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anatolienne · 1 year

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miss del rey really dropped the most quentin tarantinosque beat off all time

#interlude the trio #lana del rey #its so good im going to cry #Spotify

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mako-neexu · 2 months

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love the thought of gudacas being the only ones to enter oberon's mindscape (garbage) room whatever and they come there to clean it/theyre always free to come in whenever. which says a lot how oberon loves guda and cas in his own way and that what he did in gudacas valentines is basically the "now KISS" meme (which castoria also did in oberon's valentines www

#i hope someday we get the obecas interlude where guda is the one to setp them up together😭#fgo #yakudou trio #gudacas

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thearbourist · 2 months

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The DWR Friday Classical Interlude - Beethoven, Piano Trio in B-Flat Major, Op. 97, "Archduke"

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#"Archduke"#Op. 97 #Piano Trio in B-Flat Major #The DWR Friday Classical Interlude - Beethoven #Youtube

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moviemusicvideos · 2 years

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Every song should tell a story, Shouldn't it? Just a fan of both Film & Music & Wanted to Put Some Together. So Here's a Mashup of Lana Del Rey - Interlude - The Trio (Blue Banisters) & Tale of the Deaf (2021) by Philipp Yuryev.

#Philipp Yuryev #Tale of the Deaf #The Trio #Interlude #Lana Del Rey #Blue Banisters #Youtube

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asterlark · 8 months

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in my current re-listen of taz balance i was so struck by magnus telling carey during lunar interlude III when she suggests he not take all the big hits, "but i don't want to lose merle and taako." the boys up to this point have jokingly referred to each other as bffs and have made a few lighthearted comments about loving each other etc, but this, 40 episodes into the arc, is the first time we hear any of them express real fear over losing the other two.

and it hits so hard that it's magnus! magnus who knows what it's like to lose someone you love even before he remembers the stolen century, magnus who almost never shows fear, whose whole thing is being brave and strong. he opens up not to taako and merle- they would never say this shit to each others' faces, not at this point in the show- but to carey, someone who is a friend but also an outsider to their little trio.

this scene for magnus is important in more ways than one- he's realizing he needs to stop being so reckless if he wants to stick around for a long time. after julia, he always rushed into conflict, brave and reckless to the point of being foolish or even suicidal. he's accepted the fact that he'll die in battle someday, is fine with that.

but now, with merle and taako and the rest of his friends at the bureau, he has people again. he has a reason to stay alive again, loved ones to protect and cherish again. so he has to adapt, to change how he fights, to make sure he can be around for them. to keep himself safe so he can keep them safe.

this is the first time we hear magnus express a fear of loss, but also the first time we hear him express a desire to change & a larger degree of self-awareness. him awkwardly fumbling through the conversation with carey in a way he never has before tells us that he was genuinely nervous to ask for help, to be potentially seen as weak, to be witnessed being bad at something at first while he's being trained.

but the fact that he does it anyway, the fact that he trusts himself enough, trusts carey enough, to ask- that says so much about his character and how much he's grown at this point in the show.

just. characters who at first don't care too much if they live or die as long as they die heroically, learning to value their own lives through their relationships and love with other people. magnus burnsides: characters of all time!!!

#magnus burnsides #tazb #taz balance #the adventure zone #the adventure zone: balance #mine #i LOVE HIM

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dragonmama76 · 8 months

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Beginnings

Part One Interlude Part Two Part Three

As Eddie held the broken bottle against Steve’s neck, Steve was preternaturally calm. If asked, he would explain that he had been expecting this for years. Today was the day that Eddie Munson was finally going to kill him. He had fought monsters human and decidedly not human, but he always knew deep down that Eddie Munson would be the one to finally end it all.

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

Eddie Munson was a late bloomer and spent his freshman year scrawny and shy. It didn’t help that he was into all kinds of nerd stuff and got bullied relentlessly. He fancied himself a keen observer of people, though, and over the summer he plotted out a multi step plan to survive high school like it was one of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns he loved to create.

First, he spent the summer getting stronger. He didn’t work out exactly, but he was able to get a summer job as a house painter and by the end he was hauling paint cans up and down ladders like it was nothing. It also didn’t hurt that puberty finally kicked in and he grew almost a foot.

Next, he used his newfound cash to update his wardrobe. Instead of trying to compete with the preppy jocks who tormented him, he went the other way. He scoured the thrift shops for as much black as he could find and rounded it out with t-shirts from his favorite metal bands. Black work boots, chains, and a pocket knife became his standard accessories and when Wayne took him to Indy before the start of school he scored a black leather jacket at a nicer second hand store. Freshman orientation was coming and it would be time to put the final parts of his plan into motion.

The day the freshman came to tour the high school and get their schedules, Eddie was ready. He leaned against a tree watching the new kids coming and going. There were a few he clocked as fellow outcasts and nerds and took note. He would approach them carefully when school started for real. But at that moment he was waiting for something special. And then it happened. A group of three teens made their way to the gym doors, two boys and a girl, dressed like money grew on trees. One of the boys was taller, more confident, with impeccably styled hair, and best of all, he carried a basketball like he knew what to do with it. Target acquired.

Steve Harrington’s stomach was all tied up in knots. He was nervous to be finally starting high school. Tommy H. and Carol were chattering away but he couldn’t even hear them over the sound of his racing thoughts. His dad had made it clear what he expected from Steve’s high school career and what the consequences would be if he didn’t follow through. He doesn’t know what the hell he is doing, but at least maybe if followed his dad’s plan he would finally be proud of him. So he kept his head held high and imagined himself to be that guy. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? As he reached the gym door he felt eyes on him and glanced over to see the prettiest guy he had ever seen watching him. As their eyes met, the boy scowled at him. Steve winced and stumbled through the door. What could he possibly have done to piss that guy off already? “Not a good start, Steve,” he thought as the trio entered the school.

Steve’s first few weeks of high school would have been pretty great if it wasn’t for his personal bully. He landed a spot on the varsity basketball team, his teachers were nice enough to explain things twice if he had a question, and even though Tommy H. and Carol were officially dating now, they still included him in almost everything they did. But when he was walking by himself in the halls, that older kid was always there either glaring or smirking at him. He actually outright tripped him twice, once into a row of lockers. Steve apologized at first, thinking maybe he had been at fault for bumping into him or something, but the guy had laughed at him and made some comment about dumb jocks better watch out. Steve didn’t want to push back. No matter what personal philosophy his dad ascribed to, Steve didn’t think violence was the answer. He quickly figured out that the guy only seemed to target him when he was alone, though, so Steve started asking some of the girls in his classes if he could walk them to their next class. They seemed to like that, and Steve was getting tired of being a third wheel all the time, so he asked a few out on double dates with his friends. At least his dad would be happy, Steve was already getting a reputation as a ladies man.

Eddie was having the best year ever. Training this jock to be afraid of him, instead of the other way around, was a treat. Eddie wasn’t a bad kid. If anyone had called him out on bullying he would have been shocked. This was a preemptive strike. This was the ultimate battle of nerd versus jock. This was war. And Eddie was winning. You didn’t have to be a genius to see that this Steve kid was asking for it. His attitude, his clothes, his HAIR, and his, not at all surprising to Eddie, wild success with the female population of Hawkins High all confirmed that he needed to be taken down a peg. And in the meantime, Eddie had gathered a crew of freshman nerds to spend time with and mold in his image. He only needed one more element to complete his campaign against the jocks of Hawkins: A public confrontation.

Steve was starting to become complacent. His plan to never be alone was working and while the scary kid following him around continued to make his presence known, at least he wasn’t pushing him anymore. So he thought. Except one afternoon in the cafeteria Steve’s luck ran out. He had been balancing his tray on one hand while escorting his most recent conquest with the other when something slammed into him upending the tray of spaghetti. Tears filled his eyes as the noise around him dimmed. Why was this happening to him? He tried to be nice to everyone. He didn’t start fights or talk shit about people, even when Carol was at her bitchiest. Why couldn’t he just fly under the radar? As he looked up to see all eyes on him, the only noise that registered was the loud cackle from the boy next to him. “I thought you jocks had better balance than that,” sneered his bully. All the blood in his body seemed to rush to his head and he tried to stay calm, but when he glanced over and saw Lila covered in sauce something snapped.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Steve shouted.

“Me?” challenged the boy, “Not my fault you’re as clumsy as all get out.”

Steve didn’t like to fight, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. He pushed the taller boy and advanced on him fists clenched tight. When he got close, a low voice rumbled, “I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” as the kid opened his jacket to reveal a knife clenched in his other hand. Steve’s eyes were wide as he backed away. “You’re a fucking freak, you know that? Leave me alone! And leave my friends alone!” Steve was just posturing at this point, but he kept a healthy distance between them since he sure as hell wasn’t getting in a knife fight, even if they were surrounded by spectators.

“I AM a freak, and don’t any of you forget it!” the boy shouted, “And you’d better be afraid if you know what’s good for you.”

Just then the doors opened and the vice principal walked in.

“Problems?” he demanded sternly.

“No, sir,” Steve backed down completely. “No problems here.”

“What about you, Munson?” a steely glare was directed at his adversary.

“No problemo. I was just apologizing to King Steve here for bumping into him.” The boys separated and Steve escorted Lila to their table, offering to grab extra napkins and helping to calm her down.

“Nice going, King Steve,” Tommy H. cackled as they sat down. “Have you ever, just once, won a fight?”

“Shut it, Tommy.” Steve replied, “You didn’t see it. That freak actually had a knife. Stay away from him, he’s crazy and I dunno why but he hates me.” No one commented when his voice broke at those last words. “I think you were very brave,” whispered Lila and Steve suddenly felt a little better.

While Steve had beat a hasty retreat, Eddie sauntered over to his usual lunch table with his freshman friends and held his head high. He could feel the guarded looks and shot a feral grin to a group of kids who dared make eye contact. It was the best day of Eddie’s life so far. He had sealed his reputation as a dangerous freak and he intended to own it every day for the rest of high school. It would keep his little nerds and outcasts safe, even if he had to keep up the act for the next few years.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #part one?#let me know if I should keep going for part two

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adventuringblind · 9 months

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Drive With You Forever

Chapter Five: Cats, Cluelessness, and difficult communication

Max Verstappen x Reader x Charles Leclerc x Lando Norris

Chapter Summary: a brief interlude in the off-season before 2020, Sebastian adopts Charles, Max struggles to communicate his feelings, and the reader makes a new friend 👀

Warnings: mentions of SH, reader over does it again, seizure like episode, Lando is awkward, Charles is awkward, Max can't do feeling well yet, jos verstappen

Notes: ah yes, the gang is all here now. I have more action coming in the next part. Maybe also some fluffy stuff. I've been trying to get some blurbs done for what isn't shown in the long chapters because I've had to cut down on some things. I would love to give y'all some content of our duo, trio, or quartet doing something specific.

Previous <-

Masterlist

The end of the season means a bit of a break for the drivers. A chance to spend some time with their families. For her, it means spending time with Sebastian and Hanna in Germany.

The trio had wanted to officially introduce themselves. They knew, but the three barely got a chance to interact all together. It would be nice to catch up anyways.

They are all sat at the dining room table. Even the littles wanted to join in on the conversation. Mostly they spout of randomness as they listen but it’s still endearing to everyone.

The three are sat in a row. Charles far left, the female in the middle and Max on the right if her.

“So I’m curious, who gets the middle of the bed?” Seb laughs at his own question. Hanna playfully hits his shoulder. Charles and Max both look at her. She just rolls her eyes as they both start laughing.

“Are you three moving in together?” Hanna asks this time. Genuine curiosity, unlike her husband.

Charles almost chokes. He hadn’t thought about it.

He’s thankful he’s not the first to answer. “Are you saying you want me out?” It’s a playful question from the girl. She’s smiling like an idiot at the banter.

“Of course not. You’re welcome here forever.”

Max swallows his food then joins the conversation. “We were actually planning on moving some things to my apartment since we’re here.” Now Charles feels out of place. Was he not asked yet for a reason? They hadn’t been together long so it would make sense. “Charles lives in Monaco already so I figured his things would be easier to move.” Max explains.

Now he’s confused. Something Max can clearly see. They make eye contact for a moment and Charles is left a mess. “Unless you don’t want to anymore?”

Charles is shaking his head no at lightning speed. He definitely wants to. He’s tired of living alone and throwing himself pity parties over breaks. Plus, he learns he sleeps better when he's not alone.

Moving feels more sentimental to her this time. She had more stuff than when she was fifteen.

Sbeastion offered to let them fly private with him to help move her stuff to Monaco. She wanted to, but it was unnecessary. Most of her belongings that she needs fits into an extra suitcase.

Max and Charles both kept asking her if she had anything else. It was getting on her nerves a bit.

Hanna and Seb had done the same thing when she first came to Germay. Though she had less then. Hanna had taken her to get some new clothes because her t-shirts all had holes in them.

Flights were weird. The first class has two seats for each row, meaning that one of them got to sit somewhere else. They often played musical chairs on the plane because of this.

She'd always had an affinity for even numbers.

It was an interesting dynamic they had created. Charles and Max are barely a month apart, and she's just turned nineteen. They get to do things she can't yet. But she's gentle and knows exactly what they need and is far to gentle for what she's been through.

Charles felt that he was playing catch up with the other two. He was new to this and still new to them. He, however, was the best at communication between the three.

Max, having grown up in an interesting family setting, is aggressive and protective. His communication skills are lacking, but he would do anything to keep his significant others out of harms way.

Today was one of those days that Max was struggling communication wise. It had started after an intense phone call where the other two were attempting (and failing) at deciphering dutch.

She'd offered to sit next to him if he needed consoling, but he decided to sit further away from the two. Leaving them to figure out what happened.

This had brought the thoughts of even numbers. If they were flying with four of them, Max wouldn't be able to mope alone.

"Do you think it was Jos?" Charles asked. His eyes had been on the Dutch for most of the flight.

"I would assume so given that he was speaking Dutch, and he doesn't do that with many people."

Both sigh. Jos had been on Max's ass about moving up into a championship title. Che was ready to have some words, either him, next time they were together, and Charles was going to start making a point to celebrate every placement in a race.

It didn't take long to get to Max's apartment. It's not the most luxurious, but it's comfortable. He's planning to get something worthy of the three of them after he gets a title.

Max had successfully locked himself away in his bedroom. The other two left to figure out what he needs. Maybe it is just a time thing?

"Is he usually like this after a call with Jos?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "It depends on if he's praising or berating."

"Can we help him?" Charles is eyeing the closed door and her. His brain working out every way to get him to open up.

She smirks. There always one thing that cheered up Max.

Max was choking back tears. He felt weak. Like he was never going to he enough.

He felt bad for stomping off the way he did, but he didn't want his partners to see him like this.

He hears the soft rape of knuckles against the door. "Mon Amour? Can we please come in?"

He grunts, but the Monegasque takes it as approval.

Charles peeks his head in. His gentle steps are coming closer to Max. He doesn't look up. He just keeps his head buried in his pillow.

Charles doesn't say anything, which he appreciates. Just sits down on the edge and lets Max's body dip towards his. Then he's running his fingers through Max's hair.

It's not long before another set of footsteps are padding into the room. These ones softer then Charles, telling Max it's y/n.

She's successfully moved both Jimmy and Sassy into the room from their hiding spots and is holding his favorite movie. She sneaks in and closes the door behind her.

They spend the next couple of hours lying in bed with the cats and watching their movie.

Max feels himself calming down. They don't talk about anything. Aside from occasionally copying the lines from the movie they've watched far to many time.

It's after that he feels like he can say something. His mind finally grounded back to reality. "I'm sorry for shutting you both out. I was just... agitated, I guess."

The Monegasque has his fingers back in his hair in an instant. "It's okay, you needed space. Do you want to talk about it now?"

The youngest places sassy on his chest as a way to comfort him. Her hands intertwine with his.

"Just frustrated that my dad thinks I'm not trying. He started spouting that I'll never get anywhere at this rate."

"That a lie. Jos is obviously lacking brain cells." The youngest pipes. "I can throw him into a wall if you want?"

The idea actually makes him smile.

Charles was the next to move things in. Though it was mildly awkward explaining to his family why he was moving somewhere else.

Turns out he can't keep a secret. His family is accepting. Pascale welcomes both into her home. She takes a particular liking to the quiet girl who is still always between the two older boys.

His stuff takes up more of the apartment than hers. The contrast of red and blue is now showing everywhere.

"If Charles is red, Max is blue, and I'm always in the middle, does that make me purple?" She spouts while unpacking a box of ferrari shirts.

Max spits out the water he was drinking. Charles starts wheezing. And she is laughing at her own comment.

"Where did you come up with that, Chéri?"

"Just a thought I've been sitting on since we started dating."

"You're not wrong, though." Max is wiping his mouth clean from the water.

It's weird going places together. Not errands and things, but social gatherings. Charles has asked to keep things private for now. He's not fond of the questions people have about the nuances of their relationship.

They came and left separately. Usually, depending on who wanted to leave first, the other would wait about fifteen minutes.

A few months into the break, Lando Norris decides to call Max and invite him and his lover to a party. He does the same for Charles a minute after he hangs up with Max.

The three of you have to hold in your laughter as Charles tries to get through the phone call listening to the same details.

Despite what Lando said, this was not the type of party any of you are used to by now. At least not Charles and Max. She'd been to few and got overwhelmed by it all pretty quickly. Sometimes, she'd use it as an excuse to get the boys out of the apartment so she could have the cats to herself and play around with her powers.

Charles and Max both hate it when she does it alone. They've found her on the floor passed out on multiple occasions. She doesn't care, though. The visions and nightmares of her father were more reason to keep going.

Regardless, this party is small. Just a few drivers who had been in town or live in Monaco are here with their partners.

Kika and Pierre, George and Carmen, Alex and Lily, Carlos is here along with Daniel. Charles is seated in a solitary chair. The couches have been taken. Daniel and Lando on either side of him.

It feels nice and intimate in a way. She hadn't seen many drivers just get together to hang out like this.

Charles is ever the gentleman and offers her the chair, which she takes. Him and Max are now making themselves comfortable on the floor in front of her.

They're eating, drinking, laughing, and sharing stories from the past. It's nice and relaxing.

She taps Max's shoulder, alerting him that she's going for water and asking both boys if they need anything to which they reply no.

She spots Lando in his kitchen getting a drink. It's not an alcoholic one, just juice that looks like it could be alcohol.

She turns on his tap for water, and Lando jumps out of his skin. His eyes rapidly look between her and his cup.

"I like to mix my alcohol with juice...?" His voice sounds unsure. Does he think it's not okay to just have juice?

"Juice is a good choice, in my opinion. Alcohol is strong and feels funny sometimes."

Lando visibly relaxs. "Promise you won't tell anyone? They laugh at me sometimes when I do this."

"I promise."

Lando was around more after the party. He seemed comfortable around her and Max. He'd opened up about his anxiety to them and played far to many games with Max.

What they were not expecting was for Lando to show up at their apartment door at three o'clock in the morning. His breathing uneven body shaking like a leaf.

She knew what this was. She'd had plenty of panic attacks.

She guides him inside to the couch and is trying to asses the situation. Get his breathing to calm down so he doesn't hyperventilate.

It takes ten minutes until he's calm.

"Did something happen?"

"Just a nightmare, and I couldn't calm down after."

"Did you walk here?"

He nods his head yes. Exhaustion flooding his eyes.

"Is Max asleep?" He asks.

"Should be. He sleeps like a rock most of the time." They both giggle. Lando is now able to relax in a calm environment.

They are interrupted by two sets of footsteps. Charles and Max come barreling into the living room. Panic on their faces one minute and embarrassment the next. Lando staring at the with the utmost confusion.

The older boys are shirtless and in sweats. Max's arm protectively outstretched in front of Charles.

"...oops."

Lando is not stupid. He may be the youngest on the grid currently, but he's not stupid.

He saw how the three of them looked at each other. Charles definitely touched them both far more than what friends do.

Originally, he thought he was crazy for watching them. Yet he couldn't help but be intrigued. How they all interacted. How they just flowed together.

Now he sits on their couch. Max looks like he's guarding Charles and y/n. The Dutch has yet to sit down and is leaning against the wall. Charles is sitting across from him with the females head in this lap. His fingers running through her hair.

It's a terrible feeling. Like he's left out of whatever this is. Three of his best friends spend all their time together, and he's just here. Young and naïve Lando.

"Did you have a feeling this would happen, Mijn liefje?" Asks Max from his perch on the wall. She shakes her head no in response.

Lando had heard about her knack for predicting future outcomes. He'd heard rumors about magic and tarot cards, but she'd never said anything to him.

"Well, you're welcome to stay here in the extra bedroom, and I can't take you home in the morning."

"That sounds nice, thank you."

She woke up exhausted. She felt guilty for not having warned Max and Charles. Her mind to far gone that they were mad at her. She spent her night trying to get any glimpse of their future but didn't get anything useful.

She hid herself away in the master bathroom. The wet towel and the floor her new best friend.

She could smell breakfeast. Max is cooking for all of them. They learned quickly not to let Charles cook. Lest they all die.

She was in bed with them this morning. Only crawling out from their hold when she felt them stir.

Every question puts her further into the fog. Was she going to lose them? Are they upset with her? Is Lando okay with them? Would he tell people?

It's too much for her head.

She goes for another attempt. She knows she's overdoing it. The further she goes with less time in-between brings her closer to the edge of her body going numb.

Nausea creeps into her stomach, but she sees them. Further down the line. Happy and four.

Four? This could be shocking, and yet somehow, she already knew. Her mind just needs a but of confirmation that it's possible.

The nausea gets stronger. Her nose is bleeding heavily. She pushed it past the limit.

They won't mind, though.

Max is making breakfast and quietly humming to himself. Charles has his hands on his hips, the two of them swaying back and forth to the tune.

"Do you think I should go check on her?" Charles mumbles into his shoulder.

"She may want space after last night, she was taken off guard and might need to peocess." He explains, then turns his attention back to the pan.

"I'm worried, though. She was crying last night after Lando went to bed, and I don't think she slept."

Lando slides around the corner. His face lighting up at the smell of food. "Can I... can I have some?"

Max laughs at the Brit's excitment. "Of course. I made enough for all of us."

Lando sits himself on top on the counter. Watching the Dutch and Monegasque lean into each other. He takes notice that someone is missing. "Is y/n okay?"

Both boys sigh with heavy concern. "She had a rough night." Explains Charles. His body is fighting the urge to go get her. "I can't take it anymore, I'm going to check on her."

Charles leaves Max and Lando in the kitchen. His legs taking long strides back to the bedroom.

"So you guys all sleep together? Not like sexually- I guess - I mean at night to sleep."

Max smiles at the Brit. His curiosity was nothing he didn't expect. "Yeah, we pile into the same bed at night. All of us sleep better that way."

Lando hums. His palm rubs his face with anxiety. "Would you ever add a fourth?-'m asking for a friend..."

Max already knows. Somehow, someway, he already knows where this is going. "Depends. It took months of discussion before Charles joined us. But I'm sure if the right person came along, we'd be open to it." Max turns around to face Lando and shoots him a reassuring smile.

Lando's cheek tint pink, and Max knows exactly what he wants.

Charles leclerc is usually someone who panics. This time was no exception.

He'd seen plenty after his six months of being together with his partners. Particularly how the femal among them is prone to violent behaviors against herself. He's seen all of her powers now and how they affect her if she uses them too much. He's been there to help soothe her after night terrors while Max fetches her water.

He was glad she opened up to him about her past more. He knew the generally what had gone on but no details, nothing like what he knew now.

The prospect of her father coming back for her at some point is what drover her to the breaking point on most days.

Now, Charles is faced with a locked door and the sounds of thrashing from the other side. He'd tried picking the lock, something him and Max both learned to do after instances like this, but his hands are far too shaky to maneuver the pins.

So he does the only other logical thing and breaks the door down. Only enough that he can lean it somewhere and not let it fall on her, but it felt cool to kick it in.

Charles has seen a lot of things, but this is completely new. Her muscles are tensing at a rapid speed, and her eyes are rolled back into her head. Her breathing movements are unatrual.

"Max!"

It takes ten seconds, and he's there. His body and mind reacting to the situation. He's trying to hold her in his arms. Attempting to wake her up from whatever trance she's in.

Max hisses through his teeth when he touches her. Her skin in his searing his hands. Yet, he pushes through.

Charles feels helpless. "What can I do?"

"This has happened before. She must have forced a vision. She'll come out of it, we just need to make sure she dosen't die in the process."

The two boys are then lifting her body of the floor. Charles now carries her to the bed while Max runs around grabbing things. Mostly ice to cool her down. Charles rambles on to her about nothing and everything. Max said they should talk to her, giver her some to help bring her back.

Both of them forgot they left Lando in the kitchen. The Brit left to finish making breakfast in light of their emergency. Again, they are shocked to see his pale face watching the scene unfold before him.

"Can I help?" Is all he can manage.

"Do you want to trade places with me? I think the liquid benadryl might help."

Lando is taking over for Max tentatively. He takes the ice pack from the Dutch and places it on her forehead.

Lando can see the sweat and tears mixed with fresh blood. It's scary, and he's nervous. Why are they not taking her to a hospital?

Normally, she's the one calming him down. She always knows exactly what he needs to hear. He's not been in this position, and it scares him to see her like this.

He slides one hand down to her bicep. His fingers tap out the melody to her favorite song. A trick she used on him to bring him back to earth when he got in his head.

About halfway through, she's sucking in a breath, her body sitting straight upwards. Her eyes are no longer stuck to the inside of her head. She's still sweating like mad, and her body is twitching, but she's awake.

She's breathing heavily. Dry heaving and coughing into herself. Her hands are quick to find Charles and grasp at him, searching for the familiar comfort.

Lando watches her intently. Her sobs are painful. They sound broken, like whatever she's just been through was some sort of of torcher.

"Chéri, can I set you with Lando for a moment? I need to tell Max you're awake." Charles whispers gently. Lando takes note of how he's cradling her. His hands on the back of her head and under her legs to support her weight.

She barely nods her approval. Her body is slid close to Lando, who embraces her. Attempting to replicate what Charles was doing. He finds himself tapping the same melody on her knees.

"Was that you tapping? When I was asleep?" She chokes.

"Yeah, could you feel it."

She nods her head against his body. "You brought me back, thank you."

Lando lets his body relax into hers, knowing he at least did one thing right today.

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blueywrites · 1 year

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turtle dove and the crow, part four

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: please heed this warning and decide if you are prepared to read this chapter, which includes scenes of harsh but period-accurate parental abuse against an 18-year old child. this includes emotional and mental abuse in the form of 'discipline' and depictions of physical punishment. these methods are always harmful and never appropriate. they do not represent the views of the author. avoiding tw/cw's? read the part four summary instead

PART FOUR: THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SUN (8.6K)

It’s hard to make the moment last

Hard to keep the dreams you have

Hard to let the love inside your heart

The guards are always at the gates

Turning everyone away

But you got through

Didn’t you?

You’re the One I Want — Chris and Thomas

When you were six— two years before Edward Munson became the new boy next door— your mother still hosted garden parties during the warm months. Pa would arrange the iron furniture into a pleasing configuration, ensuring the grass was level and dry beneath the table's heavy feet. The stiff-backed chairs would be spaced precisely from its wrought edges, far enough for ease of entry but close enough that the ladies would not have to stretch their arms too far to reach the cucumber sandwiches. Those Mama would assemble in careful layers, laying them out on a ceramic platter decorated with filigree. Mama's finest pitcher, made of delicate glass and attractive curves, would be used to serve fresh-squeezed lemonade. She'd garnish the sweet drink with muddled mint leaves plucked from the small personal garden she carefully maintains against the backyard fence. A generous spray of flowers would finish the trio of treasures awaiting the town's ladies, invited by your mother for an afternoon of light refreshments and genteel socializing.

Your sister, Virginia, has the supreme honor of being allowed to join the garden party for the first time this year. She is five years your senior in age and ten your superior in manner, evident in the graceful way she smooths the skirt of her shiny pink dress, perching herself with impeccable posture on the very edge of the iron chair situated to your mother’s right side. Poised and prim, Virginia accepts a glass of lemonade, taking a tiny sip before placing the china delicately to the right of her plate. Ever observant, her eyes dart around the table, absorbing gestures with ease; she follows her sip quickly with a dab of her napkin before arranging it dutifully on her lap again. She is rewarded for this, as the ladies generously indulge her presence among them.

You would be jealous of your sister's invitation if you gave a hoot about such things, but you are entirely disinterested in all of it. You care not for hushed titters floating from beneath their sunbonnets and the passing of cucumber sandwiches, which are nibbled little by little and then chewed behind demure palms as gossip is exchanged. Instead, you've happily plopped yourself behind the apple tree, back to rough bark and short legs spread wide in the ticklish grass.

Methodically, one by one, you have been picking the delicate yellow petals off the heads of dandelion weeds, dropping each one to collect in the basin of the sunbonnet cradled between your thighs. It's painstaking work and nonsensical, perhaps, but it serves to satisfy some innate curiosity inside you. The purpose of this is unclear; your actions are confusing, the way children's play is often confusing to everyone but the child. But since you are quietly occupying yourself, and your mother and sister are busy socializing, they are happy to leave you to your own devices.

They are happy, that is, until your eye is caught by something much more exciting than plucking weeds.

Your neighbor down the lane has just finished imparting some succulent gossip to the gathering, and her lips are pursed against a grin as she relishes the reaction to her news. Her revelation has the intended effect: shock ripples around the table, but it is mixed with the suppressed delight of knowing a new, tantalizing secret. The party-goers exchange glances, searching for cues in one another, all wanting to know more but reluctant to appear too eager.

"Oh, my goodness." Mama places her hand over her heart as if in regret, but her eyes are gleaming. Interest thrums within the hush of her voice as she begins to ask, "And what d'you suppose he might now do, on account of—?"

"Mama!"

Her question is interrupted by your delighted cry. She turns to see you holding aloft that which made you abandon your collection. Back by the tree, those petals have spilled from the tipped sunbonnet to scatter heedlessly across the grass. "Look't what I caught!" you squeak, eyes alight with eager, innocent delight. "It's a big one, too!"

Despite your excitement, you cradle the large bullfrog gently in your hands, mindful of its comfort as you present it to your mother. You considered it quite the feat to catch the frog without causing it alarm, and when its strong legs twitch against your palm without attempting to flee, pride glows beneath the dirt streaks on your round cheeks.

Your mother does not share your sentiment.

The way her expression contorts is so opposite what you expected that she may as well have smacked you across the face. Your earlier excitement is smothered like water douses a match, and promptly, you drop the frog.

You drop it as if by acting quickly, you can undo whatever has caused your Mama offense. But it is not enough. Your mother stares at you, and though the look in her eyes is one you are too young to fully decipher, a parent's disapproval is sensed innately, and felt deeply.

One year after you drop the bullfrog, Mama will sell the garden furniture to purchase seeds and stock in preparation for the coming hardship, and the garden parties would end. Two years after you drop the bullfrog, Eddie will roll in like a summer storm to join his uncle in the red house next door. Seven years after you drop the bullfrog, Virginia will establish a nest of her own, leaving you as the only unwed daughter left in your parents' roost. But no matter how many years pass, you will never forget how your mother's stare made you feel. In the garden, a heavy stone sank in your gut, sickeningly leaden, steadily crushing your delicate insides with each second you spent pinned by her furious stare.

This moment in the hayloft reminds you of that. But there is no stone of lead in your stomach this time. This time, with the salt tang of Eddie's seed still lingering on your lips, your entire body turns to solid, petrified rock.

Your mother stares up at you from the barn floor. Her face is contorted, screwed up tight with shock and rage, but her eyes are wide, wide enough to swallow you up entirely like a sinkhole would. She traps you. And you remain there, locked tight until the seethe of her voice boils hot from between her lips, blistering the ruddy flesh on its path to you.

"Git. Down. Here."

Each word is a spitfire bullet, enunciated so precisely so as not to be misconstrued. The burn rushes down your spine to melt your solid rock into magma.

Your muscles are clenched tight, but the warm pulse once stoked between your legs has deadened. You're thrumming instead with horror, with deep, all-consuming dread. Where one moment ago you were heavy as a sinking stone, now you are unsteady, shaky like the first time Eddie coaxed you into a rowboat.

You can't grab hold of his rough, broad palm to settle yourself this time, and you don't dare risk a glance at the man still nestled in that soft bed of hay. To catch his eye would be torture of a different kind. Instead, you rush to obey your mother's command. Your knee scrapes raw against old, splintery wood as you scramble around and dip one foot to catch the rung of the ladder.

It's a sturdy old thing, that ladder. Good thing, too, because it holds fast as you cling to it with shuddering fingers and legs so wobbly, they clatter against its rungs with each step toward the perilous ground. By the time you reach the floor, the knee you'd scraped has gone numb. You want to turn your chin down and see if your dress has bloomed a crimson flower of blood, but your neck is unyielding. It's hard enough to step back from the security the ladder provides. All the will your spirit possesses must be channeled into facing the woman looming like a cloud of miasma behind you.

There is no time to brace for a confrontation, but you force your face into as docile an expression as possible before you meet your Mama head-on. She is short and portly, hunched up in such a way as to make her smaller in theory, though, in reality, the sight is only more imposing to you. You expect to meet her piercing stare again, but she isn't looking at you. Instead, she's got one eye hooked on the edge of the hayloft and her lip caught in a sneer so deep it's almost a snarl.

"You too, Edward," she spits, and your throat dries to dust. "Don't think I'm ignorant of your bein' up there with'r."

The silence that follows is stifling, crowding in on you from all sides. The pressure doesn't ease even as that pregnant pause turns to the creaking and groaning of wood, which protests as the weight of an unseen body shifts toward the hayloft's edge. The thud of booted feet that replaces the wood's cry is little consolation; your heart kicks up at the steady plod that commences, matching it in rhythm but pounding twice as fast. You don't dare to turn and look or even to fiddle with your skirt nervously. Your hands remain still at your sides as your mother stares above your head, watching Eddie climb down from the hayloft. Her eyes dip slowly and steadily along with the thumping of those booted feet until her gaze is even with your face. The final step down behind you is quieter than the rest, and your throat tightens as you sense Eddie's hesitance in the sound.

As he alights on the ground, Mama's eyes suddenly shift. Where once she had been staring almost uncannily in your direction, as if she may or may not have been trying to look you in the eye, a sudden cut and glint make it abundantly clear that now— now— your mother is gazing directly at you.

It's all you can do to keep from trembling.

You vaguely hear the shuffle-scrape of Eddie's footsteps and feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand beside you. The tiniest glance reveals the extent of his mortification: his pale cheeks are beet red with a flush that creeps down his throbbing neck, and his eyes are squinched half-shut as if bracing for a blow. His adam's apple bobs, and unconsciously, you swallow at the same time.

When Eddie finally opens his mouth, all that eeks out is the briefest croak before your mother interrupts coldly. "You best be gettin' home to your uncle now, Edward."

While the words don't drip with venom, the mention of Wayne is nothing if not a threat, and Eddie recognizes it as so. You would never expect him to argue; in fact, you'd be dismayed if he had, but the thought of facing your mother's wrath alone covers the frozen dread inside you with a fine layer of poignant sorrow. You are heavy, but now you are empty, too.

Weakly, Eddie clears his throat to rasp, "Yes, ma'am." Your chin trembles at the sound of his voice, but your eyes only begin to sting when you feel the soft, subtle draw of his fingers across the small of your back as he passes by you to disappear out of sight beyond the barn doors. The touch is one last offering of comfort from your beloved before you both must face the consequence of your transgressions.

In the kitchen, Mama takes you apart.

The way she lashes you with her tongue is harsh and unforgiving. Each word darts across the kitchen counter, catches you with its claws, and burrows beneath your tender skin, sinking deep to carve into your marrow.

"How dare you." Her voice quivers with the force of her rage. "How dare you bring such disgrace upon our family. You know darn well that we forbade you from seeing that boy, yet you went behind our backs anyway. And now, to make matters worse, I find you been carryin' on like a," her lips twist up to spit a sharper barb, "hussy up in the hayloft. What kind of a girl do you think that makes you, y/n?"

She pauses long enough to make you question whether she expects an answer, but she carries on without you. Her eyes dart along the cabinets, unseeing as she chuckles mirthlessly. "And, oh. M'blood could just boil thinkin' how that boy could set there at his dinner table and talk about how good we raised our daughter, only for you two t'turn around and… and…."

She stutters off, wild eyes rolling as she works herself up. The deepening of her wince uglies her visage, so that lines crease at the corners of her mouth where before there were none. And oh, how foolish you were to think the sight of her bulging eyes would be in any way gratifying. How deeply, utterly stupid of you to think such a thing.

"What you done is unspeakable. How'm I supposed to show my face in town, knowing what you been up to right underneath my nose? It turns my stomach just to think about what y'were doin' up there w'him."

Each word sinks deep inside you. It’s a barrage of all you deserve because it's the truth. And this is just the beginning. Because there's disgust there, in Mama's screwed-up face, and there's fury, too. But beneath those, there's also hurt— the evidence of a deep wound torn open by your impropriety. It's a hurt you aren't sure you can mend.

At that realization, fat, hot tears begin to roll unimpeded down your cheeks. They drip from your quivering chin, which tightens with the occasional sniffle as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the floor, wrapping your arms around your mother’s skirt, and pressing yourself to her shins in pitiful supplication.

Though Mama is looking at you, she doesn't seem to register that you've started to cry. "I just can't understand it." Mama's fingers press divots into her temples, and her head wags absently as if in subconscious denial. "Virginia was your age when she married her Lawrence. She knew the way of things. And now look at 'er— got her own home and three children to raise." Her hands drop sharply, and a flash of judgment returns. "She's a proper lady. And then what d'we have? You. I never thought I'd see the day when a daughter of mine would behave like this."

The burrs stick sharply, coating you in a prickly sadness that only intensifies when your Mama's plump arms tighten to her sides, crossing beneath her bosom, cinching in tight as she presses a fist to her lips.

"Lord help me— what'm I gonna do with you now?"

It's so much quieter than all else she's said, so much duller, and yet all the more painful for it.

Her name on your lips is a whimper, a sob, a plea all at once. "Mama—" You suddenly feel no more than six years old with dirt streaked on your shameful cheeks, filled with the crushing sense of all you've done wrong.

"Don't." She cuts you off firmly. Your teeth click together painfully as your jaw snaps closed. She stares at you for a long moment. "Th'last thing I wanna do is talk about what was goin' on up there, but clearly…"

You read the intention in your mother's restless shifting, the discomfited rocking of her heels. Heat floods up your throat, a sickly blaze of shame. "Well," she continues stiffly, "I know y'had your mouth on him, and that's… that's one thing. But I need to know." Her fist drops to reveal a stiff upper lip, but her voice quavers slightly as she asks a question that doesn't stick like burrs or burrow beneath your skin. Instead, it pierces straight through the center of you.

"Have you had relations with Edward?"

Your shock is like the firm twist of a leaky spigot. The steady flow of your tears ceases so abruptly that it's nearly enough to distract from the question itself.

Nearly enough. Not quite enough.

Horrified panic surges up as the question sinks in: Mama's askin' me if I had sex with Eddie. The feeling claws its way past your stomach, past your heart, past the heat in your throat, and straight up to your head. It rushes there, leaving you dizzy. Black fuzz spreads across your vision.

And the lie springs up, ready and poised behind your teeth. It's a denial borne of fear, desperation, and the deep ache beating in the child's heart still nestled within your grown one. That tiny heart flutters against your ribs, recalling the plink of music box drift-offs and gentle John the Rabbit wake-ups; the balm of kisses pressed to scraped knees and hurt feelings wrung out with tight hugs; the roundness of laughing cheeks streaked with flour and little hands cradled in large palms, guided to knead love into dough, right here, in this room, all those years ago.

Could you survive the loss that would come with confession? Could you bear to see the lingering light— the final vestige of a mother's regard for her child— die behind her eyes?

Led by a child's heart and a mind seized by panic, the choice you make is not a choice, but an inevitability.

"No," you whimper, and such sincerity pools within your eyes that even one who knows better might be convinced you believe that. "No, I din't lay with him, Mama. I swear it."

The softening of her features, fractional though it is, brings you such tender relief that tears spring anew at the corners of your lashes.

"Well, all right," she says finally, and while her voice isn't quite fond, you can see the creases around her mouth ease, fading from deep crevices back to the faint lines you're familiar with. It's a gift you wouldn't dare waste. "Y'know what needs to be done, then."

Without a hint of protest, you retrieve the wooden spoon from the crock on the counter, passing it into your mother's waiting hand and presenting your backside to her.

With balled fists and a rigid spine, you take your punishment. You press your lips flat to keep all your noises in as Mama spanks you with the rounded back of the wooden spoon. The even raps— ten against your clothed buttocks— smart and sting, but they do not ache. Her actions are not hesitant or reluctant, but they aren’t gluttonous either. Your mother does not grow fat feasting on your pain; she is merely obliged to provide it.

You are braced for another impact when you hear the spoon clatter back into the crock. When you realize another blow will not come, you face her again. Silence reigns the room as you take stock of yourself: warm, stinging skin, pressure in your cheeks, nose, and forehead from crying, and a new, yawning hollowness inside.

"M'sorry, Mama," you sniffle, throat thick with remorse, "M'sorry for disobeying you, a-and bringin' shame on the family. I— I jus'..." You choke and try again. "I—"

There is only one justification, however inadequate it might seem to your mother. It's spoken in the misery of your crumpled brow, in the glaze of your big wet eyes, in the copper of your lower lip where you've worried the spot Eddie's kisses still sweetly linger.

I love him.

"I know." Mama replies as if you'd said it aloud, and her voice is tight, tight with what she is trying to suppress. "I know you do." Her bosom heaves with a heavy, bracing sigh. "But y'know what your Pa said." She doesn’t seem to feel the need to be more specific, and you muster a smidgeon of gratitude for that.

"I know," you echo her, and your voice is tiny and broken. You are tiny and broken. And tired. You realize all at once that you are so tired, it's a labor just to keep from lying down right here on the floor. "R'you gonna tell 'im what I did?"

A jerky nod confirms it, and you think you'd feel more afraid if you could feel anything at all. "I'll speak with your Pa when he gets home," Mama tells you. "Now go'n up to your room. Don't expect you'll get any supper tonight."

You stare at her, solemn and unresisting, and in that stillness, you can see the moment she hesitates. The flicker that passes across her crinkled eyes is brief, but you see it, and the hush of her voice tells a story all its own. "Don't come down for nothin'," she murmurs intently. "No matter what y'hear. Just stay in your room 'til the morning. Hear me?"

You can feel yourself wilt further into exhaustion with each passing moment. "Yes, Mama," you croak in dutiful agreement.

The press of her cool palm against your warm, sticky cheek is brief. It lingers only long enough for you to barely realize it has been offered. But that fleeting sensation keeps you alert enough to drag yourself up to your bedroom, softly shut the door, strip off your dress and chemise, and pull on your thin nightgown before relinquishing yourself to the sunken mattress. At that point, you cease to tick, like the final tines have plinked within a wound music box. You have landed on your back atop the covers, and there you will stay until you can summon the strength to turn onto your side.

Though you are tired, sleep does not come to offer a reprieve. Instead, though your eyes begin to strain, you stare at the crack in the plaster above your head. It's the same one you traced while waiting for your crow to land on your windowsill yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. Yesterday beats in the useless yearning of your heart, trailing down your temples to pool in the hollows of your ears.

Yesterday, Eddie held you in your bed until you fell asleep. Today, he never would again.

Heavy footsteps rouse you, and you jolt awake.

At some point in the afternoon, outside your conscious memory, the slow leaking of your eyes had finally ceased. Blearily, you curled into yourself, tucking your wrists beneath your chin and finally drifting off into unconsciousness. Now, your bedroom is not the way you remember it. It's dizzying at first when your eyes pop open not to the crack in white plaster you'd expected but instead to the sight of your bedroom window. The outside is dark beyond the gauze curtains. The air now hums with the dusk song of cicadas.

You have little time to orient yourself before the heavy footsteps that woke you yield to the squeal of a door hinge. Your neck is stiff when you lift your head, attempting to blink the strain from your eyes.

Cast in dimness, Pa looms over you like the shadow of death.

Your father is typically imposing, but his visage is made even more severe by the lack of light. His long face appears to be carved with crags, which harshen the snarl of his brow and turn the wrinkles of his sneer into jagged gashes lining his thin lips. What little light remains glints off the bony line of his nose and the flash of his hard, unyielding eyes. He stands unmoving as if etched from obsidian; the only feature to betray him as man and not stone is the ticking of his square jaw. A muscle there jumps erratically, twitching out its silent fury.

Eyes wide, heart fluttering, breath quick and shallow, you lay still as a prey animal hoping to escape a predator's sight. That is no use. Quick as a rattler, Pa's hand strikes out, and the yawning hollowness inside you becomes an uproar of fear flooding your throat.

He takes firm hold of your arm, thick fingers like a vice pinching your skin. When he tugs at you roughly, you let him maneuver you to the edge of the bed. You keep yourself limp and unresisting because, now that you've been caught in his jaws, you know he'll only bite down harder if you don't. And you even shimmy to assist him, fingers twisted tight in the hem of your nightgown to keep it from dragging up your legs. Preoccupied with maintaining your modesty, you're unprepared to be dragged beyond the footboard; you lurch off the bed in an ungainly slump, and your knees clunk painfully to the hardwood floor.

A shock of pain shoots up both of your legs, and you muffle your reaction with lips pressed tight, following the silent command of your father's grip as he insists you turn to face the mattress. He drops you only once you're kneeling how he wants you, and the loss of his clamped fingers is a relief. Feeling begins to return to your arm as blood flows freely again, and a dull throb starts up in the place he'd gripped you.

Yet that's nothing compared to what you know is coming when you hear the metallic clink of a buckle. It's followed by the unthreading of his belt, which shicks through the loops of his blue jeans with a drag of denim and a snap of leather breaking free.

Moments pass in agonizing silence as you wait for the first crack of the belt. Everything inside you tightens in preparation for the pain to come— your muscles, your bones, your heart, and your spirit. You brace yourself, thighs quivering as you hold so perfectly still despite how your skin has begun to dew with nervous sweat. As you hold that stillness, you can even detect the sting of your mother's milder punishment throbbing in time with the pulse that thrums within your tense body.

Your head has just begun to sag when Pa's voice grates loudly like the grinding of stone, gruff and hoarse. "Y'pologized to your Mama for your behavior?"

You rush to answer. "Yes, sir."

"Y'ever gonna dare sneakin' around under my roof again?"

"No, sir."

A grunt follows your reply. It sounds satisfied enough to untwist a little of the fear inside you. "Y'ashamed of yourself for what you done with that piece of trash? You regret lettin' him," he pauses so the spit of his words might sting you worse, "ruin you with his filthy hands?"

Unbidden, Eddie's face blooms in your mind's eye: wild curls of soft dark frizz, crinkled eyes lightened to amber in the sunshine, soft nose dusted with cinnamon freckles, pink lips stretched wide in a smile that makes your heart squeeze even in your memory. You see him there, your beloved crow, and your chin trembles with the truth. You manage to steady it so that your second lie of the day can come out strong. "Yes, sir."

But perhaps, in your remembering, you hesitate a second too long, because your answer is quickly followed by fire cracking across the crease of your thigh and cheek.

You yelp with shock and pain, reeling as the contact burns through you, beginning as a white-hot ache before dulling to a throb. You tremble, breathing shakily as your father mutters, "I'll make damn sure of that."

Pa belts you across your buttocks and thighs, attempting to scald that shame into you with the cruelty he wields by his hand. But the whip of the belt is not the same as the lashing of your mother's words in the kitchen; it could never be. Not when Eddie's face has bloomed before you, bathed in summer sunshine. Not in this place, where the bunching of your fingers in the bedspread only makes you think about strong arms around your middle, soft breath on your cheek, and the tickle of wild curls against your shoulder.

Your father feasts on the cries he draws from you. He takes them as evidence of your guilt and shame. But you're fortified by the memory of Eddie's strong body cradling you in this bed, the breadth of his wide palm on your mound as he brings you to the pinnacle of pleasure, holding you snugly against him when you fall into surrender.

Harshness could never drive out reverence. Pain could never drive out love.

Pa might leave you welted and whimpering against the footboard, but he can never make you waver in your devotion to Edward Munson.

That's not, of course, due to a lack of trying. Because try he does. Pa efforts to cleave you from Eddie in any way he knows how. He begins with a belting and continues the next morning with a visit to your neighbor, Mr. Wayne.

He's over there 'til midday, which you know because you do not rouse from your bed until he returns. You'd lain there on your side for the entirety of the morning, wrists again tucked beneath your chin, but legs straight since curling them made the throbbing in your bottom and thighs sharpen to a burning ache. Throughout the morning, you stared out the window, watching the light crawl steadily up the red siding of the house next door.

You stirred only when Mama came to tend you. She didn't speak, but you could sense her sentiment in the mild soap and damp cloth she used to wash you, in the gentle pat of a soft towel against your cleansed skin, in the earthy spice of the calendula salve she dabbed on your welts. After she was done, your nightgown fluttered back into place around your hip and flank with the lightest touch. You nibbled on the toast sweetened with butter and honey she left for you on the bedside table, but you did not quit your bed.

This was not the first time Pa had taken the belt to you for some indiscretion, but it was by far the harshest. That's evident as the painful throbbing in your lower half intensifies when you prop yourself up on a palm, testing how it feels to sit up. Your father finds you in the midst of this endeavor: leaning gingerly on one flank, your lips pressed tight and pale.

You glance toward him warily as he bullies open your bedroom door, and he squints back but doesn't acknowledge your pained expression. "Get y'rself presentable," he grunts. "You're comin' with me next door."

Humiliation, it seems, is the next tool Pa has decided to use to cleave you from Eddie. You know it isn't unreasonable to ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for your inappropriate behavior. In fact, now that you've had time to reflect on your actions, you even want to apologize to your neighbor. You cannot— will not— denounce your devotion to Eddie, but you do regret disrespecting Mr. Wayne. He's a man who has been nothing but kind and patient with you and his nephew throughout all the years you've known him, and to think you'd wounded him with your actions makes your throat thicken with genuine regret.

So you dress hastily in your loosest, lightest frock and spend the majority of the time Pa affords you sitting at your writing desk, crafting a missive of carefully-chosen words you hope will convey to Wayne the depth of your sincere contrition. It takes some scratch-outs and restarts, but by the time Pa returns to retrieve you, you feel satisfied with what you've written.

You expect to apologize to Mr. Wayne for the offence you have caused him, and you expect to make the apology in person, so you don’t hesitate as you follow your father into the red house. It is also unsurprising that Pa would watch you deliver that apology. Knowing his nature, it's expected that he'd want to ensure your efforts are satisfactory. But you do not anticipate the way Pa ushers you through your neighbors' house, one palm pressed flat to your back to keep you from retreating when you see Eddie sitting next to Wayne at the dining room table.

Eddie doesn't look any worse for wear, not in the way you feel after enduring Pa's punishment last night, but he isn't unaffected by yesterday's events. He's wilted like a shade plant left too long in the hot sun: limp curls clumped at the ends, broad shoulders slumped, pink lips sagging at the corners. His umber eyes are smudged with purple in the hollows of their sockets as he stares down at the table. He doesn't look up as Pa urges you forward.

Your heart seizes at the sight of him, stalling as familiar, hungry want mixes with poignant, thrumming sadness. The impulse to rush to the table and throw your arms around him, to bury your fingers in his curls and cradle his face to your breast, to feel his hot arms crush you against him— all comfort, all sweetness, all desperate relief— is nearly overwhelming.

To resist is worse agony than any strike of leather, but resist you must. Pa's firm hand on your back demands you stand behind the chair across from Mr. Wayne; all the while as he maneuvers you, you will your crow to look up. He doesn't, though you can tell he now knows you're here. You see it in the tightening of his brow and the twist of his plush lips, which pinch with the effort to keep himself at bay.

Pa scrapes a chair out, settling himself heavily down into its seat. Standing beside him, you fidget with the crisply-folded letter, pinched fingertips crawling slowly along its edges as you pour all your will and longing into a stare that Eddie refuses to return.

The stalemate ends as Pa clears his throat loudly, growing impatient. "Go'n, now," he prompts, crossing his arms and kicking his feet out under the table in a scuff and thump of heavy boots.

You steal one more lingering glance at Eddie before dropping your eyes to your hands and unfolding your letter. It is silent at the table as you turn it right-side up to read from. You lick your lips and take a breath to steady your nerves before beginning.

"Dear Mr. Wayne," you begin, reading in a cadence reminiscent of your schoolteachers' voices— melodic, perhaps too overly-expressive. "I want to tell you that I am so very sorry—"

A lump rises suddenly in your throat, and you falter; you begin again, speaking a little faster, though you can't disguise the tiny tremble that has emerged. "I am so very sorry for what I've done to disrespect you. I have been carrying on in a shameful manner…."

The apology becomes a blur as you race to complete it before losing your composure. As you express your remorse and acknowledge your wrongdoing, the shaking of your voice only worsens; by the end, your chin is wobbling hard enough that your teeth start chattering.

"Tha's all right, dear," Wayne interjects, gruff but not unkind. Never unkind. "I kin what you're tryin' to express. 'ppreciate your apology."

You nod jerkily, accepting the reprieve gratefully. You fold your letter back up with trembling fingers and pass it over the table to your neighbor, who tucks it away in his pocket.

With a jut of his chin, Pa motions to Eddie. "S'your turn now, boy," he says, and there's enough vitriol roiling there beneath the surface to more than compensate for Wayne's lack. Pa's shrewd eyes dart to you. "Sit down now."

You don't dare disobey, though your stiffness and pinched expression bely your discomfort as you perch gingerly on the edge of the chair. Eddie rises sharply, and your gaze catches on the clench of his broad fist at his side, how his ruddy knuckles have blanched with the force of his grip. You know they'd tightened at the sight of your pain, and a sudden surge of longing nearly leaves you breathless.

You'd urged Eddie to look up at you when he'd been seated, but now you know why he didn't because neither can you, now that the positions are reversed. You can't look up at his face and see the expression there. It's hard enough to hear his voice as he apologizes to your father for touching you without his permission, for the deep offense of wanting you when he'd expressly been told he wasn't allowed because he was too wild and frivolous, and that he'd proven himself as such for what he'd done with you in the hayloft.

At the end of Eddie's apology, Pa grunts his acceptance. Then, he informs you in no uncertain terms what now will happen. It is the result of his lengthy discussion with Wayne this morning; in the end, they both agreed on certain truths moving forward, and they share those with you now.

They tell you that you and Eddie have been stripped of your freedoms and grounded for further notice. That you aren't to attempt to see or speak with one another. That you should begin thinking about your separate futures and leave this silly summer romance behind. That you are both lucky they are benevolent enough to allow you to continue living side-by-side without sending one or both of you away.

You are bidden to acknowledge the rules, and you intone your obedience, as does Eddie. And when Pa is satisfied that you have been sufficiently cleaved from the boy across the table, you are herded back around the tall fence and deposited onto your property.

Having seen the defeat written across your miserable face, Pa leaves you to your own devices. You choose to sit beneath the apple tree, hissing at the lance of pain that races up your buttocks and into your spine as you thump down into the grass. Stubbornly, you ignore the low throbbing in favor of deciphering the storm inside you.

Under the apple tree, a billow of emotion spreads within, complex and layered, filled with contradictions. Because what you've done is indeed wrong, and you know that. But to take the depth of your relationship with Eddie and reduce it to an indiscreet romp, a careless mistake, an insignificant dalliance chalked up to the folly of youthful impulse…

Well, you know this also. Down to your core, you know that that isn't right. And no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.

Twelve days ago, the intimacy you shared with your crow came to fruition in a wondrous way. As you pass your days in solitude within your roost, that wonder begins to transform you. It starts with a letter.

Though the tall fence running the length of your adjoining properties keeps you apart from Eddie, and your parents' watchful eyes prevent any wandering from your front porch, one minor breach remains in those steadfast defenses. It's the tree stump rotted straight through, the only place where the grass of your backyards mingles to become one. Secrets are concealed there, announced by the innocuous song of two woodland birds: the turtle dove and the crow.

You don't hear the call the day following your public apologies, or even the day after that. It comes on the third day while you're sat on a stool in the goat pen, working down the nanny's final teat with one hand. Milking her has been slow and steady work, impeded because her kid is leaning against your flank, content so long as you keep one hand on his small bristly side. His tiny tail beats rhythmically against your skirt as her milk rains hollowly into the metal bucket with each pull of your pinched fingers. And when the stream has turned to a dribble, you hear that unmistakable sound: a deep, harsh 'kaa-kaa-kaa' that has your heart pattering instantly against your ribs as your head whips of its own accord toward the fence. You strain to see Eddie through those tiny gaps, but you're too far away for the gesture to mean much. Your eyes dip to second best— that familiar stump, gnarled and weathered gray, splintered but surprisingly soft and spongy to the touch as if it would give way under a heavy hand or foot. You cannot see into the dark crevice at its base, but you know what now awaits you there.

You want to throw yourself to the ground and reach elbow-deep into that damp space, dirt and dress be damned. But you know the second you leave the bucket unattended, all the milk you'd painstakingly gathered would be claimed by the kid. You squeeze out the teet a few more times— perhaps a bit too hastily, since the nanny flicks her ears at you— before snatching up the bucket, bringing it to the kitchen to strain with cheesecloth and tuck into the icebox, leaving the bucket and soiled cloth in the sink out of sight. I'll wash it right quick as soon as I check the stump, you assure yourself. You couldn't possibly wait another moment longer to see what Eddie has left for you to find.

You're thrumming with impatience and excitement as you pop the screen door back open, struggling not to rush toward your prize and draw suspicion from anyone who may see you. Thankfully, a furtive glance around the yard ensures you are alone, and with nothing else to impede you, you quickly gather up your dress and kneel before the stump to claim your offering.

You reach past the blanket of fertile green moss that skirts the stump's base, mind flicking through the possibilities of what you might find in there. It will surely be a scrap of paper, but what will its few words convey? Will Eddie beg you to join him at the creek one last time? Tell you he's enlisted someone's help, an emissary of sorts, to go between you so you can speak again? Will he express his longing for your body's closeness? His pain at your separation?

A fluttering thrill blooms low inside you, cautious and sweet, fearful in its intensity. Because another wondering crosses your mind before you have the good sense to prevent it, and that wondering is this:

With an acknowledgment, perhaps, of how unideal the timing and the method is… will Eddie finally put words to the truth you see in that soft expression that graces his features, the one that's only come out for you, only you, only ever you?

Your fingertips graze thin smooth paper nested in a cradle of grass. As you pull your arm out of the stump, you can imagine it so plainly, written in that familiar scrawl: three words to turn a scrap into the most precious of treasures.

But the paper that comes out is not torn hastily from the corner of a brown paper bag as it usually is. Instead, you’re holding a folded piece of stationary, lightweight and crisp white, though its edges have soaked up some dirty dampness from where it has been hiding.

You don't have the luxury of time needed to examine the emotions that stir at this unexpected sight; you need to get to safety first. You tuck the letter beneath the band of your pocketless apron, fumbling with the bow at the small of your back to tighten it. There the paper stays, pressed against your stomach as you return to the kitchen to wash the bucket and cheesecloth. You lay them out to dry, then pass by your mother in a brush of fabric down the narrow hallway. Lightheaded, heart thumping, you creak up the stairs to your bedroom, closing your door and releasing a woosh of held breath. You sink to the floor in front of it, pressing your back to the wood. In lieu of true privacy, this position keeps someone from bursting suddenly in on you before you can conceal what you're doing. With that assurance, you shift forward, untying that tight bow and letting the apron fall across your legs, revealing a flutter of crisp white.

That stirring of emotions returns full force as you run your thumb along the bottom edge of the paper, wiping the collected dirt absently on the hem of your dress. As you unfold it and Eddie's penciled scrawl is revealed, the first wave of your emotion crests to sting sweetly in the corners of your eyes.

The letter isn't particularly long. It doesn't wax poetic about your grace and charm or meander through the hills and valleys of your shared story. It little matters when you can hear Eddie's teasing rasp in every sentence, see his wild beauty in every word, and feel his firm touch in each uneven scratch of letters into the page.

My Dove, Eddie murmurs against your temple, and you sigh, melting with the sticky sweet honey as he voices his claim on you. His Dove. That's what you are.

"Yes, Eddie," you whisper into the stillness of your empty bedroom, lids low, lashes heavy as you read the next line.

First things first. Don't you even think about writin' me back. You hear me? Plush lips curl as your besotted expression falls into a pout, and you hear the rasp of his laugh as he cradles your face in his broad, rough palms. S'not that I don't wanna get a letter from you, you know. I just can't have you in any more trouble. It nearly killed me to see how you were hurtin' on account of me. Umber eyes crinkle, and his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. Promise me you'll listen for once.

You regard him sullenly for a moment. "Fine," you grump, and the crooked smile you're rewarded with softens the edge of your frustration.

Eddie regards you fondly. I know you don't wanna. But you will anyway, 'cause y'can't help but do what I say now that you're all gooey over me.

You flush with heat, bashful but pleased, twisting your lips against the dopey smile that wants to come out for him. Now that that's settled, he snarks, making you yearn to kiss the knowing tilt right off his lips, I want you to know that… well, I really am sorry for makin' a mess of things for us. Maybe if I'd done different, we wouldn't be where we are right now. No use dwellin' on it or nothin', because what's past is past. But I screwed it up for us, and I don't know what to do to fix it, and I'm just sorry, Dove. I really am.

"Oh, Eddie—" His name is a soft, feminine sigh of anguish as the sting returns full force, burning insistently behind your eyes. You grab up his hands, squeezing them tight; the paper wrinkles in your grip. "Eddie, you didn't make a mess of anything. It's not your fault at all, what's happened."

He stares at you mournfully, dark eyes heavy and sad, continuing as if you hadn't spoken. And I know it's only been a few days since I seen you, but I miss you something fierce. S'like my arm's been cut clean off. His lips quirk up just slightly in the corners. And you'll say that's just me bein' dramatic as always, but I mean it. It really does hurt me that much to be away from you.

Eddie's curls brush your cheeks as he gathers you close to him, pressing his nose to the top of your hair. Wish I could hold you. Be there for you, take care of you. But I guess this's all I can do for now. He breathes in deep, and your heart twists sweetly in your chest at the feeling of his breath there— a cool inhale, and then warmth puffing in short bursts when he murmurs, You know you're my best friend, but you're so much more than that. Y'always have been. I told you I'd never let anyone take you from me, and I intend to keep my word, no matter how long I gotta wait.

Your first tear falls, and Eddie's arms tighten around you. He presses a kiss to your hair. In the meantime, he rasps, quiet but sure and brash as always, if you find yourself missin' me, or if you're havin' a hard go of it, or if you just wanna remind yourself where I am. All you gotta do is call for me, Turtle Dove. And when I call back, what I'm really sayin' is, 'I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere.'

On the page, there's a gap of space and a scratched-out word, and you can feel Eddie's adam's apple bob in a gulp. And if I'm missin' you, or… or if I'm havin' a hard go of it. If you still want me the way that I want you.

The final line of the letter begins to fuzz while you stare down at it, expanding in a bloom of dark-on-white as more tears flood your eyes. But you don't need to see it; the words have already been etched into your heart.

Will you call back to me? So I know you're here, and you ain't goin' anywhere?

Those two questions close the letter; there is no signature. After all, when two like souls flutter their wings and settle themselves to perch together on a shared wire, names become nothing more than an afterthought.

Paper flattens to the wooden floor. It crinkles as you press against it with your palm, leveraging yourself up to your feet blindly as your stirrings finally overtake you in a rush of tears. They flow over as you lurch around the footboard to the windowsill, pushing the gauzy curtains heedlessly aside; they catch the corners of your lips as your fingers twist the stiff window hinge, and your smile stretches in time with the window's jerky progress up the frame.

September air floods in, ruffling gauze and soothing over your forehead and cheeks. The humid heat of summer has finally broken, leaving mugginess a thing of the past. And it's into that air, scented with crisp wind and the first dry musk of fading leaves, that you call for your crow.

Your first coo isn't as graceful as usual because your voice is choked by sorrow and joy combined. But you do not let that stop you. You call out your bedroom window again and again, as loud as you've ever been, eyes fixed on the stoop at the back of the red house. You call and call until the door springs open there, and a crow hops out onto the stoop. As you look down upon him, tears run in trails that drip off your chin, and your cheeks begin to ache with the force of your smile. You cup your small hands around your mouth and call again.

'Turr-turr-turr,' you sing, mimicking the melodic trill of the turtle dove.

This moment will not quell your stirrings. As more days pass, they will billow ever more intensely and change ever more quickly as the transformation continues inside you. Your bitterness and your temper are still to come; you have not seen the last of your aching.

But, for right now, this is all that matters. A pale face tipped up toward the sun, a cloud of dark curls tossing wild and untamed, a boyish whoop of relief and adoration, and the love that swells within you— still unspoken, but no less true.

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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

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Ain’t No One Goin’ Back to Nod Empty

A Big Daddy Elvis blurb

Note: Somehow it would seem that I have managed to write a blurb for the first time ever, half baked and plotless though it be. I suppose I was missing Big Daddy E a bit too much while working on other projects. And I have given him a newborn because in my worlds we have nice things

Summary and Warnings (Spoilers:) middle of the night nursing and cockwarming and dirty baby talk. yep, that’s what I wrote

Insomnia is no foreigner to Elvis, and while pulling awake in the dead of night he is accustomed to the verve of Las Vegas vibrating it’s way up to the penthouse, tonight he can’t even blame his startlement on the cacophony of cicadas who have found a home in the trees around Graceland.

Tonight the gentle sound that reaches his ears makes him question how on earth his life got to be so sweet, and since when did the gulping noises of his child feeding off you become simultaneously so comforting and erotic. He lays on his back for a few moments, calibrating his eyes to the dark and once he’s certain they’ve adjusted, and that no hope remains for him to fall asleep, he slowly turns and slots himself behind you like the big ole spoon you refer to him as.

Sweeter still than any noise yet, is your pleased little hum of surprise at the sudden contact. The heat of his chest and swell of his belly presses into your back, and he knows you’re happy to have his company, it’s the one thing he’s never in doubt of anymore, your little trio is a mutually adoring fan club.

He and his little peanut might jinx sleep intentionally just for these little moonlit moments.

Elvis can only speak for himself, but when the contented little mewls and the slurping gulps of his infant reach him, he becomes so desperately needy for the same closeness as you and the baby are sharing that his heart pumps more vigorously than it has in years, and while the baby takes from you, he gives.

Returning “cream for cream”, you had joked in a more lucid moment.

With another woman he might have been ashamed, but with you he presses closer, hooks his chin over your shoulder and delights in how you shiver from the tickle of his sideburns against your neck.

“Hi there, daddy, I see you’ve joined us.” you mumble teasingly through your fatigue, suddenly feeling less worn down now he’s turned to you, his strong embrace letting you give into the lethargic haze of a predawn breast feeding since you know he will watch out for all three of you.

“Thought I was sleepin through a beer guzzlin’ contest.” he jokes, reaching a hand over you to poke your baby’s fat cheeks as they don’t even hollow despite the constant sucking, “Heavens honey, you’d think you threatened to take your jugs away from her she’s so frantic.”

“Make yourself useful daddy, calm her down then.” you grin into your pillow, feeling him poking you from behind and knowing you’re gonna get more from this interlude than empty teats.

“Gonna have to get close then, mama.” he reminds you as if this were a clause in the contract you hadn’t considered.

“Whatever’s necessary.” you concede.

It’s a funny thing how you can think you’re close to him until he chooses to truly close the distance. Your man has an ability to shape himself into every dip of you and swallow you whole with his bulk in so heady a way that at one time you would not have anticipated it to have such an effect on you. It makes you moan as the damp heat of him scorches through the thin cotton of your gown and he doesn’t even think to ask as he lifts your thigh in his large hand, reaches below his belly, then he slides himself between your thighs, his height giving him the advantage of still being able to see over your shoulder. The puffy head of him nudges at your clit and the firm chub of him pressing against your heat makes you slump back into his broad chest. You can feel his answering grin against your cheek.

“She can’t settle cause her mama’s all pent up.” he diagnoses the situation before beginning a easy slide through your slick.

You let out a low moan above your baby’s head as you feel your previously unnoticed tension seep into the sheets along with your slick. You wiggle him deeper between your lips and shudder from how ready you already are.

“C’mon lil darlin” he coos, all moist and huffy against your cheek, “take it easy now, ain’t no one goin back to Nod till they’re all full and satisfied.”

He has a nasty habit of this, talking to both his babies at once, and you know he likes the plausible deniability of it, the way you can’t be sure if it’s wholesome or filthy.

He’s a furnace behind you, delighting in the way you are so plaint and giving for him, your thighs rippling with his gentle thrusts and a single ripe breast hanging out to feed the baby tucked next to you. It’s a marvel to him the way you grew his little seed and how you nourish it now, always giving, that’s what you are. Except for right now, nearly drugged you're so tired, your hips start to chase his greedily, all the feelings mounting in a slow but inevitable delight, fueled by his even grind and the baby’s suction.

“Daddy, daddy I need you in me.” you beg, your chest heaving with your breaths and this is backfiring, you’re starting to get worked up and he doesn’t want that, needs to grind you into oblivion.

“Shh, shh, don’t startle my baby.” he takes the calming hand from the baby’s fuzzy little head drags his knuckles over your cheek while angling his hips to truly torture you clit.

“Oh god.” you gasp out and you can feel the dribble of your interest coming from your clenching hole, burning painful in its emptiness. “I’m so tired daddy.” you fuss, knowing he’ll relent, he’s too appreciative of all your sleepless hours dedicated to the little nugget to frustrate you further.

“I’d better give ya your pacifier then, hmm?” he rumbles amused and you would like to swat him for being a menace but your hand is occupied cradling the baby’s head and he is taking mercy anyway -finally.

Joining with him is a slow, burning stretch that has you nearly faint from stratification, all the familiar sensations of him drowning you and soothing you all at once, the friction of his uncut head nudging past, each graduating inch of girth, finally the hairy little pooch of his lower belly snug against your smooth cheeks.

You settle finally, all is right with the world and Elvis groans so loudly in satisfaction at being inside you that the rest of the house must surely hear him. Baby is unperturbed, she’s used to the way her papa worships her mama in these early hours. Ever since that first time after you’d gotten her home, barely healed up when Elvis started clutching and prodding between you thighs with shamefaced desperation, whispering hoarsely into the darkness:

“Jus wanna be close mama, wanna be close with my widdle girls, Peanut’s goin at it ain’t she? Can barely hold her eyes open but she chuggin it down. Jus, just let me in mama, that’s it, just wanna be close, oh goddamn you are snug as anythin.”

#big daddy elvis fanfiction #to think when I first wrote that tag on a fic #it was all on its own #now look at the tag it doth flourish #Elvis fanfiction #mine #crawfever #70s elvis #elvis presley #elvis x reader #Elvis imagine

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etherealising · 10 days

Note

One more request/ask this time for aiekoy 🍑/🐻/🧡 could you write something on if baby and carm would get together if Mikey were still alive? Or just if they would cross paths and still never say anything? If you’re up to it if not no biggie- again congrats on 1k!🥳

ohhh i love this so much, giggling because i get to play with aiekoy cannon and i am living for it. gonna be honest i don’t even remember writing most of this but it is chaotic and i actually kinda love it.

this was going in so many different directions before this became my final thoughts, thank you for requesting and please enjoy!! 🫶🏽

warning(s): addiction | violence |

mikey lives, does barby?

in this scenario the only ‘aiekoy’ chapters that would still be canon are ch. 1-3, interlude 0-1 and any pre-aiekoy lore that i may not have published yet 🫣.

and for the sake of consistency, we’re throwing all ‘the bear’ canon out the window!

but now is where we start to change things, so we’ll say baby moves back to Chicago beginning of 2019 Christmas showed you just how much you missed being around your surrogate family and so we kiss the west coast goodbye.

and with baby back in town the trio (baby/nat/richie) with all the time they spend around mikey begin to realize like he needs serious help. his deterioration is so clear to anyone who looks at him that if things don’t change soon we all know what’s gonna happen.

it's a bit of back and forth cause mikey is stubborn as hell and he definitely doesn’t take kindly to his addiction being called out. man is feeling cornered right now.

i don’t think mikey would just agree to rehab out of nowhere, growing up as the man of the house i think he definitely has some underlying issues with toxic masculinity.

something big would have to happen for him to see the error of his ways like baby finding him just strung out in his office at the beef pills scattered everywhere and of course, it hurts you to see him this way.

so you begin like trying to dispose of the pills, searching his office for anything more and lecturing him because you love him ya know. obviously reasoning with an addict hardly if ever works.

sadly to say i think it would get a bit physically violent like mikey kind of just lashes out just like grips baby by the arms, and pins you to the wall so hard it alerts the staff.

and it's an ugly scene as richie pulls him off of you. you’re just standing there glued to the wall scared shitless as richie holds himself back from beating the shit out of mikey.

nat gets wind of the whole situation i feel like tina would definitely call her because wtf is going on with mikey?

a few weeks later baby’s distant with mikey, richie is genuinely physically disgusted anytime he’s around his best friend, and nat bless her heart is just trying to keep the family together. she explains what happened to mikey between the two of you because his memory is spotty and the man just breaks down like heaving sobs as he asks nat to help him get better.

they decide a long-term stint in rehab might work best, considering how long he’s been using and the toll his psychological state has taken we’ll say a 6 month program that as it progresses the whole gang will be involved in family counseling sessions.

baby and richie obviously go with nat to drop mikey off setting aside their issues with him (you obviously haven’t forgiven his transgression yet but you want to be there for him) and the whole thing is so emotional i’m talking group hug full of sobs and snot this shit is heartbreaking. but mikey’s adamant that he wants the help.

baby definitely thinks someone should tell carmy but both richie and nat are iffy about it and they table that conversation for the time being.

fast forward a few months mikey is in rehab detoxing and participating in counseling sessions, they aren’t allowed to contact him yet but they do get weekly updates on his well-being.

baby is in new york for work profiling executive chef alex johannes (he didn’t have a name in the show so now he does) about his work ethic and michelin stars or some shit.

he invites you to the restaurant hours before the dinner service so you can observe him and the kitchen during prep and this man is laying the charm on thick!

he’s definitely scummy and you’re genuinely fed up with him so you tell him you need to walk around to get a feel for the kitchen but you just want to be rid of him.

you’re doing your cute journalist thing taking notes, trying to talk to chefs about what the kitchen environment is like working under alex but these people are giving you nothing!

there’s a commotion at one of the prep stations and you’re obviously curious the whole kitchen is trying to pretend they aren’t watching this shit go down.

and you’re just listening to this poor chef get verbally abused as they’re working on their prep, jotting all this down in your little notepad.

but the sight of the chef slamming a cutting board against the counter has you flinching and you just can’t let that happen irritation radiating through you at this bully you’ve been assigned to profile.

you’ve seen enough stepping up to defend the poor chef with a few choice words to the older man ultimately getting in a verbal argument with him and being sent out of his kitchen, but not before he makes the poor chef join you, and whatever bravado you had to rip that asshole a new one is gone as carmen fucking berzatto begins walking in your direction shoving past you to get to the staff lounge.

what are the fucking odds that you end up at the same exact restaurant carmy works at after being ghosted by him again that one christmas. (I’d say they’re great since I’m writing this)

you’re standing there in shock for a minute before turning on your heel to find the man.

he’s pacing back and forth hand pressing into the space where his heart lay. as soon as he sees you he’s hurling questions your way; “what the fuck are you doing here?” “why the fuck couldn’t you just mind your business?” “he didn’t need your fucking help.” blah blah blah.

your anger from earlier is back and you’re just like alright bet “guess it’s still fuck me right carm?” grabbing your bag and getting the fuck outta dodge.

you don’t make it far before carmy finds you, the man doesn’t apologize but he asks you to stop by when he gets off.

you’re a loser for carm so you do. he’s takes you back to his place, it’s awkward as fuck but you finally give in and tell him about what’s going on in Chicago, mikey’s addiction, the “fight” you had with mikey at the beef, him being in rehab.

and carmy is surprised as fuck, to say the least, he tells you that he’s miserable in new york. feels like the restaurant might kill him before his anxiety ever could.

neither of you are sure how any of it happens but the next thing you know you’re naked under him giving into pent-up desires, promises whispered into each other’s skin.

you can’t stay in new york forever but the both of you decide it is for the best not to start anything with all the distance between you.

you try talking carmy into moving back to Chicago and homeboy actually gives it some thought.

after that the two of you are in constant contact like not a day goes by without a phone call or text.

you’re back in chicago mikey’s been doing good in rehab, the family counseling sessions are going well. next thing you know his 6 months are up and he’s out.

you talk carmy into visiting for a bit, he and mikey def have things to work out.

surprise surprise, COVID hits carmy gets stuck in Chicago (man is not complaining though if that means he gets to see you)

you get a roommate who doubles as a lover and everything goes from there!!!

a/n: reading this is so chaotic it actually made me giggle. on a serious note in no way am i saying all addicts are violent or have violent tendencies but from my experiences that has been the case. also i think canonically (7 fishes ep) that mikey did have violent tendencies whether it be the drugs or not.

#etherealising’s 1k celebration #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy the bear x reader #carmy berzatto x you #the bear fic #the bear x reader #the bear x you #fem!reader #all i ever knew only you ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

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icarusbetide · 14 days

Text

the hamburr moment in nonstop and why it's the turning point for their relationship

i read a great post about musical hamburr by @just-mebs and how burr's actions after the war can be interpreted as a desperate longing to regain hamilton's respect, attention, admiration after hamilton has already moved on. i wanted to point out that musical burr did get a second chance to regain that affection, and he didn't take it.

during non-stop, hamilton knocks on burr's door in the middle of the night -a private, vulnerable setting- and tells him, straight-up, that he's the better lawyer; that he wants burr on his side, writing the federalist papers with him. when burr rejects it, hamilton tries to persuade him one more time: "do you support this constitution? then defend it". but burr? he says he's going to wait to see which way the wind will blow, and that's that. hamilton moves on from burr and this moment is the final blow that did it.

it's so ironic that in the middle of the song where musical burr is literally narrating all the times that hamilton is beginning to surpass him, there's an interlude where hamilton offers a hand for burr to join him (as true partners who complement each other if we put our hamburr goggles on), and he doesn't get it.

also, the laurens interlude comes on right before non-stop. once again putting our hamburr glasses on: john laurens is the passionate, go-getter that hamilton ditched burr for during my shot - we can assume that if laurens had lived, hamilton would've just written the federalist papers with him. but no. laurens dies, so hamilton turns to his old friend/crush/mentor/rival for help and partnership, who doesn't see the opportunity for what it is.

aaron burr's biggest obstacle, john laurens, drops dead, and he still fumbles the ball.

this moment in non-stop is a crucial one that's often overlooked, probably because it's quick, and burr never mentions it again because it's insignificant: to him, it's just another time when he was being cautious. but for hamilton, it's the moment when he decided that this guy isn't going to change. the war is over, their physical lives aren't at risk, but burr is still incapable of taking a stand when it matters. it adds more context as to why hamilton's angry and uncooperative when burr runs against his father in law and later runs for president. he's convinced that burr doesn't stand for anything except himself. (and in the musical, honestly for good reason. his big i want song is about being "in the room where it happens". he never says for what. he never explains what he wants to do in the room, not like jefferson or madison who want to "stand up for the south".)

so by the time act 2 rolls around, hamilton has already dismissed burr. he pushes him aside saying "decisions are happening over dinner." burr is resentful? jealous? missing hamilton's admiration and respect? and he thinks that he can regain it by simply being open and forceful - going "i learned that from you" while campaigning for president. he's still missing the bigger picture. it's not about being aggressive and forceful. it's about having a conviction to be forceful about.

this blindness on musical burr's part also impacts how audiences relate to him because i hear so many times that "omg burr just wanted to be in the room where it happens, and hamilton kept it from him :(". burr's the one who rejected that shot - and he didn't need it, because he does technically end up where he wanted! he's there during the cabinet battles, he's dancing and prancing with the jefferson-madison duo, but they aren't a true trio. he's not in the room because he doesn't add anything to it. that inability has nothing to do with hamilton's sabotage, and everything to do with why he's not admired or seen as a true confidant like in the old days.

mandatory disclaimer: this is fully about musical hamilton, a lot of this is entirely fiction and separate from the historical figures!

#oh musical hamburr you delightful greek tragedy #hamburr #alexander hamilton #aaron burr #hamilton #hamilton musical #amrev

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