The steam library really is the gamers refrigerator. I keep checking to see if there's anything I want to play. I have games. I have plenty of games. There's nothing i want to play
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n sewell and their centuries of letters
poking at a wip tonight as part of a warm up to get Stuff Finished, and just kept coming back to this. It's one of my favourite letters I've written (beside the Natalie ones), and is from chapter 8 of Tenderness-- I keep on returning to it because that notion of displacement, of estrangement, in immortality and just in general is something I can't let go of quite yet:
--
The letter is dated 1863.
My Ava, he starts, I have returned to Venezia without you.
And I have wondered, he writes, in his looping script - the one he’d adopted after she’d met him, to replace the compact hand he’d formed in the navy - I have wondered, Ava, how much of the city we knew truly lingers. The shape remains: its buildings and its streets, its canals, as much as the waters sloughs away. But if we dug our fingers into its skin, what pulse beats beneath?
I realise now that this is a nostalgic indulgence. Fallacy. We knew no more of the city than those who walk it now. We knew it less, perhaps; we indulged in its decadence and decay in similar vein to the youth that now fill the inns, pouring their coin into the city in the name of ‘signore cupid’ and the ‘Grand Tour’. Once we leave the city sheds us all in turn, if it ever recognised us at all. Here and then gone (and I have wondered, Ava, if you and I are not perpetually estranged. We are so far now, are we not, from our own time and place? Relics in a world that only knows itself in moments and in change).
No, Venezia does not remember us. I recognise and do not recognise the cannaregio, the canal of misericordia. Our apartments are still there and given to a Florentine family; I saw the grandmother on the balcony, beating the rugs; a child in the walled garden of the courtyard, skirts tied above her knees as she stamped her feet in the mud. What I thought I remembered, as I walk these streets, prove to no longer exist. I am a foreigner, a stranger.
What we shared here, once, is also long gone. I know this. Perhaps I am even coming to accept it, at long last.
I believe I’ve come to understand you more with time, Ava. It has been over a century since my turning - we returned to Europe, at last, for that ill-gotten anniversary - and with it, so have passed the generations. I am forgotten - what memory of myself that was retained by my family, harboured by those that had loved me, or had been taught to love me, is gone. I am a given name, if I am anything at all.
It is a strange feeling, to be so unknown. As if I am unmoored, untethered; as if I could float away and off this earth, save-
Save for you, Ava. I have you.
I am so very grateful, for you.
I have thought about what I might be, in your absence. What I might have become, and I have wondered- about what it was like for you, at first and then later, and all that time between. But you will not speak much of your past and I will not ask that of you, as much as I wish to. Still, I would know you, Ava. I would love you again, if you would allow it.
Oh, but this is an indulgence, and you have permitted me too many, already. Once again, I will not send this letter. I will tuck it into the packet with my other indulgences, to be kept for a time where I find either the strength or the cowardice to burn them, lest they fall into the wrong hands. In the meanwhile, all I wish to say is-
How strange it is, Ava, how this city that was never quite ours has changed. Perhaps it should not be. Perhaps I am being naive, for my century; I can imagine you saying that, and yes, perhaps you are right.
I will leave it in the morning, borne by steam-powered engine across the lagoon, and back to the mainland.
Yours,
Nate Sewell
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"comparing hand-sizes to hold their hand against the other's and then just holding hands" for Gabi and Farah please :) (no pressure!!!!)
PD!!! Thank you for the ask ^^
When seeing the prompt in the preview notification of this ask, my first thought was that I wanted to write this for Gabi and Farah, if there wouldn't be a pairing specified. And then you mentioned Gabi and Farah! That made me very happy haha!
Words: ~460
Rating: Teen and up
Relationship: Female detective/Farah Hauville
Warnings: None
Read on Ao3 or below
“... and then he tried to run, but I saw him sneak away and ran after him and of course I was faster, so I did this move and tackled him and— You should have seen it, it was so cool! But then...” Farah’s hands flutter through the air, flashes of neon pink nail polish catching the sunlight, as she tells about an old mission.
Farah rarely sits still, Gabi has observed, her face changing expressions faster than Gabi can keep track of, her feet tapping a rhythm, her entire body moving as if she’s spilling over with life itself. Most of all, it are her hands that tell a story: the small, fiddling motions of her fingers during a boring meeting, the focused, precise movements when she’s concentrated on a drawing, or the wide gesturing she just stopped doing.
Wait, she stopped?
Above the hands that are suspended mid-story and mid-air, golden eyes are staring at Gabi from across the table. The twin buns on top of Farah’s head tip sideways as she tilts her head.
“What are you thinking, Gabes?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Nothing? Really?” Leaning her elbows on the table, Farah balances her chair on the front two legs. “That would be the first time ever you’re not thinking about anything.”
Gabi pushes her hair away, only for it to fall right back across her forehead. Heat spreads up from her neck to her cheeks at being caught, at being known like this. “Alright, then, I was thinking about you. About your hands, if you want me to be specific.”
Farah holds one of her hands before her, lips pressed together in a pout as she considers it. Her nails are perfect, dazzling pink ovals against her dark skin. “You like this new colour? Morgan said it made her eyes burn.” The bright sound of her laughter fills the kitchen.
“Did she, now?” It’s all too easy to imagine Morgan responding like that, and Gabi shakes her head with a smile. “I like it, it suits you.” She leans forward on the table to take Farah’s hand, pressing hers against it. The last phalanx of each of her fingers sticks out above Farah’s, her own nails blunt and square, the nail beds shortened because of years of nail biting as a child. They’re a far cry from the elegant and neatly manicured hands of the vampire in front of her.
With a quick twist, Farah turns their hands and raises them to press a kiss against Gabi’s knuckles. “I like your hands too, babe.”
An echo of the touch of her lips lingers, warm and soft and leaving Gabi’s chest aflutter. The warmth turns into something hotter, something glowing and molten, when Farah winks and adds, “You’re very skilled with them.”
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Doyle Canon: This is Dr. John Watson. He has managed to have multiple love affairs on three different continents. He is a love machine. A sex god, if you will. Able to woo multiple Victorian ladies.
80% of Sherlock Holmes Adaptations: This is Dr. John Watson. He looks like a hamster.
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If the internet wasn’t anonymous anymore i would stop writing/posting fic and a part of my soul would die. I don’t want to post fic under my real name i don’t wish to be perceived i wish to be known on an incredibly deep level without something superficial like my name attached. Writing fic is like stripping naked but leaving your face out of the shot
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Happy destruction of the One Ring day!!!! 🥳🎉
On 25th March took place the Battle of the Black Gate while Frodo, Sam and Gollum reached Mount Doom to cast the Ring into the fire.
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