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#and I might've coloured at work

little-hermit-crab56 · 7 months

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I've been writing for a while so I thought I'd share some writing tips I've learned along the way.

1. Never sacrifice the flow for a quirky line.

That bit of dialogue or flowery paragraph you really like but it kinda disrupts the flow? Scrap it. I know it hurts, but you need to. If you really want to keep it, find somewhere else to put it where it actually fits in.

2. Dialogue is a dance.

Dialogue should go at the pace of an actual conversation, back and forth with little breaks and pauses. Add as little dialogue tags as possible while still making it clear who is speaking. You can also describe what is happening during a pause in the conversation rather than saying they paused, unless the pause is important.

3. Show don't tell is a guideline, not a rule.

Show don't tell is a very useful guideline, but if you're ALWAYS showing it can get exhausting to read. Skip the boring bits and just tell us what happened, then we can get to the good stuff.

4. If it's boring to write, it's probably boring to read.

If you can cut out a whole scene with little consequence to the story, you probably should. As I said before, you don't always have to show us, you can always tell us.

5. Everything needs to have a purpose.

I know there are probably lots of interesting or cute scenes where your characters are just fucking around, but if it doesn't develop character, relations, conflict, or plot, why should we care? Definitely still write them if they make you happy, but if you're gonna add it to your final draft, make sure it matters.

6. You don't need to explain everything all at once.

I know it feels tempting to put all the lore, and all the character's intentions, and reasonings into the first few chapters, but please refrain, you can reserve that for your character and worldbuilding sheets. Instead, take the time to let us get to know the characters, and the world, in the same way we'd get to know a real person. Make your exposition as seamless and natural as possible. It will take practice to know when to reveal information and when to let us wonder, but you'll get there.

7. Write in a way that comes naturally.

I know you probably have an author you wanna write just like, but that is unlikely to happen. Embrace your natural writing style and perfect it, rather than trying to be something you're not. Writing is an art, you need to find your own style and polish it as best you can.

8. Try to make us feel connected by cutting out certain words like "felt".

"Chad felt like a glass of water." Can be replaced with, "Chad was thirsty, so he reached for a glass of water." Both sentences tell us Chad wants a glass of water, but one makes us feel more connected to Chad than the other. Though both sentences have their time and place, you want to make your audience feel as close to their protagonist as possible. Make them feel like they're there, rather than just an onlooker.

9. We don't need to know every physical detail of your character.

I know you probably spent ages creating the perfect characters and you want to give us the perfect image of what they look like, but it can get monotonous and boring, why do we care that your character has brown eyes unless the colour has some sort of significance? Try to list off only the most notable features of your character and put focus only on the relevant details. Sometimes you can even not describe them at all and throw in little bits of information about their appearance for the audience to put together. We read to imagine, not to have a perfect image painted for us when we could be getting to the plot.

10. You're allowed to be vague.

Allow your audience to assume things, with some things you can just be lazy and let your audience's imagination do the work for you. Of course, don't do this with important things, but you can save so much time you might've spent researching an irrelevant topic when you can just be vague about it. You don't have to know everything you're writing about, so long as you know the bits that matter.

11. Writing is a skill that takes practice.

Don't be so hard on yourself if your writing is a bit cringe, we've all been there. The important part is that you research how to get better and keep writing those super cringe chapters. One day you'll reread something from a while ago and realize you're actually not as bad as you thought.

12. Leave your work to rest.

I know you wanna start editing right away, but once you've finished, leave it for at least a month. The longer you leave it the better, but that depends on your attention span. A month to six months is good if you're really impatient but want a good result. If you keep writing in that time your skills will continue to improve, then you'll be editing that draft with fresh eyes and fresh skills.

And if you're a fanfic author, I usually leave my chapters for a week before editing and posting.

Hope this helps anyone struggling, I thought this might be especially relevant now with nanowrimo.

I recently realized how much knowledge I've been accumulating over the years, I definitely have more but this is all I can think of for now.

I'm no writing guru, but if anyone has anything they're struggling with, I can do my best to help you out, so dont hesitate to ask questions.

#writing tips #nanowrimo #story writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writerscommunity #writing #writer

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ffsg0jo · 11 days

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the acrid smell of acetone permeates the room as you gently rub away the chipped black polish on sukuna's fingers. in hindsight, you really should've worn a mask, but when sukuna asked if you wanted to 'paint his nails or whatever', you jumped at the opportunity before he changed his mind.

"hurry up brat," sukuna scoffs, clicking the roof of his mouth. you squeeze the hand held in yours in annoyance and meet his gaze.

"patience kuna, you can't rush art!"

"what art, you're painting my nails black?"

"just shush and let me paint them."

"don't tell me to shush, i've beaten people up for less."

"okay big guy, anyways i'm done. gonna start painting them now."

sukuna only grunts in acknowledgement and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. he's had a long day today, and the gentle rubbing of your hands on his calmed him down. he'd never admit it, but he finds it relaxing when you play with his hands. your soft skin pressing against his.

he missed you today. he doesn't understand why because he comes home to you every single evening, but he felt uneasy the whole day. at first, he thought he might've eaten some bad meat, but he realised he was unlocking his phone just to see the picture of you he kept as his background. he found himself scrolling through his gallery on his lunch break, which consisted of pictures of his nephews, car parts, and mainly you.

sukuna felt lovesick.

he just wanted to come home, leap straight into your arms, and stay there until he had to leave for work the next day. was that too much to ask for?

but of course, his avoidantly attached tushie would never admit it or verbalise it. it's a miracle you're fluent in sukuna and recognise his need for your touch and closeness. which is why you were taking as long as possible painting his nails. even giving him a little hand massage whilst you did it.

he hummed and sighed in relief when feeling your lips press against the palms and backs of his hands. he loved you so much.

"love you too kuna."

his eyes fling open at your words, and he realises in his hazy state of mind he said those words out loud. you giggle at the look on his face and start painting his nails, finally.

your boyfriend watches your every single move, drowning in how beautiful and majestic you look. your gentle strokes when filling his nails, the tip of your tongue peeking out in concentration and the firm grip of your hand.

before he knows it, you're already moving on to the next hand. sukuna frowns at how fast the time seems to be going. he knows he told you to hurry up, but he wanted to savour the feeling. you look up, feeling the intensity of his frown and grin at sukuna.

"we can cuddle whilst watching a movie if you'd like?"

"only if i get to pick the film," he huffs. your smile only widens.

you finish painting his nails and gently blow on all of his fingers. his hands are so beautiful. strong, veined, with calluses from working so hard all day. the paint will probably start to chip away again, in a week or two, but you'll be right here to paint a fresh new layer on.

"beautiful," sukuna whispers above you. you nod in agreement, appreciating the black on his nails. it suited him so well, but maybe you could convince him to let you choose a different colour next time. you glance up at sukuna to tell him and realise he's staring at you.

not caring if his nails have properly dried or not, he lifts his hand up to your face, gently kissing your nose, your cheek, and finally, your lips.

"beautiful," he whispers once more.

i am taking requests and writing fics and matchups for gaza. check the linked post out to find out more !!

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milf-harrington · 1 year

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hi i wrote a short little something inspired by this post bc it wouldn't leave my head

season 2 canon divergence, in the aftermath of Steve being taken in by Hopper (don't ask me why it's happened, bc i dont know it's just how the story took shape in my head)

Steve was pulling a pizza out of the oven when El drifted into the kitchen, bumping hear head against his arm like one of the Henderson's cats. Her hair was starting to curl at the ends, longer than when he'd met her.

"Can you please tell Hop to go to the store? We are out of Eggo's."

She was already holding the walkie when he turned to give her a look, eyes wide and quietly expectant in that intense way of hers. He rolled his eyes, sucking pizza sauce off his knuckle as he reached for the walkie.

They had a quiet stare-off as he held the button down.

"Hey Hop, you there? Over."

Soft static buzzed through the speaker as El leaned further into him, turning her gaze away to inspect the pizza, before Hopper's voice came through with a crackle.

"I'm working." A pause, and then a reluctant: "Over."

He and Hopper shared a similar opinion on walkie-talkie etiquette, but the kids were insistent so they did their best. El looked from the walkie and back to Steve without blinking. He sighed a short laugh. Pressed the button again.

"Jane needs you to go to the store. Over." Better to use her other name if he was working.

"Eggo's?"

"Eggo's."

Satisfied that her demand request had been passed on, El slipped out of the kitchen and plopped down in front of the tv, crossing her legs underneath her as the screen flickered to life. The remote remained untouched on the bench. She wiped her nose with her sleeve.

"Well, I currently have an 18 year old in the back of my car and I'll have to run him to the station first." Another pause. "-ucks sake, over."

The words fell out of his mouth without any real thought, a years worth of comfort in himself dissolving any filter he might've had. "Is he cute?"

The walkie crackled. Steve wanted to smack himself in the head with it.

"My son wants to know if you're cute."

Oh, he was going to kill him, even if he did feel warm and fuzzy over being called Hops' son.

"Uh, I want to say yes, sir?"

There was a second of loud laughter before the walkie cut off and Steve pressed it to his forehead in silent mortification. From the living area, canned laughter from Happy Days burst out of the speakers like the universe was mocking him.

When he looked up, El was smiling at the screen in bemused wonder, colours flashing across her face.

He cleared his throat, eyes shut as he held down the button again. "Please remember the Eggo's on your way home, we're having pizza. Over and out."

He pressed the antenna down for his own dramatics, before quickly pulling it back out again so he could be reached for emergencies.

It wasn't that big a deal, it's not like he'd ever actually meet whoever had been in the car.

#eddie in the back of the cop car: 'yknow you're meant to say 'over' when you're done talking-'#i might add more to this later bc i had another idea while i was writing but idk #technically this is steddie but idk if i wanna tag it that way bc eddie is BARELY mentioned and it's not even by name #but this is steddie #so #steddie #steve harrington #my writing #stranger things ficlet

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simplyreveries · 4 months

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HELLO BROSKI. I LOVE YOUR WORK. AM SO HAPPY U ACCEPTING REQUESTS AGAIN.

My request is...

Vice-Housewardens getting random love letters and gifts from reader, then accidentally finding out it was them who gave them these things? Like there can be embroidered handkerchiefs and they get kinda sus cause... They got an embroidered handkerchief, obviously handmade in their colours, and the reader has bandages on their fingers? Kinda sus... Or something like that, like they see the reader putting a letter into their locker, or on their table, anything!

TYYY

trey clover

he is surprised, these kinds of things are stuff he is completely unexpecting of. at first, trey did believe that it might've been some mishap that someone accidentally left there. but when it kept on happening slowly, he caught on. he'll chuckle and have bashful smile on his face whenever he finds the various gifts in areas he frequents. he always seems to hear teasing and aweing from cater, he's so nosy about it and is really invested on knowing exactly who did this to him.

honestly, though trey is smart, he is a little oblivious to these kinds of things-- especially when it comes to love. so, though he points out the band aids on your hands, if you made some dumb excuse, he could easily brush it off. may even tell you about his fair share of hand related injuries when baking. it definitely takes him a while to fully catch on.

when he finally does catch you putting a letter in front of his dorms door... that's when he finally clicks two and two together and he's like "oh." "oh". he feels completely dumb for not even noticing sooner because it all made so much sense to him. of course you would do this! he feels pleasantly surprised though, to know its you. he doesn't exactly confront you about it, but he does try dropping hints and saying things that suggest that he does.

ruggie bucchi

hey ruggie is happy with anything that comes for free, so he loves all the little random gifts you leave for him. he may or may not have thought he was taking someone else's stuff originally because he didn't really think anyone at the school had feelings for him. little did he know.

he doesn't say it, but he certainly does seem to take note of your hands and how they seem to be getting increasingly covered in band-aids. he'll make some playful comment or tease, with his usual snicker but the idea that you could potentially be the person leaving the gifts does linger in the back of his mind.

ruggies sneaky, sneaky and observant -- if the curiosity and intrigue hit him enough, he could go out of his way and find out it is you fairly easy. it's almost strange though to him, he is so used to thinking there's some intention behind the gifts like you wanting something in return. but when he sees you carefully folding the letter and placing it in a discreet but seeable spot for him. it makes him feel warm.

jade leech

oh..??? he is finding this surprisingly but amusing that someone would actually do this for him. most people are quite unnerved, or steer clear of him because of what he's affiliated with, he enjoys the delightful gifts. he has a grin on his face whenever he holds and feels the handkerchiefs you made or the letters you've written. he finds himself telling floyd about it as well, when his brother asked him what he was laughing to himself about.

it wouldn't take long at all for him to figure out it came from you, knowing jade. i mean, even when he first started to receive them his first thought was you rather than anyone else, he knows. he's such people observer that he catches onto things very quickly.

he wouldn't tell you he knows; he thinks it's cute to see you try to be nonchalant or sneaky about it. despite him have catching you and watching you "secretly" slip these gifts and letters to him multiple times. jade tends to bring it up in conversation to you, as if he's so confused on who could possibly be doing such for him. he even asks you like "do you know who this could be? I am quite flattered fufu". he enjoys seeing the look on your face. nevertheless, he does find himself liking them.

jamil viper

jamil didn't even believe it was for him at first, he simply moved on thinking it was something someone had misplaced. until he kept on getting them and then the letters, you'd write anonymously hit him like a truck, he was very surprised. jamil finds himself almost troubled and with a deep expression as he tries putting together who exactly they're from. he seems to be distracted more and more often from his duties as vice dorm leader or general student work.

he does admit and think to himself, he likes how appreciative and supportive you seem in your letters-- and the handkerchiefs look like they had such effort put into them. he may even pass that into conversation with you, it may feel like he knows it's you- but he genuinely doesn't. he just asks you out of curiosity. he does get suspicious with the band-aids that seem to be multiplying on your hand, he doesn't ask anymore other than inquiring "are you alright..?"

jamil does immediately put it together when he sees you discreetly trying to slip a letter into his bag when he's practicing basketball. he hum and though he is a little flustered at the initial surprise- he feels quite good about himself and even smug as he reads over the letter you carefully wrote for him.

rook hunt

oh he absolutely loves them, he cherishes and keeps any gift you give him. he finds the embroidery so beautiful! he thinks your letters are so sweet and loving!! he has to keep them all obviously. however, each time you gift him something it only heightens his curiously and his drive to figure out who you are. being rook, that doesn't take long... like at all. his infatuation only grows when he finds out its you.

he has no qualms about hiding that he does know, in fact he seems to be almost fretting over you when you seem to be a little hurt from making those gifts for him. he'd be overly dramatic and tell you he doesn't wish to see you with bandaids all over for him...!

rook would probably end up secretly giving you gifts, turning it back on you. he would turn it into a cute little game. and you better believe he keeps every single thing you give; he loves them deeply- with his growing collection of everything you've given him stored nicely.

lilia vanrouge

he just knows it's from you as soon as he gets one, he thinks it's completely adorable and even quite bold of you to do so. he looks forward to every little gift and letter you give him- and finds himself carefully looking over all the details in what you do. he finds your hobby to be cute.

he'll point out the bandages and laugh, "you should be more careful with that, dear" he'd advise. he makes it obvious that he knows- but does it in such a teasing way. he really does find himself appreciating everything you give him. lilia thinks you're so endearing.

he'll return the favor, like rook and leave you letters at ramshackle. expressing his gratitude and much appreciation for them. it is pretty noticeably, from him. with his handwriting and seemingly old style of letters. though, he once left some rough looking cookies in there....

#twst #twst x reader #disney twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst headcanons #twst imagines #twst wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #trey x reader #ruggie x reader #jade x reader #rook x reader #lilia x reader

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dixons-sunshine · 10 days

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Study Buddy | Young!Daryl Dixon x Young!Fem!Reader

*GIF isn't mine.*

Summary: Your exams were coming up soon. While studying for your history exam, you offered to tutor your boyfriend. However, Daryl accidentally revealed that he's much smarter at school than he gave himself credit for.

Genre: Fluff.

Era: Pre apocalypse.

Part of the Shopping Spree, Hangout Dreams AU.

Warnings: Swearing.

Word count: 1.3k.

A/n: This sucks. I don't like this at all, but I really wanted to get some actual writing done, so I powered through. I hope you like this nonetheless.

The late afternoon sun was starting its slow descend beyond the hills. The birds' chirps were slowly being replaced by those of crickets, and the owls were making their presence known one by one. There was a lone pigeon resting on the bench outside your trailer home, but the unsuspecting creature was startled by the rumbling of a stopping truck.

Daryl Dixon got out of the truck his brother had unofficially given him, a shopping bag with multiple snacks and a few drinks in his hand. He slammed the driver's side door shut behind him before walking up the small steps into your trailer. Without even really thinking about it, Daryl walked down the familiar narrow hallway that lead to your room.

The sound of your door opening diverted your attention away from the history textbook that rested on your bed. An enormous smile spread across your face at the sight of your handsome boyfriend. You got up from the bed and walked over to him, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a soft, tender kiss.

Daryl, shy as ever, could feel his face heat up at your actions, but he didn't resist. His hand that wasn't holding the bag rested on the small of your back, his fingers lightly gripping at your sweater. When you pulled back, he gave you a lopsided smile, his eyes holding a softness that he reserved only for you.

You smiled at him, your fingers playing with his hair at the nape of his neck. “Hey, handsome,” you greeted him in a whisper. “Took you long enough.”

Daryl chuckled and shrugged. “Sorry, sunshine. Got caught up at the store,” he explained, pulling back from your hold slightly to reach into the bag and take out a soda for you. “Got yer favourite for ya.”

You gently took the drink from his hands, sending him a look of appreciation. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

Daryl ducked his head in embarrassment, his cheeks taking on the colour of the red rose bush outside your window. “Ya might've mentioned it once or twice.”

“Well,” you began, popping the lid of the can open. “Then I definitely don't tell you that enough. I love you, Dar.”

“Love ya too, peach.” Daryl smiled a small smile, before moving to plop down on your bed. He picked up the textbook that rested on your bed and started flipping through it, his eyes skimming over the pages. “Ya already started studyin'?”

You sat down next to him, placing the can of soda on your nightstand. “Only to make flashcards.” To prove your point, you picked up the aforementioned flashcards from your nightstand. “I was just skimming through for good measure. Just wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything important.” You made yourself more comfortable on the bed, adjusting the flashcards. “You ready to get some studying done?”

Daryl nodded. “How's this gon' work?” he asked.

“Well, I wanna see how much you know, so I'm gonna start asking random questions to see what we need to pay special attention to.”

“Alrigh',” Daryl shrugged nonchalantly. “Do yer worst.”

You smirked playfully. “I'll try my best.” You shuffled the cards, selecting a random one. “Okay, let's start easy. When did the Second World War start?”

“September 1st, 1939. Tha's when it was generally considered to have started. S'when the Nazi's invaded Poland,” Daryl replied with zero hesitation, absentmindedly twirling one of the loose threads on your blanket. “The UK and France officially declared war on the third, two days after the invasion.”

You looked at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows, impressed by the way he answered the question so easily and proceeded to answer two separate questions without being asked to do so. You knew Daryl was smart, there was no doubt about that, but you were still a bit surprised. Daryl made it no secret to you that he wasn't the best student, so his perfect answer to the question was a nice surprise.

“Correct,” you told him with a smile. “Next question: How many alliances were there in the Second World War, and what were they called?”

Daryl pondered over the question for a moment. “Two. The Allies and the Axis Powers, right?”

You flipped the flashcard over and read the answer, humming in approval. “Correct again. You're on a roll, Dar.”

Daryl shook his head, shrugging nonchalantly. “Ya ain't askin' any hard questions. Everybody knows the answers to those.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully, shuffling through the flashcards again to find a different question. “Okay, then, smart guy. How about this one: Which cities did the United States detonate atomic bombs over?”

“Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Two cities in Japan. The bombs were dropped on August 6th and August 9th. The US wanted to force the Japanese to surrender.”

“Okay, time out,” you started, carelessly tossing the flashcards to the side. “Please tell me again how you're not smart? Because those were perfect answers and you haven't even read through the textbook yet.”

Daryl shrugged again, averting his eyes to the bed. “Ain't smart. Jus' heard the teacher talkin' 'bout it in class. Ain't tha' hard to remember it. 'Sides, history is interestin'. S'the only class I dun' mind attendin'.”

You laughed in disbelief, looking at your boyfriend in wonder. “You manage to find a way to surprise me every day. I thought I knew everything about you, and now I learn something new. You're a history nerd.”

Daryl scoffed incredulously. “Ain't no damn nerd. Jus' 'cause I know some history doesn't mean m'a nerd.”

“Sure,” you started, sending him a playful smile. “So I know a lot about science and I get called a nerd by you, but you know a lot about history and I can't call you a nerd?”

“Damn straight,” Daryl replied, his tone playful. “Yer a nerd. Tha's one of the many reasons why I fell fer ya.”

“I love you, too, Mr I-know-that-Hitler-was-born-on-the-30th-of-April.”

“He was born on the 20th. He shot himself on the 30th, ten days after his birthday.” You smirked, and Daryl instantly knew that he had fallen into your trap. “Oh, fuck ya fer tha'.”

“My point has been proven,” you said with a victorious smile, leaning forward to let your lips hover over Daryl's. “No need to be ashamed of being a nerd. I find it extremely hot.”

Daryl hummed, his lips grazing against yours. “Ya find it hot tha' I know 'bout the world war? Then yer gon' find it really hot when we get to the Cold War.”

“Colour me intrigued,” you whispered, before closing the gap between the two of you.

Daryl's lips moved against yours hungrily. Soon, he gently guided you to lay on your back, hovering over you as his lips trailed down your jaw to your neck. You giggled, leaning your head back to allow him more access.

“You might be really smart in history, Dar, but I'm not. I need to study,” you told him.

Daryl hummed, but his kisses didn't cease. “Ya'll be fine,” he mumbled against your skin. “'Sides, we got a human anatomy exam comin' up soon. I suck at tha'. I need to get some studyin' done fer tha'.”

You laughed lightly, yielding to the desire. Well, studying would just have to wait. You had other, much more fun activities planned for the time being.

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stevesbipanic · 6 months

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@steddiemas Day 22: Santa Shenanigans

Steve was going to kill Robin.

Well, not really because he doesn't think he'd survive more than a couple days without her. But he'd certainly be giving her the stink eye next shift for suggesting a secret Santa between the older ones of the party.

"We just rog it so that I get Vickie and she'll fall madly in love with me, it's a perfect plan Steve!"

To her credit it was an ok plan.

"Last week you spent an hour bemoaning the fact that she smiled at a boy."

"But yesterday she spent two hours studying with me in the library!"

Steve rolled his eyes at her shenanigans but agreed nonetheless. They drew names the next time they had all gone out for burgers at the diner. Steve tried not to make it obvious when he saw who his name was. Eddie.

Steve wasn't disappointed, no, far from it, he'd been hiding a crush on the older boy for a few months now, let's just say Eddie spent a lot of time by Steve's pool last summer. But now he felt the pressure to get him the perfect gift. The plan hadn't even worked for Robin.

"I got Argyle! Now how will I win her heart."

"Could always plant some mistletoe."

"You're a genius! Who'd you get."

"It's Secret Santa, Rob's, it's meant to be secret."

"Boo you're no fun, bet it's me."

It took Steve weeks to finish his gift for Eddie and Steve found himself hastily wrapping it the morning of their little Christmas party, grateful that Robin had thought of the plan well in advance otherwise he'd have never finished.

Steve greeted everyone and watched as they placed their secret Santa gifts under the tree. They ate, laughed and picked a Christmas movie to watch after presents. One by one they opened their gifts.

Nancy got Vickie some water colour paints.

Argyle got Jonathan rolls of fresh film.

Jonathan got Nancy some new notepads with larger covers.

Robin got Argyle a big bright tie dye shirt with Groovy printed on the front, he quickly put it over the sweater he was already wearing.

Vickie turned to Robin and Steve quickly saw her cheeks start to redden. She passed her the gift and Robin unwrapped a bag full of pins and badges.

"I've been collecting them for a few weeks for you from around town and around where I went to visit my grandma, thought your work vest needed some more fun ones."

Robin grinned widely at Vickie, the effort making a big impact on her. Steve knew he'd be hearing about it for weeks but he hoped the mistletoe in the kitchen sped things along.

Steve was about to give Eddie his gift when he realised that this meant Eddie also got him for Secret Santa. He turned to the metalhead to find him already shyly holding out a gift.

"It's not much but I hope you like it, Stevie."

Steve unwrapped the small package to find a collection of mixtapes inside, Eddie's handwriting clearly scribbled on the side.

"I started making a mixtape of songs that made me think of you but U ran out of room on the first one and might've gotten carried away," he said shyly scratching his neck.

Steve glanced over the names of the songs and it was clear that the majority of them certainly wouldn't remind someone of their dear platonic friend. Steve smiled softly at him and passed him his gift.

"I think I know what you mean."

Eddie slightly confused at the statement unwrapped the gift, his mouth forming a small o looking inside. He took out the book, a worn copy of The Hobbit that Steve had thrifted as soon as he knew Eddie was his secret Santa.

"Stevie, you know I've got this one, it's my favourite," he said slightly awkwardly.

"Look inside."

Eddie slowly opened the book to see small dribbles of ink between the words. The handwriting clearly Steve's. As he flicked through he saw Steve's thoughts spilling into almost every page.

"It's your favourite and you're always wanting me to read it so I did, I thought it'd be fun if you saw exactly what I thought of it."

Eddie's eyes caught on one of the words near the end, a small red shape next to them, yeah, he thinks he and Steve are on the same page, but he'd wait until the end, no spoilers early after all.

"I love it, Stevie, thank you."

As Steve sat curled up next to Eddie on the couch watching the film he too had the same thought, definitely on the same page.

Ao3

#Vickie just looks like shed like water colouring #some people hate when people annotate i dont mind #enjoy a book how you want to its your experience #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #st christmas #steddiemas #rockie #background robin and vickie #stobin #how is it week 4 already of steddiemas

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numerologica · 2 days

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⟣ After my post about your Future Spouse According to Derivative Houses, here's PART I on how to find info about your FS family and home, the place he/she/they grew up in.

According to Derivative Houses, your 10H indicates your spouse's family and home they grew up in, it shows the way he/she/they were raised by their caretakers because the 10H is the 4th from the 7H, so it functions like a 4H of your FS chart.

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♈︎ 10H in ARIES

Your spouse could've been raised in a very active house where there was lots of sports involved and competition, maybe a home where quarrels and debates happened to be part of the daily routine. They were likely raised in a very "fight for what you want" way, "you have to be strong and independent" way. Their parents might've been couragous, bold, funny, outgoing people, maybe arguementative or at times aggressive and competitive. Their home might've been covered in trophies or medals, or just had a little gym inside as well as an outdoors area where sports appliaces, or even just had a lot of red furniture.

♉︎ 10H in TAURUS

Your FS might've grown up in a very calm and comforting environment full of cosy energy and peaceful vibes, they may have a very stable family and always lived in the same place since they were a kid. Your spouse's family was probably serene, they provided their children everything they needed or even spoiled them with many gifts from time to time, could also be from a well-off family. At worst, they could've grown up in a family of lazy, stubborn and envious people. Their home might've been very richly decorated, chic, luxurious with beautiful pieces of furniture and many artworks around.

♊︎ 10H in GEMINI

Your FS might've grown up amongst many siblings, cousins and uncles, their parents could've been separated or even divorced hence Gemini rules duality so there could be a double home or double family. They may also have grown up in two different houses (such as a countryside one for the summer season and a city one for winter). Their family was likely made up of funny, humourous and witty people where communication happened to be easy and flowing. At worst their family struggled with communication and your FS might've felt like they couldn't really voice their opinions and feelings. Their home might've been pretty trendy styled and with many open spaces, decorated with many books, newspapers or diplomas attached here and there on the walls.

♋︎ 10H in CANCER

Your FS might've grown up in a very nurturing and caring family, probably with many kids around, their family might've also been very sensitive and empathetic to their children's needs, feelings and overall safety, they could've even been overly protective of them, almost too clingy at times. At worst their family could've neglected your FS needs and never taken his/her/their emotions much into consideration, especially their mother. Your FS home might've been very large or very cosy, pretty well decorated and full of light warm colours, with many family pictures attached on the walls or put on furniture, the kind of home to have all the pictures of them as little kids attached on the walls. As well as a house full of patriotic flags.

♌︎ 10H in LEO

Your FS might've grown up in a very extravagant, bold, even well-known family, where lots of drama was likely to happen daily. They may even come from a family working with kids or in theatres. Your FS parents might've raised them in a very prideful and bold way, always caring about their natural expression and giving them lots of attention all the time. At worst your FS might've had narcissistic or very prideful parents who never gave them much attention and always thought about themselves only. Your FS home might've been extravagant, maximalist, with eccentric furniture or decorations, it might've also had a rich and luxurious home, almost royal-like or in a well-off area of their city, or even near an elementary school or theater.

♍︎ 10H in VIRGO

Your FS might've grown up in a strict, meticulous and perfectionistic family, as well as a very organised and productive one, their house wasn't likely warm and affectionate in a showy way, they rather had acts of service or quality time as love languages, not much physical contact or gift giving. Their parents might've been very focused, smart and objective people, even very sarcastic or with dark humour. At worst their parents never really showed them affection and only focused on their success/scholastic achievements, kinda parents to always push the kids to be perfect at everything. Your FS home might've been very minimalistic and decorated in pastels, not too much color was there, a very organised and always clean home or the complete opposite, its home might've also had plenty of books around as well as Gemini 10H.

♎︎ 10H in LIBRA

Your FS might've grown up in a home centred on values such as balance, fairness, equality and support, as well as respect for each others opinions and a peaceful/diplomatic communication. Their parents likely treated each of their kids equally and provided the same amount of things for everyone. At worst their parents might've been passive aggressive, never really communicating problems and treated their kids unfairly, also neglecting the importance of their children's opinions and never being truly understanding. Your FS home might've been very beautiful and amazingly decorated, shabby chic or lots of glittery things could've been around, as well as good scents and flowers everywhere.

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MASTERLIST

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luveline · 1 year

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge.

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing.

The threat of being caught propels him forward.

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip.

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary.

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps.

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here.

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette.

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence.

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender.

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes.

You're scared.

You're beautiful.

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking."

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else."

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown.

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear.

You glare at him.

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you."

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant.

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–"

"Holy stars, is that your hair?"

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No."

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor.

"You have to leave. Leave!"

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat.

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter.

You don't laugh, nor do you smile.

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly.

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay."

"She won't give it."

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't.

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly.

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely.

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after."

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword.

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly."

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease.

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do."

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate."

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair.

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly.

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything."

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best.

He's very, very fine.

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward.

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey.

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense."

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them.

"They're how I spend my summers."

"Looking at them?"

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling."

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time.

"I painted them myself."

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks.

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden.

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days."

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You aren't married?"

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!"

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps.

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold."

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo.

"Argento."

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks.

"You're talking about money."

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes.

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower.

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!"

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–"

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet.

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning."

He doesn't move.

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious.

"Please," you whisper again.

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small.

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling."

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper.

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?"

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight.

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous.

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that."

"Sorry, mother."

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving.

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument."

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother."

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you."

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does.

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused.

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections.

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs.

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps.

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars."

"No, you shouldn't have."

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger.

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores.

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled.

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously.

But she is not kind.

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents.

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot.

"It's dusty down here!" you call.

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling."

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother."

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before.

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like.

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page.

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour.

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered.

Footsteps sound up the stairs.

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide.

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely.

He holds his breath as the door creaks open.

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?"

He waves his hand from under the bed.

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him.

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile.

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed.

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars.

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing."

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them."

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange.

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?"

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars."

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly.

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?"

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me."

His eyes widen.

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again.

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?"

"It's not what you think."

"I think it's exactly what I think."

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians."

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do.

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head.

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!"

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults.

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out.

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely.

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here.

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark.

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids.

—

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns."

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation.

"No."

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee."

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says.

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon.

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow.

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too.

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving.

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table.

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were."

"This isn't how you negotiate."

"Good thing I'm not negotiating."

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence.

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows.

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?"

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow."

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge.

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings."

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit.

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless.

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse."

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion.

"Do you have any better shoes?"

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No."

"You don't get out much, do you?"

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches.

Poor girl, he thinks.

"Don't worry too much about it."

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun."

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes.

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon.

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow.

"Are you coming?" Steve calls.

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward.

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath.

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose.

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass.

The world is even bigger from there.

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town."

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh."

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped.

Steve seems content to languish in silence.

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb.

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me.

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine.

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon.

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says.

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?"

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah."

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same."

"I'm an excellent navigator."

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape.

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice."

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this."

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first.

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there.

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen.

He's still a two-timer. Case in point.

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back.

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute."

Adorable.

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag.

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room."

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension.

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade.

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?"

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly.

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath.

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection.

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper.

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee."

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely.

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint.

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?"

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together."

Steve frowns but hands over the money.

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough.

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?"

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you.

"Both of us," he says, nodding.

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together.

"Why did you say that?"

"It's what's expected of us."

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent.

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?"

"You're not my husband."

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back.

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say.

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married." He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying."

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage.

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care."

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag.

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but."

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me?

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways.

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him.

If they can, they aren't listening.

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks.

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted.

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view.

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone.

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?"

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery.

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own.

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water.

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure.

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung.

"The water’s barely hot."

"I've never had a hot bath before."

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?"

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?"

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you."

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble.

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon."

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck.

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity.

Your shoulders relax.

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves.

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure.

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine.

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room.

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat.

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?"

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress."

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention.

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown.

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself."

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands.

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another.

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning.

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand.

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it.

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends.

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around.

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays.

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue."

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair."

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?"

"We aren't going back down there."

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself."

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea."

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns."

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on.

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door.

"Well?" he asks, holding it open.

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you."

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen.

"What is that?" you ask Steve.

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?"

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can.

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room.

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks.

"Not in any of my books."

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound."

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem.

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you.

"Turn to me."

"What if my hair catches?"

"You aren't close enough for that."

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot.

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties."

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you."

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry."

"I have–"

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?"

"No."

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season."

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?"

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long."

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further.

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?"

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it."

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close.

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you.

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left…

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk.

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?"

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further.

"I'm okay," you say.

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy.

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis.

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back.

He looks at your face until you're uneasy.

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm.

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges.

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles?

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while.

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song.

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough.

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow."

"Good, huh?"

You try not to cough. "It's rich."

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?"

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you."

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing.

You look up, puzzled.

"Come on."

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand.

He leads you up the small platform to the piano.

You look to him inquisitively.

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard."

"How do you adjust how loud it is?"

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys."

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys.

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you."

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe.

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this."

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings.

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks.

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say.

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song."

"I only know the one."

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are.

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays.

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears."

"Is that yours?" you ask him.

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid."

"Only plays them."

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching.

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?"

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning.

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters.

"What?" you ask.

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!"

Steve's smile is gone.

"Eddie," he says tiredly.

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy."

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head.

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks.

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us."

"I don't owe you anything."

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon.

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor.

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree."

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4 #tangled!au

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confusedemiposts · 6 months

Note

Hi! How are you?? I hope you are okay! Are you still taking requests? If you are, I have a request: What if s/o is Oda Sakunosuke's little sister/brother and s/o REALLY looks like Odasaku(Oda Sakunosuke) Their hair colour, eye colour is the same as his And s/o joins to Agency. What would ADA would do? If you aren't taking requests, you can ignore this! But if you are taking requests and if you do this, it would make my day! Thank you!!

I'm on the floor I loved this! I hope you don't mind I did a small drabble for the whole agency as one at the start but only went into details with characters that knew Oda and added Ango. I didn't know what s/o was till half way so this could be seen as platonic or romantic. I hope you liked it and feel free to tell me if there's anything I'm missing

Familiar Faces 𓇢𓆸

Includes: Fukazawa (platonic), Ranpo, Ango, Dazai x Oda's younger sibling

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort

Notes: Dark Era and season four spoilers!!! Slight Beast! mention but no spoilers (Fukazawa), Probably oc, not proofread, bad grammar, gn reader, reader is unaware that Oda was in the mafia, reader is implied to be over 18

Format: Headcannons/ Drabbles

Summary: Being Oda's younger sibling

The Agency

You suprisingly grew up a very normal life thanks to your older brother. You knew he had a dangerous job and admired him greatly, after all who wouldn't? He took in orphans and visited them daily, bringing you along too. It became your whole life.

The day everything changed left an indescribable ache in your chest, like a piece of your world vanishing, leaving behind a void filled with quiet memories. You had just finished up school that year but your whole life was gone, everything you had was gone and you didn't even know why. It took you a few years till you decided to use your abilities for good and find out what happened.

You ended up joining a detective agency filled with ability users who are all very helpful and kind. It felt so welcoming that you genuinely enjoyed working here..but however, you couldn't help but notice three who looked at you with a certain, almost sad familiarity—as if they knew you. You hadn't met them before but they knew you- or at least some part of you that you didn't know how, they knew him. It's unnerving because how do they know?

Fukazawa Yukichi

He'd recognise you immediately

Well at least who you're related too

He only met Oda once as a teenager

I don't think he met him again so I doubt he knows what happened (tell me if I'm wrong)

Might've heard that he wasn't an active assassin anymore

Definitely on guard when he meet you

Like a relative of a former assassin willing applying to be a detective?

But you were different

He could see it in your eyes that were full of emotions,loss and compassion

Unlike those eyes he saw years ago

You have never killed

It was a bit unsettling though

He needed to know of your intentions

He glanced at you and then back at the application form. He knew he recognised that name, he knew that tinge of red hair and those empty brown eyes that mirrored the features of that boy—an exact replica. To him it made sense to have this interview in the cafe instead of his office.

But the eyes he was looking into were different this time; instead of being void of any emotion it glinted with loss and nervousness. This was an interview, of course you were nervous as the older man continued to keep silent, you felt like he was judging your very soul but in reality he was wondering something else.

Finally he puts the sheets down and clears his throat "What motivated you to apply for this job?". He was curious, you were undoubtedly related to the assassin so why are you applying to be a detective? What were your intentions?

Trying to calm your nerves, you took a deep breath. "I want to do good. I want to help people, like my brother."

He didn't react, but it was evident he was waiting for further explanation, especially regarding the mention of your brother. The silence hung in the air, prompting you to delve into the details.

Hearing your explanation of Oda surprised him

He didn't know any of this (I think)

To know that kid changed into a caring young man and raised his sibling and the orphans

Those eyes that were once lifeless, with no care for his life or anything, had changed

Said he must've been a good man

I think Fukazawa would've tooken Oda in like Ranpo back then :( maybe that's what happened in beast

He gave his his condolences when he found out he died

The waitress in the café came and asked if you two were ordering

Fukazawa ordered something small

You ordered a curry, spicy specifically you said

Fukazawa officially hired you when you passed your entrance exam

He knew you were a good person

I'd like to think later on he might tell you that he met Oda when he was a teen

Edogawa Ranpo

He met Oda twice

First as teens

And last in passing as adults

He tried to stop him :(

When he first met you he instantly knew you were related

He also knew that you were trying to find out how everything happened

I don't think he'd tell you at first for your sake

But as you get closer as friends maybe he would

Somewhat guiding you into figuring it out yourself

Ranpo doesn't act like it but I think he cares

You're having a bad day and about to snap?

You find a sweet you don't remember putting in your pocket

It's very small acts but it comforts you

Alone at your desk, with everyone gone home , and you asked if you could stay over a little to longer to finish something you'd been working on for months– finding out what happened that day.

Coming home from school, you headed to the curry place where you and your older brother always ate, where the orphans were cared for. Instead, you found chaos – police, bystanders, and a devastating revelation from an officer.

Devastated, you waited in grief for your brother, only to discover he was gone too. Everything you knew and loved vanished, leaving you desperate for answers.

You've been building up this personal case for months, you weren't that suprised to find out Oda was a mafiaso and former assassin but god still not knowing why everything happened still gnaws at you, Your world was taken, and the lack of understanding weighs heavily on your chest.

You groan and slump against the desk, the frustration of not knowing amplifying the ache in your chest. You felt like you were getting nowhere.

You felt a tug on your shirt and you lift your head up startled to see Ranpo leaning behind you. He doesn't bother asking why you're still here because he already knows but when you're about to ask him the same question he shushes you with his finger and pulls out a bag of sweets "I left these behind". That's a lie- unless he really wanted these specific sweets that he so happened to leave behind.

He pulls up a chair beside you, the wheels squeaking from only slight movement and plopping himself down.

Silently he offers the bag of sweets, you presume he wants you to open it and you do, going back to your papers after but he offers you the now open bag again, a silent invitation to take one.

You mutter a quiet thank you and take a sweet. It's silent as you both eat the sweets but it's a comfortable silence.

Osamu Dazai

Oh my god

I can't

You knew Dazai back when Oda was alive

When he came to the house or orphans

I'd say you got along

Oda definitely told Dazai to refrain from mentioning the mafia to you

And he kept to that no matter how many times you asked Dazai about how he knew your brother or what his job was

You were probably somewhat friends :(

Didn't see each other for four years until you joined the agency

At first you didn't recognise him

He's wearing less bandages

But he certainly recognised you

An exact image of your brother

I feel like there's two ways this could go

1. He completely ignores, distancing himself from you

2. He's completely all over, absolutely protective of you and making sure your okay at all times

I think it be both

You found that everyone was quite welcoming at the agency and you got along with everyone... although there was one who always avoided you no matter what.

And that was Osamu Dazai.

The moment you stepped into the office his heart dropped as if he seen a ghost, his facade halting only for a moment before he picked up his usual demeanor again. Quietly slipping away before you see him

He'd be stupid to think you wouldn't recognise him but he ignored you anyways. Oh you're coming back from a case? Where did Dazai go? He suddenly vanished (sarcasm). You try to approach him? He is sprinting the other way.

He cannot look at you at all without thinking about Oda, he will not let you close to him again because everything he never wants to lose is always lost and he doesn't want to lose you too.

He is trying to distant himself from you, he doesn't want you to get hurt, he wants you to be safe, he wants you to live the normal life that Oda tried to give you, he wants you- your gaze, your words, your touch-and it scares him, everything worth wanting is lost the moment he obtains it, that is the life of Osamu Dazai.

Though he ignores you directly, he watches over you through other means, making sure in any plans your safety is first, that your teamed up with someone dependable and your getting home safe after work.

But Dazai can't run away from ghost's forever, not when that ghost is at arms length. He always manages to slip away when you try to even speak to him but not this time- you got him cornered, he has no choice but to see his past once again.

I don't know how to write confrontation so just wheater you argued or broke down crying

He will realise he can't keep you away

Perhaps he'll let you close again

But not too close

He knows very well that you see his facade

Being with you he doesn't have to keep his bubbly mask on

You'd both sit silently together by Oda's grave

The silence is not deafening with you, it's calm, a silent mutual understanding between you

He would definitely have nightmares of losing you too

Too the point I don't think he'd leave your side

Constantly hovering around you, partnering up with you everytime so he knows your safe, knocking at your dorm in the dead of night because of a nightmare

It's silly he thinks but still it worries him deep down, after all he is human

Ango Sakaguchi

I know he's not part of the agency

But I think he helped you get into it

I think Ango would've taken care of you:(

Not directly but from afar

He'd feel too guilty

Finding out that you were looking for a job involving where you could get hurt he immediately directed you to the Agency

Partially because of Dazai

He knew he would watch over you no matter what

And you'd have each other :(

#bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #dazai x reader #ranpo x reader #ango x reader #fukazawa x reader #osamu dazai #edogawa ranpo #ranpo edogawa #dazai osamu #oda sakunosuke #bsd x you #dazai x you #ranpo x you

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clerk427 · 5 months

Text

An open love letter to the entire Faith the unholy trinity fandom off sorts. I present to you.....

John in the style of 9 different artist!

(Keep in mind this is a style study. And although the whole thing was drawn by me, please please PLEASE check out the artists whose style I tried out. Thank you!)

This was SUCH a fun experience! I honestly love our fandom, and I adore how unique everyone's style and perception of John is. Says a lot about society or smth.

And even though I probably didn't do justice to all the art styles, I really hope they are recognizable.

Also, you might've noticed an empty spot in the end. Well, it's for you! Naturally, I wasn't able to include every artist, but I hope you will be interested in taking a spin at this yourself. Thank you and good luck!!!

A closer look, links and notes under the cut

@trashprinceward

I adore how soft this version of John looks, he seems so trustworthy and kind, gah. The shading style is surprisingly difficult, but I hope I managed to pull it off:) I also adore Prince's AUs hehehe

@rokiro99

A very unique colouring style!! I've seen a few versions of how this artist draws John, but decided to stop on this one. His face is so adorableeeee. I also LOVE the use of liturgical clothing and themes!!

@karamielo

Eeeeep I love how they use colours in their works and how well they use composition??? Like omg. Such such pretty works, I hope they create even more art

@justcommander

I lovvve how game-adjacent this artist's style is. I also love the way they (I'm so sorry, I'm not sure about the pronouns) draw hands and use body language. Also, the father and children AU??? Muah.

@shu-bullshit

I'm not even pretending I managed to pull this one off, I bit so much more than I could chew. But I couldn't not try, I almost every time I see their use of coloured pencils and watercolours, I just can't. Love love love

@zzoupz

So. As far as I can tell, Zoup doesn't use this style TOO often, but it wasn't leaving my head, I had to try. The artist did so much for the fandom, the Gary ask blog is such a treat. Yum

@genesissaturna

Hee hee he's so shapes. The legs. Beautiful. I wasn't sure about the colouring style since I only saw lineart done by this artist, so I decided to use the in-game ones. I hope they do more art, it's so unique and makes me happy!:)

@hammy-art

Wet cat John. Silly. A little pathetic, but in a nice way. I feel like I didn't make the lineart the way he does, it is usually more gentle, but I still hope it will suffice. Also my God he does amazing backgrounds, which I sadly can't portray here. (A personal thank you for giving me the courage for doing self-inserts)

Annnd that's it! I thank you for everything and I hope this whole thing will somehow inspire you. Keep doing art, let the world see your vision! Also go draw a pathetic blue priest /j

#i really should've asked for permission #but i really wanted it to be a surprise #i love you alllllll #faith the unholy trinity #john ward #clerk art #faith the game #ftut #faith #trashprinceward #rokiro99 #karamielo #justcommander #shu-bullshit #zzoupz #genesissaturna #hammy-art

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cheseely · 7 months

Note

Hi, I'm sure you get this often but I really love your recent genshin artwork, do you think you could explain your painting process? I love the colouring effect in that piece especially. Thank you.

Thank you so much! I got a few messages like this from my previous piece (thank you guys for the staff pick & blaze btw, I really didn't expect all the support😭) so I thought I'd share a bit of my process below as thanks.

I always do my lineart first because it feels less daunting to me when applying colours. I will do some rough colours first so I can easily adjust it to my liking.

Next, I make sure to separate each character into different layers when I clean it up. I like to work one character or object at a time, it's less overwhelming for me that way, and I can use clipping masks for ease of rendering.

I'll usually apply some adjustment layers on top of the base layer for shadows and highlights. When I say base layer, I just mean a layer of the colour without any effects.

I like using 'hard light' for shadows, and 'screen' for highlights, but you can really use whatever clicks with you.

Rinse & repeat this process for every character in the illustration. Note that I make Furina the focus so everything behind her will be less rendered than the elements in front of them (Neuvillette is a lot less rendered compared to Furina, and the painting in the back barely has much shading).

Once I render out each asset in the illustration and add shadows & highlights to my liking, I then to merge foreground/ midground/ background elements so I can make the overall illustration clearer to read. I don't want it to feel messy or overcrowded, and I think it's easy to get tunnel-visioned in small details and lose the clarity of the entire illustration.

Make sure to zoom out constantly and make your illustration B&W to check the values to see if the drawing is clear.

I created a simple S curve with the values for readability, and have the foreground elements have darker values & contrasts.

As for the BG, I wanted to add more textures into the drawing, particularly the painting in the back. Here's an image of it when I only added in the base colours.

I use the smudge tool to create more texture once I fill in the base colours. Since I don't really 'paint' anything with the textures in, I just put in the base colours and take a textured brush to smudge it. However, over-smudging can lose the painterly texture I want, so I usually smudge vertically or horizontally in a single stroke to create a sense of movement.

Another thing to note is that I only textured the BG, I thought it would help it blend into the background a bit better. I usually wouldn't do this for the foreground because I want those elements to be clearer.

At the very end, I tend to spend a fair bit of time just fiddling with more adjustment layers, various filters (such as blur, or noise), or liquify small details to really finalize the piece. Just vibes...basically this is me

Anyway, I hope that was helpful & it made sense!! Feel free to message me if you have any other questions & I'll try my best to answer! I might've glazed over a lot since I didn't wanna make this too long.

#anon #ask #tutorial #art tutorial #genshin impact

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miwhotep · 2 months

Text

7 REASONS WHY MILVERTON CAN STILL BE ALIVE

Reading @diveintovortex 's recent post, I again, got inspired to make an analysis why Milverton can still be alive. I already did one like this before, related to the main antagonist of the James Bond universe, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, but today's post will rely heavily on the manga. Here, I will raise seven points why Milverton might not gone yet and we can suspect to see him again.

1, CHARACTER DESIGN

Milverton is one of the most detailed, most bothersome to draw characters of Yuumori (especially with that hair). If we look more deeply into the manga, we can see that the characters who only appeared for a few chapters - like Whiteley - are always designed in a more simple way. Milverton's character design has too much work in it, it wouldn't worth it if this was all the storytime he got. Milverton's distinct look suggests that he was meant to be much more than just a plot-device overall, he is a character on his own who still has hella lot of potential in him.

2, EYE COLOUR

Yes, I can list it under the point above as well - but I wanna focus on this a little more. Only three characters has unnatural, symbolic eye colours in the series: William, the main character, his brother, Louis - who gets important later on - and Milverton. Considering this tendency, his eye colour - beside it referencing snakes - also implies that Milverton is an important character - again: a character, not a plot-device - but Milverton was mostly just a plot-device yet, whose role was getting Sherlock and William face each other. Maybe, just like Louis, he gets important later on.

3, THE LITTLE TRIVIAS

Milverton has some, for the plot, seemingly irrelevant trivia the manga just casually drops at us - like his branch firm in New York. This New York connection gets interesting since Sherliam also ended up in New York. Was this just a coincidence? Or we will come back to this in Part 2?

4, THE RUSKIN SCENE

Ruskin, unlike Milverton was never meant to be an important character - his character design got re-used from The Adventure of One Student and we didn't even get to know his first name - but the manga still gave him a little focus at the end of Two Criminals, where we can see him searching for Milverton instead of saving himself from the burning house. He most likely survived and I'm sure there was a reason his love for Milverton got some attention in that chapter. I used to speculate that it was to forecast that he will get back to get revenge for his boss later - but again, his character design doesn't suggest he is an important character. On the other hand, that scene could be also to hint that Ruskin will save Milverton. Ruskin is not stupid - he could suspect what happened from the open door where Milverton jumped out - and that door could also provide the fastest way for Ruskin to leave the about-to-crash house. Not much time passed since Milverton got shot who could survive if Ruskin gets him out of the water in time. If he jumped into the water to escape, he might've found Milverton as well.

5, THE WATER PARALLEL

This point was suggested by @shreddedleopard during one of our talks whom I fully credit the idea to. Milverton keeps paralelling William in poses, methods - and even in "death": William "died" by falling into the water, too. If this was meant to be yet another parallel between the two, that also suggests that Milverton as well, might turn out to be alive.

6, SHERLOCK AND THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS MURDER

Milverton's body was never found what let Sherlock escape from the consequences of the murder. However, this might not be the true reason why his body never got found - Milverton's death was actually too bothersome if it was meant to be only for this. It would've been simplier if he just got shot, dying inmediately and his body getting burned with the house and Sherlock could've get away with the murder in this case, too. Milverton also didn't got shot in the heart, but suffered injuries what he could survive if he gets treated in time. If the writer truly wanted us to fully believe that Milverton is dead, it could've been done easily with a heartshot.

7, YUUMORI IS A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADAPTATION

Despite that Moriarty the Patriot gets inspiration from other places than Sherlock Holmes stories - like the James Bond universe or The Dark Knight movie - it's still a story focusing on Sherlock Holmes characters - and the most iconic Sherlock villain beside Moriarty, Irene Adler or Moran is Charles Augustus Milverton... who still has lot of potential. And beside him, who could be the next antagonist in Part 2? The other Sherlock villains who didn't get used yet aren't as much of a big names. That's another point what can suggest that Milverton's arc is still unfinished.

Milverton not getting enough attention in Part 1 despite he clearly implied to be an important character was due to putting too much focus on him could complicate or even get the attention away from the Moriarty Plan what was the main theme of the series in Part 1. Maybe what we saw about Milverton yet was just an introduction and now, that we already know how dangerous and evil he can be, we can see more of his evil in Part 2. Because I'm sure if he is alive, he is ready to commit even bigger atrocities what we could imagine.

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #charles augustus milverton

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