.

“Don’t be an ass and I won’t have to.”

"You were supposed to be innocent” he said giving her a lopsided smile.

“I don't know what gave you that impression," she smiled innocently and batted her eyes.

“That. That damn smile. It's a lie.”  He looked back over at the Wayne Enterprises building and shook his head.  “And I thought you were going to have trouble with grappling and swinging through the air.” He chuckled lightly and lowered himself back down so his face was a few centimeters from hers, glancing down to her lips.

“Have I ever told you what it’s like riding a dragon?” She whispered licking her lips.  

“I'd love to hear about that som… wait a dragon?  Like a dragon dragon?" She nodded giving him a small, coy smile.  Jason ran his fingers across her cheek and along her mask.  He grinned happily.  His Pixie was a badass and he couldn’t wait to hear more.  “but later" he said closing the distance and crashing his lips into hers.

   Tag:

@fsketchart @jasonette-july-2k20

[lu-undy]

Un-alone, Chapter 17

Here it is!

“So, how’s your uncle?”

“Not too bad. I was tellin’ the others that he probably could come but the physio’s insisting for him to not rush things. At his age, stuff takes a real amount of time to heal up.” Mundy took a sip of his drink while Larry returned to one of the couches. Richie went to the other end of the counter, tending to other customers. That left Mundy and Mark alone. 

“How long before you think he’ll be alright?”

“Physio reckons it’s gonna be an extra month, maybe a month and a half.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Why? Does he owe you money or somethin’?” Mundy chuckled.

“No, I just miss talkin’ to him. He’s a cool guy.”

“Could still visit him at home. I'm sure he’ll be happy to see some people.” Mundy said, without thinking too much.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I mean…”

“If you don’t wanna, it’s fine.” Mark answered, and now for Mundy, it was clear. Mark was not asking to visit his uncle as much as he was scouting Mundy’s heart. As one would dip his toe in the water of a calm lake to measure its temperature, Mark was testing Mundy’s mood, where he stood with respect to him.

“Wanna play some darts?” The blonde asked. 

“Sure.”

Better leave it blurry, Mundy thought. There was no point anyway… Or was there? 

Both men stood a few metres away from the target and Mark threw his first dart. 

“Ha, not bad, eh?” He proudly said. 

“Yeah, true.” Mundy closed one eye and took aim. He looked at the target and saw the blurry dart in front of his face. “Hm!” He threw it.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me…!” Mark laughed and shook his head. “A bullseye? on the first try?”

“Well, if there’s somethin’ I can do, it’s aim.” Mundy said and took a step away for Mark to replace him in front of the target.

“Oh, that I know, Aussie.” Mark threw the second dart. “Ha! I’m gettin’ closer, man!”

Mundy smiled under his hat. He took Mark’s place and shot again. 

“What?! How d’you do it?!”

“Told ya.” Mundy’s raspy voice chuckled through his words. “I can aim.” He raised intense eyes to Mark. The American looked left and right. 

“Wanna get harder targets?”

“Pff, Mark-”

“It’s ok if you don’t like the challenge, eh.” The blonde quipped. “I’ll just let you win and assume it’s your luck.”

“Told you, Mark, I’m a hunter, gimme darts, arrows, a rifle, anything, and I can aim with it.”

“I'm a hunter too.”

“Are ya now? Where’s your game then?”

“Maybe…” Mark looked left and right. He took a step towards Mundy, leaving hardly a few inches between them. “... I need a few lessons from someone who's clearly better than me, and a little bit older, huh?”

“You could ask yer Dad.”

Mark's head swooshed to Larry on the couch. 

“He’s too busy right now, I wouldn’t want to bother him while he plays God knows what with his friends.”

“So you prefer to bother me?” Mundy answered and the blonde raised lustful eyes to him. Ha, Mundy had never been too good at telling the hints, seeing the signals, but the way that Mark stared at him with his hazel eyes was louder than sirens.

“Yeah.” Mark blinked delicately, or maybe he fluttered his eyes slightly. “So? Is your van free for another lil’ trip?”

Mundy pondered for a split second. His head was showing him wild pictures. Was it worth it? Would he end up living in New Mexico with Mark? Would he introduce him to his parents? Nah, he wouldn’t. Mark was way too hot-headed, Mundy did not really like that. But…

But his guts screamed at him. It had been a while since anyone had hit on him, and his ego was more than pleased with it all. The colder Mundy looked at Mark, the colder he behaved with him, the harder the young American clung to him. Gosh, Mundy loved the feeling, looking down in his eyes and seeing how much the other wanted him… When was the last time that it happened? Far too long.

“Alright.”

THe night was as dark as the last time that it had happened and the privacy of the van wasn’t enough for Mundy. He raced through the dry and golden desert of New Mexico, which now was as deep as the night could be. The Moon wasn’t there.

“Oh, yeah, M-Mundy… Take me - arh!”

The Aussie shut his head and listened to his body, to his blood pumping everywhere, to this feeling of sharing something with someone, doing something exceptionally not alone. Well, yeah, he could just lay there in his bed and do it with his hand. But nah, he was there with someone. And as Mundy looked under him at the man laying on his stomach, he felt everything mix within him. As the thrusts of his hips resounded in the slapping of his sweating skin against Mark’s, as the groans of the blonde filled him, as the golden streaks of sweat raked Marks skin under the old, yellow light in the van, Mundy realised he heard nothing and saw nothing either. 

Only his thoughts were there. The same thoughts he had when he was alone. Was that person the right one? Did he like them? Was there something in his heart that would push him to do the unthinkable for that person? Would he drop hunting for them? Would he drop hunting beasts for them? Would he drop hunting… men? Would Mark fill the part of himself that unbearably itched for decades now? Could Mundy let that itch irritate him and burn him instead of deafening it as best as he could with one-night stands? 

What did his heart think? Heart? Heart? Is there anything there for Mark and me or…? 

Ah, yeah, well… 

“Mundy, I’m gonna-I’m gonna… Arh!”

Mundy almost stopped thrusting as he rose back from his daydream. The blonde had somehow risen to his knees and elbows, and as Mundy recovered his ability to see, he realised that Mark had been frantically using his hand on himself until, well, the end. And it pulled the Aussie to finish too. 

“Oh, man… It was even better than last time…” Mark concluded as he rolled on his back.

Mundy’s lips pursed into a smile, but the voice inside him still banged at his heart’s door. 

Heart? Heart! Tell me! You can’t just not answer! C’mon! Tell me if I can hope for something with this bloke? Yes or no?! How hard can it be?!

He banged again and again, as both him and Mark cleaned up and lay down to sleep, this time together, in the narrow bunk inside the van. 

Heart?

-- A few weeks later --

It had become a habit. Mundy would meet with Mark and spend his nights with him, without either of them questioning it. And it took less and less for Mark to ask him. As of late, a simple nod of the head towards the pub’s main door sufficed to signal to Mundy that the American was in the mood.

Mundy indulged every time. Why? Because it never felt bad to have someone to do it with rather than his own hand, to be blunt. But of course, the more they met, the more Mundy wondered. And the more he wondered, the more he harassed his own heart and his head for an answer, because quite frankly, if he asked what he had below the belt, his relationship with Mark could last forever… 

During his days, Mundy became more familiar with the geography of the city and the overall State of New Mexico. He appreciated dearly the patch of desert not too far from his Uncle’s and spent time there when he wanted a corner of solace, an outer haven. And he spent his time there alone, as always. Not that he would fight anyone who would like to join him, but no one ever did want to come along. 

Not even Mark.

Mundy had asked him one day. 

“D’you wanna stay here tomorrow mornin’?”

Mark was half asleep, naked next to the Aussie in his warm van. 

“Nah…” 

“You sure?”

“What would we do here in the middle of nowhere?” The American spoke half into the pillow.

“We could spend the day huntin’, under the sun, just you and me. We’d be far from people and uh, y’know, just enjoyin’ ourselves.”

Mark chuckled in the pillow. 

“You’re a funny guy, Mundy… See ya tomorrow.”

The Aussie thought about that slice of conversation again and again, it was playing on loop in his mind as if it had been recorded on a broken disc. Was Mark just too tired to have a chat after their usual meeting? Or did he genuinely laugh at Mundy’s suggestion?

The Aussie sighed. In the silence of his lonely van, he thought about it. Hold on. Mundy may not know Mark’s intentions but he knew how he behaved. The American would always ask to be cleaned, then roll to his side and sleep. The only thing Mundy would hear from him was sometimes praise of his performance of the day, and a “Night, night.”. Well, then maybe he did not really laugh at him…?

The Aussie finally decided to exit his van. He had been parked in front of the pub for a long enough while, just lost in thought. He needed a distraction, and a beer would surely-

“Hey, Aussie.”

Mundy gasped. 

“Oh, hey, Mark. Sorry, I didn’t see ya.”

“No worries.” The blonde chuckled. “You came here early today.”

“So did you.” Mundy answered. 

“I’m just playin’ the taxi driver for my Dad. He wanted to have a chat with Richie to organise the next big party here. Samantha’s gettin’ married with Jerry.”

“Oh, alright, congrats to them then, eh…?”

“Yup.” Mark nodded. “But what're you doin’ here this early?”

“I just wanted a beer or somethin’.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Sure.”

Both entered the bar and got served quickly. It was too early to be really busy, although a few patrons were enjoying their lunch there. 

“So, uhm, Mark…?”

“Yeah?”

“D’you uh… Would you like to maybe spend some time in the desert?” Mundy asked with his eyes down on his beer. Mark laughed. 

“Again with the desert stuff? You like it more than lizards do!”

Mundy smiled. 

“Yeah but, I mean, it’s nice out there. Nice and calm. We could go for a bit of hunting, eat what we catch.”

“Pfff, and then what? Grill under the sun for some wild thing to make us their dinner? Nah, Mundy… You go and get roasted if you want, I like it better in the shade.”

Mundy frowned slightly.

“Right, then uh… What about somethin' else?”

“Like what? You’re not tryin’ to take me out on a date, are ya?”

“N-No, nah, I'm not the date kind of guy…” Mundy shook his head. “I just… Gets quite lonely out there, just lookin' for some company, and uh… You’re a hunter too so I thought that uh…”

“Well, it’s my father who’s big on the whole hunting thing. I follow him sometimes when I’m bored but I’m not huge on it.” Mark took a gulp of his fresh beer and Mundy’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“So you don’t wanna hang out with me sometime?”

“I think we’re good the way we are.” Mark answered. “Why change it?”

Mundy sighed. He looked at his beer and he didn’t want any of it anymore. 

“Right.” The Aussie took off and left the bar, his pint still almost completely full.

“Mundy?”

He turned back to Mark with a hand on the pub’s front door still. 

“What?”

“You angry at me?”

“No.”

“What? What’s this mean then? You just leave and you haven’t finished your beer?”

Mundy sighed and looked left and right. The last thing he wanted was his private life and his interest in men exposed to people who knew Phil very well. He entered back and went to Mark. 

“Listen, if you're just with me for the nights, I’m not in anymore.”

The bluntness with which he spoke shocked Mundy himself. 

“I thought you liked it better that way?”

“No-Yeah, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter.” He spoke between gritted teeth. 

“So much for tryin’ to make me believe you're not mad…” Mark said with a scoff. “If you don’t know what you want, I can’t answer you, Mundy.”

“Alright, then. Here’s what I’d like to know, Mark.” Mundy removed his hat and slammed it on the counter. “Are you just with me for the nights?”

“I mean, that’s what we’ve been doin’ and I-”

“Answer me.” Mundy’s fierce glare made Mark gulp down audibly before he frowned. 

“Yeah, guess I am.” The American finally admitted. 

“D’you wanna go on like this or d'you wanna…?”

“Do I wanna what?” Mark frowned, now he was as mad as Mundy. 

“I don't know!” The Aussie answered. “Maybe we could do stuff together instead of just using each other like that?”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Mark asked. 

“Nothin’!” Mundy got his face closer to the American’s. “I just don’t like bein’ used, is all.”

“For someone who doesn’t like it and who’s a grown up man, you never said no, you never even raised the concern and you were the one fuckin’ me.” Mark spoke between gritted teeth for his shouts to be muffled into hard whispers. “You were the one to open your van, you were the one to get me out of my clothes, and you were the one to put it in me! Now if you didn’t want any of that, you never even gave me a clue about it! How could I have known?!”

Mundy sighed. 

“Look, I don’t know, I just… I can't go on like this.” Mundy answered and spun on his heels to leave again.

“Alright then, go back to spendin’ your days alone in the desert, see if that does you any good!”

Mundy stopped sharp. 

“What did you just say about me?” He said, slowly, and growling menacingly.

“I said: go back to the desert you like so much, I bet you’ll feel better there.” Mark repeated. 

“Pray that I never find you again, Mark.” Mundy pulled the hat down on his eyes and left.

“Or what, huh? What're you gonna do, huh? Hunt me down like I’m a deer?!” This time, Mark had raised his voice, but as he did, Mundy left and was already outside. 

The Aussie slipped in his van and drove back home. No. He needed the desert. He shifted gears to reverse. 

“Mundy! Mundy, wait!”

The Aussie  almost didn’t hear the voice calling for him. Larry came running to the van and banged the door on Mundy’s side. 

“Mundy, hold on!”

The Aussie lowered the window, his face as dark as his boiling rage made it. The shy Mundy within him wanted to blush. After all, Larry was Mark’s father. 

“Your mum’s called here, they’re asking you to go back home.”

Mundy’s eyebrows jumped and his face brightened, as if the storm raging within him a second ago had been pushed by the sun.

“Oh, uh, ok, thanks, Larry.”

“Pleasure, son, see ya!”

Mundy nodded and drove off. It took him the usual fifteen-ish minutes to reach back home. 

“Mum? You wanted to see me?” Mundy said as he entered. “Oh? What’s all that?” As he had pushed the door and entered, Mundy’s feet bumped on wicker bags. That one had towels at the top, oh, there was a cool box there. 

“Yeah, Micky, come in and go help your Uncle, will ya?”

“Sure… What’s with all the bags?” The Aussie entered the kitchen to find his mother making sandwiches. 

“We had a chat with your Uncle today. They say the weather’s gonna be real hot and sunny for the next week at least so we decided to go to the beach for a few days.”

“Oh…” Mundy’s eyebrows jumped out of surprise. “Alright, sure. You said Uncle Phil needed my help?”

“Yeah, he’s packing his stuff. I already dealt with your things and I assume you have some swimming shorts in your van, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Then it’s all good. I’ll drive his car and you get your van with Marty next to you, yeah?”

“Works for me.” MUndy nodded with a smile.

“Perfect, now go before he goes mad. I’ve been hearing him grumble to himself…!”

“Sure, thanks, Mum.” Mundy came to leave a kiss on his Mum’s cheek. 

“No worries, baby.”

About an hour later, everything had been loaded into the van and the car, and Marty happily joined Mundy in his van, on the passenger’s seat. 

“How long is it till we get there?” Mundy asked.

“We’ll have to drive through the state and then through more or less the entirety of Texas to get to the sea.” Philip answered. “But if you ask me, better Texas than California!”

“Alright, you know your business, UNcle Phil.”

“It’s a twelve hour drive but of course, we’ll make a lot of stops and we’ll sleep on the way there. I know a few good places along the way. Used to make the trip with some colleagues at work once a year at least in summer.”

“Wow, twelve hours… I don’t think I’ve ever driven for that long.” Mundy answered. 

“It’s fine, son, we won’t do them all in one bite, eh?”

“I know, I know.. Still…! Right, let’s get started then.”

“You’ll just have to follow your mum, I’ll be with her to guide her.”

“Ok, thanks Uncle Phil.”

“Thank you, son.”

Mundy climbed in the van, on the driver’s seat. As he did so, Marty who was sitting on the passenger’s seat started wagging his tail.

“Hey, Marty, ready for the journey?”

The dog leaned into Mundy’s hand to enjoy some good head scratching. 

“Right, gimme a paw then, eh?”

The dog obeyed.

“That’s a good boy right there, good puppy. Right, Mum’s starin’, you sit and be a good boy while I drive, yeah?”

[astrognossienne]

tragic star: keith moon

“If you don't like it, you can fuck off!” - last words of Keith Moon

This one was a long time coming, but frankly, it took me a while to get interested enough in the subject to actually do this analysis, let alone finish it. At any rate, Keith Moon, like most of the drummers from the rock ‘n’ roll period that we still read about today, led a self-destructive lifestyle. A close friend of his once said the drummer was “like a train ride you couldn’t stop.” Not only was his drumming chaotic – so was his life. According to some, he was at his core a kind and generous soul, but to others, he was lost, lonely soul, and terribly immature throughout his adult life. Perhaps it was the sudden success, upon joining the rock band The Who, when he was only 18 (although plenty of others of the same era were as young, or younger, and survived just fine), but Keith was so eager to please and make everyone laugh that he eventually became the “Moon the Loon” character that he was portrayed as in the media. It got to the point where he wasn't sure who he really was. A true Leo, he made a circus out of everything and he wouldn't walk into any room and just listen. He was an attention seeker and he had to have it. He used amphetamines, tranquilizers, drank way too much alcohol, destroyed hotel rooms and friends’ homes, threw TVs into swimming pools, set fires, and the list goes on. He was ultimately unable to outrun or outlast his demons; whether it was the wife and child he drove away, the friend and chauffeur he accidentally killed in early 1970...whatever else haunted him, it ultimately caught up with him just as he was finally trying to improve his life. Friends were well-acquainted with the many sides to Moon’s strange personality; one minute he was insulting, exaggerating, joking – the next minute he’s a wide-eyed, innocent-looking drummer boy. The public Keith Moon was The Who’s manic drummer and hellraising, daredevil comedian; a man who only ever lived in the moment. However, the real Keith Moon was a son, a brother, a father and a deeply insecure man. A man of extremes, his was a complete shitshow of a life.

Keith Moon, according to astrotheme, was a Leo sun and Cancer moon (the moon is speculative). Moon was born to working class parents in Wembley, London, England. He was a hyperactive child by nature and a mediocre student at school. His art teacher said in a report: "Retarded artistically. Idiotic in other respects". His music teacher wrote that Moon "has great ability, but must guard against a tendency to show off." At the age of 12, he had joined the Sea Cadet Corp and was given his first musical instrument, the bugle. He left school by 15 and was in his first band, The Beachcombers. While performing with the Beachcombers, he used to attend concerts of a band called The Detours. At that time The Detours were planning to sign a deal with Fontana Records and for this deal, this band required a new drummer. The Detours changed their name to The Who in 1964. When Moon learned about the band’s need for a new drummer, he approached them for an audition. After the audition, he became their new drummer, and performed with The Who for the first time in 1962.

From the moment he joined, musically the band was complete, although adding his already volatile personality to those of the other three equally headstrong members meant that the early years of the Who's career were fraught with drama and violence, despite their almost immediate success.  Much of the tension came from the fact that Keith readily joined in on popping pills with guitarist Pete Townshend and bassist John Entwistle, while lead singer Roger Daltrey (with whom Keith was never particularly close) didn't. After sacking Roger for two weeks in mid-1965, he was reinstated, band relations improved, and the Who continued to release a string of successful singles and albums before a downturn in their fortunes in 1968. However, the release of the album Tommy in 1969 turned them into international megastars overnight and from that moment until the day Keith died, they would remain one of the top rock bands in the world. Running concurrently with the Who's rise to stardom in the 1960s was Keith's relationship with his wife Kim. She first met Keith in 1965 when he was 19 and she 15, and while they fell in love rather quickly, he exhibited twin streaks of jealousy and insecurity and Moon was occasionally violent towards Kim. While his mental issues, which would now be readily (and correctly) diagnosed as a combination of ADHD and BPD, reared their ugly heads on innumerable occasions, Keith's true personality shone through enough that Kim stayed with him; she decided to marry him when she became pregnant within a year of dating, and they got married in 1966. Their daughter Amanda was born on 12 July. In those days, there was a belief that married rockstars with kids weren’t as appealing to their mostly female fans, and the marriage (and child) were kept secret from the press until May 1968. He loved his daughter, but his absences due to touring and fondness for practical jokes made their relationship uneasy when she was very young. "He had no idea how to be a father", Kim said. "He was too much of a child himself."

The chaotic sixties would not hold a candle to what the new decade had in store for him, however. Shortly after New Year’s in 1970, Moon accidentally killed his friend, driver and bodyguard, Neil Boland, outside the Red Lion pub in Hatfield, Hertfordshire. Pub patrons had begun to attack his Bentley; Moon, drunk, began driving to escape them. During the fracas, he hit Boland. After an investigation, the coroner ruled Boland's death an accident; Moon, having been charged with a number of offences, received an absolute discharge. Those close to Moon said that he was haunted by Boland's death for the rest of his life. Moon had nightmares about the incident and said he had no right to be alive. Also, compounding this tragedy, was the fragile state of Moon’s marriage. Even after marriage and his daughter being born, he was still jealous, self-centered, and abusive to his wife Kim, both verbally and physically. His mental state also deteriorated as his appetite for all manner of pills escalated and he exploded into a full-blown alcoholic. Even after separating for a year, Kim returned to him, hoping that he had finally changed, but the insane lifestyle Keith kept up at their house became too much. Kim and Amanda (nicknamed “Mandy”) finally left for good in 1973. Since his marriage was a central part of Keith's life, their divorce would come to affect him perhaps more than any other event in his adult life and it was a devastation Keith would never recover from. While most people would use an event like this as the impetus to clean up their act, Keith used it instead as an excuse to drive himself further into oblivion.

Moon's lifestyle began to undermine not only his health but his career. During the 1973 Quadrophenia tour, at the Who's debut US date, Moon ingested a mixture of tranquilizers and brandy. During the concert, Moon passed out on his drum kit during the song "Won't Get Fooled Again." The band stopped playing, and a group of roadies carried Moon offstage. After he was given a shower and an injection of cortisone, he was sent back onstage. Moon passed out again during "Magic Bus," and was again removed from the stage. The band continued without him for several songs before Pete Townshend asked, "Can anyone play the drums? – I mean somebody good?" A fan in the audience, who happened to be a drummer, came up and played the rest of the show. During the opening date of the band's March 1976 US tour at the Boston Garden, Moon passed out again over his drum kit after two numbers and the show was rescheduled. By the mid-1970s Keith was living in Los Angeles and getting up to even more insanity with John Lennon, Ringo Starr, Harry Nilsson, and other stars. Even a new love in his life, Swedish model Annette Walter-Lax, couldn't get him to slow down and take control. There were even stints in psychiatric wards after some mental breakdowns brought on by his despair at losing Kim and his daughter and his drinking. His alcohol and drug abuse was now not only affecting his health (he put on a significant amount of weight at this time due to infrequent gigging) but sadly, his drumming. In 1978 soon after he recorded Who Are You, his final album with The Who, depressed by the deterioration of his drumming and threats from the rest of the Who to clean up his act or else, that he finally decided to get some help.  By the summer of 1978, he seemed to be trying to get his life in order, staying sober and solidifying his relationship with Annette. He was terrified to go into rehab or under psychiatric evaluation, however, and instead self-medicated with Heminevrin, a drug used for treating acute withdrawal from alcohol. However, he took too many on his final night and sadly died on September 7, 1978 at the age of 32.

Over forty years after his death, it's still difficult to think of Keith Moon as anything more than just a hard-drinking insane rock star who would smash his drum set on stage or destroy a hotel room. But regardless of the human being behind the drumkit, the legendary drummer should be remembered as the man who forever changed the sound of rock 'n' roll.

Next, I’ll go back to my beloved star analyses by covering a personal favourite of mine; a force of nature and an unsung pioneer of cinema whose death was ridiculously sensationalized and whose colourful life was almost as wild as Moon’s: Cancer Lupe Vélez

Stats

birthdate: August 23, 1946*

*note*: due to the absence of a birth time, this analysis will be even more speculative.

major planets:

Sun: Leo

Moon: Cancer

Rising: unknown

Mercury: Leo

Venus: Libra

Mars: Libra

Midheaven: unknown

Jupiter: Libra

Saturn: Leo

Uranus: Gemini

Neptune: Libra

Pluto: Leo

Overall personality snapshot: He may sometimes have wanted a safe, simple life where he felt emotionally contained and able to pursue his own creative interests. Then, however, the compulsion to strive for a more central, leading role reared its challenging head, and he knew he had it in him – so out into the spotlight he went. So immense was his creative energy as well as his warm feeling for others that he could become both the artistic home-maker and the home-loving artist/writer/entrepreneur. His personality was large and welcoming, colourful and theatrical because he had such an uncanny knack of dramatizing his vivid impressions and selling himself in the most genuine, heartfelt way. Both the paternal and the maternal urge was strong in him. He needed to use his will to project and establish your identity in the world, and to use his instincts to nurture and protect his emotional and material security. The Sun and the Moon are in their ‘home’ signs here, so that potentially he had the creative vision of Apollo and the lunar wisdom of Diana all rolled into one. This could make him pretty overpowering at times, and indeed he needed a partner and a family on whom he could lavish his emotions. His bearing was often aristocratic, sometimes haughty, oversensitive and self-absorbed, but he always seemed to have enough affection to go around so that no one felt left out. He also managed to remain approachable and compassionate because he was so aware of his own vulnerability and need to be loved. Thus he made a warm and understanding friend, and he enjoyed expressing his feelings with original flair and thoughtfulness.

He was protective, possessive and clannish, a stalwart member of his family, group and nation, and utterly devoted to his ideals. Deeply honourable and dependable, he brought an attitude of devotion and romantic style to all he did. He may have actually had a good head for business because he possessed an instinctive knowledge of security needs as well as a shrewd understanding of people, their desires, fears and foibles. His refined taste for comfort and beauty was part of the impetus for success – he knew his own mind and did not easily budge from his preferences and high standards. Aesthetic sensitivity was strong, and combined with his innate tenacity and quiet ambition means that he was quite successful in the arts. Even though he readily turned a bright face to the world, he did not always feel confident and strong. He had a lively sense of individuality, but his potency was sometimes too dependent on emotional familiarity, and the range of his self-expression too circumscribed within repetitive emotional patterns. Inwardly he shied away from encounters with the big, bad world, and early in life he may have needed to find ways of handling challenges that normally push the panic button. This wouldn’t have been hard for him because his creative drive was tremendous and his individuality needed recognition.

He was ambitious, sound at giving orders, carried responsibility well and was a good teacher, especially able to bring out the best in children. He believed in herself and generally knew the right thing to say at the right time, although he could show a stubborn and dogmatic side. He had a high opinion of his mental powers, and it was certainly true to say that he had plenty of mental energy. He was quite sociable and expected other people to behave well at all times. He was eager for close personal relationships, so he tended to have a wide circle of friends. Self-indulgence was a problem for him, as was laziness and conceit in relationships. He tended to be impatient with superficial details, preferring large-scale situations, and he disliked being tied down by obligations over which he had little control. Conservatism may have affected his creativity, artistic values and love affairs. This expressed itself as self-imposed restrictions or as selfishness. He often felt inadequate, which created an insidious form of oppression over all his forms of expression. He could also take herself so seriously, that people think that he was older than his years.

He was part of a generation that was strongly interested in humanitarian ideals, new avenues of communication and progress in mechanical skills. As a member of this generation, he was able to bring original ideas to both his career and spare-time interests. Crises in thought and ideology arose because he looked beyond tradition and old attitudes towards new original and inventive ways of looking at things. His active mind tended to need constant stimulation and his tastes could be quite fickle and difficult to satisfy. He belonged to a time of peace-loving idealism when the family unit and the way relationships were managed underwent great changes. He could be too idealistic and a little unrealistic when it came to matters of love, sex and romance. As a member of this generation, he tended to need to be motivated to make the most of his potential, because the line of least resistance appeared very attractive, especially when it involved pleasure-seeking. He embodied the Libra Neptune generation in the sense that he was a huge part of a time when beauty reappeared in fashion. He was part of a generation which was highlighted by the clash between authoritarianism and individualism. As a member of the Leo Plutonian generation, he wanted freedom in his relationships and demanded the loyalty of his friends as a right. As a member of this generation, he wanted power over his own life and was prepared to challenge established structures. He didn’t feel comfortable being dictated to, unless he in some way agreed to it beforehand. He was a part of excesses of the sixties. He was part of a generation that brought about a revolution in forms of entertainment, recreational activities and leisure time, as well as attitudes towards children.

Love/sex life: He was a lover so in love with the idea of love that nothing else matters. At times his whole-hearted idealism made him too optimistic and too easily deceived by people who promised to fulfill his ideals and then renege but, as delicate and unworldly as his romantic fantasy may seem, it was remarkably durable. Though he may have been misused and hurt, he never lost his faith in the power of true love. Issues of the flesh were always secondary to him and he was apt not to give them much thought. If such urges must be satisfied, then so be it. If sex proved useful in reaching other goals, that was fine too. As long as sex did not intrude on his ideal of perfect love such physical inconveniences hardly mattered. Unfortunately, most of the rest of the world did not agree with him on this point and, measured by their standards, his sexual behaviour may have seemed immoral or at least strangely naïve. He needed to learn to allow for such harsh realities even as he strove to create that grand idyll of perfect love.

minor asteroids and points:

North Node: Gemini

Lilith: Capricorn

Juno: Libra

Chiron: Libra

Vesta: Aries

Ceres: Aquarius

Pallas: Sagittarius

His North Node in Gemini dictated that he needed to prevent his idealism from influencing his thoughts to such a high degree. He needed to consciously develop a more clear-minded and analytical approach involving his thought processes. His Lilith in Capricorn dictated that he was dangerously attracted to women who had a scrappy plucky attitude hot-wired into their psyche. Against his better judgment, he liked to be around a woman who needed to be in control and to be mistress of her own destiny, because her life was in the control of not-so-well-meaning others as a child. Juno in Libra, he sought a mate who was harmonious, artistic, musical and intelligent. He liked beauty and balance at home. He believed in equal partnerships where all lived up to the letter of the law. Chiron in Libra, he often felt wounded in relationships and could wound others in retaliation. He may have felt he was constantly hurt or rejected in relationships. Through learning that he was whole on his own, he could have freed himself from this destructive pattern. He would have benefited from a partner that could have helped him heal in some way. Vesta in Aries, he was incline to initiate work for religious and humanitarian projects. Action came from a desire to improve every situation. There was a great deal of insecurity in self-evaluation. Ceres in Aquarius, at his best, he had tact and the ability to compromise, making him well liked by all. Pallas in Sagittarius, he had the ability to evaluate true personal worth enabling him to use his resources in the most advantageous ways. Other people may think he was lucky. Ideally speaking, he could have been generally positive instead of being wasteful, and he could have been confident and reliable. Nonetheless, he still used his ideas in a practical way, especially in his career.

elemental dominance:

air

fire

He was communicative, quick and mentally agile, and he liked to stir things up. He was likely a havoc-seeker on some level. He was oriented more toward thinking than feeling. He carried information and the seeds of ideas. Out of balance, he lived in his head and could be insensitive to the feelings of others. But at his best, he helped others form connections in all spheres of their daily lives. He was dynamic and passionate, with strong leadership ability. He generated enormous warmth and vibrancy. He was exciting to be around, because he was genuinely enthusiastic and usually friendly. However, he could either be harnessed into helpful energy or flame up and cause destruction. Confident and opinionated, he was fond of declarative statements such as “I will do this” or “It’s this way.” When out of control—usually because he was bored, or hadn’t been acknowledged—he was bossy, demanding, and even tyrannical. But at his best, his confidence and vision inspired others to conquer new territory in the world, in society, and in themselves.

modality dominance:

cardinal

He was happiest when he was doing anything new, and he loved to begin new ventures. He enjoyed the challenge of claiming territory. He tended to be an initiator—and a bit territorial as well. Also, he had a tendency to start more things than she could possibly finish.

planet dominants:

Moon

Sun

Venus

He was defined by his inner world; by his emotional reactions to situations, how emotions flowed through him, motivating and compelling him—or limiting him and holding him back. He held great capacity to become a part of the whole rather than attempting to master the parts. He wanted to become whatever it was that he sought. He had vitality and creativity, as well as a strong ego and was authoritarian and powerful. He likely had strong leadership qualities, he definitely knew who he was, and he had tremendous will. He met challenges and believed in expanding his life. He was romantic, attractive and valued beauty, had an artistic instinct, and was sociable. He had an easy ability to create close personal relationships, for better or worse, and to form business partnerships.

sign dominants:

Leo

Libra

Cancer

He loved being the center of attention and often surrounded himself with admirers. He had an innate dramatic sense, and life was definitely his stage. His flamboyance and personal magnetism extended to every facet of his life. He wanted to succeed and make an impact in every situation. At his best, he was optimistic, honorable, loyal, and ambitious. He loved beauty in all its guises—art, literature, classical music, opera, mathematics, and the human body. He usually was a team player who enjoyed debate but not argument. He was, at his best, an excellent strategist and a master at the power of suggestion. Even though he was likely a courteous, amiable person, he was definitely not a pushover. He tried to use diplomacy and intelligence to get what he wanted. At first meeting, he seemed enigmatic, elusive. He needed roots, a place or even a state of mind that he could call his own. He needed a safe harbor, a refuge in which to retreat for solitude. He was generally gentle and kind, unless he was hurt. Then he could become vindictive and sharp-spoken. He was affectionate, passionate, and even possessive at times. He was intuitive and was perhaps even psychic. Experience flowed through him emotionally. He was often moody and always changeable; his interests and social circles shifted constantly. He was emotion distilled into its purest form.

Read more about him under the cut.

Keith John Moon was an English drummer who played with the English rock band the Who. He was noted for his unique style and his eccentric, often self-destructive behaviour. His drumming continues to be praised by critics and musicians. He was posthumously inducted into the Modern Drummer Hall of Fame in 1982, becoming only the second rock drummer to be chosen, and in 2011, Moon was voted the second-greatest drummer in history by a Rolling Stone readers' poll. Moon grew up in Alperton, a suburb of Wembley, in Middlesex, and took up the drums during the early 1960s. After playing with a local band, the Beachcombers, he joined the Who in 1964 before they recorded their first single. Moon remained with the band during their rise to fame, and was quickly recognised for his drumming style, which emphasised tom-toms, cymbal crashes, and drum fills.  He occasionally collaborated with other musicians and later appeared in films, but considered playing in the Who his primary occupation and remained a member of the band until his death. In addition to his talent as a drummer, however, Moon developed a reputation for smashing his kit on stage and destroying hotel rooms on tour. He was fascinated by blowing up toilets with cherry bombs or dynamite, and by destroying television sets. Moon enjoyed touring and socialising, and was bored and restless when the Who were inactive. His 21st birthday party in Flint, Michigan, has been cited as a notorious example of decadent behaviour by rock groups. Moon suffered a number of setbacks during the 1970s, most notably the accidental death of chauffeur Neil Boland and the breakdown of his marriage. He became addicted to alcohol, particularly brandy and champagne, and acquired a reputation for decadence and dark humour; his nickname was "Moon the Loon."  After moving to Los Angeles with personal assistant Peter "Dougal" Butler during the mid-1970s, Moon recorded his only solo album, the poorly received Two Sides of the Moon. While touring with the Who, on several occasions he passed out on stage and was hospitalised. By their final tour with him in 1976, and particularly during production of The Kids Are Alright and Who Are You, the drummer's deterioration was evident. Moon moved back to London in 1978, dying in September of that year from an overdose of Heminevrin, a drug intended to treat or prevent symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. (x)