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etherealising · 1 year ago

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interlude zero | dear carmy

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pairing: carmen berzatto x self-sabotage | carmen berzatto x fem!reader

summary: a look into carmy's life and thought process in the aftermath of the berzatto family christmas.

wc: 4.6k

thank you for all the love and support, please enjoy this first special chapter dedicated to all of you! 💜

January 2019

Carmy sat on the fire escape of his New York apartment, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, the sun slowly setting behind all the high-rise buildings. It wasn’t the best view but it allowed him to take advantage of the somewhat fresh air New York had to offer. He had been out there for quite a bit now on his second cigarette in 15 minutes.

His thoughts were racing as they usually did, never being spared a quiet moment from his thoughts. His head raced with ideas he’d thought about trying in the kitchen, thoughts about a new tattoo he was hoping to get, wondering when Mikey would finally see how far he’d come. His mind pushed forth anything and everything he could think of, all so the slideshow in his head kept what happened a month ago between the two of you in the dark recesses of his mind.

Carmy told himself that if he didn’t think about the things he wasn’t ready to resolve, then there was no way that they could hurt him, no way that they could force their way out and get him to admit that they indeed were a part of his reality. Accountability wasn’t Carmy’s strong suit, and over the years when it came to the two of you, he felt it best to sweep things under the rug, no point in prodding at old wounds if the friendship between the two of you was well past saving.

He sat there as the sky transitioned colors; blue bleeding into orange, a sunset he knew you would’ve appreciated. Cigarette already burned out, the poison coating his lungs helping to warm his body from the chill that was settling in the air. There was a knock on his apartment door, the unit was so small that even sitting on the fire escape made him feel like he was right next to the door. He ignored it, no one ever stopped by his place, it’s not like he was inviting coworkers back to his place or anything, if it was important they’d come back tomorrow. The knock sounded again, and again Carmy ignored it, his knee bouncing up and down as he hoped whatever nuisance at his door took the hint to leave.

Carmen Berzatto was never lucky enough to get what he wanted. An incessant knocking began on the front door with no indication that the strings of knocks would be stopping soon. Hands running down his face Carmy aggressively stood up from his chair, if he wanted to be bothered at home he would’ve put a fucking welcome mat outside of his door. He reached the door twisting the knob and yanking it open, he frowned at the sight of legs, face covered by the package in their hands.

“Package here for a uh, Carmen Burzetto.” The mispronunciation of his last name caused Carmy to cringe. He nodded at the delivery person wanting to end this interaction as quickly as possible, he was presented with a package slip and pen quickly signing his name without paying attention. The package was handed off to Camry, tucking it under his arm he closed the door not giving the delivery person another second.

Walking to his kitchen Carmy set the box on his countertop confused at what it could be. He never ordered shit so he knew this wasn’t of his own volition, he found the packing sticker, the return address of his family home jumping out at him. He grabbed his only knife, cutting the box open. He could only assume that the package was from his mom, and what she felt the need to send him he had no clue.

Setting the knife to the side he quickly removed the medium-sized box covered in bubble wrap. Tearing at the protective wrap, he stopped as he realized exactly what he was looking at. Sitting on his counter staring back at him was a matte black box with a matching bow and envelope addressed to him; a box he had purposely left behind a month ago, the same night he had left you.

He checked the bottom of the now empty box the gift arrived in, hoping to find some sort of return slip, only to come up short. His gaze fell back on the present, hands moving up to tug at his hair. He couldn’t open it, didn’t think he deserved to. Not after having left you to wake up in a lonely bed the day after Christmas, no apology or excuse just you and a confused Richie wondering how he had suddenly been roped into dropping you off at the airport. Not with all the disappointment he had caused, he wasn’t worthy of the kindness you had shown him time and time again.

Carmy paced around his tiny kitchen, he could always ask Sugar or Mikey for your address. Returning the present he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he accepted. You were a great gift giver, so great in fact he had your gifts in a designated box that traveled with him everywhere he went the last couple of years; even Copenhagen a box of memories taking up space in the small boat house. Memories from the person who had held his heart long before he realized it for himself.

He stopped in front of the box, hands resting on his hips debating the pros and cons of opening the gift. In a way he owed it to you to open the box, sending it back would’ve just made him an even bigger asshole than he probably already was in your book. His hands reached out pausing on the edge of the countertop to calm the shaking. When he deemed himself stable enough he reached up to untie the velvet bow, the softness that caressed his fingers reminding him of what it had felt like to hold your neck in his hand as he thumbed the ink stain behind your ear.

How his breath hitched as you shamelessly told him the small letter permanently inked into your skin could have represented his last name if he wanted it to. Losing himself to memories, he wondered what would have ensued had he taken up your offer to let the brand on your skin represent a part of him. He had wanted to give in, wanted to paint your skin with more than a letter that he knew, in reality, had nothing to do with him. It confused him all the same though, hearing those words leave your lips felt like a cruel joke to him. He was just a grown-up version of the little boy that had been your best friend, was sure you were just in need of a distraction, and Carmy had laid the perfect opportunity in your lap by inviting you to spend the night with him.

He broke from his reverie dropping the loosened bow from his grasp, eyes landing on your pretty cursive that painted the black envelope with his name. His fingers traced over the letters, the closest thing he had to touching you at this moment. Holding the envelope in his hand Carmy’s gaze burned into it before setting it off to the side. He was already opening your present, he didn’t think he had the guts to find out what was hidden inside the ominous black envelope.

Carmy took one more deep breath before removing the top of the box from its joined position with the bottom part. Carefully unfolding the tissue paper to not rip it, he uncovered two decent-sized velvet bags with the logo reading ‘Made in’ in gold foil. Carmy carefully removed the two bags from the box, pushing the empty box off the countertop to make room. He opened the first bag confused at what was in his hands for a moment before something clicked and he sat the block upright. Grabbing the second bag he took out the heavy roll laying it down before quickly unrolling it, the unblemished metal reflecting the kitchen light onto his face.

He sat his hands on the counter, head dropping between his shoulders as he let out a deep sigh. He knew this had to have cost you a pretty penny, he could tell just by looking at the knife set. Unable to help himself he pulled the Chef Knife out, testing the weight of it in his hands, he carefully looked over the tool, appreciating the wood-like finish of the handle. Before he could return the knife to its rightful place his eyes caught sight of an engraving on the handle. Holding the knife up to his eyes he felt his breath hitch as he took in the letters, fingers ghosting of the initials ‘C.B.’ that had been a personal touch. One by one he removed the other three knives only to find that they had all indeed been engraved with his initials.

Carmy threw his head back, eyes staring at the ceiling as a sorrowful laugh escaped his lips. He felt a tightness in his chest as he tried to come to terms with what you had gifted him. The thoughtfulness and the care that you put into this gift proved to him that you had always been a better friend than he had ever been to you. The fact that you had gone out of your way to get his initials engraved into the set, something he knew definitely cost extra, squeezed at his chest. He wasn’t good at this shit and he hated it because you were, it came easy to you, the caring, the friendship, everything.

Carmy came back to earth choosing a spot to showcase his new knife set and block. Just because he didn’t have any guests over didn’t mean Carmy himself didn’t want to be able to marvel at the gift every time he came home. Unconsciously positioning them so they were the first thing his eyes landed on as soon as he stepped through the door. He stood there for some time just admiring the set, envelope lying forgotten on the countertop as he mentally berated himself for all the mistakes he made with you.

April 2019

Carmy had just returned home after a particularly rough shift. His chef coat was stained with whatever concoction his co-worker had spilt on him. Carmy felt like everything that could go wrong in the kitchen during his shift, did. He felt like he was off his game, constantly striving to be the best in the kitchen, working his ass off to show how much he belonged, how much he deserved to be there. The praise he desired was nowhere to be found instead being told he was “a worthless fucking idiot not even McDonald’s would hire.”

Not even the knife set he had set up three months ago could raise his spirits. He had half a mind to knock the fucking thing over, the metal mocking him the longer he stared in its direction. He threw his soiled chef coat on the cheap dining table chair he had acquired making his way to the fire escape, a much-needed smoke on his mind.

Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he just decided to give it all up one day. He never would, he knew that, but sometimes he just needed a few ‘what ifs’ to help calm him down. He would regret it, that’s what would happen and he’d probably be more miserable without it in his life than he was with it. He sat on the fire escape for a while burning through three cigarettes in all with the stress he was feeling.

Moving back into the apartment he made his way to the kitchenette hoping to make himself a quick PB&J and call it a night. He removed a cup from his dish drain running it under the faucet to refresh himself. He drank a quarter of the cup before moving to set it down on the countertop, hand missing by an inch as he practically slammed the glass into the countertop, the cup breaking on impact as his mail fell victim to the flood.

Carmy let out a sharp curse, the feeling of being cut racing through his palm as he dropped the remaining glass from his grasp. For a moment he just watched as his mail soaked up the water, before grabbing the closest dish towel and doing his best to clean up the mess. He dried the mail as best he could snatching it up to sit atop the little dining table where the air from the open window could hit it. Carmy glanced down at his palm, the cut was not deep enough to warrant any stitches, he used the damp dish towel as a makeshift bandage and wrapped his hand.

A black water-stained envelope caught his eye stopping him momentarily before he rushed to grab it, the lettering on the front already smeared and unreadable, “Fuck!” The loud curse reverberated off of his apartment walls as he ran to quickly flick on his stovetop, hoping the heat would help to dry out the contents. He stood over the stove envelope dangling over the burner careful to not let it get close enough to catch fire. If there was ever a day to finally face what he had been avoiding and open this damn envelope, today seemed like as good a day as any.

Zoning out Carmy stood there racking his brain for what the envelope could contain. A traditional Christmas card would have been the easiest thing to find in there, but he knew you didn’t do easy. That’s why he allowed the envelope to age on his countertop, whatever you had sealed into the sleek black pocket would be a tough pill for him to swallow.

The singe of his thumb brought him back to reality, the heat of the burner licking at his fingers burning his forefinger and thumb as he unconsciously dropped the envelope right onto the stovetop. “Shit! Fuck me!” The expletives left his lips as he forcefully plucked the envelope from its position and played hot potato with it before he was able to get it to the countertop. He brought his fingers to his lips aiming to soothe the throbbing in them.

Carmy stood with his hands on his hips, angry breaths leaving his nostrils as he tried to keep the slim thread of his calmness in check. Snatching the singed envelope from the countertop he made sure he still had a pack of cigarettes in his jean pocket before making his way out to his normal spot on the fire escape. The cheap lawn chair he had sat out there was a welcoming sight.

Plopping down in the chair Carmy lit a much-needed cigarette before stilling his shaking hands and delicately opening the envelope, not wanting to ruin something that had once been in your hands. He was right, things with you were never easy, because what he was hoping to be some cheesy Christmas card, was instead a folded letter with your pretty cursive dancing across the pages.

Head tilting towards the sky as Carmy tried to find strength in the cosmos, the weight of the letter settled into his lap where he had placed it to gain his bearings before diving straight in. Focusing back on the pages he carefully straightened them out; slight water damage had seeped through them but not enough to ruin them. Taking one last deep breath Carmy began reading the letter.

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚,

𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒚. 𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆. 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒎 𝒂 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅. 𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚, 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚? 𝑨𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆, 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆.

𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒑𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒅𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆.

𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒓. 𝑺𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕?

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆, 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚. 𝑰 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇𝒇 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒚 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚, 𝑰 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒍. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒔 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒚.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅-𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝑰 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 ��𝒕 𝒎𝒆, 𝑰 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒘𝒉𝒐’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇?

𝑰𝒕’𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒕 𝒗𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒅𝒐𝒛𝒆𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑾𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆.

𝑰 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒔. 𝑰𝒕 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰𝒕 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑴𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑵𝒂𝒕, 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝑹𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕. 𝑰𝒕 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝑰𝒕 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑱𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝑩𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑨𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒇. 𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏, 𝑰 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑰 𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒐𝒏. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒈𝒐 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒖𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑰 𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒂 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒖𝒍𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒖𝒑. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒇𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏, 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐.

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝑩𝒆𝒓𝒛𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒐. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰’𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐 𝒊𝒕 𝒂 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆. 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒖𝒎𝒃, 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒊𝒕?

𝑾𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒂 𝒋𝒐𝒌𝒆? 𝑨𝒔 𝑰’𝒎 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒄𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒆��𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝑩𝒆𝒓𝒛𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒐.

𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒕? 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐.

𝑵𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝑪𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒉𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔, 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆. 𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒈𝒐 𝑰 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒕 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚.

𝑼𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒂 𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕.

𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆. 𝑨𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒊𝒇𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆?

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚, 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍.

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔,

Carmy let out a slight chuckle about your lack of knowledge in the culinary arts. He traced your closing signature fingers taking extra care when tracing over the longtime nickname in your sign-off. He allowed himself to let what he’d just read sink in, he was going to have to look for that article you mentioned. The tightness in his chest was ever present as he devoured every word you had written for him. He should’ve opened the letter sooner, he knew that now. He distracted himself from your words by digging through the discarded envelope fingers hoping to latch onto the pictures you mentioned.

He brought forth two aged Polaroid pictures. The first is a group photo of the five of you - Mikey, Richie, Sugar, You, and Carmy - all squished together in the photo. The date on Mikey’s hat reminded him exactly what the occasion was. The five of you were all huddled around The Beef’s booth, Mikey and Richie on the far left side, arms thrown over the other, big smiles directed at the camera. Sugar stood smiling in the middle hands placed on the cheap fold-out table in front of them. Carmy’s eyes drifted to the last two figures in the photo, the two of you taking up the right portion of the Polaroid.

There Carmy was sitting at the table relegated to manning the cash box because Mikey wouldn’t let him help with cooking. You were behind him, bending over to be at the same level as him, and your head sat comfortably next to his. Your arms were thrown around his shoulders, hanging off of him like a koala, your bright smile mesmerizing as it was directed at the camera. While you were looking at the camera, he was looking at you, head slightly turned in your direction, a small shy smile directed your way as he focused on you.

Carmy’s thumb came up to gently caress the 15-year-old versions of the two of you trapped in the Polaroid, the same small smile gracing his features as he remembered that day. He sat the picture in his lap before moving on to the next.

The second Polaroid was just the two of you. Dressed in your finest garments for senior prom, standing on the porch of the Berzatto home. He remembered that night, the night he took Claire to the prom and realized that no girl he took an interest in would compare to the way he felt for you. He focused on the old photo in his hand trying to ignore the lavish corsage your date had bought you.

The more he looked down at the photo, the more he decided it was his favorite of the two of you together. You and Carmy stood side by side, neither of you paying any attention to the camera, your body turned slightly into his as your right hand rested right where his heart was. His arm settled around your waist, both of you staring at each other, the picture capturing the moment Carmy knew he wanted more than a friendship with you. Right before the picture had been taken Carmy had whispered about how beautiful he thought you looked, he remembered the look in your eyes as his compliment caught you off guard, the way your eyes quickly flashed to his lips as he gave you his small shy smile.

Carmy patted his pockets before pulling out his wallet and slipping the photo into the clear partition. He collected the other photo and the letter you had sent him entering through the fire escape and heading to his kitchen. He found the random magnet that had been on his fridge since moving in and placed the group photo on his freezer.

He quickly maneuvered his way out of the kitchen, making his way to the closest in his bedroom. He rummaged through the mess looking for your designated box in his closet. Eyes finding the wrapped present he had meant to send you three months ago, even though it was April he was hoping you wouldn’t be too miffed about the lateness of your gift. He had tried to convince Mikey to send it for him but was called a “fucking idiot” before Mikey promptly hung up on him, and when he tried to ask Sugar for your address she told Carmy to ask you himself.

On top of not bringing you a present when he returned home for Christmas, it had taken a month to find a reputable seller for the specific vintage camera he was looking for. And another month on top of that to bargain with them and actually buy the camera, so Carmy thought he was doing a pretty good job for himself.

Making his way back into the kitchen Carmy sat the present on the countertop. He paced around the enclosed space, hyping himself up to make the call and ask for your address, and if he was lucky, maybe even invite you out to New York if you had any vacation days. He couldn’t help himself, although your letter to him was less than heart-warming, it ignited hope in him regarding you that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Leaning against the countertop, Carmy slipped his phone from his pocket. Opening up his contact list he scrolled down to your name, he clicked on it momentarily checking the time. It was 10 pm where you were, he knew you wouldn’t have been asleep yet. Carmy took one last deep breath before pressing the call button.

Camry listened to the phone ring as he placed it against his ear, foot tapping rhythmically against the linoleum. Eyes focused on your present sitting in his kitchen.

The tightness in Carmy’s chest intensified tenfold as he listened to the automated voice streaming through his ear.

“We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”

a/n: tag yourself, i’m carmy x self-sabotage : ) i almost changed carmy’s gift because i forgot his knife (the one he gave tina) already has his initials, but then i realized baby wouldn’t even know that and since carmy seems like the type to not spoil himself baby will lol. i promise carmy won’t be an asshole forever he’s just stupid atm. also i don’t know shit about culinary tools and i got caught up looking at pretty knives so i just picked my favorite 😭

let me know if there are any questions regarding the timeline and i’ll make a post about it or something!!

taglist: @hawkins-2000 @elliesbabygirl @allbark-no-bite @anakinswh0re3005 @rexorangecouny @thecraziestcrayon @fruitcupsworld @nishinoyahhh @lilylovelyxo @ridingthehotmessexpress @noas-ark @jadeittic @hellokittyever @luvr-bunnyy @sxgees @fandomhopped @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @kravitzwhore @chanluuvr @readingwiththereids @chims-kookies @ladygrey03 @ferida-kahlo @wanderlustnightwanderer @how2besalty @armydrcamers @jointherebellion215 @jackierose902109 @blkbxrbie-esther @ajordan2020 @head-slut-in-charge @magnet-girl @thebookwormlife @yeehawbitchs @khena @kailyn-05 @ovaqma @fire-treasure-iii @frequentnosebleeder @gcidvrsh @awatt31 @cauliflowerpatch

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto angst #carmen berzatto x you #the bear x reader #the bear fic #all i ever knew only you ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊#[aiekoy] interlude 0 #[aiekoy]

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percheduphere · 11 months ago

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I'm kinda curious, especially since a lot of people have very different views on this: How do you think Loki and Mobius would be in an actual, official, romantic relationship? I kinda think they would keep doing what they're doing but I don't really know what level of romantic stuff they would do. They're already pretty physically affectionate, but would they do that in public since both of 'em are pretty secretive about their normal emotion? They compliment each other but would they use things like honey and dear in a serious way? Etc. So...How do you think this time couple would be like?

I adore this ask because all my headcanons about Loki and Mobius being in an established relationship are SOFT. The best part is, canon supports this.

While I do agree that Loki and Mobius's dynamic will continue the way it has been, I also think a certain level of emotional intensity will be brought into the mix, increasing their general chemistry in front of others ten-fold. The banter, the idea spit-balling, the lack of personal space, the smiles, laughs, and long gazes ... imagine all of that dialed up. Loki loves as hard as he hates and is a hedonistic show off. Mobius has loved Loki since Day 1 and repressed his feelings for long enough. Are they really going to be reserved around each other once they're securely in a relationship?

No! They will be the most sickeningly lovey-dovey couple in the MCU.

WORDS OF AFFIRMATION

S1 had Mobius advocating for and complimenting Loki in private and in front of others. S2 had Loki reciprocating. It is not hard to imagine them becoming fiercely protective of one another on and off the field. Cross one, the other is crossed. They are a two-package deal, and both are vicious when it comes to wielding words on behalf of the other's dignity.

As for terms of endearment, I can imagine Loki calling Mobius "Darling" on spare, particularly emotional occasions. Mobius, on the other hand, still has Don in him. "Sweetheart" and "Honey" are very in-character pet names he would use. Both reserve usage of these names in private as Loki hates blushing in front of others, though Mobius has a tendency to slip when he's multitasking at work.

PHYSICAL TOUCH

The hug in S1E5 seems to have opened the door for physical affection come S2E1. Loki and Mobius (especially Mobius) touch one another with affection, attentiveness, and protectiveness on instinct. Despite not being romantically involved in S2, they move around one another the way two lovers in a small kitchen might. Once in a relationship, they will continue to do this but certain gestures will hold more meaning, in particular: holding hands.

One of Mobius's first gestures of kindness, which Loki initial rejected, was a handshake in S1E1.

The second time Mobius offers his hand, Loki takes it and uses Mobius's compassion as an opportunity to steal the time twister from his pocket.

Mobius offers another handshake in S1E5, which Loki declines in favor of a heartfelt embrace that he extends to Mobius and Mobius happily accepts.

Physically (and symbolically), Loki and Mobius's relationship was founded on Mobius extending a hand and Loki refusing it, betraying it, and finally taking it. I therefore see them holding hands regularly, every day, because holding onto one another is grounding, comforting, and reminds them of these earlier moments in their relationship that they've overcome together.

As these two are not shy about tight embraces in public, I doubt either would feel shy about chaste kisses either. They are so in-sync and adoring of another that it goes without saying that when they have sex, they make love passionately. They communicate with touching just as much as words, so heteronormative "bottom and top" designations are thrown out the window and into the dumpster (where they belong). How they have sex conveys how they feel about one another in that specific moment.

PDA

Among others, I can see them being nauseatingly sweet. We already know what bystanders look like when they tease and bicker with one another:

And make no mistake that Loki would up the dramatics with PDA just to gross Thor out. Thor making a "barfing gesture" cracks Loki up every time, and Mobius, resigned, goes along with it because who doesn't want to get peppered with kisses?

QUALITY TIME

I haven't seen anyone point this out yet, but it's hilarious to me that S2E3 starts in broad daylight and cuts to evening by the time Loki and Mobius stroll out with cracker jacks in their hands.

Loki looks a little annoyed but he is going along with it for Mobius's sake. Sightseeing at the World's Fair makes Mobius happy, and whatever makes Mobius happy, Loki will indulge even if he's not interested. Like that key lime pie he didn't eat.

If this is their relationship when it's platonic, then be ready for Mobius to take date night very seriously.

Dinner and a night at the opera? Naturally.

Eating pastries and drinking coffee while people-watching in Paris? Absolutely.

Biking side-by-side along the Dutch Coastal Route in the Netherlands? Of course!

Mobius will take care of all the planning and Loki will enjoy sharing new experiences together. On (frequent) occasion, Mobius will surprise Loki by choosing an activity he knows Loki will enjoy, such as visiting an ancient library or perusing fine clothes at a bazaar.

Point being, these two have always enjoyed each other's company and have fun together. In a relationship, they will actively take time out of their schedule to bond more purposefully!

ACTS OF SERVICE

Both Loki and Mobius are strong when it comes to communicating love through acts of service. Where Mobius is a little higher on words of affirmation, I believe Loki is slightly higher here. Loki pays attention to Mobius's interests, habits, and creature comforts. He will commit to memory the exact way Mobius prefers his steaks, sandwiches, salads, and coffee prepared.

Mobius, for his part, will take care of things Loki doesn't like doing. Taking out the garbage? Done. Washing the car and filling it with gas? Did it while you were asleep. Filling out paperwork? Say no more.

Sadly, I don't think either of them have a talent for cooking. Loki grew up with palace servants. Mobius relied on the TVA cafeteria. They will attempt to conquer the kitchen together, but the end result is always either a fire or a flood. It's okay. Loki can name Mobius's top 5 take-out places off the top of his head.

GIFTS

Neither Loki nor Mobius strike me as big on gifts, but when they feel the sentiment, they give one another meaningful things that only they understand.

I think Mobius may be slightly more inclined for gift-giving. He knows what material objects mean most to Loki and why. Loki, meanwhile, might feel challenged in this area. Not for a lack of enthusiasm, mind, but because Mobius doesn't have many material desires beyond a jet ski. Loki would like to think he's more creative than getting Mobius a new one once a year.

In short, Loki and Mobius already engage in the 5 love languages. Being together will only strengthen what they do for one another, much to their friends' longsuffering annoyance.

#asks #loki #mobius #lokius #my headcanons #loki meta #my meta #loki analysis #my analysis

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queers-gambit · 2 years ago

Text

It Feels Like (the Very) First Time part two

[ part one ]

[ series masterlist ]

prompt: your husband finally shows you all of him.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!wife!reader

fandom: House of the Dragon

word count: 7.4k+

warnings: cursing, smut, Aemond has more emotion than he knows what to do with, Ewan Mitchell with horses - yum. small angst, large comfort. more filler, more fluff, more of author avoiding responsibilities!! what is editing? i don't know her!!

"What's this?" Aemond whispered through sleep, cracking his eye open in confusion as you settled on the bed with a large, legged tray decorated with different foods. "What're you up to, pretty girl?"

His voice was still hoarse when he first woke up.

"Another surprise," you beamed at him, the sun streaming in through the open windows.

Aemond sighed through sleep, "How're you awake right now? Last night wasn't enough?"

"I'm a bit excited," you defended softly, "today's pretty special in my opinion."

He chuckled and slowly pulled himself up in bed, eyepatch still in place after passing out in it; hand raising to wipe his eye of sleep. "This is nice, love," he nodded gently as you set the tray to his side, easily returning to him when his arm opened in invitation. "Thank you," he mumbled, kissing your temple.

"Mhm, I promised it was just gonna be us," you smirked at him, letting his lips meet yours slowly. "Happy nameday, love," you whispered against his lips, slowly grinning.

He nodded, "Thank you."

"C'mon, I've got a day planned," you smirked, encouraging the tray forward for you both to pick off of. He chuckled when on the tray, laid one of his first presents.

"What's this?" He perked a brow, pointing to the smaller box.

"Maybe you should open it, find out," you teased softly, biting into a berry. He spared you a small look before sighing and reaching for it, slowly unwrapping the packaging and revealing the velvet box.

"Sweetheart," he warned.

"Just shut up and open it," you laughed, letting both your arms coil around one of his as he slowly opened the box.

"What...?" He breathed.

"It's for protection," you smiled softly. "And strength, whenever you need it. 'S the Warrior, see?" You gently pet the pendent.

"It's beautiful, love," he muttered against the crown of your head, kissing it.

"It's for the times I'm not with you," you explained. "You told me you feel safe with me, yeah?" He nodded silently. "So, the times I'm not with you, let this pendent give you strength. The Warrior's good for that."

He chuckled a breath through his nose. "No, this is perfect, sweet girl. Thank you. This is... Really special," he assured, handing you the box. "Wanna put it on?"

"Yeah?" You shot up in excitement, trying to restrain your joy but look, when you nailed a present, you got something akin to an adrenaline high. "You mean it?"

"Put it on," he chuckled, "and I won't take it off, hmm?"

"Good, good, good," you muttered, taking the golden chain in hand before shuffling to your knees. He sat still to let you clasp the chain, sitting back to admire the pendent. "Oh, yeah, this looks - yeah, this is good."

"Yeah?" He chuckled, mimicking you.

"Yes! Really suits you," you smirked, leaning in to peck his lips. "But I know you're feeling flustered, so, I promise... There's still more surprises."

"Y/N," he groaned, "this is enough."

"Hush your mouth and come with me. Get dressed in something loose," you thought for a moment. "And boots - wear boots."

"What're you planning?"

"Play along," you groaned, trying to pull him from the bed. "By the Gods, what're you eating, lad?"

He laughed and easily tugged you back, letting your knees crash to the bed on either side of his hips; making you catch yourself on his shoulders. "In a moment," he preened, licking your bottom lip as his hands easily slid from your thighs up to grip your bottom again, "I need to thank my wife properly."

"No," you giggled, "c'mon, save the thanks and celebration for later."

He sighed at your stubbornness, kissing you once more before giving a hearty pat to your arse, "All right, pretty girl, go on."

With a spring to your step, Aemond watched you flit around the room before getting out of bed, too. You both prepared for your day and you made sure to grab the new pair of gloves Helaena got him. Once in a tunic and pair of breeches, your boots were laced on and hand taken in Aemond's to leave your room.

He didn't know where to go, so, he had to follow you through the Keep. "What're we doing at the stables, love?" He wondered softly, following you closely as he eyed the magnificent beasts around you.

"I heard rumor the Prince used to love horses before he mastered Vhagar," you turned so you walked down the aisle of the stable backwards, hand still held in his.

He chuckled, "Before Vhagar, I only had reason to learn to ride a horse. Since then, I've tried to focus more on my dragon."

You hummed and nodded, "Perhaps because you also don't own your own horse?"

"What do I have need of a horse for?" He chuckled, teasing you.

"To go out on rides with your wife," you teased. "C'mon," you tugged him further, introducing him to the final stall. "Ta-da."

This time, Aemond fully laughed; his cheeks heating up gently, "You really got me a horse?"

"I really did," you beamed. "Wanna go for a ride?"

"You're serious?"

"Why would I jest at a time like this?" You pouted lightly. "Call it spousal bonding."

Aemond let his lips quirk in a smirk, stepping towards you until his hands took hold of your hips and your own latched onto the area above his elbow. "You go above and beyond, sweet girl," he mused.

"You deserve it," you assured softly. "And while I do not get to spoil you usually, I can for today. So, please," you nodded at his new ebony stallion, "go for a ride with me."

"How can I say no?" He smirked, leaning in to peck your lips. "Thank you, my love. I want to say it's too much but you are too stubborn to hear me."

You let your eyes roll, giving him another kiss before pulling back to select your steed for the day. And like that, the morning fell into afternoon in the stable and then the afternoon melted into evening with you both outside the city walls, on horseback.

Aemond seemed different and it was notable enough that you cocked your head as you watched him. At some point, his head tilted back and his eye shut to take a deep breath in; letting you admire him for a long moment before riding forward. The horse you bought him was, indeed, a bit green in his steps but Aemond handled him like a professional - and Gods, was it a sight to witness. You both explored the area beyond your home and as the sun moved into position to sink, you wondered if you should make for the Keep again.

With the promise of returning whenever you liked, since this was his horse now, you both made it back to the stable in time for the sunset. Leaving the stallion and your borrowed gelding in their stalls after cooling them out, you and Aemond made for your rooms with another mischievous grin.

"Let me guess," He sighed, trying not to roll his eye but the attitude was evident, "you've yet another surprise?"

"Of course," you chirped, grinning at him as your hand shot out in offer. "Shall we, my dear husband?" He had to chuckle lightly, slapping his palm into your own almost begrudgingly. "Oh, come now, you can try to cheer up. It was a nice day, wasn't it?"

Aemond sighed gently and tugged you by your hand so you were right under his arm. "Today was kinda perfect, my love. Thank you," he whispered against your forehead before pecking it. "I almost forgot how much I like horses."

"Well, now you own one," you smirked. "I did good, huh?"

Aemond let himself chuckle quietly, "Yeah, pet, you absolutely nailed it. Hmm?"

Under your breath, you hissed, "Yes," much to your husband's amusement.

"And now?" He asked, glancing around the halls you lead him down.

"You're gonna wait in our rooms while I get dinner settled," you smirked up at him gently. "Maybe get a bath, you reek of manure."

You both laughed gently, knowing you were no better; horse hair coating both of your clothing and leaving natural smudges of dirt, grime, and yes, sometimes, manure. It was mostly caked to your boots in an array of mud, hay, and sawdust; so, when you got to your rooms, you were both quick to shed your gear.

"Uh," Aemond eyed you carefully when you dressed.

"What?"

"You're not going in that," he chuckled.

"I was going to put a dressing robe on," you smirked, gently rolling your eyes as you gathered your hair together before twisting and pinning it off your neck.

"Hmm," he considered, letting his eye rake up and down your form. "Maybe pants?"

You chuckled, relenting as you plucked up a pair of simple trousers, "Yes, my sweet. Good?" You checked, easily stepping into the thin material and tying the drawstring.

"With the dressing robe, yes," he mused, truthfully only wanting you bare for him and covered to your neck for everyone else. "You'll join me when you return?"

"Um, ew?" You laughed lightly. "So we might sit in our own filth?"

He shrugged, "What if we cleaned ourselves before we stepped in the tub?"

"Doable but still gross," you teased. "It'll be like human soup of our grime, love."

"Well, if you don't want - "

"Hey, hey," you smiled as you approached him, tying off your robe, "'s your day and if you want to get a bath with me, I would not refuse." You paused, and then relented, "In truth, any other day, I would not refuse - but today's special."

"All right, all right," he smirked, giving your hips a squeeze, "you go, I'll be here."

"Good," you chirped, toes supporting your weight as you pecked his lips swiftly. "I'll be quick!"

Aemond smirked and let his hand swat your bottom (again), chuckling when you offered a half-hearted glare. After stuffing your feet into a pair of slippers, you darted out of the room and rushed for the kitchens. From there, Chef Uller was all too happy to go over a menu with you; assuring it would be delivered to your bed chambers.

Once everything was set in motion, you took a pitcher of wine and two fresh goblets to your room. With the door shut, but not yet locked, you set your items down to pour the wine and then peak into the adjoining room.

It was considerably smaller, but served its purpose of providing privacy in one's most personal, intimate moments. However, it also housed a smaller fireplace that warmed the clawed foot tub resting before it; kettle dangling slightly from it's hanging rack.

Aemond was resting in the tub already, hair, also, pinned back to save it from getting wet. He lazily looked over when you approached and you briefly had to remind yourself not to get angry when you noted he still wore his eyepatch. "Thanks, love," he whispered, accepting the goblet you handed him.

"Mhm," you nodded gently, taking a sip.

"Join me," he requested - or demanded, you're not sure. It didn't matter much because you were eagerly stripping to the side of the tub under his heavy gaze.

Aemond's chest sat through the waterline and silently sipped as his eye watched you, but was taken aback when you asked, "Do you trust me?"

"Probably more than I should, pet," he answered slowly. "Where'd that come from?"

You sighed lightly and in the nude, neared the tub with your own goblet. "Well, you just," you sighed as you sat to the rim of the tub, turning slowly so your legs were submerged first. "You do not let me see you."

He understood your words, telling you quietly, "You saw me at my worst, you should not have to subject yourself to that, again."

Aemond's free hand was offered to you and you accepted it, easing yourself into the still-warmed water. "Well, shouldn't you leave that up to me to decide?" You asked, back leaning against the opposite end; making your legs lay over his to leave your feet at his hips. It left your legs spread to his gaze, water doing nothing to hide the lower half of your body.

His free hand dropped to hold your shin that rested over his thigh, "No, my love, I would not want you to pass judgement."

"So, you do not trust me."

"I do, pet."

"Then why are you afraid to show me?" You asked quietly. "We are already married, Aemond, there is not much you can do to chase me away." Your feet squeezed his hips, pouting lightly, "What if I wanted to see it?"

He sighed, "I do not need to hear my wife's disgust over my apparance."

"Or are you afraid of the praise I will offer?"

It was silent for a few moments as you both took sips of wine, then heard the chamber door open.

"What's that?" He asked in mild alarm.

"Ease yourself, it's only Amira and Chef Uller bringing us dinner," you assured softly. When his questioning gaze turned to you, you smiled softly, "I told you it was just us today."

"So you did," he smirked. "Tell me something." You sighed and nodded, tipping the goblet to your lips as your free hand laid over the lip of the tub. Aemond's hand rose from the water to gently lace your fingers together, the last of the steam wafting from the water's surface. "Did you get me those books or did my brother, truly?"

You paused, feeling yourself flare in a flush of internal embarrassment; blinking a few times as you sighed. "Well, he is... Busy, love. He could not find the time, so, while I was out, I made sure to grab something Aegon could give you."

He nodded, "So, they're from you?"

Your eyes rolled, "Yes, yes, and from your dear brother, he only graced you with his decent behavior at dinner."

"Which went more noticed than you think, sweet girl," he smirked, the outer door shutting again - and you knew Amira was the last out of the room to ensure nobody lingered.

"Hmm?"

"Mum noticed," he nodded softly. "I could tell."

"Well - "

"No, truly, love, what is it you have on him?" He asked, leaning over to set his goblet to the stone floor. You deftly handed him your own. "Hmm?" He turned in the water to reach for you, and you did not fight his encouragement to slide on your knees to rest on his lap. "What is it you have on my brother that gets him to act like a regular person?"

You chuckled, damp arms rising to wrap around his neck. "I promise you, I have nothing. Aegon is a special lad," you allotted, "and has to be handled in a special way. I would only like to think I am merely defensive against him."

Aemond nodded softly, "He likes to instigate."

"Mhm," you agreed, letting his lips meet yours. "However, if my dinner gets any colder, I'll be very upset."

"Oh, c'mon, love," he pouted gently. "Just gotta raise your hips for me."

"So you might make another mess?" You teased, kissing him again. "No, love, c'mon. I can wash your hair if you'd like."

"Perhaps in the morning," he promised with a soft smirk. "I might've taken tomorrow off from responsibilities."

"Yeah?" You nodded gently, nose rubbing up his own.

"Mhm. And I allegedly got you released from duties, too."

"What did you do?" You laughed.

"Merely expressed my want to show my wife how appreciative of her I am," he chuckled, letting his tongue boldly stick out to lick flat up your neck. Your breathing stuttered slightly as your hands tightened on his neck as he muttered, "That I desired being alone with her."

"Oh, so, you told everyone we were going to fuck all day," you teased, laughing gently in his ear.

"Mhm," he smirked, pecking your cheek. "Am I wrong?"

"If I'm not fed soon, maybe."

Aemond laughed and agreed, letting you both climb from the tub; sending a wave of water back into it and onto the stone floor as you dried off. You didn't bother dressing, only tied your robe on; Aemond following your lead and tying on a simple pair of thin trousers. After, he sat at the table and you skipped over, showing him the last two books for him to open.

"I knew it," he teased, opening them. "Are you done for the night?"

"Hmm," you thought about it for a moment, "nope, there's one more. But that's for later," you winked, claiming your own seat as he dished you both plates. "You like them?"

He nodded, glancing at the titles. "Have you read them?"

"A few years ago," you nodded, "and thought you'd like them, maybe we could talk about it."

Aemond chuckled, "Yeah, sweetheart."

Dinner passed uneventfully, and by the end, your bare feet were curled in Aemond's lap as he couldn't resist reading the first chapter of one of the books you got him. You listened as he read, smiling when one of his hands held the book and the other caressed the skin of your feet, ankle, and shins. You were both content to banter back and forth regarding whatever he read, and because you've read the book already, you had to advantage to really poke at him.

As the night passed, it was evident the exhaustion of the day set and Aemond was glancing around. When he noted your softened expression, arm propped on the table to keep your head upright, he closed the novel and placed it under his arm. "C'mere," he whispered, using your hands to guide you to your feet and then lead you to bed.

It was easy enough to get in bed and resume reading. This time, you were pressed against his chest to look at the book he read from, petting the small tuffs of thin, soft hair on his chest.

Just before midnight, you stretched against Aemond's side to then lean up, caress his one cheek, and press your lips to the other. His cheeks filled with a grin as you obnoxiously hummed through your wet pecks, nose nuzzling the side of his own.

"Hey," you whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Ready for your last surprise?"

He sighed, "As if today wasn't enough?"

"Mhm."

Aemond chuckled, patting your hip, "All right, yeah, let's get it done. Go on, pretty girl," his lips pecked your forehead.

With a another grin, you shot out of bed and readjusted your robe to locate the last, final gift of the evening. When you turned, your nerves suddenly flared as you stared at your husband; propped in your bed, eyepatch on, single eye staring back at you with mild curiosity. "Um," you looked to the wrapped parcel in your hands, "yeah, you know what, now - now, this feels a little inappropriate."

Your words caught Aemond's attention, making him sit up and set the book aside. "No, don't do that. You had the thought, c'mere, walk me through it."

That was something about your husband you were overtly grateful for: he always wanted you to explain, take you thought-by-thought to better understand your emotions.

Nervously, you shuffled forward. "I can always return it," you assured, slowly taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Aemond's head cocked. "And you don't have to wear it, either..."

"I wish to assure you but I don't know what it is," he chuckled lightly. "Are you going to let me see?"

You sighed with crinkled brows, hand shaking as you held the gift to him. Aemond slowly accepted it and began to unwrap it, revealing a thickly padded velvet box.

"More jewelry?" He teased lightly, sparing you a glance.

However, your throat constricted as you gulped, "If it's too much, Aemond, I'm truly sorry a-and I'll replace it - I'll return it."

He sighed patiently and opened the box, pausing in earnest shock. He looked from the new, rounded sapphire to your amethyst orbs as words evaded him for several long moments. It left time for your nerves to spike, waiting for his first move.

But you had to explain yourself.

"I-I know you do not want me to see your injury," you nodded. "But I wanted to show you that I don't need to see it in order to love you. While I wish I could go back and undo the years of torment and ridicule, I cannot... And I cannot change your mind that you do not need to hide away, but I would hope you come to see there is no reason to hide away from me. But only when you're ready," you smiled slightly, "and I hoped this sapphire could replace what you use now. Mira said it's seen better days, so, I just... I just thought," you shrugged nervously, picking at the bed sheets in an effort to distract your overwhelming thoughts. "You know?"

Aemond slowly let his lips spread in a bright grin, "This is... I do not know what to call this, but by the Gods, my love, I have never been bestowed such a gift."

"I love you," you promised, nodding at him in assurance.

Something in Aemond's mind clicked and after glancing to the door, he asked, "Could you lock the door, pet?"

"Why?"

"We don't need to be disturbed," he chuckled, nodding towards the door. You did as he asked, and when you returned, he was guiding you into his lap to settle in a straddle.

"Is it too much?" You worried, hands to his neck as your eyes were drawn to the gem sitting beside your calf.

"No, sweetheart," he whispered, hands holding your hips, "'s actually really beyond words. I do not know what to say other than thank you."

You smiled gently, "You're welcome. I hope you know that I do not think any less of you because of this." Your hand rose to hold his cheek, thumb sweeping slowly to caress the bottom half of his scar. "If anything, it really adds to your charm," you smirked gently.

He let a breathy laugh out through his nose, "Yet, I think I have a surprise for you, love."

"Oh? What would that be, husband?" You smiled, leaning in to peck his lips, but did not release your hold of his face.

He sighed, "Take it off."

"My robe?"

"Well," he paused, nodding, "yes, that, too, but I meant the patch."

You gaped at him for a moment, "Look, Aemond, you shouldn't because I want you to, it should be what you feel comfortable doing. We can wait."

But his hands retreated from your form to tug at the ties of your robe, easily pushing it from your shoulders to leave you bare to him. He leaned back some, eye raking over your form spread on his lap. "I do feel comfortable, pet. But only with you," he sighed. His hand rose to sweep his thumb over your pebbling nipple, "C'mere, love. Gonna help me change it out?"

"You're serious?" You gawked, trying to ignore the ministrations of his fingers.

"I don't take the gem out anymore," he nodded, still toying with your tit as he glanced at your gifted sapphire. "That looks like a better fit, more snug."

"I'm not forcing it in socket," you warned, feeling your stomach churn - but from anxiety or arousal, you weren't sure.

"No, I would not ask that of you," He nodded, other hand moving to the laces that laid at the top of his trousers to loosen them. His thighs clenched to lift you up, now holding you to his chest as he worked his trousers from his hips. "Easy," he whispered to you, one hand holding his leaking member as the other guides you back down.

Turns out, intimacy turned your husband on - another note you made.

You both breathed out sharply when his tip prodded at your entrance, but with one fell swoop, you were sunk onto his hips; his cock fully sheathed.

Your hands pet over his cheeks, glancing to the leather eyepatch. "You're truly sure?" You whispered.

"I am," he promised, "go ahead, love. But please... Do not shy away."

Your heart shattered at his words, but you whispered back, "Never."

As if in distraction for himself, Aemond started to rut your hips into his own; creating both tension and friction. Your hands eased over his hair and just felt along the strap, his eye closing to press into your neck. You let him be and started to increase your pace as your fingers toyed with the latch.

Aemond grunted when the years of horseback and dragon riding proved useful; letting your hips move on their own accord to stroke him for all he was worth. His thrusts slowly started to meet yours as you let the latch of the eyepatch go slack, hearing his breathing stagger.

You caressed his face to your neck still but slowly pulled the leather eyepatch off, letting it fall to the side. Aemond's arms coiled like vices around your waist, keeping you impossibly close as you purposefully increased your pace. His hot breath fanned over your collarbones as your hands gently caressed his jaw to ease him back.

He was stiff and kept his eye closed, but perhaps, that was to your advantage. You kept your face neutral, fully pulling yourself off his cock before slamming back down in an impossible rhythm; just gazing over his injury as the dull sapphire in socket stared back at you. "Aemond," you whispered, changing pace so you more-so rolled your hips into his, "look at me, love, please."

With another gulp, Aemond slowly opened his eye and only found your passionate, blissed expression.

"This is what you hide from me?" You asked gently. "You do not feel how tight I am? Gazing at you, fully," you appreciated, thumb sweeping across the bare scar to then gently hook into his bottom lip and jaw; tugging lightly to punctuate your words, "and seeing you like this is something mouthwatering, love."

"Don't," he whispered.

"What?"

"Give me false hope," he grit, taking control of your hips to hump into you at a faster pace. His feet planted flat on the mattress to give himself leverage behind you.

"I would never," you panted, "I only offer you truth. Fuck's sake, Aemond, I saw you when this first happened and I was not repulsed then - I am not now. You, my dear, sweet husband," you leaned so your lips hovered over his, "are so incredibly beautiful. Two eyes or one or none, I am in love with your mind, body, and soul."

"Fuck," he licked your bottom lip before growling and taking you in his arms so he could flip you both.

"Gods," you moaned when he gave his first thrust, new angle creating a pressurized, piercing feeling in your gut. But your hands all but slapped over his cheeks to pull him closer, "You're so fucking handsome, Aemond, do not hide from me anymore. Please, my love, I cannot bare the idea of you turning away."

"After tonight, how can I?" he smirked some, dropping a sloppy kiss to your lips. His hips retracted only to push forward with a roll of his hips, creating a feeling of explicit pleasure in your blood and guts.

"Good," you mused, holding onto his neck and shoulders as his thumb reached to circle around your pearl. "I always want to see you. Fuck," you whined at that familiar feeling.

"You close, pretty girl? Gonna cum for me?" He smirked, lips moving over yours. He gave a grunt and let his head drop to your neck, one hand under your shoulder to keep his balance as the other held one of your legs up his hip.

"Yes, yes, yes," you whined, gasping when his tongue flattened to your neck before scraping his teeth over a sensitive spot. You knew the flesh of your neck and chest would be marked by his doing but did not care; eager to wear his love-bites as badges of honor. "Aemond," you begged in his ear, hands smoothing his hair back with desperate movements.

"That's a good girl," he praised, pulling back to lift his torso and hold both your hips in a pin against the bed. Then, he rose them slightly to angle, making your feet plant and legs widen as he started to thrust again. "Huh?" He reached for your neck, staring straight into your eyes. "Gonna cum around me, love? Let me feel you fall apart?"

You nodded mutely, his hand pressing down to your throat as your legs started to shake from overstimulation. You felt briefly frustrated for not cumming yet, but you were only strokes away once Aemond angled your hips a little more properly. But when his head bowed to watch his cock hammer in and out, glistening in your juices, you reached for him, "Don't turn away."

Aemond smirked and moved so he hovered over you, needing to release your throat to hold his weight; pressing dangerously hard to your clit as his cock swelled with pleasure.

Yet, his breathing faltered when you whispered, "I love you exactly as you are, Aemond." His eye met yours, hand reaching to caress his cheek as your ankles locked behind his pert buttocks. "Do not turn away, I love seeing you - all of you. I will not tire of this sight," you promised through your higher-pitched breathing, slowly whimpering as oxygen felt hard to come by as your climax mounted.

His lips caught the moan off your tongue, sweeping into your mouth only to pull back to stare at you. "Open your mouth," he commanded. One arm, again, lay under your shoulder as the other was occupied to your clit. "C'mon, pretty girl, open your fucking mouth."

You did as bid, and his smirk was broad before not wasting time to pucker his lips as he gathered spit before slowly letting it push from his mouth - dripping to your tongue, and rolling to the back of your throat. You were almost unsure what to do, never experiencing this before, but didn't have to think hard or for long because Aemond was descending and letting his tongue invade your mouth.

Your throat constricted easily, almost absentmindedly.

"Good girl," he purred.

"Wait," you bit your lip.

"What's wrong?" He worried, brows crinkling as his thrusting slowed.

"No, no," you encouraged, heels bearing down to his flesh, "keep going, please. But let me," you spoke, letting one hand drift to your pearl and gently swat his away.

He actually moaned and sat back again to watch you, and from this angle, it was exactly what you needed. Your husband's sapphire only reflected the light of the room but it was enough to push you over the edge once you took a new direction and speed to your clit. Aemond watched in fascination, lips gently parted, as you came undone around him; back arching, eyes shutting, and both hands quickly darting up to palm your breasts.

"Aemond," you whined, eyes cracking open slightly. "My love - please."

"I'm here, pet," he whispered, holding your waist as he started to chase his own pleasure. "You're so fucking tight," he grit lightly.

You whimpered, but before you realized it, your hips were raising to meet his thrusts; one hand holding his neck as the other reached to fondle his stones. Aemond didn't last beyond another thrust, cumming with a shout as his hips stuttered into yours; both hands planted to the sides of your head to keep a stiff-armed posture.

Manicured hands guided him back to you, legs encouraging him to collapse into your body as lips claimed his. Seemingly giving way, he let you push him to his back as you only turned to lift a leg over his hip. He grunted, pushing his hips forward again to keep himself seated deeply in you; peppering kisses to your lips, nose, and chin.

You laid beside one another and you soaked in the sight of him as you both tried to regain your breathing. After a few moments of aimlessly letting your fingertips caress the skin of his face, he cracked a teasing smile, and through his short pants, teased, "You're gonna stare a lot now, aren't you?"

You chuckled, "Would that be such a crime?"

"Not at all, pretty girl," he assured, hands holding your back and hip to keep you close. "Though it might get a bit creepy."

You shrugged, "You married me, so..."

Snickering, Aemond agreed happily, "Yes, I did. And I'd do it again, my love." A hand rose to let his fingertips now guide your chin up so your gaze met his. "I don't know what I did to deserve this union, but I am trying my best to give proper thanks for it. But tonight, my love," he breathed, "I do not know what to say."

"Well, considering you're still stuffed inside me, better say something nice," you teased gently, hearing him chuckle.

"I fear I must ask your assistance in something." You hummed in question, tugging yourself up slightly to caress his jaw and cheek as you kissed at his skin. "Help me change the gem."

"Not in Seven Hells," you refused with a small gasp. "You lost your mind?"

He smirked, "C'mon, sweet girl, if we're doin' this, let's just do it all. I do not trust anyone else but you, yet, I can go ask someone else for help - "

"I might stab you," you lightly threatened with a pout. "Considering the time we've been married and I am only now seeing you," you sighed gently, thumb sweeping over his scar as you stared into the sapphire for a moment, "I would feel great shame if anyone else assisted you... Though, I must confess, I only worry for hurting you."

"You could never," he assured, his hand aiding hair from the side of your head back behind your ear. "You were not wrong, the one I wear should probably be changed. So, we're gonna get the gem out, and..."

"And?" You spoke softly.

He sighed, "Would it... Would it run you off if I asked you to see the injury... Without the sapphire?"

Your heart melted at the unsure, veiled nervousness to his tone. "You're not gonna run me off, love. I will look at all of you," you spoke softly, leaning in to kiss his lips, "gemstone or no."

He sighed. "Lay here a moment, we'll need a dagger."

"For?" You pondered when he moved from under you, cock pulling free with a small grunt, to then let his feet hit the stone floor.

"To get the gem out," he eased casually.

"I am not taking a dagger to your face, Aemond!" You snapped in alarm, reaching for your dressing robe that hung at the bottom edge of the mattress.

"No, love, I will," he assured, grabbing a short-blade from his weapons belt. "You just sit there," he whispered, moving back to your side. You frowned, and once he sat, moved so you were pressed to his flank. Your lips pressed warm kisses to his shoulder, watching as he all too easily used the tip of the blade to pop the gem from his eye socket. Perhaps the one he used truly wasn't a proper fit and was too loose.

Yet, he did not face you.

Reaching for his cheek, you first let your forehead rest against his temple. "Whenever you're ready," you whispered.

"T-This might be the part you run," he returned.

"Sweetheart, please," you sighed sadly, "I am not going to turn away, run, puke my insides, want to leave you, or think any different. Well, that last bit might not be true," you waited until his head tilted just a fraction to meet your smiling-eyes, "because I can only love you more for trusting me this far. But... I-If this is far enough, we don't have to proceed. You can put the gem back in, and we can - "

"No, no," he took a breath. "Once it's in, I rarely take it out... I-I want you to see."

You nodded, "Okay. Then, whenever you're ready."

Aemond took a sobering breath before wrapping his arm around you so his torso twisted slightly. He needed another moment, head bowing to cradle yours into his neck and shoulder; then, sniffling with a soft nod. "Okay."

"All right," you whispered, but did not move.

The fire crackled, sending a pop of ash and ember into the air.

Aemond lifted himself from your warmth and took another long breath in - letting it out sharply and nodding as he cleared his throat. He waited with your hands in his as you slightly peaked around the front of him to get your first look at the extent of his injury.

What a sight it was.

"Oh, love," you breathed, reaching to caress his cheek and gently tilt it downward. "It's healed really nicely, wow, look at that. Looks really good - "

"What?" He jerked up in confusion.

"What?" You asked in return, confused by his own.

"T-That is what you say when you see it?"

"What did you think I'd say?" You worried.

"In truth, I am unsure, but it... It was not that," he admitted.

You smiled sadly and reached again, looking into the deadened, empty socket. "It's not pretty, but injuries such as these rarely are. Though, for what it's worth, it has healed nicely. Why do you wear the sapphire?"

"You see it," he whispered. "It gives fright."

You sighed, "Maybe surprise but not fright."

"You're too tenderhearted, my love," he chuckled a bit. "I did not choose to wear a sapphire just before we married. 'S been years with both gem and patch."

"Well, with me, you need not worry about either if you don't want to," you nodded. "The sight of you - the true you - does not startle me, my love. I am honored at your reveal."

His forehead met yours as he sighed, reaching to pet over your lips lightly. "I am blessed to call you wife."

"And what an honor to be your wife, Lord husband," you assured, leaning in to kiss him again - trying not to think about how you had uttered virtually those same words to Ladies from court, who has offered insult to your husband before.

Aemond smirked gently and sniffled, "You're making me soft."

"Good," you teased, "I like you like this."

"Hmm?"

"Totally whipped for me," you laughed, his hands seizing over your ribs in playful reprimand. "Hey, hey, hey, the feeling is mutual, my love. Please," you chuckled lightly. He only hummed and pecked your lips, pulling back to take a deep breath as if to digest your reaction. "Come here, let's make sure Parne's gem fits."

"Parne?" Aemond repeated, watching you shuffle back to the upper middle of the bed and make sure the gem hadn't fallen from your vigorous antics.

"Mhm," you nodded, "the jeweler?"

"I know her," he assured softly. "She sold you one of her Precious Gems?"

"Am I to know what that means?"

His head shook, "No, I suppose not. I buy from her, too... We've spoken of her gemstones before, though she would never sell them."

"Hmm, maybe I am just special," you considered softly, fingering the blue gem. "Sure you wouldn't prefer an amethyst?"

"'S more your eye color, love," he smirked, meeting you in bed. "All right, c'mere."

Together, Aemond guided you in how to properly place the stone back in his socket, and because it was a larger stone, it took just a bit of persuasion from the heel of your palm. It wasn't the most comfortable procedure and you wanted to call a Maester for Milk of the Poppy, but Aemond refused - citing the pain would be gone in a few hours. When done, you both pushed whatever did not belong from the mattress before shimmying under the covers.

His eyepatch laid on the floor and you grinned against his lips, unable to soothe your vast excitement over his revelation.

While you slept in the following morning, Aemond, who had yet to allow himself to rest, only waited an hour for the sun to rise. He carefully slid out from your embrace and knew he was on a clock before you sensed he was gone, so, he dressed quickly and darted out of the secret passage.

Avoiding any guards this early was simple enough, and just as the sun rose to fill the sky with new light, he arrived at Madam Parne's.

"Ah, Prince Aemond," the jeweler smirked when he entered, "I was beginning to wonder when you might show up."

He sighed, "Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Sell my wife one of your gems? You've never sold one before."

"In truth, my Prince, I've had a recent brush with mortality," Parne admitted softly, "and instead of holding onto my Precious Gems, I decided your wife's intentions true enough. Tell me, does it fit?"

Aemond lifted his chin, "Very nicely, I'd say."

"Good," She nodded with earnest. "So, why are you here now?"

"I think you know."

Parne smirked, "I took the liberty of gathering these options."

On the presentation table, Parne sat with Aemond for a moment to go over the showcases full of sapphire jewelry. However, he didn't need to think twice when he saw the set he'd come to buy, pointing at the sapphire gem set in a silver band, connecting to a single strand chain, that then hooked into a silver-chained necklace. There was also a band of matching-cut sapphires set in a bracelet, along with a silver sapphire ring that he longed to see on one of your fingers.

Paying the accented woman, Aemond held the parcel in a tight grip as his hood was drawn to prevent unwanted attention with his free hand gripping his sword's pommel in a white-knuckle strength.

Stopping once more at a boutique, he kept his promise, and bought you five new silk slips - some even lined with lace.

He snuck back into the Keep and paused at a different corridor to slip down and visit the kitchens. Chef Uller worried the dinner he prepared wasn't good enough when he saw the One Eyed Prince but Aemond assured it was delicious and he only meant to order breakfast be sent to their rooms.

"Why come yourself, my Prince?" Uller worried.

"My wife speaks highly of you, I was merely curious," he glanced around. "Speaking of, I should return to her."

"We'll have your meal brought up when ready," Uller promised, making Aemond nod and turn out of the kitchens.

When he made it back to your rooms, he sighed to see you sitting up in bed with folded arms - but your face only wore an expression of worry. "Oh," you sighed with relief when he snuck back through the door, "there you are."

"Apologies, sweet girl," he apologized, toeing out of his boots and tossing aside his cloak. He didn't bother with a jerkin that day and only wore a thin tunic, easily sliding back into bed with you. He explained, "I had to run an errand."

"I thought - "

"I did take today off," he smirked, holding out the two parcels, "but I had to get these for you."

"Oh, Gods be good," you rolled your eyes, pinning him with a look. "The day after your nameday, you go out and buy me something?"

"To say thank you, yes," he nodded, jostling the boxes. You took them, and without thinking, Aemond reached for his eyepatch and pulled it off to toss aside. When you opened the first gift, you laughed. "Five more, yes?" He smirked at you.

"Good job, love," you teased, letting your forehead press to his temple before closing the lid and setting the box aside. You then picked up the second gift.

You gasped lightly when you opened it, "It's so we match," Aemond smirked as he leaned in to peck your cheek.

"Oh, you," you chuckled, reaching for the back of his neck to surge into his arms - swallowing each other's moans. Yet, you made one more request, "Put it on me?"

"Why now?" He chuckled, tongue pushing into your mouth to messily tangle with your own.

When he pulled back, you whispered, "So you might fuck me with only these gems on."

And who was he to refuse his wife?

[ part one ]

[ series masterlist ]

#aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen fluff #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd imagine #hotd x reader

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genericpuff · 1 year ago

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Remember when I mentioned the closure of MochaJump? Well, we're about to lose Inkblot, too, unless we do something.

Anyone who knows me here knows I'm all about decentralizing the Internet, but especially the online art scene. We artists are extremely limited in our options for posting, often times forced to stick to exploitative platforms like Twitter and Instagram. And as I've gone into at length before, part of the struggle in decentralizing the online art scene is building viable long-term alternatives, something that's become increasingly difficult to do in today's online economy and culture.

InkBlot.art is one such alternative that is now on the brink of closure. Its members received an email from the owner, Jacob Brown, laying his heart out about the state of the site and his own struggles in maintaining it in its current form without any form of sustainable monetary support.

Is Inkblot as populated with the "potential" for millions of followers like Instagram and Twitter? No. Does it come pre-packaged with the nostalgia a lot of us are seeking from "old sites" like DeviantArt? No. But it will never get the chance to become those things unless we do our part to help. Inkblot is another drop in a massive bucket of attempts to provide safer and more artist-focused alternatives to many of the enshittified corporate platforms that steal our data, scrape our art for AI, and snuff out our voices with algorithms - we shouldn't overlook the opportunity to try and save it unlike all the others that have failed and shut down despite their best efforts. A better future will not fall into our laps - proactive change starts with us.

I'm going to be tossing a few dollars their way on their Ko-Fi, and I highly suggest you do the same if you have anything to spare. Even if it still amounts to "nothing", we have to be willing to do our part to protect these spaces and keep them alive, because if we as artists aren't willing to fight for these communities, who will?

#please reblog !!!#inkblot #inkblot.art #save inkblot #decentralize the internet #enshittification #artist reblog #please reblog

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selarina · 1 year ago

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Dusty-Eyed Thief

-> Levi Ackerman x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: He was a thief, she was a princess. Can I make it any more obvious?

Content Warnings: royalty!au, enemies to lovers, fluff, banter, a budding forbidden romance, class differences, strained father-daughter relationship, mild violence, very unedited

Words: 3.5k words

Author's Notes: I know the Levi fandom is dead but I wrote this so so long ago, figured I'd give it a place here

The kitchen is your sanctuary. It engulfs you with its tranquility, the blaring sound of clanking pots only adding to the rhythmic routine of it all.

The steam from the cooking dishes hugs you on this cold, cold night as you weave your way through the maze of workers. You smile as you're hit with the first blend of splendid smells. You make your way further into the kitchen to find the buttery treat that's meticulously packed by Niccolo and placed beneath a hidden, faulty tile on the floor. Niccolo is truly a blessing sent from the Gods.

Despite its tranquility, it is an unusual place for a lady to spend her time, yet you frequently find yourself here – costumed in an apron, playing the part like you belong.

At first, you were naturally worried about being caught, but that only lasted for a spare few minutes as you soon grew accustomed to the sequence of it all. And you found that while dressed as a commoner, you were nearly invisible in this castle. You took full use of it, maybe to the point of misusing it.

A few workers recognise you on occasion, but they refuse to report you to the King in an attempt to protect their own peace. Arguments between you and your father elicited a barrage of petty retorts, coming in from both ends, which heavily affected the workers that were unfortunate enough to be witnessing it.

You're certain your father would not approve of your ventures, despite the peep of fondness he has reserved for you. Actually, you're convinced that it is deep disdain he holds for you; it's only been coated with fondness to suit his purposes.

You actively have to stop yourself from thinking about him; you do not want those thoughts to permeate through into your sacred space. And besides, you have to stay alert.

Applying gentle pressure on the strings, you open the package to discover that he made you some cookies today. You have to contain yourself from jumping in glee, settling for a wide grin for now.

You want to procure some milk to have with the cookies. You close the package, although not packing it fully as you place it near the nearest window. It seems safe placed in a fairly unoccupied corner of the kitchen.

As you return with the milk, a pair of hands cover your eyes. The hands are roughly placed against your eyes, and you feel out worldly for a second — blank, confused, intrigued before you push him off, digging your nails into the culprit's hand.

You hear him yelp before you catch his face, the culprit. He is a boy with dusty blonde hair. He pulls his hands back into his chest, soothing it over with his other hand.

Another deep voice reaches your ears, and you perk up, your eyes flitting over to the open window as you try to find him. Was that window always open? What is happening?

“Why do you keep making this easy for us?” The other man's voice is adorned with pure mockery.

You’ve never moved faster in your life. (Well, except for that time you were on the verge of being traded for an assassin’s payment.) You rush up close to the window, looking down before you see him, he's standing on… you're not sure. He seems to be standing on thin air, but you know that is not the case.

Your eyes flit over to his blue eyes; you find hints of green in them as you stand there for a second, just staring at him. You're not sure what to do. He's probably a thief, a thief with pretty eyes. As you stare you think his eyes might be green, although you conclude a moment later that it could be a play of light. You can't tell if his eyes are green or blue.

He’s handsome too; you made that conclusion as soon as you saw the rest of his face, and you curse yourself for thinking that when you’re literally in front of a thief that has stolen your only source of joy. He's standing beneath you, but he holds a gaze that makes you feel like you're being towered by him; he seems a bit intimidating. Instinctively, you mold your eyes to mirror his, sharpening them as you were taught, as you practice.

You feel liquid trickling down your hand, and you realize you’ve dropped your milk. You only make note of it when feeling his eyes trail down.

You immediately rush to squat down to pick up the broken pieces of glass; you do not wish for any of the kitchen staff to get into trouble, although you are certain they will when they have to tally up the kitchenware by the end of this week. You make a quick note to discreetly pay Hange to buy it and replace it for you.

In your haste and state of disorientation, you prick your hand against the pointy edge of a fallen piece. And you instantly curse yourself.

"PRINCESS," Niccolo yells out to you, and your identity is out within mere seconds. You can guarantee Niccolo would have been more discreet if the situation hadn't been so strenuous. You look down and see a tinge of vermillion seeping out of the cut in your hand.

You look up to catch a glimpse of the two men, who appear to be leaving amidst the chaos. You see them in your peripheral sight, but you’re too late by the time you turn to look, all you witness is a retreating figure, making it out the window with a swift leap.

You are waiting for the sound – his body hitting the ground, broken bones, anything.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds, and still nothing. You scramble to the window, only to see trees and utensils that are washed and stacked on a white cloth left to dry under the scorching sun.

“It’s the princess, get the doctor," a couple of kitchen staff make it to your side.

There’s an immediate sense of panic seeping out from within you. You’re certain your father is going to make your life difficult if he were to find out, which would happen if you were to be tended by the palace doctor. The prickling sensation grows; you need to see a doctor. You decide you’ll deal with it.

You’re also plagued with a sudden sense of intrigue. You can’t place it quite well, not at this moment, but you want to know what the color of his eyes were. You want to ask him why he stole your food but also, you want to be him. In most ways, it's all you've yearned for. You want to leap out that window and disappear into nowhere, wherever that is.

—

You run straight towards the arriving horses. You're greeted with a smile and a frown. You focus on the smile, one that adorns your brother’s face, giving him a quick hug before you move to face the frown. "I heard about your little culinary mishap, my dear. To make reparations, you are to attend the ballroom event tomorrow evening, and you must ensure that you do not flee as you have done these last several times that you believe I have not noticed," your mother’s voice is stern, declaring it as finality.

You decidedly agree, knowing you will find ways to leave halfway through the event, and she will ignore it as she always does. For, unlike your father, she does not believe you to be the bane of her existence.

"Now, come here and give me a hug, my lovely and incredibly irritating daughter," as though she was reading your mind and cementing your notions about her.

You reach your arms out to embrace her. You place your chin towards the crevice of her neck and you’re hit with the smell of rose and iris, maybe even amber. It smells distinctly the same as when she embraced you after the first of your many disagreements with your father. You remember how you kept a straight face during the altercation, but immediately broke down at the sign of him finally leaving, only to find comfort due to her presence.

“I shall arrive at the stupid ballroom floor and I shall look pretty doing it. I shall catch the eye of every person in the room and you will forgive me for any mishaps I will ever commit. Won’t you, mother?”

“You’re to catch the eye of every person at a secret debutante, are you?”

“Debutante? Why is it a secret?”

“It’s a secret for it adds an element of sincerity, does it not? Your brother can court an honest woman.”

“I hardly think any woman’s honest in a society that is designed against the very notion of honesty, and especially not in a room that is swarmed with eyes waiting for any acts that are even slightly misplaced. But, I do wish you the very best, brother.”

“Thank you for your wishes. If opportunity permits, we may even find someone for our dear older sister. You’ll be next in line for picking then. Isn’t that ever-so enthralling to hear?”, the mockery reaches your ears crisply. Maybe much too crisply, because you find your mother glaring up at him.

You laugh at that, knowing that you are within the shields of the walls of your castle, but most importantly with your mother.

“I implore you to take your time, brother. You will need it to court for a suitable wife, would you not?” You try to hide your obvious nervousness at the breach of a topic you have been avoiding for much of your life.

“I suppose you are right, sister,” he looks down at you with a reassuring smile.

You do not want to be tied down by marriage any time soon. You have yet to process the fact that this is not your forever home. Your forever home is beside a man that sees you as a china piece to display, apparently. But you find brief solace in the fact that you come from the most reputable family in this kingdom and you will not be disrespected in any form, for it would not bode well for them.

—

The ball is the pinnacle of opulence. It's primarily filled with tones of rose gold, complementing the white and golden hues of your ballroom. You sense the presence of grey and teal amongst the crowd; you presume they're worn by accolades to instate their titles. The royal family, on the other hand, is required to constantly stand out, which is why you find yourself snug in a golden embroidered gown.

You suspect your mother has overstepped the mark with her preparations. You move the curtain that separates you from the ballroom slightly to catch a glimpse of her. Her strong and ethereal countenance reveals little about who she is, simply asserting that she should be feared and admired in equal measure.

You think of your sister’s tales of a knight in shining armor that might have reached you, if only for a fleeting moment, it’s enough for you to believe that maybe you could find a man who is respectful, charming, and filled with the tender ache to cherish you and only you, always. It only lasts for a transient moment of weakness. You’re drawn back to reality when your sister reaches for your arm and loops it with her own.

"You look absolutely lovely," she remarks, as a matter of fact, whilst sporting a sweet smile. "Who are you, and what have you done to my unlovely wretched sister?"

"Very amusing," you quip promptly as if it's habitual to do so.

"Sister, if you were to stray away early this evening, I certainly would not ask for you to procure some pastries. Although, I would most definitely not mind them after a night as strenuous as this.”

“Only if you help me escape”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she quips letting go of your hand. She has a faint smile on her face as she straightens her posture. And just like that, she transforms herself to be the elegant first daughter of the King, the one every maiden in the kingdom is taught to be like.

“You look radiant, sister. I’m sure there isn’t a man in this kingdom who wouldn’t fall head over heels to court you, and yet again, I implore you to take your time. I’m not saying this for my sake, not this time at least. I hope you find a kind man, the one you always told me you wished for” You try to smile, but it is hard to ignore the bleak truth that’s hidden within your words.

“Thank you for saying that” She seems to sense it too but her smile doesn’t waver; in fact, it grows, as though your words made a difference to her. That would be a first. You too can’t help but genuinely smile.

After about an hour of dancing and chatting away with people, you find that it would not be that hard for you to escape all on your own. You’re not the first diamond of a daughter or the most eligible bachelor of this season. You’re the second daughter and fourth child of the royal family that people will worry about impressing next season.

To not frighten your sister, you make it through the swarm of men waiting for their turn to dance with her; you inform her that you will take your leave, as discreetly as you can. You meet your mother’s eyes one last time before you leave. Every single time you escape you try to meet her eye, just to catch her when she sees you leaving but somehow you’ve never caught her.

You make your way to the kitchen, briefly showcasing your teeth to perform the act of duplicating a smile at every passerby that meets your eyes. There are a lot of people. You're frankly exhausted and your head is throbbing. Maybe some tea will help with the ailment.

You know that there won’t be kitchen staff present there since there is an exclusive kitchen for events as grand as this since it requires a massive scale of utensils.

You make it and it is murky. You reach out for the candle holder, placed at the entrance. You wince at the coldness of the brass. It holds three candles. You light all three of them, with muscle memory.

"Is your hand okay?", you hear the same deep voice and you frantically look around to spot him.

"Where are you?"

"Princess," you hear from behind you. This is honestly more frightening than the stuff you've read from your brother's atrocious shelf of literature.

You compose yourself. You will not falter and show weakness in front of a thief. "You are to greet me with respect. I am of the royal family," you punctuated every last word.

"I called you princess, didn't I?", he walks over to face you eye to eye, face to face.

"Gray'', you blurt out. You blurt it out far too quickly to calculate the embarrassment it would cause you. You feel it but you don't show it. It's one thing being part of a higher society has taught you.

His eyes are a stark sterling gray and that was rather unexpected to you. You thought about it extensively, maybe too extensively for the last two days. You concluded and expected it to be either green or blue.

His eyes remind you so much of thunderstorms. You happen to like them. They're distinctly heavy in color, but there's a variation that resonates something akin to…gentleness?

You're not why you're focusing much too much on his eyes, but they are beautiful and you could stare at them all day and night if you were allowed to. Maybe that's not an exaggeration.

"What?" he blurts out, rather confused. His eyebrows are bunched together like he's trying so hard to make sense of what you said. You refuse to bring ruin to your already faltering dignity, so you ignore the questions altogether to make room for your many questions.

You do not like not knowing things, not having reasoning for things. It bothers you immensely, for everything has a reason, does it not?

"Why are you here? Why were you here yesterday? Why did you steal my food? Do you do that often? How did you survive the jump?” Not giving him time to interject, you continue with your ramblings. “I have been thinking about what you said to me yesterday and it came to my attention that you implied this act of yours happens often. If so, why?"

This person bores a blank statement to their face. Either his facial features are impaired or he’s blatantly disrespecting you.

"You will answer me," you beseech him to answer. No, you're insistent. He doesn't budge, so you assemble all of your memories of your mother's severe glances to replicate it. You demand.

"Yes, I do it frequently, and no, I'm not answering the rest of your questions." You wait for a few seconds to see if he would budge. He does not.

"What motivates you to steal anyway?"

He stares, "Why was a princess like yourself dressed in a commoner's clothes?"

"I inquired first."

"I think you're more interested in my response than I am in yours." His eyes glint as he ever so slightly smirks, "Would you really like to play this out?"

"Very well. Just wanted some sweets really.” His mouth twitched upwards at the sight of you losing your temper. What a haughty man. “Does that answer satisfy you enough to answer mine?”

"Okay, princess.” He tilts his head a little when he mentions your title, it doesn’t sit right with you. And his tone is only a little condescending, you ignore it.

“Well, go on.” You urge.

"I was stealing food for my fellow people. The cookies were quite delicious. We thank the royal family for their utmost generosity," he says. His face is blank as you’re left baffled. You don't have time to be annoyed by his obvious mockery for something that could be seen as trivial as your long-gone cookies, for you find the way he said it interesting, to say the least.

"What do you mean?"

"Hmm? Dunno, we wanted something to sweeten the whole meal of dust and dirt we had for lunch. Do you get it now?” For the first time, there’s a hint of annoyance with you.

“I’m sorry. I–” You pause, your posture slackens for the first time today. “I don’t understand.”

His brows raise, but his face remains blank. “Yeah, I don’t expect anything else from a ditzy princess with all of her dresses and her little castles.”

You cinch your brows, “I am not ditzy,” you enunciate every single word of that sentence.

You only get a little dumb when you’re angry really and you’re trying not to get there right now as you force yourself to breathe through your nose. For some reason, you feel the need to prove you’re smart and capable. It’s odd, this may be the first time you have felt this way. You don’t generally feel someone asking for more of you. They expect you to be ditzy, not the opposite. “And we only have 3 castles…” Your voice trails out as he stares back at you. You said the wrong thing, you know how shallow you sound. You think his eyes must be hurting with the way he seems to narrow them down in judgment, every time you seem to speak.

“Well, since you seem to have 3 castles. You wouldn’t mind if we decided to take a small share of what you have, would you?”

“I don’t mind, I didn’t— I don’t— Uh—” You hear a noise, someone’s outside the door. You swivel your head to look.

No one. Nothing. An empty corridor is all that meets your eyes.

You sigh as you turn back, only — you see nothing. Your eyes squint around skimming the dimly lit kitchen. It’s almost like you were talking to a ghost of a man. Only the plain utensils and leftover food seem to be proof of his existence.

You blink in confusion, your heart racing as you search the dimly lit kitchen for any sign of the gray-eyed man. "What in the world..." you mutter to yourself.

#levi x reader #levi x reader angst #levi x reader fluff #levi x reader hurt/comfort #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman x you #attack on titan x reader #levi ackerman x reader fluff #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman angst #levi ackerman drabble #levi ackerman x reader angst #levi ackerman x female reader #levi x y/n #levi x you

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mxbenz · 11 months ago

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The Music Shall Caress You

A Tarn/Pharma RP - Mature Content

this is an RP written by my friend @mal-co-holic and me. if you like it, follow both of us for updates! and let us know your thoughts

Summary: Shortly after beginning their (rather one-sided) “deal,” Pharma tries to seduce Tarn to lessen the burden of cogs. The attempt is largely unsuccessful but is just the beginning of an affair that could very well ruin Pharma’s life.

Warnings: Manipulation, dub-con, abusive behavior, you know. Tarnma-typical

PHARMA:

Pharma was at his wits end. There were only three deaths that season. Three.

He needed five cogs.

Tarn was due to come to Delphi any day now, expecting one surgery and the four remaining cogs safely packaged for his trip back to the Peaceful Tyranny.

He did his best not to let his worry show, to keep himself as strict and stoic on the floor as possible to avoid arousing any suspicion from his staff, but internally, Pharma was panicking. There was simply nothing to be helped though, he couldn't just magically procure new cogs out of thin air. Unlike most parts, T-cogs and other vital organs were pure sentio metallico and could not be manufactured in mass production.

And even if they could be, it wasn't like he was a blacksmith capable of such a feat.

So what could he offer in their place? What would appease a merciless sadist like Tarn?

If he didn't think of something, they'd all be slaughtered. Everything he'd worked for, all the people he was trying to protect would be...would be-

Images of corpses flashed before his eyes, some of the most heinous damage Pharma had ever seen. Some of them, the less fortunate ones, were even still alive, but there was no saving them. Nothing more they could do aside from snuff their spark in a mercy-killing.

Do no harm. He had harmed...but it was always necessary. Not like Tarn.

Swallowing, Pharma stared down at the three cogs he had managed to procure.

Perhaps...if he prostated himself enough, humilated himself in front of Tarn, they might be spared? The tank certainly seemed to get a kick out of frightening Pharma and having an Autobot under his boot. If he just leaned into the torment, maybe...just maybe-

Or Tarn could simply humiliate him and then kill him anyway. Pour acid into the wound.

Pharma swore and covered his face with trembling hands. He'd managed to do this for a year now with each visit escalating the number of cogs. It was always unsustainable, but Pharma had hoped he would have figured a way out of the dilemma before now.

Now here he was...two cogs short and running out of time.

TARN:

Once Tarn had realized that he could stretch this little deal just as far as he wanted with few if any consequences, well…he was hardly the sort of mech one should allow free reign.

And besides, even with the greater number of cogs at each turn, he still would return to Delphi in more or less the same amount of time. He was going through his cogs faster and faster. Turned out that having the access had only allowed him the pleasure of indulgence.

In more ways than one.

Seeing Pharma had become nearly as sweet as the cog replacement itself (that blissful rush of fresh chems to his processor). The medic was always a sight for sore optics— a beautiful, sleek flight frame that was as well-maintained and the care with which Pharma handled one of his precious cogs. The desire to get his servos on that frame— let his digits prod unwelcome in the chinks of his armor. It was nearly impossible to give in at times. Especially when he watched the medic’s flawless servos work practiced magic on his cogs, each transplant smoother than the last.

He came his usual path that day, taking his altmode most of the journey to the facility from his ship. He arrived at the lower level door where Pharma had directed him the very first iteration of their little deal. An unmanned service entrance. Standing outside the steel door, he sent a comm to his favorite good doctor: I have arrived for my profference, Pharma dear.

PHARMA

Pharma twitched at the notification, already knowing just who was comming him at this hour. Well...the moment of truth. He would either die tonight or live along enough to suffer through the next cog delivery.

At this point, he honestly wasn't sure which was worse.

Exhaling, Pharma unlocked the door and packed up the two remaining cogs, leaving one out for immediate replacement. Then he waited, his spark pounding in his chamber. A few minutes passed and then a familiar set of footsteps could be heard, followed by the sound of the door to the secret lab unlatching.

Tarn emerged and Pharma stiffened, standing up as straight as he could given the circumstances. "You should have given me a bit more notice," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're lucky I was already down here." He hoped the snark hid his underlying fear, but somehow he knew Tarn would pick up on it.

It always felt like the tank could hear his spark even without using that torturous outlier ability of his...

TARN

Tarn only smirked as the doctor immediately began his typical charge of chastising him. This was, what Tarn had fondly come to think of as, their pre-surgery banter.

“Of course, Pharma,” he soothed as he walked inside only when entrance was offered. He, of course, attempted to maintain cordiality with Pharma even if the other mech was at times less inclined. Tarn preferred to keep things civil if possible.

“I will attempt to give you an hour or so notice in the future.”

Nevertheless, he could practically feel the other mech’s spark shuddering in its chamber. As always, he would attempt to soothe the doctor’s fear, at least to the extent it was advantageous.

“It’s been some time, though. I thought you might appreciate a surprise drop in from a friend and colleague.”

PHARMA

"The keywords there being friends and colleagues," Pharma said with a pointed frown. "You are neither." Perhaps he shouldn't be so crass with Tarn. He probably should be sucking up to the other mech in preparation for the prostration to come...but he just couldn't help rising to the bait.

He gestured loosely at the medical slab and said, "Shall we get to it then?" At least while Tarn was being operated on, he could broach the...news and not get mauled. Tarn wouldn't dare attack him mid-surgery so it was the best protection he could give himself.

Stepping back, Pharma allowed Tarn to inspect the cog he'd left out, knowing the other mech would not let him install anything without manual confirmation. It was simply protocol at this point for them, just as habitual as the banter.

TARN

Obviously, Pharma wasn’t willing to make nice today. Tarn had learned it really depended on the day whether he could get even an humored scoff out of the jet. He did enjoy such moments nonetheless.

He looked over the cog with a practiced eye and a concentrated frown.

Determining it passable, he turned away and headed for the medical slab.

“In such a rush, Pharma? I thought we might engage in some pleasant conversation.”

Even as he spoke though, he sat on the slab and laid back, bending an arm behind his helm.

“Admittedly, you’re a much better conversationalist than I usually have access to. I quite enjoy our visits.”

PHARMA

Pharma scowled and waited for Tarn to get onto the slab before he began to prepare the tools he'd need. He set everything down and took stock before applying some nerve blocker to Tarn's hip. "Actually, I did want to talk," he muttered, doing his best to affect an air of nonchalance as he took his favorite laser scalpel and began to cut into the metal. "About our deal."

Slow and steady, both with his knife and his words. Pharma didn't look up at Tarn as he continued. "In the case where not enough patients die to meet the quota. I was hoping to discuss a possible alternative. Something else that could be exchanged and make up for the difference."

His spark pounded against his chest, each word feeling like a weight pressing down on him until he was metaphorically pinned to the floor. He knew Tarn was looking at him, but he refused to meet those red eyes, instead removing the burnt out cog and placing it on the tray he'd set aside.

"I..." Pharma swallowed, furrowing his brow as he reached for the new cog. "I've seen the way you look at me, Tarn. If it will save my staff and my patients-" He fit the new cog in, linking it to Tarn's systems. "I'll let you...have me..."

TARN

Have me.

Tarn froze, staring down at the doctor who seemed to avidly be avoiding his gaze. And then he smiled, despite the twinge of anger that burned in his chassis at the suggestion. So Pharma was already trying to weasel his way out of the deal?

And after Tarn had been so generous.

He stayed silent. Long enough for Pharma to question himself. For him to get a feeling that the medic’s spark was beginning to tremble in fear. That was where he preferred to keep him. Just on the Edge of being actually scared. The threat of real consequences hovering on the horizon.

“My dear doctor,” Tarn said finally. “That’s rather presumptuous….unless, of course, you’re fully prepared for today’s trade off.” He hummed, leaning his head back against the slab. He’d watched the surgery enough times to know the steps well.

“I take my deals very seriously, Pharma. I would expect you not to presume a negotiation unless you think the alternative is truly just as valuable.”

#tf #Tarnma #tf tarn #tf pharma #tarn #Pharma #mtmte #mtmte tarn #mtmte pharma #roleplay #tf fic #transformers

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sangoqueenkoko · 2 years ago

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TIGHNARI

my favourite art subject

Fluff

MAIN MASTERLIST | DENDRO MASTERLIST

Summary: you have been working on something while away from home. And you can’t wait to show Tighnari!

Warnings? Nope!

Includes Collei and of course Tighnari!

I’ve been studying art for nearly 8 years so how could I not?

They call you the Leonardo Da Vinci of Teyvat. Someone who can create literal masterpieces. Be it of people, buildings or landscapes, you can do it in your own unique style. Your pieces of work are in all corners of Teyvat, from the deserts of Sumeru to as far as the Kamisato Estate in Inazuma, owned by the Kamisato siblings. All so valuable.

One of, if not thee, favourite subject of yours was your lover, one of the leading Forest Rangers. Or better known as Tighnari.

He LOVED your work with how you process your different methods and techniques. One of his favourites is still an ongoing project, it was a very detailed painting of Gandharva Ville. But for now, it stood on the easel in your shared living room as you were away on a commission in Inazuma. But seeing as you went after the Vision Hunt Decree was over, he had no worries about you being able to come home. But he was for some reason. Maybe because it was the first time you had been over seas in a while without him or his protection, as he has always been protective over you.

At the start and end of every day of your absence, he would see the painting, catch himself stare at it for a while, making him late for whatever he had to do, longing for it’s completion. Whilst on patrol, he can only think about what you’re doing and if you’re Okay.

Which you are.

You both sent letters to each other a lot when you’re in your travels, sometimes Tighnari would ‘accidentally’ write so much the letter would be at least a few pages thick, which you happily read it all and replied to every single question he asked, making your letter in response quite thick too.

“Master?” He heard a familiar muffled voice as he looked far into the distance beyond East of The Chasm, but payed no attention, “Master Tighnari!” He shook his head at the voice and a hand waving in front of his face.

“Oh. Collei” he cleared his throat as he stood up with a light sigh, making sure to dust off his tail, “ready to go?”

“Yep! I have my med pack, some extra supplies, my floral ring and my trusty Cuilein-Anbar!” She smiled as she quickly rummaged around her pack to quickly see if she’s forgotten anything.

“But we’re only going on patrol, we don’t need so much stuff” he put a hand on his hip.

“But as you say when someone’s hurt in battle, ‘safety first!’” He said in her best Tighnari impression that he could only chuckle over.

“Yeah… that’s true.” His ear twitched.

One or two more weeks later, you eventually walked through the Chasm and through the main cave to Sumeru and then to Gandharva Ville. One of the people you traveled with offered to help you carry something back home that you had been working on in your spare time and on calm parts at sea.

Tighnari wasn’t around when you arrived home, so it was just you and the thing you’ve been working on for a little while.

Later he walked through the door. Jumping slightly as he wasn’t expecting you until the next morning.

“(Y/N)!” He said with surprise before he smiled, “I thought I wouldn’t be expecting you until tomorrow?” His tail swaying back and forth a little quicker than usual, clearly showing that he’s happy.

“Yeah” you nodded, “but I finished a day early, and so we set off some time earlier. One, because I missed you, and two, I made something for you and wanted to see your reaction.”

Now his curiosity was peaked.

“You did?” He walked over to you, tilting his head to the side a little with his ears facing outwards.

You gestured to the neatly wrapped, thin package in brown paper. He walked over to it and crouched down to open it, his ears tilting and twitching as he thought.

He opened it to come face to face with a portrait of himself with every little detail captured, “oh!” he gasped, “this… this is amazing!”

“Because you’re my favourite art subject” you smiled as you hugged him from behind, arms around his shoulders, putting your chin between his ears.

——

i like referencing the titles

also, the painting of Tighnari I had in mind was his version of this, I originally tried to describe it so you can imagine, but I then left it up to the imagination.

#gender neutral reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact x you #tighnari #tighnari x reader #tighnari fluff #tighnari x you #tighnari headcanons #genshin impact x reader

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 1 year ago

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Pontiac GTO

As one of the most sought-after members of the muscle car realm, Pontiac GTOs are a big draw among ardent collectors and casual fans of classic cars alike. This slick 1971 Pontiac GTO, with its recently rebuilt and punched-up 400 V8 motor, is the beneficiary of a comprehensive restoration that's left it not only looking great, but in outstanding running condition, taking that already magnetic attraction and ratcheting it up more than a few notches. And whether you prefer to call it 'The Tiger' or 'The Goat', it's a beast in the streets either way.

Just a quick glance at this classic will leave you with the indelible impression that this is one seriously clean, straight and solid cruiser. It's likely been pampered a good portion of its life, as its flush fitting panels are all very straight, and the body gaps and sheetmetal creases are as the factory intended. This GOAT has been restored with an eye toward showmanship, and it certainly looks the part with its collection of clean, tight lines that you'll encounter from the hood, the sporty fenders and doors, and that iconic rear end – all of which serve as proof to how thorough the restoration was. The eye-popping Maroon Metallic finish is a wonderfully bright upgrade over the factory Castillian Bronze this GTO was born with, looking liquid-smooth and consistent from front to back, with an impressive shine from its clearcoat. With a deep, lustrous finish accented by shiny metallic flake that's evenly dispersed throughout the body, this car attracts loads of attention everywhere it goes. It's a top driver-quality finish that can be shown off with pride, and when it glitters in the sun you get to sit back and watch the envious gather everywhere you go. The badging on the front grille and decaled emblems on the decklid and fenders are sharp, combining with very clear glass, a commanding rear spoiler, and straight front and back bumpers that drive home the point that no stone was left unturned in bringing this venerable muscle car back up to its optimum condition.

There's quite an impressive black vinyl interior sitting inside, which in our opinion is a perfect complement to the vivid bodywork. It's also been refurbished and mostly kept in its original configuration - save for a set of Dakota Digital gauges - to provide the rewarding and era-appropriate driving environment classic car enthusiasts look for. The broad buckets up front and bench seat in back show virtually no wear at all and still have a fresh shine to them, and because the covers are high-quality Legend units, they'll look this good for a very long time. A clean expanse of black carpet runs underneath the seating and keeps the asphalt temperatures and road noise at bay, the matching door panels are handsome and blemish-free, and the taut headliner above completes the whole package. Peer through the 3-spoke woodrimmed steering wheel and you'll see the original gauge cluster, although now the pods are filled with a full complement of Dakota Digital gauges. The original radio is long gone, although the machine-turned panel on the dash is still in place and looks great, and the factory A/C system has been upgraded to use modern refrigerant and blows hard and cold. A middle console splits the front buckets and houses the shifter for the automatic transmission below, and the condition of the rear seat suggests it's barely been used. A full-size spare tire wrapped around a matching aftermarket rim and an original jack set sit in the spacious trunk out back, whose floor has been treated for scuff protection with black spatter paint.

The YS code 400 cubic inch V8 sitting under the hood has been driven less than 500 miles since its full rebuild, and it runs with a smoothness and consistency that makes it very much up to the task of daily driving, if you should so choose. Augmented with Edelbrock aluminum heads, a Holley double pumper 4-barrel carburetor, Edelbrock aluminum intake, and a set of ceramic-coated headers, the engine is very powerful with performance that's delivered instantly up and down the throttle. It's paired with a TH400 3-speed automatic transmission that handles the power with ease thanks to an added 2800 stall convertor, shifting with plenty of certainty followed by the sturdy Auburn Gear 10-bolt rear end out back. With both power steering and power 4-wheel disc brakes in tow, this is an easy driver, and this Poncho handles great thanks to new suspension components front and rear, sway bars, and all-new steering components. The soundtrack is great too, with a 3-inch H-pipe dual exhaust system anchored with Flowmaster mufflers doing most of the barking. Should you desire any more proof of just how well-put together and cared for this GTO is, take a glance underneath - you'll find a very well attended to undercarriage there. This GOAT sits on a set of 17" Vision Legend series wheels that are outfitted with 245/50/17 performance radials.

#car #cars #muscle car #american muscle #pontiac gto #pontiac #gto

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stormxpadme · 26 days ago

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Whumptober 2024 No. 16 - Wound cleaning

07/01/2018

After Scott had grilled Hank with his inquiring gaze for the better part of the last four hours, all without the need for the use of his powers, it was, ironically, Artie instead who gave him the badly needed update on his wife's condition, silently as ever.

Scott hadn’t really expected anything different, still, it was another stab of disappointment and gloom when the X-Men's former pupil got up abruptly, after hardly having moved ever since entering this sick bay room, basically the second Noemi slumped in her chair too, her heavy panting finally evening out, her hand slipping from where she'd kept it firmly on Katja's forehead and temple for so long. Artie didn’t even bother checking if the power of his mind monitor showing everything so burdening, so sickening that had gone down in this deep mental connection, was needed any longer before heading for the door, just dropping some small package on the nightstand that Scott couldn’t immediately make out from his chair on the other side of the room before he made a run for it. At least the boy stopped for a brief moment when Scott quietly called his name, too overwhelmed for a proper address at the first moment by this still so very hostile, so very disinterested reaction. And just when Scott had hoped no less that there would be at least a way back to friendship with this young man after Artie had reluctantly agreed to help his old caretaker's mind be freed from Emma's hostile takeover. No such luck. The unambiguous image of New York, surrounded by the Field's protective glow showed up on Artie's monitor, and then the one of an abstract handshake, followed by a bold, glowing question mark, Artie's huge white pupils narrowing when he looked back over his scrawny shoulder.

"We'll do our best; I already promised you that." Scott wished he could have told the boy who'd already gone through so much in his life, who'd already lost so many homes and loved ones, that there would be a peaceful solution to Mystique's takeover of a beloved US metropolis. But they'd already decided when Ororo and Scott had called Artie for their desperate request in the morning that bullshitting each other wouldn’t help anyone at this point. "None of us wants this conflict to turn into a massacre of both mutants and normal people. No one hopes more than me that when the day comes when we all have to decide how to solve this crisis, we'll do it in your office with pen and paper, not with swords in our hands. Or I would already have called to arms."

Artie nodded slowly, visibly not entirely happy with the answer but also at least not as aggressive as at the beginning of that com conversation earlier. He shortly raised his hand for a polite greeting and then hurried to get out the door before he'd possibly risk his patient waking up and actually do something as perverted as trying to talk to him after all these years of enmity. He'd not come here to make amends in that regard. For that, it was probably just simply too early after all.

Scott didn’t get a chance to mourn these deep abysses that New York had opened not only between this house and some of its once most loyal followers for long because a stir small from the so very pale figure on the bed next to him had him startle. The last of nauseous tightness in his throat finally dissolved when his eyes found Noemi's dark ones on the other side of the bed and she nodded at him shakily, visibly still processing all she'd had had to see in this mental cleansing.

It still bothered Scott a lot that this still far too young girl had had to endure that shit at all but for the moment, she seemed sufficiently composed, even had a small smile for him to spare when he took her hand across their patient's shape for a long, firm moment. For now, just like said patient, Noemi needed rest more than anything. Talk about those gruesome images of a long gone past in Katja's head that she'd had to witness, they would when the girl would feel ready for it.

With that silent promise and assurance on his mind, Scott managed to turn off his bad conscience somehow and finally turn his attention to where it was needed most right now, gently resting his palm on Katja's frighteningly hollow cheek. "Welcome back, babe."

"Tell me I did not sleep through the Dancing with the stars finale." Katja finding back to her peculiar humor before she'd even really opened her eyes was the last proof Scott had anxiously been waiting for that she was indeed back to her true self, just like that brilliant smile on her lips when their eyes finally met, that he'd been so terrified to never be allowed to see again.

"Don't worry, no spoilers until we catch up." Half chuckling, half with a sound that sounded suspiciously close to something else entirely, Scott carefully wrapped his arms around his wife's body, hiding that hint of too-deep, too-vulnerable emotion against her neck until it passed, just relishing for long seconds of gratefulness in the quickly strengthening, tender touch of a beloved hand on his neck in the warmth of that soft skin against his cheek, ignoring the slightly sour fragrance on it from long hours of cold sweat and a terror that after today, at least might finally be processed just a tiny bit more. It had been difficult for all of them but they'd pulled through, nothing else counted for the moment.

Hank's nagging rumble in his back reminded him that they weren’t alone in the room and that he'd only feel completely at ease if he could bring himself to entangle from his wife long enough for their team doctor to check on her, so he somehow got himself together and pulled away, no matter how much he hated to right now.

Accordingly irritated he felt when Hank didn’t sit down on the chair next to him to aim his sensors on Katja at all but reached for Scott's arm instead, starting to remove the bandage from it without even asking. Of course, it hadn’t escaped the sharp feral senses of his old friend that Scott had been going easy on his left arm ever since yesterday.

"Uh …"

"Not a word, my young Captain. Vital sign readings say, your wife is just fine, and this thing needs changing since like yesterday. You know how much I hate sloppy treatments." Hank drew his upper lip back between his fangs in disapproval when the admittedly slightly unsightly ruin of blisters, swellings, and reddened spots on Scott's wrist was revealed where his com watch had gone down in sparks yesterday. Thinking about it, he should probably have taken a minute at least after that battle to get that checked out in spite of his limitless worry for his wife.

Hank was nice enough to not give him shit for his occasionally questionable health management this time, just reached for disinfectant, clothes and healing salve with an exasperated sigh. "Remind me not to let Logan do first aid on anyone anymore."

"Hey, at least he didn’t just empty a bottle of whiskey over it this time," Scott gave back with half a grin, breathing with gritted teeth through the disgusting ripping sensation when the last bandage layer came off and Hank carefully started to go over those slightly infected spots with a small dab. "They call that progress or something."

He only realized that for once, his wife wasn’t feeling like joining in some morbid joking when he heard Katja gasp sharply, saw her round eyes go large when she saw the nature of his injury and something promptly came back to her that Scott had half and half hoped would be buried forever in that delusional nothingness that the foreign mental takeover had caused in her yesterday.

"Voltage burn? That … Fuck, Scott, was that me?"

He shrugged with his good shoulder, letting her know with a sincere smile he couldn’t be further from being pissed about something like that. When you grew up in a house with several people with mental powers, anger over something that a victim of such gifts simply wasn’t responsible for, was an entirely alien notion to you. Sometimes he just wished, such easy acceptances came to his wife too, without him having to lecture her into new self-confidence every damn time. "We've done kinkier things than a little electro play."

Noemi promptly looked as if she'd tasted an especially sour apple. At least she started to have some color in those round cheeks back now, her thoughts hopefully stopping to linger with far less harmless pictures in her head than Scott had just accidentally put there. "Ew. Really, Uncle?"

Scott ducked his head apologetically, never let go of Katja's hand with his uninjured one though. "Apologies, but I rather prefer to have you suffer for five seconds than me for the next five years because I married a woman who just loves to take the blame for everything, no matter how absurd."

"How about going to Emma without telling anyone?" Katja asked quietly, her depressed gaze still on the traces the powers of said psychotic bitch had left through her from afar on his skin.

Scott instinctively set his jaw for a moment, and this time not because Hank went over an especially deep blister with his cloth. That too had to be part of this conversation, much as he hated to criticize his partner right after waking up from this nightmare. But if he wanted to help her with that guilt complex of hers, part of that was also not sugarcoating it when she did fuck up every now and then. "That, you'll get a good spanking for as soon as Hank lets you out of here."

"Okay, I'm out." Noemi got up on still slightly wobbly knees and headed for the door similarly quickly as Artie earlier, hopefully right on the way to some badly needed hug from a family member herself. For the moment, they could all use some privacy, admittedly, and all that Scott wanted to tell this so unbelievably courageous, empathic girl still could wait until neither of them would feel so physically and mentally beat anymore.

Katja however, still had something crucial on her mind, and it was another lift weighted from Scott's heart that she was already feeling well enough for that again to sit up and raise her voice slightly. "Kid? I owe you."

Noemi snorted and rolled her eyes in such a perfect imitation of her father's gruff manner that Scott couldn’t help but grin in spite of a response not exactly kindly towards a certain person who would never get a chance again to defend herself against such digs. Some things, no mental gift on this planet could heal. "After helping raise me for 17 years instead of the woman whose job that would have been? I don't think so."

"I'll think of something anyway," Katja promised her with a mischievous little smile, reaching for her phone on the nightstand as soon as the door had slid shut behind Noemi, probably to already look up online for said gift, whatever it was that she had in mind ... Her hand froze mid-movement when she spotted a certain souvenir waiting on the small metal container there instead, shaking heavily when she reached for it, apparently only now understanding that it hadn’t been only Noemi's powerful gift that had shown her a way out of her mental captivity. There might be a very real frustrating chance that her other savior, she would never get to thank, for more than one reason. Maybe for now, it would have to do that Artie at least wasn’t that angry with Katja anymore, as Scott only understood when he saw that the boy had left a pack of Spider-Man-themed bandaids for his former caretaker.

Hank finished redressing his wounds just in time for Scott to get down on that bed finally and firmly pull his partner close again when the tears started to fall.

*******************************************************************************

@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2024 #no.16 #Wound cleaning #x men #fic #everything after x2 didn't happen sue me #x men original timeline movies #x men movies #scott summers #hank mccoy #artie maddicks #cyclops #fanfiction #stormys fanfics

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grandmaster-anne · 2 years ago

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Gone to rack and ruin?

By Vice Admiral Sir Timothy Laurence | Published 29 July 2020

Country Life Guest Edited by HRH The Princess Royal

What on earth do you do with a ruined, but historically significant country house?

This is a question that plagues the average workaday heritage chairman, causing headaches, insomnia and occasional bouts of teeth-grinding. Here, I will use four examples from the English Heritage portfolio to illustrate the challenges we face. Country Life readers may have their own views about how we should deal with them; if so, I anticipate a flood of letters offering advice. Each site is different and no one solution fits all.

Kirby Hall

Kirby Hall in Northamptonshire was built in the 1570s by Sir Humphrey Stafford and, after his death, by Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chancellor. This magnificent house shows all the creative energy and architectural innovation of the first Elizabethan age.

In the 17th century, it hosted five royal visits and boasted one of the finest gardens in England. After four generations of Hattons (all called Christopher in that charming, if rather confusing, English way) it passed to the Winchilsea family, who lived there until the 1770s. Abandoned in the 1830s, it is now roofless, but retains enough of its form for us to imagine how astonishing it would have looked when first built.

John Summerson wrote: ‘The beauty of Kirby’s decline is that it was private and without violence. The house was never burnt, ravaged, used as a quarry or assaulted by mobs.’ English Heritage looks after buildings that suffered exactly those fates, but because Kirby was spared all of them, one can still appreciate there the romance of a lost grandeur.

What should we do with it? The Ministry of Works in the 1960s did its usual thorough, if, by current standards, a little over-zealous, conservation job. Part of the house is still roofed, but leaks are threatening the ceilings underneath. One proposal was to re-roof a further part of the house — the Great Gallery — and use it to display a collection of contemporary furniture, paintings and so on.

That idea has not yet passed the ‘value for money’ test. We are currently working on a modest new exhibition, which will be completed later this year. Major additional work would require a substantial funding package to match.

Sutton Scarsdale Hall

Sutton Scarsdale Hall in Derbyshire is another example of the rise and fall of a noble country house and is one of our greatest conservation challenges.

It was a Baroque masterpiece, built in the 1720s for the 4th Earl of Scarsdale using some of the notable craftsmen of the day. The splendid exterior stonework was carved by Edward Poynton of Nottingham; the Italian master craftsmen Arturi and Vasilli carried out the fine stucco decoration in the principal rooms, remnants of which are still visible.

The cost of the building over-stretched the Scarsdales — an all-too-familiar story, I’m afraid — and the house was sold in the 19th century to a local family, the Arkwrights. In turn, they were forced to sell in 1919 to a company of asset strippers.

Despite the fact that Lord Curzon’s 1913 Ancient Monuments Consolidation and Amendment Act had by then provided the Government with protective powers, many of the hall’s finely decorated rooms were sold off as architectural salvage.

Amazingly, some still survive, but sadly not in Derbyshire: three interiors are displayed at the Museum of Art in Philadelphia and a pine-panelled room is at the Huntington Library in California. The latter was given to the library by a Hollywood film producer, who had used it as a film set for Kitty in 1934. He had bought it from the newspaper magnate and collector, William Randolph Hearst.

More happily, the hall was saved from intended demolition in 1946 by Sir Osbert Sitwell. His descendants handed it to the nation in 1970.

The roofless hall stands proudly on a prominent hill, an important part of the visual landscape of the area and visible from Bolsover Castle across the valley. However, the exposed hilltop location and lack of protection from a roof or glazed windows make the building itself, and especially the exceptionally important plasterwork, acutely vulnerable.

We are currently spending considerable sums patching and making good, but, for a charity such as us, this cannot be a long-term solution. What should we do? One option would be to re-roof the whole hall — at huge expense. Another would be a partial re-roofing to cover the best areas of plasterwork.

A third would be to devise some form of tailor-made protection for the plaster-work in situ, but anything of this nature would have significant aesthetic impact. We have even thought of a private investor taking it over and turning it into a hotel or apartments. All options remain under consideration.

Witley Court

My third example presents a very different set of issues. A new house was built on old foundations at Witley Court in Worcestershire in the early 1500s, but eight generations of the Foley family (all called Thomas — rather proving my earlier point) progressively modernised the Tudor original in Jacobean, then Palladian style, enlarged the park, built a new parish church next door and, in the early 19th century, commissioned John Nash, the leading Regency architect, to remodel the house extensively.

In 1837, ownership passed to Lord Ward, later Earl of Dudley. During the Dudleys’ tenure, the house was transformed into a ‘Victorian palace’ in the Italianate style made fashionable by Prince Albert at Osborne.

The whole house and church were encased in Bath stone; a new wing and a conservatory were added. Among many additions to the gardens was the magnificent Perseus and Andromeda fountain, fed from a new reservoir in the hill behind.

As happened so often elsewhere, the estate began to be broken up after the First World War and, in 1937, a serious fire gutted much of the building. From then until it was taken into public guardianship in 1972, it was stripped of materials and vandalised, but, thereafter, it was stabilised and made accessible. The great fountain continues to operate for an hour each day and looks magnificent after a major restoration in 2004 and further work in 2016, the latter generously funded by Unilever.

Visitors can now enjoy the park and gardens and wander through the house, where the fire has revealed the various stages of its development.

There are no plans to re-roof the main house, but how can we enhance the pleasure of visiting the place and bring more of its history to life? For example, we are considering digitising the many excellent photographs of the interiors taken during its heyday, so that people can call them up on their mobile phones as they walk round.

We would like to refurbish the conservatory as a cafe. This would require expensive works to bring in services, yet those might enable us to produce more events there, following the very successful art exhibition held in 2019 — perhaps that was a harbinger of things to come.

Belsay Hall

Now, at last, for something with a roof — Belsay Hall in Northumberland. The site comprises three distinct, but related elements: a medieval castle, a 19th-century hall and, linking the two buildings, an outstanding garden. The Middleton family has owned the estate since 1270 and still lives nearby.

The hall’s designer, Sir Charles Monck, drew on the classical ideal he had seen on honeymoon in Greece and transposed the style of a Greek temple into an English villa from 1807 (Fig 6). Its sense of space, balance and rigorous architectural logic were unlike anything seen in Britain. Incidentally, Monck demolished the old village of Belsay on the site and rebuilt it in its current position outside the park — the sort of thing you could do in those days.

He deliberately quarried the stone for the hall in a way that left space for a unique garden, the ravines, pinnacles and sheer rock faces he created inspired by the ancient quarries of Syracuse, Sicily. The gardens still showcase the interplay between natural beauty and the sublime, between wild and tame, from natural woodland through the exotic-ally planted quarry to the more formal terraces and garden rooms near the house.

The family moved from the draughty castle to the new hall on Christmas Day 1817. Sadly, flaws in Monck’s internal guttering system led to wholesale infestation with dry rot. By 1980, when the family handed the buildings and garden into public guardianship, it was unoccupied, unfurnished and stripped of much internal wood and plasterwork. The silver lining of this cloud is that it is now possible better to appreciate features of its design. Standing in the beautiful central atrium,

it does feel more like a temple than a house. The windows are huge, allowing in plenty of natural light, and the acoustics are exceptional, thanks to the empty rooms, vast cellars and a network of flues.

Sound, light and empty space may hold the key to its future use; it is an ideal place for creative programming. We have in the past held innovative fashion and art shows there and have staged acoustic experiences, one with voices broadcast down the chimneys. There will, I am sure, be more of this.

We are in the middle of a major project, part funded by the National Lottery, which includes urgent conservation work, a full restoration of the gardens and a new cafe. The Middleton family and its trustees remain engaged, supportive and, I hope, appreciative of the promise of a new lease of life for Belsay.

These four examples illustrate the enormous technical and financial challenges we face with these and other houses. It’s not unreasonable to ask: why are we doing this? What is the purpose behind a heritage body preserving and/or conserving a building?

Well, we want the places to be informative — to tell us something about the people who built them, about their architectural style, about the people who lived in them or who visited them. It’s all part of explaining the story of England to current and future generations, not only to please or inform expert historians and architects, but to encourage a much wider body of people to see and enjoy our buildings.

From school groups (we host many) to local enthusiasts and anyone who has become fascinated by these places — perhaps after reading about them or seeing a Google arts fly-through online. We hope they will all want to see more, to learn more and enjoy (that word again) the experience.

We have to ask: should we preserve such buildings as they are now, strip them back to their original state when first built or restore them to how they appeared at the height of their glory? With our intact houses — such as Osborne, Apsley or Audley End — the answer is as self-evident as it is with a completely ruined castle or abbey: there really is no option. However, my examples here and others fall between those stools. There are no straightforward answers; we have to look at each on its own merits.

Total returns to past glories are rarely feasible, but allowing further decline is not in our DNA. More commonly, we seek to stabilise each place in a state of ‘sustainable conservation’ — a condition that we can maintain in the long term, avoiding costly repeated repairs. It is an evidence-based way of prioritising work according to historical significance, current condition and a better understanding of the specific causes of deterioration. Once in that state, the typical approach is ‘adaptive re-use’: bringing a building back to life by giving it new uses, which complement, rather than obscure the original.

Above all, these houses must be nurtured and loved so that they can tell their part of the story of England. English Heritage will do what it can, helped by the communities living nearby, many of which provide terrific support — and, perhaps, by the occasional generous benefactor.

#tim laurence #article #english heritage #country life

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atqh16 · 1 year ago

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Sasunaru bodyguard au PART 1/?

To say that life had been hectic for the past few weeks would've been an understatement. Something that tends to happen when you find yourself a witness to a murder and are told that your testimony has the potential to convict and put away one of the most dangerous criminals in Konoha. An effort made difficult by the fact that any witnesses they had before were either found dead or were too scared to testify and understandably so. But this time they had one ace up their sleeve.

The culprit knew there was a witness but they didn't know who.

It wasn't much but the prosecuting team would take what they could get but still, the DA and his associates weren't taking any chances. So when Naruto had been told about how they were going to proceed it hadn't been a surprise.

This is how he finds himself at an unfamiliar old-fashioned soba shop sitting cross-legged in front of one of the DA's associates. Their noodles and order of tempura arrive just as another man joins them.

A very, very familiar man.

Sasuke Uchiha barely spares him a glance. Instead, he busied himself with pulling out a thin folder from his backpack.

The associate slides his untouched bowl of noodles to the newcomer before standing up and giving Naruto a warm smile.

"You have my card Uzumaki-san. You can call me anytime you'd like. I'll leave you both to be acquainted "

He puts on his hat and makes his way to the entrance to the shop. Leaving Naruto wide-eyed and alone with his estranged best friend who he hasn't seen in almost a decade.

"Uzumaki-San-"

Uzumaki-San?????

"My name is Uchiha Sasuke, I'm a licensed PI from Taka-investigations - "

" I know", Naruto interrupted, brows creased but the other man didn't seem to notice.

"- I'm also registered as a personal protection specialist- "

"Yeah, I know. Itachi told me", Naruto added hotly. But the Uchina didn't even look up from the folder he'd brought. Lying open on the table and is currently being skimmed through by its owner.

"- I've collected some info on the current situation and on your daily activities that will hopefully aid me in protecting you as best as I can - "

"You know Sakura is going to kill you when she finds out you're back right?"

"- Are there any questions you might have?"

"Yeah, where the hell have you been?"

Finally the 'professional ' facade breaks.

"I'm surprised Itachi didn't tell you. He seems to have told you everything else"

"You asked him not to. You're still his little brother. He wouldn't break a promise to you for anyone. You know that"

Sasuke's typical unimpressed demeanor is broken, instead looks properly chastised. But as fast as the reaction comes it is smoothed over and his professional mask comes back. He busies himself with slipping the folder back into his bag and asks the lone waiter to package the noodles that had been ordered for him.

Naruto wishes he had something else to say about the matter. After all, a gap of 8 years allows a lot of time for conflicting emotions to accumulate. Naruto has even voiced some of these emotions to Itachi during one of his weekly visits to the older Uchina's home. But instead, he just feels...hollow. It's not like he is a stranger to Sasuke's callousness. They've known each other since kindergarten. But to be faced with it again after 8 years, it felt as if a hand had thrust itself into his chest and torn out his heart. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be rejected by someone you lov- cared deeply about. It sort of is, isn't it? It hadn't hurt as badly all those years ago when Sasuke had left. But in comparison that pain had been a growing burn. This was acute and brutal.

He can't stay here.

As the waiter places his tray on their table to collect Sasuke's dish, Naruto asks him to pack his own that were also untouched as well as the plate of tempura. Telling him to place them all in one bag.

"What are you- ", Sasuke starts but it's Naruto's turn to interrupt him

" You don't like Sunaba Soba", Naruto said, referring to the dish that the associate had ordered for him.

" I'm fine with it"

Naruto only shook his head, “You always said it was too sweet. Just give it to Itachi. I know he likes it. I ordered Mori Soba but I'm not hungry so you can have it"

And without another word, Naruto left.

#sasunaru #sasuke uchiha #naruto uzumaki #Naruto #mine #ficlet

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lepartidelamort · 7 months ago

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Hohol FM Tells West to Make More Weapons, Ominously Claims “Era of Peace in Europe is Over”

Andrew Anglin

“Peace is over”? Is this a threat?

Are the Hohols going to take their elite army, turn it around and aim it at Berlin?

And what the hell is “Kyiv”?

There are just so many questions and no one has any answers.

The Guardian:

Ukraine’s foreign minister has enthusiastically praised US politicians for approving a long-delayed $61bn military aid package for Ukraine, but said western allies needed to recognise that “the era of peace in Europe is over” and that Kyiv would inevitably need more help to fight off Russia. “Hallelujah,” Dmytro Kuleba said when asked for his reaction to Tuesday’s final vote by the US Senate. He said it had been “my belief that we would have a positive outcome”, based in part on the cultivation of religious conservatives, but the west needed to build its defence industry further.

Yeah, well. Your belief overpowered my belief, buddy.

I thought for sure that the Biden Entity would use “Republican MAGA supporters” as an exit strategy. Now, the loss of the war is going to be on him.

Apparently, he’s going to campaign on the idea he’s winning the war. Then, after the election, he’s either going to have to surrender or escalate by sending in troops. Because the Ukraine is not even getting any weapons for this $61 billion. It’s all theoretical. Maybe they’re getting some ammo, but that doesn’t cost tens of billions of dollars.

And even if they gave them space age weapons – UFO alien technology – they still couldn’t win because they don’t have any soldiers left.

Speaking to the Guardian ahead of the White House announcing a first tranche of aid including air defences, artillery rounds and armoured vehicles, Kuleba said it was “just a matter of logistics” to get the supplies to the frontline. Pentagon officials have indicated that some munitions have already been stockpiled in Europe, with Joe Biden saying on Wednesday they would arrive in hours. Kuleba also said Ukraine had identified seven Patriot air defence systems it could use to protect civilians in major cities outside Kyiv. One had been obtained from Germany, four more had been located and negotiations were taking place, Kuleba said, and two more were in his sights. Press reports indicate that Greece and Spain are considering whether to supply Patriots, while Poland and Romania also own the batteries. Kuleba added that an eighth system could come from the US. “I think the US army probably has one spare,” he said.

Yeah. Greece and Spain are wondering if they should give weapons to the Ukraine that America gave them.

It all comes from America. There is no independent Western European military establishment. That has not existed since the end of World War II, after Hitler destroyed it all (and then the Russians destroyed all Hitler’s equipment).

Negotiations to obtain these were complicated because “countries who operate these Patriots bargain for backfill and compensation”, Kuleba said, but he added: “I’m in no doubt, given the progress we are making, that Patriots will arrive and Germany must be commended for making the first move.” … Kuleba said Ukraine’s allies should switch from “expressing condolences and sympathy to Ukrainians and promising to help with recovery, to preventing loss of life and destruction of the country”.

Well, there’s only one way to end the loss of life, and that is peace negotiations.

Or just stop fighting, at least. Even without ending the war, they could just stop fighting. As long as they keep attacking Russians, however, people are going to die.

He said the restoration of US military aid, held up for months by Donald Trump-aligned Republicans, would not be sufficient to defeat Russia. “No single package can stop the Russians. What will stop the Russians is a united front of all of Ukraine and all of its partners.” Kuleba said the west needed to increase arms production, as Ukraine had, because it had been outpaced by Russia. Russia is out-shelling Ukraine by a ratio of about 10 to one, while Ukraine is running short of air defences.

Why is this moron able to decree Western policy?

Who do these people think they are? Israel?

Listen, buddy, there is only one country that can tell America what to do, and that is Israel.

But I guess since the Ukraine is totally run by the Jews, they have some rights to boss us around.

If Americans love one thing, it’s being told what to do by Jews.

#Dailystormer #Slava Retards

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whitmerule · 1 year ago

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(ficlet! little tuggershanks+bombastrap with some tuggerstrap drabble, plus angst of trans tugger escaping from his crime lord dad when pregnant.)

(@skimbly-shanks and i have a WHOLE AU...)

“Yours”, purred Munkustrap, the night breeze cold on the back of his neck and Bombalurina’s nape warm and willing under his lips. “Such as I am, yours. With all my faults, all my follies…”

He never would have thought he’d find a woman who could understand and reply to his John Donne quotes, but—

“... yours utterly and forever”, she finished for him, all amused heat as his mouth skated up the side of her throat. “While this poor passionate mountebank body has hands to hold you and lips to say ‘I love you’...”

They fell through their front door, his hands already sliding up to cradle familiar curves and tease at her buttons and ties. But even as the latch snicked, she tensed up in his arms.

He lifted his head, and saw what she saw.

There was a pot of water cooling on the stove, and the package of baby formula nearby.

Munkustrap let out a breath. His arms tightened around his wife. Then he dipped his head and nuzzled softly against her shoulder.

“I’ll…” he said, and gestured toward the bedrooms, and she nodded and said “You know he only crashes here when he’s desperate,” and headed for the pantry.

Turned out, he hadn’t got as far as the spare bedroom.

Munkustrap sank to his knees in front of the armchair and laid a soft hand on his arm.

“... Tugger?”

He was gaunter than ever. The hair that he’d used to toss around fell lank and lifeless over too-sharp collarbones. His face was stubbled—not in a sexy deliberate way, but in the way of a trans guy who was currently producing a lot of oestrogen and didn’t have time for a razor.

Patchy. Pimply. Starved.

Munkustrap reached out his hand, and laid it over the most tender part of him, which was the baby cradled against his ribs.

Carbuckety stirred, and yawned, and fisted his chubby oblivious hands in his papa’s shirt, and went straight back to sleep.

Tugger just kept on snoring.

“Tugger,” Munk insisted softly. Achingly.

One year ago, this man had been the swaggering audacious poster child of a crime syndicate’s new regime.

One year ago, he had been his father Macavity’s darling, and never had to pay for anything or clean a single dish.

One year ago, his shirt would have been designer and barely worn. Now, a fraying seam of cheap cotton sagged off one shoulder, where he tugged it down every time he had to feed the baby.

(Munkustrap had never prodded at the edges of Tugger’s gender dysphoria. But he strongly suspected that breast-feeding was a practical necessity born of poverty, not a… joy.)

(Which would be why he and Bombalurina kept formula and bottles in the kitchen all ready and waiting. Even though Jemima was almost entirely on solids now.)

“Tugger.”

Munkustrap gently tried to prise Carbuckety from the protective curl of his arms.

That got a reaction. The eyes flew wide (too wide) and Tugger’s other hand lifted in something like a swipe. But it fell away, and sagged into his lap, and Tugger grinned groggily at Munkustrap, and tipped his sleepy head back against the sofa.

Munkustrap sighed loudly at him, and carefully gathered the baby into his arms.

This time, there was no resistance.

Carbuckety made a happy soft noise, and punched Munkustrap in the face with vague baby fist-flails. Munkustrap sighed at him, and kissed the fists.

'Skimbleshanks'. That was the name of the man who had so carelessly begotten this... this entire human being on Munkustrap's friend. And then left.

Of course, Tugger swore that he'd been the one to leave, that he'd had higher standards. But he would say that, wouldn't he. And Munkustrap had seen the way Tugger's self-esteem had crashed after... well, was it really even a break-up if the other guy had never regarded him as more than a convenient lay?

“When did you last eat a full meal?” Munkustrap asked Carbuckety.

“Fuck off,” Tugger grumbled half-heartedly. And Munkustrap pointed out, “There is a bed eight metres away and you know you’re welcome to use it,” and Tugger growled and grabbed at his shirt front and dragged him (or his baby) in closer and turned his head helplessly in against them.

“The kid always eats,” Tugger found it necessary to point out, even though Munkustrap knew that, knew Tugger would sacrifice anything to make his baby happy for one more hour.

“Yes,” Munkustrap purred, against the side of his head, and didn’t add, but do you.

Carbuckety yawned, and squirmed, and blissfully added another burp stain to Tugger’s shirt.

“Shut up,” said Tugger anyway, and Munkustrap’s heart clenched, and he drew Tugger’s head in softly (unresisting), and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Tugger’s breath hissed out in a rush. Just for a moment, he almost began to sag in against Munkustrap’s body—to rely on his strength.

Munkustrap leaned in against him, breathing in, one hand still cradling the child. Their fingers interlocked.

“Soup’s up,” said Bombalurina from the door, holding three steaming mugs—and both men pricked their ears, and turned to her with relief.

#tuggershanks #tuggerstrap #bombastrap #and yes the bombatuggerstrap swinging is entirely consensual #skimble is currently out of the picture so doesn't get a say #tugger needs love #munkustrap #rum tum tugger #mpreg #trans mpreg #trans tugger #also munkustrap is of course wrong about what went down between tugger and skimble #but he protecc him friend!

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marypsue · 11 months ago

Note

don’t let the sun go down on me continues to live in my head rent free so any DVD commentary of that you can spare would be much appreciated 🙏🏼

[from this meme]

Thank you very much!

don't let the sun go down on me

Before I start, I have to thank @trulyalpha / scoutshonour's we have the time, the inspiration, the blueprint, the OG Steve/Nancy/Jonathan vampire fic. Without it, this one wouldn't exist.

"Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me" is an Elton John song, but the place I first encountered it (and what I was thinking of when I used it for this fic) was Roger Daltrey's cover for The Lost Boys. So. There's that.

The first chapter was written and posted in a feverish haze in June of 2021. It was meant to be a one-shot; I never had any plans to continue it. And then in 2022 Season 4 came out and while I'm generally not impressed with it, I got absolutely obsessed with the idea of vampire trueforms modelled off the Vecna design and things...escalated quickly.

Chapter One

One of the best pieces of advice that I ever received about writing was that the story starts so much later than you often think it does. Especially when I'm writing oneshots, I try to cut right to the the part where the story I actually want to tell starts. In this case, there's a whole leadup of Steve hearing or seeing something in the woods and going to investigate and discovering a monster and some kids seemingly being menaced by the monster and going to the rescue and a whole fight scene that I decided I didn't want to write, because the story was about Nancy and Jonathan being vampires and Steve falling in love with both of them. And honestly, I don't feel like the story is lacking for not having that monster fight in it. A few sprinklings of exposition in the narration and dialogue takes care of it quite nicely.

I love giving vampires eyeshine.

Sometimes, it takes Steve an eternity to understand how things fit together. And then, sometimes, his brain makes lightning-fast connections between random things without his even asking it to.

Steve Harrington ADHD. I don't care what the show says. It just makes sense.

(On an unrelated note, OG Season 3 Robin Buckley also ADHD. I am getting off the soapbox now.)

“That’s my kid sister.”

There are two aspects of Jonathan Byers' character that felt indelibly important to me to preserve even in an AU: he is a big brother, and he is deeply protective of and materially supportive of Joyce. Turning her from his mom into his little sister kept both of those things intact even with the change in timelines. I felt particularly proud of this one.

...and wow, there is something about her saying his name with blood all over her face that Steve is going to just pack away in the back of his mind for later.

It was very important to me and to making this whole thing work that Steve is just wildly, unabashedly, maybe a little bit confusedly but totally wholeheartedly horny for the whole vampire deal. He's discovering so many new things about himself over the course of this fic, and a fetish for fangs is just part of the package deal.

He doesn’t want to be a vampire. There are probably a lot of very good reasons for that, and the fact that the only one coming to his stunned mind is that vampires probably don’t get basketball scholarships means nothing.

This just made me laugh when I thought of it.

“Oh shit, is it bad?” Steve turns to look at Jonathan. He sounds like he’s less likely to try to sugar-coat it. “It sounds like it’s bad. ..."

"Son of a bitch, Lucas, is it bad?!"

The whole idea of vampire thralls and Steve maybe becoming one was something that was on my mind throughout the rising action in we have the time, but never came up in that fic. I wanted to dig into the concept, and also, it seemed like a good excuse to force Nancy and Jonathan to have to pull Steve into their investigation of the events of Season 1.

Nancy and Jonathan basically forgetting Steve's there so they can rehash an old argument (and also drop some exposition because I'd never expected to continue this fic but I had backstory I wanted to sneak in) is so funny to me, one of the ways I wanted to show they were an established established (read: old married) couple, and also quite possibly the moment Steve fell helplessly head over heels for both of them.

His mom’s sleeping with Prince Valium tonight

Lifted this line from Beetlejuice because I think it's criminally underrated. Also because, as I mentioned in my other post, my go-to characterisation for Steve's mom is just Delia Deetz. Also, also, it unintentionally became good foreshadowing.

Just because he keeps deciding to do what he thinks will make the prettiest girl alive happy – Oh. Shit. She’s not alive, though. Is she.

When I first started writing this, I had Steve referring to Nancy as 'the prettiest girl in the world' before he knew her name. And then I realised I could do this if I made one little change.

Jesus. Steve hadn’t even asked if they kill people.

Yeah, I don't think he ever actually does end up asking that.

Chapter Two

As mentioned above, in about September 2022 the bug bit me hard and I resurrected this fic from the dead, with 'vampires, but make it Vecna-inspired and explicitly Upside-Down-related' on my mind and a half-formed thought about a murder mystery. I thought this fic had maybe three chapters in it, total, counting the original oneshot. I thought it would be quick and easy to wrap up. Hahahahahaha.

I did actually start writing this chapter back when I wrote the original oneshot - the scene where Steve finds the obits at the library, specifically up to the part where he's looking at Nancy and Jonathan's yearbook photos, was written in 2021. I decided to cut off the fic the night of Nancy and Jonathan's visit because I didn't have a direction to go in to continue it, and it felt like a complete thought. Also, I was only adding onto it because I wanted the mental image of Nancy and Jonathan in fifties styles.

And then, in 2022, I stumbled upon a direction to go in to continue it.

"...Why am I out in the woods at night with a bobby soxer who wears a virgin pin?”

Shoutout to @marzipanandminutiae who was talking about fashion history and popular fashion myths, and brought to my attention both the fad of circle pins for girls in the fifties and the myth that wearing them on one or the other side of your cardigan meant that you had or hadn't had sex / whether you would have sex. Fearmongering about silly teenage accessory trends having to do with secret sex signals didn't start in my youth, apparently. (Anybody remember jelly bracelets? I was a full adult before I found out those were supposed to be a kind of playground handkerchief code.)

I looooove writing ominous horror scenes where Something Bad Is Lurking and the characters are starting to realise it too but they will not know until it's too late. New favourite thing. Love tension. Love when everybody's thinking the same thing but nobody dares to come right out and say it.

You heard Chief Keller.

Yes, I have been watching Riverdale in fascinated horror. It's just...it's so audaciously bonkers. And so fully committed - at least for the episode or two each of them lasts - to its bits. I have to respect that. And it makes me feel sooooooo good about my plotting and pacing capabilities.

(Also, Chad Michael Murray giving an actually pretty thoughtful and nuanced performance as a charismatic high-control group leader, only to throw it all out the window when he got told 'oh btw your character dies next episode' and start gnawing through backdrops like the Hungry Hungry Caterpillar while doing three costume changes in two scenes and then trying to Evel Knievel his way off a building in a homemade rocket only to get unceremoniously and undramatically shot dead offscreen, not even by a main character, is something I never knew I needed in my life. This show makes so many choices and all of them make me want to take the tops off the writers' heads and dissect their brains.

But I digress.)

Usually when he’s on the receiving end of that stare, Hopper’s digging for something to tie him to anything from the giant GO TIGERS spraypainted across the courthouse to the beer cans and partygoers hastily hidden all over the house behind him to the rotten eggs splattered all over the side of a police cruiser, and the best course of action is to look wide-eyed and innocent and only say ‘No, chief, I have no idea about that’.

Just given who they are and what their respective roles in the community have been up until this point, there is a deep, rich vein of hilarity in Hopper and Steve both ending up in the Upside Down crew (I'm still pushing for 'fellowship' to refer to everyone who Knows, it's thematically and textually appropriate!) that has yet to be mined.

Happened the same year they opened up that lab south of town.

I'll be honest, I avoided saying much about how the events of canon went down in this 'verse on purpose. Partly because it's Season 1 and our POV character is Steve, who never gets told anything until it's much, much too late, but also partly because I didn't finish Season 4 and don't care enough to seek out spoilers to know what happened. And I think that what Season 4 tries to establish as Lore could have some serious bearing on what would make sense for the backstory to the canon events in this story. So. Please fill in the gaps as appropriate.

Steve drums both hands against the desk, and the librarian gives him a flat, unimpressed look that’s almost the twin of the one Hopper gave him in the reading room. Apparently he just has this effect on adults.

Steve Harrington ADHD.

Jonathan’s so busy sawing at the last of the vines still wrapped around Nancy’s ankle that he doesn’t notice the thick central stalk of the plant…thing pushing back up through the crumbling ground behind him.

I wrote a post about this and now tumblr won't let me find in search on my blog, because it won't show me basically any original posts I made between about June of last year and now in search on my blog, for some fucking reason. But. The way I conceptualised it is that this thing Nancy and Jonathan fought is the most stripped-down, basic trueform of a vampire in this 'verse. The two of them got infected while they were fighting it. Basically it planted seeds or spores or whatever it uses to reproduce into their bodies, and then grew throughout those bodies, intertwining its central stalk with their spines and its vines with their nervous systems so it could animate the bodies even after its intrusion killed them. Jonathan and Nancy both still have intact (or mostly-intact) brains, intact senses of self and memories. But they've also got new biological needs and new, compelling instincts that can overtake their higher brain functions in the right circumstances. And if you stripped away all the meat and muscle, you'd find something that looks an awful lot like this evil plant that tried to eat them growing on a trellis made out of their bones.

Vampires in this 'verse are a kind of parasitic fungus. (Which is also why ingesting their blood can affect the behaviours and brain functions of other people, and even make others like them.) I think this is the coolest shit and I will not stop talking about it. That is all.

(Also. Steve's still hot and bothered about it. That's important too.)

Nancy’s not sure how long they sit there, together, clutching each other and just trying to breathe.

Neither Nancy or Jonathan can see much of what's going on around them at this point, so I'm pretty sure this is where Brad found them. And how Brad found them.

Nicole’s not bad-looking, and she’s a fun time at parties even if she is kind of a nerd. And they’re both single right now. Steve’s not sure why he suddenly wants to pull away.

It's because you're already hopelessly in love with two other people. Hope that helps.

I can kind of understand how and why the fandom sort of collectively forgets Fred existed. I wouldn't say he was the biggest standout of Season 4's crop of cannon fodder for me, either. But you show me a weedy little nerd of a character who's using a prickly sarcastic sense of humour to deflect from a truly monstrous baggage of survivor's guilt and blame around unintentionally hurting someone he cared about in a way that can't ever be ameliorated or forgiven, and then be like 'yeah everybody in-canon and in the fandom kinda forgot about him lmao', and. Well. Now I gotta do something meaningful with him. I gotta.

Also, he made a good red herring suspect.

He thinks about Nancy’s apologetic smile as she said she thought she’d enthralled him, about how Jonathan had said or you’d lose your mind, and wonders, for the first time, how they know.

I also got to this plot point by writing Nancy and Jonathan's turning, stopping, realising they would not know any other vampires, and wondering, myself, how they heck they'd know all that stuff about blood and thralls. The answer that presented itself was: firsthand.

When she tries to raise her arms, to pull away the covers that have somehow gotten wrapped over her face, she bumps into something flat and cold and solid barely a few inches above her.

I learned after writing this that apparently the fridges in a morgue are like one big open space with all the rolling trays sliding back into it, not like a narrow slot for each tray with top, bottom, and sides. Oh well.

Nancy pulls the letterman jacket she’d been wearing from the plastic bag full of her clothes that they’d found in the trash. Her expression is mournful, almost stricken, as she takes in the ragged slashes torn through the leather of the sleeves, the frankly astonishing size of the rusty red-brown stain surrounding a single puncture in the back. It makes the tiger applique look like its snarling mouth has just taken a bite out of some fresh prey.

Have I mentioned lately that I love heavy-handed visual symbolism?

...the dingy little trailer he calls home.

Okay, so in the fifties, as I found out after I'd finished writing this, the mobile home park was still more in the 'new and exciting' category than what it would have been in the eighties. Think less Trailer Park Boys and more tiny home. However. I did not do extensive research before writing this, because I was most interested in the vampire part. And it seems to me that the kinds of people buying or renting holiday trailers to live in year-round would still have been people who thought it made more financial sense than buying a permanent building. It's also possible that Jonathan and Joyce's family were in a better position at the time they moved in than the one they're in as of this fic.

It’s been made clear to Steve on multiple occasions that one of the few rules he actually has to follow in this house is don’t bother your father when he’s in his office.

I talked a lot about what I think of Steve and his parents and their relationship and how a lot of it boils down to 'they're rich and self-centred and they're raising him the same way'. This is part of that - Steve's internalised that there are some rules that apply to him, and some that don't, and that that's just how things work, some rules apply to some people and not to others, some rules don't matter and some rules do, and it's all a matter of whether someone more powerful than you will punish you if you get caught breaking them. It seems consistent with his Season 1 characterisation, and also, it's some foreshadowing, in that it shows how the person who taught him this thinks.

Everybody knew old Gower drank like a fish.

Yeah, this name was lifted from It's A Wonderful Life. It's not actually relevant to the story, just a fun fact.

She can feel the tension in Jonathan’s arms, before she lets go. But he doesn’t raise them again. Trusting her completely.

...

Nancy doesn’t resist. She doesn’t protest. She just lets Jonathan pull her away from civilisation and deeper into the woods. Trusting him completely.

Parallel presented without comment.

“You didn’t tell me you dated my dad.”

...

“In Dracula. The vampire’s servant is named -”

...

"And from how you both apparently think humans are just here for you both to mess around with ..."

So, in case it's not clear (because Steve hasn't realised it yet, so it's deliberately oblique), this whole fight is actually about him feeling envious over Nancy and Jonathan's relationship, and between the two of them together and finding out about Fred and about Nancy dating his dad, feeling like he's not actually important to them in the way he'd kind of let himself think he was, but only one in a string of people they've used and abandoned. Steve's feeling like he cares way more about them than they do about him, and also maybe he's a little scared by how much he already cares about them. And also he doesn't have the emotional intelligence to identify correctly how he's feeling and why, so he takes it out on them both.

This is not a recommended course of action for dealing with monsters than can tear you open as soon as look at you, by the way.

“Steve,” Nancy says, like Steve’s a dog who’s just pissed on the rug.

He is really not feeling valued in this relationship, folks.

Also, like in canon, Jonathan will take anything mean anybody says about or to him. But the instant you drag his family into it, it's game over.

She only lives – her family’s house is ...

I made the same mistake Nancy does, went to correct it, and then went, 'ohhhHHHHHHHH'.

Chapter Three

I really, honestly did think this was going to be the final chapter of this fic when I started writing it.

I like Tommy and Carol because like. They're not evil, they're just high school evil. I like them best as people who genuinely like and care about each other (and Steve), who just have absolutely no idea how to express that in a positive way without the forces of high school social politics dictating how they interact with each other. Likewise, I think Tommy both looks up to Steve and resents the fact that he's second to Steve, and is always looking for little opportunities to both impress and one-up Steve. (Which is part of why he's second to Steve - because he's too obvious about how much he cares. High school, man.)

Except. He’d been so angry when he’d thought Jonathan was a murderer. Like Jonathan had personally betrayed him. Steve’s not sure what that means. If it means anything. He’s not sure he wants to think too much about it.

Some fics I write are about the slow development of feelings between characters. Not this one. Steve caught feelings before the story even started, and the rest is just him slowly realising that that's happened.

Trying to lay seeds of evidence for the solution to the murder plot while misdirecting readers away from where they're actually supposed to point is hard, but also so much fun. I tried to make each of my clues, independently, be something that could point in two or more directions. So, for example, Fred's notebook with his evidence that there was foul play in Nancy's death being missing after the crash points toward his accident being intentional, and the actual murderer trying to suppress the evidence, but it doesn't point to one specific suspect. Personally, I thought it suggested the lab most strongly. But when you put it all of the evidence together, you start to see that some of those alternate options cancel each other out, which leaves only the one, true murderer right in the crosshairs.

It's a technique I'm going to be carrying forward in my plotting in the future. After all, when you boil them down, most stories are, at heart, either a mystery or a romance. And romances are a kind of mystery, because you need to be leaving and developing clues about why these people like each other, and -

Anyway.

“Nance. It’s okay. It’s been thirty years. I’ve made my peace with it. I’m dead.”

I love Jonathan 'resigning myself to it so I don't have to hope for anything because hoping for something and (inevitably) not getting it would break me in half and somebody in this family(/relationship) has to be The Strong Reliable Okay One' Byers and love and consideration breaking down his shitty coping mechanisms so much. I also love undead characters being matter-of-fact about not being human when it clearly bothers them more than they want anyone to know. Two great tastes that taste great together.

And tried not to think too hard about the last time he’d had a girl who wasn’t Carol up here.

Steve: it's not weird that I'm thinking about sex while I'm inviting Jonathan and Nancy into my bedroom. Nancy's here and I'm in love with her. So it's not weird.

Steve straightened up and turned around with it in hand, only to catch both Nancy and Jonathan watching him intently. “What?”

They were both staring at his ass while he was bent over with his back to them, here.

(That's not a joke, that's actually what I was going for.)

"... You, obviously, and Brad, and Chief Keller, and anybody they might’ve told about it, I guess…”

Another thing about laying clues - it's good if they can have more than one logical interpretation, because then you can have your characters put the pieces together and move forward based on entirely the wrong logical interpretation, and then your characters don't look stupid or oblivious. (Unless, of course, that's what you want.) But, it's also good to keep bringing up the actual right answer to the mystery in conjunction with those clues. Not so much that it's obvious. Just enough so that the actual solution is kept in the reader's mind, so when the big reveal comes they're not going 'wait, who? What? Why? Where did he come from?', but 'OOOOOOHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhh.'

Did I get this in this fic? That is for you to tell me. But that's what I was going for.

He was interrupted by a choked noise from Jonathan, and a disbelieving, “Chief Hopper? Chief Jim Hopper?” from Nancy.

I just think that characters having different perspectives on each other is a rich vein to be mined for characterisation and also for hilarity. And also the idea of these two being older teenagers when Hopper was in middle school just demanded to be brought up.

And since when does Steve care so much about what Jonathan thinks of him, anyway?

He is so stupid (affectionate).

“- said they lost the bodies, Joyce! Lost them! ..."

This fic was specifically about Steve and Nancy and Jonathan, and in Steve's POV, so I didn't really get to get into the other two parallel storylines. But I did want to give a sense that they were going on, and also a glimpse at what was going on in them. It's one of my favourite things about Season 1.

“This isn’t funny, kid. What, is Bill Hagan’s boy in the bushes with a video camera? ..."

Every interaction Hopper and Steve have ever had before today makes it absolutely reasonable for Hopper to come to the conclusion that Steve is playing a cruel practical joke! He's wrong, we as readers know he's wrong, but he doesn't have the luxury of our perspective on Steve and it makes sense for him to think it! I just love it when characters have impressions and perspectives of each other that are shaped by their experiences with each other, and are necessarily incomplete, biased, influenced by their own prior experiences, and not the same as the impression or perspective the reader has! It makes characters feel whole and distinct from each other and human, to me!

"... I mean, you are vampires. I still don’t even know what you eat.”

Oh, he did ask! I'd forgotten. Would've been in character for him to just conveniently forget, though.

... Steve’s sure would have had the neighbours calling in yet another noise complaint if they weren’t in Bermuda...

I love a good foreshadowing, don't you?

“You can’t be Mike,” she’s insisting, in the face of all the evidence. “Last time I saw Mike, he was just two years old.” “So was Will, Nancy,” Jonathan says, so gently. It’s sweet how hard he’s trying not to laugh. “No. It has not been ten years since the last time we were here. That can’t possibly be right.”

This, unfortunately, is just what being an adult is like.

He doesn’t even really understand what’s going on. Something about making a sensory deprivation tank, or maybe a battery? The kids had all kind of been talking over each other when they tried to explain. But apparently, this pool full of body temperature water and road salt is supposed to help them find Will Byers. Somehow.

Is it really even the season's big group DIY project if Steve Harrington doesn't not fully understand what's going on?

“The way I lost it on Steve, the other night,” Jonathan says, flatly. “That’s not – he’s a complete stranger, he shouldn’t have been able to get to me like that. I shouldn’t have let him get to me like that. And you, nearly turning him -”

Jonathan Byers: The only possible explanation for how crazy we've both been acting over Steve is interdimensional interference. The only possible explanation.

If these three could communicate with each other for five minutes and all get on the same page, there would have been no story.

Steve is so hot for everything inhuman about Nancy and Jonathan that it's almost embarrassing and I love that for him.

Were Nancy and Jonathan not sure about how to get into the lab because I wasn't sure how to get them into the lab? I'll never tell, and I'm sure you'll never guess.

Nancy and Steve calling each other 'Nicole' and 'Brad' in their fake fight was unreasonably funny to me. Actually, the whole fake fight was so much fun to write. I considered cutting it, because I'm not sure it adds anything to the story as a whole, but...well, this is fan fiction. Also, I wanted to give Steve a chance for his strengths to shine and to save the day in front of the two people he most wants to impress. He was angling hard to get himself and Nancy taken inside so he could 'call his dad'. And it almost worked, too.

That warm, wet something trickling down Steve’s forehead chooses that moment to drip into his eyelashes, sticking them together for a moment.

We all got that Steve realised he was bleeding and that Jonathan was injured and likely to attack him over it, and then went over to try to help Jonathan anyway, yes?

Something moves under Steve’s fingers, those black veins shifting in Jonathan’s throat like living things, and Steve has to swallow down bile.

Parasitic fungus!

There’s no emotion Steve can discern in Jonathan’s voice at all as he says, “I’ll kill you.” Steve has maybe never thought so fast before in his life. “Like Nancy with the dog,” he says, and Jonathan lets out a shuddering exhale.

Jonathan's trying his hardest to scare Steve off for his own safety, make Steve think he's threatening him, but Steve stops and thinks about it first, unlike when he jumped to the conclusion that Jonathan was a murderer, and - correctly - identifies it as a statement of fact. That Jonathan won't be able to help himself, because he's injured badly and needs blood. I figured this whole interaction was the moment Jonathan finally mentally went aw, shit, I'm in love with this stupid stubborn asshole.

“You’re not really much of a killer, man.”

Specifically, this exact moment, when Steve completely backtracks on everything he'd said the previous night about Jonathan being a murderer and places his life entirely into Jonathan's hands.

It's not really all that much like what he’d imagined, the other night, with his hand down his boxers. But fuck if it isn’t still lighting up those crossed wires in Steve’s head like the Fourth of fucking July.

The older I get, the less I'm interested in vampire bites ~not really hurting at all~ and ~inducing euphoric bliss~ and the more I'm interested in the people on the receiving end of vampire bites just being huge fucking masochists.

And he knows he’s never seen her with that dead-eyed, monstrous face on before. Steve’s dick does its level best to give an interested twitch about it.

In The Lost Boys, the only vampire/half-vampire who we don't get to see with monstrous, freaky vampface on is the female love interest. I think this rather denotes a lack of courage.

Chapter Four

I wrote pretty much all of chapters four and five as one piece, and then waffled over whether to split them into two. I even polled he studio audience here on tumblr (though not actually with a poll because I was late to get polls). I'm pretty sure the result was 'one big-ass long chapter please'. And then I went ahead and split it into two anyway.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling, having somebody else, somebody he’s made a practical career out of lying to, invent him such a plausible alibi without any input from him.

The thing is, while the perception of Steve that Hopper has from seventeenish years of shenanigans is incomplete, it's also not wrong. It is a spooky feeling to know you've been perceived, and with more recognition and understanding than you'd realised, but the person doing the perceiving still doesn't like you.

They’re both making their arguments like they’re concerned for Steve. But Steve, slumped in the backseat, resting his aching head against the cool glass of the rattling window, knows them both well enough to know that what they’re really fighting about is his dad’s fucking around. He’s heard them make the exact same arguments, in almost the exact same words, about who’s going to stay home and take care of his dad’s tropical fish.

Tell me you had a kid when you should have gotten a dog (okay, well, maybe you also shouldn't have gotten a dog) without telling me...

"...The things we do for our ungrateful kids, huh?” Hopper’s eyes narrow, a little.

If you can't tell that Jim Hopper would cheerfully strangle this man in cold blood and broad daylight just to have a chance to get stuck staying home with his concussed kid, then I haven't done my job.

“You’re lucky to be alive, asshole,” Carol agrees. Steve can’t explain why his chest suddenly feels so hollow.

...

“And thanks for saving my life or whatever, I guess.”

...

It hurts more if Steve presses his fingers against the bandage just over where the bite mark’s trying to scab closed.

I spent a lot of time wallowing in the sense of missed opportunities and squandered chances that leads Steve to take some stupid, risky chances - like, for example, confronting somebody he thinks is a murderer to his face. He's clearly missing Nancy and Jonathan, and feeling like he's missed his one chance with the both of them even though he'd never put it into words like that at this point, but also - he's trapped in the house with people who genuinely don't care enough whether he lives or dies to worry about him for his own sake, and feeling like maybe he doesn't, either. He was ready and willing to die happy in the woods that night, and now he's been denied that, and he's staring down the barrel of up to eighty more years of just the same mundane tedium and catty, shallow relationships and bullshit.

I had to raise the temperature slowly to a boil, to get this boy ready to do something drastic, and it's one of my favourite parts of this fic.

The lady at the ticket window tells him that with the Greyhound drivers’ strike, she can’t guarantee he’ll get to wherever he’s going when he wants to be there.

I found out about the Greyhound strike in the 80s when I was doing a little googling to figure out how likely it'd be for them to have a route that'd take Steve out to Pennhurst, and absolutely had to toss it in. For historical flavour, and to hammer home the sense of isolation and futility. It just dovetailed so nicely.

She looks over Steve’s shoulder, at the woman who’d reached for him, and smiles warmly, though there’s still steel in her voice as she says, “And you’d do well to remember you’re a guest in his house. Evelyn, stop trying to mooch cigarettes off the visitors, you and I both know the doctor doesn’t want you to have them.”

'Spooky scary asylum inmates' is a shitty trope that sucks. Steve absolutely 100% would have no other schema for mental illness, though. I tried to thread that needle by having him react initially with horror to the weird, strange, freaky behaviour of the inmates, and then recontextualise that behaviour as like. yeah she just wants to bum a cigarette. what's your problem. Also to keep reminding Steve that hey, you were like three drops of blood away from being in that exact same position, and your future health and sanity is Not Guaranteed. Not sure how much any of that succeeded but. There was only so much lipstick I was gonna be able to put on that pig.

Why Steve can’t just leave it alone. His life is better, they chorus in the theatre of his imagination, if he just shuts up and keeps his head down and pretends not to notice or care like the coward he is.

There is a question that the show raises and that I think this fic is asking, which is, was Steve always the kind of guy who'd go running to the rescue with a bat when it came down to the wire and people's lives were on the line, no questions asked, or did he need Nancy's influence to let him become that? And the answer is yes. I do like how in canon it's Tommy's goading about how Steve always runs away that ends up getting him to go face his fuckups and his fears. How it's his old friends, being their shitty selves, who help move him toward becoming a better version of himself. I have several emotions and none of them are coherent.

“Hey, I’ve got to get going, I was really just passing by – but when Jonathan comes back, let him know I was looking for him? That I wanna talk to him? Or Nancy, if you see her.”

In my original draft, Steve came straight home from Pennhurst and went and confronted his dad. (Well, okay, he had dinner first.) And then I realised there was no reason for Nancy and Jonathan to break their 'we're going to stay away from Steve so maybe we don't accidentally murder him for real this time' streak, and they probably wouldn't be coming to the rescue. Which is why this scene's here. However. I like it a lot and I'm glad it's here. Steve very awkwardly trying to interact with anyone other than Nancy and Jonathan immediately post-Season 1 gives me life.

... or some kind of strategy to stop Logansport’s freakishly fast point guard from kicking all their asses.

I did Actual Research for this line (read: I looked on Google Maps and compared the positioning of Hawkins within Indiana on the Season 2-3 geological survey map to small-ish cities in the area who could believably be high school rivals to their sports teams, and also looked at the Wikipedia page for 'basketball'). I will have it appreciated.

Of life before it all turned upside down on him.

I will not stop making stupid jokes and that is a threat.

His mom jokes over dinner that maybe Steve should be concussed more often, it’s been so quiet and peaceful around the house.

A+ Parenting

I talked at length about the confrontation between Steve and his dad, so I won't rehash it.

“You should know,” she says, taking a single step toward them, as slow and deliberate as her nod. “After all, you were the one who killed me.”

Nancy Absolutely Did Not know this until approximately ten minutes ago. She is doing a fantastic job of bluffing.

“I didn’t,” Jonathan says, low enough that at first Steve isn’t sure if he really heard it at all. “You believe me, right? I didn’t.” “What? Barbara? I know that, he has no idea what he’s talking about, can we just go?”

Jonathan still can't quite believe that Steve doesn't actually think he's a heartless, remorseless killer without anything human left in him. Mostly because that's sort of how Jonathan's been thinking about himself for the last thirty years. (Remorseless killers usually do not have this much angst about their lack of remorse, Jonathan. Protip.)

Chapter Five

After what he’s heard, tonight, he doesn’t want to give his dad the chance to say that Steve went after him, that the knife was self-defense. That a combination of the concussion and some local history project just deluded Steve into thinking his dad was a killer.

I got a lot of comments on chapter four about how Steve's dad wasn't thinking and how was he planning to get away with murder after he killed his own son in his own office in cold blood. I let myself go down the rabbit hole a little thinking about how, exactly, he would try to get away with it. And I think Steve knows his dad well enough by now to have a pretty good idea.

It turns out that limping into a police station covered in your own blood is a great way to get a lot of attention very quickly.

I'm just very proud of this line.

“Jesus, Harrington, they’re gonna have to start giving you frequent flyer miles.”

I promise I didn't set out writing this fic planning to nearly kill Steve three separate times. It just...happened.

... Hopper shoots an awkward, try-hard grin in Steve’s direction and drops into the chair beside his hospital bed. “Heyyyy, kid. How you feeling.”

I just think Hopper's absolutely abysmal bedside manner in Season 2 is the funniest thing. And. Well. Just made myself sad thinking about the possible reasons why he's so bad at being normal beside a hospital bed with a kid in it. Okay!

It seems to me to be a very popular trope for Steve to end up getting kind of pseudo-adopted by Hopper and Joyce. I see why it appeals, but it's never clicked for me. And yet. The logical progression of this fic led me here. Never say 'I'll never write...'.

At least Will sounds slightly less accusing than Mike Wheeler had when he says, “What’re you doing here?”

We collectively as a fandom do not honour Will Byers' sassmaster energy enough.

“Yeah, no shit I’m upset. What was that? Just drop me and run like an unwanted baby at a firehouse?”

Steve is...kind of a fascinating contradiction in terms, in some ways, to me. I see a lot of fanon where he's very much a sick cat about things that bother him, that he'll shut down and try to hide what he's feeling for the sake of other people, and I don't think that's wrong necessarily but I do think it's...incomplete. Like, maybe he would downplay the seriousness of his own hurts and how much they're affecting him if being honest about them would hurt other people...but that absolutely doesn't mean he's not going to bitch about them. Loudly.

“Witless protection program,” Jonathan says.

We also as a fandom collectively need to appreciate how funny Jonathan is more often.

This whole confrontation was a bit of a balancing act. I didn't want it to turn into an angstfest. There was a certain degree of 'avoiding you for your own good'/'denying my feelings for your sake' mutual pining going on in this story, and I really needed there to be a good reason why these characters didn't just communicate with each other (or, at least, for the characters themselves to feel like they had a good reason). I also didn't want to wallow in that misunderstanding, because quite frankly it drives me batty when characters who are mutually into each other end up in a situation where it's almost unavoidable that their true feelings must come out and they must communicate, but they squander it on doing everything in their power to deliberately interpret everything the character they're into does or says as rejection, and deliberately hiding all of their actual thoughts and feelings to try to drive off the character they're into. Like, at a certain point you step past obliviousness and into 'yeah maybe you guys shouldn't be together, actually, if this is how you're gonna be'. These guys aren't communicating well, but god dammit, they're communicating.

It’s so – direct. No hesitation. None of Jonathan’s usual holding back. Just confidence, certainty.

Jonathan Byers has never been hotter than that moment in the hallway in Season 1 where he's throwing that lighter and that's just facts. It's the purpose, clarity, and confidence.

Jonathan devours his mouth like – like he’s starving to death and Steve’s an open wound.

I was proud of this line, too.

... and turns on the smile that’s made half the female population of Hawkins High turn cherry-red and suddenly become very amused by the floor.

This is totally the face he gave Nancy when he was trying to convince her to play 'strip flashcards' in s1e1.

...Jonathan’s got an arm around her waist and his face pressed into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses to the pale skin exposed by the slip of her robe. She raises an arm to cradle his head...

And this is absolutely the Dirty Dancing pose. Minus the side-skimming hand gesture that tickled Jennifer Grey badly enough to bust out laughing.

“I don’t have any blood flow,” he says, sounding defensive. “It’s got to be within a couple hours after I’ve eaten if you want me to, uh.”

I went back and forth on whether to include this, and finally decided I was leaving it in because it made my friends laugh. And because I love speculative fantasy xenobiology in action. 'But Mary, drinking blood won't introduce it to the circulatory -' I already told you these vampires are a parasitic fungus animating dead flesh, right? The fungus uses fine tentacle-vine-root-things woven through the flesh to puppeteer it? And the fungus feeds on blood, which means it uses blood for energy to, for example, move its limbs? I can bullshit this one if I want to. (Which I do.)

He remembers thinking the snake was beautiful, even as he was nearly pissing his pants in terror that it’d bite him. And now that he’s thinking about it, that comparison feels a little on the nose.

I got halfway through writing that first sentence and realised it needed a lampshade, badly.

Carol even styles Steve’s hair how he likes it, when she’s done. And there’s no way she could’ve known how looking in the mirror and seeing the hair that earned him his nickname perched on top of the haunted, battered face of a boy Steve barely recognises would make him suddenly and unexpectedly feel like throwing up.

The metaphor here may be a little unsubtle. Carol and Tommy are actually trying to be good friends to Steve, in their own, selfish, high-school-politics-influenced way. And it's got to hurt when he rejects that. But they're trying to make him feel better by getting him back to his old self. And that's only making it worse.

... some four-eyed fairy who took Nicole out to the movies last weekend in this classic car he’d restored. For this cardinal sin, one of Tommy’s buddies tracked down the auto wrecker’s where the kid’s been keeping the car while he works on it, so tonight –

I stand by my theory that Chrissy Cunningham's name is a reference to Stephen King's Christine. And so is this.

... Steve’s dating two people at once. (He tried that, once before, with Laurie and Becky. It did not end well. With the benefit of hindsight, knowing what he knows now, maybe he should’ve just asked them both if they’d be cool with it. Although he thinks the answer probably still would’ve been no.)

It is very important to me that, even when he is Having Self-Affirming Realisations and Growing As A Person, Steve is still a teenage boy.

Nancy, it turns out, likes gritty courtroom dramas.

It took me a while to figure out what kind of movies I think Nancy would like. John Grisham adaptations and Twelve Angry Men seem up her alley, though.

Jonathan’s shoulders are starting to hunch forward, turtling in on himself. He still hasn’t even moved to touch the glass Steve put in front of him.

As far as I know it's never explicitly stated in canon that Lonnie Byers is an alcoholic, and he's not even Jonathan's dad in this fic anyway, but it just makes sense to me that Jonathan does not enjoy drinking or being drunk or being around drunk people and I'm going to carry that through in everything I write.

The guy who helps Steve find what he’s looking for really knows his stuff, even if he can’t seem to resist a cheesy pun.

I love Bob Newby and I'm going to shoehorn him in everywhere I possibly can. That is all.

The scene with the kids and the D&D game was pure self-indulgence. If I were a better writer or this were a more professional piece, I might have cut it. However, this is fanfiction, and driver picks the music.

I moved Steve out to California one part so that I could do this whole thematic bit about Nancy and Jonathan choosing him, choosing to stay with him, one part because I realised I really had burned his life in Hawkins down to the ground and the most hopeful thing would be for him to be able to start over, and one part because I just thought it would be fun.

“We’ve got nothing but time.”

This was a little bit a nod to we have the time.

There was no way this fic was ever going to be complete without Steve getting to at least meet Robin. They have a beautiful friendship ahead of them.

(I've got to be honest, I've never vibed with Argyle. He annoys me on a fundamental level. But there was something about including him in this scene and in the nascent relationship between these versions of Robin and Steve that just...worked. As with Murray and Owens, whether or not a character is unbearably irritating can be a matter of which other characters they get to bounce off of and what they bring out of each other as much as that character in a vacuum.)

And that's all she wrote! I still have a vague, half-formed idea in my mind about a sequel (Barbara Holland wasn't as dead - or perhaps quite the kind of dead - that everybody thought, and El opening the Gate got her brought back as a specimen for experimentation, and something something something the US government is trying to weaponise vampirism and something something) but it never congealed into an actual plot so it's unlikely to ever materialise.

(I will tell you, because I'm not planning to write it anymore, that I had an idea for a scene where Steve, in thrall to the military's vampiric supersoldier, is forced to lure Nancy and Jonathan into a trap, and then successfully rules-lawyers his instructions into letting him cut himself so that his blood can distract the less-experienced vamp and Nancy and Jonathan can tear the bitch apart. Which would have left Steve mentally fine but physically more durable and slower to age. Felt it was a rather clever way to thread that needle. No I didn't steal this wholesale from Stephenie Meyer's Eclipse shut up.)

#chatter #this is mary's fic tag #stranger things

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