#Wall Mounted Ac Unit

[hotwaterrepairsmelbourne]

Install Sturdy Wall Mount AC Unit from the Most Reputed Manufacturers

A wall mount ac unit, also known as a mini typical system, is a simple, practical, and cost-effective solution to deliver chilled air to a house or office without the price or bother of installing ductwork. In addition, houses without ductwork or those that weren't built with air conditioning in mind are perfect candidates for a wall-mounted air conditioner. Each interior unit has a personal digital thermostat and may function separately from the other units.

How Does the Heating and Cooling System Add Value to your Space?

Homeowners frequently use add on cooling installation in Melbourne, therefore they rely on conditioning to stay cool throughout the summer. It is the ideal choice since it enables the home to be heated and chilled without incurring additional costs for cooling system installation.

Add on Cooling Melbourne is an option that will allow you to experience "the best of both worlds" if you already own a gas ducted gas boiler and wish to benefit from a cooling system in the summer. For people who already own a gas ducted heating system and are looking for a single platform that can heat and cool their houses, add-on cooling is really a highly advised alternative.

Simple and Adaptable Installation Using a Cost-Effective Cooling Solution

Since you now know that piped gas heating is a cost-effective heating option, why not further reduce costs with a contributing cooling system that makes use of the same ducts and offers affordable cooling throughout the summer? By going here, you may read more about the expense of running ducted air conditioning.

In practically all roof cavities, compact add-on air conditioning systems may be fitted. Since no extra duct work is needed because you will be adding a cooling system to your existing gasoline ducted heating system, the installation will be quick, inexpensive, and effective.

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[howtofightwrite]

So happy you're back after all this time! I have a question, do you happen to know how people fought in ancient rome? Particularly gladiators and soldiers? Sorry if this isn't the blog for this question tho!

I think we've covered both of these questions independently over the years.

Gladiators were a performance sport. It was more about glorifying the Roman Empire and its victories, than a conventional fight. As a result, most Gladiators were armed with specific variant, “loadouts,” designed to cosplay as various enemies that The Empire had conquered, and they only fought against specific countering variants. Specifically, the variants would be matched in such a way that it would be difficult for either combatant to have a decisive advantage over the other, with an eye towards creating situations that would result in a lot of visible injuries, without serious harm to either participant.

In case it needs to be said, gladiators were a significant financial investment, and they weren't casually killed in the arena. The point was for visible injuries, and a bloody spectacle, not a slaughter. Sometimes someone would die, but having them die on the field wasn't the intention, and they generated a lot of money, and on the rare cases when they were killed, it was meant to be a climactic moment, not someone taking a blade to the gut and collapsing mid-fight.

Obviously, I'm barely scratching the surface here, because it gets a lot deeper, but the simple answer is that in the vast majority of cases, gladiators were armed with weapons that were designed to make seriously harming their foe difficult to impossible. Also, the gladiators were something that evolved and became more complicated over time. When they first started in the Republic, it was a much more stripped down structure with prisoners of war being given a sword and shield and forced to face off against one another.

As for the Roman Legions. I'm not sure I've ever seen a comprehensive description of their training techniques. The Testudo, (or Tortoise) is one of the more famous examples of their specific combat style. Legionaries would create a shield wall, and the soldiers behind the front line would raise their shields to cover the formation against attacks from above (usually arrow fire, or thrown spears.) While being able to strike with javelins. In practice, the formation had issues, including being vulnerable to siege fire, and mounted archers were able to easily flank the formation. It's a neat story, but the formation had serious limitations.

One thing we haven't talked about before (I think) was the Roman's use of biological warfare. During sieges, they would load (locally sourced, I assume) corpses onto catapults, and then launch them into the besieged city.

Beyond, the major thing about the Legions was the extremely disciplined and orderly combat formations, with a lot of attention paid to managing battlefield movement. It wasn't so much about exceptional individual performance, so much as their ability to operate as a unit. This isn't a particularly mind blowing concept today, but in an era when professional soldiers were the exception, or limited to the elite forces, it had slightly more impact.

Regarding the details of their training, I've never seen any of that come up. Now, granted, I've really tried to research that degree of Roman history. So, if you're asking, “how, exactly, did they swing the gladius?” I don't know, and I don't remember ever seeing anyone credibly claim they had that insight. As far as I know, the only surviving Roman training manual was De Re Militari, (there's around 200 surviving Latin copies) which is far more concerned with overall strategic planning and command. If you're trying to write Roman era military fiction, it's probably worth reading. So, I'm not sure this is exactly what you were looking for, but I do hope it helps.

-Starke

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[whyeverr]

things I’m excited for (in no particular order):

exterior wall-mounted AC units, squat toilets, the hard plastic chair

the water heater (yes it feels like this belongs in a City Living refresh but I can’t deny my feelings for her! 🥵)

hopscotch and marbles and sky lanterns 🥹

the rice cooker and new functional tea pot and all the delicious looking new foods (all the new foods look so good lately!)

Cringe trait and the elder-specific Wise trait 🫶🏻

deco tuk tuks

the real estate sign and new communal mailboxes (with indoor and outdoor options!)

the glimmer of hope I’m keeping alive for angled gable options in build mode — am I dreaming or is the building in the bottom right (with the kind of roofline I’m talking about) not a deco building? you can see through the windows…

[laracrofted]

baby, i'm high octane (ii)

synopsis: nora recovers from friday night and in an attempt to evade a persistent jake, she overplays her hand.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: 18+, minors dni, explicit language, existential dread, mentions of alcohol consumption and hangovers, more slutty (affectionate) rooster, not a love triangle though, eventual smut in later chapters. set after the movie, so spoilers!

note: reading everyone's comments on the first chapter made my whole week. thank you for all the love! i'm aiming for six chapters total.

previous chapter | series post | next chapter

tagging: @theharddeck @rolycolysficrecs @t-nd-rfoot @double-j @bioodforbiood and a few of the people who reblogged which motivated me to keep posting (@princessphilly @winterrebel04 @deadratio @a-littlebit-ofeverything @wildxwidow) and as usual, let me know if you want to be added or removed!

Gulls caw in the distance, and over the ongoing buzzing sound from the mounted AC unit on the wall, Nora can almost imagine the sound of the ocean waves, crashing onto the shore, pulling back out to sea in an endless white noise machine. It is so peaceful here. 

Could get used to this, Nora thinks, nuzzling further into the sheets, tucking her hand under her head. Letting out a gentle sigh like an actress in some cheesy Tempur-Pedic commercial. 

A persistent knock-knock-knock starts up again. 

“Fuck off, asshole,” Nora grumbles, voice scratchy from sleep and alcohol. She blindly fumbles for her phone, buried under the pillows, and a cheery 8:24 AM shines from the screen, along with a 10% battery notification. She must’ve forgotten to charge it after the Hard Deck last night. 

Plugging it in, Nora casts it aside, pulls a pillow over her head, and tries her best to ignore the steady pounding at the front door. Probably a delivery person with the wrong address. They’ll go away.

She hopes.

It continues for another two minutes with no signs of stopping soon, and finally, Nora gives up and drags herself out of bed with an overdramatic groan, leaving behind a pile of sheets and pillows that cartwheel from the mattress in her wake. She ignores them.

Muttered curses spill from her chapped lips the whole way down the short hall that connects the bedroom to the living room and kitchen. She can feel the telltale tightness in her forehead that often signals an oncoming headache. Pressure expands in her skull like a hot air balloon. 

Another knock, and Nora is close to blowing a fuse. 

“Heard you the first 50 fucking times. I’ll be there in a second!” 

She doesn’t even bother to look through the peephole – which, in hindsight, is probably unsafe – before unlatching the door and turning the lock in two jerking motions. Throws the door open without a warning, and unfortunately, Bradley Bradshaw doesn’t so much as lose his balance, freezing in place with a half-raised fist, ready to knock again.

It is exceptionally bright outside, and Nora holds up a hand to block the light to keep her eyes from watering. It is a little hard to give someone a full-force death glare with tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. 

“It’s 8:30 in the morning. What could you possibly want?” 

He is still wearing the same sunglasses from last night, and Nora wants to ask if Bradley sleeps in those things too. They seem to be perpetually glued to his face. He tugs them down his nose with a crooked finger, looking her over: oversized NYU shirt that’s better than any nightgown on the market, pale tangles that desperately need a comb and some anti-frizz oil, and finally, an unimpressed scowl on her face, promising violence. 

He smiles wide and obnoxious, without self-preservation, and Nora briefly wonders if Admiral Simpson would fire her for decking a Naval officer. “Morning to you too, sunshine. Did I wake you?” She glares at him, and Bradley holds up the cardboard carrier in his left hand like a shield. “Coffee?” 

Coffee is his saving grace and the only reason Nora decides to let him into the apartment, weighing the pounding in her head against the tease of a good cold brew and begrudgingly stepping out of the threshold. He moseys on over to the kitchen, whistling a jolly tune, and Nora retreats back down the hall to throw on some pants and wash the sleep from her eyes. 

Mascara’s still crusted under her eyelashes from last night, and Nora scowls at her reflection in the bathroom all the same. Her flushed cheeks are pillow-creased, lined with red patches and indents from a really good, really hard slumber. Bradley interrupted a jet lag and hangover double feature. They should make laws against that sort of thing. 

She pulls on a pair of loose sweat shorts, tightening the drawstring, and returns to the living room a new woman. Feeling better after splashing some cold water on her cheeks and wrestling her hair into a loose braid. Significantly less disoriented, but unfortunately for Bradley, no less annoyed.

He is lounging across the pale blue couch, like a house cat in a warm patch of sunlight, making himself right at home in her living room. He spots her on approach and reading something in her sour expression that promises a slow and painful end if Nora doesn’t have that coffee in her hand in about five seconds, gives a silent nod to the coffee table. 

She sinks to the carpet on the opposite side of the table, tucking her legs underneath her weight, cross-legged. Carpet fibers scratch against her bare legs, and for a brief moment, Nora regrets both not having more pairs of full-length sweatpants in her suitcase and not forcing him to move off the couch.

Free food is enough of a consolation, and after a moment of quiet contemplation, poking around various brown paper bags, Nora finds an everything bagel with cream cheese and a cold brew. It’d be better with a splash of oat milk and a little vanilla, but Nora hasn’t been here long enough to get to the grocery store. 

Bradley tucks his sunglasses into the neck of his dark blue United States Navy shirt – at least, not paired with a Hawaiian shirt this time – and reaches for a grease-soaked wrapper labeled BEC. It leaves a smudge of wet condensation behind on the table, and Nora holds back a sigh. 

She might not own that couch, but Nora doesn’t want to spend the next two months sitting on stained cushions that smell like singed cheddar and bacon grease. Thinking about it is enough to make her gag a little or – Nora takes a deliberate sip of coffee to wash the rising nausea down – maybe it is the four Old Fashioned hangover talking there. 

A haphazard stack of crumpled napkins sits on the table, and Nora plucks one from the top and flattens it against the surface. Holds it between two fingers and shakes it in his direction for a good 20 seconds until Bradley takes it, making a choked sound that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. 

“So,” Nora starts, between delicate nibbles of the bagel. Cream cheese spills onto her fingers. She makes a point to wipe it off with a napkin, not licking it from her fingers like a hungover gremlin. She has more dignity than that. “What’s with the room service? Did you kill my cat or something?” 

He’d been chewing a mouthful of bagel. Doesn’t even bother to swallow before asking something unintelligible and taking another overlarge bite, dark brows raised like Nora should’ve totally gotten all that. 

Sometimes, Nora just wants to… “Chew with your mouth closed, Bradshaw.” He shrugs and kicks his socked feet onto the edge of the table. She swats them away from her food and more importantly, away from the coffee. If Bradley knocks her coffee onto the floor – onto the carpet, mind you – even Admiral Simpson won’t be able to save him. Something occurs to her all of the sudden. “How come you’re not comatose right now? You were so drunk last night.” 

“Pilots have great metabolism, baby.” 

He shoots her a wink between bites, and Nora wrinkles her nose. 

“Right. Sorry I asked.” 

Unbothered, Bradley explains: “Couldn’t find my keys, so I had to sleep on Payback’s couch last night. Crazy bastard gets up at the crack of dawn every morning to go sit on the beach and practice mindfulness.” He says it with such disdain, like a borrowed phrase. Payback is… Reuben, right? He must be the one to call it that. “Kicked me out onto the street, and I had to find my way home.” 

“You all live in the same building. Here.” 

“I know…” Bradley lets out a forlorn sigh. Sets the greasy bagel down in his lap, as if remembering such a dark ordeal made him lose his appetite. “It was awful.” 

Such a drama queen. Nora rolls her eyes. 

“Totally get it. I didn’t have the best morning either,” Nora replies mildly, sending him a pointed look. “Some asshole wouldn’t stop pounding at my door at like 8:30 in the morning. He also didn’t answer my question.” 

“What question?”

Nora sends him an unimpressed look, and Bradley folds like a lawn chair. 

“Fine.” Bradley blows out a long breath, shaking out his legs, and in the up-down shift of his thigh, the bagel comes that much closer to being in immediate danger of sliding from his athletic shorts onto the cushion. Her left eye twitches a little. “I was pretty drunk last night, and Phoenix gave me an earful this morning. Something about being an overbearing asshole and ruining her chances of making new non-male friends.” 

He pitches his voice up an octave in an impression that sounds nothing at all like the smooth, cooler than you voice of the female aviator, but Nora rewards his effort with a tired smile. 

“Think I overdid it too,” Nora admits, “I underestimated the lethal jet lag and alcohol combo. You weren’t so bad…” She remembers the heated back-and-forth at the end of the night. “Except that little display between you and…” 

It’s Jake. Lieutenant Jake Seresin, said low and intent in her ear, and Nora can almost feel the vibration of the warm words against her throat. 

She clears her throat. “...Hangman. What was that all about?”

“That was…” Bradley sucks down the rest of the bacon, egg, and cheese bagel and balls up the discarded wrapper. He overhand tosses it into the nearest trash can. It misses by a good foot, bouncing on the kitchen tile and rolling out of sight under a cabinet. She tries not to laugh. “We only started to tolerate each other pretty recently, since the October mission really. He used to be a real asshole, got a kick out of showing me up, and I guess I just… It really had more to do with him than you. ‘M sorry about that.” 

“Apology accepted. Both in verbal and bagel form.” 

“Got a banana bread too.” 

Her brows raise, and Bradley bends to push a tan pastry bag across the table. She peers inside, breaking off a large chunk and popping it into her mouth. Cinnamon coats her fingers. 

“Wow,” Nora says, both to the gesture and the banana bread. “You either felt really bad or are really scared of me. Am I really that scary, Bradshaw?” 

“Nope, but Phoenix is.” 

She grins. Now that Nora believes. 

He doesn’t stay long, less than an hour, but in that time, Bradley fills her in on the last year or so of his life in here in San Diego. All of the Daggers were sent back to their squadrons after the October detachment – only for Maverick to call him up two months later and tell him that Cyclone wanted to pull most of them back to North Island to form an official squadron. 

“Some of them,” Bradley explains, “are still finishing up missions with their old squadrons. Maverick’s busting his ass to get them transferred here later in the year. Hopefully sooner.”

Callsigns that Nora doesn’t recognize like Coyote, Fritz, and Halo come up in that category. 

He seems to be in a much better place with Captain Mitchell than the last time Nora saw him. He used to duck out of those Naval parties early if the infamous Maverick was rumored to show his face, and now, Bradley is working under the man, taking orders from him. 

She asks if Bradley has forgiven and forgotten, remembering how Bradley had seemed to hate his godfather. It’s a lot of bad blood to put aside. 

He pauses in thought, staring into space for a long moment. 

Eventually, Bradley says, “I don’t know about that. Total forgiveness is a ways off, but I was willing to try if Maverick was,” and Nora tamps down the journalistic urge to pry deeper into that and changes the subject.  

Naturally, Bradley has some follow-up questions about the documentary and what exactly Nora will be doing on the base, having only caught fragments of her conversation with Bob last night. 

She explains it in bits and pieces: a Naval sponsored project with a goal run-time of around 30 to 40 minutes for the YouTube audience, versus the Oscar hopefuls and Netflix specials that ran in the 60 to 120 range. She’ll be on the base with them every day for the next eight weeks, observing them in their day-to-day environment and sitting down with them for interviews at some point. Getting to know the men and women who made up Naval Aviation’s newest and most elite – repeated with a wry smile and a knowing look to check his ego – squadron. 

She’ll have a small production crew, joining her later in the week to take care of the lighting and sound logistics that are as important to a successful feature as the script and the camera work. Two guys, based out of Los Angeles who’ve worked on similar projects before. They’ll come armed with the equipment and the expertise to manage what the magazine expects to be a huge part of the documentary: capturing footage of the Naval aviators in their other natural habit, soaring through California’s blue skies in an F-18. 

He takes it all in with a surprisingly attentive expression and minimal interruptions. Can’t blame him for the excited flood of follow-up questions after Nora mentions the in-air footage. She thinks all Naval aviators probably wanted to be Hollywood action heroes in another life. 

Bradley doesn’t ask why Nora would take such a random pause in her seemingly blossoming career to come out here and do something like this, and Nora doesn’t offer it up either. They move on. 

Around 9:20 AM, Bradley mentions running a few errands and hitting the gym with Payback and Fanboy. It is a vital part of their usual Saturday morning routine to stay so shredded, Bradley claims. He doesn’t say the last part quite like that, but Nora can make her own conclusions. 

Are all Naval aviators immune to hangovers? It’s hard enough for her to push to her feet and walk him the whole five feet to the door. She can’t imagine doing a full resistance workout right now. 

Lingering in the threshold, Bradley is tall and broad enough to shield her from most of the light that pours in, arms stretched out to grasp either side of the door frame. 

He unfolds his sunglasses with one hand, sliding them back over his eyes, and Nora doesn’t trust the mischievous expression on his face. Not for a second. He leans down, bringing his face closer to hers. A crooked grin hangs from his lips, and Nora narrows her eyes. 

“What’re you doing later tonight? Still got the Bronco.” 

He’s about as subtle as a freight train, and Nora gives him a blank stare. “Really, Bradshaw? You had to go there, didn’t you? We were having such a nice little catching-up moment here.” 

“Seemed worth a shot.” Bradley shrugs, still grinning. “No then?” 

“It is a definite no.” 

Harmless flirtation was all well and good, but in the light of morning, Nora doesn’t plan to take it any further than that. Well… Take it any further than that again. It is easy enough to chalk up any potential interest from last night to exhaustion, too many drinks, and the fact that Bradley is the only familiar face Nora has seen on North Island. 

Lieutenant Jake Seresin, on the other hand… 

She’s less sure about that. She’ll cross that bridge on Monday. 

“Understood.” Bradley nods, looking unbothered. “Let me know if you change your mind because I did get the back seats redone recently if you’re…” 

Nora cuts him off with an emphatic, “Goodbye, Bradley” and shoves him out into the sunlight with a hand on his chest. She shuts the door behind him, ignoring the disembodied snicker from behind the door, and looks around the living room, warming up with the promise of noon in the near future.

She is wide awake now, and in an ideal world, Nora might shower and spend the rest of the day out and about, seeing the sights and getting used to being back on American soil. Check out the darling little coffee shops and boutiques in the Gaslamp Quarter. Pick up her rental from the San Diego airport and drive up the PCH to Del Mar for dinner in that little beachside seafood restaurant Mom always loved. 

Instead, Nora clears the trash from the coffee table and snags the second pastry bag containing what looks like a half-melted chocolate croissant, before crawling back into bed. Fishes her laptop from her backpack and by the opening credits of Ocean’s Eleven, Nora is fast asleep again. 

Monday comes in a blink, and at 7:30 AM on the dot, Nora is walking across the Naval Base to meet Captain Mitchell. Dressed in her favorite button-down –  buttoned over a neutral tank, in case the San Diego heat decides to be especially brutal this afternoon – and wide-leg trousers. Hair flowing around her shoulders. She has an iced coffee in one hand, resting the other on the strap of her black Madewell backpack. 

It is big enough to fit the essentials – camera, water bottle, laptop, chapstick, claw clip, chargers, a million extra pens, etc. – but slim enough to not make Nora feel like an undergrad walking home from their last lecture of the afternoon. 

She recognizes Pete Mitchell in an instant, pulling into the parking lot on a motorcycle in the same jacket that Nora had seen hanging off Penny Benjamin’s shoulders on Friday night. He has a few more wrinkles and a few more grey hairs, but Pete is a spitting image of his 20-something self from Charlie’s old Top Gun photo album. He holds himself in the exact same here. Like a firecracker burning down the fuse, seconds from ricocheting off the damn walls and waiting for everyone else to realize. 

Even so, Nora can’t look at him without flashing back to sitting on the roof of Aunt Charlie’s suburban home as a 17-year-old. She snuck an illicit cigarette on the same night that Pete Mitchell came to ‘visit’ Charlie and ‘catch up for old times’ sake’ during his DC trip. And watched the illustrious Naval aviator slink from a second-floor window in his underwear, only to immediately trip over a knee-high shrub and scatter his clothes across the lawn, before picking them up – leaves and all – and hopping on his rented motorcycle. 

Good times. 

Seeing Pete again goes as well as Nora could’ve hoped. Always the professional during billable hours, Nora takes it upon herself to extend the olive branch. She orders him a cordial handshake and the promised well wishes, in case Penny Benjamin hasn’t had the chance to pass them along.

Pete Mitchell greets her with a genuine if slightly awkward close-lipped smile and gets right down to business, sparing them from further awkwardness. He offers her a quick tour around the building, pointing out all the important spots – like the main cafeteria, closest women’s locker room and bathroom, vending machine – and fills the silence with short anecdotes. Some of them are even clever. She makes a note to ask him to repeat one or two during the on-camera interviews in the coming weeks. 

“We’ll set you up in a temporary space in here during the week,” Pete Mitchell explains, propping open the door to the Ready Room so Nora can peer inside. Not a single inch of white wall is wasted in the room, decorated meticulously with rows and rows of framed photographs. Is it aircraft carriers? Combat jets? She steps in to give the ones closest to the door a better look and sees TOP GUN, CLASS 07-1989 in neat black type, underneath a faded photograph of men in uniforms. 

“You’ll be able to listen in on the radio during the drills and talk to some of the pilots in their downtime. Good view of the tarmac too.” Pete pauses, sounding slightly uncertain. “Did you need a real office? We might have an empty one somewhere or…” 

Her ‘office space’ looks to be little more than a small fold-up table in the back corner of the room, hidden between the bar and the windows with a chair on either side. It is better than being elbow to elbow back in the cheap seats of a sardine can airplane. At least the Ready Room has some natural light and a rotating fan. 

Nora shakes her head. “I’ve done with more with less, but I appreciate it.” 

He seems disproportionately pleased by that response, but Nora doesn’t have much time to ponder it before Captain Mitchell is leading them down the stairs and onto the next few stops.

He ends the tour in the Debriefing Room, waving her in ahead of him and crossing the room to the podium.

And with approximately eight thousand screens behind him, like the goddamn Batcave, Captain Mitchell explains, “We start our days in here at 0800 hours. We’ll usually go over the drill schedule for the morning and afternoon, and if anything needed a special emphasis from the day before, run through a few simulations, but I’ll make it quick today. Let you run through the basics with the team.”

He picks up a remote and starts clicking buttons left and right to turn on the screens. “We’ve got a few minutes to kill. Make yourself comfortable.” 

Nora finds the seat in the back of the room that’s closest to an outlet and sinks into it. It’s not hard to make herself comfortable in a chair that feels like a first-class airplane seat. She pops open her laptop, dives into a mountain of reminders, emails, and reference notes, and doesn’t reemerge until after the six Daggers have trickled in for the 8:00 AM meeting. 

Pete Mitchell gives his opening remarks, and as promised, soon enough, Nora is standing at the front of the room, resting her hands on the camera hanging around her neck. She looks out at the rows of familiar faces and opens with a casual, “Hello, I’m Nora Rogers. Nice to meet you in a place that doesn’t have the soundtrack of a John Hughes movie.” 

Mickey chuckles in the third row, along with Natasha and Bob on the other side of the aisle. A certain someone is parked right in the front row, like a straight-A student, but Nora doesn’t look to see if Jake laughs. 

She gets through her usual spiel in record time, walking them through the same basics that Nora pitched to Bob on Friday and Bradley on Saturday. It was good practice in hindsight, giving her the confidence to say it all with ease in front of a live studio audience.

They are surprisingly attentive.

Her 8:10 AM introduction turns into an 8:15 to 8:53 AM Q&A session – Mickey is either really curious about the logistics of the in-air footage or really does not want to start the drills for the day – and afterward, the Daggers who are scheduled for the AM drills head to the locker rooms, and Nora follows Phoenix and Bob to the Ready Room, dropping her backpack onto one of the couches and setting off to explore the base with her camera in hand. 

Over the weekend, Nora had developed a mental checklist of tasks for her first day, so when Bob had ever so politely raised his hand and asked if the Daggers should prepare for any interviews this week, Nora had an answer for him. 

“Not this week. I’ll be playing the role of location scout for the first few days, getting to know your routines and scoping out the best locations on the base to do the interviews.” She’ll want one for each solo pilot and each tandem team. “And I’ll be developing a shot list.

Not a single ounce of comprehension in those stares. 

“It’s like… a guide that’ll make out what I want to film, where I want to film it, and all that good stuff. Like…” She didn’t know enough about the Navy to make a good comparison. “It’s a guide.” 

Wandering around the base, Nora gets a solid start on it, snapping pictures of the more cinematic spaces, looking for the exact right spot to pushpin for the interviews.

Just after 11:30 AM, Nora ducks back into the Ready Room to switch out her camera battery and write down her notes, and sitting side by side at the counter, Natasha and Bob greet her with warm smiles and hellos, then duck their heads back together in front of the radio. She catches phrases like fin flash and Cobra maneuver. 

She feels a little out of her depth – and playing the part of both filmmaker and location scout this week, a little behind in both roles, but Nora moves her backpack to the makeshift desk and pours herself a coffee from the half-full pot on the counter, settling down and popping her earbuds in. 

Time to get to work, Rogers.

She is busy typing away at her laptop, and so focused that when Natasha tries to grab her attention a little while later, the Naval aviator has to wave a hand in front of Nora's face.

Nora removes her earbuds with a sheepish expression, and Natasha says, “They’re headed back down, so Bob and I were going to grab coffee and pick up some lunch off-base to bring back. Want us to get you anything?” 

As if on cue, Nora’s stomach grumbles. 

Natasha passes over her phone, saying, “You’ll need my number anyway for our movie night, because yes, I will be holding you to that promise,” and after Nora enters her number with a smile, Natasha and Bob clear out, mentioning something about grabbing Rooster from the gym on their way out. 

She makes sure to pull up the menu from the cafe Natasha mentioned and text her coffee and lunch order – along with a few back-up options just in case – to the newly saved contact. And then, Nora slides her laptop to the side, still offloading the photos from the morning, and opens her notebook on the table, flattening it between a vending machine granola bar and the barely touched coffee. 

Let’s just say… Nora is looking forward to the off-base coffee.

Biting down on the edge of her thumb, Nora looks down at the page, reviewing her transcribed notes. Twirls a Pilot G2 pen with the fingers of her opposite hand, thinking hard. 

Someone approaches the other side of the table, and Nora catches a glimpse of an olive green flight suit, sleeves knotted around the waist. She, perhaps childishly, decides to pretend not to see him. He, irritatingly, decides to make that impossible. 

“We can’t keep meeting like this, sweetheart.” 

Calloused fingers curl around the back of the chair, and on the third finger, gleams a large sapphire, set in an ornate ring with the words United States Naval Academy skirting the edges.

If Nora hadn’t recognized him by the sound of his voice, that smooth as melted butter and brown sugar accent, or the flirtatious sweetheart, the Naval Academy ring would be a dead giveaway. 

She looks up, and Lieutenant Jake Seresin flashes her a smile that’s all teeth, gleaming white. She almost expects a cartoon ding to pierce through the steady rattling of the fans. Someone get this man a box of Crest 3D White and a brand deal stat. 

Sweat glints from his brow, down his neck, where Nora can just make out the silver chain of his dog tags disappearing into the collar of the black t-shirt. She wonders if Jake skipped the locker room and came straight here after landing his F-18. 

She doesn’t have much time to wonder what that might mean because Jake pulls the chair out in one smooth flourish and plops down. It rocks under the sudden weight. He curls his arms behind his head and laces his fingers at his nape. 

Is that to counterbalance, Nora wonders, or to show off his obscenely ripped biceps in that short sleeve shirt? Better call in Benoit Blanc to solve this one. 

“Hi Lieutenant. We’ve only met once,” Nora says, returning to her scribbles, finishing up the tail end of an earlier thought with an aggressive period. “Hardly enough times to create a pattern, don’t you think?” 

“Maybe not,” Jake concedes, still smiling that plastic smile. His eyes look even greener in the early afternoon light, a stark contrast to the artificial glow of the Hard Deck. “Consider this: If you’ve got your head buried in that notebook of yours every time I come around to say hello, I might start to feel a little ignored.” God forbid. “You’re fixing to bruise a man’s ego, honey.” 

What is with this man and the pet names?

She adds an unnecessary flourish to an existing exclamation point on the page, turning the dot into a little heart. It’s a good enough excuse to avoid eye contact with him. “You don’t strike me as a man who’s ever had his ego bruised.” 

“You ditching me over at the bar to have your happy little reunion with Rooster gave me a twinge. We were just getting to talking.” He taps a flat palm over his heart to illustrate his point. “It hurt. Right here.” 

She replies coolly. “You seem to have recovered just fine.” 

“Don’t know about that,” Jake drawls, accent thick as molasses. He fishes a toothpick from one of the many, many pockets in his flight suit and sets it between his teeth. Smirks around it. “Might need some sexy as hell documentary filmmaker to come around and kiss me all better.” 

She is pressing down so hard with the pen that Nora wouldn’t surprised if the cartridge broke and spilled ink across the lined paper. It’d be some sort of cosmic reckoning for allowing him to talk to her like this when Nora’d vowed to shut it down at the first hint of dimples and a crooked smile. 

Nora bends her head, brushing her hair over her ear. “She’s working.” 

“Who said I was talking about you?” 

Surprise makes her mouth gape open, a stuttered sound escaping from between her lips without her consent, and Nora promptly snaps it shut, biting down on her cheek before Jake can realize that yeah, maybe Nora does reluctantly find him amusing. 

It doesn’t seem to work, and Jake traps the toothpick in a grin. 

“Asshole,” Nora laughs, shaking her head. “Did you actually need something or are you just here to cause trouble?” 

A muscle jumps in his jaw and Jake rocks forward to plant his elbows on the table, chair legs cracking against the linoleum. He leans in, and Nora is grateful to have the table between them. It’s a barrier of sorts. 

“When can I see you again?” 

Oh, Nora thinks, grin sliding from her face. We’re doing this right now. 

She’d thought Jake at least wait until after business hours to make any reference to Friday night, but no, apparently not. She wants… Never mind that. She needs to shut this down before Jake gets the wrong idea. She’s here to work, not flirt with him. 

Charming as the good Lieutenant might be. 

Handsome too. 

Goddammit. 

“Tomorrow,” Nora answers without missing a beat, and the victorious light that shines in his eyes is short-lived. “Weren’t you listening this morning? I’ll be on the base every day. Same as you.” 

Rejection rolls off his back like water off a duck. “How about 6:30 tonight?” 

“How about…” Nora leans over and taps the touchpad on her laptop, checking on the download progress of the 100+ photos. It is less than 60% complete and offers her no help. “…never because I am here to work, and I don’t have time to go to dinner with you. I’m already behind.” 

Confusion wrinkles his brow. “How could you be behind? You just started.” 

She shrugs. It seems too hard to explain, but Nora always feels behind. 

“Coffee then?”

“Jake,” Nora tries for stern and lands somewhere closer to begrudging amusement, and judging from the smirk that spreads across his face, activating his dimples, Jake can hear it in her voice. Damn. “I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” He grabs one of her pens from the open pouch, half-clicking and releasing the end a few times, and Nora resists the urge to snatch it from his hands.  “I want to get to know you better. What’s wrong with that?” 

“You’ll see me every day on the base. Isn’t that enough?” 

“Not by a long shot.” 

God. He really, really is persistent. 

She had a chance to comb through the redacted files over the weekend, learn a little bit about the different members of the Dagger Squadron in preparation for Monday. Lieutenant Jake Seresin, a skilled pilot with a reputation for leaving his teammates in lurch during drills and despite his penchant for not playing well with the team, an occasional doer of good deeds. Something had earned him that medal back in October. 

And between Friday at the Hard Deck and what Bradley had said on Saturday, Nora had even more information to add to this mental profile of him. He was an incorrigible flirt with a competitive streak, one that seemed to be particularly activated by Bradley Bradshaw for one reason or another, and given that Friday had inadvertently revealed a certain familiarity between her and the man in question, Nora didn’t have to be a PhD applicant to connect a few dots.

“Listen, Lieutenant,” Nora starts, defaulting to his rank to create some much needed distance between them. His first name is starting to feel… overly familiar. She can only blame herself for that one. 

He shoots her down in an instant. “Jake.” 

“Right. Listen, Jake.” Nora lets out a slightly exasperated breath that only serves to make him look that much more amused. “I am here to work.” 

“So I keep hearing.” 

Her lips quirk, and again, Nora bites the inside of her cheek.

“And,” Nora continues, tasting a little copper in her mouth, “I really don’t have any plans to be caught in the middle of some pissing contest between you and your teammate. It’s not my idea of a good time, believe it or not.” 

It looks to be a great show of willpower that Jake manages not to ask her to explain her definition of a good time, with pictures and supplementary examples, if available. He twirls the toothpick around his teeth. 

“Who, Rooster? He’s the one who was show-boating at the Hard Deck and trying to keep you all to himself after I…” She raises her eyebrows, and Jake lets the end of that sentence die, shifting into a cocky yet determined expression. “He’s got nothing to do with it. This is between you and me.” 

She stares him down. “You’re right. It is between you and me, and between you and me…” Sometimes, Nora runs out of options, and the only one left is an outright lie. “I’m not interested. At all.”  

Jake raises his brows, shooting them sky-high. 

Disbelief colors his tone. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah, I’m not,” Nora says, picking up her coffee and making herself drain a few gulps as a distraction. It is lukewarm and tastes god-awful. She drinks it like a fine champagne. “Cocky aviators who worship Quentin Tarantino just aren’t my type.  You can take your toothpick and your…” She gestures to him as a whole, in all his general him-ness. “…elsewhere. Sorry, Tex.” 

Something flits across his face, quick as lightning, and Nora instantly realizes her mistake. She drains the rest of the coffee in a few swallows and clamps her mouth shut to keep from coughing all over the table – or saying something else that’s equally as embarrassing as that.

A wide, insufferable smirk fills his face. “Someone’s been reading my file.” 

She backpedals, with the speed of an Olympic cyclist who missed a turn. “Warlock gave me all of your files. I read all of them. It’s…. um, part of my job to know who I’m working with as a filmmaker.” 

“Yeah, I bet.” Jake is still smirking. “Happen to remember where Payback’s from then? How about Fanboy?” 

He’s got her there. She’s not too proud to admit that.   

“Well, I…” 

He waits a few seconds, brows raised, and Nora can’t manage to piece together even a half-baked guess. A wrong guess is probably more undignified than not bothering at all. She goes silent, and Jake nods, unbearably smug. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

She opens her mouth, looking for a last-ditch attempt to get her out of this, but Jake stands abruptly. He casts a feline smile down at Nora and drawls, “See you around, Hollywood.” 

She frowns. “Hollywood?” 

“Hollywood,” Jake confirms with a dip of his chin that gives no further explanation. He raps his knuckles on the tabletop once, twice, then strides over to the door, still spinning that damn toothpick around with his tongue. 

And less than two minutes later, Natasha and Bob return to find Nora sitting in the exact same spot, a crumpled coffee cup balled up in her fist.

end note: likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. and if you have any thoughts and feelings, feel free to shout in my asks or my messages. i'd love to hear from you!

and for anyone who enjoys a slutty (affectionate, always) rooster, this chapter is more or less the end of the bradley x nora pairing (we're here for the jake fic, after all), but i am planning to write a smutty flashback one-shot for them.

read the next chapter!

[frogs-in3-hills]

Day 15 of the @domaystic prompt challenge: "Junk mail"

Ace Attorney | Gen | SFW | 2,383 words

Relationship: Maya Fey & Miles Edgeworth

POV Miles Edgeworth

Summary: Maya doesn’t know how to use computers, and Miles receives a very strange email indeed.

~~~

The first thing Miles does upon getting back to his hotel after the prosecutor’s dinner is to take a moment, his back pressed up against the door, and breathe.

The room is high up---seventh story---and while he’d dealt with worse at his own office back in Los Tokyo, tonight had still been far from an easy climb. Only an hour ago, he’d been eating his weight in gourmet Austrian cuisine and chasing it down with a tad too much Riesling wine. In addition, it’s beginning to occur to him that his knees are not quite what they used to be. Coupled with the fact that his focus for the day had largely been dedicated to appearing presentable, courteous, and as “normal” as he possibly could be… it was all a perfect recipe for the complete exhaustion that he is now suffering the consequences of. It’s a weight that had been growing all throughout the day, but only now does he have the opportunity to wince so openly at the growing headache it fosters.

He squints out at the wide, glistening hotel window that overlooks the city, the sheer curtains that frame it flowing gently from the force of the automatic heating unit mounted below them on the wall. His laptop sits on the small wooden desk beside the bed, still open. He’d forgotten to close it this morning before leaving, it seems.

He considers the pros and cons of checking it before collapsing into a much-needed sleep. Miles is the kind of person who monitors his emails closely, answers them regularly and promptly, sorts those that are needed, and discards the ones that aren’t. A warring anxiety rises in his chest at the thought of leaving a potentially important message to stew in his inbox overnight, so he manages to push himself off from the door frame, loosening his cravat a little as he walks, but not removing it yet.

He navigates the laptop with swift proficiency. It seems his worries are for nothing---he quickly fields one or two easy questions from some students that had attended his speaking engagement this morning, then marks another one that would require a bit more thought, so that he may answer it before work tomorrow. All in all, nothing to be concerned over.

Without thinking much of it, he moves to his junk mail, fully expecting there to be nothing of value within it.

There are one or two advertisements, his name stiltedly inserted into the subject line in a sad attempt at familiarity. But in addition to that, there’s something suspicious waiting near the top sent only two hours ago:

pinklotus1999@hotmail.com

Mr. Edgeworth

The moon cast an ethereal glow upon the desolate rooftop, where a solitary figure halted…

This is strange. Miles doesn’t recognize this email, and the sight of his name waiting unaccompanied in the subject line is a bit foreboding, in all honesty. The text preview does not provide much more clarity.

He clicks onto it, resolving not to click any of the links that may be lying in wait inside, ready to pounce and infect his laptop with all sorts of material and code that could prove problematic.

The moon cast an ethereal glow upon the desolate rooftop, where a solitary figure halted, panting, his silhouette cut from the fabric of the night. The Steel Samurai passed his tired eyes over the city, wishing desperately for just just a moment of rest in the midst of this chase, laid bare like this before its pulsating heart. But… that heart was still tainted by the lingering shadows of crime and corruption, and he was still being hunted, and would be for as long as he remained still, so The Steel Samurai took a halting breath through his mask before preparing to leap into the darkness of night.

That familar and accursed presence, as the chill wind whispered around him, materialized behind him, having caught up once again in their chase.

“There you are,” the Evil Magistrate said, the words seeming almost like a sigh through his metal mask, which hung around and shadowed his face like the long bars of a prison.

The Steel Samurai felt his heartbeat grow erratic once more, as he registered the danger. Rendered incapable of speech by the weight of the exhaustion, he just growled in response.

The Evil Magistrate laughed in response, a tinge of childlike wonder to it as he leaned forward, like a little boy prodding curiously at a frog caught between his hands by the river.

"You know…” The Steel Samurai hissed. “You have a flair for dramatic entrances. Don’t tell me you’ve rehearsed this in front of the mirror."

What in the world…? Is this some bizarre attempt at blackmail?! Miles leans away in his chair, affronted, as if increasing the physical distance between himself and the screen could solve a single thing about the predicament before him (except, of course, to remind him once again that he really should seek an eye examination soon). How does this stranger know about his personal interests, and what is their game in sending it to his work email? If they have any queries about the Steel Samurai in-universe legal system, he has a separate email for such things that’s publicly available and, in fact, is apparently rather well-known in the online Steel Samurai community.

(The logistics, of course, are handled by a friend he’d met at the annual tokusatsu convention in San Francisco, but he’s nonetheless aware that his anonymous contact is readily available to those with specific questions.)

But how many people does Miles know from the legal world who are aware of his interest in the series, and how many of them have emails he doesn’t even know?! This must be some sort of threat. It’s a good thing he checked his emails tonight, the danger of the situation awakening a rush of adrenaline in his brain. His previous exhaustion feels more like a distant dream.

But… he reads on.

The grammar…

Their repartee continued, a dance of words amidst the whirlwind of their weapons. As they clashed, their voices intertwined like the eb and flow of a symphony, each barb revealing something deeper, more intimate, beneath the surface.

It was a respite from the weight of their destinies, buried in the midst of chaos. A trust built over countless battles, their words had become a secret language, an unspoken acknowledgment that the line between love and hate had grown perilously, irreparably thin.

The Steel Samurai feared its implications, perhaps even more than he feared the Evil Magistrate himself. All it took was one distraction, one misplaced strike, and the Evil Magistrate would take advantage of this insane infatuation, driving a spear through his heart with all the elegance and care of a oathbroken warrior who still clung fruitlessly to his expired code of honor.

It isn’t a bad story, Miles cedes. In fact… reading through it all, the plot is really quite intriguing. He’s not sure what the purpose of this all is, but he can’t help but be a little captivated by the prose; it’s rough, a little purple, but infused with creativity and care. Clearly, this is written by someone intimately familiar with the series, and dedicated to portraying the characters realistically.

Miles doesn’t read fanfiction anymore, and doesn’t particularly miss it, though not out of a sense of disdain. It had been an enjoyable pastime in his youth, but one that he’d since lost interest for. He’d found much of the available stories out there to be riddled with errors, which had eventually outweighed the enjoyment he found in reading it (in fact, he’s fairly sure that his and Franziska’s old computer at the von Karma mansion---if it’s still functional---still contains a well-hidden folder of fanfiction that he’d downloaded and heavily edited as a teenager, so that he could appreciate them without being distracted by spelling errors).

It’s almost instinctual for him, then, to copy the email into a simple word processor, where the typos and basic grammar mistakes are conveniently indicated with red. He squints at the screen, its brightness causing his vision to blur a little bit. The words wobble a little, a reminder of Miles’ tired tipsiness, but sleep honestly doesn’t even occur to him at this point.

He still isn’t clear on the point of all this, for the sender had not left any extra commentary.

Miles does, however, know one thing: this complete stranger’s promising Magisteel fanfiction is in dire need of his grammatical expertise.

~~~

A pleasant pinging noise shatters the comfortable silence, just as they’ve gotten a pot to boil for pasta.

“Is that your com-pew-ter, Mystic Maya?” Pearl asks, all bright curiosity, as she watches the pot fill with water under the sink.

“Sounds like it,” Maya says. She sort of wants to go answer it right away. She hasn’t figured out how to make it so the PC stops making noise even when the screen goes dark---in fact, she hasn’t figured out how to make it stop making noise at all---which is kind of annoying, but there’s only one thing she can think of that she’d be getting a notification for right now, and the thought of an actual reply makes her heart kind of nervous and giddy at the same time.

“Let’s go look!” Pearl says, jumping away from the counter and leaving the faucet running.

“Oh, Pearly,” Maya calls with a sigh, “we really need to get started on dinner…”

She’s already disappeared into the next room, peering at the PC. Maya smiles to herself before turning off the water with a flick and following the girl’s excitable footsteps.

She knows she should probably try to stand her ground more often with Pearl, but she just can’t bring herself to be strict after realizing just how bad Morgan had gotten. Plus, they hadn’t really started cooking anything yet, and Maya really, really wants to see if this is a response to the email she sent earlier this afternoon. She can totally see why people get addicted to this kind of thing.

Pearl, of course, already knows about the email, and had in fact been the one to encourage Maya to send it to Mr. Edgeworth, even insisting that she publish her fanfiction online. Maya is aware that there’s a community for this kind of thing, but is totally confused on how it all works and how to get involved. Pearl is practically bouncing in the chair by the time Maya gets there.

“You wanna open it, kiddo?” Maya asks, leaning down over the back of the chair. She can see Pearl’s face light up in the reflection of the dark computer screen at the suggestion.

“Okay, okay…” Pearl says, reaching out to shake the mouse awake. It opens right up to her inbox, and Maya can’t help but hold her breath a little as Pearl reloads the page.

The cursor spins sluggishly for a good ten seconds before the page blanks out and reassembles itself, exactly the same as it looked before, except for the addition of a new item in Maya’s inbox.

“Oh!” Pearl cries, then leans close to the screen to see better, her nose nearly touching the glass. “Does that say… does that say Mr. Ed-ji-worth? Mystic Maya, what did he say?!”

“Well, I dunno, the only thing I can see is someone’s cute little face blocking my way!” Maya teases. “Don’t worry, Pearly, I’ll read it aloud to you, okay?”

That’s another thing she’s upset with Morgan for. Pearl clearly has some issues with reading, beyond what should be normal for a girl her age, and yet Morgan had done absolutely nothing about it. It took months before Pearl finally explained that the words seem to wiggle and swim whenever she looks at them. She’d seemed so hesitant, like she was afraid Maya would be mad at her for the admission.

Obviously, she hadn’t been. Maya still hadn’t taken Pearl to a doctor about it, though---she’d have to see if Nick knew how that kind of thing works. She’s never had to arrange an appointment before. She isn’t even sure if she has a doctor. Which means she probably doesn’t.

Pearl frowns a little, then moves aside, revealing Mr. Edgeworth’s email like a curtain opening on a dramatic stage play. Maya’s heart flips with anticipation. She’s never shared this kind of thing with anyone before (except for Pearl, of course, and then Mia, once, who’d been a little confused but supportive), and she’s eager to hear his thoughts. Pearl is too, apparently, since she’s quick to open the email up with a little giggle.

Re: Mr. Edgeworth

Dear pinklotus1999,

I have received your story and found that your ideas are creative and commendable, but your presentation and grammar is admittedly rather lacking. If you are comfortable with receiving critique, I have attached a copy of my revisions for your work so that you may fine-tune your execution and transform this story into the fascinating, heart-wrenching love story it has the potential to become. Your grasp of characterization and your ability to navigate the tender conflict between the Steel Samurai and the Evil Magistrate is truly remarkable, and I would be very thankful for the opportunity to look over your work in the future should you require any more assistance.

If you were unaware, there are many websites that make it easy to publish your fanworks online, such as Fanfiction.net or RealSteelForums. Please reach out to me if you need any help with navigating these sites. If you choose to publish this story, please feel free to credit me for my editing work as The Legal Samurai, but do not feel obligated to do so.

Yours sincerely,

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth

Attachments: pinklotus_Magisteel.txt

~~~

When Maya does eventually post the story, she’s sure to credit The Legal Samurai for his keen eye. Two days later, the group that hosts his official blog makes a post requesting that people please stop inquiring on his availability to edit their own stories, as he is not interested in doing so for anybody except pinklotus1999.

And thus, Mr. Edgeworth officially became Maya’s fanfiction beta, though it never quite became clear if he knew it was her.

[muneeswari]

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[strikingheaven]

@breathofthearth

Maybe this is the third attempt? The fourth attempt? She's lost count.

Either way, it's clear that the stain on the glossy bar top refuses to lift from its surface. Resting her elbows on the mostly-immaculate counter with a sigh, Tifa allows the damp cloth to crumple into a small pile by her folded arms. The TV continues to drone on in the background and the ceiling fan spins lazily to circulate air throughout the first floor of Seventh Heaven. 

Heat, direct sun bathing the building in its warmth at peak noon, is pervasive even with all the open windows. The broken AC unit mounted in the wall sits partially dismantled on the ground just next to the jukebox. She hasn't had a chance to fix it yet. Always something going on, always something ready to steal her attention elsewhere. With all the bedrooms situated on the second floor, it's no wonder Cloud has chosen to stay away until well past sundown.

Rolling outages are not uncommon this time of year. Edge sprawls across the badland salts. Shimmering, almost splendid the way heat rises off the earth and distorts the air. The city has expanded faster than the WRO can expend resources to support the growing population. Many of those who had sought refuge from the destruction of Meteorfall with family or friends elsewhere have slowly begun to return and rebuild. To say nothing of Deepground's recent emergence, but they overcame that threat too.

Life is better than it was.

Isn't it?

Saving the world does not guarantee a ride off into the sunset. Story book endings are unrealistic. Their story left death, destruction, upheaval, and broken pieces in its wake. Hypocritical, she knows, to keep her mourning so close to her heart, like it belongs only to her. 

That's why she barely looks up when a stranger bumbles into the front door only to find it unmoving. 

Damn it. 

Her brows furrow and Tifa rubs her temples. Did she forget to lock the door again? Don't people read signs anymore?

C-L-O-S-E-D. 

Spelled neatly on the lacquered signage she flipped over next to the entrance.

Pushing the rag away, Tifa straightens, composes herself, and attempts to gather enough of her remaining patience and dwindling reserves to affect 'polite but very tired proprietor of a clearly closed business.'

The door rattles again and that does nothing to encourage Tifa to pick up her pace moving out from behind the counter. 

"Hey, sorry, can you come back tomorrow? We're cl–...osed. For repairs…" Her voice drops from vaguely irate to a shocked whisper, breaking somewhere along the way with a tightening around her throat. 

The oversized coat, ill-fitting sunglasses, and thick scarf does nothing to hide the recognizable peak of brunette bangs, nor characteristic left-right-left bounce of her feet as Aerith presses her face up against the reflective door to see inside. Poor weather for such a disguise, and yet Tifa can’t imagine one more befitting. 

Aerith can't see her, not through the mirror reflection of the daytime window film painstakingly applied on the glass panels of the door. Not yet. Tifa hesitates, allowing her hand to hover just over the push-bar of the door. She could be wrong. Maybe she wants too badly to be right. 

Steeling herself, Tifa practically throws the door open. It slams back on its hinges as Tifa rushes through, throwing her arms around Aerith's shoulders. Fast, but not fast enough to outstrip the fear that she fooled herself into seeing what she wanted to. 

If she pulls away now, she can't continue lying to herself. So instead, she holds on. 

Tightly. Tighter. Maybe too tight. 

"Aerith! Is it really…?"

[justaskasmodeus]

Pinned Info Post

Asmodeus spends what he considers an unfortunate amount of time in his office. It’s a grand sort of room, something like a study, a wrought iron spiral staircase draped with hanging vines and green and ruby Nepenthes pitcher plants leading up to a loft that curls around the walls above, lined floor to ceiling with bookcases filled to bursting.

The room itself is mostly lit by the massive stone fireplace that takes up the majority of the Eastern wall, its chimney adorned with the bowed head of an ancient auroch, stuffed and mounted, with beady black eyes glinting in the light of the fire. That very fire is almost always roaring, thoroughly heating all four corners of the place to a just-this-side-of-uncomfortable degree - but the space within is still plenty large enough to hold, just for size comparison’s sake, of course, let’s say, maybe, a considerably large pile of corpses. A set of leather armchairs and a sofa frame a glass coffee table opposite the blaze, and even further back sits a large desk of polished wood with lovingly carved figures and filigree. There is a candy jar filled with red-wrapped cinnamon discs there, and on the credenza against the wall shine fine crystal glasses and decanters of varying shapes, sizes and contents.

Accompanying light fixtures glow like candles in the dark, dim Tiffany glass lamps illuminating the various sitting areas and surfaces or the suggestive oil paintings on the walls, assisted by the tall stained glass windows that touch the ceiling, filtering in soft, muted daylight. Where that daylight comes from exactly is a mystery - the Second Circle is a dark, cold, and windy place, lit mostly by fire, street lamps, string lights and neon signs; hardly a hospitable place and certainly one with no sunlight to stream through windows. But here, you feel very much at home - comfortable, warm and safe. You may even find that you want to stay a little longer than you’d originally planned. That’s the intention, anyway.

Hello and welcome! Independent RP blog for the ✨Great King Asmodeus✨ Archdemon of Lust, Lord of the Second Circle, Hell’s ambassador to the United States and self-appointed president of the Lucifer fan club (that last part is a joke but also no it’s not.)

Originally Good Omens book (with sprinkles of pre-season 2 show) based (tied in with @phantasmagoetia) but sort of his own thang, we’re all just havin’ fun and not really taking things too seriously here.

Multiverse friendly, welcome to all 18+!

OP is a 30 y/o she/they aro/ace riddled with anxiety and consists only of 17 wild coyotes in a trench coat and a shaken can of Pepsi. Not much of an interaction instigator re: the anxiety thing but I always respond! Ask box is always open. :)

[apoorconductor]

I think I can now put into words why I like listening to rain and thunder so much

The first of the three reasons I've found is the most obvious: they're noise. They help to blot out whatever my family is shouting about downstairs, as well as the sound of disapproving silence that infiltrates the neighborhood at 1am. They discourage the dreadful buzz of those external wall-mounted AC units, and the insistence of lawn mowers roaring away at odd hours of the evening. (Seriously, I heard someone start that fucker up at 12:30am a few nights back)

My local district does a five-minute test of the tornado sirens the first Wednesday of each month, at noon. Even though in one sense they frighten me (because duh, they're signifiers of danger) I find them innately satisfying to listen to - to the point where I open the nearest window the first Wednesday noon of every month to hear them wail. I think it's because they provide the impression that order is being maintained, the calming feeling that someone out there is looking out for you.

I'm not particularly religious, but some of the same applies to when I'm listening to a routine thunderstorm. Every minute of watery drumbeat and punctual rumbling on the walls of the vehicle or building I'm currently occupying is a testament to its continuing protection. Physics and thunderbirds are still courting as normal in the tiny expanse between ground and infinite sky.

The third is a bit more personal. For the same reason that I like listening to trains streaking by, or the channeled thunder of an airliner passing overhead in the dead of night: I like listening to thunderstorms because they remind me that nature, society, the world is minding its own business. When it rains, no one is judging you for tripping up, because put a little water on the ground and everyone forgets how to drive. When it rains, there is no imagined audience, only the audience that chooses to speak to each other over the sound of the pitter-patter. When it rains, it's okay to cry, because your clothes were wet anyway.

Rain and thunder remind me that the outside world isn't holding its breath waiting for me to do something, or fail spectacularly, or figure myself out. It's just going. And I have to go too if I'd like to make an impression out there

[ncdweller]

Got the non- functioning wall mounted AC unit out.

Now to close up and insulate the wall before sundown. This is the bedroom, after all.

Not sure what that chain is all about. I think there used to be a door here. If that helps.

[getcompare777]

Enjoy Clean, Cool Air with the Daikin 1.5 Ton 5 Star Inverter Split AC

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[gvelectricalsupply]

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[airflowheatingandac]

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